Chapter 20

San Francisco

“Try to see the good in it.”

“That’s what Sister Maria-Martha says, too. But how am I supposed to see something good in…this?” Her voice was muffled; she had buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to be seen this way, not even by him.

“Well, I don’t want to be rude; but it covers the tracks.”

“It covers the tracks, Sam; but not the guilt.” Now she looked at him, pale-faced, red-eyed, hollow-cheeked.

“The guilt is only in you, Juliet, and if you don’t tell it, no one will know. There’s no evidence, everything is covered, as if nothing had ever happened.”

“Yes, until the day someone uncovers it.” Her head fell back into her hands, palms rubbing at her throbbing temples. She didn’t cry anymore; there weren’t any tears left, and since she somehow had no right to cry, it seemed so very appropriate.

“I wish there was something I could do to help you, but….”

“You’ve done a lot already, Sam. More than I deserve, actually,” she said through her hands. Was there anything anyone could do? No, not really. There was nothing to be done, nothing. Only maybe…she straightened and studied Sam’s face. “There is one more thing, though. I…I need to move on…. I can’t stay here, I need to go…somewhere. I’d need credentials.”

“What about New York? I’m sure Raymond’s offer still stands.”

“No, not New York. Raymond would want more than just a writer, you know that. And I can’t deal with that at the moment, I…just can’t.”

“Well, then…” Sam Clemens looked out of the window with that far away expression he had when he was thinking hard. Juliet watched his face going from reminiscing to plotting to decision. Eventually he asked, “What do you know about Virginia City?”

“Virginia City? Silver mines, cattle, fairly new place, developing fast. Right in the middle of nowhere.”

“Cutting right to the chase of the matter, as usual, Juliet. I worked there for a year, at the Territorial Enterprise. The editor is always looking for writers, and Joe Goodman still owes me one.” Sam grinned broadly. “I can picture you and him working together. A perfect match: fire and fire. Great!”

“Sam, I don’t care where it is or what the editor is like. I need to leave, and quick. Do you think you can arrange something?”

“I’ll write Goodman a letter, we attach a few samples of your work; and I’m sure he will be pleased to engage you.”

“That…that would be—” She choked, started anew. “Thank you, Sam; I…I, really, I appreciate what you’re doing for me more than I can say.”

“Don’t thank me, little countess; that’s what friends are for.” Sam flashed her another grin. “Just do me one favour, Juliet. Once you’re in Virginia City, buy yourself a horse.”

“A horse? Why would I buy a horse? I can hire one whenever I should feel the need to ride.”

“Trust me, Juliet, buy a horse. That’s all I’m asking for…a reward. Buy a horse. Ask for the Ponderosa, they sell fine horses there.”

“I—”

Juliet woke with a start from pounding at her door and the sound of Mrs. Hawkins’ grating voice, only slightly muffled through the door. “Lady Juliet, have you overslept?”

Still dazed from sleep, she looked around in the brightly lit room. The sun stood high over the horizon already and was sending gleaming rays of light through the uncovered window. Juliet shielded her eyes with her hands, and the gesture reminded her of her dream. Her dream…so real as if it had happened only yesterday, and yet it had been—how long?—seven months ago. Seven months…half a year… She shook her head as she remembered Sam’s words. “Ask for the Ponderosa, they sell fine horses there.” What did Sam Clemens know about horses, Juliet had wondered even back then. She snorted. Sam, sneaky old Sam. This hadn’t been about horses at all.

“Lady Juliet, child, are you all right?”

Oh, she had forgotten…. “Yes, Mrs. Hawkins, I’m fine,” she called back. “I’ll be downstairs for breakfast in a minute.”

Mrs. Hawkins seemed to be happy with her answer, for Juliet heard only a departing “Coo-oo,” and then there was silence. Juliet sighed and gingerly got up. This was going to be just one of those days. Joe Goodman wouldn’t know what hit him, the poor man.

And, of course, she needed much more than a minute to get herself composed, and presentable for breakfast.

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Every one is a moon, and has a dark side which he
never shows to anybody. ~ Mark Twain