Jade Star (Star Quartet 4)

“I won’t,” he said softly, his fingertips stroking her face. Her teeth nipped his fingertips and he kissed her again. He felt the sweet, smiling curve of her lips as his tongue traced over her. Her eyes would be smiling too, he thought. At least, he wanted to tell her, at least I have seen you in the moments of your pleasure. He felt her legs tighten about his flanks, felt her smooth hands stroking down his back to his buttocks, and his body responded. He moaned softly at the sensations as he filled her again.

“You are the most exquisite lover in the world,” Jules said just before she fell asleep.

“Yes,” he said, his voice deep with satisfaction. “I guess I am.”

“No,” Saint said very carefully, “it is still the same, Sam.”

Jules wanted to moan like a wounded animal, but she didn’t. She said nothing.

“Still the white?”

“Yes.”

Sam laughed. “Excellent, Saint. You’re healing.” He clapped Saint on the back. “All you need now is rest, lots of it. No worrying, now, and no fighting with your wife.”

“I don’t understand,” Jules said.

Saint reached out his hand and she quickly took it. “What Sam means, Jules, is that since what vision I have hasn’t faded, it’s hopeful, very hopeful.” He drew her against his side and hugged her. “I do promise not to fight with her, Sam.”

Dr. Pickett smiled and in that smile was a prayer. He patted Saint’s shoulder. “Well, you don’t need me anymore. We’ll try again in another week, Saint. Another thing, no more than two, three patients a day.” He turned to Jules, his voice more serious now. “Rest, Jules. He must have rest. I count on you to handle him.”

“I shall, Dr. Pickett,” she said, “indeed I shall.”

After Jules had shown Samuel Pickett out, she returned to the surgery. “Here is your cane, Michael. Let’s have some lunch and tell Lydia the good news.”

She watched him like a hawk, of course, but bit down on her tongue when he bumped into a chair. To her great relief, he laughed. He listened to her right the chair, and said, “Tell me how romantic I look with this cane, Jules.”

He did, she thought. It was ebony, with a carved lion’s head. She’d said nothing about the cane before, uncertain as to his reaction. “Well, Michael,” she said, slipping her arm through his, “if you looked any more romantic, I would insist that you rest now, without your lunch.”

Jules insisted that both Lydia and Thackery join them in the dining room. At first Thackery looked at her as if she were speaking gibberish.

“For heaven’s sake, Thackery,” Lydia finally said, “would you please cease acting like a slave!”

“But—” Thackery said.

“No, no more,” Jules said. “Come to the dining room. Saint will tell you about Mr. Leidesdorff, the first black man in San Francisco.”

That got him, Jules saw, winking at Lydia.

Saint, when applied to for the story, sat back in his chair and smiled in Thackery’s general direction. “His name was William, and unfortunately, I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting him. He died a young man, only thirty-eight, in 1848, and what with the inflation brought by the gold rush, his estate was worth over a million dollars. Just six months ago, as a matter of fact, our own John Folsom”—this said in a sarcastic voice—“hauled himself to Jamaica and bought interests from possible claimants to the estate, for, you see, William Leidesdorff left no kin. Lord only knows what will happen now.”

Jules tapped her fork impatiently. “But the point is, Thackery, this is California, and everyone is free to do as he wishes here.” It was on the tip of her tongue to have Michael relate Leidesdorff’s tragic love affair, but she realized in time that it had been tragic simply because the man had been a mulatto, and therefore unacceptable to the white family.

“If you ate with your fingers,” said the irrepressible Lydia, “that would be another matter entirely. And that’s why Saint here doesn’t invite all those Sydney Ducks to dine with him!”

Saint chuckled, and Jules wanted to shout with the pleasure of the sound. She looked at Lydia, then at Thackery. We’re becoming a family, she thought.

Two days later, in the early afternoon, Jules, with smiling firmness, helped her husband upstairs to rest. Lydia had gone to do some marketing, claiming she’d best get out now before the rains started again. As for Thackery, he’d left to go to the Wild Star to see Brent Hammond.

When there was a knock on the front door, Jules sent a worried glance upward, praying it wasn’t a patient. She hated to turn anyone away, but Michael was more important.

It wasn’t a patient, however. It was a young boy.

“Miz Morris?” he asked, his voice a lisp through the gap in his front teeth.

“Yes,” Jules said.

“This is for you, ma’am,” the boy said, thrust an envelope into her hand, and scurried away before Jules could say anything else.