The Gilded Age, a Time Travel by Lisa Mason Read Free Book Online Page A

confronted before.
Not in Saint Louis, not in London or Paris. Perhaps he will live, perhaps he
will die in San Francisco. What does it matter, what does anything matter? We’re
all just painted figures spun round by the hand of God.
    Now
grief wells up inside him, squeezing the frantic beat of his heart. Well, Mama
died. People die. He saw three grandparents meet their Maker before he was ten.
It was not as though family had never passed on before. Mama died in the late spring,
in the fecund heart of incipient summer. A time he always thought of as a sick
time--disease in the air, poison in the water, rotting food.
    He
should not have been surprised. His mother had been dying for a long time. But
why did she wait for him? Why did she have to wait? He did not want to see her
face, pale and beautiful as always. Her eyes—what she called her deep sea
eyes—beseeching him. Her question, always her question, even on her deathbed,
“Danny, haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I always been good?” And his
answer, always the same answer, “Yes, Mama. Of course, Mama. Of course you’ve
always been good.”
    He
takes one more swallow of puma piss, swallowing his grief and rage. “Ish a
shinch,” he says, handing the bottle back with as steady a hand as he can
muster. A gentleman must observe the niceties of sharing a drink.
    “Haw.”
The old cowboy grins, showing broken brown teeth through his neglected
whiskers. His invisible companion apparently adds a trenchant comment. Daniel
himself can just about see the companion. Yes, there he is--a hand from
the good old days, long dead and still lively in the old cowboy’s eyes.
    “Thank
you, shir. Mush oblished.” Daniel stands, the vertigo fading, his pulse
slowing. A fine feeling of arousal courses through his veins. When his stomach
settles down, his feelings turn to another part of his anatomy he has too often
abused. By God, his heart.
    There
are ladies on the train. He vaguely recalls two fine ladies who boarded the
Overland at dawn in Sacramento. How could he have ignored them for so long?
What a cad! He should go pay his respects, find out if they’re bound for San
Francisco, too, and, if so, what in heaven’s name is their address? The pilgrim
seeks the comfort of fellow travelers, that is the natural way of the world, is
it not? He staggers to the dining car, newly filled with the spirit of amorous
adventure, tapping out a ciggie. Where are the ladies? Who are they?
    Ah,
there. They sit at a table set for tea. The small girl with a narrow mousy
face, protruding eyes, and an overbite interests him not at all. She’s dressed
in charcoal-gray leg-o’-mutton sleeves and a plain gored dress. She chatters
and chirps in broad, ugly vowels. She is much too American for his taste and
much too plain. No, her companion, an elegant lady—now she interests him. A
high-cheeked face, rose-kissed skin, a lovely mouth with a full lower lip, huge
soft eyes. Oh yes, she interests him. A startling streak of white accentuates
her brown pompadour, but that doesn’t dissuade him. A lady getting on in her
years? In her late twenties, perhaps? Yet still with the spark of her youthful
passion, he can see it in her eyes. More passionate than her younger companion,
either because she’s experienced more of the world or less than she’s longed for.
    She
is well-dressed, too, a quality in ladies for which Daniel has the highest
admiration. The young companion wears proper travelling togs. But her. The
elegant lady wears a full skirt the color of a good French burgundy. An ivory
silk blouse with abundant lace spills over the chinchilla collar of a cashmere
coat belted tightly around her waist. A gay hat, piled high with ribbons and
flowers, perches upon the pompadour. A voluminous veil is drawn over her face
and pinned at her throat with a glittering Art Nouveau brooch. And gloves. The
elegant lady wears immaculate gloves that accentuate her long, fine fingers,
the white cotton