by Jane Toombs
Jeremy had come to her each night for the past four weeks, leaving her cabin before dawn. She hadn't seen him, though, since they'd sighted land.
"Yerba Buena Cove,” Philippe told her as the ship sailed around a headland into a crowded anchorage, with the city of San Francisco rising on the hills beyond.
"I can't believe we've actually arrived,” she said.
"And high time, if you ask me. As I told Jeremy, I was not made for the sea."
As the Columbia drew closer, Mary noticed several abandoned sailing ships decaying at their moorings. Another ship had been run aground and sat tilting precariously on the beach.
"Relics from the glory days of the gold rush,” Philippe said. “The crews all rushed to the diggings and left their ships to rot."
"All clear,” Captain Nyland called. “Let go the anchor."
The chain rattled and the anchor struck the water with a splash. Still Jeremy had not appeared.
A small boat approached the ship. When it pulled up alongside, two men climbed down a ladder. Recognizing the second man, Mary cried, “That's Jeremy!” and started toward the ladder.
Philippe held her back. “No. Wait."
Realizing she could hardly plunge over the rail to climb into the boat with Jeremy, she obeyed. She watched him step into the rowboat. The oarsman pushed off and the boat headed for a nearby pier, with Jeremy not once glancing around to wave at her. Mary felt a rising panic as she saw him climb a ladder onto the dock. A young woman ran to him, her blonde hair showing beneath her bonnet. Even from a distance, Mary could tell she was beautiful.
Jeremy opened his arms and embraced her.
"That's Laura McAllister,” Philippe said quietly, “of the banking McAllisters. If you recall, I once told you Jeremy had banking interests in San Francisco. She's his fiancée."
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CHAPTER 7
By the time they rode in a hired rig from the wharf to the hotel, Mary's anguish had given way to anger. “You should've explained what you meant by ‘banking interests,'” she railed at Philippe. “You knew all along and you should have told me sooner. Why didn't you?"
"You're absolutely right. I agree I was wrong in not telling you right away. I thought perhaps—well, never mind now."
"I never want to hear Jeremy's name again as long as I live.” Mary clenched her fists and stared unseeingly at the passing scene.
"All this land used to be part of the bay,” Philippe said after a short silence. “Year by year, more of the bay is being filled in to allow the city to grow."
Mary turned to face him. “You may as well as well tell me what you thought."
"I'm sorry, but it has to do with Jeremy. Didn't you just say you didn't want to hear his name again?"
"Never mind that. Tell me."
"To tell you the truth...” He paused. “I feel I must warn you to beware of men who begin a sentence by saying they're about to tell the truth. It usually means they're not in the habit of truth-telling."
"Philippe! Tell me!” Exasperation threaded through her words.
"My idea was to wean our friend Jeremy away from Miss Laura McAllister. With a long sea voyage, seeing you day after day, liking you as much as he does ... well, my hope and expectation was that he'd see the error of his ways. Alas, it was not to be."
"It's her fault. I know it is. She's a cold and calculating hussy who used her wiles to ensnare Jeremy."
Philippe shook his head. “Since I know Laura, I have to disagree with you. She's none of those things. As a matter of fact, she's a beautiful young woman, quite charming and, I suspect, very much in love with Jeremy. He, actually, initiated the romance after overcoming considerable reluctance on the part of Laura's parents. I believe her father, Jonas McAllister of the California Bank, was particularly unhappy with his daughter's choice."
Before she spoke, Mary took a few moments to absorb what she hadn't wanted to hear. She'd preferred to picture Jeremy's fiancée as conniving. “If she's as charming as all that, then why did you want Jeremy to become interested in me?"
"I could say for your sake, Mary, because I knew how much you liked him. But if I said that I'd be lying."
Liked Jeremy? I loved him. She sighed. I still do and I always will, no matter what he does. Her eyes narrowed. That doesn't mean I don't hate him. I do. How could he betray me? She frowned at Philippe, suspicion growing.
"You encouraged Jeremy to help yourself, didn't you?” she asked. “For your own sake."
He shook his head. “On the contrary. For at least once in my life my motives were altruistic. I actually had the good of another human being in mind, not my own."
She raised her eyebrows. “If not for me and not for yourself, then who did you do it for?"
"The only other possible person—Jeremy. I believed with all my heart that Jeremy would be happier with you than with Laura McAllister. Not because you love him. As I said, I believe she does, too. Love, though, can lead to disaster as well as happiness. But with you he'd be able to pursue his destiny. Be his own man. Marrying into the McAllister clan will make him just another extension of Jonas McAllister and his bank."
"Not Jeremy,” she protested. “He knows his own mind, knows what's best for him. He'd never knuckle under to anyone."
"Are you sure he knows what's best for him? After all, he seems to think Laura McAllister is better for him than you are."
"You're twisting my words. That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"The truth is you don't understand Jeremy.” Philippe held up a hand to forestall her objection. “Love, my dear is blind. Accept that you don't really know him. Jeremy is flawed. He lusts for money, for power, for position. This is his chance, as he sees it, his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reach the top of the heap in one great bound. No more panning for gold in the Sierras, working from dawn to dusk on a rocker or a Long Tom for a few dollars a day.” He glanced away from her. “Besides, though I know you don't want to hear this, he genuinely cares for the young lady."
"No! I don't believe it. You wouldn't say that if you knew...” Her hand flew to cover her mouth.
"Though I don't know what went on between you and Jeremy aboard the Columbia, I have my suspicions. After all, I was his cabin mate. Remember, I didn't say he loves Miss McAllister, I said he cares for the young lady. As I mentioned earlier, she's charming and attractive, In fact she's passed the acid test—she's liked by women as well as men."
I won't believe him, Mary vowed. What does care for mean but love? Jeremy doesn't love that woman, and he's not the kind who puts money above love. Not Jeremy, the man who made love to me so tenderly. So passionately. He didn't say so, but I know I'm the one he loves. So he can't love her.
Of course, he does have an obligation to her. They must have become engaged before he traveled east. Before he met me. Right now he must be searching for a way to break the engagement without hurting Laura or alienating her father. That must be why he rushed off without saying goodbye, because he knew he had to right the wrong as quickly as possible before he could come back to me.
"I think,” she told Philippe, “that if I wait a few days, things will change."
He smiled sadly. “Hope springs eternal."
The cab stopped in front of the Whaley Hotel, and a doorman helped Mary, who was carrying Rowena in a basket, to the sidewalk. As she and Philippe mounted the carpeted steps, he leaned toward her.
"'When my love swears that he is made of truth,'” he said, “'I do believe him, though I know he lies.’”
"I do believe Jeremy,” she insisted. “And I know he doesn't lie."
Philippe shrugged and strode to the desk to register. After he left her in her fourth-floor rooms, Mary stood by the window and looked across the bay at the hills rolling away to the east. So different from Alabama! The grass was brown and there were few trees. The pale blue sky was a huge cloudless vault over her head, diminishing her.
Why did I leave home? she wondered. Here
I'm a stranger in a strange land. What am I to do?
She turned and picked up the cat, who was exploring the room and sat in one of upholstered chairs, cuddling Rowena to her. “Jeremy's gone,” she whispered to the cat. A tear rolled down her cheek.
Rowena lifted her head and licked Mary's chin. The cat's affectionate response caused her to break down completely. How could she have ever imagined Jeremy would want to marry a servant girl like Mary Vere?
Mary Vere. The sound of her own name echoed in her mind, drying her tears. True, she'd been a servant girl. Not by her own choice, but from necessity. “I'm no longer anyone's servant,” she said aloud, “nor will I ever be again. I can be anyone I want to be and do anything I want to."
She eased Rowena off her lap, rose, and went to wash her face and tidy her hair. I'll show him, she vowed. I'll show them all.
An hour later she joined Philippe in the hotel dining room, a spacious hall of chandeliers and draped windows where red-jacketed waiters glided to tables set with sparkling crystal and gleaming silverware.
"I want you to help me,” she told Philippe as she ate her oyster dinner.
"Your humble servant, mademoiselle. It's good to see the spark back in your eyes again."
"Will you teach me to be a lady?” she asked. “Not just to go to be able to go to a ball and pretend, like in Montgomery. I mean to actually be a lady. Someone like, well, like that Laura McAllister."
"You are a lady, Mary, and nothing will ever change that. But, yes, I'll do whatever I can. I warn you, though, if you're thinking to discover a pathway leading to Jeremy's heart, I fear you're in for a disappointment."
"Damn Jeremy! I want to do it for myself."
"Bravo. However, you must realize there's much more to being a lady than wearing fine clothes and having gracious manners."
"I suppose there is, yet that's what the world sees. That's how a woman's judged."
"At times, I think you've learned too much from me already. You're becoming so cynical that you see base motives in whatever men do."
"You didn't teach me that, Philippe. Jeremy Johnston did.” She waved her hand dismissively as though disposing of Jeremy. “You will help me then? I want to change, become a different person, not be the old Mary Vere, servant, for the rest of my life. I want to be a new person with a new name. Choose a name for me. What shall it be?"
He put a hand to his beard and considered. “Monique,” he said. “Yes, Monique for your first name and Vaudreuil for your last. Does that appeal to you?"
"Monique Vaudreuil,” she repeated. “I'm not sure. It's so different."
"The initials are the same as yours."
"I think I like the name, Philippe. Monique has a wonderful sound. It's just that I'll have to get used to it."
He beamed at her. “I've always been partial to the name, myself. You'll grow accustomed to it soon enough, since your transformation to Monique Vaudreuil begins tomorrow with a visit to the couturier's."
"Are you sure you can afford it?” she asked. “You've spent so much money on me already.” Impulsively, she put her hand on his. “I'll give you what money I have, but it'll be far from enough. Can we afford to stay at this hotel, paying for cabs and dinners like this one?"
"No need to fret about expenses. Despite Captain Nehemiah Nyland's rules and regulations, I was able to raise a modest stake by participating in some games of chance while aboard the Columbia."
She grimaced. “Don't remind me of that man."
"The point is we can afford to remain in these posh surroundings for several months, at least."
"I'll pay you back when I can, don't think I won't. Keep a list so I'll know how much I owe you when the time comes that I'm able to discharge my debt."
"To see you happy, Monique, is recompense enough. Though I will keep an accounting in case fortune smiles on you, as I'm sure she will."
"She? Fortune is a lady?"
"Of course. A fickle one, to be sure, but a lady, none the less."
The lessons began the next day. Philippe taught her the felicities of social intercourse: the niceties of introductions and salutations; the art of conversation; the etiquette of visiting cards; how to conduct herself at evening parties, receptions and suppers, and at balls, masquerades, soirees, musicales and lawn parties.
Soon the table in her sitting room was piled high with volumes on the social graces. While Monique read, Philippe practiced shuffling and dealing cards. When Monique tired of reading, she joined him and he taught her how to play Monte and faro and explained the strategy of poker and twenty-one.
"Never admit you have a knowledge of games of chance,” he warned her. “Only the most common women play cards."
"I've heard some women deal in the gambling halls."
"For a woman, it's only a small step above a much more ancient profession. The descent from dealing cards to being a lady of the evening is short and quick."
She didn't see what that had to do with her, but then she didn't always understand Philippe.
Most of her days were spent in such a fashion, or with Philippe coaching her in one social nicety or another. They were well into the third week before Philippe left her alone for any length of time, saying it was a pressing business matter. Monique dressed carefully, hurried from the hotel and made her way to Montgomery Street. She hadn't been out without Philippe since they'll arrived in San Francisco, and she found herself made uncomfortable by how many men stopped in the street to look after her. Were they all like Captain Nyland?
At last she arrived at a yellow brick building with “Merchants and Miners” lettered across the window. “It's a private matter,” she told the teller. He led her to the mezzanine overlooking the bank lobby and introduced her to a Mr. Vandermeer.
"How may I help you?’ the balding man asked, adjusting the prince-nez on his nose.
"I'm looking for my father,” she began, and told him of the checks that had come to her mother month after month from this bank, and how they had stopped without warning or explanation.
"I see,” Mr. Vandermeer said. “I don't know if I can help. After all, this is most irregular. Will you excuse me, please?"
When he returned a few minutes later he was shaking his head. “Those records are confidential. I was afraid I'd be unable to help and, unfortunately, I am. I'm sorry."
"But he was my father,” she told him. “Can't you tell me anything?"
He glanced uneasily about him. “Only this, though I'm afraid it won't help. I can tell you that if I revealed all our records show, you'd know precious little more than you do now."
"That doesn't help. Is there nothing else?"
"Believe me, I'd like to help, but my hands are tied."
Despairing, she left the bank and returned to the hotel. She found Philippe waiting for her.
"I went for a stroll,” she said, before he had a chance to speak.
"You shouldn't have, not by yourself. A lady doesn't walk the streets of San Francisco alone. Now are you ready for your lesson on table manners?"
"Yes, whatever you say,” she answered numbly.
"Good. Today I intend to instruct you on the proper approach to a bowl of soup, on how to partake of grapes, what to do with the cherry-stone left in your mouth after you've consumed the cherry, and when it's permissible to use Adam's knives and forks.” Apparently seeing her confusion, he added, “Adam's knives and forks are the ten fingers, Monique."
"I don't believe I'll ever get used to being called Monique. I still think of myself as Mary."
"Mary, the servant girl?"
He'd turned her own words back on her. “No, I'm Monique now."
"Remember that. Now, concerning the use of your fingers. You may eat olives with your fingers, or asparagus, celery or lettuce. Of course, when the meal is over you must use the finger bowl. You'll find the bowls have a geranium leaf or a slice of lemon floating on top of the water. Dip your fingers in, one hand at a time, rub the lemon between them, and then dry your hand
on your napkin."
Monique walked to the window. “Can't we do this another time? I can't concentrate on lessons today."
"Of course.” He crossed the room to stand behind her. “I can see you're distraught. Do you want to tell me where you went on your stroll and what happened to distress you?"
She took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Oh, Philippe, it's about my father. I went a bank looking for a clue to where he might be. I was more or less turned away."
"Your father? I assumed he was dead since you never mentioned him before."
"No, somehow I don't think he is.” She told him all she knew of the father she had never seen, whose name she didn't know, and of the money that had been regularly sent to her mother and then stopped suddenly.
"I'll see what I can discover,” he said when she was done. “The bank records can't be all that confidential. Not if you know the right people."
"Do you mean the McAllisters? I don't want to ask Jeremy for anything."
"He'll never know. Trust me, Monique, I'll be the soul of discretion."
When he came to her room the following day, Philippe answered her questioning look with a shake of his head. “What Vandermeer told you was quite correct,” he said. “The payments to your mother were made at the behest of a Mr. Charles Vere. The bank never saw the gentleman because all the transactions were done by mail. Finally the deposits stopped coming and the bank stopped making the payments."
"Charles Vere? Vere was my mother's maiden name. She never told me what my father's name was."
"Vere was the name the man gave. I suspect he used your mother's name to cloud his trail. I'm afraid you're no closer to finding him than you were before."
"If he's still alive, I'll find him. Someday. I know I will."
"So you shall, if I have anything to do with it. I promise."
Mary told herself she wouldn't ask the next question, but she couldn't help herself. “Have you seen Jeremy since we landed?"
Philippe hesitated for an instant. “Yes, I've seen him."
"Did he say anything?"