Sweetwater

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DANIEL LOGAN, put me down! Whatever will those people back there think about us?

They’ll think that you just like my arms around you. The women will wish it were them, and the men, ah, darling, don’t ask me what the men are thinking now. I don’t think you’re ready for that. Take us around the lake, driver.

Daniel settled back with his arm across the back of the open carriage. Portia looked up and saw his eyes filled with mischief. He was openly staring at her, and as their eyes met, his expression turned into something so powerful that she couldn’t look away. Every part of her body caught fire, and she shivered uncontrollably.

I’m going to kiss you, little one. He said it gently, and she knew she wouldn’t stop him, she wouldn’t even try . . .

Sweetwater

by

Sandra Chastain

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-358-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-334-4

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 1990 by Sandra Chastain

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A mass market edition of this book was published in 1990 by Warner Books

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Train (manipulated) © Peter Zelei

Girl (manipulated) © AzulOx Photography

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Dedication

For Nancy and Donna, who are always there when I need them. And for Pat and Anne who loved Portia and Daniel almost as much as I did, and encouraged me to give their story my best.

But most of all, this is for Adele Leone who made me believe in myself.

One

PORTIA MACINTOSH surveyed the empty railcar and swore. Fiona! Wake up! Where’s Papa?

Fiona sat up slowly, wiped the sleep from her china-blue eyes and glared at her twin sister. How should I know? He said he was just going to step outside for a smoke while the train stopped.

Oh blast! Hell fire and little fishes! Why does he do this? I knew I shouldn’t have gone back to the troupe car and left him here alone. You should have gone after him.

Me? Go outside, alone, and look for Papa?

The train, creaking and lumbering along like a crotchety old man, began to pick up speed. Portia caught the back of one of the high-backed red serge seats for support. For goodness sake, Fiona. This is 1890. The last stop was the Atlanta Terminal Station. There were people everywhere.

Well I don’t know anything about Atlanta, Georgia, Fiona said crossly. And I certainly don’t know why we’re going to some church training school to perform. We’re Shakespearean actors, not school children!

Portia buttoned the man’s jacket she was wearing, tucked her strawberry blonde hair beneath the gentlemen’s driving cap she habitually wore, and glanced down. Brown corduroy trousers hugged her slim boyish hips and legs, ending in scuffed knee-high leather boots.

It isn’t a Sunday School, Fiona. Papa says The Sweetwater Hotel is some kind of fine resort like Saratoga Springs. People go there to take the mineral baths and drink the water.

But, we aren’t going to the hotel, are we? Fiona drew herself into a little ball and covered her legs with a blanket. Oh, Portia, I’m tired of living like a gypsy. I want a real house and a husband.

I know, Fee, I know. Portia’s patience was growing thin. She knew they were all hungry and tired. Still she tried to reassure her sister. The Chautauqua is the place where we perform. It’s a kind of school for adults. They teach language and art, and . . . Portia moved to the front of the car, opened the door and peered out. . . . Oh, I don’t know, Fee. We’ll see when we get there. I’ve got to go look for Papa.

What makes you think Papa is still on the train?

You know Papa isn’t going to get left behind. He’s probably found one of those dining cars and some wealthy matron to listen to his tall tales. I’ll find him.

You aren’t going to look for him dressed like that, are you? Fiona’s voice registered her distress.

Don’t I always travel like this? Oh, Fee, nobody would listen to me if I didn’t dress like a man. You know I have to look after Papa and the rest of the troupe. With Papa slipping away to have a spot of something or other every time I turn my back and you afraid to get off the train in the dark, who else is going to do it? Can’t you see me unloading scenery in a velvet gown? Or maybe I’ll throw out a heckler while I’m cinched up in a corset and carrying a parasol. No thanks. Only a man has real power.

Portia glanced at her sister in irritation then changed her expression into a more gentle rebuke. Not only did Fiona have to tolerate a lifestyle she abhorred, but she was constantly reminded of her sad plight by watching her mirror image attired in men’s clothing and acting like some tough-talking Molly. Poor Fee. Being a twin was harder on her.

Portia, don’t you ever want to fall in love? Get married? Have a family?

Me? Of course not; that’s the last thing I would ever want to do—give any man control over my life. I like things just the way they are. Besides, I have you and Papa.

But how will I ever find a proper husband, a real gentleman with you sounding and looking like some tinker’s son, and Papa . . .

Sweet Fiona. She wasn’t born to live in such a family. She deserved a fine young gentleman who’d treasure her quiet beauty and gentle nature. Indeed, neither of them deserved a father who was a ne’er-do-well, impoverished fake, but that’s what they had. Horatio Macintosh was a charming rogue, who left the running of the acting troupe to Portia, knowing that by hook or crook she’d figure how to solve their problems.

Marry? Not she. She’d never understood Fiona’s desire to belong to anybody. Portia had her family and the troupe. They depended on her, and they were all she’d ever need. She’d seen enough of marriage to know what happened to women who blindly gave themselves over to their husbands. They ceased to exist, becoming instead an appendage to the man.

Mama used to shake her head and say that it was too bad that Portia didn’t have some of Fiona’s sweet gentleness, while Fiona could have used a little of Portia’s backbone. But there were two of them and somehow everything got parceled out so that even though they looked alike, they were very different. If there were times late at night when Portia allowed herself to fantasize a bit about settling down in one place, the light of day always brought her back to reality.

Other than Papa’s little lapses, Portia liked life just the way it was. Except that now Papa had disappeared.

Portia knew that after her father’s last disastrous night on the town before they left Philadelphia, their survival was more likely to depend on crook rather than hook. What money they had left would just cover housing and food for the troupe. Horatio, that lovable rake who wasn’t above picking a pocket or two along the way if need be. Secretly Portia hoped that for once he’d be successful and find a pocket filled with money. She was hungry, too.

Opening the door at the end of the rail car, Portia stood on the swaying platform where one car was fastened to the next by a bolted tongue. She could see straight ahead into the car beyond. The train, now running at full speed, was bumping and jerking along as if some giant child were pulling it on a string.

Taking the time to get her balance, Portia leapt across the space between. She opened the door to the adjacent car, brightly lit and packed with lavishly dressed guests chatting gaily. She threaded her way down the aisle between the seats of the elegant car searching for Horatio.

Boy! What are you doing in here? the black-suited conductor at the end of the aisle questioned sharply, eyeing her with disapproval. This isn’t your car.

You’re right, sir, Portia agreed, lifting her cap, allowing the mass of rosy golden curls to cascade down her back. This was one of the few times when being a woman could be an advantage. I seem to have lost my father, and I was wondering if you’d seen him. She put a soft wheedle in her voice and approached him. After all, she was an actress, a very good one.

Just who is your father? The conductor backed uneasily away from Portia down the corridor until his back was against the glass in the door behind him.

My father is Captain Horatio Macintosh, the Shakespearean actor. Surely you must have seen him.

No. I don’t think so, not since you boarded the train. The only cars left are the private cars of Mr. Simon Fordham, next in line, and that of Mr. Daniel Logan beyond, and you may not enter them. The conductor leaned against the door as though he thought she might fling him aside and rip it from its hinges.

Portia studied the toady little man. He didn’t have to answer her. She could see past him into the window of the door of the private car beyond. The overhead light cast a golden halo on the men around the table, gambling, she judged, from the look of the cards and stack of money in the center of the light.

At that moment a plump, gold-ringed hand threw out a card, and Portia’s heart sank. Stage jewelry. She’d found her father. Horatio was in a poker game with wealthy men who were wearing real gold jewelry with real precious stones. Her father’s hand was trembling, and she could tell that he was worried. She also knew there was no way in the world she’d be able to get into that car and get him away. She’d wait, right where she was.

Now, boy—er—I mean, miss, I insist that you return to your own car. The conductor glanced anxiously behind her. She didn’t have to see the frowns on the faces of the passengers to know that they were there. The displeasure was evident in the man’s expression as he gathered his wits and stiffened his back.

Yes sir. Oh! I don’t feel well. Portia gave a dramatically wrenching cry of pain and clasped her forehead. I’m afraid I’m going to faint. It must be this constant motion . . . train sickness . . . She began to sway.

Oh—Oh my goodness. Don’t faint—not in here. The conductor caught her arm and supported her as she collapsed into an empty seat facing the exit.

Thank you, she managed, her performance calculated to elicit great compassion from the railroad employee. Her results were sufficiently rewarded as evidenced by the worried look on his face. Perfect. She could see out the door into the next car. I’ll just sit here for a moment until my head stops swimming. How long until the next station?

The conductor pulled a silver watch from his pocket and strained to read it in the wavering light. Less than twenty minutes. Austell Station will be the end of the line. Can you possibly wait until we get there before you faint?

Portia bit back a smile. She could probably wait forever. She’d never fainted in her life—except on stage. I think so, she whispered, leaning her head on the back of the seat. If you’ll just let me sit quietly, I’ll be all right. Go on with what you have to do.

Fine! Fine! The little man scurried away, eager to separate himself from a potential problem.

Portia studied the door into the next car. Five sets of hands held playing cards around the table. She could get a clear picture of only one person: a thin-faced man who sat directly opposite the door, nervously smoking a cigar. His finger was girded with a large diamond ring, and his chest was blazing with a satin brocade vest. She watched him reach for his pocket watch, halt his motion in mid-air as if he changed his mind, and let his hand drop back to the table. Probably he was either Simon Fordham or Daniel Logan, one of the two men the conductor had identified.

Any thought of stopping her father died as she realized that there was a lock on the private car, a very large lock. There was to be no association between the men inside and the common passengers, no matter how elegant these people were. Portia fidgeted. She’d have to wait, and waiting could be a disaster.

Horatio Macintosh had the good sense to throw in his next two hands. After several long pauses while glasses were refilled, she saw her father pick up his cards again.

Please, Papa, she whispered. But this time he didn’t fold. Portia glanced outside the window and judged that the train was slowing. She couldn’t be certain, but the twenty minutes must be almost gone. If only she could reach her father before he did something foolish.

Portia would never have admitted it to Fee, but she was more than a little worried. A nervous tic feathered her left eye as she counted off the seconds with every breath. She should have kept a closer watch on Horatio. He’d been too enthusiastic in describing their next engagement, and she more than anyone else knew that meant that he was hiding something.

From the time they’d left upper New York state, Portia had stopped fooling herself about Papa’s latest scheme. The planned week’s stay in Albany had ended abruptly after three nights, bringing in just enough money to get them to Philadelphia. There had been a mix-up in dates there and they’d had to wait over for a week before the theater was free. The hold-over had eaten into their earnings, leaving them just enough money to buy passage south. Appearing at a summer resort outside of Atlanta was a new booking for them, and she was worried.

Perspiration beaded up on Portia’s forehead as she sat watching. The card players added money to the middle of the green felt table at an alarming rate. The man with the diamond pulled off his ring and tossed it on the pot.

The train was slowing down.

The second man with the long fingers and carefully manicured nails was wearing only one piece of jewelry, a heavy silver ring. His movements were smooth with a graceful rhythm. He discarded one card and accepted another, studied them for a long time, snapped them into a stack and fanned them slowly open again before he finally added a large number of bills to the table and waited.

The next two men threw their cards down, leaving only her father’s less steady hands. Those hands wavered and then vanished from sight. There was a long still moment when nobody moved. Portia couldn’t tell what her father was doing until he laid a sheet of paper on the pot.

Oh God, Papa, don’t give him a marker. If you’ve lost our money, how will we pay it?