The Lost Baroness Read online

  There was none of the subtle rebuff here. Buff found an empty chair at a table with two common seamen. "Join you?"

  "Aye. Set yo'self down, mon," the big one said. He kicked the chair out so Buff could be seated.

  His companion, one-eyed and swarthy, glowered, but scooted sideways. On second look, Buff saw he had no choice of expression, for his face was badly scarred. "Don't drink the whiskey," he said, his voice barely audible. "It's probably spiked."

  "Shanghaiers?"

  "More 'n likely. I wouldn't want to be fallin' face down on the table, that's for sure," the big fellow said. "Might wake up in the mornin' in a different berth than I signed on for."

  "I'll be careful," Buff said. He paid for the beer a buxom waitress set on the table. Content to watch the action for a while, he pushed his chair slightly away from the table and tipped it back onto two legs.

  The clientele was primarily sailors, common seamen for the most part. A few weather-beaten men in heavy boots and wide suspenders looked like they might work on land, but whatever they did, it took muscle and bulk. They clustered together in the corner to the right of the door.

  Someone pushed his chair hard enough to slam the front legs hard on the floor. Buff looked behind him.

  "Buy me a drink," the big man standing there commanded.

  "I don't think so," Buff said, as he slowly stood up. "We haven't been properly introduced." The fellow was two or three inches taller and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds. Well, hell!

  "Don't need no introduction, mister. You got money, and I ain't. That mean's you're buyin'."

  Again Buff said, "I don't think so." He set a hand against the other's chest and pushed.

  The man was so astonished he gave way.

  Buff slipped past, and wondered how far he'd get.

  The next instant he heard a roar behind him. A rush and a sharp breeze, as he stepped nimbly aside to let the giant bumble past him.

  The man came up short against a table. Before he could push himself upright, one of its occupants had smashed a fist to his jaw.

  Buff glanced around, decided his position was as good as any in the room. He rose to tiptoe, rotated his shoulders to loosen them.

  The giant had his hands full, because the three sailors at the table he'd run into had all taken offense. Feeling a faint disappointment, Buff headed for the door, moving slowly enough that he didn't look like he was running away.

  He got about a yard before the giant tackled him.

  They went down in a tangle of chairs and tables. Buff kicked his way free of the thick arms, and butted the fellow in the midriff. Before the bigger man could recover, Buff caught his arm in a half-nelson and had him wiping the floor with his nose. The fellow bucked, but Buff simply tightened his hold and said, "Had enough?"

  The only reply was a stream of vicious curses.

  Buff grabbed his ballocks.

  One meaty hand slapped the floor. Buff tightened both holds for a second, then released the man.

  Both climbed to their feet and stood facing each other. "No hard feelings?" Buff said, holding out his hand.

  "For such a little feller, you're quick," the other said, rubbing the back of his neck. He took Buff's hand and squeezed.

  For nearly a minute they stood there, tightening their grips. Finally, when Buff was beginning to wonder if his hand was going to be squeezed from his wrist like an overripe grape, the other relaxed. "Buy me a drink?" he said. No demand this time.

  "With pleasure," Buff told him, slapping his shoulder. "What'll you have?"

  * * *

  Jaeger wiped his hands on the dead woman's skirt. She'd bled slowly, died slowly. He'd grown impatient finally, and had snapped her stringy neck. There was no pleasure in watching an easy death. She'd fainted when he made the first cut on one sagging breast.

  He looked down at her, unsatisfied. Usually he took pride in his artistry, but not this time. There was no beauty in a half-finished composition.

  A quick glance around the pathetic crib showed that he had left no trace of himself. He pinched the candle's flame and tossed the stub of wax aside.

  Next time he would not be so impatient. He would take the time to find a young woman, one with stamina and enough anger at men she would not cower and beg until he had eased his animal needs.

  * * *

  Saturday's dinner still sat like a lump under Siri's ribs, and sour bile rose into the back of her mouth every time she bent over. Each step she took was an effort. All afternoon she dragged herself through her tasks, wondering how much longer she would be able to keep working.

  Because Carleen always got off work early on Saturday nights, Siri washed up in the kitchen, while the other maid served supper. Once the table was cleared, Carleen would go to meet her current young man at the Fisherman's Rest. Tonight Siri scrubbed pots and pans slowly, glad she had seen no new ships in port when she looked through the hall window on the fourth floor about an hour before sunset. She doubted she would have been able to walk to the docks.

  Carleen came in and set the tray of empty serving dishes on the big table. "They're done," she said, as she tossed her apron over a chair back, "and I'm off." She snatched her shawl from a peg by the back door. "See you in the mornin'," she called as she slipped out the door.

  The men would linger over coffee and whiskey. Siri didn't care, as long as she could clear the table. She trudged to the dining room and began loading the cart with dirty dishes. When old Captain Stokes patted her bottom, she had to force a smile.

  She noticed Mr. Lachlan raise an eyebrow as the old man's hand lingered at her waist. Was he thinking of trying his luck? Just in case, she kept her distance, not giving him a chance.

  "Good supper, Siri." The captain dabbed at his lips with a napkin. "Tell Bao the toadstools were tasty."

  Her stomach roiled at the thought of pickled mushrooms, a favorite on the menu. "Ummm," she said noncommittally, as she gathered and stacked empty serving dishes. "Will you gentlemen want anything else?"

  "We're fine."

  "Just a kiss, darlin'" Captain Stokes said.

  She pursed her lips at him. The dear man was harmless, and it cost her nothing to flirt, and he enjoyed the game. She knew it gave some of the younger men the wrong idea about her, but so far she'd been able to evade them.

  Once again she was conscious of Mr. Lachlan's questioning gaze. It was as if he touched her. "Any cigars?" he said.

  "Oh. I am sorry." She went upstairs to fetch the sandalwood box from the library, resting a moment at the top. When she set it before him, she apologized. "I should have..."

  "Bry dig inte om det! I could have gone and got it, if I'd known where it was."

  O nej! Han talar svensk! He spoke Swedish. Had she said anything to offend him? Siri gave him a quick smile, hoping he would forgive her if she had.

  He winked.

  Her cheeks burned. Quickly she brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth and bundled the soiled napkins together. "Good night, gentlemen. The bell is there, if you need something more." Before anyone could speak, she escaped, almost running to the kitchen, the dishes on the cart rattling as she pushed it ahead of her. She tossed the bundle of linens on the big table and went to the chair by the still-warm oven, where she huddled in misery. So cold. She shivered uncontrollably. If only she could go to her bed, but she had to stay here until the men finished their whiskey and went up to the parlor or library.

  She still had the dishes to wash, too.

  After a while she dragged herself out of the chair and filled the dishpan with hot water from the reservoir. With her hands immersed in it, she felt a little warmer. Instead of hurrying through the dishes, she lingered, adding more hot water to the dishpan twice. By the time the last dish was set to drain, she was feeling much better.

  The bell rang when she was hanging the dishtowels up to dry behind the range.

  Wearily, Siri walked down the hall to the dining room. When she entered, she saw the men crowded together ne
ar the head of the table.

  The commodore saw her. "Get blankets!" he called out. "And bring the mop. We've got a sick man here!"

  Chapter Four

  Before Siri was done cleaning up after Captain Stokes, she was close to following his example. If her stomach hadn't been already empty, it would have rejected its contents violently. As it was, she swallowed bile more than once as her stomach clenched and spasmed.

  The smell was the worst. She breathed shallowly through her mouth until she'd emptied the bucket down the cess pit. She filled it with fresh water from the rainbarrel and set it beside the back stoop.

  "For a minute there I thought you were going to be as sick as the old man."

  Startled, she dropped the mop. It clattered on the wooden steps and rolled off into the darkness.

  Mr. Lachlan stepped out the back door, held it open for her by leaning against it.

  Siri hesitated, then slipped quickly past him. "Tack," she said. "Thank you."

  He caught her wrist, pulled her to a halt. "You're not just sick, are you? You're scared to death of me."

  "Nej... no, I do not feel well. Something I ate..."

  "Ate? Did you eat supper? Have you vomited?"

  She pulled, only half-heartedly. The heat of his hand on her bare skin was... soothing. "No, I was not hungry. At dinner, something I ate then." She'd not felt well even then, and had only nibbled on a bit of bread, sipped some of the strong green tea Bao kept on the stove for himself and Chu.

  "No," he said, slowly shaking his head. "You'd have been sick long since if it had been dinner. And no one else was sick this afternoon." He released her wrist as he seemed to sag back against the wall. "Whatever it was, it acts quickly." His voice was faint, as if speaking was an effort.

  Startled, Siri looked closely at him. He was pale as a ghost, and a sheen of sweat filmed his brow.

  "You are ill!" Caution forgotten, she caught him above the elbow, guided him in the direction of the settee in the corner of the kitchen.

  He stiffened, but when a shudder shook his whole body, he let her push him onto the seat. "The rest of us," he said, his voice not as strong and deep as before, "made it outside, so you won't have to clean up again. "

  "You were all sick, then?"

  He buried his face in his open hands, braced his elbows on his knees. "Yes. God, yes!"

  Ignoring her own misery, Siri stirred the coals in the stove, added kindling. Once she was sure it would catch, she replaced the lid and set the teakettle atop it. "I will make you peppermint tea. It will settle your stomach."

  He looked up, his grimace telling her what he thought of the idea. After a moment he leaned back, closing his eyes again. "Yes, everyone was sick. The old men were the worst off. Pete and I got Captain Stokes into bed, but the commodore wouldn't go."

  "I will--"

  "No!" He started to stand, then sat back. "No, there's nothing you can do that's not been done. I sent Tuomas after the doctor. Let's wait and see what he says."

  Unable to look away, Siri studied his face, shadowed by the light of the single lamp on the table. Why, I don't believe he is any older than I am, she decided. Although faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes told of an outdoor life, the skin of his cheeks was still unweathered, the line of his chin firm. His hair, now tangled and sweat-damp, curled in tight ringlets and shone like antique gold in the lamplight.

  Siri kept one eye on him as she prepared his tea. When the kettle started to talk, she poured steaming water over the crumbled mint leaves. Impatiently she stirred until she could smell the mint. The infusion had not steeped long enough, but he needed it now.

  She picked up the cup and went to sit beside him. "Here. Sip slowly." She held the cup to his lips.

  His nose twitched. "Ughh."

  "Drink," she commanded, pushing the rim against his closed mouth. "It is good for you."

  His smile came and went so quickly she wasn't sure she had seen it.

  "That's what Ma always said, just before she poured some god-awful concoction down our throats." But he sipped. And made a face. "Faugh! That's disgusting! Haven't you got any honey?"

  Tears filled Siri's eyes. Just so had Rolf behaved when she'd tried to give him medicine, last year when he had the sore throat. "You are acting like a baby," she scoffed, but she took the cup across to the sideboard and spooned a dollop of honey into it.

  When she held it out to him, he took it and sipped again. "Better," he said, and took another swallow.

  Siri hovered until he had emptied the cup. "Does your stomach feel better now? More calm?"

  He considered. "I think it does. Thank you... Siri, isn't it?"

  "Yes, I--" The bell from the parlor rang, interrupting her. "I must go. You rest here--"

  "No, it's probably Tuomas with the doctor. I'll be fine." He swayed for a moment when he got to his feet, then steadied. "Let's go. I want to hear what the doctor has to say."

  She followed him down the hall and up the stairs, determined to catch him if he fell. His knuckles whitened with the force of his grip on the banister, but he managed to get to the top without help. Siri stayed behind, stopping just at the top of the steps and listening while Mr. Lachlan explained to the doctor what had happened. When the men--Doctor Fredericks, Mr. Lachlan, Tuomas, and two other boarders--went into Captain Stokes' suite, she wondered if she should follow.

  No, she decided, they have enough help. Poor Captain Stokes. I hope he will be well. She sat on the bottom step and leaned against the wall. Although she no longer felt ill, the weakness that had plagued her all afternoon persisted.

  Buff leaned against the wall at the back of the crowd around Captain Stokes' bed, wishing his belly would quit cramping. He couldn't remember being this sick. It was worse than starving or being beat, because this came on so suddenly.

  The doctor finished his examination. "Cholera morbus," he said, nodding his head sagely.

  "You're crazy," the commodore said. "I've seen cholera, and it wasn't anything like this."

  The stout little physician drew himself tall. "I could just as easily have said 'cholera nostros' or 'gastric catarrh,' my good man. This gentleman is suffering from a surfeit of food, not from any disease." He removed his pince nez, polished the lenses. "In other words, he overate." As if to demonstrate, he prodded the captain's belly, which was distended.

  The old man didn't respond. He seemed to be unconscious. His cheeks were hollow, his color almost bilious.

  "The hell with that," one of the others, a middle-aged revenue agent, said. "We've all been sick as dogs. I say it was the stew. It was off."

  "Mushrooms," Tuomas said. "No good."

  Since he was the only one who hadn't been sick, Buff wondered if he might know what he was talking about. "Did you eat the mushrooms, Tuomas?"

  The big Finn shook his head. "They are not food."

  "Nonsense," the doctor said. "This is not food poisoning. The symptoms are all wrong."

  Everyone tried to speak at once.

  Buff stepped to the door and looked out. Not seeing the woman, he jerked on the bell pull. When Siri appeared, he motioned her inside. "When did you get sick?"

  "I told you. I was sick right after dinner."

  "Vomiting? Belly cramps? Diarrhea?"

  Her cheeks bloomed, but she nodded. "All of those. And weakness. I could hardly stand."

  "Did you prepare the food, girl?" the doctor demanded. "Maybe stick your finger into the stew for a taste?"

  "I do not cook. I did not serve. Tonight I washed up."

  Buff could tell she was angry at the doctor's accusation. He didn't blame her. "The other girl, the red-head, she served tonight." He raised an eyebrow at Siri. "Where is she?"

  "She went to the dance at Liberty Hall."

  "She wasn't ill?"

  "No. Just me. And Chu. He was sick yesterday. Very sick."

  "Aha!," the doctor said. "There's the source of the infection. Filthy coolie. Probably spat in the food."

  "Chu
is not fil--"

  Buff stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Doctor, instead of trying to lay blame, why don't you see what you can do for the captain? He looks pretty sick to me." He caught the other men with his gaze. "We'll get out of here so you can be about your work." He held Siri back when she would have followed. "Do what you can, and let me know if you need any medicine."

  The doctor huffed a bit before he bent again over the old man in the bed. "Have the girl warm some beef tea. He needs sustenance."

  "We'll take care of it," Buff said, herding Siri before him as he left the room.

  "I did not make you sick," Siri said as soon as he'd pulled the door closed. "and Chu did not either. He is a good--"

  "Hush. Nobody's blaming you, or Chu, whoever he is. Now, tell me, is there some beef broth in the kitchen, or should I send out for it?"

  "I... I do not know. Bao is cook. Perhaps..."

  "Never mind. Tuomas?"

  The young man came out of the shadowed hallway. "Yes, sir?"

  "Can you run down to the Chinese store and see if the lady there can make us up some beef tea? And have her send up a quart or two of strong green tea, while she's at it. Captain Stokes needs liquids more than he needs sustenance, I reckon."

  The commodore spoke from the stairs, where he sat. "What can I do?"

  "Go to bed, sir. You're in not much better shape than Captain Stokes. I'm feeling halfway decent now. Between Tuomas and me, we'll take care of things tonight." The older man looked like he could use a hand going up to his suite, but Buff wasn't sure he could be much help. His knees still wanted to fold, and all he wanted to do was huddle close to a stove until he stopped shivering.

  "I will help," Siri said. She went to the commodore's side. "Come. Together we have perhaps strength enough. Will it take us upstairs, do you think?"

  With his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist, she half-supported him as they made their slow way up the wide stairway. Buff watched until they reached the landing, then turned to go into the library. Gratefully he sank onto the horsehair-padded sofa. His belly no longer cramped, but he wouldn't want to face an angry kitten about now.