Tapestry Of Tamar

by Reece, Colleen L.

  Gordon strained his eyes to see her shadowed face and gasped when the first notes of Stephen Foster’s beautiful ballad, “My Old Kentucky Home,” rang throughout the hall. He felt Veronica stir beside him, but he was too mesmerized by the singer to glance at his sister. His face flushed when he remembered how he had classified her as a probable fallen angel. No one on earth could sing like that unless she possessed a soul clean before God.

  A second song followed. Gordon closed his eyes and let the lilt of an Irish melody wash over him. But when the Unknown Angel sang the opening lines of John Newton’s heartfelt cry of God’s forgiveness, Gordon shivered. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.”

  Her every word breathed her knowledge of the song’s truth, and jaded San Francisco heard the message of salvation as effectively as ever preached from the pulpit. When she reached the final stanza, she opened her arms, and hundreds of voices joined in: “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, then when we first begun.”

  The audience rose for its applause. Gordon caught the satisfied smile on Veronica’s lips and whispered in her ear, “Quick, the stage door!” They reached the street just in time to see a dark-cloaked figure climb into a closed carriage that drove quickly away.

  “Well?” Veronica turned to her brother.

  “No person here tonight can ever again plead ignorance of God’s love,” Gordon told her.

  “I wonder who she really is and why she uses no stage name,” Veronica speculated on the way home. “The way they keep her face in shadow—perhaps she is badly scarred.”

  Or wishes to remain incognita, Gordon’s heart replied, but he stifled the words. Not even his sister must know what had become certainty from the moment he heard the Mystery Lady sing. The Unknown Angel was Tamar O’Donnell.

  Now he faced a new dilemma, the worst conflict of interests he’d ever encountered. Allegiance to his client Carlos waned, while loyalty for Tamar grew out of nowhere. How could he expose her identity and have her hounded by Phillip Carlin again? His code of ethics required him to give his best to those who hired him, but he would not be part of any plot that might result in Tamar’s unhappiness.

  Torn by conflicting emotions, Gordon slept little that night. The next morning he called for Hood, explained the problem, and ordered him to quietly observe the Unknown Angel. He was to tell no one except Gordon what he discovered.

  “Do you think she’s the one?” Hood cut to the heart of it.

  “If she is, I’m not sure what we’ll do about it.”

  Hood smiled, went on his way, and came back undaunted but rebuffed. “There’s better security around her than in most prisons,” he cheerfully said. Gordon knew that the tougher the case, the better his secretary-turned-sleuth liked it. Hood continued, “She’s delivered to the Pantages, watched like sunflowers watch for the sun, protected by the Smiths and a troupe who are strangely averse to answering questions. Every time a performance ends, she is smuggled out and away.” He laughed ruefully. “I’ve tried three times to follow the closed carriage and three times a skillful driver has outwitted me by turning and doubling back. He ends up on busy Market Street and ostentatiously stops as if the occupants had all the time in the world before going home. But when I managed to look inside, the carriage was empty. Somehow they always manage to get out without me seeing.”

  “They?”

  “Mrs. Smith is always with the singer.”

  “Keep trying.” Gordon told him. “I’ll approach it another way.” He went to the minister of a leading cathedral and suggested that he ask the new singer to perform. His idea fell on closed ears.

  “I’d as soon ask the devil himself to sing in my church as some dance hall girl,” the man exploded. All Gordon’s explanations only increased the minister’s frown. “The theater and all who are in it are doomed to eternal punishment,” the man proclaimed. “Furthermore, this—this person’s daring to sing hymns to a trashy bunch of gawpers is blasphemy!”

  Gordon subsided and marched out, then tried a new tack. Through business connections and a professed interest in the Pantages—which had certainly become real—he succeeded in meeting George Smith at a pre-arranged luncheon with a friend. George’s steady gaze and kindly eyes impressed Gordon. When the mutual friend was conveniently called away, through assistance from Hood, Gordon sat on chatting. He openly expressed his appreciation that the Pantages now had someone who would bring the Gospel through song. He said nothing of wanting to meet the singer—then. Instead, he dwelled on his relationship to the Lord and how much San Francisco needed the Gospel. The city’s wickedness had never been completely stamped out by the earlier vigilantes.

  A few nights later, Gordon introduced Veronica to George and Gilda. The women eyed each other—one, a Nob Hill leader who had worked hard to get there; the other, a woman whose goodness couldn’t be hidden by her mass of blond hair. Both smiled and an unlikely friendship began.

  nine

  “Joy, we’ve met a nice man and his sister,” Gilda said on the way home from the theater. “They’re real Christians.” She sounded wistful. “I’d like to invite them to our home.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Their name is Rhys—Gordon and his sister, Veronica. They may live in a mansion but they don’t show it. I didn’t find a trace of snobbery when George introduced us.”

  Tamar stretched. “Bring on your paragons. I’ve never heard of them before, so they can’t recognize me. Oh, but how are you going to account for me living with you? Do they know I’m your singer?”

  “I don’t think so. We’ll just say you’re a dear friend who is stopping with us for a while. It’s all true, except we hope it will be for a long, long while.”

  “I thank God every day for you,” Tamar whispered. “You bring the good Samaritan story alive.”

  A few days later the Rhyses arrived at the Smiths’ more modest home. Their good breeding hid any possible surprise at the presence of a young, beautiful girl in the home, although Tamar saw a look of deep respect and admiration in Gordon’s gray eyes and a more thoughtful consideration in his sister’s. A simple but delicious luncheon, a wide range of discussion topics, and a friendly disagreement about politics provided an excellent background for getting to know one another. By professing honest interest in rare books, Gordon maneuvered the little group into the library. An open piano stood in one corner.

  “Won’t you play for us, Mrs. Smith?” he politely asked. He laughed and added, “Does anyone sing?”

  “We all do,” Gilda told him. Her brown eyes danced. “How about you?”

  “I’m a better listener than musician but I’ll hum along if you like.”

  Tamar took care to control her range and volume by lowering her voice to blend with the others. The Rhyses left, declaring it a happy afternoon, and cordially inviting the Smiths to call. By mid-March a friendly relationship had grown up between the families. Sometimes George teased Tamar about the multitude of flowers that came with Gordon’s card. Gilda always shushed him. “He’s a nice man. Why shouldn’t he admire our Joy?”

  Although Gordon looked nothing like her father, Tamar often found depths in him, consideration and interest, that reminded her of her precious parent. When she admitted to herself Father would like him, she blushed. Every time she saw him—and the times became increasingly frequent—she liked him more. She respected his devotion to his older sister and his dedication to God. She listened to what others said of him and avidly read newspaper reports of his court cases, secretly rejoicing when he won justice and reprieve for those falsely accused. He had long since told her and the Smiths that he never represented any person whose innocence he doubted.

  Tamar continued to gain popularity as the Unknown Angel an
d banked most of her generous salary. The Smiths went on protecting her, but Gordon had crept into the inner circle of friendship and often escorted her here and there, although never to the Pantages. She secretly trembled and wondered that a man as wonderful as he could be interested in an unknown girl named Joy Darnell. In the short weeks of their friendship, Tamar had become convinced of his worth. She might sway like a palm tree, bent by the storms of life; Gordon stood strong, an oak of a Welshman with his stocky body, sandy hair, and gray eyes.

  The one bitter drop in her filling cup of happiness was a change in Veronica’s attitude. She remained courteous, even warm, yet Tamar saw a shadow of doubt in the eyes that resembled Gordon’s. Once Gordon had admitted to a long line of proper and rigid ancestors, spotless and stern; did Veronica feel Joy Darnell couldn’t live up to her brother’s heritage?

  Tamar’s sensitive spirit shrank from what she perceived as class-consciousness. When some distant relatives visited the Rhyses while she was present, the feeling grew. Coming lightly downstairs to meet Gordon, she overheard one of the pinched-lips cousins inquire, “Who is the young woman with the heathenish hair, dyed, of course. Tell me, Gordon surely isn’t interested in her?”

  Tamar backed away, face as fiery as her hair. A little balm soothed her heart when Veronica answered, “She’s a dear friend—of us both, and turned the subject. Tamar fled to a nearby powder room, cooled her hot face, summoned up the O’Donnell dignity, and boldly marched into the lion’s den. In this case, the cats’ slanted gaze slid away from her when she returned their haughty stares.

  “Just like Carlos,” she muttered to herself when she got home. “Stiff-necked, convinced God created them a little more in His image than other mortals.” The crisp indictment chased away some of her troubled thoughts.

  Gordon was experiencing trouble of his own. They started when Veronica accusingly said, “Do you know Joy Darnell is really the Unknown Angel of the Pantages?” She quivered indignantly.

  “So?” Her brother raised sandy brows in the way that infuriated her.

  “So you’ve been escorting her.”

  “And plan to continue as much as she will allow.” He threw the gauntlet of challenge squarely into her lap. “If Ta-Joy can ever care for me the way I do her, she’s going to be Mrs. Gordon Rhys.”

  Veronica gasped as if he’d thrown ice water into her face. “You can’t mean it! She’s a nice enough little thing and does have a remarkable voice, but think of your position.”

  Gordon’s knowledge of his sister tempered the quick retort that rose to his lips. Only too well did he know how hard she had worked to help him achieve popularity. “My dear, there are several things you don’t know about Miss Darnell, ones I am not at liberty to share. But can’t you see she is refined and far above the other Nob Hill women?”

  “I thought her so until she set her cap for you.” Veronica’s eyes filled with misery.

  “She didn’t.” Gordon’s lips firmed into a straight line. “She’s no adventuress, far from it. Veronica, I’m going to ask you to trust me. One day you will thank God for your sister-in-law, God willing. We don’t want harsh words and condemnation now, for later they will turn to regret for judgments made without having all the facts.” He laughed. “Besides, the lady in question may not have me.”

  His sister did a complete turnabout. “She’s a fool if she won’t.” The next moment she looked sheepish. “Well, you’ve chased enough women, so I suppose I can take your word. You’re old enough to know what you’re doing. I just wish you could tell me what the mystery is.”

  “I do, too,” Gordon said soberly. “But I can’t—at least, not yet.” He crossed to where she sat and rumpled her carefully brushed hair. “Thanks, old gal.”

  “You needn’t throw my age in my face.” But Veronica’s smile told him she understood, as she had always done.

  Each day, Gordon thought he would confess his love to Tamar-Joy. Each day he refrained. His legal mind told him to wait; they hadn’t known each other long, although throughout his search for her, he felt he had come to know her well. He also continued to struggle with divided loyalties. Soon he must either betray her whereabouts to Carlos or drop the case. Slowly a solution came to him, a daring plan. What if he proposed and once she accepted him, presented the O’Donnell’s with both the runaway and her fiancé? His hopes were raised by the gladness in her dark eyes whenever she saw him, and the idea grew to determination. Tomorrow he would call for her, drive to a secluded spot in a park, and ask her to be his wife.

  “Good thing, too,” he admitted aloud. “I’ve been so concerned about her it’s hard to concentrate.” He stretched. Strange. Now that he’d made up his mind, he felt fresher and better able to tackle his job than he’d been in months. He fell to and buried himself deep in an upcoming case, only to be interrupted by Hood, who ushered in a raging Carlos O’Donnell.

  “Why haven’t you told me Tamar is the singer at the Pantages—the Unknown Angel?” he hissed.

  “How did you find out?” Gordon, who usually kept secrets safe behind his padlocked lips, blurted out the worst thing he could say.

  Carlos clenched his fists. “When you continued to report no success, I hired a private detective.” His mouth twisted into a sneer. “He traced ‘Joy Darnell’ back to the music school and the Gregories of Oakland, who are twittering about the wonderful success of their so-called protégé—something you should have done. How long have you known?”

  Gordon regained control; his gray eyes turned glacial. “I still don’t know for certain, although I suspected it when I heard her sing.”

  “You dared withhold information? I’ll have you up for unethical practice,” Carlos threatened.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “I have—at the Pantages Theatre where she flaunts herself before the common herd.”

  Gordon bounced up from behind his desk. “You prate to me of being unethical? What about your guilt, your trying to marry her to Carlin? I suppose, if she returns to your home, you’ll attempt to arrange another marriage for her.”

  “Who are you to question me?” Carlos turned livid.

  “The man who is going to marry Tamar O’Donnell.”

  Carlos sank into a chair, speechless. He raised a shaking hand and finally said, “You?”

  Gordon could almost see the older man’s brain working in shrewd consideration of the information hurled at him. If Tamar married San Francisco’s most popular young attorney, it would solve her problems as well as Carlos and Lorraine’s. Resignation and an attempt at restoring his dignity made Carlos’s voice stiff. “I wish you well, Rhys. She is far too spirited to make a good wife, but—” He shrugged and surprised Gordon with his sudden laugh. “Perhaps you’re the one who can gentle her. As for the other, I hope you will forget it.”

  Gordon’s fair nature came to his aid. “I’ve fought with this problem for days and I understand your viewpoint. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve waited far too long to settle things with your sister.” He reached for his hat and started toward the door.

  “I hope you aren’t too late.” Carlos’s voice stopped him as effectively as a bullet. Gordon whipped around. A genuine look of anxiety had settled on his client’s face. It reflected in what he said. “I was so angry with Tamar, I told her I’d be back in an hour to pick her up with her belongings. She didn’t argue but I saw the way she looked at that funny little owner and his wife. I hope she’s still there.”

  Cold fear swept over Gordon. “So do I.” He rushed out, closely followed by Carlos who shouted he must go along. Gordon didn’t have time to argue.

  Every inch of the way to the Pantages the two men leaned forward, as if doing so would push the O’Donnell carriage faster. The driver stopped abruptly in front of the theatre. To Gordon’s horror, a large sign had been nailed across the door. It read:

  Close
d until Further Notice

  “Quickly,” he commanded. “To the Smiths’.” He shouted the address and held tightly to the seat when the carriage lurched around corners and raced up streets. On arrival, Gordon sprang to the ground. “Better let me go first.” He ran up to the front door that had opened for him in welcome so often before. Now it stayed forbiddingly shut, even when he pounded. Good heavens, the Smiths and Tamar couldn’t have vanished in such a short time, could they? He beat until his knuckles ached and only stopped when footsteps sounded behind him.

  “George, where is she?” He seized the shorter man in strong hands, noting the anger and disillusionment in his eyes.

  “Safe.” George tore himself free and cast an unfriendly look at Carlos, who had joined them. “No thanks to either of you.”

  “You don’t understand,” Gordon told him. “I love her and it’s all right with Mr. O’Donnell and—”

  “Fine way to show it.” George skirted the two and headed for the house. “He comes bursting into a rehearsal, babbling and accusing. Joy just stands there with her sweet white face and big dark eyes while he tells her he’s had a lawyer after her and she’s got to do what he says. She gasps and grabs at her throat. ‘What lawyer?’ she shoots back. When he yells, ‘Rhys’ she looks sick and turns even whiter.”

  “He’s her brother, George.” Gordon tried to turn the tide.

  “Think I don’t know that? My wife and I rescued her in Oakland when that sniveling Carlin showed up at the Gregories’.” The Pantages’ owner drew himself up until he looked far taller than his height. “We took her in and cared for her like the child we never had, loved her, too, more than life.” He blinked and swallowed hard. “We put San Francisco at her feet, at least those who are decent and enjoy her singing. Now—” He spread his hands. “She’s gone.”