Tapestry Of Tamar

by Reece, Colleen L.

  Tapestry

  of Tamar

  Colleen L. Reece

  A Sequel to Veiled Joy

  Copyright

  Print ISBN 978-1-55748-443-7

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-812-3

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-811-6

  Copyright © 1993 by Colleen L. Reece. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Truly Yours, P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  one

  Tamar O’Donnell tiptoed to the top step of the gracefully winding staircase. Her Spanish-brown eyes danced. She checked the great hall below, then the halls on either side of her. White teeth gleamed in a smile. Good. Every door stood firmly shut. With a whisper of glee, Tamar gathered up the long black skirts she hated, perched on the shining mahogany banister rail, and pushed off in a slide. She had wanted to do that ever since she came to live with her older brother Carlos in his ornate Nob Hill San Francisco home.

  Faster, faster she went, gathering momentum. Carlos’s haughty wife, Lorraine, insisted she wear a black veil to cover her “plebeian red hair,” but now it tore free, and Tamar’s red-gold curls, inherited from her grandmother Joyous, streamed into confusion.

  The massive front door flung open at the same moment Tamar thudded to a stop at the bottom of the staircase. She scrambled to her feet, smoothed down her skirts, and looked up into her sister-in-law’s narrow face.

  “And what is the meaning of this—this shocking, disrespectful behavior?” Lorraine O’Donnell, not a single hair out of place, glared up at Tamar, whose five foot eight slender height towered over her by a good four inches. Tamar wondered, not for the first time, why Carlos had chosen this cold woman with her correct demeanor and lack of understanding or humor.

  “Well?” Lorraine rustled toward her, taffeta petticoats swishing. Her pale green gown did nothing for her blondish hair and grey-green eyes, but it would have changed Tamar from a black specter into a beauty.

  Rebellion against the tyranny this woman had shown her crisped Tamar’s reply. “Father and Mother never found me shocking or disrespectful. Perhaps because they loved me.”

  Her shot went home. Angry color suffused Lorraine’s carefully guarded pale skin. “Enough of your impertinence, miss. Go to your room.”

  Tamar clenched her hands into fists behind her black gown. “Don’t speak to me as if I were a child.” She knew better than to argue with Lorraine but rushed on. “I will be eighteen years old in less than six months.”

  “Eighteen or eighty, so long as you live in my house you will comport yourself in a ladylike manner, although for you, that appears to be impossible.”

  “I won’t live in your house—which my brother bought, not you—forever.” Rage rose within her.

  “Bravo!” A young man of middle height, with sleek brown hair and hazel eyes, applauded from the open doorway. “I like my women to show their mettle. Of course, that will have to change if I should decide to marry you.” His mocking gaze measured her unbecoming mourning and he shuddered delicately. “Really, Lorraine, must she wear black forever? It makes her look like a red-headed crow and surely offends the sensibilities of anyone with taste who is forced to observe her.”

  His sarcasm did what Lorraine’s order had failed to accomplish. Tears burned Tamar’s eyes, but her voice was iced as she said, “The day I marry you will be the day I go mad, Phillip-with-two-l’s-Carlin.” She couldn’t resist turning and smiling sweetly after she majestically swept halfway up the stairway. “If Lorraine has indicated otherwise, this is a good time to disabuse you of such ideas.” In the silence that followed, she reached the hall above and turned the corner but halted just out of sight. Instinct told her Lorraine and Phillip would immediately begin discussing her, so Tamar opened the nearest door, slammed it shut, then huddled down on the thick rug and strained her ears to hear the buzz of voices.

  “Dear me, I do believe your niece has inherited the temper to go with her hair,” Phillip began.

  Tamar’s lip curled. She could imagine him, leaning against a wall or one of the tall columns that supported the arched roof, too lazy to stand straight. Phillip-with-two-l’s, as he perpetually announced himself to strangers, never walked when he could ride, never stood when he could sit. Marrying him would be unbearable. Her heart beat fast when Lorraine’s high-pitched voice floated up to her.

  “She’s young and her parents spoiled her. My husband tried to tell them, but they only laughed.” Venom filled her voice. “I fought having her come to us when they were killed in that railway accident, but Carlos insisted we take her in hand until a suitable match could be arranged. These last six months have been a struggle, I admit. I have seen some improvement, but it’s 1905, not the eighteen hundreds when young women were glad enough to be sheltered and cared for. I plan to get any modern idea of independence out of Tamar’s head, I can tell you that.”

  The listening girl allowed herself the luxury of a smile but tensed again when Phillip drawled, “I really can’t consider her unless I believe I can tame her. Of course, the dowry is a consideration.

  Tamar didn’t have to see him to know how his eyes narrowed with the familiar speculative gleam.

  Lorraine’s nervous laugh drifted into the upper hall. “You needn’t worry about that.” She laughed again. “Everyone knows how the O’Donnells struck it rich—them and that old desert rat who found Joyous. The O’Donnell-McFarland holdings at one time were said to contain the most wealth of any property in California or Nevada.”

  How clever! Disgust gave way to admiration in Tamar’s mind. Lorraine hadn’t lied; she had simply parroted so-called common knowledge. Tamar started to her feet then paused. Not yet. Not until she heard them out.

  “And she will be eighteen in the fall?”

  “On October tenth. The terms of her parents’ will specifically direct that their leavings be split equally between Carlos, Tamar, and their younger brother Richard—Dick. Tamar will receive her share on her eighteenth birthday.”

  “The younger brother is in school, isn’t he? I wouldn’t want to be saddled with a fifteen-year-old if I decide it’s worth my while to marry the girl.”

  “Carlos intends to ship Richard off to West Point once he’s old enough,” Lorraine quickly assured, while Tamar’s fury increased. Wasn’t it bad enough to be separated from Dick now that their parents were dead? How would she ever see him if Lorraine forced Carlos to send him even farther away?

  “Just how much is the inheritance?” His greed added life to Phillip’s usually bored voice.

  “I’m surprised you ask,” Lorraine answered carelessly. “All of San Francisco talks of the fabulous fortune amassed by the O’Donnells’ proper investments.”

  The quiet moments that followed felt like an eternity. Then Phillip said, “My dear Lorraine, October tenth sounds fortuitous for a wedding, don’t you think? After the ceremony, your husband can turn Tamar’s inheritance over to the proper person to handle it—me.”

  His smug assurance needled Tamar beyond endurance. She whipped around the corner, scorned the banister rail, and charged down the staircase toward the open-mouthed Lorraine and the would-be-guardian of her fortune. Enjoyment erased her anger and she spoke slowly, savori
ng every word that tore down Lorraine’s carefully constructed plan to get rid of her.

  “Dear Phillip.” Her voice dripped honey. “My kind and caring sister-in-law has conveniently forgotten to inform you of something you may find important. Everything she said about the fortune my ancestors had is true. However, she failed to add that my father, beloved though he was, didn’t inherit the business sense of his parents and grandparents. He invested, lost, and in the effort to recoup his losses, everything was swept away. The train that claimed my parents’ lives was returning from an unsuccessful, frantic trip Father and Mother took to see if they could borrow money.”

  She laughed in sudden gladness at the stupefied expression on Lorraine’s face, the slack-jawed look Phillip wore. “Did I overhear you making plans for October tenth?” she wickedly asked. “When disbursement is made, it will be but a pittance, I’m afraid. Does this make a difference in your intentions?” She bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  Phillip finally regained his composure enough to stiffly say, “This does put a different complexion on the situation.”

  What a stuffed owl! Pompous, conceited—Tamar ran out of adjectives. “Think nothing of it,” she told him. “I wouldn’t marry you if San Francisco Bay swept in and drowned every other man in the city.” She whirled toward Lorraine. “As for you, does Carlos know your schemes?”

  The blond woman raised a perfect eyebrow. “It was not I who brought Phillip here. Carlos selected him a few days after we realized you must live with us for a time.” Every word fell like a cube of ice. “Phillip, I wouldn’t be too concerned about the lack of a generous dowry. You know I have a personal fortune in my own right and. . . .” A shrug of her shoulders filled in the missing words.

  So her own brother had been in on the plot. Tamar took a deep breath. Snobbish and proud she had known him to be, but this? Incredible. Her hurt and anger blinded her.

  She roused when Phillip promised, “We’ll speak more of this when we have the privacy to do so, Lorraine. For now, au revoir.” He kissed his fingertips in the obnoxious way Tamar hated and waved them at her before vanishing out the front door.

  “You expect me to marry that affected person?” Tamar glared at Lorraine.

  “Beggars can’t always choose,” Lorraine reminded, back in control. She cocked her head to one side and surveyed Tamar. “Hmm. Phillip is right. I must speak with Carlos and convince him six months’ mourning is enough. You do look like a red-haired crow in black.” She mounted the stairs of her mansion, a mansion that looked over—and down on—the lesser mortals who inhabited San Francisco.

  Not until Tamar heard the restrained closing of a door far down the hall above did she break free of the fear that dropped over her like a shroud. Could Carlos and Lorraine force her into a hateful, loveless marriage? She drifted outside into a garden bright with spring flowers that fluttered in the breeze off the bay. A marble fountain, too large for good taste, spattered cool drops against her heated face. If only she could leave this prison on a hill. But where could she go? Dick was too young to help her, and their grandparents had died when Tamar was small. She could barely remember Grandpa Brit’s Irish brogue and Grandma Joyous’s sparkling blue eyes. Why had her parents and grandparents all died so young, Tamar wondered? Lorraine’s comment that it was God’s will infuriated her young sister-in-law. How could a loving God, if there was a God at all, take away everyone she needed so desperately?

  Tamar sighed. Her parents, Brit Jr. and dark-eyed Rosalind, had believed in God and had taught her to do the same. From early childhood, she had learned how Jesus died to save all those who accepted and served Him. She hadn’t questioned—until the train wreck that left her adrift. This new revelation of Carlos’s relentless ambition had further shaken her.

  If only Uncle Carlos and Aunt Sadie hadn’t sailed for Europe just before the accident! Tamar’s eyes flashed with golden motes. How different her laughing, handsome uncle was from the nephew who had been named after him. Uncle Carlos was loving and honest, and he always cared more about people than he did about money. Tamar had spent hours curled up on his lap listening to his stories of the rugged Nevada land and how he, a Monterey dandy, had learned of life and found love in a rough mining town.

  “Your grandfather Brit was the finest man I ever knew,” the older Carlos told Tamar. “Another would have shipped me out with the first supply wagon for the crazy things I did.” She would never forget the way he turned to his wife’s still-pretty face or the look he wore when he added softly, “I found out how good God was and met the only girl in the world for me. How my proud father raged, until he got to know Sadie.”

  But Uncle Carlos and Aunt Sadie were far away now, too far away to be able to help Tamar. With no one to appeal to, she accepted the need to outwardly acquiesce to Lorraine’s domination for the next six months. Inwardly, she would count every day and plan. The night before her eighteenth birthday, she must vanish, no matter what. October tenth would not be her wedding day to Phillip-with-two-l’s. God, her tired heart whispered, are You here? I need someone, anyone. . . . Too perplexed to think more, Tamar stood and paced the orderly garden paths. She paused by a date palm and looked out at the blue, blue sea. She leaned against the palm’s rough trunk and listened to a voice from her childhood.

  “Mother, why am I Tamar? Why not Dolores or Carlotta or Kathleen?” Eyes as dark as Rosalind’s own peered into her mother’s face.

  “Tamar comes from the Hebrew name that means palm tree. And, little one, a palm tree is a wonderful thing. Sturdy, strong, it sways with the wind but is not broken. It offers comfort to others by giving protection against desert heat. Your grandmother Joyous often spoke of how she treasured the oases with their shade. It was she who named you Tamar Joy O’Donnell. No child could ever have a better name.”

  Tamar never again complained about her name. And when Lorraine decided she should be known instead as Joyce, Tamar simply refused to respond.

  “I don’t feel very sturdy or strong,” Tamar whispered to a sympathetic flower. “I have to be, though. Somehow I must escape, earn money, and never fail to keep in touch with Dick. He should have been named after Uncle Carlos. Even though Uncle Carlos is really only a distant cousin, Dick looks enough like him to be the son Uncle Carlos and Aunt Sadie never had.”

  The little respite in the garden gave Tamar strength to endure that evening after dinner while Lorraine told Carlos her version of the afternoon. They sat in the too-fussy, too-crowded expensive parlor that made Tamar feel closed in and unable to breathe. Almost every inch of the walls contained pictures: paintings, family gatherings, revered ancestors. Tamar thought her pictured parents must look down on the clutter with distaste. Their own home had been beautifully but simply furnished. This heavy, dark room bore little resemblance to the airy, spacious rooms where Tamar had romped and studied and grown up.

  All through Lorraine’s recitation Tamar sat and gazed out the window, passionately wishing she could be free to run. Since arriving on Nob Hill, she had been pronounced too old for such childish behavior. The one time she tried it, Lorraine’s wrath had erupted. Since then, Tamar only raced in her thoughts.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Carlos demanded when the accusations stopped.

  “Nothing.” She faced him sadly, looking for the love she had always wanted from him. The years had not given him compassion, and his marriage to Lorraine had only worsened his snobbery. Tamar looked for a single glance that told her he understood, some signal of his love, even though she knew he would not cross his wife. No signal came, just a tightening of his fine lips into a straight line.

  “There will be no more such incidents.” So might a king have dispassionately ordered, “Off with her head.”

  “No.” Tamar knew what she must do. If it took dissembling, so be it. A pretense of giving in would allay suspicion until October ninth. Then she would vanish
.

  “Very well, you may go.”

  She started out, wretched at his coldness, glad to be released. His voice stopped her at the door.

  “Tomorrow I will talk with Phillip Carlin. If he isn’t thoroughly disgusted at the exhibition of temper and low breeding you displayed today, we will announce your betrothal soon.”

  Tamar wanted to turn, to hurl the truth at him that she’d rather be dead than married to Phillip Carlin. She didn’t. Something deep inside warned her that screaming out would lessen her chances for escape. She had six months. If they must be spent as Phillip-with-two-l’s fiancée, so be it. But let him touch her and he’d see what a red-headed crow could do!

  To the O’Donnell household’s amazement, Phillip declined to engage himself to Tamar, maintaining he had been given false information about her fortune. He went even further and intimated that no other eligible young San Francisco bachelor would be any more willing to accept her under the circumstances. Through a series of eavesdroppings, Tamar learned this and covered her mouth with her hands to keep in her glee. But a second, then a third consultation between Carlin and Lorraine ended with a dowry offer from Lorraine large enough to bring Carlin to agreement. Tamar, watching from the shelter of a large shrub in the garden, could have told Lorraine and Carlos why Carlin gave in to the engagement. A parlor maid who liked the homeless girl had pursed her lips when Tamar first asked her what she knew about Phillip Carlin, but later she unzipped them. Carlin’s own fortunes were none too secure, the maid told Tamar. His gambling and love for luxury combined with his equal hate for work, even to the point that he refused to be bothered by checking up on those he hired to manage his business interests. The result was near financial disaster, although he kept the secret.

  “I know ’tis true,” the parlor maid hissed. “My sister’s been keepin’ company with Carlin’s man and he told her.”

  One good thing that came from the betrothal was Carlos’s permission to discard mourning. Under Lorraine’s supervision, the best dressmaker in San Francisco undertook a complete wardrobe for Tamar. Wise in her craft and with an eye to the monetary gains promised, she wisely placated Lorraine while relying almost solely on Tamar’s instinct for clothes. She bypassed style if it did not enhance Tamar’s bright hair, white skin, and near-black eyes. “You aren’t beautiful,” the dressmaker told her. “But you’re striking, and that’s better.” Soft blues and greens, pale apricot and peach gowns lined Tamar’s clothes rack. White—often touched with a single accent of ruby, sapphire, emerald—but no pink or red. Dark colors only for riding and then brightened with the incomparable touches of a couturier.