“Don’t forget, Byrony, that you mustn’t mingle with the townfolk. I am acquainted with some of them, and it wouldn’t do for them to see my wife obviously unpregnant when she is supposed to be.”
Byrony shifted slightly in her chair as a trickle of sweat snaked its way between her breasts. She sighed. “All right, Ira.”
“I realize this will be a difficult time for both of you, but I can think of no other alternative.”
Byrony was tempted to ask him why they couldn’t go to Nevada City, for example, where no one would know or care who they were. But she held her peace. She’d given her word and must keep it.
“I have paid your doctor, Irene, to keep his mouth closed. His name is Vincent Chambers. He’s a good man, and he will shortly pay you a visit. I know you are a great reader, Byrony, and I’ll provide you with as many books as I can find here. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I must conduct some business before I return to San Francisco.”
Byrony let Irene walk her brother to the front door. She knew he was worried about his sister, and since she had nothing really to say to him, it was better this way.
“I made some iced lemonade, Miz Butler. You’re looking peaked.”
“Thank you, Eileen.” She took a deep swallow and leaned her head back against the chair cushion. Brent Hammond’s face appeared instantly, as if she’d conjured him. He had about as good an opinion of her as did her father. Why did she care if he believed her a slut? She knew she’d let him believe her pregnant—the crowning blow—but she’d had no choice, after all. She couldn’t betray Ira or Irene. She forced herself to rise and walk slowly to the window that looked onto the river. She tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. She felt drained of energy, drained of hope, and leaned her forehead against the glass, closing her eyes.
Leave me alone, Brent Hammond, she said silently to the man in her mind. Just leave me alone. But part of her wondered what he was doing, wondered how long he would stay in Sacramento. Her hands fisted. Tears mixed with the sweat on her face, but she didn’t notice.
SEVEN
Sacramento, 1853
“It’s what everyone believes, isn’t it, Ira?”
Ira looked at Byrony, knowing that she’d wanted to ask him this for quite a long time. She was quite bright, he’d realized, and wondered why she hadn’t brought it out in the open before now. He said very gently, “Yes, Byrony, yes, that’s what everyone thinks.”
“I’m not surprised, not really. When we return to San Francisco, I with my child in tow, then it will be confirmed. Will anyone even speak to me?”
He truly regretted the isolation he’d enforced on Byrony and his sister. His weekly visit each month had offered some respite, but not much. “Byrony, you will, perhaps, not believe me, but the good people of San Francisco think more of us for removing obvious scandal from in front of their noses. When you return, you will be welcomed gladly, by everyone I know, even the greatest sticklers. It is easier for someone to accept a baby, magically produced before his or her eyes, than watching one grow more quickly than it should. Of course everyone believes we married because you were pregnant, but your absence somehow ennobles you.”
“So, we’re saving them from themselves,” Byrony said.
“If you wish to put it that way, yes. I have been upstairs to visit Irene, and she assures me that she is feeling fine save for a slight backache. Also, Dr. Chambers agrees that everything appears normal. Is this also your opinion?”
Byrony shrugged. How could Ira appear so cool-looking, his linen so crisp and fresh? She felt like one of Eileen’s limp dusting cloths. Even in September, her shift was clinging damply to her back by ten o’clock in the morning.
“Forgive me, Ira,” she said, giving him as much of a smile as she could. “Irene is fine. The heat is enervating and she suffers, but she says little. I swear I don’t know how people can bear to live here! I can count on the fingers of my left hand how many days have been tolerable.”
Ira looked thoughtful. He sipped at his hot tea, making Byrony wince. She’d drunk more iced lemonade and more water during the summer months in Sacramento than ever in her life. Boston in the summer had been hot, certainly, but Aunt Ida’s house had been large and airy, and blessedly cool.
“Has Irene spoken to you about—about things?”
If only she had, Byrony thought, it would have served to pass the time more quickly. Irene was like a clam. She shook her head. “No. I do not feel it my place to pry, Ira. If she was ever bitter about that man or the baby, she hasn’t let on to me. No, she seems really quite happy about it—content, I suppose you’d say.”
“Good,” he said, relief in his voice. “All of this has been so hard for her. I’ve been worried.”
What about me? Byrony wanted to ask, but she didn’t. She wanted to say that she now understood what it must be like to be jailed, but it wouldn’t do.
“The baby is due in about two weeks,” Byrony said.
“Yes, I shall return in time. It is important that I be here.”
It was odd, Byrony thought, but she hadn’t gotten close to Irene over the past months, and she’d tried. But Irene remained somehow aloof, and the baby was Irene’s, not hers, and Irene didn’t seem to want that to change. If she spoke with any animation at all, it was about the child. Byrony wondered yet again how Irene would act once the child was born. How could she even begin to treat the child as her own? It seemed impossible to her.
“I have a letter for you from your mother, Byrony,” Ira said.
Byrony accepted the envelope from her husband. It had been opened, just as
the two others had been. The first time, he’d said only, apology in his voice, “It’s your father, Byrony. I’m afraid I do not trust him.”