“What?” Lee asked, his grin wide and his blue eyes sparkling.
Kit broke in. “Come along, Maddie. I’ll take you home.”
Lee handed Maddie her parasol, offered her his arm, and as they walked back toward the gangway, Hallie could hear him pumping Maddie about Kit’s childhood antics.
Kit looked at Hallie. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He followed the others. Hallie waited until Lee and Maddie were over the side. Then Hallie called out, “Oh, Kit?”
He stopped and looked at her. Smiling, she dangled the gun from her fingers. “I’ll reload.”
“Good God in heaven!The bottom of a baby pram is cleaner than this hovel!”
Kit looked around the dingy interior of his house and had to admit that it wasn’t particularly clean. Cobwebs hung from the parlor’s high ceiling, and boxes and crates were piled on the bare and dusty wooden floor. “Now, Maddie, I never use this room.”
“Don’t you ‘now Maddie’ me, Christopher Howland. I’m certain you don’t use it because it’s not fit for human use.”
Maddie pulled off her gloves and marched down the hall toward the other rooms. She shoved the kitchen door open, looked inside for a moment, and then turned back around. “How long have you lived here?”
“Three years,” Kit answered, walking to the kitchen doorway. “Why?”
“What’s in that crate?” Maddie pointed at a huge wooden crate that took up most of the left side of the room.
“The range.”
“Did you just order it?”
“It came with the place.”
“I see.” Maddie walked past the crate and threw her gloves onto the sinkboard. She plucked a pail off the floor and set it beneath the pump. Grabbing the black pump handle, she worked it up and down. After a few chugs, rusty red water flowed in bursts from the spigot. “Humph! At least you have water.” She scanned the room, obviously looking for something in particular. “How do you heat the water if the range is still crated?”
“I don’t. I use the public bathhouse, and when I’m at home, I use cold water.”
“Well, I won’t use a public bath. Lord only knows what one would catch. And,” Maddie shivered with disgust, “I refuse to bathe in cold water.” She grabbed her gloves, slapping them impatiently on her palm. Her action reminded Kit of a childhood incident with a hickory switch. Suddenly, he felt as if he were ten and about to get a licking.
“Show me the other rooms,” she ordered, and walked out. Kit followed her out of the kitchen, knowing that his bossy aunt was going to give him hell for the condition of the remaining rooms, all six of them.
Three hours later he had the range together and the flue pipe secured. A loud thud sounded from the room above him, and he shook his exhausted head. She was still at it. He’d given his aunt the tour she wanted and gotten his ears chewed off. She declared the downstairs study and his bedroom the only rooms that were livable, and then she commandeered his bedroom, telling Kit he could sleep on the sofa in the small downstairs study until she cleaned up the rest of the place.
Here it was Sunday evening, and he hadn’t slept since he’d been at Rancho Sausalito on Friday night, and then it had only been for three or four hours. He was tired, his muscles ached from exhaustion, and he was starved. He went over to the pantry and began to rummage through its narrow cabinets. Then he opened the flour bin and a bottle of whiskey banged against the tin lining of the drawer. A drink wouldn’t help his stomach, although it might lessen the pain of his aunt’s presence. Kit thought that he might just take it to bed with him. Of course, with his aunt here, the bottle of whiskey would probably be the only thing he’d be taking to bed.
In the top cabinet he found a tin of soda crackers, and he stuffed them into his mouth, two at a time. Sitting behind an empty lard container was a forgotten crock of berry jam. He grabbed it like a dying sinner grips the Good Book, then tugged at the seal. It wouldn’t budge.
“I know there’s a knife around here somewhere,” he mumbled aloud, or at least as loud as he could with a mouthful of dry crackers. He opened and slammed shut a few drawers, still searching for the knife, and then he spotted it on the windowsill under a large, yellowish chunk of lye soap. Grabbing the knife, he cut through the waxy cloth seal on the crock, dipped the crackers into the dark jam. He’d forgotten to eat as well as sleep.
With the cracker tin shoved under an arm and the jam in one hand, he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and went into his study. He set down his meal and eyed the torturous shape of the sofa. Unbuttoning his vest and wadding it into a tight ball, he stuffed it against the hard wooden sofa arm and then settled back, feet up and head resting on the makeshift pillow. He took a long swig of the whiskey and looked around the room.
It wasn’t filthy, a little dusty maybe. The rich mahogany furniture was covered with a gray film. He dipped a cracker into the jam, shoved it into his mouth, and thoughtfully chewed. He knew this would happen. His aunt arrived, and his life, which was going along just fine, became complicated.
Of course, if he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that most of his complications preceded Maddie’s arrival. Maybe he could blame his father, since everything in the letter was the beginning of Kit’s trouble. But he couldn’t blame his father or Maddie for his problems with Hallie, or for the fire, or for the loss of Jan’s shipment, but she was destroying his only refuge. He liked his messy house. Kit scanned the room. It was a man’s house.
He took another swig. He didn’t have to worry about where he put his feet. He’d even rented out the upstairs rooms to some seamen he’d known, and no one ever complained. And hell, the public bathhouse was great. He could bathe and get a haircut and a shave, all for twenty-five cents. He didn’t have to heat the water, or lug it back and forth, or dump out the tub...or uncrate the massive iron range. He’d managed to get along fine. He didn’t need household help, not that it mattered, because help was impossible to find in this city. The lure of gold was still fresh, so no one was willing to work for the small salary received by servants. Why should they? Most people unrealistically saw gold mining as a way to make a fast fortune.
He had gotten along just fine until Maddie came, and now he felt like a little boy who’d forgotten to pick up his messy toys.
Toys. Kit sat up, suddenly remembering the twins. He set the whiskey bottle down and walked over to his desk. Pulling open the bottom drawer, he dumped its contents on the floor and rummaged through the pile of papers. A dirty brown bag sat buried under some old contracts, and inside were his old clay marbles.
Kit went back to the sofa. He untied the drawstrings and poured some of the marbles into his hand. The first three to fall out had been his favorites, his blood alleys. He had used them as taws, shooter marbles, and he’d always won with them.
