The Damnation Affair, Page 3

  Cat pried one eye open, wincing as her body protested even such a simple movement. The humming was actually quite pleasant, and she deduced it must be the Chinoise girl. Her charing was blessedly cool, and she rolled over, blinking at the plastered ceiling and stretching gingerly.

  All things considered, she was quite well. Merely hungry enough to do shockingly unladylike damage to a platter of breakfast, and sore clear through.

  The larger bedroom was at the end of a tiny hallway; the smaller was tucked to the side and held a low corncrib and some few bits of fabric draped on the walls to provide a bit of cheer. Cat made a mental note to find at least a chair for the poor girl, and made her way downstairs on slippered feet. The slippers had been set neatly by her bedside, and yesterday’s gown hung to air on a press, charmed neatly enough that no dust or feathers clung to its folds.

  Which was a most welcome surprise.

  Her nightgown made a low sweet sound as she tiptoed along the back hall, following the humming to its source. Which was, as she had suspected, the kitchen.

  The Chinoise, her slim back betraying little of the proud belly in front, was humming as she scrubbed, elbow-deep in suds, at something. The kitchen, bright and airy, was full of a wondrous scent. There was a stripped-pine table, two chairs, a steaming kettle, and a washtub to the side. The stove, its heat enclosed in an envelope-charm, spun a fresh globe of golden glow aside; the globe, drifting through the kitchen, bumbled merrily out the open top half of a door leading to a porch and a short breezeway. It bobbed along, the mancy on it crackling, and would eventually rise into the sky, safely dissipating away from anything flammable. ’Twas an elegant bit of work, and a relief. At least the house would not burn down around them.

  It was a great relief that charterstones and charings would make mancy work reliably even if one was not properly native-born. The great influx of those from other countries seeking a better life, or merely drudgery in a new environ, could practice such mancy as was native to them within charterstone’s bounds. After the Provinces War, the discovery of gold in certain wasted places and the determination to bring the railroad to every corner of the New World had brought all manner of folk to these shores.

  It was even quite quite to have an exotic as a servant, preferably indentured. The Barrowe-Brownes had not, preferring solid German and French maids, but often her father had spoke of perhaps engaging a Lascar as a manservant, merely to give her mother the vapours.

  The Chinoise girl raised a dripping hand, and soap bubbles drifted free into the breezy kitchen. It was a simple charm, meant to amuse, and Cat answered before she could help herself. Her own fingers tingled, and the mancy slid free—light glinting between the bubbles, striking rainbows glittering-sharp as diamonds.

  Cat’s Practicality was in light; Robbie’s had been…well, otherwise. Light was a very acceptable Practicality in a young lady, indeed, and the Chinoise girl’s Practicality was plain as the bubbles drifted on the swirls and eddies of clear air. For a moment the two charm-streams intermingled, light and water a happy marriage—not like air and fire, or fire and water, though true fire Practicalities were rare, and a good thing too. Metal and earth Practicalities were common, and wood was eminently respectable for a gentleman but not a young lady. A stone Practicality was considered rather boorish, for it meant one could pass paste jewels for real; a mechanical one was almost as bad as being in trade. New Practicalities shaped themselves as Science and mancy moved forward.

  Soon, there might even be Disciplines, as in Englene and the Continent.

  The bubbles popped, the rainbows drained away, and Cat found herself facing a pale, heavily pregnant Chinoise girl in a dun frock, who refused to quite meet her nominal employer’s gaze.

  In short order there was breakfast on the table—Cat gave it to be understood that she wished to eat here instead of in the postage-stamp parlour, and perhaps the girl looked relieved? With a modicum of gesturing and facial expressions, Cat asked if the girl had eaten breakfast yet; receiving a small shake of the sleek dark head, she marched to the cupboard with what she fancied was great determination, fetched a second plate and cup of thick, durable earthcraft, and set it down on the small table as well.

  In any event, Cat tucked in with a will, and there was even strong fragrant tea.

  Their first breakfast passed in companionable silence, and the Chinoise girl looked rather less pale and peaked by the end of it. Cat settled back with a cup of tea—the cup was actually porcelain, and painted with blue flowers, very fine save for its lack of matching saucer—while the girl collected the dishes and returned to her washing.

  So far the morning had proven very satisfactory indeed. The breeze was fresh and smelled of sage, fragrant tea and bacon aromas filled the kitchen, and Cat was beginning to feel almost quite again when a shadow fell across the back step.

  The Chinoise girl whirled, inhaling sharply. Her little hand flashed out, grabbed a knife that looked more fit for repelling pirate boarders than cooking, and hissed something in her native tongue. Cat let out a pale shriek and started, almost dropping her cup, and Jack Gabriel peered over the half-door, reaching up to his hatbrim. His hazel eyes were bright and wide, and he ducked a glowing ball of heat drawn from the stove.

  “For God’s sake, Li Ang, put that away. Figgered I’d—well, hello, ma’am. Pleased to see you looking better.”

  Heat raced furiously up Cat’s cheeks. “Sir! I am not even dressed! Were you never taught to knock before entering a house?”

  “I did. Don’t reckon you heard me.” He took this in, and actually, of all things, smiled. “That thing you’re wearing could qualify as a winding-sheet, miss. Avert,” he muttered, right away, flicking his hat to brush away bad mancy or ill-luck. “Beg pardon, ma’am. I’ll wait in the parlour.”

  Cat, her heart pounding, swallowed a most unladylike urge to shrill like a harridan. Her mother would know exactly what to say to this man to cut him to size. “Very well,” she managed stiffly. “Perhaps you would care for a cup of tea, while I arrange myself.”

  He shrugged, leaning lazily on the half-door. Li Ang had gone back to washing, and Cat suddenly noticed the girl’s ankles were swollen. Definitely a chair, and some provision must be made for the baby as well.

  “I prefer coffee, but thank you kindly. I’ll wait.”

  “I was unaware I had an engagement today,” she floundered.

  “Thought you might like to see the schoolhouse. But I can understand if you’d rather rest, ma’am. Yesterday was prob’ly enough to turn a lady’s nerves to ribbons.”

  What a gruesome image. Thank you, sir. “I am made of sterner stuff than most, sir.” Why was she possessed of the sudden feeling that she was coming off very badly in this conversation? “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” He didn’t say another word as she retreated, crimson-cheeked and acutely aware she was practically barefoot. Her bare ankles were brazenly revealed. And she was in a nightgown, of all things, in the kitchen with a servant.

  And the day had been going so well.

  * * *

  Li Ang offered him two biscuits and some leftover bacon on a plate; he took it, so as to be mannerly. Besides, his breakfast had been bolted before dawn, and now he couldn’t even remember what he’d shoveled in before heading out to ride the charter-circuit with a sore-headed Russell Overton. “How you feelin’?”

  She shrugged. She understood far more Englene than she could speak. Not much escaped those dark eyes of hers, either. She returned to her work, moving slowly, and Jack sighed, leaning against the door while he reflectively chewed on the bacon. He gave it a few minutes’ worth of silence, to let her get comfortable.

  And also to let himself think about the schoolmarm. Bare-ankled and lost in a nightgown that looked big enough to swallow two or three of her, with her dark hair anyhow and falling out of its braid. He hadn’t seen a woman like that in a few years.

  Not that it would help him to think about it. He’d spent years not thi
nking about women at all, and more years trying to forget one particular woman.

  It never got easier.

  “Any trouble?” he finally persisted, after giving her a decent time to compose her nerves.

  Li Ang looked into the washsink like it held gold dust, shook her head. The long braid of glossy black hair bumped her back. She rinsed a plate, then half-turned, pointed at the hallway, and nodded once, decidedly. “Good,” she said, in a high, thin, piping child’s voice. She thought for a moment, finding the word in her mental storehouse. “Good charm.” Another nod. “Good sense.”

  Well, that was as close to an unqualified vote of confidence he’d ever heard Li Ang utter. He felt the need to qualify it himself, so she wouldn’t think he was…what was he? “Bit prim, that miss.” Kind enough, though, and didn’t lose her head in Hammis’s parlour. “You! Take him outside.” Least she’s practical.

  Made of sterner stuff, eh? Well, we’ll see. Been too quiet around here. May be another attack soon. “Keep the doors bolted,” he finally added, taking a bite of biscuit. She made them doughy, did Li Ang. For all that, they were food, and he didn’t want her to feel poorly. He’d refused to eat her cooking once, and her face had crinkled like she might cry. He still felt a mite guilty over that. “Darkmoon comin’ up.”

  Li Ang shrugged and brought him a tin cup of water, which he swilled gratefully. He wished for some coffee, but Miss Barrowe hadn’t precisely offered, and Li Ang was probably mad at him for scaring the bejesus out of her. That knife had come within a hair of being flung, and he had a healthy respect for her aim. “Hate to scare her away,” he added, mostly because he suspected the Chinoise girl liked having him make some noise so she could be sure he wasn’t sneaking. “Hard enough gettin’ a schoolmarm out here, and the young’uns is right savages.”

  Li Ang made some remark in her native tongue. She could have been calling him a dogfaced monkeylicker, for all he knew; all Chinois sounded the same to him. But at least she said it nicely enough.

  “I don’t worry so much about little Hammis or some of the othern. It’s the older ones.” He popped the last bit of biscuit in his mouth. “Like Tommy Kendall, for example. Or that Browis boy. Like to send her home in a sobbing heap. Maybe I should have a quiet word, you think?”

  Li Ang shrugged and made another short comment. Jack sighed, scratching at his forehead. “Well, they’re likely to take that nose in the air as a challenge. Quiet word might sort it out, or might make ’em nastier. Goddamn, Li Ang, why do I always end up talking around you?”

  “Lo-nu-lee,” she half-sang as she charmed the water in the washsink afresh, sparks of mancy crackling. “Jack is lonely.”

  Well, shit. I knew that. His mouth pulled sourly against itself, and he balanced the plate and cup on the door. I should just shut up while I can.

  It took the schoolmarm a damnably long time to get ready, and his mood didn’t grow any brighter. At least he refrained from opening his fool mouth anymore, and Li Ang collected his plate with a dark look and shuffled away.

  By the time he heard a light step in the hall, he was half-ready to tell the Boston miss something had come up and he wasn’t available to squire her around all damn day. His mouth was dry and he’d already wiped his hands on his pants, cursing himself as the bacon grease made itself felt.

  She looked cool and imperturbable in some sort of flowered dress, a pale ruffled parasol at her side and her hat perched smartly on brown curls. As if she was about to go stepping out on a Boston street instead of sitting in a dusty wagon with him, going to look at a one-room schoolhouse that was probably as fine as a chicken coop to her delicate sensibilities.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gabriel.” She was even wearing gloves, for God’s sake. She offered her hand as if she’d never met him before. “I must apologize for my previous disarray. Shall we?”

  His brain froze like a hunted rabbit and his mouth decided to mumble. “No trouble.” Under the gloves her fingers were slim and fragile.

  She don’t belong here. He swallowed, dryly, and her dark eyes mocked him for being dirty and shapeless. Jack Gabriel reclaimed his hand, jammed his hat back on his head, and mumbled something else.

  It didn’t figure to be a pleasant afternoon.

  Chapter 4

  Miss Bowdler’s Book of Charms For Frontier Living had been quite adequate so far, but Miss Bowdler’s Book For Schoolteachers had not prepared her for a ramshackle barn of a building still smelling of raw wood probably hauled from the distant, frowning mountains with a tiny outhouse tucked behind it like a secret. It had a bell, certainly, and a very new slate board. Fine gritty sand drifting over the floor, riding drafts that bore a striking resemblance to a maelstrom. The long rickety seats looked decidedly uncomfortable, and the desks sloped a bit. A rack of pegs for coats and the like, a boot-scraper near the door, a potbellied stove that would perhaps be beyond her powers to keep lit, and precious few windows added to the general air of “barn.”

  But she essayed a bright smile. “This will do very well, I think. Was it much trouble to build?”

  He gave her a look that suggested she was perhaps a trifle soft in the head. “Got to build everything, out here.”

  Well, of course. Slightly irritated, she forced her fingers to unclench. “So it was trouble.” Ill-tempered of her, of course, but she had the idea manners were perhaps missing in this quarter of the country. Or if not, they were certainly lost on this inhabitant of said quarter. “I apologize.”

  “Didn’t mean that, ma’am. Just meant, we were afraid you’d be offended. Not quite what a Boston miss might be used to.”

  There are slums in our fair city, sir, that would put this to shame. Though she had never gone a-treading them. It was not the thing for a young lady; but Robbie had brought back bloodcurdling stories more than once.

  In the absence of a clear trail to Robbie’s whereabouts, the least she could do was attempt the employment she had pursued and was expected of her.

  Perhaps a peace offering to this uneasy man would not go amiss. “It seems solid enough. I am greatly heartened.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell. How had she set herself wrong with him? If he disliked her so thoroughly, why had he elected himself to show her this place? Mrs. Granger would have been a far better choice, being on the Committee of Public Works as she was, and a matron Quite Respectable to boot.

  Abruptly, Cat realized she was alone with a man, miles from civilization, and she had not even asked for a chaperone. How forward did she appear? She took a few nervous steps away, her skirts making a low sweet sound, and a stream of golden sand creaked from the rafters as the wind shifted.

  “Damn dust,” he muttered, swinging his hat. “Pardon, ma’am. It’ll be less thick in here after the rains. Roof’s sound, at least, and some of us will come out and stopper up any drafty bits before winter gets bad. We was fair excited about your arrival.”

  Oh, good heavens, rain. If God is merciful, I might not be here at the advent of such an event. She tried another bright smile. “I am glad to have been anticipated. Now that I have some idea of the facilities, shall we—”

  “I reckon I might need a dipperful. Well’s out front, ma’am. I’ll be back.” And he vanished out the front door with long swinging strides, dark hair askew and tinged with the ever-present golden grit.

  Well, do as you please, sir, as long as you leave me in peace. She shook her head, then eyed the sorry collection of long desk-boards. Slates and chalk, certainly. Rubbing-cloths were in the desk. She spied a familiar shape under a fall of oilcloth and held her breath, twitching the covering aside with two gloved fingers and finding a very sorry-looking upright piano, twanging discordantly as she touched a yellowed key. Well, a tune-charmer could not be that difficult to find even here in the wilderness; if all else failed…well, she had played worse. It might do to teach some of the more promising students a little refinement.

  Though they probably needed refine
ment here about as much as Cat needed the hair ribbons she’d brought. She had not thought much beyond gaining the town; she had expected Robbie to show his face long before now.

  Well, I am possessed of a small independence, and this is not Boston. It is a start. She sighed, smoothing the covering over the wrecked hulk of the piano. How had it been hauled so far out West? she wondered. Shuttled on the railway, or bumping along on some prairie schooner, finally fetching up here? Had it been sent by dirigible from abroad, perhaps, and washed up in this inhospitable place? Flotsam of a sort, just as she may well turn out to be?

  How on earth would she find Robbie? Even here at the edge of civilization a woman did not go wandering about a town looking for a man. Perhaps she might engage someone to take a message to him—but his last missives had been rather striking in their insistence on secrecy and that Cat must not, under any circumstances, enquire openly about him.

  It was a puzzle, and one Miss Bowdler’s books could not help her solve.

  A faint scratching caught her attention. She frowned, glancing about. The entire barnlike structure was dead quiet, and she was abruptly conscious, again, of being miles away from anything even resembling civilization.

  The back door. It rattled slightly. Perhaps Mr. Gabriel? The well was at the front of the building, a ramshackle affair but one she suspected was a mark of pride, just like the repaired gate at her own dwelling. Cat swung her closed parasol, decidedly, as she made for the back door between rows of mismatched board-desks. It was bad form to carry it inside; but there was no stand, and she did not wish it to become stained.

  The door rattled again, groaning, and a fresh flurry of scratching filled the uncanny quiet. Was it an animal? Or perhaps Mr. Gabriel was playing some manner of foolish prank, seeing if the Boston miss could be frightened?

  Cat’s chin rose. Robbie could hoax much better than this, sir. The lock was a pin-and-hasp, sparking with a charter-charm; her charing, tucked under her dress, warmed dangerously. So, it was a prank involving mancy, was it?