The Damnation Affair

young skin.

It was there, sitting at her desk and staring across the bent heads as they scratched at their slates, that she realized just how far she was from Boston. Perhaps it was lack of sleep bringing a clarity all its own.

Cat drew in a deep breath, her stays digging in briefly, and wondered if she could march into a pawnshop under broad daylight.

No, night is best. But more dangerous—if you are seen, somehow…

But this was not Boston. She shook her head and attended to the third form, laboriously reciting from the eighth page of Miss Bowdler’s First Primer. “Very good,” she encouraged, though she would have said so if they had been reciting backward charter-cantations, or even the Magna Disputa. “You may lay that aside, and apply yourself to tracing your alphabet.”

“Yes mum,” they chorused, and she surprised herself by smiling.

* * *

They waited until the children were gone, then trooped silently in, faces scrubbed and mouths pulled tight. Miss Tiergale took her seat first as Cat brought out the slates.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” she essayed. They were so long-faced she half-expected bad news. God and charter both knew it would be just the time for it.

It was Belle who spoke first, in a rush. “We don’t mean to be no trouble, Miss Barrowe.”

Trouble? Oh, none at all, unless you count the bruise on my arm and the loss of Reputation. It does not seem that I will miss it overmuch here. Her chin rose. “Indeed you are none. In fact, on our short acquaintance I have found you all to be serious and studious.”

“She means with Tils.” Mercy’s cheeks, one with its fading bruise, flushed uncomfortably. “He’s…well, he ain’t a nice man, miss. And he’s been drinkin.”

“That does not surprise me.” She began handing out the slates, her boots tapping the raw lumber with little authoritative ticking noises. “He does not seem the temperate sort.” In any sense of the word.

“Well, you ain’t got to be afraid, not with Gabe looking after you.” Trixie gazed at the ceiling. Today they were all dressed fairly respectably, instead of in their frail flash and feathers. “It’s us what gots to watch our step.”

There are so many grammaticals I could take issue with in those statements. “Mr. Gabriel is charged with the safety of everyone in this town.” She handed Mercy her slate with an encouraging smile.

Anamarie giggled, elbowing the tall one, Carlota. “Not Salt’s, I reckon. He hates that chartershadow.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Trixie was still studying the ceiling, her cheeks flushed from the heat. “Shadows ain’t no good.”

Let’s cease this chatter. “We shall begin with—”

“She’s blushing,” Anamarie whispered. “I think she’s sweet on him, too.”

That got Trixie’s attention. “Who, the shadow?”

“Ladies.” Cat folded her arms. Her cheeks stung, perhaps because of the bruise on Mercy’s poor face. “We have much to accomplish this afternoon. I intend to earn every cent of the fee you have graciously promised me. Take up your slates.”

That served to bring them to task. Her cheeks still burned, though, and it took a while for the heat to fade. It was entirely different than the dry baking outside, and Cat’s head was full of a strange noise. She held grimly to her task, and by the end of the session all the women had firmly grasped not only the basic functions of the alphabet, but also the idea, if not the application, of multiplication.

“It’s all groups!” Anamarie finally burst out. “Say you’ve a fellow buying drinks for you and him. That’s two drinks. And he buys three rounds. Three groups of two, six!”

“Unless Coy waters yours so you can keep a clear head to roll the bastard,” Carlota said, and their shared laughter made Cat smile before the probable meaning of “roll” occurred to her.

“Language, Carlota.” Mildly enough. Cat pulled her skirts aside as she reached to wash the slate board clean in preparation for their practice at writing their names. “Very good, Anamarie. It’s all groups. Multiplication and division—”

“Now hold on,” Mercy finally spoke up. “Let’s just stick with the multiplyin’ until I get that clear inside my skull.”

“I wanta read my Bible.” Belle, suddenly, as she scratched lightly at the wooden frame of her slate with one broken fingernail. “That’s what I want.”

“I’m a-gonna move to San Frances and open up a bawdy house of my own. Be a madam, not the girl.” Trixie waved one airy, plump hand. “Count the money and eat me sweet things all day.”

“Where you gonna get the stake for that?” Anamarie tossed her dark head, her earrings—plain paste, like Mercy’s—swinging against her curls.

“That’s why I said we gotta learn numbers, so Tils can’t short us none no more.”

“Names, ladies.” Cat began tracing them on the board. “Can you tell whose I am writing now?”

A ragged chorus: “A…N…A…M…A…”

“Why, that’s me! Ah-na-mah-ree.”

“Very good. Wait until I’ve written them all to copy your own name.”

“It’s like mancy. Like the charters.”

“Except these don’t glow—”

“Ladies, I know you’re eager to be gone. We must finish this first, however. Please contain yourselves.”

“Why you call us ladies all the time?” Carlota wanted to know. “We ain’t.”

Cat’s patience stretched, but the clarity that had possessed her all day held. “This is the Wild Westron. Anyone can become anything here.” I can even become a schoolteacher, possessed of patience I hardly knew was possible. And helper to a midwife, and a woman who can teach fancy frails to read.

For a long few moments, nobody spoke as Cat traced a C, an A, an R. “Which letters are these? Anyone?”

The chorus began again. “C…A…R…”

Cat Barrowe found herself smiling broadly, facing the board. Yes, indeed. Anyone can become anything here.

Chapter 15

Dusk was gathering, purple veils and a breath of coolness stepping down from the hills on the heels of a steadily gathering wind. Approaching autumn tiptoed around the town, but the bank of heavy gray stayed firmly in the north and didn’t sweep down any farther. When it did roll over Damnation, the mud would be knee-high. He would have to teach Miss Barrowe to drive the wagon, so she could avoid getting her skirts draggled. That would mean caring for a horse close to her cottage, too, and he was involved in a long train of thought having to do with the possibility of a stall in the Armstrongs’ stable when he turned the corner and saw her walking slowly, head down, from the other direction.

School was out, then, and the saloon girls were probably back at the Star. He’d had a word with Paul Turnbull about Tils. That went about as well as could be expected—Paul didn’t like trouble, and Gabe gave him to understand that Tilson was fixing to have trouble with Gabe himself if he didn’t leave the marm alone.

At least it was something.

She was in blue today, and her nipped-in waist was a sharply beautiful curve. Those little pointed-toe boots with all the buttons, and stray dark curls coming loose under her prettily perched hat. It was the first time he’d seen her slim shoulders anything but straight and stiff. She looked half-dead on her feet, like a sleepy horse.

Well, no wonder.

His stride lengthened. What should he say? Evenin’, ma’am? Was that too formal? Hello there? Maybe something else, a little pleasantry. Ain’t you a fine