by Toombs, Jane
“I’ve warned you before about your association with a known criminal, Lady Pamela,” he said. “I should hate to think you’d give the Committee any reason to investigate you.”
“Are you threatening me, Robert?”
“I’m not the threat, as you well know. I have it on good authority that they’ve imported a man to run Mr. Wordsworth Rhynne out of town. A former army captain, a man we both know— Barry Fitzpatrick.”
Pamela smiled calmly, despite the sudden lurch of her heart. “And you expect me to be afraid of him? Come, Robert, you’ll have to produce a more fearsome adversary than Barry.”
“He’s fought in a war, Lady Pamela. And he’s been a Texas Ranger. He’s not a man you can twist around your finger.”
She shrugged. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, you may tell Mr. Horton that his offer on the lot on Freemont Street is so low as to be an insult. And thank you again for your efforts on my behalf. She rose and reached out her hand to him, smiling.
“You believe yourself unappreciated, but you’re wrong,” she told him.
Robert Gowdy held her hand a moment longer than necessary. He hated to let her go. Although he’d finally married and although he did love his wife, there would never be another woman like Lady Pamela.
Outside once again, Pamela raised her umbrella against the rain and turned toward the bay. She could have kept her carriage waiting, but then her driver would have known her next destination and she preferred he didn’t. Charlie Sung’s place was only a few blocks from the shipping offices.
She always took care to wear a widow’s black when she ventured there. Whether that was the reason or not, this part of San Francisco had become more and more shabby these last two years, she had yet to be accosted.
Still, she glanced from the corners of her eyes at some of the passing rowdies and thought she’d not like to be on these streets after dark.
“Oh! The exclamation burst from her as a hand fastened on her arm. She whirled.
“Pamela, what a surprise to find you headed in my direction,” W.W. said.
“I meant to.”
“Were you deliberately following me?”
“It’s becoming more and more inconvenient to do so, to tell you the truth.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
W.W. frowned at her. “Pamela, Ned has died. I was arranging for the funeral services when the boy brought me word you were with Gowdy and had sent away your carriage. I had to drop everything and hurry over here to see you were safe.”
“Ned?” Tears filled Pamela’s eyes. “Oh, W.W., I didn’t even know he was sick.”
“Cholera’s a quick killer. Pamela, I want you to promise me you won’t come to the docks alone again. Either Mac or Abe or Ned or myself has had to trail you every time you visited Charlie’s. It’s damned inconvenient. I’ve no more time to cater to your so-called sensibilities. Don’t you think your coachman is well aware of your visits here? Whom do you think you’re fooling?”
“No one has ever molested me.”
“Now you know why. Don’t think this scum doesn’t know it’s dangerous to tangle with W.W. Rhynne.”
“You make me feel I’ve been very stupid.”
“Exactly my intention. Here we are.”
He nodded to the building Charlie Sung had altered so that the corners of the roof curled upward in temple fashion. Bright red Chinese characters decorated the door. Inside were glimmering multicolored Chinese shawls, bolts of silk, carved teakwood tables, boxes of choice teas, fans and sticks of incense. The fragrance of sandlewood permeated the store.
“We’d like to see Charlie,” W.W. said to the old Chinese who tended the counter.
The man bowed and touched a small brass gong with a wooden mallet. Almost instantly a Chinese girl in a cheongsam glided through the beaded curtains that concealed an inner doorway. The elderly man whispered to her and she disappeared behind the curtain.
In a few moments Charlie’s bland face appeared from the same inner doorway. Although he, too, wore a queue and dressed very much like the old man, she managed to convey and entirely different image. A Celestial, of course, but above and beyond that, a man of business.
“Always good to see you, Charlie,” W.W. said. “Today I have a favor to ask.” He stepped closer and said something to him in such a low tone that Pamela couldn’t make out the words.
Charlie’s face didn’t change.
W.W. spoke again, still so softly she didn’t hear.
Charlie nodded, “For you, Mr. Rynne,” though with reluctance. Charlie’s voice never failed to fascinate Pamela. He spoke with a cultured English accent. She would have thought he was an Oxford graduate had she heard but not seen him, when she had ventured to ask him once, Charlie had assured her he’d never had the pleasure of voyaging to England.
Now Charlie touched the gong and the same girl appeared. He spoke to her in Chinese, then turned back to W.W. and Pamela. “If you will please follow Plum Blossom.”
Pamela stared at W.W. He motioned with his head toward the girl. Pamela had not gone beyond the beaded curtain before when she’d come for her laudnaum. In fact, of late the old man simply handed her the bottles with a bow when she gave him the money and she didn’t even see Charlie. What was Rhynne up to?
“Come along, Pamela,” he said curtly.
To mask her confusion she spoke to Charlie. “Is Plum Blossom actually her name?” she asked. The girl was as fragile and lovely as a flower.
“The exact English translation is Early-Flowering-of-the-Plum-Tree,” Charlie told her.
Pamela and W.W. walked behind Plum Blossom through the beaded curtain, along an ill-lit corridor and through a wooden door that she unlocked. Another corridor with many doors. The girl stopped before the last door, unlocked it and motioned them to precede her. She then relocked the door behind the three of them.
Pamela gasped. From a small platform she gazed down into a squalid smoky room where men lounged against dingy grey pallets. Round braziers stood near each pallet and although some of the men seemed asleep, others puffed on long exotic pipes. None of them paid any attention to the intruders. Pamela stared, uncomprehending.
“These, my dear, are opium smokers. There you see them dreaming their lives away.”
She whirled to look at W.W. Although his tone had been mocking, his dark eyes were sad.
“As you can see, not all of them are Celestials, and not all are men.” He inclined his head.
To Pamela’s horror, she now noticed the person almost directly under them was a woman, a white woman.
“Oh, W.W., how could she?”
“The same as you could, Pamela. Only she’s unluckier. And poorer.”
Pamela bit her lip. This was unfair of W.W. It wasn’t the same, not the same at all.
“The difference is only in degree,” he said as though reading her mind. “You still keep yourself active. How long will you be able to?”
She didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. Only she knew how hard it was to climb out of bed sometimes, to leave the warm fascination of her dreams behind and force herself to accept the responsibilities of the day. Wasn’t it becoming more difficult? Would the day come when she didn’t make the effort? But on the other hand the agony when she tried to give up laudanum was indescribable.
Pamela took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for your concern,” she said, her voice frosty. “You’ve made your point, misguided though it might be.”
W.W. shook his head, but said nothing. He motioned to the girl that they were ready to leave.
Outside Charlie’s, though the cold wind from the bay cleared her lungs of the sweet smell of opium, Pamela fancied she could still taste it. “How could you?” she said in a low intense voice to W.W. when he offered his arm. “How could you do this to me?”
“Because I love you,” he said, looking directly at her.
She lowered her lashes. She had no answer.
Maria
knocked on the door of Pamela’s bedroom. When Pamela answered, she eased the door open and stuck her head into announce there was a man at the door.
“He ask to see Lady Pamela,” Maria said in her heavy accent. “He say Captain Fitzpatrick.”
Pamela rose slowly from the chaise longue. She hadn’t even heard the knocker. “I’ll be down in a few minutes,” she told Maria. “Show him into the parlor.”
Rapidly she tidied her hair and smoothed her skirt. How foolish of her to have fallen asleep without changing into a dressing robe. Should she put on something more becoming than the black gown? It lacked even a crinoline. Meeting her eyes in the mirror she made a face. She was definitely not looking her best.
Quickly she undid the buttons and stepped out of the dress. What should she put on—the rose taffeta? With a modest crinoline, so she didn’t appear overdressed. Yes, that was an improvement. These days black seemed to drain all the color from her face. She arranged her hair in a more elaborate chignon than she usually bothered with and descended the stairs, all too conscious of the rapid beating of her heart.
How would he look? Did he remember what there had been between them those last weeks on the trail? Pamela took several deep breaths as she approached the parlor door. When she entered she was smiling and composed.
“How nice of you to visit, Barry,” she said. “I’d heard you were in San Francisco.” She gave him her hand, looking into his bright blue eyes, the eyes she remembered so well.
“Hello, Lady Pamela,” he said, holding her hand only for a brief moment.
“Why, Barry, you’re so formal. Surely you can call me Pamela.”
He nodded. “Pamela, then.”
He was even more handsome than she remembered. The extra years had honed him. His bone structure was more prominent, the eagerness of his youth replaced by the assurance of a man who knew all there was to know about himself. An exciting man.
“Would you care for spirits? I can offer you some excellent French brandy. Or there’s . . .”
“Thank you, no. Not now.”
She raised her eyebrows. They stood facing one another but he made no move toward or away from her.
“Have you come on official business, then?” she asked, her voice mocking him. “Have you come to arrest me, perhaps?”
Barry tried not to stare at her. He’d been appalled when the man he had trailing Rhynne sent word that Rhynne had taken Pamela to Sung’s opium den.
“I peered in through the window,” the man had told him, “and they went into the back. So they weren’t buying any tea, I’ll vouch for that.”
And now Pamela’s eyes were strange, her pupils unnaturally small in this dim room with no lamps lit although it was nearly dusk.
“I apologize for my late visit,” he said abruptly.
Pamela blinked, then looked about, suddenly aware of the rapidly darkening room. She laughed. “Maria isn’t the best of servants,” she said. “It’s not easy to find capable help here.” She turned to pull a cord to summon the maid. Barry caught her arm. “No,” he said. “Maybe it’s best to talk with the lamps not lit.”
She looked up coquettishly. “That depends on what you intend to say.”
He released her arm. Pamela was still an attractive woman, yet she seemed somehow faded. With her eyes giving him the almost sure knowledge she used opium, he found the idea of holding her in his arms distasteful.
“I want you to stay away from Wordsworth Rhynne,” he said gruffly.
Pamela drew back. “And what do you think gives you the right to order me about?”
“He’s a rogue. You must know that.”
“And you’ve been hired to dispose of him. Do you intend to dispose of me as well?”
“If I must,” he said curtly.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I came here as a friend. I don’t want to become your enemy. But W.W. Rhynne will be removed from San Francisco one way or another. It’s in your best interests—and the interests of your daughter’s reputation—to dissociate yourself from him completely.”
“I believe you are already my enemy,” she said slowly.
“You misunderstand. I told Selena . . .”
“You’ve talked to Selena?”
In the dark room she couldn’t be sure she saw his face redden. Selena hadn’t told her. Something twisted inside Pamela. Yes, he’d seen Selena and now she, Pamela, was suddenly old in his eyes. That’s what was wrong with him.
I won’t be jealous of my own daughter, she told herself. But her eyes filled with tears. She swallowed and forced herself to laugh, a sound that was brittle in her ears.
“I do believe our interview is at an end, Captain Fitzpatrick. I’ll ask Maria to show you out, if you’ll excuse me. “
“Pamela…”
She turned back to him.
“I--I’m sorry.”
“La, Captain, and for what?” She left him then, knowing if she stayed, she’d disgrace herself by crying.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Rhynne strode into Pierre’s on Dupont Street with a folded newspaper in his hand. He waved the maitre'd aside. Spotting King Sutton eating alone on the far side of the room, he crossed the restaurant, oblivious both of the waiters scurrying out of his way and the stares of the diners.
Sutton started to rise with his hand outstretched. Ignoring him, Rhynne threw the paper onto the table so hard the silverware rattled,
“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Now, W.W., how can you expect me to know? I haven’t seen today’s Californian yet.” Sutton ran his hand through his grey hair.
Rhynne pointed to the editorial on the front page. “TIME FOR ACTION,” the headline read. “Local Gambler Implicated In Mining Scheme” was the subhead. “The citizens of San Francisco have stood idly by for too long!” the story began.
When Sutton finished reading, he shook his head. “I have no idea how such a story came to be in Curie’s sheet,” he said. “You know he’s been itching for a fight with someone to boost his circulation.”
“This is your doing, Sutton. It’s not the first time you’ve spread lies about me and the Golconda Mining Company.”
Sutton started to get up. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?” he asked.
Rhynne grasped the front of Sutton’s frock coat and shoved the bigger man back into his chair. “Take it any way you damn well please. I’ll have no more. We’re quits.”
King Sutton glanced around the suddenly hushed dining room. “W.W.,” he said placatingly, “not here. We’ll go down the street to my place and discuss the matter over a drink.”
“We’ll go to the Californian office where you’ll tell Fred Curie the truth.”
“Let’s go to my rooms at the Fremont. I can explain what you see there.”
“I’ve heard enough of your explanations. They’re a mix of lies and half-truths.”
Sutton stood up, toppling his chair behind him. “I’ve killed men for less than that,” he shouted.
“Are you challenging me to a duel like you did young O’Lee? Think long and hard before you do. I’m not a lad who’s never fired a pistol in his life before.”
“Gentlemen!” Pierre DuBois stepped between them. “I beseech you. My two friends, two of my best customers, two of the most esteemed of my clientele. Please.”
“I apologize, Pierre,” Sutton said. “This was none of my doing.”
“Monsieur Sutton, Monsieur Rhynne,” Pierre said. “How many times have I seen you eating here together, drinking the wines of France, laughing one with the other? And now this unfortunate contretemps. I, Pierre DuBois, cannot permit it. Not for myself, not for Pierre, not for the serenity of my other guests, but for yourselves. I cannot allow brother to turn against brother.”
“You’re right, Pierre,” Rhynne said. “This should be of no concern of yours. We’ll settle our differences elsewhere.” He looked at Sutton. “But settle them we will. King?” He started for the door.
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King Sutton sighed, threw his napkin to the table and followed. “Add the dinner to my account, Pierre,” he said. “With my usual tip.”
Pierre seemed about to object but shrugged instead. “As you wish, monsieur,” he said.
Rhynne and Sutton talked in silence to the Fremont Hotel where they climbed the stairs to Sutton’s second floor suite.
“Whisky?” Sutton asked when they were in the parlor.
Rhynne shook his head.
“I’ll have one.” Sutton poured whisky and drank, putting the glass on a table marred with the rings left by many other glasses.
“Sit down, W.W.,” he said.
“I prefer to stand.”
Sutton walked about the room turning up the oil lamps. He shuffled through the papers on a desk then threw them down again. Opening a door at the rear of the room, he called, “Jed! Jed!” There was no answer. “Where the hell’s that black bastard gone now?” he asked no one in particular.
Rhynne tapped the folded newspaper against the side of his leg as he watched the other man. Finally Sutton slumped into an overstuffed armchair. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the wall clock and the night noises of the city coming through the window.
Sutton reached for his glass and drank the rest of his whisky. “You were right to take me to task,” he said. “The fault’s mine and mine alone.”
“Then you were responsible for the story?”
“A couple of nights ago I was bucking the tiger and having a few drinks and one thing led to another the way it does. I must have spun a tale or two about Hangtown and the Golconda. How was I to know I was talking to Curie’s brother?”
“Some tale! A gross libel.”
“You did lend me the money to start the venture. And the idea did come from your coup with the lottery. You have to admit that, W.W.”
“I lent you the money to buy mining properties. How did I know you intended to sell shares, give the first buyers handsome profits with the money from new investors, salt the mines, sell more shares, get in over your head, turn belly up and lose everything? I have a question for you. Something that’s bothered me for some time. King, how in the name of hell did you ever manage to run a cotton plantation?”