that she wants?’
‘She doesn’t say. Only that she would not ask if it were not important.’
Edward considered his plate, one finger tapping out a rhythm against its rim. Then he looked up. Reaching across the table, he put his hand on hers.
‘Then you should go,’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bo, your mother was willing to sacrifice her own daughter to avert a scandal. She would not ask if she did not think it essential.’
‘To her, perhaps. If the truth were to come out it would finish your career.’
‘I seem to be doing a pretty decent job of that without your mother’s assistance.’
Maribel smiled faintly.
‘There is no reason why anyone should find out,’ he said firmly. ‘Not if you are both careful. I don’t imagine you intend to make a habit of it.’
‘No. But why now? And why risk meeting? What is wrong with writing a letter?’
‘There are some things that cannot be said in a letter.’
She looked at him, the fear passing over her face like a shadow.
‘You don’t think – ?’
‘There is no purpose in guessing,’ he said gently. ‘Go and see her. Let her say whatever it is she has to say. It will not be happy news, I fear, but if she has asked to meet you I do not think you can refuse her. How should we live with ourselves if we were to prove ourselves more cowardly than her?’
Major Burke escorted Maribel and Edward to the rear of the tent, where Cody was welcoming his guests. Unlike the inverted cones of the Indian tepees, Buffalo Bill’s tent was large and luxuriously appointed, its canvas walls hung with trophies and the floor spread with animal skins upon which were arranged a number of comfortable armchairs fashioned from hide and buffalo horn. Waiters moved among the crowd with trays of drinks, plates of sandwiches and biscuits. The room was already very full.
‘I’ll leave you here if I may,’ Burke said with a bow. A portly man, he wore a wideawake hat tipped to one side, beneath which tightly curled hair spilled in dark profusion over his collar. He had a long scar on one plump cheek and a magnificent stomach which he advertised with a startlingly extravagant waistcoat of gold and purple brocade. His moustaches reached almost to his chin.
‘Major Burke is the reason every baronet and beggar in London has heard of Buffalo Bill,’ Edward murmured to Maribel as they waited to shake Cody’s hand. ‘They say that in America he musters more press attention for Cody in a day than President Cleveland’s staff can manage in a month.’
The show had been a triumph. From the very first procession, with the full company on horseback galloping around the arena at breakneck speed, yelling and whooping, to the final defeat of the Indians by the newly established pioneers, the audience had sat transfixed. They had marvelled at the skill of the shooters, the pluck of the cowboys as they raced their horses and roped wild steers and held on for their lives as their wild ponies bucked and plunged about the arena. But it was the Indian attacks that kept them on the edge of their seats. As a train of covered wagons was attacked by hostile Indians on horseback in full warpaint, brandishing tomahawks and firing rifles into the air, the round-eyed spectators had gasped as one, and when, in the nick of time, Buffalo Bill on his white stallion dashed to their rescue, his company of scouts behind him, the entire grandstand had erupted in wild applause. Even Maribel had found herself clapping, caught up in the thrill of it. Beside her Edward had cheered like a schoolboy, his hair standing up from his forehead in eager tufts.
Cody greeted Edward like an old friend, grasping his hand and pumping it hard. When Edward was able to extract himself he drew Maribel forward so that he might introduce her. Cody took her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips, and bowed, his eyes sweeping appreciatively across her throat and chest.
‘You never told me your wife was so beautiful,’
‘She doesn’t say. Only that she would not ask if it were not important.’
Edward considered his plate, one finger tapping out a rhythm against its rim. Then he looked up. Reaching across the table, he put his hand on hers.
‘Then you should go,’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bo, your mother was willing to sacrifice her own daughter to avert a scandal. She would not ask if she did not think it essential.’
‘To her, perhaps. If the truth were to come out it would finish your career.’
‘I seem to be doing a pretty decent job of that without your mother’s assistance.’
Maribel smiled faintly.
‘There is no reason why anyone should find out,’ he said firmly. ‘Not if you are both careful. I don’t imagine you intend to make a habit of it.’
‘No. But why now? And why risk meeting? What is wrong with writing a letter?’
‘There are some things that cannot be said in a letter.’
She looked at him, the fear passing over her face like a shadow.
‘You don’t think – ?’
‘There is no purpose in guessing,’ he said gently. ‘Go and see her. Let her say whatever it is she has to say. It will not be happy news, I fear, but if she has asked to meet you I do not think you can refuse her. How should we live with ourselves if we were to prove ourselves more cowardly than her?’
Major Burke escorted Maribel and Edward to the rear of the tent, where Cody was welcoming his guests. Unlike the inverted cones of the Indian tepees, Buffalo Bill’s tent was large and luxuriously appointed, its canvas walls hung with trophies and the floor spread with animal skins upon which were arranged a number of comfortable armchairs fashioned from hide and buffalo horn. Waiters moved among the crowd with trays of drinks, plates of sandwiches and biscuits. The room was already very full.
‘I’ll leave you here if I may,’ Burke said with a bow. A portly man, he wore a wideawake hat tipped to one side, beneath which tightly curled hair spilled in dark profusion over his collar. He had a long scar on one plump cheek and a magnificent stomach which he advertised with a startlingly extravagant waistcoat of gold and purple brocade. His moustaches reached almost to his chin.
‘Major Burke is the reason every baronet and beggar in London has heard of Buffalo Bill,’ Edward murmured to Maribel as they waited to shake Cody’s hand. ‘They say that in America he musters more press attention for Cody in a day than President Cleveland’s staff can manage in a month.’
The show had been a triumph. From the very first procession, with the full company on horseback galloping around the arena at breakneck speed, yelling and whooping, to the final defeat of the Indians by the newly established pioneers, the audience had sat transfixed. They had marvelled at the skill of the shooters, the pluck of the cowboys as they raced their horses and roped wild steers and held on for their lives as their wild ponies bucked and plunged about the arena. But it was the Indian attacks that kept them on the edge of their seats. As a train of covered wagons was attacked by hostile Indians on horseback in full warpaint, brandishing tomahawks and firing rifles into the air, the round-eyed spectators had gasped as one, and when, in the nick of time, Buffalo Bill on his white stallion dashed to their rescue, his company of scouts behind him, the entire grandstand had erupted in wild applause. Even Maribel had found herself clapping, caught up in the thrill of it. Beside her Edward had cheered like a schoolboy, his hair standing up from his forehead in eager tufts.
Cody greeted Edward like an old friend, grasping his hand and pumping it hard. When Edward was able to extract himself he drew Maribel forward so that he might introduce her. Cody took her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips, and bowed, his eyes sweeping appreciatively across her throat and chest.
‘You never told me your wife was so beautiful,’
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