A Race to Splendor

by Ciji Ware

  And most importantly, he couldn’t afford Kemp denigrating him to the Committee of Fifty at this crucial moment. Thanks to James Thayer Sr., his own standing with that body was not very high while he waited for the second payment of the loan that the bankers said they were willing to grant, but had not yet made good. A lien on the property right now by Kemp could prove disastrous. If only he could get into his damnable safe!

  “You ‘like’ my daughter, you say,” Kemp repeated, interrupting J.D.’s reverie. “Are you saying you’ll agree to court Matilda publicly?”

  J.D. decided in that instant that agreeing to this preposterous proposal might be the only way to buy time.

  “I’m saying that I’ll… consider it.”

  Oddly, his next thought was of Amelia after she offered to hire a crew of Chinese workers to clear the rubble littering the back of his property. What would the starchy Miss Bradshaw think of this “arrangement”?

  It would disgust her… she would think you the cad that you are, on occasion…

  “You’ll have to do more than merely consider my proposal,” Kemp snapped. “I want you to come here for dinner every Saturday. I’ll be happy to serve as your chaperone.”

  “And if Matilda would prefer not to associate with a black sheep and known gambler?”

  “She’ll do what I tell her, or she can fend for herself.”

  “Mmmm… such fatherly affection.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  J.D. retrieved his whiskey glass and took a sip, buying a moment’s time to think.

  “Understand this, Kemp. I’m not making any promise to marry Matilda. What I am willing to do is to better make her acquaintance and see if that might lead to something… acceptable.”

  Good grief! How did he find himself in such a ludicrous fix?

  “So you’ll agree to begin courting the chit?”

  “If—and only if—you send me your best wood starting tomorrow. Agreed?”

  “And I’m the mercenary, calculating one?”

  “Do I get your best wood?”

  Kemp regarded J.D. for a long moment and then said, “Agreed.”

  Even the lumber tycoon apparently understood there were limits to forcing reluctant parties to the altar.

  “And Ezra,” J.D. added, taking a last draw from his glass, “if I receive one shoddy length of redwood, or if Dick Spitz or that so-called head carpenter you sent me make one tricky move at the work site, I have a few threats of my own I can make good on regarding a man’s credentials for gaining admittance in to the world of Nob Hill. Understood?”

  Kemp held J.D.’s gaze and then nodded. It was as if both men knew that they had pushed each other far enough and would have to wait to see who held the best cards in the next round of play.

  Just then, a soft knock reverberated against the study door.

  “Dinner is served, sir,” ventured a manservant. “The ladies are waiting in the parlor.”

  “All right, Edward,” Kemp snapped. “Just make sure, for once, the food is hot.”

  J.D. rose from his chair and turned to his host. “Is that capon I smell? First I’ve had in seven months.”

  Without replying, Kemp strode through the door, crossed the central hall of the grand house, and entered the parlor, leaving J.D. to make his own way into the drawing room where he imagined the gawky Miss Matilda and her visiting school chum awaited their arrival.

  Chapter 18

  Good evening, Father,” said a timorous female voice from inside the room.

  “Mr. Thayer is apparently quite fond of capon, Matilda,” Kemp said in a tone of forced joviality as J.D. followed in his wake, pausing at the door to the parlor. “What a fortunate choice you recommended to Cook, my dear.”

  Matilda Kemp stood in front of the fireplace’s carved mantel in a room heavy with curved-backed velvet upholstered furniture, ornate gas table lamps, and bric-a-brac cluttering every available surface. Apprehension emanated from her every pore.

  She was inordinately tall, her height less than an inch shy of J.D.’s own six feet, and with bones as massive as a stevedore’s. An amateur sculptress, her paws were so huge she looked capable of throwing a clay pot large enough to encase the roots of a palm tree. Her face was long and broad, as was her nose. Her skin—by far her best feature—was clear, but she was unfortunately plagued with ears that flared at right angles to her head. Not even her elaborate hairstyle could disguise their fan-like shells.

  “Good evening, Miss Kemp.” J.D. made a stab at appearing the genial guest with the vision of unblemished lengths of redwood as his inspiration. “How nice to see you again.”

  To Matilda’s right stood a woman as petite as her school chum was gargantuan, and as pretty as her hostess was homely, with warm, hazel eyes; even features; trim figure; and auburn hair framed by the red-flocked wallpaper behind her.

  “May I present Emma Stivers,” Matilda ventured meekly. “We were friends back east in school and—” Matilda hesitated, incapable of finishing her sentence in a room filled with the heavy presence of her father, who divided his look of disapproval between his daughter and her friend.

  Emma Stivers extended her hand and met J.D.’s gaze. “How do you do, Mr. Thayer?” she said in a calm, steady voice. “And how are the rebuilding efforts in San Francisco coming along? Matilda and I are absolutely starved for the latest gossip.”

  Surprised by the young woman’s display of easy confidence, J.D. replied, “Very well, thank you. And welcome to California.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled, dimples flashing. “I understand from Matilda that you are employing Mr. Kemp’s lumber to build an exact replica of your hotel damaged in the quake. I must say, I feel fortunate to have been on the train somewhere in Nebraska, I believe, when that tumultuous event occurred.”

  “You were most fortunate, wasn’t she?” J.D. smiled for the benefit of the poor, tongue-tied giantess standing beside him.

  Emma linked her arm with her friend’s. “Matilda has quite kindly asked me to stay on, despite the chaos that has reigned everywhere since the upheaval. She’s made her home practically my own.”

  “Yes, yes, well come along,” Ezra grumbled, clearly bored with Emma’s niceties and his daughter’s lack of social graces. “Soup’s getting cold.”

  Their host barged ahead, leaving J.D. to escort a woman on each arm into the gloomy dining room, devoid of ornamentation save for a stuffed owl and a stag’s head attached to dark paneled walls.

  J.D. suppressed a sigh as he settled in for what no doubt would be a tedious seven-course meal. He had come to Mill Valley in hopes he would solved his building supply problems. Now he had an even bigger snarl to untangle—his supposed courting of Matilda Kemp. He’d bought some time, all right, but he wondered how much.

  And at what cost?

  And then the thought crossed his mind, for a second time: what would his architect think of this development?

  ***

  Amelia jumped down from the cable car as it glided to a stop at Mason and California streets, zigzagged over to Taylor Street, and briskly walked the four blocks to the Bay View. She hurried into an area in the unfinished lobby where J.D. had set up as his temporary office.

  He looked up from the pile of papers spread out on a wide board held by two sawhorses that he used as a desk. Barbary also raised his head, recognized her, and settled back into his morning snooze.

  “How did you find things at the dock?” J.D. asked.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid, Mr. Thayer,” she announced. “Your furniture shipments were not on board the Enterprise when she docked today. The harbor master thinks they’re on the sister ship Endeavor, which arrives next week.”

  “Perhaps it’s just as well,” J.D. looked grim. “Your crew did not get to the safe last night as I expected. So until I can locate my gold bars, or receive the next loan payment from the Committee of Fifty, I’m stone broke.”

  Amelia stared at him, aghast.

  “But then how will
we pay the day workers this Friday, and—”

  Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by Ezra Kemp marching across the lobby, his heavy footfalls echoing on the raw floorboards.

  “Thayer!” He ignored Amelia completely. “You and I need to have a little conference. Now!” He looked briefly at Amelia. “Alone.”

  Barbary gave a low growl and followed Amelia, who headed down the hall off the lobby, addressing J.D. over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the back room, recalculating some load factors on the bedroom chimneys so your workers might possibly understand how to do their jobs correctly this time.” She left the door ajar so she could hear what had put such a bee in Kemp’s bonnet.

  Kemp sat down and glowered at J.D. across his makeshift desk. “City Hall is unhappy that you’re employing Chinks,” he said without preamble.

  “And that affects me how?” replied J.D. calmly. For the last month, the newspapers had been full of stories about the nefarious “fixers” at City Hall.

  “Thayer, I’m warning you—”

  “The Chinese do the work that Caucasians won’t.”

  “Dick Spitz and his men know what you’re up to and they don’t like it.”

  “Last I knew, Spitz and Jake Kelly work for me. If your men are willing to load chunks of concrete and wood into wheelbarrows and transfer the rubble onto wagons for disposal along the bay’s shore for ten cents an hour, they should just speak up and offer their services. I’ll be glad to hire them instead of the Chinese.”

  “There’ll be trouble, J.D. The Chinese Exclusion Act—”

  “My new hires are already in the country. And besides, why should you care? I hear Reuf and Mayor Schmitz will be indicted on fraud and corruption this week.”

  “It’ll never stick, and your hiring the slant eyes could cause problems with the union hiring halls,” Kemp countered, “and that will make waves with Reuf’s people—which is trouble I don’t need. I’m through waiting for you to cough up the money you owe for the shingles you’ve bought this time around. I don’t want any more delays in payment.”

  “Sounds like you’re pressed for funds,” J.D. observed, wondering how Kemp would describe the mahogany complexion of his mother, Consuela Diaz-Reims Thayer. “Too many nights gambling on the Barbary Coast? Or perhaps you’ve overextended yourself investing with your cronies downtown in some of Chinatown’s new whorehouses? I hear Donaldina Cameron is on the warpath again. Word is she’s rebuilding the Mission Home on Sacramento Street and has the ear of some important folks on Nob Hill.”

  “Who?” Kemp demanded.

  “Rudolph Spreckels comes to mind, and that Burns fellow who’s on loan from the U.S. Treasury Department to look into corruption out here, plus the same crowd that’s bringing down Reuf and Mayor Schmitz.” J.D. smiled faintly. “Not that I involve myself in politics, but I would judge that it’s not a good time to make a public fuss concerning these matters, Ezra, if you hope to maintain your status with the Committee of Fifty.”

  “I’m just protecting my investment in the Bay View, I’m going to have to ask you to pay what you still owe me right now, in full.”

  Kemp was playing his best hand, J.D. thought. He figured he’d win either by getting a chunk of money to pay off some pressing debts, or, failing that, he’d accuse J.D. of using illegal immigrants, obtain a lien on the hotel, and shore up his lowly status with the powerful construction bosses who would, in turn, steer business his way. The only thing holding Kemp back was his desire to boost his image with the nobs by marrying off his ugly duckling to a scion of one of San Francisco’s supposed “First Families.”

  It was all such nonsense.

  J.D. envisioned the pile of debris at the rear of his property that had been shrinking each night. In a few days’ time, it should be gone and the upright safe and its contents of gold bars and coins would be his again.

  “I shall bring you a bank draft for the complete amount outstanding before the next meeting of the Committee of Fifty,” he offered pleasantly.

  Kemp regarded him narrowly. “And what if I say that’s not good enough?”

  “And what if I say you’d better not push your luck as far as your membership in that august gathering?”

  “You’re bluffing, Thayer. Your father wouldn’t raise a finger to help you.”

  “No? Would you care to test that theory?” He gestured toward a pile of paper on his desk. “Haven’t you heard about blue blood versus plain old water? And now, you can see by these invoices I have a lot of things to attend to. See you at the next meeting.”

  ***

  Amelia waited a decent interval before she approached J.D. to talk about the information she couldn’t help but overhear.

  “Loy’s men may not be able to get to the safe in time to satisfy Kemp,” she said, approaching J.D.’s desk and taking a seat. “They’re working as fast as they can, but you’ve seen what it looks like down there. What do we do if you can’t pay Kemp the money and he tries to ruin you?”

  J.D. rolled his eyes. “I knew you were lurking back there, listening to every word.”

  “Well I’m worried, Mr. Thayer. I think the man is angling to gain total control of the Bay View and oust you by one nefarious means or another.”

  “He can’t do that, because by Thursday, I’ll expect Loy’s men to have recovered my safe.”

  “I can’t promise that,” Amelia insisted. “Ezra Kemp’s a dangerous, unscrupulous man, a man who left you and my father for dead the day of the quake.”

  “I’m touched that you don’t regret I survived,” he said with a faint smile.

  Ignoring his levity, Amelia continued with increasing frustration. “Why don’t you realize that he’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants—even if we do, by some miracle, manage to excavate down to the safe? How do we even know that the valuables you say are in there aren’t burnt to a crisp or melted beyond reclamation?”

  Thayer continued to make notations on the papers on his desk, refusing to look up to meet her concerned gaze. “I’ve got everything quite under control, Miss Bradshaw,” he replied, no longer in the mood to joke. “And I’d appreciate it if you kept your very pretty nose out of my business.”

  ***

  It was dark by the time Amelia returned to her sleeping quarters at the Fairmont that night. Brooding about Kemp’s unexpected appearance at the Bay View and J.D.’s dismissive attitude toward her very legitimate concerns, she locked the massive front door, made her way across the lobby and down the back stairs to the kitchen to have her evening meal.

  She had just turned the corner after walking down a long, freshly painted corridor when she pulled up short. There, outlined by the open door to the pantry, Loy Chen was locked in an embrace with someone whose identity Amelia couldn’t immediately determine, given that both figures were clad in black pajamas like those worn by everyone in Chinatown. At her sharp intake of breath, the pair sprang apart.

  “Shou Shou!” Amelia gasped. “Loy! What in the world is going on, here?”

  Shou Shou gave a mortified cry and buried her head in Loy’s shoulder. The laundryman put his arm around her and looked defiantly at his benefactress.

  “She not cousin to me.”

  “No? Well, that’s a blessing, but you lied to me,” she said sternly.

  “I save her.”

  “I know that, Loy. From the fire.”

  “No. Well, yes, I do that. But I save her from bad Chinese too.”

  Still recovering from her shock, Amelia advanced toward the pair. “Is she one of those women kidnapped from China and brought here?”

  Loy nodded emphatically. “She good family in China, but made bad lady here. Bad Chinese lock her up in house with iron bars. I love her.”

  Amelia’s glance shifted from Loy’s earnest face to Shou Shou’s scarred one, now bathed in tears. “But, Loy, you told me you were engaged to a girl in your homeland.”

  “My uncle do that. I love Shou Shou. She from my village. I love her. I save her i
n fire. Many die in that house. Many die in other houses. Chinese not counted. Papers say five hundred die in quake and fire. Maybe five thousand Chinese die—and no one important count us!”

  It was Loy’s longest speech in Amelia’s memory and his voice broke in the first show of emotion she’d ever seen him display.

  “And so, since the earthquake, you’ve been hiding Shou Shou from the highbinders, am I right?” she asked softly. There were fifty Chinese men brought over to help build the railroads to every Chinese woman, and the kidnappers had long been guaranteed a profit when they abducted pretty young girls like Shou Shou and forced them to be sexual slaves—for a profit to their captors.

  “Foo’s mother die too. He Shou Shou’s friend’s little boy.”

  “Do the bad Chinese know Shou Shou’s with you?”

  “I kill them if they come!” Loy stated defiantly.

  Amelia suddenly imagined that Loy Chen could be descended from a tribe of Asian warriors.

  “They will come, Loy. The brothels are already beginning to open again and the highbinders are up to their old, bad ways. This is very dangerous for you. For both of you.”

  Loy tightened his arm around Shou Shou. “I know, missy. That’s why I hide Shou Shou in basement, here.”

  “She’s been sleeping at the Fairmont? Where?”

  “Behind big, new furnace. Nice and warm for Shou Shou.”

  Amelia could only imagine what Julia would say if she discovered that her deputy had been providing safe haven for Chinese runaways fleeing from their unscrupulous owners. And what if the Law brothers found out that Chinese slaves were hiding here?

  Amelia knew from the first she should have told her employer about her private “charity work,” but feared Julia might not feel the same burning sense of injustice that she did if it compromised the older architect’s allegiance to her clients.