Jade Star - Catherine Coulter [65]
“Not yet,” Wilkes said smoothly, “but one never knows. How about a whiskey?”
“If I tell Michael,” Jules said in an agonized whisper to her pale image in the mirror, “he will go after Wilkes. But Michael is honorable, and Wilkes isn’t. He would hurt Saint, I know it. He would hire men and they would hurt him, maybe even kill him.”
She turned slowly from the mirror, not knowing what to do.
“And it would be all my fault.”
“Did you say something, Jules?”
Jules whirled around at the sound of Lydia’s voice. “Oh no, I was just thinking out loud.”
Lydia frowned at her young mistress. She didn’t look well, not at all. She said, “Saint’s downstairs taking care of a Chinese who got his arm cut open. If you want to talk to him, he’ll be done in ten minutes, I’d say.”
“Yes, thank you, Lydia.”
Saint was gently suturing Ling Chou’s thin forearm. “Did you know that old Bonaparte wanted to march on China after he’d gotten Russia?”
Ling Chou, who was gritting his teeth, not making a sound, because a man shouldn’t complain, blinked at Saint. “No hear that,” he managed.
Saint hadn’t either, but he continued, “Yes, sir. Way back in 1811”—was it 1811? he didn’t remember—“when he was making his plans, he said to his military advisers, ‘After Moscow, it’s on to Peking, to make myself emperor of the world.’ ” Saint set the last stitch. “Of course with men like you there, Ling Chou, the little man wouldn’t have stood a chance. Sometimes I think it’s a pity that he didn’t go to China first—would have saved a lot of trouble for England and France. I’ll just bet there wouldn’t have been a Waterloo. You men would have taken care of him just fine.”
“You think so, Saint?”
Saint deftly tied off the last stitch. “Sure do,” he said cheerfully, “and I’m all done here. Good job, if I say so myself. Now, I’m going to clean this off real good and bandage it. You come back in three days and I’ll change it. Don’t get it dirty or wet, you hear me?”
“I hear,” said Ling Chou. When Saint finished the bandage, Ling Chou paid him, counting out the five dollars in meticulous fashion, bowed, and walked slowly to the door. “Bonaparte, huh,” he said, turning. “Who is Bonaparte, Saint? And who is this Waterloo?”
Saint grinned. Hoisted on my own petard, he thought. “Just a fool general, Ling Chou, long dead, and a place that won’t ever forget him.”
“I see,” said Ling Chou with great dignity.
“I’ve got to come up with some stories about real Chinese people,” Saint said to himself as he straightened up his surgery. “That one was off the mark entirely.”
He nearly knocked Lydia down as he strode out of his surgery. He caught her arm to steady her. “What’s this? Sorry, Lydia, but where’s the fire?”
“I just wanted to talk to you before you see Jules.”
A thick brow went up. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, but she’s upset about something, and she wouldn’t say anything to me. She looked pale as a clean sheet.”
Saint was silent for many moments. Finally he said, “I’ll take care of it, Lydia.”
But there was another patient at the door, this time one of Jane’s boys, Joe, and he had a black eye as impressive as any Saint had ever seen.
“Won’t you come back with me, Saint?” Joe pleaded. “Mom won’t get mad if you’re there.”
“Coward,” Saint said, grinning at the boy. “You’ve got a while to come up with a heart-wrenching tale to tell her. She’ll still probably tan your butt, boy.”
Joe looked glum. “You never come by for dinner anymore. Mom doesn’t say much, but I know she misses you. All of us miss you, Saint.”
At the door, Jules paused a moment at the boy’s words. Oh, damn, she thought, wanting to escape, but knowing she couldn’t, not now.
“Hello,” she said just before Michael and the boy saw her. “I’m Jules.” She thrust out her hand to the boy, and he took hers automatically. “My, what a beautiful assortment of colors! Reminds me of the moorish idol—that’s a fish, you know—yellow and black and some white thrown in for good measure. I do hope you gave a good account of yourself.”
Saint saw Joe staring at Jules as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.