The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (16 page)

She looked around the lobby with its brass chandeliers and cut-glass globes. The portieres hanging inside the doorways were olive-toned green, tied with gold tassels, the carpet red and gold. The clerk smiled graciously. She suddenly remembered Mr. Barton looking through his fish spectacles, thinking her wanton. But then she’d been with Berkley Beck, and all Crystal knew before she did what kind of man he was.

Quillan signed the ledger, then handed another man a coin. “Would you show my wife to the room while I take our wagon to the livery?”

“Certainly, sir.” The man took their key from the clerk. “This way, madam.”

She followed the man up the stairs to the second floor landing, then down the long hall to the room with a brass number twenty-five nailed to the door. He unlocked the door and handed her the key. “The dining room is open, madam, if you and your husband desire a late luncheon. Bath and water closet are at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you.” She went inside. The walls were gentian blue, the fireplace painted white, very like the room in which they’d spent their wedding night. Her heart quickened. She crossed the room to the window. It looked directly on the brick wall of the building next door. No stubbled ground and mountain creek. No view of slopes climbing majestic peaks. No valley beckoning her to come, to seek the secrets of a mine returned to the mountain or a spring gushing forth over frigid tiers of ice, or a cavern painted with a man’s life.

And now she was missing it all again.
Dio, what is wrong with me? Will I never be satisfied?

But maybe it was natural to miss it all, even though she was going home. In a large way Crystal had formed her. It would always be there in her heart. But home beckoned more strongly. She dabbed a renegade tear, then turned back and took in the room. Comfortable indeed.

Quillan must have done well to stay there often enough to be known by name. But one had only to consider the prices he charged for his goods. How strange that he’d lived in a tent in Crystal. He was certainly a man of contradictions. She fingered the amethyst pin. He didn’t look like a wealthy man, didn’t act like one. But was he? Funny not to know.

If he were a man of substance, if he had wealth . . . She stopped that thought. She had fallen in love with the rogue freighter. That was enough for her. But would it be for Papa?

She took off her coat and hung it on the brass tree. Then she went down the hall and used the water closet. It was luxury after Crystal, even if it was shared by every room on the floor. She washed her hands and face, then went back to the room.

She had just opened the door when Quillan climbed the stairs, followed by the same man with their bags. She turned and smiled. Four weeks ago, in pain and grief, she had despaired of hope. Now Quillan looked at her with such love it stopped her breath.
Dio, you are good
. She stepped aside as the porter deposited their bags, received another coin from Quillan, then left.

Quillan motioned her in and closed the door behind them. “Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely.”

He slipped out of his coat. “Not as elegant as your first choice.”

“I’m certain they wouldn’t know you there.”

He opened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves. “
Are
you?”

“Yes.” She remembered too well the disdain he’d shown for his mother, Rose, until he had read her diary. He would never cross the door of a bordello, but he no longer hated the unfortunate women inside.

He hung the coat, then crossed to the fireplace and rested his hand on the high-back chair angled there. After a moment he said, “This is where I read my mother’s diary.”

“In this room?” She crossed to him.

“In this chair.” He turned and took her in his arms. “Thank you, Carina.” He bent, and it was a long while before she was free to answer. When he released her, she stroked her fingers over his scratchy jaw.

“Sorry.” He scraped his palm over it. “Guess I’ll shave before dining.”

She smiled, cocking her head to the side. “You prefer that look.”

He touched the skin beside her mouth. “I don’t want to chafe you.”

“At luncheon?” She raised her brows.

“After.”

One word could set her heart pounding? She would not let on so easily. “Should we see the DeMornays after?” That was their purpose, after all. And she could hardly wait to meet Rose’s family, Quillan’s family.

He hung his thumbs in his pants waist. “I don’t know.” He walked to the fireplace, poured coal into the brazier. Then he added kindling and flicked a match. Warmth and light kindled, and he held a palm to it. Firelight played over his features as he squatted there.

She sensed his hesitance, but didn’t understand it. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

He glanced up. “Not altogether.” He stood and dusted off his hands.

She touched his arm. “Quillan, what is it?”

“I’m not sure what good it will do.”

“Good?” She turned him toward her. “To know they have a grandson, to learn what became of their daughter!”

He winced.

“Knowing is better than wondering. And you! You’ll see your family, know here”—she pressed her hand to her heart—“from whom you came. You have to go, Quillan.”

“They have their lives, Carina.”

“And you’re part of them. They just don’t know it yet.” She caught his hands between hers. “Family, Quillan, is the most important thing.”

He expelled a slow breath. “Guess I’ll clean up, then.”

Carina smiled. He would take it head on. “We should send a runner, requesting a visit. Do you have Mr. Tabor’s introduction?”

He took it from his vest.

“Good. We’ll send that, too.”

His mouth quirked up.

She put her hands on her hips. “What?”

“Good thing I have you to soften the blow.”

She slipped her arms around his waist. How natural it seemed to touch him. Was it only weeks ago she thought she didn’t know him? He hooked his hands behind her neck, resting his arms on her shoulders. They were hard and heavy, working arms, lean and strong. “Keep the
mustachio
. It’s perfect.”

He rubbed it across her forehead, kissed her there, then let go.

Two hours later they rode a hired rig to the DeMornays’ home in an elite neighborhood. Though not among the original founders, they had an enviable niche in Denver society, and their location demonstrated that. Carina looked up at the trim red-brick house as Quillan lifted her from the carriage. She felt daunted but hid it for his sake.

In his wedding suit, hair tied back, Quillan looked fine and jaunty, his mustache bold, his eyes subdued. Surely they would welcome him. He hadn’t explained their visit, only requested it on grounds of mutual importance. He’d stared a long time at the reply, William DeMornay’s card and a brief inscription:
On Mr. Tabor’s recommendation, I can spare
a moment at four o’clock today
.

Not exactly warm, but then, Mr. DeMornay had no idea it was his grandson he was corresponding with. A maid answered their knock and led them to a parlor. “Wait here, please.”

Carina felt Quillan’s unease. He stood very still—to a casual eye, contained. But to her . . . So much rested on this, so much of who he was.
Signore, give him courage
.

He held a packet in one hand. Carina knew its contents. Rose’s diary and a deed to the Rose Legacy mine. He had made his claim official before leaving Crystal, and the land agent had issued him a fresh deed based on the claim. It included only the information Rose and Wolf had given the first time. No surnames.

The door opened, and the DeMornays came in together. Carina was glad for that. They had requested an audience with both, but William had worded his reply in the singular, and she didn’t know whether that would include Quillan’s grandmother, as well.

“Good afternoon.” Mrs. DeMornay motioned them toward a pair of blue leaf-patterned chairs. “Please sit.”

Carina and Quillan took their places. Mrs. DeMornay sat across from them on an amber tufted-velvet chair. William DeMornay remained standing. He said, “I know Horace Tabor more by reputation than acquaintance.”

Quillan nodded. “He said as much.” Then he stood and extended his hand. “I’m Quillan Shepard. My wife, Carina.”

William’s handshake was dry and peremptory. “How do you do.” He turned back to Quillan. “You have a matter of importance to discuss?”

Quillan reluctantly regained his chair. Carina guessed he didn’t relish being put on a lower plane by this coldly indifferent man. He said, “Mr. DeMornay, it might be good if you sat.”

Carina glanced at Mrs. DeMornay. She was a feathery woman with very narrow teeth that protruded in a slight overbite that, surprisingly, did not diminish her beauty. Even at her age she had a graceful bearing, and her silvery hair, swept upward from her face, was full and lustrous.

William DeMornay sat down in a green leather chair, eschewing the matching footstool. He folded his leathery fingers across one knee. “Now then?”

Carina had no idea how Quillan would handle this. But it was his to handle. She silently started to pray.

“Mr. and Mrs. DeMornay, are you acquainted with Rose Annelise DeMornay?”

They both visibly stiffened. William said, “Why do you ask?”

“Because if you’re not, the reason for my visit is irrelevant.”

William stayed silent a long moment, then, “Our daughter was named Rose Annelise.”

So the relationship was what Carina suspected. She was looking at Rose’s parents, the ones Rose couldn’t bear to shame. But before either she or Quillan could respond, William added tightly, “She is dead.” He knew? Had Rose contacted them? Had word reached them from tiny Placerville?

Quillan said, “I know. But Rose Annelise DeMornay was my mother.”

Very slowly Mrs. DeMornay’s hand rose to her throat.

William DeMornay made no sound, just stiffly rose from his chair. “I think you had better leave.”

Quillan reached into the packet, drew out the deed. “This is the mine my father staked in Placerville.”

William DeMornay’s features pulled tightly. “Whoever your father was, he had nothing to do with my daughter.”

Quillan brought out the diary, laid it atop the deed on his knee. Mrs. DeMornay gasped softly.

William’s hands clenched at his sides. He drew himself up. “Our daughter Rose died at the age of nineteen. She’s buried in the churchyard. There is no possible way she is your mother.” Before Quillan could answer, the old man’s mouth twisted. “What are you after? Money?”

Quillan looked as though he’d lost his breath. Then Carina saw cold rage come into his eyes. He stood up abruptly. “I didn’t come here for money.” He stared Mr. DeMornay in the face until the older man looked down. Then he put the diary and deed back into the packet and folded it into his hand. He looked at Carina, and she stood up.

That was all? He would leave without making them see? She wanted to stomp her foot, tell them all to consider Rose and stop acting so stubborn. How could they refuse to acknowledge the truth? Mrs. DeMornay recognized the diary. Carina had seen that clearly. Didn’t she want to know what the pages contained? What her daughter’s words could tell her?

Quillan put a hand to her elbow. Did he suspect she might blurt out all she thought? She turned to Mrs. DeMornay. “Thank you for meeting with us. I’m sorry for your loss.” She looked the woman sharply in the eye. Her loss was greater now that it included her grandson as well, and she wanted the woman to know it.

Mrs. DeMornay looked up from her to Quillan. Was it longing in her eyes, or age and sorrow? She said nothing.

William opened the door himself to end their audience. Carina pulled her coat closely about her, the cold emanating from Mr. DeMornay as she passed him.
What hatred
. The maid showed them out, handing Quillan his hat. He put it on his head silently. They walked down to the carriage.

The cabby hustled to open the door. “Where to now, sir?”

Quillan said, “The cemetery.”

Carina jerked her face up.

“Which one?” The man gave Carina a hand in.

“Where’s the DeMornay plot?”

“Oh, that’n. Not far.”

Quillan climbed in beside her. Carina felt him shaking. Was it rage or disappointment? And either way, what was he doing? Why would he visit an empty grave? No matter what the DeMornays said, she knew the truth and Quillan did, too. They rode in silence until they entered the churchyard, and the cabby drew up at the cemetery gate.

“Here you are, then. Shall I wait?”

Quillan nodded. He helped Carina down with none of his usual flourish, then headed through the gates. They walked along rows of impressive family plots, Quillan silent and purposeful.

Oh, Signore, how he must hurt
. Would he always be rejected?

The DeMornay plot held one grave, a tall monument with a wreath of roses carved around the nameplate.
Rose Annelise DeMornay, beloved
daughter
. And only nineteen years spanned the dates. Had she been so young when she slipped away and fled, carrying her secret, her shame? But what of the other years, those that brought her to Wolf, that gave her Quillan and took him away? What about the part of her life in her diary? Was it nothing?

She thought of the grave where Rose actually lay, interred with her husband, Wolf, who died with her in love. That grave was marked by a stone on the mountain above the Rose Legacy and covered with wild flowers in the summer. Carina had sat beside that grave and read Rose’s diary and wept for a woman she never knew, yet loved.

Quillan put his hands in his pockets. “They spared no expense.” His tone set her teeth on edge. His hip was slack, his eyes narrowed.

She wished she’d never convinced him to talk to them. “Why would they make her this grave?”

He walked around the wrought iron fencing to the back of the stone tower, staring up at its pristine point. “To create the illusion. The grief-stricken parents of the unsullied daughter. Better dead than disgraced.”

“But what if she’d come back?”

Quillan didn’t answer.

She tried to imagine it. Would they have turned her away, pretended they didn’t know her, either? Impossible. Had they known so well she wouldn’t try? Or had they believed her dead, truly grieved their daughter, and at last built a monument to her memory? “Maybe they knew in their hearts she was dead.”