Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“At least they don’t spit!” she said, remembering the times she’d winced at the sight of men, even well-dressed gentlemen, spitting in any corner available.

“No, but watch,” Delaney said. He was smiling slightly, but not at her. She followed his gaze to a boy no more than twelve years old. The lad was chewing tobacco. He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and spit the revolting brown wad into it.

The passage to Marysville took longer than expected, for the river had had little rainfall and there was the constant danger of becoming stuck on barely submerged sandbanks. Chauncey stood at the railing, watching everything silently. Occasionally some hills came into view, and here and there were glimpses of a mountain chain. For the most part, though, the scenery was monotonous. Pale green hills dotted with occasional scraggily bushes and scrub oaks.

“We won’t be stopping at Hock Farm,” Delaney said. “General Sutter and his sons are interesting men. Due north is Mount Shasta, the highest point of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.”

Chauncey listened to the sound of his voice, not really caring what he said. He sounded tired, and she felt waves of concern. How ironic, she thought. How very ironic.

She jumped at the sound of a shout from one of the sailors.

“Marysville!”

23

Chauncey stared toward the small town coming into view. It was a motley collection of tents and wooden structures haphazardly set down, it seemed to her, with no rhyme or reason. There was not one tree within fifty yards of the town, cut down, she supposed, during the winter for fires. Still some hundred yards away, she could already feel the excitement and that particular sort of chaos that she’d sensed when she first arrived in San Francisco. There were men standing on the long dock wildly waving their felt hats toward the steamer. Chauncey moved closer to Delaney, for the passengers were spilling out onto the deck. Mrs. Dobbs, a most fascinating woman with the reddest hair Chauncey had ever seen, brushed by her.

“Excuse me, dearie. Quite a crush, ain’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I find it most interesting.” She turned to Delaney. “Actually, I feel like I’m in a different world.”

Delaney well understood what she meant, but to him Marysville had changed immensely over the past three years. Gold seekers had scored the virgin land, making it look raw and ugly as sin. That was doubtless what she’d meant. She scorned it. He refused to let himself be drawn to her, to understand her, to smile at her. The past day and a half had been a trial and he’d asked himself over and over why he had brought her here. He hadn’t believed she would be in any real danger in San Francisco.

It is likely she’s in more danger here in the wilds.

He refused to think about it and he refused to smile. He asked in a cold, indifferent voice, “It is not like your decadent, overripe England, is it?”

“No,” she said slowly, her brief excitement crushed, “it is not.”

He’s fighting me. He’s fueling his anger. She understood, but his flippant words hurt, hurt badly.

She looked toward Mrs. Dobbs, now waving wildly toward the men on shore, laughing and shouting. “I hope her family is here to meet her,” she said.

Delaney laughed coldly. “So you don’t recognize a kindred spirit?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your Mrs. Dobbs is a whore, of course. She’s like your England, a bit overripe and blown, but the men in Marysville will welcome her with open arms, so to speak.”

At last he had drawn her. Her fingers itched to strike him, but she didn’t. She drew a deep breath and asked calmly, “Is a wife who responds to her husband considered a whore?”

“Doubtless, if she does it for a reason other than . . . affection. I would at least consider you an honest whore had you demanded money from me.”

“Very well. How much should I charge you?”

“You’ve already taken all I would ever consider paying you.”

It was no use, she thought. He’s keeping me at two arms’ lengths. She forced herself to shrug and look back at the town. “I cannot help but wonder what it will look like in, say, ten years. Surely the gold will be gone by then. Do you believe the people will stay and build up the town?”

“It isn’t quite so bad as you think, my dear. Last time I was here, there were a good six thousand folk living in Marysville and they boasted a theater and two newspapers. More culture than most of your English towns have, I daresay. Why, there are nearly as many goods available in the stores as there are in Sacramento.”

“What are the names of the rivers?”

“We’re at the head of the Feather and the Yuba. We’ll spend the night here, then leave tomorrow morning on horseback for Downieville.”

“There are many gold mines here?”

“Indeed, and quartz mines as well. On the average, the quartz yields about thirteen percent of gold. Fascinating, isn’t it?”