‘I think,’ she said finally, getting a hold on herself, ‘that I should begin to call you Saint. That’s how you’re acting, of course. A saint
– so full of human caring and kindness, so anxious to make the poor little creature forget her nightmare. You can go to hell, Saint!’
Saint was not a violent man. In fact, once, when he was only fourteen years old, he’d gotten into a fight with another boy and broken his jaw with one blow. He’d been
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appalled. Now, he thought, looking at her set face from beneath lowered lashes, he wouldn’t mind at all breaking his rule. A good thrashing would, at the very least, make him feel a hell of a lot better. He’d said nothing more, for there was nothing to say.
Jules said now, pointing toward a small knot of native women on the dock, all of them dressed garishly, ‘There are the prostitutes. But I don’t see my father or any of his friends – many times he goes to the dock when a whaler comes in and rants and screams about Satan, and evil, and disease.’
‘I don’t know much about the Satan or evil part,’ Saint said calmly, ignoring the bitter irony in her voice, ‘but I sure as hell know about the disease.’ He saw that the two sailors who were at the oars of the tender were already waving and shouting toward the women.
There were about a half-dozen other ships, most of them whalers. The long, narrow dock was bustling with local people hawking wares, and here and there in the distance Saint could see a black frock coat. Either a businessman or a preacher, he thought, or one of those useless diplomats from Oahu.
‘Come,’ he said, and helped her out of the tender. Her hand was cold and clammy, and he added gently, ‘I’ll be with you, Jules.’
She allowed him to assist her, then pulled her hand away. They walked into Wharf Street. Saint glanced briefly toward the fort, built in the early 1830’s and now used mostly as a prison. It was looking a bit the worse for wear, he thought. Dwight Baldwin’s home looked as neat as a pin, set back from Front Street, its paint fresh, its garden neat and green. He and Baldwin, a Protestant medical missionary, had been good friends during Saint’s stay in Lahaina. He started to ask Jules about him, when she suddenly pulled off her bonnet and shook her head. Her bright flame hair drew several glances, then a loud gasp.
‘Juliana! My God, it is you!’
Saint turned to see a young man staring at Jules as if looking at a ghost. It was John Bleecher, the planter’s son. He wasn’t pimple-faced now, Saint noticed. Indeed, he was a handsome young man, wellformed, open-faced, and at present, pale as death.
Jules was very still. She moved closer to Saint, saying only, ‘Hello, John. How have you been?’
John roused himself. ‘Saint? Dr. Morris? Yes, it is you. Juliana, what happened? Everyone has believed you dead. Kanola’s body … well, it washed up on shore, and
since you had been seen with her, we all thought –‘
‘Yes, I know,’Jules said, interrupting him in a curt voice. ‘She’s dead, but I’m not. I . well, I survived.’
‘I don’t understand,’ John said helplessly, wishing he could fling himself upon the pale, beautiful girl he’d wanted for two years now. But there was something terribly wrong. What was she doing with Saint Morris? He’d been gone for a long time now, five years.
‘John,’ Saint said pleasantly, ‘why don’t you help us with the luggage? I want to take Jules to her home.’
‘Jules … ? Oh, yes, certainly.’
Saint watched the young man pick up Jules’s one small valise. No, he thought, she couldn’t marry him. He wouldn’t suit her; he wouldn’t understand her. He would stifle her spirit without realizing what he was doing. He would also paw her endlessly and scare her witless.
Saint shook his head at the direction of his thoughts. It was none of his business, after all. He would stay the two days the Carolina would be in port, then return to California. He would never see her again. Something inside him rebelled at the thought.