I have been traveling with Jones for months now, from New Orleans through Nicaragua and now on my final leg to San Francisco aboard the steamship Capitán. Carolina is one of the few people left in this miserable world who I trust. Not that I have ever been one to thoughtlessly place my faith in people. A misstep when I was thirteen taught me the brutal lesson that everyone will turn on you; it is just a matter of when and where.
A memory of Jane flits past as I consider Carolina, and I immediately dismiss it. It has been nearly a year and a half since we lost her in Nicodemus, and only recently have I been able to consider her passing without feeling a gut punch of regret and pain. For some reason, Jane’s death affected me more deeply than just about anyone else I knew. I still have not puzzled out why.
So, then, Carolina. He is a fabulous traveling companion, the kind of man a single young lady fair of face could trust. One reason for this is that he prefers the company of gentlemen in his bedchamber. But another is that his kindness of heart is of the sort one is hard-pressed to find in this world. He was the one who spoke to the ship’s captain on my behalf when I threw a deckhand overboard for getting too fresh. He’s also the one who found Sue and me positions on this boat, working security for the lady passengers. He gave us a chance to earn a living and provide for Lily. We have fought shamblers together while walking through Nicaragua, and have spent a fair number of evenings drinking to our heart’s content. . . . Well, Carolina had gotten drunk while I sipped politely at whatever rotgut was being served and Sue had murmured about the evils of drink. It would have been rude to refuse outright, but I know better than to overindulge. I am a lady, after all.
All of this to say, I know Carolina’s tics and mannerisms as well as my own. Now, as I sit in the Capitán’s galley and play poker—gambling is a vice, but one must keep oneself busy on these long trips by sea—I cannot help but put all of his tells together: Carolina Jones thinks he has a winning hand. The man is a terrible actor, and I simply adore him for it.
“Are you in or out, Mr. Jones?” Dr. Cornelius Nelson sits to my left, his generous chin whiskers vibrating in agitation. Dr. Nelson is a Negro surgeon—“the best in New York,” he will assure you, likely within the first few moments of introduction. Of course, I find that hard to believe, since he is apparently lacking in the good sense God gave every man. He has proposed marriage twice, and each time I have politely declined, even when he insisted upon composing an ode to my blond hair and blue eyes and dusky skin. It was all quite improper, and the height of embarrassment. On the third occasion I had been forced to draw one of my Mollies and threaten to feed his liver to the fish if he did not leave off.
It was completely out of character for me, and I wholly blame my time with Jane McKeene for the lapse in decorum. Jane loved pointing bladed weapons at people. It was part of her charm.
But I am not going to think about that.
Dr. Nelson has mostly left me alone since that day, but every now and again I can feel his glance directed at me. If I were interested in a husband, or in any of the requirements of marriage, he would not be a terrible prospect. Even after nearly a month of hard travel, he is still pressed and tidy, due in no small part to the efforts of his valet, Hector. Hector stands just a bit behind Nelson, his dark face impassive. Dr. Nelson is light-skinned, and with a shave and some careful avoidance of the sun he could pass as white, if he wanted. He apparently does not, since he is on the decks designated for colored folks. That is a thing I respect about him.
Jones rubs his chin as if deliberating, still deep in his chicanery, then shrugs and throws a few dollars into the center of the table. “I call.”
I toss my money in as well. Dr. Nelson, who made the original bet, smiles, his eyes more on me than the pot. What a ridiculous man.
Two other crew members, Baldy Pennington and Lazy-Eye Earl, watch quietly from their chairs, their dark faces impassive. They folded after the first few cards were played, protecting their rapidly dwindling piles of coins against any further loss.
Lazy, who is dealer this time, flips over the last card—a jack. The good doctor only hesitates a moment before pushing what is left of his stack into the middle. After a few tortuously obvious moments of deliberation, Carolina calls once more. I do as well.
Dr. Nelson reveals his hand: a pair of tens, giving him a full house. But before he can make another move, Carolina Jones whoops in triumph. He tosses his cards on the table: a jack and a six, giving him a better house. Nelson’s face falls; it’s not often that the good doctor is so roundly beaten.
As Jones goes to scrape up the pot, however, I tap his hand, gently, like a school marm correcting a student. “I do believe that belongs to me.” I lay my cards on the table near the middle for all to see.
A pair of aces.
The table goes silent for a long moment before Baldy begins whooping with laughter. “Oh, looks like the pretty little miss beat you again!”
Dr. Nelson mutters a curse and heaves his bulk out of the chair. He barely pauses to tip his hat before he strides out of the room, his man Hector rushing to keep up. I am certain his pride smarts even more now.
Once he is gone, I reel my winnings in from the center and grin at the remaining men.
“Another round?” I ask, widening my eyes innocently.
Lazy guffaws and climbs to his feet. “You can flutter those lashes all you want, little miss, but I know the score. You’re as deadly with those cards as you are with your swords.”
Baldy says nothing, just nods, tipping the remnants of the whiskey bottle on the table down his throat before standing and heading for the door.
I watch the men take their leave until it is just Carolina and I. He sits there, chewing on the end of his unlit cigar. “Pretty incredible hand you had there.”
“Is there something amiss, Carolina?” I ask.
He leans forward, striking a match and finally lighting the cigar. “How much you pay him?”
I blink. “Pay who?”
“Doc Nelson’s man. How much you pay him to tip you to everybody’s cards?”
My heart thumps painfully in my chest, and for a few heartbeats I am fearful, truly afraid. I know what betrayal feels like, and I have let that pain drive me to become the woman I am today. I sincerely do not want to have to kill the one friend I have remaining in the world.
But I will do what is required of me, even if it means cutting down Carolina where he sits.
I shove the dark emotions aside and force a slow smile. “Ten dollars. How much did you pay him?”
Carolina laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. He leans back and draws deeply on his cigar. “Five.”
“Oh, Carolina. You simply must stop being so cheap! If you continue to overestimate the generosity of people, you are only going to end up disappointed.”
Carolina shakes his head and I relax. I slide a cut of the money across the table. We have been running something of a game on the swanky upper-decks passengers since New Orleans—not playing with each other, but not exactly playing against each other, either—and I see no reason to stop now. In a world that is morally gray, I somehow still believe in right and wrong.
And I refuse to change that until I must.
I tuck my winnings into the pocket sewn inside of my skirt, a trick I learned from Jane, and I think about San Francisco and the life waiting for me there. I have my heart set on opening a millinery. Something small at first, see where I can take it. Sue thinks it is a silly idea, but she has agreed to help me with the shop until she finds herself a husband. We have discussed it at length, and we both think it will be best for Lily, the stability of a life in a single place, settled and constant.