Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (27 page)
“Tell her.”
He climbed the ledge that brought them closest to the stars. He reached down for her, trying to hide the strain she was on his sore muscles. What was the use? She spread her healing hands over the ache. Then she yanked his left eyelid open and peered into his body workings. She shook her head.
“Matthew Hart. Did you consume half the rotgut in San Francisco?”
He touched his sore middle. “It was only on loan,” he assured her, coaxing a smile that relieved her look of general disgust.
“Some good may come of it,” she said. “Biggest problem I could see between you two was your determination to keep your hands off each other. Ain’t good, all that holding back.”
He felt the laughter rise in his throat, and with it a new surge of energy. Was there a way out of this?
“So. What now?” his grandmother demanded.
“Now? She’s married. Gone steaming across the goddamned Pacific. I just hope my past record holds true and I’m as wrong about the nature of the man she married as I am about everything else.” He let the laugh out, as humiliated as it was. Annie said nothing, but put her hand on his shoulder. He pressed his face against it. “Gran, it eats me up to think on it, but I hope he’s everything she wants, including being better at the loving of her.”
Olana’s hand ached from shaking hundreds of other hands.The day was a blurred memory. The oppressive weight of her gown’s train and veil, of the orange blossoms that hid her trembling hands. Leaving her father’s arm to take the arm of a stranger in scrupulous morning dress, from his Prince Albert frock coat to the pale lavender of his gloves. Her father’s sad eyes when he danced with her, she remembered that, and Sidney so drunk Serif took him home. She deserved it, she deserved it all, along with the pounding between her eyes now.
Olana thought of her father’s last conversation with her new husband, there, on the ship, as she stood on the other side of the stateroom door.
“She is my pride, Darius. And delicate, under all that spirit. I’ve accepted her choice, accepted you into my family. You’ll allow me to tell her mother I’ve secured your promise to be gentle with her.”
There was an unnatural silence. Then her husband’s voice. “Your time is over. Your spoiled and willful daughter will come home my wife.
I
expect —”
I
expect —”
The blast of the
Mariposa’s
horn had invaded then. It made
Olana’s ears ring through her parents’ last good-bye. Her father’s arm shook as he lifted her hat’s veil and touched her cheek. He said nothing. Was he ashamed, she wondered, for bargaining her away? She was angry, so angry with him. Now she remembered his silence better than her mother’s nervous prattle. She lay on a wide bed in the
Mariposa’s
most luxurious stateroom, surrounded by dozens of rapidly fading white and yellow lilies. And her maid’s sob. Olana sat up.
Mariposa’s
horn had invaded then. It made
Olana’s ears ring through her parents’ last good-bye. Her father’s arm shook as he lifted her hat’s veil and touched her cheek. He said nothing. Was he ashamed, she wondered, for bargaining her away? She was angry, so angry with him. Now she remembered his silence better than her mother’s nervous prattle. She lay on a wide bed in the
Mariposa’s
most luxurious stateroom, surrounded by dozens of rapidly fading white and yellow lilies. And her maid’s sob. Olana sat up.
“Are you ill, Patsy?”
“Oh, no. I was hearty on the Atlantic crossing, so I don’t expect this ocean will be any worse. It’s you, Miss Olana. Forgive me but I never seen a sadder bride.”
“I’m tired, that’s all. You can go.”
But Patsy fussed with her hair, insisting it was not quite sitting right over the dressing gown collar. Finally, she put down the brush.
“Use this, miss.” Patsy handed her something powdered, slippery, that had a rosy glow.
“What —”
“A sheep’s bladder.”
“What in heaven’s name —”
“It’s got the blood inside. I don’t know how to say this except straight out, miss. Mr. Moore, he will need to know he got what he bargained for. If you file one of your fingernails sharp, and keep this under the covers with you until the right moment, he should be none the wiser.”
Blazing clarity. More life lessons from her servant. “Thank you,” Olana whispered and slipped the small bladder into the pocket of her dressing gown.
“Shall I sit with you? Until he comes?”
“No, no. Find Selby. He was balancing a trunk and three valises up the gangplank. I expect he’ll need your tender touch.”
“If that’s all then —”
“Yes.”
She turned at the door and rushed back, taking up Olana’s
hands in hers. “Tell me if I done wrong, miss? Letting Mr. Hart in? Tell me, and punish me!”
hands in hers. “Tell me if I done wrong, miss? Letting Mr. Hart in? Tell me, and punish me!”
“You did nothing wrong. Go on, Patsy.”
Later, much later, the sound of her husband’s groans woke her. Olana tapped at his door.
“Darius?”
No answer. She opened it. The sour smell assaulted her first. His coat was on the bed, but he was sprawled on the floor of his small bathroom. His face and hair was wet, his eyes closed. She knelt beside him.
“Darius, are you ill?”
“Go away.”
“You are, let me —”
His eyes opened. “You never wanted me!”
“What?”
“But you had to have your parties, your social season. And now the groom is dispensable?” His eyes went small in their contained rage.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Is this your latest amusement, my little bride? Poisoning?”
“Perhaps … if we took some air —”
“Get Wallace.”
“Of course. But let me —” She reached for the stack of washcloths on the shelf, but he caught her wrist and twisted.
“Now,” he said between his teeth.
“Darius, you’re hurting me.”
“I know.”
Olana stumbled back to her own room. She hastily donned her raincoat. Wallace. Where had they put him? She knocked at Patsy’s room. Selby came to the door. His sleepy eyes came to attention when he recognized her.
“Don’t wake her, Selby!’ Olana whispered. “I’m very sorry to disturb you at all, but I’ve forgotten where we put Wallace!”
“He’s first door left of the master’s, ma’am.”
“Yes, of course, thank you. Mr. Moore is ill. I’m going for the ship’s doctor and —”
“I’ll call Wallace for you,” he offered.
“Good. Thank you.”
“Button up, Mrs. Moore. Feels like a storm’s up to shake this grand vessel, and make us all queasy.”
Olana fumbled at her raincoat’s collar, thinking of the sweetness in the footman’s concern as she struggled through the corridor. Her wrist hurt where her husband had twisted it. Like when Cal Carson did. No. There was no resemblance. Her husband was a proud man, who did not like to be seen ill. That’s all. Poisoning. He was distraught. He would apologize for the accusation once he was well.
Passengers and crewmen hovered around Doctor Phillips as he stood in his office doorway, his black bag in his hand. He was a different man from the laughing, pleasant-faced gentleman to whom the captain introduced Olana at the reception. Drawn face, near panic in his eyes. Something was wrong. Something beyond the swells buffeting the ocean liner. Doctor Phillips saw her and raised his arm.
“Mrs. Moore! I am on my way at your urgent summons!” He cut through the other passengers and took her arm. Three crewmen followed.
“Say nothing, please,” he advised in a low voice as he led her down a stairway. Then he stopped. “Is one of your party ill?” he asked quickly.
“My husband, but it’s the seasickness I think. If there is a more urgent need —”
“There is indeed. There has been a fire below, in the engine room. Under control now, I assure you, but there are some rather serious injuries I must attend to. Without causing panic. I’m afraid I used you as a ploy, Mrs. Moore, for the needs below.”
“May I be of help?”
“Help? But your husband —”
“He has his manservant.”
Doctor Phillips looked to the crewmen with them. Two nodded,
one scowled. “I appreciate your generous offer,” the doctor said gently, “but the injuries are burns. And the sight — well, look.”
one scowled. “I appreciate your generous offer,” the doctor said gently, “but the injuries are burns. And the sight — well, look.”
He opened his coat to reveal his vest smeared with blood.
“I have had some experience, sir,” Olana said quietly. “And my health is quite robust.”
“If it becomes less so, you will have to attend yourself.”
“Fair enough.”
The acrid smoke combined with their continual descent made a feeling of panic rise from the pit of Olana’s stomach. But she continued downward on the doctor’s arm. Why her offer? Was this better than spending the rest of her wedding night in her husband’s company?
The jammed quarters had been turned into an infirmary. There were seven sailors on bottom bunks, and one more brought in on the broad back of a boiler man as they entered. This was a different life, with much less comforts, than the one above. Olana sensed no panic, only a desperate vigil being kept over the crew’s burned comrades.
“This is Mrs. Moore,” was all the doctor said before he handed her his coat and leaned over the latest victim. Olana draped it over an upper bunk, put her own beside it, and looked around the room. The ship rolled, knocking over a pitcher. Her first task became clear. They were all calling for water.
Hours later a man whose scalp was burned off clutched her hand. His skin was so blackened Olana could tell neither his age nor race. He opened his eyes. Young eyes.
“You smell like roses.”
She smiled. “My cologne.”
“What’s your name?”
“’Lana,” she whispered.
“Sounds like the sea at rest.”
His eyes followed the swirling motion of her hair as it swept through her ivory comb. Then they stilled in death. The man sitting on the patient’s other side began to weep. Olana draped her macintosh over his shoulders.
Hours later, Olana heard the doctor call from the vague, fragmented forms that waltzed across her eyelids.
“Mrs. Moore.”
Automatically, she held out her hand for the heavy mug of coffee he’d put there twice earlier that night. “We’ve gotten five of them through the night. Get some rest.” He walked on.
Olana stood, took a step. The ocean’s churning knocked her against a bunk. The bladder in her pocket burst. Its blood soaked the browning parts of her gown bright red again.
A voice. From someone new to the room. “Good God. Doctor — here, Mrs. Moore!”
“I’m quite all right,” she insisted, trying to clear the hair from her eyes. “I musn’t be any trouble. Please, don’t.” But she couldn’t stop the man who picked her up. Her protests couldn’t keep Doctor Phillips from lifting layers and examining her side.
He shook his head. “A small cut, and some bruising, that’s all. I don’t know why it bled so much,” he marveled.
Then it was cold. She was on the deck, being carried. Olana panicked. “If I’m any trouble, the doctor will not allow me back!”
“You may go back. After you’ve rested.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand, Mrs. Moore.”
Inside again. A cabin. Warm smells of blackberry tobacco and ink soothed her. “Doctor Phillips said —” she still protested.
“I will pull rank on the good doctor, if necessary.”
“Pull rank?” She looked around the quarters, then more closely at the burly sailor’s ribbed sweater, his white bearded face. “Why, Captain Brewster, I beg your pardon! I didn’t recognize you without your — regalia!” Her hands made a vague motion at his chest, as she giggled helplessly.
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Moore. But now you know you’ll come to no harm here, so please close your eyes.”
“Yes. No harm. Please,” she murmured.
His lips pressed her forehead gently. The way her father’s did. Before he’d sold her to the highest bidder.
The room’s tobacco and ink mixed with the scents of Matthew’s
house on the ocean — pine woods, the loom, the salt sea. And she was waltzing with him again, there behind her eyes. When the sea lurched, she hit the side of the bunk, then sat up straight.
house on the ocean — pine woods, the loom, the salt sea. And she was waltzing with him again, there behind her eyes. When the sea lurched, she hit the side of the bunk, then sat up straight.
“Matthew, help them!” she called out.
Patsy leaned over her. “Oh, miss, did you really go down to the burned sailors? Did the captain of this grand vessel really carry you here himself?”
Olana looked around. “Yes. I think so.”
“The whole ship’s abuzz with it, Miss Olana! Doctor Phillips is singing your praises as well.”
“The men —”
“Holding their own, miss. All asking after you.”
Olana leaned back. “Patsy. The bladder burst. Down there. At a most inopportune time. One might even be tempted to say I entered my matronhood in the absence of my husband and the presence of a dozen sailors. How shall I describe this event in my memory book, do you think?”
The two giggled, their heads together, until the doctor’s soft knock announced his presence. “Well, I’m happy to see my head nurse is rested and ready to report back for duty,” he said.
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