Spitting the dirt from her mouth, she wiped her tear-streaked, dusty face. Before she could say a word, Sam had her arm and was rushing her out of the village. He seemed to know the way. Once safe, she stopped to catch her breath. Bent over gasping for air, she realized the danger she was in and if Sam hadn’t come along …” She held onto her stomach and retched.
The driver shielded her from onlookers. “Ma’am, the carriage is just over there. Can you make it?”
“Yes, please take me home.”
He offered her his handkerchief, but she waved it away. “I have my own, thank you.” He helped her into the coach, and she fought a desperate need to fall into his arms and weep with gratitude. She looked into his gray eyes. “Thank you, Sam. And Mr. Moore will know nothing about this.”
He brought his tweed cap down over his brows. “Yes, ma’am.”
The soft, velvet seat was welcome comfort and she gave thanks for her safety. The carriage jerked, and she was headed back home. She took her handkerchief from her stained handbag, which had curiously remained on her wrist. She let herself go and wept into the fine material.
She sketched the faces of the people she had seen. First, her hand would not keep steady as the memory of the man’s twisted expression kept flashing in her mind. Once she stopped trembling, she recreated the scene without hesitation. Her pencil worked as if it had a mind of its own. The experience had first delighted her then frightened her beyond reason, and she didn’t want to forget any of it.
Chapter Thirty-five
After curtailing her outings to the park with Hannah for some time, Jessica found her courage again, but loneliness surrounded her with only her art for escape. Conversations with Frederick were mostly about him and his clients. Jessica discovered that he and his business associates had a self-centered view of the world, one in which she was becoming less comfortable. The women in her new social circle were very much concerned about how they appeared to others, and even more so, who did what and where they were seen and how they were dressed and bejeweled. It was no different than the society back home yet, in a strange way, less elegant.
~
The summer dinner party held in the home of one of Frederick’s prospective clients was among the last of the season. The road leading to the small estate overlooking the city was daunting, but from the grand entrance, the sweeping view of the bay made the journey well worth it. An orange grove sat amid a carpet of green grass, the ripe fruit ready to pick. It was enchanting.
Once inside, they were led to the ballroom through one of the grandest foyers Jessica had ever seen. The room was gaily decorated with bouquets of hydrangeas, feathers, gilded pinecones, and lush greenery at every turn. Exotic fruits were piled on silver-and-gold trays that sat on small, polished, walnut tables strategically placed along the perimeter near towering potted plants and ornately decorated screens. A buzz of conversation with murmurs of awe and delight could be heard above the orchestra playing softly at the far end of the ballroom.
Although it was a magical setting, Jessica’s spirits were low. After her experience in the city, the money spent on such opulence seemed wasteful. She looked down at the red skirt of her dress. It shone like a bright apple in the flickering light of the gas lamps. It felt a bit too much. Although the other women’s dresses were formal, they didn’t match the richness of her own. She would have liked to have worn something more fitting for the season, but Frederick had insisted she wear the red gown. “You must represent me in the utmost of good taste,” he had explained. Adjusting her satin-and-lace bodice ever so slightly she observed the other women looking at her. She smiled at them graciously.
Margret Peterson, the wife of John Peterson, a rich landowner from Texas and one of Frederick’s clients, approached her. She and Jessica had become acquainted through teas and other gatherings. “My dear, you look enchanting. Come join us and tell us where you got such a vibrant dress.”
Jessica stood with the wives of the wealthy, prominent men of San Francisco and Oakland. To her left was Mr. Kentfield’s wife whom Frederick had pointed her out as the hostess of the party.
“Mrs. Kentfield, you have such a beautiful estate,” Jessica began with earnest.
“Why, thank you, Mrs.–”
Margret was quick to introduce her. “This is Mrs. Moore, Jessica Moore, Frederick’s wife.”
“Oh, yes, Frederick Moore. I see my husband is seriously engaged with him over there.”
Then Mrs. Kentfield was suddenly distracted, and Jessica looked in the direction that had taken her attention.
“Margret, who is that stunning woman?” Mrs. Kentfield asked. “I don’t recognize her. She must be the wife of someone.” She didn’t wait for an answer and excused herself.
Jessica couldn’t help being curious also, as the statuesque lady with deep-red hair stood out among the crowd. “Who is she, Margret?”
Margret put a finger to her chin. “I really don’t know. I’ve never seen her before tonight, but you’d best beware, Jessica. I noticed she’s been eying your handsome husband.” Margret gave a whimsical laugh.
One of the ladies replied they should all watch their husbands.
When Jessica looked over at Frederick, he was no longer talking to Mr. Kentfield. She surveyed the ballroom, and the mysterious woman had also disappeared. Why the hairs rose on her arm she couldn’t explain. She dismissed it as a silly spark of jealousy. Jessica barely listened while the women chatted about all their social events, people they knew, and what the current fashions had in store for the fall and winter. At a lull in conversation, Jessica decided to speak of something other than the frivolity of feathered hats and fur trim.
“Are there many charities for the poor in San Francisco?”
The chatter came to a halt.
“Why, of course there are. I give a party each year for the children of unwed mothers,” one woman stated.
“I feel they must follow our lead and help themselves, but I give at church,” another said.
A third woman said that the underclass would always remain as such and recited a Bible quote to prove her point.
Margret was more compassionate. “We certainly must do all we can.”
Jessica hadn’t expected such a fervent response. She would look into how she’d be able to contribute with her artwork. For now, she had to find her husband. She was about to go outside and search the patio when she saw him with the redheaded woman. He seemed angry with her, and the woman was dabbing her eyes. Several people blocked her view, and she lost sight of them. Her eyes darted about the room to no avail. Then his arm was at her waist.
“Frederick, where did you go? Who is that woman?”
“Never mind.”
“Who is her husband?” She got no answer and Mr. Kentfield had joined them.
“Is this your lovely wife?” His great stomach threatened to pop the gold buttons off his blue, satin vest topped by an open, matching evening jacket of finely woven cotton.
Jessica offered him her hand, and he gave it a light shake. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Kentfield.”
“Your husband has grand ideas for me, my dear. I hope they’re not all pie in the sky.”
“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing and will serve your financial needs quite well.”
Once the pleasantries were over, Jessica decided to direct the conversation toward the poor.
“Mr. Kentfield, as a merchant of the Orient, what is your position on the drug trade among the Chinese?”
Mr. Kentfield stared at Frederick as if he had just been slapped across the face.
Frederick turned to Jessica. “My dear, Mr. Kentfield has much more important business to be concerned about.”
Mr. Kentfield raised an eyebrow at Jessica and puffed up his protruding chest.
She swallowed her anxiety and continued. She couldn’t help herself. “What is more important than one’s fellow man? You, of all men, must be aware of the misfortunes befallen them.”
&nb
sp; “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Kentfield took a step back.
“We are all striving to make good and decent lives for ourselves.” Her breathing became shallow. Placing the back of her hand to her neck, she plunged into the deepest part of a vast lake. “Is it not right that we help those who are less fortunate, struggling with impairments such as addiction? And some of the Chinese girls are—”
“Jessica.” Frederick spoke in a low, threatening tone, his hand gripping her arm. “Pardon my wife, Mr. Kentfield. I’m sure she owes you an apology for her disrespectful comments.”
Frederick’s fingers dug into her arm. She had gone too far. Her heart beat fast, and another flash of heat rose to her face. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. You may already be donating, sir. I will assume that is the case. Now if you will excuse me, I will let you continue your conversation.” Jessica’s billowing dress rocked back and forth as she took large steps to escape. How could she have made such a terrible error in judgment? She felt ill. When she reached the ladies, she was quite shaken.
“What is it, Jessica?” Margret took her hand.
“My, you are flush,” another woman commented.
Jessica touched her cheek. “I think I’ll step outside for a bit of fresh air.”
“I’ll go with you,” Margret insisted.
Once on the terrace, Jessica felt more herself. She turned to Margret. “I’ve just made an awful fool of myself and worse, I embarrassed my husband.”
Margret looked away. “Oh, dear.” She turned back to Jessica. “What could you have possibly done to embarrass your husband? You’re the model of the perfect wife.”
Jessica smiled. “Thank you, Margret, but I certainly don’t feel that way this evening. Shall we go back inside?” She courageously stood by the other ladies, her back straight, a polite expression on her face. She would somehow salvage this evening by being “the model of the perfect wife.”
Chapter Thirty-six
That night, Frederick unleashed his anger. The parlor was lit only by a few lamps, and large shadows loomed across the patterned walls. He paced in front of the fireplace. Jessica sat on the chair near the chesterfield, her hands clasped. She wanted to disappear. “Because of your childish behaviour, I had to court Kentfield the rest of the night. Do you know how many other businessmen were in that room? That’s how many you cost me!” This was the first time she had seen his anger reach such a height. She looked down.
“Look at me when I speak to you!”
“Please, lower your voice. I can hear you.”
Frederick lashed out at a large vase atop the table nearby, sending it crashing to the floor. Jessica’s heart jumped and she rushed out of the room, fearing she would be next to experience his wrath. She raised her heavy, red skirt, and, taking two steps at a time, fled to her bedroom.
Once inside, she locked the door and sat on her bed, pulling the covers around her. Just as she began to feel safe, she heard a knock on the door. Her body became rigid and her pulse quickened.
“It’s me, my love.” His soft voice came from the other side of her barricade.
She hesitated, then crawled down from her bed. She stood at the door for a brief moment. Did she hear him breathing? Should she let him in?
“I’m begging you, my dear.”
“Not now, Frederick. I feel quite ill from all the wine and food.”
“Let me in, Jessica.”
Slowly, she opened the door. Standing in front of her, his arms behind his slightly bent body, he peered up from under his brows. The scent of alcohol floated down to hit her nose. “Frederick, you frightened me.”
“I know, my dear, and I hate myself for it. Please say you’ll forgive me.” He drew next to her, his body warm. With a single finger, he lifted her chin then kissed her lips, enveloping them, the sickly taste of alcohol entering her mouth. His hands advanced to her bodice.
She turned away. “Frederick, I do feel ill.”
He stepped back, surveying her face. She held his eyes. “Very well, I shall see you tomorrow then. Get well.” The loud sound of the door shutting behind him made her jump. She wanted to turn the lock but knew better than to provoke him further.
~
The sun pierced her room, waking Jessica. Turning on her side she found Frederick standing by the bay of windows, the curtains drawn open. He smiled and came over to her. “Good morning, my love. How are you feeling?”
“Frederick.” She sat up in the warm bed. He was freshly shaven and dressed for a day’s work, and his face held a peaceful expression. Who was he last night? “I’m truly sorry for ruining things,” she said.
“Yes, my dear, I know how you get. I forgive you. It will take some doing, but I feel I can win Kentfield back.”
“I’m so relieved.” He was in such a good mood. “Frederick, who was that red-haired woman you were talking to. I must ask her where she gets her clothes. She was quite a stand-out.”
His face turned pale and his expression went blank. Finally, he inhaled sharply as if he suddenly remembered. “Oh, I think I know who you speak of. She’s a daughter of one of my clients and of no real consequence to me. She was curious about her dowry. I promised her I’d speak to her father about it.”
His silly grin and nervous reaction put her on guard. “She seemed upset.”
“I think she’s about your age. Don’t all women your age overreact to the slightest thing?”
Before she could continue, the knock on her door indicated her breakfast tray had arrived. “Come in,” Jessica called to Gretchen.
The young woman entered and curtsied as Frederick had instructed all of the female staff to do. With wide, innocent eyes, the maid apologized for not bringing up a tray for him.
“That’s quite all right, Gretchen.”
Frederick looked out the window, his impatience clear. “I will take my breakfast downstairs shortly.”
“Yes, Mr. Moore.”
“Go.” He waved for her to leave. The maid curtsied, then scurried out of the room and closed the door.
Jessica inhaled. “Frederick, your manner with the staff–”
“I’ve told you before, we do not make friends with the servants.”
“Being polite does not mean we are making friends with them.”
“Have you forgotten the limits of my patience?”
In an instant, his mood had changed again. Right then, she grasped the scope of his anger. It was something inherent to him, and she would have to protect herself by not provoking it. She reached for her glass of orange juice. Her resolve was clear—her dual life would continue. He would have his dutiful wife while she took the risk of becoming her own person. Society and Frederick were on the same side. She shivered.
“What is it, love?”
“Nothing. Perhaps the cool morning.”
“The weather here is similar to England. You’ll get used to it.”
“Yes, Frederick.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
The woman’s dining room at the Palace Hotel hummed with conversation. Jessica thought of a different Palace Hotel–the one she was not allowed to speak of. This hotel, however, was indeed a palace. She took in the opulence around her. Each table had a white, linen cloth cover and held a gold vase of fresh flowers. Gold accents were everywhere, from the legs of the chairs to the curtain ties to the chandeliers. Even the wall panels were gilded. She felt the glow of it on her face. A man quietly played a white grand piano in the middle of the room. This was certainly the place for wives of wealthy men to be seen. It looked ready to welcome royalty. The impressive, inner, circular courtyard where her carriage entered gave her the feeling she should be wearing a tiara. Although Jessica wore her finest day dress, the periwinkle-blue silk with a handmade lace collar, she felt a bit underdressed.
Having accepted the invitation from Margret, she waited impatiently. She would be introducing Jessica to one Mrs. Randell Gaines, an art dealer in San Francisco. Her anxiousness outweighed her
self-consciousness. Jessica was excited to be meeting someone outside of her husband’s financial circle, not to mention a person in the art world. Taking out her timepiece from her velvet, and pearl-encrusted handbag, she noted they were late. More well-dressed wealthy women filled the dining room. The sunlit space was cool for the middle of August. Still, Jessica felt a wave of heat come over her. She hoped they would arrive soon as the other women were beginning to stare. To her relief, Margret and Mrs. Gaines were approaching the table.
After the formal introductions, Mrs. Gaines said, “Please call me Jilly, everyone does.” Jessica relaxed and decided to soak up as much from this woman’s knowledge and experience as she could. She saw that the thin, and lively, strawberry blonde was as equally enthusiastic about the topic. It felt exhilarating.
“We’re a small community of artists and art enthusiasts right now, but my husband, Randell, and I are working to make our presence known, and more importantly, to bring talented artists to the public’s attention. Margret tells me you are an artist yourself.”
Jessica felt shy. She hadn’t given herself that title yet. “I have more desire than talent.”
“Have you shown any of your works?” Jilly asked, ignoring Jessica’s self-deprecation.
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