Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04) (9 page)
Inez was well aware that living in the high altitude of Leadville paired with the hard work of running the saloon had sharpened her own features and pared down her curves since they’d last been together as man and wife.
What does Mark see when he looks at me now?
She gave the unwanted question a mental shove.
“Inez.” Mark’s voice was soft, as if he understood her pain. “We can talk about this later.” He glanced at Abe and Bridgette, his meaning obvious: let’s not air our differences and dirty laundry in front of others. “Why don’t you set a spell, have something to eat. Abe and I’ll open the doors and put things to rights in the saloon.”
“I’ve no time at present,” she said, pulling her gloves out of her purse. “I have business to attend to, and I won’t be here.”
She bent her head, tugging on the gloves and straightening the seams, not looking at Mark. It was so damned disconcerting to see him standing there in the flesh. She said to the room at large, “We should set up a schedule for covering the saloon. There are four of us now working the bar, including the hired help.”
Inez continued, still fussing with her seams, “An extra pair of hands should provide some added relief for you, Mr. Jackson, since your wife’s time is so near.”
She slid a glance at Mark, in time to see him nod and smooth his mustache.
Ah. He apparently knows about Abe’s marriage. I wonder what else Abe has told him. I wonder if Abe has mentioned the Reverend Mister Sands. Or if Bridgette has. She could never keep a secret. The reverend’s comings and goings here this summer were hardly much of a secret.
Her stomach clutched with dread and betrayal.
“The Silver Queen is still closed on Sundays, as it has been from the beginning. That makes six days. Three for Mr. Stannert, three for me.” She twiddled with one of the buttons and finally raised her eyes to Mark. Daring him to disagree with her. “I will lay claim to Saturdays, as I have a regular clientele for cards on Saturday evenings. Other than that, make what arrangements you will.”
She expected Mark to protest that she was being a silly woman and to lay on the Southern charm. Instead, he simply asked, “Still the same table? Doc, that newspaperman, Elliston, right? He still losin’ as much as he used to? Cooper, Evan, Hollingsworth, Gallagher?”
Inez interrupted, not wanting to hear the litany of names from their lives together. “There have been changes. Mr. Gallagher is seldom in town, and Mr. Hollingsworth met with an unfortunate accident last winter.”
“May God save his soul,” said Bridgette, crossing herself with the ladle. Drops of potato soup flew.
Inez jerked back into awareness that they had an audience in Bridgette and Abe.
Bridgette hastily turned away. She plunked the ladle back in the pot and dropped the lid on with a clang. Fussing with the dishcloth, she said, “The missus and Mr. Jackson have been busy as bees, Mr. Stannert. Why, you should see the gaming room upstairs. Quite the gentlemen’s parlor, my lands, even though I don’t approve of cards as a rule, but at least we keep the Sabbath, and that’s a blessing.”
Some of the tension leaked out of the room with Bridgette’s commentary. Abe pushed the soup bowl away and stood. “I’ll see to the doors. Folks are gonna think they’re seein’ a ghost when they spot you mixin’ drinks.”
Mark laughed an easy laugh, full of genuine affection. “Well, we’ll just have to encourage them to keep drinking to clear their vision.”
Inez had had enough. She turned to go, feeling like she would go crazy if she had to stay in the same room with her husband for a moment longer.
She pushed her way out the doors and into the cool, dark interior of the saloon. She was halfway across the floor, heading for the State Street entrance, when footsteps and the quick click of a cane behind warned her.
She whirled around, hissing through clenched teeth, “Do
not
talk to me right now, Mr. Stannert. And do
not
call me ‘darling.’”
Mark held up a placating hand. “Dar…Inez. Hold your horses. I have something for you.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.
Inez gasped, then realized he held it out, grip first, not pointed at her.
He looked reproachful. “You said you lost your Smoot in the house fire. Can’t let my wife walk down Leadville’s streets without a bit of protection in her pocket. Picked this out special for you, this morning, first thing.”
He opened his hand so she could see the gun, lying across his palm.
It was a perfect jewel of a pocket revolver.
Inez recognized it as a Smoot Number Three, offspring of her old protector. Its pearl grip shimmered in the diffuse light, begging to be held.
She looked up at Mark, and over his shoulder saw Abe, framed by the kitchen entryway, apparently not willing to walk into the main room and interrupt. Bridgette hovered behind him.
She realized, belatedly, that Mark had outmaneuvered her, again. If she took the gun, it would look as if she had accepted his gift and they were reconciling.
If I don’t take it, I’ll look like a hard-hearted harpy.
“It’s lovely, but there’s no need,” she said coolly. “One of my errands this morning is to pick up a replacement Smoot that I have ordered. Alas, you’re too late.”
With that, she spun on her heel, walked to the door leading out to State Street, and exited the saloon.
Harmony’s hand covered her mouth. “Mark. Alive?”
“That’s not all,” Inez continued grimly. “He’s not only alive, he’s back. In Leadville. He will be coming to Manitou at the beginning of next week.”
“Oh no,” Harmony whispered from between her fingers. “That changes everything.”
Inez frowned. “What do you mean, ‘everything?’”
From behind Inez, a precise female voice drifted up the hall, saying, “Inez Marie Underwood. Now that you are here, we can finally stop all this ridiculous business and make arrangements to all return home to New York.”
The voice hit Inez like a slap to the face.
In fact, she could almost feel the hand that accompanied that voice, the voice that had more than once delivered a sharp rebuke simultaneous with a flat-palmed physical blow.
Through her shock and disbelief, Inez kept her gaze on Harmony, trying to ascertain the truth before turning around. The widened eyes, the sudden flush accompanied by a guilt-stricken expression, and the previously confident, decisive young matron seemed to melt back into a child. Harmony’s response confirmed what Inez already knew in her heart of hearts.
Harmony stepped forward. Her breath brushed Inez’s cheek as she whispered, “I thought she would be waiting for us in the dining hall, that I could tell you before we went down so you would have a chance to prepare yourself.”
“Harmony Elizabeth Underwood DuChamps,” the voice was even closer. “You were not raised to whisper in front of others in such a rude manner. Nor, Inez Marie, were you raised to present your back to someone in their presence. Particularly if that someone is an elder. If I do not count as one of your elders, then you have forgotten more in this misbegotten corner of the country than your manners.”
Inez arranged her features into a semblance of calm and agreeableness before obeying the implicit command and turning around.
Agnes Underwood, older sister to Inez’s father, sailed forward, arms outstretched, beaming.
Willowy, of medium height, she was clothed in a loose flowing gown, quite unlike anything Inez remembered her aunt ever wearing in public.
Aunt Agnes, an aesthete? Well, she always did have a mind of her own.
Her hair was still abundant and black, her blue eyes still as piercing as a knife but nowhere near as sharp as the words she wielded to fearsome effect over every member of Inez’s family for as far back as Inez could remember. As far as Inez could tell, Aunt Agnes hadn’t changed an iota in ten years. She kept her age buried as deeply as her strategies, all deployed from behind the calculated smile.
Inez held out her arms in a returning embrace. “Dear, dear Aunt Agnes. Please excuse my rudeness. I must plead the shock of your unexpected appearance here in Manitou. You see, I was
also
not raised to present myself without notifying the host that I would be accompanying an invited party. Hence my momentary lapse of courtesy.” As she pressed her long-lost aunt to her breast, Inez murmured, “I never use the name Marie, nor do I ever refer to my maiden name of Underwood, so please do not do so here. My last name is Stannert and has been for more than ten years. I am a married woman, as I’m certain you recall.”
Agnes broke away and held Inez at arm’s length. She smiled indulgently. “Of course I recall, silly girl. How could I forget, given the distress your untimely marriage caused the entire family. Why, Harmony cried for months and pined for years at your abandonment. Your father, as you probably know, refused to allow anyone to even speak your name, an order that stands to this day, I am sad to say. Your dear mother has never ever recovered from the neurasthenia resulting from your flouting of the family.”
Agnes’ gaze sliced Inez top to bottom, dissecting hair, face, costume. “My dear, I will never understand how you young women put up with the cuirass bodice and tight lacing. You cannot even draw a breath in such an outfit, much less walk at a healthy pace.”
Inez cocked her head. “Aunt, when did you embrace the aesthetic philosophy?”
She waved an airy hand. “At my age, dear, I dress to please none but myself. However, that does not mean I stint on proper courtesy, deportment, manners, and conduct.”
Inez could well imagine how Aunt Agnes enjoyed the bafflement of others as they strove to reconcile her devil-may-care outward appearance with her steely adherence to Hills’ rules of etiquette. At least, when it suited her.
Agnes continued blithely, “As your sister knows, I decided long ago that your youthful error in marital judgment would not diminish my abiding affection for you, my eldest and most beloved niece, nor would it color our forever-looked-forward-to reunion. After all, the Stannert scoundrel is deceased, I understand. I would offer my condolences, but really, Inez, it is all for the best that he is gone.” She turned to Harmony, who stood, arms crossed, as attentive as an audience witnessing a drama on the stage. “Let us repair to the dining hall. We must not keep Mr. Jonathan DuChamps waiting. The dear man does hate to be kept waiting, does he not, sweet Harmony?”
They moved down the hallway. As they approached the main staircase, Inez got a good look at Hermes in the daylight, watching over all who mounted or descended the stairs. He was impressively life size and did indeed sport a fig leaf. As she paused to examine the statue more closely, Agnes pulled her forward, remarking, “We shall take the ladies’ entrance to the dining room. As is proper.”
Inez could feel a pounding headache beginning somewhere behind her right temple.
I do hope the coffee is strong. It will have to be, if I am to survive this breakfast until I can excuse myself to see William.
She shook her head, determined to settle one last thing before breakfast. “Aunt Agnes, you mentioned making plans to return ‘home.’ I assume you mean New York. However, the city is not my home and has not been for a very long time.”
“My dear, there is absolutely no reason for you to stay here anymore, is there? I know you and your sister have been in correspondence for a long while. Indeed, I have been happy to accept the crumbs of information she has deigned to pass my way.”
Inez could imagine the arm-twisting techniques Aunt Agnes had employed. Most likely, she had pestered Harmony nonstop on the train ride from New York to Denver until Harmony told all out of sheer exhaustion.
“I understand you have been attempting to obtain a divorce based on desertion. But your suspicions are that he is dead, correct?” Aunt Agnes didn’t even glance at Inez to seek concurrence. “It is time you return to New York and your rightful family. Your son lives there, as does your only sister and the rest of the family. You can make amends with your father and tend to your mother. Return to New York, and there will be no censure in rejoining society as a grieving widow. Actually, your time of mourning would nearly be at a close, if we take into account the time that scoundrel’s been gone. That way, you need not pursue this divorce nonsense.”
Inez stopped. Aunt Agnes continued a couple steps to the head of the staircase, hand still in the air as if resting on the ghost of Inez’s arm.
“Our lawyers will take over, they will have Mark Stannert declared legally dead, and…” As if just realizing Inez was no longer beside her, Aunt Agnes turned. At last, a frown broke through the perfect porcelain surface, lines of disapproval dipping between her eyebrows and pulling down on her mouth. “Yes? What is it, Inez?” Impatience bled through her tone.
Inez crossed her arms. “Declaring my husband legally dead may be difficult. Even for the family lawyers, Aunt Agnes, whom I am certain would find a way to declare the moon legally made of silver, spiderwebs, or green cheese, if Papa or you insisted it be done.”
Staring down her aunt, Inez continued, “You see, Mark Stannert is very much alive. In fact, he will be here next week, so you will have the opportunity to meet him yourself.”