Onyx City Index.
No. She remembered. This is Los Angeles. 1939. Hospital. Private hospital. And I am... dying....
"Marguerite...?"
A whisper... from where? She turns her head. There, in the shade, the private nurse, nodding in a chair, asleep... no, not her, she always calls me Mrs. Delano.
"Marguerite...."
Turns her head further. On a table by another window, another shining mast of the ship, or... there... flapping in the wind... a sail? No, the Perseus was a steamship... and I... ah, a newspaper, fluttering from the breeze. She can just make out the word POLAND moving in the headline, before the page bends back, and the curtains settle around the window.
"Marguerite." Louder, this time. Almost recognized... can it be...? There, at the window... coming in, I can almost see her... yes....
"Marguerite. Close your eyes."
She recognizes the voice. Her heart flutters. It's her! She's come for me! Struggles to speak, "Lauren...?"
The nurse stirs at the sound of her patient's voice.
"Shh, Marguerite, don't speak. I can hear you think."
Where are you?
Close your eyes.
And there she will be, radiant in the shining sun, draped in a long white dress, like she wore that day she first saw her on the dock....
Lauren....
Yes, my sister, my beloved friend, who raised and loved my children as your own, I am here for you - are you ready?
Ready? Is it...?
Yes. It is time.
Can I...?
Yes. You can. Do you know where, and when?
She will sit up effortlessly, the pain falling behind her, dying from the shell she will finally step free.... Yes. I know where. I know when. The day I first met you, beloved sister of my soul.
I thought so. I wore this dress for you... and I waited for you....
Yes... that day... when I came to San Miguel. I want to be there again.
Dawn rose splendid orange-gold behind the distant mountains. The ship Perseus steamed on the morning tide, its engine churning and throbbing. Passengers on deck watched the first sunbeams paint the high, thin clouds. The ship passed the flooded bar, entered San Miguel Bay. Sunlight touched the tops of volcanic cones around the harbour, and began to creep down the barren hillsides toward turquoise water. Perseus turned east toward the city on the far side of the bay.
Carrying passengers and crew into the shadow of Sierra San Pedro Martir, the ship made the sun appear to linger behind La Encantada, the massive backbone of northern Baja California which rises nine thousand feet above sea level, sixty kilometers from the coast. But there is no holding back the turning of the world. If the passengers chanced to look astern, they would have seen the outer bay already bathed in sunlight, and the sparkling beams racing toward them across the water. Then, suddenly, the fiery orb seemed to leap into the sky, lancing their eyes, sweeping its light ahead of them to where clustered buildings of the onyx city emerged from shadow.
"So, that's it," a business-suited man said to Marguerite Dubois, "that's San Miguel."
"Yes."
"Anyone meeting you?" he asked, a hopeful tint in his voice.
"Yes."
"Oh." He now sounded disappointed. But whether because he was alone, or...?
"And you?"
"No. But I have..." he paused, as if thinking he shouldn't tell, "letters of introduction, and an offer of employment."
"Ah. I understand there is a lot of work here."
"Uh-huh. You won't think me forward if I ask whether that brings you to the colony?"
"Why, yes." Let him wonder which I am answering, she thought, wishing he would stop pressing her. But....
He nodded, and she felt him decide to tell. "I am an investigative detective," he said, "I hope to be working for Mr. Delano himself."
"How unusual," she answered, but didn't tell her secret. Instead, she replied, "That explains why you are asking me questions, then?" She turned her parasol into the sun, covering the view of the approaching city, and took a closer look at the man.
He laughed, glancing away, as if embarrassed, "Well put, Miss...."
She swallowed her pride and did not say Madame. Instead, only "Dubois."
"Armstrong," he intoned, continuing to exude that outspoken manner she'd discovered American men employed, "Frank Armstrong."
His right hand twitched in the corner of her vision. Ah, she thought, he wants to shake hands, but... knows enough not to offer it to a lady, but to wait for her. That speaks well of him. She raised her own gloved hand and offered it.
He carefully took it and gently shook her fingers, then let go. "Dubois... that's French, isn't it?"
"Yes." She turned back to the rail, leaning out a bit to stare forward at the growing buildings of the waterfront.
"But you hardly have any accent at all."
"My mother was American," she said, "my father French."
"Ah." Now he, too, leaned out, "We'll be docking in just a few minutes."
"Yes."
"Will you permit me to debark with you, Miss Dubois? If your... friends aren't here, I could get you a horsecab...?"
"You are resolute, aren't you, Mr. Armstrong?"
"I suppose I am, uh, Mademoiselle."
She laughed. He had pronounced it like Madame-Weasel. Instantly she saw he understood her laugh.
"I'm sorry," he frowned, "I supposed I massacred the poor word."
"Quite." She shook her head, but, seeing the disappointed look rise in his eye, quickly added, "But yes, if you must, you may attend me. I would be most grateful. Supposedly the porters will have all my baggage in hand, but... well, sometimes they can be... busy."
He nodded, "You sound like an experienced traveler."
"A little. I used to cross the channel with my family. And came alone across the Atlantic to New York."
"Mmm." Gave a little bow. "I will be honored to serve you, Miss Dubois."
She was quite relieved he hadn't called her Madam Weasel again, but smiled at the memory of it. Looked up. This ship was turning about, prior to settling next to the long pier. The buildings of the city moved slowly before them. Warehouses, offices, a number of shops, and one or two waterfront parks stood radiant, smiling in the morning sunlight. And, she noticed, a goodly number of open plots gaped, like missing teeth waiting to be filled with future buildings. "It all seems so new, and clean," she said, "yet...."
"Yes?"
"It's not a very large city. With so many empty spaces."
"No. And a lot of room for growth. The old man planned big, but has a long way to go. Don't think this place will ever be as big as San Francisco."
"The old man?"
"Oh, pardon me. I mean Mr. Delano."
"Ah, yes, you mentioned you might be working with him."
"I hope so." Patted his coat pocket, "His letter says he wishes to interview me, but that if I appear to be what he needs, I will begin work immediately."
"Ah." She caught his eye, decided to be a bit forward, "He paid your passage here, then?"
"Why, yes. From San Francisco." Looked down the deck, "But then, this is his company ship."
"Yes." She smiled, deciding to go even further, "He paid mine, too."
Armstrong nodded, trying to hide the curiosity in his face.
"Yes, Mr. Armstrong, all the way from Paris."
His face darkened. She laughed, "My, my, what do you think of me, now!"
The blush turned toward embarrassment. "I assure you, Miss Dubois, I...."
She laughed, "I am hired to be a nanny, or governess, rather."
He blinked, swallowed, "Oh, yes, of course. A... governess."
"For his son and daughter-in-law's baby boy."
"Extraordinary. All the way from France?"
The ship pulled close to the pier. They could hear the shouting of the dockhands and deck crew. Lines began to be made ready. Marguerite could make out a small crowd of people waiting behind wooden fences. I wonder which ones are... my employers. She turned back to Armstrong.
"Actually, my uncle is one of Mister Delano's French investors in the colony. And, well...."
"Ah. Good of your uncle to recommend you."
"Yes. But..." she sighed, looked at Armstrong, "unfortunately, I think he expects me to be a kind of investigator, myself, or worse, a spy to protect his interests."
Armstrong laughed. "So we have something in common!"
The ship thumped beneath them as they nudged against the dock. Ropes flew toward the pier. Men caught them and began to tie the ship to the stanchions. The waiting people pressed closer against the fences. She scanned the faces, looking for a young couple. There were several who fit that description. Including one stunning young woman in a long, white dress. That's her, Marguerite thought, her heart skipping a beat with sudden excitement. Somehow, she knew. She knew.
"They're putting gangplank down."
Looked along the rail of the ship, "Why yes, they are."
A flutter moved in her belly. Oh, she thought. The baby. Quickly looked down, torn with different feelings. She wasn't showing yet, but soon... soon....
What will they think when I tell them....
"Miss Dubois, are you crying?" Armstrong drew a handkerchief from his pocket, "Here, please. The sun...?"
"Yes. And relief to be finally here, after such a long, long journey."
Michel, she thought, I shall call you Michel, after your father, even though the Duc du Fleurdelis, that old fox, your grandfather, will never acknowledge you... he hated me, and refused to sanction our marriage. Convinced his son to accept an anullment. Well... peut-etre, perhaps I should make that Miguel... yes. Miguel.
She sighed, and knew why she had cried.
Onyx City Index. |
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