“I brought the wagon. You walked this morning.” Flat statement of fact, and his pale gaze was most certainly amused, but also…what?
As a matter of fact, she had enjoyed a brisk walk in the morning crispness. She had also entirely misjudged the weather—why, it was not entirely clear, since it had been unbecomingly torrid every afternoon since her arrival in this benighted burg. “I am not certain it is quite fitting,” she hedged, capping the ink with deft fingers and beginning the process of setting her desk to rights. “After all, Mr. Gabriel, I am—”
“About to faint.” His hat dangled from his very capable left hand, leaving his right free to touch her desktop with its fingertips, in a manner that seemed most improper. She could not think just why. “You’re very pale, ma’am. I’ll fetch you some water.”
Cat summoned every inch of briskness she possessed. “Not necessary, thank you.” But it was no use—the man was already halfway to the door, jamming his hat on his head as if he suspected something within the schoolhouse would dump ordure upon his thick skull.
Sighing, Cat set herself to closing up her desk. Each student’s slate hung neatly at the back of their bench-seat on a special hook, and tonight she would make paper nameplates for each section of desk. Pride in their desks, Miss Bowdler was fond of saying, would lead to pride in their persons, and that would make them neat and respectable.
Catherine had a notion Miss Bowdler had perhaps not reckoned on Damnation.
In any case, the environs were tolerably tidy by the time the sheriff stamped back up the steps and into the schoolhouse. She was taking note of a slate that had disappeared—one of the Dalrymple sisters no doubt, who all seemed more interested in simpering and sneering than giving their names or possibly learning their letters—and a suspicious stain on the floor behind the third row of benches when he appeared, holding a dripping dipper and biting his lip with concentration as he negotiated the rough plank flooring.
Cat’s own lips compressed, but not with disdain. He looked very much like one of her young students, especially since he was holding his hat as well as the dipper, and his dark hair had fallen forward across his forehead.
“Very kind of you.” She accepted it, and the few swallows of mineral-tasting well water made her suddenly aware of just how thirsty she was. Her lower back had collected a small pond of sweat, and her stays dug so hard she had longing thoughts of them snapping and freeing her enough to take a decent breath.
“Pleasure to be of service, ma’am.” His tone belied the words. In fact, Jack Gabriel looked…was it anger, sparking in those hazel eyes? His mouth was a thin line, and that odd gentle tone had vanished as if it never existed. “You should take more care.”
With what? But she was far too grateful for the water, no matter that her stomach was uneasy at containing it. “If you have made certain the grounds hold no undead, sir, perhaps we may be on our way?”
It was, she reflected, a trifle unjustified. Still, the disapproval—for that, she had decided, was his expression—nettled her. It was unearned, and though she knew such was the lot of every woman, she certainly did not have to enjoy it—or give it shrift.
It didn’t seem to make much impression on the man. “Best we lock up then, ma’am.”
“Indeed.” She handed the dipper back and set about putting on her gloves. The thought of loading her tired, sweat-soaked body with more cloth did not appeal, but a lady did not go outside without gloves, even in this benighted portion of the world. “If you would be so kind as to return that to the well, sir, I shall accomplish the rest.”
His footsteps were very definite against the raw flooring, and Cat closed her eyes again for a moment. The problem that had been nipping and gnawing at her all day, even while she sought to retain some decorum and control in the face of what was apparently the Lost Tribe of Almanache, returned.
The locket. How on earth am I going to…
It was quite simple. She merely had to find a way to enter the pawnshop unremarked.
Or, she merely had to not care what people would think if they saw her entering such a place. It was not as if she had a Reputation to maintain, here at the end of the world. But still.
“Ma’am?” D—n the man. Would he grant her no relief from his presence?
“Very well,” Cat said, as if he had sought to argue with her. She gathered her necessaries and swept down the central aisle, chin held high and her mother’s Greet The Peasants smile frozen onto her features. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter 9
He began to get the idea the marm didn’t like him.
Oh, she was perfectly polite. It was Mr. Gabriel this and Sir that and Sheriff the other. But a woman had a hundred little ways to let a man know he was not welcome, and the damn Boston miss had a hundred and one. There was freezing him with a single glance when he showed up at the kitchen door, and Li Ang’s sly little smile. Not to mention Miss Barrowe shooing him out of the damn building the second day of school. Nevermind that she obviously had precious little in the way of experience for keeping the little ’uns from mischief; she was bound and determined to do things according to her own fancy. She didn’t even ask him about the gate in front of her house, just engaged Carter, that damnfool, to repaint it and take care of a squeak in the hinges.
It was a perfectly good gate. He’d hung it himself.
After two weeks of being snubbed by the miss, as well as riding the circuit not just before dawn an V hain’d d after dusk but at high noon in the heat, his temper was none too smooth. He just grunted when Russ Overton asked him if it was really necessary to ride the circuit when the chartermage could simply feel the charter was intact, and there hadn’t been another irruption since.
The card games above the Lucky Star were no good, either. For the life of him, Gabe could not stop losing, and that was enough to make him wish he had never seen this town. Dr. Howard had even asked him, with a sly chuckle, if he needed a charming to repair his luck.
The old coot.
So when the woman came sashaying into the jail early Sunday morn, he was already in a bad mood. It didn’t help that it was Mercy Tiergale, tarted up in what might’ve been her Sunday best sprigged muslin.
That is, if a whore ever went to church. On the other hand, there wasn’t much of a preacher in Damnation. Maybe the Boston miss was scandalized by the lack of a man of God around here. Some of the men read from the Book, some of the women organized hymns, and that was about it. Letitia Granger often professed herself absolutely horrified and trumpeted her intention to bring a holy man from a city somewhere.
He wished her luck. As long as it wasn’t a Papist who might recognize what Jack was—what he had been.
If it is, I’ll just move on. Gabe reached to touch his hatbrim, but the hat was on the peg by the door. His boots were caked with Damnation’s yellow dust, but he had them propped on the desk anyway. There were two jail cells; one held a snoring drunk—Rob Gaiterling, who needed a bender about once a month and went crazy when he got it—and the other stood open and empty, its walls scratched with unfinished charter-symbols and finished graffiti, the iron of the doors glowing dully with imbued mancy. “Miz Tiergale.”
Daylight showed the beginning of ravages to her sweet round face, but her chin was high and her dark hair was elaborately curled under an imitation of a fashionable bonnet. He’d been seeing them more and more about town this last week, maybe in response to the schoolmarm.