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River Queen Rose. Shirley KennedyЧитать онлайн книгу.

River Queen Rose - Shirley Kennedy


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twinge of resentment when her mother-in-law didn’t ask but told her to get the flour. Funny, she hadn’t minded so much being ordered around before, but now she did. Maybe that was because she’d always assumed that someday soon she’d have a home of her own and be her own boss. Now she looked into an empty future in which she’d always have someone ordering her around. Of course, she could always get married again, but what was the point? Why marry a man she didn’t love? She’d be trading one kitchen for another, and throw in those miserable nights when she had to do that before she went to sleep. Even her one marriage had been foolish, but at the time, what choice did she have? When her mother fell ill from a stomach tumor, and her father’s heart began to fail, they begged her to marry Emmet. “For our peace of mind,” they said, so they’d know she’d have someone to care for her after they’d gone. She liked Emmet well enough. He was an old family friend, so of course she complied.

      Maybe she’d fall in love again. Wildly, completely in love, but the chance she’d find another Anthony was next to none. And why would she want to? Anthony Parks. Even now, she got a flutter in her stomach just thinking about the irresistible first mate of the steamboat New Orleans, who spent an occasional night at the Birchwood Inn. What a romantic figure he cut in his uniform. From the start, his teasing eyes and roguish smile easily captured her sixteen-year-old heart. And when he invited her to his room that night… Oh God, how wonderful. Never had she felt that way again, certainly not with clumsy, uncaring Emmet. After that glorious night, Anthony promised he’d come back, but as the days went by, and he never returned, she finally realized he never would. Concealing her broken heart was the hardest thing she ever did, but of course she had to. Her parents must never find out. Thank heavens, they never did. She reached to touch the gold locket at her throat, as she had done countless times before. Anthony had given it to her. A lock of his golden hair lay coiled inside. “Wear this so you won’t forget me.” He’d pressed it into her hand, his eyes alight with love and future promises.

      But enough. Anthony was a long time ago and maybe someday she’d stop thinking about him. Right now breakfast came first, and she’d better go get the flour.

      Outside, as she approached the wagons, she saw Deke in the chicken yard. Clucking chickens surrounded him as he reached in a canvas bag and cast seed in a wide swath. “Good morning,” he called, a pleasant smile on his face.

      “Good morning, and thanks for the eggs.”

      “How are you feeling?”

      Ha! Ordinarily, she’d answer fine, but she didn’t have the heart to lie. “Not so good.”

      “Do you have a minute?”

      “Of course.” She waited while he finished feeding the chickens. When he left the coop, carefully closing the gate behind him, he led her to the two-story tank house that sat close by and opened the door to the lower floor. Several large barrels, all fitted with lids, filled the small room inside. As she followed, he called, “Did you ever run your hands through a barrel of chicken feed?”

      “Never. We always bought our chickens at the market.”

      Deke leaned his crutches against the wall. He removed a lid, reached deep in the barrel with both hands, and scooped them upwards. “Give it a try. I guarantee running your mitts through a barrel of chicken feed will cure whatever ails you. Clears your head.” He gave her a teasing smile. “Brightens your day.”

      “Really?” She plunged both hands into the barrel and slowly brought them out, instantly loving the velvety feel of the seed running through her fingers. How delightful. She’d never felt anything quite like it. “I believe you’re right.” She dipped them again. “The perfect cure for what ails me.” Actually she did feel better, although it wasn’t the feel of the chicken feed that lifted her spirits as much as it was Deke, his friendly smile and the playful humor in his eyes.

      “Come try it any time. The door’s not locked.” Deke took up his crutches again.

      She couldn’t resist asking, “You won’t always need those crutches, will you?”

      His face went grim. For one revealing moment, a raw bitterness glittered in his grey eyes. “I hope to God I won’t.”

      Up to now, she’d considered Deke to be a lot like Raymond, pleasant and likeable but without much depth. She’d been mistaken. There was more to him than she’d thought. What was Deke like beneath all that amiability? She’d like to ask more questions, but common sense told her she’d better not. She said goodbye and thanked him, got the bag of flour from the wagon, and returned to the house.

      After breakfast, everyone gathered at Emmet’s grave for what Ben called their own private family service. Bible in hand, Ben read from the scriptures. After that, each family member spoke up with some fond remembrance. At the end, they bowed their heads as Ben said a final prayer. They were headed back to the house when a smart-looking curricle pulled by two matched greys came rolling at a brisk pace down the driveway. A middle-aged, nicely dressed gentleman with bushy white eyebrows and a neatly trimmed goatee pulled the carriage to a halt with a flourish. His gaze swept over them until he spotted Ben. “Are you Mr. Ben Peterson, Emmet’s father?”

      “That I am, sir,” Ben responded. “And who might you be?”

      The man alighted from the carriage, bowed, and with a grand gesture swept off his brushed beaver top hat. “Archer Field, at your service. I was your son’s solicitor. May I offer my condolences?” He shook his head regretfully. “Such a tragedy. It should never have happened. This is your family, Mr. Peterson?”

      Ben nodded and introduced everyone. When he was done, he asked, “Perhaps you can help us, Mr. Field. We arrived only yesterday. We know my son was killed in what they said was a duel but have yet to learn the circumstances of his death.”

      The solicitor nodded with understanding. “I’d be happy to give you what few details I possess. May I come in? There are certain matters I wish to discuss.”

      Like everyone else, Rose was curious as she and the family trailed Ben back to the house. Matters to discuss? What was that about? After they’d settled in the parlor, and the solicitor was offered tea, which he graciously refused, Ben asked, “Can you tell us what happened? We have only the sketchiest account as to why my son is dead.”

      “I’ll tell you as much as I know. Mason Talbot is one of Sacramento’s most prestigious citizens, well known with a spotless reputation. He’s one of the lucky ones who found gold early on and owns the Majestic Mine up near Hangtown. He lives in Sacramento now—owns the Egyptian Hotel as well as a brewery. Last Saturday night, he paid a visit to the River Queen, which of course you know was Emmet’s hotel. Mr. Talbot was playing at one of the faro tables when an altercation ensued.”

      “Faro?” Ben sat back in surprise. “Emmet never mentioned there was gambling in his hotel. Are you sure?”

      A smile ruffled the solicitor’s mouth. “Quite sure. Sacramento swarms with miners, especially on a Saturday night when they come down from the diggings with their pockets full. You’d be hard put to find any hotel around Front Street that doesn’t provide liquor, games of chance, and…ahem, other activities. As I was saying, Mr. Talbot was upset because he suspected the dealer, a man of dubious character by the name of Ned Barrow, was cheating. Which”—he arched a cynical eyebrow—“he probably was. That’s when Emmet stepped in. Instead of soothing the waters, however, he made matters worse by defending his employee. Talbot grew extremely angry. He informed your son that among other things, he was no better than a thief. From what I understand, he made other scurrilous accusations as well. Emmet, who as you know was a bit hot-headed, got red in the face and highly insulted. That’s when he challenged Talbot to a duel.”

      “It’s not possible.” Coralee shook her head in disbelief. “My son would never do such a thing.”

      Sitting next to his wife on the horsehair couch, Ben gently took her hand. “That’s not so, my dear. As you well know, Emmet had a problem with his temper all his life.”

      Rose silently agreed. Although her husband had always been


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