Marjorie’s mouth had dropped open as soon as the word dynamite left Jason’s lips. It shut with a clack. “I don’t believe it.”
Again Jason shrugged. “Fine. Don’t believe it. It doesn’t matter to me. I know what goes on.” A little more harshly, he added, “And after you saw what can happen when the tongs get mad at each other, I should think you’d be a little more open-minded than the bulk of your white kin.”
“I . . . I don’t have any kin.”
He shot her a scowl. “You know what I mean, damn it.”
She swallowed the painful lump that had risen in her throat. “Aye, I know what you mean.”
Neither of them spoke again until they’d reached the church. People were pouring into the sanctuary for this, the first Pirates rehearsal, and Marjorie was glad to divert her attention to something other than Jason’s grim narration.
She was interested to see instruments arriving, as well as people. A bass drum, carried by a boy who couldn’t be more than twelve years old, made her smile, which was a distinct improvement in her mood. The atmosphere had been chilly—and not merely out of doors—since Jason’s unpleasant disclosures.
Yet she couldn’t get Jason’s words to leave her alone. Even after rehearsal began, she couldn’t stop thinking about them.
It should be impossible that such things as Jason had related occur. Marjorie didn’t want to believe in them. But she had a sinking feeling she was looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. The idea surprised her. After all, her own life had been far from easy.
When she compared a poor childhood with loving parents in Glasgow, a good career as a stewardess for White Star, and a pleasant job as a secretary to a wonderful woman, however, her own hardish life paled in comparison to the life Jia Lee was forced to live. Marjorie wanted to hide away from the very notion of being sold into prostitution.
Years ago, Loretta had told her that Jason had been married to a Chinese woman who had died of consumption not long after their wedding. Had Jason’s wife once been a prostitute? According to him and Loretta, the only women who came into this country were slave girls imported illegally to work as prostitutes, as if they were so many pieces of porcelain. Good Lord. Marjorie’s mind boggled.
“Are you with us this evening, Miss MacTavish?”
Marjorie looked up, startled, and found the entire cast of Pirates staring at her—not to mention both Mr. and Mrs. Proctor. “I’m vurra sorry. My mind went wandering.”
“Poor wand’ring one,” Mrs. Proctor said with a titter. Everyone laughed. Marjorie herself managed what she suspected was a wan smile.
The rehearsal went well, however, and after a half-hour or so, Marjorie was able to concentrate on her role. This first rehearsal was a read-through and a sing-through. Mr. Proctor would break down future rehearsals into different scenes and groups after this initial one.
Marjorie stood beside Jason, who must be used to sectioning off portions of his life, because he didn’t seem at all concerned about the Chinese problem as he laughed, read, and sang. Marjorie admired the ability, understood that it must have been a difficult one to achieve, and her heart, which had been hard-set against him for years until recently, softened a little more.
Chapter Seven
Jason, leaning comically toward the fellow who had been cast as Samuel, one of the Pirate King’s underlings, was putting every melodramatic cell he possessed into singing, “‘Although our dark career sometimes involves the crime of stealing, we rather think that we’re not altogether void of feeling.’” Then he glanced up, and his heart dropped into his boots.
Lo Sing, looking abashed and out of place, crept along the west wall of the sanctuary as if he were a real pirate sneaking up on his prey, rather than a trained nurse and an assistant in a doctor’s office and one of the best men Jason had ever met in his life. Jason held up a finger, thereby asking Lo Sing to wait until he was through with this number. Lo Sing nodded in understanding.
The song, about the Major General pretending to be an orphan and thereby tricking the soft-hearted Pirate King into allowing him to live, had seemed funny not three seconds earlier. Lo Sing had managed to vanquish any hint of humor in Jason’s breast, and without even speaking a word. Astonishing.
Even more astonishing was the sight of Marjorie, who had silently slipped away from the rest of the Pirates company, hurrying toward the young Chinese man with her hands held out in greeting. The expression on her face was one of understanding and worry, and Jason cursed inwardly even as he sang.
Damn it, he didn’t want her involved in any more tong problems. Resisting the impulse to jerk away from the cast and rush after her, Jason nevertheless hurried the tempo of the song considerably. He felt a little guilty when the violinist, sawing away furiously at his instrument, shot him an accusing glance.
As soon as he hit the last note, he muttered, “Excuse me, please,” and darted over to Lo Sing and Marjorie.
Turning toward him, Marjorie displayed a face as pale as the full moon outside. “Och, Jason, there’s been another fight. There are more casualties.”
“Good God, now what?” he snapped, irked with himself for having allowed Marjorie to witness the dark side of his life. She probably thought she belonged in it now, and she didn’t. He didn’t want her there. She was too . . . the word that popped into Jason’s mind surprised him. It was fragile. Odd. He’d never thought of Marjorie as fragile before.
He didn’t have time to think about it now, however. “Do you need me instantly?”
“Well . . .” Lo Sing turned a worried glance onto the cast of Pirates, all of whom had turned to see what had taken Jason and Marjorie away so precipitately.
“Just tell me,” barked Jason. “Yes or no? If you need me, say so. This is only a rehearsal. People’s health is more important than a rehearsal.”
“Then . . . yes. I’m afraid we do need you. There are a couple of wounds that definitely need to be stitched up.”
“I’ll get my coat and hat.”
Jason had already turned to fetch these articles of dress when Marjorie’s hesitant voice brought him up short. “Do you need me to help?”
He whirled around and pinned her with a scowl. “Good God, no. Just because you butted into my business once, doesn’t give you the knowledge or ability to actually be of help in a doctor’s office.”
Marjorie gasped.
Lo Sing, obviously shocked, said, “That’s not fair, Jason. Miss MacTavish was an enormous help to us.”
“Never mind,” said Marjorie, her cheeks red as fire. “You dinna need me, I ken. I’ll return to rehearsal.”
Jason was ashamed of himself, but he didn’t back down. His feelings about Marjorie had plagued him for weeks now. Months, actually. Maybe even years. It angered him that he’d allowed her to witness anything so near and dear to his heart as his Chinatown clinic during a crisis. He wasn’t sure exactly why, although he thought it was because he didn’t trust her to understand his involvement. Why he even wanted her understanding was beyond him.
It had occurred to him more than once that perhaps he was clinging to his late wife’s memory rather as a talisman, and that it wouldn’t really hurt him to allow another woman access to his life and work. He’d cherished his poor, sick Mai. More, he’d pitied her. Perhaps it was time to allow a whole, healthy woman into his heart.
But . . . Marjorie MacTavish? Jason thought not. No matter how helpful she’d been that one time, and no matter how attractive he found her, he didn’t believe she could stay the course with him. And, outrageous as it seemed, if he allowed her to get close to him and she failed him, he wasn’t sure he could stand the pain.
Anyhow, she was no damned nurse. “I’ll drop you off at Loretta’s first, Marjorie.”
“I can walk,” she said stiffly.
“Nuts. I’m taking you home. You shouldn’t be walking alone at night.”
Several people had drawn near. Hamilton St. Claire, the fellow who’d been chosen to play
Frederic opposite Marjorie’s Mabel, stepped forward. “I’ll be more than happy to see Miss MacTavish home if you have to leave us, Dr. Abernathy.”
Shooting a black frown at Hamilton, Jason snapped, “Fine.” He stomped over to fetch his hat and coat, thinking that Marjorie and St. Claire deserved each other. They were both unmitigated prigs.
He knew he was being irrational. After all, Marjorie had offered to help him in his clinic, and he’d chosen instead to all but throw her at St. Claire. But he didn’t care; if he felt like being irrational, he’d damned well be irrational. It annoyed the hell out of him that Hamilton St. Claire, a handsome-enough fellow, if a bit weak-chinned, seemed to find Marjorie attractive. Worse, Marjorie was nice to him.
Hell, he thought savagely. They do deserve each other.
He couldn’t recall exactly when his reason had left him, but it definitely had left him, at least on the Marjorie issue. Thank God he had patients to attend to, or he might brood about it—and he was too damned old to brood.
# # #
The weather hadn’t improved since the beginning of rehearsal. Neither had Marjorie’s mood. Her pride still stung from Jason’s rebuff. And she didn’t even want to consider the state of her heart, which had of late been behaving like a naughty child where the handsome, albeit irritating, doctor was concerned.
However, Hamilton St. Claire was kindness itself as he assisted her into her coat. And he was extremely solicitous when he took her arm and assisted her up the aisle toward his automobile, which was parked outside on the street in front of the church.
In short, unlike Jason, he treated like a lady. He treated her as he might treat a delicate flower. Marjorie, who was unused to such gallantry, appreciated him. His behavior stood in stark contrast to Jason’s peremptory dismissal of her, as a woman and an assistant.
“The wind is howling out there, Miss MacTavish,” Mr. St. Claire murmured as soon as he’d opened the sanctuary door.
The statement was unnecessary, since Marjorie had seen for herself that the wind had caught the door, ripped it out of Mr. St. Claire’s hand, and slammed it with a crash against the outer wall of the church. Nevertheless, she simpered a trifle when she said, “My, yes. It’s just terrible.” She reminded herself of Miss Virginia “Ginger” Collins and nearly giggled. Loretta would be furious if she ever found out about this.
But Loretta wasn’t here, and Marjorie decided she wanted to be treated with deference for once. It would be a pleasant change from being treated with disrespect or savage mockery by Dr. Jason Abernathy. Ergo, if she had to simper to get the attention she craved—and deserved, confound it—she’d jolly well simper.
“Please, Miss MacTavish,” said Mr. St. Claire in a voice that would have earned him ridicule from Jason, “allow me to fetch the Model T and drive it up in front of the door. I’d hate for you to have to brave that awful wind.”
Marjorie’s first instinct was to tell him not to be silly; that she’d braved worse weather than this without melting or coming down with the colic. Because she appreciated his courtesy, she smiled sweetly and said, “How kind of you, Mr. St. Claire.”
He bowed slightly, causing Marjorie to open her eyes quite wide—she wasn’t accustomed to having American men bow at her—and, clutching his coat with one hand and his hat with the other, he forged out into the wind to fetch his automobile. Clasping the libretto to Pirates to her bosom, Marjorie sat on a convenient pew and waited.
She hadn’t waited long before she was joined on her pew by Ginger Collins—not the person she would have chosen to spend time with. But she smiled at the girl.
“You were wonderful tonight, Marjorie,” Ginger gushed. “You have such a beautiful voice.”
“Thank you.”
“But where did the doctor go? Didn’t you arrive with him? He rushed off in a terrible hurry.”
Was there the merest hint of malice in the young woman’s voice? Probably. Marjorie said, “He was called away to his clinic on an emergency.”
“Really? How annoying.”
Ginger’s eyes were too wide and innocent to be believed. “Yes. That was his assistant, Lo Sing, who came to fetch him away.”
“He has a Chinaman as an assistant?” Ginger tittered. “How . . . unusual.”
With more acidity than she’d heretofore used with Ginger—or anyone else, for that matter—Marjorie said, “His clinic is in Chinatown. Naturally, he employs a Chinese man to assist him. It only makes sense.”
“Why in the world would anyone want to deal with those people?” Ginger smirked.
Suppressing the urge to smack the young woman smartly across her cheek to eliminate her smirk, Marjorie said calmly, “Those people are the ones who helped build the railroad across the United States. Those people have also been extremely useful in mining operations and dozens of other businesses and industries.” She wished she’d paid closer attention to some of Loretta’s impassioned lectures on the so-called “Chinese problem.” If she couldn’t slap Ginger, she’d love to be able to fling statistics in her face.
Ginger flapped an elegantly gloved hand in the air. “Oh, but they’re so dirty. So barbaric.”
Marjorie noticed that she was crinkling her libretto, and unclenched her fingers. “The Chinese civilization was flourishing for thousands of years before that of Europe and the British Isles, Ginger. The Chinese were writing great epic poems while our ancestors still wore animal skins, lived in caves, and stabbed their food with sharpened sticks.” Taking note of Ginger’s incredulous expression, she added, “And they’re no more dirty than we are.”
“Well,” said Ginger with a sniff, “all I know is that they smell funny.”
“They cook different kinds of foods than we do. Personally, I enjoy a good Chinese meal.” A slight—but only a slight—twinge of guilt bothered Marjorie. In truth, she generally tried to avoid Chinese food when she could, although she never had much luck in doing so, since Loretta was always eager to try new things, including recipes and restaurants. She vowed to be more open-minded on the food issue in future, if only to distance herself from the Gingers of this world.
“Well, I still think Dr. Abernathy ought to open a practice on Market Street. He’d make ever so much more money.”
Marjorie eyed her with blatant disfavor. “Some things,” she said sententiously, “are more important than money.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing Ginger blush before the door crashed open again. Both she and Ginger jumped to their feet, startled. It was Mr. St. Claire. He faltered slightly when he beheld Ginger waiting with Marjorie, and he actually frowned for an instant before recovering his composure. Although she knew it to be a sin, Marjorie felt a surge of triumph. So Mr. St. Claire considered Ginger silly too, did he? How extremely gratifying.
“Er . . . do you need a ride home, Miss Collins?” Mr. St. Claire asked politely.
Ginger, who had evidently noticed his hesitation, said with a smile that belied the spark of anger in her eyes, “No, thank you, Mr. St. Claire. I’m waiting for my father’s chauffeur.”
“Ah.” Mr. St. Claire brightened. “Well, then, good evening to you.” He gave Ginger a perfect, and very brief, bow.
“Yes,” Ginger ground out between her teeth. “Good evening, Mr. St. Claire. And to you, Marjorie.”
Feeling more sure of herself than usual, Marjorie gave the younger woman a kindly smile and hoped she’d choke on it. “Good night, Ginger. I’m looking forward to our next rehearsal.”
Ginger’s own smile looked as if she’d found it in a vinegar cruet. “Indeed.”
With great tenderness, Mr. St. Claire guided Marjorie to his Model T Ford, which was chugging away at the curb. The wind was howling so loudly, Marjorie scarcely heard his, “Take care, Miss MacTavish. There’s a lot of rubbish being blown about.”
She took care. Since the Model T had no door on the driver’s side, she also appreciated his smile and his, “Please pardon me for being ungentlemanly,” as he got in first and slid over
to his side of the machine. As she got into the auto after him and took her place beside him, Marjorie noticed that it wasn’t as fine a machine as Loretta’s Runabout or Jason’s Hudson. However, and in spite of his humorous comment, at least Mr. St. Claire was a gentleman, unlike some other men of her acquaintance. Anyhow, recalling the tiny lecture she’d recently delivered to Ginger, Marjorie reminded herself that there were some things more important than money. She wished she could think of a few more of them.
As Mr. St. Claire fiddled with the choke and pressed the low-speed pedal, he said, “You live on Lombard Street, don’t you, Miss MacTavish?”
“Yes. I live in my employer’s home.”
“It’s quite a home, if I recall correctly.” Mr. St. Claire gave a jolly laugh. “My parents and I have attended parties there.”
“Ah.” Another grown-up rich kid, Marjorie thought crabbily, then she wondered why she should be crabby. It wasn’t Mr. St. Claire’s fault she’d been born into a poor family. Trying like mad to think of something to say that could get a conversation going, she said, “Whereabouts is your law practice, Mr. St. Claire?”
“Please, Miss MacTavish, call me Hamilton.” He laughed. It wasn’t a hearty laugh, Marjorie noticed. Not at all like one of Jason’s laughs, but rather thin and reedy. Mentally, she gave herself a sharp shake. “I joined the family firm, St. Claire, St. Claire, and Thomas, and we’re on Market Street.”
They would be. Another mental shake, and Marjorie reminded herself that sarcasm was no more sterling a character trait than ill humor. “How nice.”
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