Jade

by Jill Marie Landis

  He nodded.

  “Your father loved you very much. He waited for your picture to arrive every year. It was the only time your mother ever communicated with him. To your father, it was better than Christmas. He would bring the daguerreotype home and set it in place on the mantel, then he would look at them all again. My, how he could go on and on about how you’d changed!”

  “Yet he never came to see me,” Jason couldn’t help but remind her.

  Peoney Flannagan glanced down and stared into the dark brew in her own tea cup as if she could see the past in the steaming liquid. She drew a deep breath and said, “Your mother forbid it. He wrote and asked permission to see you every year, but she would deny his request. She was kind enough to send the portraits, though, right up until she died.”

  “Why didn’t he write to me?”

  “And say what? It had been ten years. He didn’t know you, Jason. Didn’t know if you hated him or not, didn’t even know what to say.” She shook her head and passed him the plate of cookies. Jason took three and set them on the saucer he had balanced awkwardly on his knees. “It was the only time I ever knew Jason—your father, that is—to be afraid. He was terrified of really finding out how you felt about him.” Peoney took another sip of tea and stared levelly at him. “Would you have come?”

  “I probably wouldn’t have even responded.”

  She sighed. “It would have wounded him deeply. I’m sure that’s why he never even tried. It was far better not to know what the outcome of any communication to you might have wrought.”

  They were silent for a few uncomfortable moments. He could see that she was hard-pressed not to stare at him. Finally Jason said honestly, “You aren’t at all what I expected.”

  Peoney smiled. “You thought perhaps I was an opera star in red satin that showed my ankles?”

  He shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “Did your mother ever tell you about me?”

  “No. My mother’s maiden aunt used to refer to you as ‘that woman.’ She was even more embittered than my mother. You would have thought she had been the one my father had thrown over.”

  “Will you listen if I try to explain?”

  Too many years had passed for Jason to think anything Peoney Flannagan might say would sway his opinion of his father’s infidelity. J.T. knew that had he ever taken the vow of marriage, hell would have to freeze over before he deserted the woman he had chosen as his wife. Cash always told him that things weren’t always black and white, that the color gray had been invented for a reason, but Jason had never been able to reconcile the thought. Now this woman, “the other woman” in his father’s life, was asking him for a chance to tell her side of the story.

  He set the teacup on the table and leaned back in the rocker. Pushing the footstool aside with his toe, he crossed his legs at the ankles and folded his hands on his lap. “Go ahead,” he said softly. The least he could do was hear her out.

  “Your father’s people were from New York. Wealthy, powerful, established. We met when we were twenty, and your father was taking over the reins of business from your grandfather. We fell in love, and Jason asked me to marry him. My family was poor, and to make matters worse, we were Irish.” She set her own cup aside.

  Jason began to slowly rock to and fro, lulled by the warm tea and the soft words as she told the story. “His family forbade it. They quickly arranged a marriage between Jason and your mother. She was from a wealthy but impoverished southern family that was all too willing to see the marriage take place as soon as possible. Your father, whether you want to believe it or not, was a man who always kept his word. Or fully intended to. He gave me up and set out to make a go of his marriage.

  “You were born shortly afterward, in forty-five. In forty-nine, during the gold rush, he came out to California. What Jason didn’t know was that I was already here. I had come out with my brother, and instead of striking it rich in the gold fields, he built a boarding house, which I cooked for, cleaned, and managed. There was no housing then, and the place was crawling with men who would pay a fortune for a clean bed and a good meal. You can probably guess what happened.”

  He nodded. “My father stayed at your boarding house.”

  “He knocked on the door, and I was as surprised to find him standing there as I was to see you here today. The old feelings we had tried to deny were stronger than ever, but I can tell you we both fought it. He lived in a hotel. I refused to see him. But somewhere along the way, we caved in.

  “When your mother arrived out here with you a few months later, we had already begun living together.” The look she gave him begged him to understand and forgive her without her having to say a word. “Jason tried to explain to your mother. He told her he would always provide for both of you, that he would never shame her publicly, that he would even live with her, but that he could never give me up completely.”

  “So she divorced him,” J.T. said.

  “Yes.” Peoney nodded and stared down at her clasped hands. “She took you back to Georgia, and he never saw you again.” She indicated the mantel with a nod. “Except in those pictures. I like to think that he fully intended to write to you someday, to see you again . . . but he died so suddenly.” A deep shudder shook her. “His heart gave out one day while he was at his office.”

  “Can you tell me something?” he asked.

  “I’ll try,” she promised.

  “Did my father live here all the time?”

  Her voice was a mere whisper. “Yes.”

  “Why did he build the house on California Street?”

  Miss Flannagan blinked rapidly and cocked her head to the side like the wren she reminded him of. “Why, for you.”

  Jason sat up abruptly. “Me?”

  “Well, that, and he felt that it would be a good investment. The wealthiest men in San Francisco were beginning to build there. He got a lot of enjoyment out of planning the place, staffing it. For a while he tried to persuade me to live there, but I knew I could never show my face outside it, not with us living together like this—”

  “Why didn’t you ever marry him?”

  “He stopped asking.”

  “What?” Jason was flabbergasted. After the divorce, his father would have been free to marry Peoney Flannagan if he had wanted.

  “The harm had already been done. Marriage wouldn’t have changed anything between us, nor would it have saved my reputation at that point. I wanted your father to be free to choose in the event that he ever changed his mind and tried to win your mother back for the sake of having you with him again.” She shrugged and gave him a wistful half-smile.

  “After a few years it didn’t seem to matter one way or the other, and eventually, he stopped asking. By the way, did you find the diamond studs and the clothes? I had Matthew take them to Harrington House for you. Your father never could resist going down to Baloun and Lambla’s, the tailors, for a new suit. He had quite a collection that he had never even worn.” She dabbed at her eyes with a snowy napkin.

  J.T. remembered the diamond shirt studs Jade had found in the dresser drawer. They were worth a tidy sum, one that would have kept Miss Peoney well-supplied with cash for quite a while, yet she had Matt deliver them to Harrington House.

  He indicated the suit he had on. “I found the suits, and I’ve even used the studs. Thanks.”

  “Do you like Harrington House?”

  It was a moment before Jason responded. He was still thinking about her previous statement. “Well . . . ” She was staring at him expectantly, as proud as if Harrington House had been her own gift to him. “It’s . . . ”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s lifeless—too big for me. As a matter of fact, I have it up for sale. I’m going back to New Mexico.”

  “You aren’t staying here?”

  “No. I�
��m selling out.”

  She looked quite sad. “I thought that after what I read in today’s paper . . . ”

  Jason stood up and walked back to the mantel and stared down at his father’s picture. “The story about Jade Douglas and me.”

  “I thought perhaps you would get married and stay here.”

  He didn’t know what to say to her. He certainly didn’t think he needed to explain himself to his father’s mistress, but then for some inexplicable reason, he sat down in the rocker again, this time hunched forward with his arms on his knees. “I am thinking of marrying her. Matt doesn’t think it’s all that great of an idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hardly know her.”

  “Do you love her?” she asked.

  He stared hard at Peoney, at the cameo pinned beneath the high, starched collar of her dress. “I think I do.”

  “Does she love you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You won’t know until you ask.”

  “I guess not,” he agreed, shrugging.

  “May an old woman give you some advice?”

  “I may not take it,” he said.

  “You may not like it,” she said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “If there’s no one you left behind, and if you care a fig for the girl, you should offer for her hand. She’ll be virtually ruined here now unless you marry her. That won’t matter to some, but when you mentioned the name Jade Douglas, I recalled her family. Her grandfather, Philo Page, was a wealthy man—one of the first Americans to settle here. He was a bit eccentric as I remember, but well thought of. She comes from respectable people. She’ll never be able to hold her head up amongst them again if you don’t do right by her. I know.”

  As he sat listening to her gentle admonition, Jason could not help but think of the two women in his father’s life and the scandal each of them had had to face because of their relationship with the same man. In that instant, he let go of the hate and resentment he had always fostered toward his father’s mistress. She was only a woman, and an old one at that—a woman of flesh and blood who had made the mistake of falling in love with his father and of not being able to give up that love.

  He found himself saying, “Matt told me that since my father died without a will, there is no provision for your future.”

  “I’ll manage somehow. I don’t expect anything from you, Jason.”

  He glanced at the long line of pictures of himself on the mantel and then at the last one of his father. “My father would have wanted me to see you secure.”

  Her voice was choked with tears as she said, “Whatever you think, dear.”

  “I’ll send Matt over with a bank draft in the morning.” When he stood up, the rocking chair was set in motion.

  “That was your father’s favorite chair,” she said, fighting to keep her voice from breaking. “I wasn’t a bit surprised when you chose to sit in it.”

  He realized how comfortable, how relaxed he’d been as he had sat in the low rocker, rocking back and forth. He couldn’t recall ever having sat in one before.

  “Thank you for the tea and cookies, Miss Flannagan.”

  “I’m so very glad you called, Jason. Because of the pictures, I feel as if I know you, but it’s wonderful to meet you at last.”

  He didn’t know what to say, so he followed her to the entry hall in silence. She went to get his hat as he waited by the front door.

  “It was nice meeting you, ma’am,” he said as he took back his hat. He could finally admit to himself that the experience he had so dreaded had turned out to be enlightening, and not so terrible after all.

  “Take care of yourself and your young lady,” she said as he stepped out the door.

  With a nod, J.T. signaled his goodbye. “I intend to.”

  REGGIE BARRETT WAS predictably mortified over Arnold Peterson’s column in the Chronicle. Jade decided that her time would be best spent out of his way, so she kept to her room. Her self-imposed isolation gave her time to go through a box of papers of her father’s that Detective Chang had delivered while she and Jason had been out riding the day before.

  Aside from unissued copies of certificates for silver and gold mines that were worthless, there was no other evidence of any of her father’s latest business schemes and certainly no clue as to whether or not he had been behind the abduction of the Chinese alchemist, Li Po.

  Rather than infuriate her host any further, Jade had dressed conservatively. Her white, high-collared French waist blouse and gray skirt gave her a look of staid gentility, so she wore them instead of her comfortable Chinese garb. After carefully twisting her hair into her favorite figure-eight loop at the back of her head, she resisted holding it in place with chopsticks—as she sometimes did—and instead used some tortoiseshell combs that had once belonged to her mother.

  She paused from leafing through her father’s papers to stare at herself in the oval mirror above the desk. She shook her head. If she had indeed grown as beautiful as Babs insisted, she certainly could not see it. She had far too much hair for her oval face, her bottom lip was too plump, and because she had not worn a hat yesterday while she was riding, there were freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  As she had a hundred times that day, she thought of Jason and wondered what he was doing. Would he be leaving soon? Did he care a whit about the scandalous article or not? He did not care what anyone said about him. If that had been the case, he would have never stayed out of the war conflict.

  He knew the truth of what had really happened that night at his house, and perhaps the truth was enough for him. She hoped so. She had only herself to blame for becoming the center of such a scandal; she should have never listened to Babs, never have gotten into her friend’s carriage that day they went to Jason’s. But it was too late to cry over her lack of judgment now. Slander cannot destroy an honest man, for when the flood recedes the rock is there. Or so claimed the Chinese proverb. She knew she was strong enough to survive until the flood receded, but she wasn’t sure about Reggie Barrett.

  Babs was taking this latest crisis in stride, no doubt because she was responsible. But Jade realized the time had come to leave the Barretts’s hospitality behind. On the morrow she would find a room elsewhere, although she could not even hazard a guess as to where.

  She turned back to the certificates spread across the bed, and began to refold and stack them. The image of Jason’s warm gaze and teasing smile danced into her conscience and Jade paused once more. She leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand as she let her mind wander. Was she experiencing the stirrings of love? She had never dreamt this would happen to her—but what else could explain this persistent urge to think of Jason Harrington, the realization that she thoroughly enjoyed herself in his company, that she was able to share her worries and joys with him? He made her laugh. He was protective and caring, warm and considerate. She thought of the night he had lied to her to keep her at his home, and shook her head with a wry smile on her lips. He could be very trying, not to mention stubborn, but she could not hold him to blame. He had no idea where his teasing would lead.

  There was no doubt that she was physically attracted to the man. His kiss had proven that. What other wonders of the flesh might he have introduced to her had she been at all receptive? Jade felt her cheeks grow warm just thinking about it. She tried to banish him from her thoughts and concentrated on her father’s papers again, but to no avail.

  Was she turning away happiness by dismissing Jason’s growing friendship? He had said he was falling in love with her. Did he say that to every woman he was attracted to? Nettie Parsons might have been his first love, but how many others had he had since?

  If his words were true, he did not give his heart casually. Shouldn’t she heed them? She looked down at the stack of certificates and wonde
red if this was all she would ever have in her life. A box of worthless papers and a few crates of inanimate objects. The collection had meant everything to her grandfather, but it would offer her small comfort on a cold, lonely night. Was she destined to grow old alone and become a reclusive scholar like Philo Page?

  It was far too late to worry herself with such indecision. She had been frank and final with Jason yesterday. She had told him emphatically that she did not want to see him again, and had angered him with her decision. By now he had no doubt read or heard of the scandalous article concerning them both.

  He was probably glad to be rid of her.

  Weary of confinement, she stood and stretched, set down her spectacles, and walked to the window to see who might be in the carriage she had heard on the drive. The overhang that formed the portico below blocked the visitor from view. She hoped it was not the reporter from the Chronicle, although she wondered if the man would dare to show his face here. There was the sound of a knock at the door.

  “A clear conscience never fears midnight knocking,” she whispered aloud.

  After a slight pause, Reggie’s voice echoed quite clearly from below, “You have your nerve coming here in broad daylight. Haven’t you done enough?”

  Although she could not hear the visitor’s low response clearly, she recognized Jason’s voice. Jade did not hesitate to rush to his defense. She was out the door and down the stairs in seconds. Breathless, she stood in the entry hall, ready to fend off Reggie’s verbal assault on Jason.

  Drawing herself up to her full height, meeting Reggie eye-to-eye, she assumed her iciest, most reserved tone. “Thank you, Reggie, for greeting Mr. Harrington. I would like to speak to him alone.”

  Reggie turned scarlet. The veins in his neck bulged. His narrow nose became more beaked as his eyes widened. “Absolutely not! I will not have you creating a scandal here in my very own home.”

  Jason took a step forward and in a low, menacing tone that brooked no argument he said, “Apologize to the lady, Barrett.”