by Jane Toombs
"About you? Yes, he asked after you. Wanted to how you were and what you planned to do."
"Did he give you any message? For me?"
"I would have told you at once if he had. No, there was no message for you. Come, don't look so woebegone. It's not the end of the world."
"You're right. It's not.” She blinked back tears. “I don't give a fig for what Jeremy's doing. I don't need him or any other man.” Belatedly realizing what she'd said, Monique added hastily, “Except for you, Philippe. You're my only friend, the only one I can count on."
He gave her an enigmatic look, but before she could ask why, he said. “I declare a vacation from lessons. I'll hire a rig and after supper we'll see a bit of the city."
* * * *
"Drive to the McAllister house,” Monique told Philippe as they left the livery stable that evening.
"I don't think that's wise,” he said. “In fact, it would be a great mistake."
"Please take me there. If you don't, I'll go by myself."
Philippe sighed. “How did you become such a willful woman? There's a demon in you, Monique. Perhaps it's best, after all, if we try to exorcise it. We'll go to the McAllisters’ first. The house is something of a landmark on Rincon Hill."
Leaving the shuttered shops behind, they drove past a park-like square surrounded by new brick houses. Farther on, Philippe drew up in front of an imposing home set among flowering shrubs and trees. Looking through the rails of the black iron fence, Monique saw, at the foot of the front steps, a statue of a naked woman carrying a jug in her arms. The setting sun reddened the water as it poured from the jug into the fountain below.
"Is Jeremy staying here?” she asked.
"No, he's at the International House.” Philippe looked at her sternly. “You're not to go there. Unchaperoned women do not visit men in their hotel rooms."
"The idea never crossed my mind,” she told him truthfully.
Until just now. She missed Jeremy so much sometimes she thought her heart would break. She longed to see him, to heard the sound of his voice, to feel the touch of his hands.
"Good.” Philippe flicked the reins. “There are other men in this world. In fact, we're going to the Chambers’ supper party tomorrow. Young Ward Chambers will be there. He's recently returned from Boston."
"When is the wedding?” she asked.
"Ward's not getting married.” Philippe frowned. “You don't mean him, do you? Jeremy's wedding? No date's been set, but don't let that encourage you. He definitely plans to marry Laura McAllister. They're seen everywhere together."
His words were like the thrust of a knife. She clenched her hands into fists. “I didn't think the McAllister house was all that grand. I'll build a better one someday, with two fountains in front and gargoyles on the chimneys and marble statues of stags on the lawn. I'll be so rich I'll be able to buy Dillie from the Randolphs and set her free. Free of Micah and Esau, too."
"Dillie?"
"She was my friend back there when I was Mary. But I haven't forgotten her now that I'm Monique."
She closed her eyes, seeing herself in the parlor of the house with two fountains, dressed in a velvet gown. Jeremy was on his knees before her, asking her to marry him, pleading with her as she shook her head.
"Monique!"
Opening her eyes, she saw Philippe had tethered the horse and was waiting to assist her from the rig. She donned her social smile and let him help her to the ground and lead her out onto the Long Wharf. On both sides of them, buildings perched on piles—commission houses, groceries, saloons, auction houses, cheap-John shops. After leaving the wharf, he guided her to Sacramento Street. The day was at the edge of night, and the streets were bright with lights. Fourth of July flags snapped about their heads.
They turned a corner and were in China. Birds chirped in an aviary, pigtailed Chinese men hastened to and fro, and lanterns twinkled outside shops whose long, narrow signs were printed, black on red, with gnarled and twisted Chinese letters. Climbing a flight of stairs, they entered the open door of a joss house. Monique stared in fascination at the statues of gods with thin black beards and mustaches—the god of war, the god of medicine and the god of fortune. Evidently the Chinese didn't believe fortune was a lady.
The Chinese have brought familiar home things with them from across the ocean, she thought. They have their gods, their foods, and their friends. She felt a sympathy for them, for they, too, were aliens in this strange land of California.
All she had was Rowena, and, of course, Philippe. She held firmly to his arm as they left Chinatown, followed by the thin whine of some strange stringed instrument, the tinkle of bells, the clang of gongs and the clash of cymbals from a nearby theater.
"In the diggings,” Philippe said, “the first rule the miners make is to forbid the Chinese to file claims."
"Why on earth would they want to stop them?"
"Because the pigtailed Chinese are so different, I suspect. They work hard, keep to themselves and cause little or no trouble, but they're heathens with a penchant for smoking opium. We passed some of their opium dens, but I didn't point them out. The dens are not fit places for a woman."
"I'm different, too,” Monique said. “We all are in some way. I don't think it's fair."
"It's the way of the world. Just like the South still keeps slaves, while that practice has been outlawed in other parts of the civilized world. It's the way of the South. Though I shouldn't be surprised to learn the Abolitionists will eventually get their way."
"Abolitionists?” she echoed.
"Mostly Easterners who are against the United States condoning slavery. They want it abolished, hence their name. They seem to be believe Negroes are people and therefore should be free."
"Well, of course they're people,” she said indignantly.
"Then why doesn't the South treat them like people?"
Monique blinked. She'd lived all her life in Alabama, where all who could afford them had slaves. It was a way of life she'd never thought about, just took for granted. She thought of Dillie, being forced to accept advances from the Randolph twins because she had no choice, being a slave, and grimaced.
"They don't have slaves back East?” she asked.
"Less all the time, I understand. They never did have anywhere near the number the South has.” He stopped. “Ah, here's where we left the rig."
They drove through Portsmouth Square, where goats grazed around the base of the flagpole. On all sides of the square shouts and laughter came from the gambling houses and saloons, while roistering men careened along the streets outside.
"The Chinese have opium dens. We have whiskey dens,” Monique observed.
Philippe smiled. “That's different."
After a few minutes, he turned from the main thoroughfare and they entered a dark district of narrow streets, where their carriage jounced over a succession of holes in the dirt road. Monique wrinkled her nose at the smells. They passed a pig rooting in garbage strewn on the ground.
Turning another corner, they heard music coming from a dimly lit grog shop. Lights glowed in the windows of mean houses, outlining women standing in doorways and sitting in windows. Men, many of them staggering, roamed the streets and alleys, while others slumped in dark doorways nursing bottles of wine or whiskey. As their carriage passed, women called out to Philippe, turning away when they saw Monique huddled on the seat beside him.
Who were these women? Monique wondered. What did they want? She was about to ask Philippe when it dawned on her that they must be what men called “soiled doves."
"Those women,” she said. “Why do they do it?"
"What else is there for them? What else can they do to earn their daily bread? If a woman doesn't have a man to care for her, her chances of making a living are slim. She can run a boardinghouse, take in laundry, or be a seamstress. Perhaps teach school if she's qualified."
Monique stared at the shanty-like houses along the way. In one well-lighted window, an older woman sat looking at hers
elf in a mirror held in her hand. The woman's hair was an unnatural red, her features sagged and her cheeks were heavily rouged. As the carriage passed, the woman lowered the mirror and stared back at Monique as though she recognized her, which was impossible. The woman smiled, revealing a gap-toothed mouth, and she called out, not to Philippe but to her, Monique felt, though the words were unintelligible.
"Let's go back to the hotel,” she whispered to Philippe.
"I mean to. I must've taken a wrong turning. I didn't intend to come here."
She glanced at him in the growing darkness, aware he rarely acted through error or chance.
As their rig clattered from the narrow street onto a well-lighted avenue, leaving the bagnios behind, Monique turned to look back with mingled horror and fascination. All at once she shivered.
"What's wrong?” Philippe asked.
"Nothing."
After a minute he said, “If they're attractive enough, the women usually start their careers in the parlor houses, much fancier places. From there they may strike out on their own, but age takes its toll and, if they aren't lucky enough to marry, they wind up in the cribs you've just seen. Many of the fair but frail ladies commit suicide by taking poison or hanging themselves."
He went on talking, but Monique no longer listened. Glancing about, she saw now only the glow of the streetlights and the lighted window of a honky-tonk. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and shivered again. Dillie would say she'd walked over her own grave.
Don't be foolish, she admonished herself.
Just the same, she had an uncomfortable feeling Philippe had deliberately taken the route he had, and for her benefit. Which, of course, didn't mean she should accept for one moment her frightening image of herself as the red-haired aging harlot—Monique Vaudreuil as she would one day be. Never!
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CHAPTER 8
"How did you like him?” Philippe asked at breakfast the morning after the Chambers’ supper party.
"Who do you mean?” Monique held her knife above her steak and flashed a teasing smile at Philippe. “I danced with a Mr. Thomas of Placerville, a Mr. Kravitz of Sacramento, a Captain Bond and so many others. I can't recall all the names."
"You know very well who I mean—Ward Chambers. Whenever I looked, he seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with you."
California, she'd discovered, was little different than Alabama when it came to conversing with men. Philippe had been right—no need for her to worry what to say when whatever man she was with did all the talking.
"I did like Mr. Chambers,” she said. “He's not at all frightening and he knows how to compliment a lady without being forward. Is polished the right word?"
Philippe nodded. “I'm glad you liked him. I suspected you would."
"In a way, he reminds me of Jeremy."
"Good God, the man's nothing like Jeremy."
"Ward's gentleness resembles his,” she insisted. “Do stop worrying. I've put Jeremy Johnston from my mind and have quite forgotten him. As a matter of fact, Ward is taking me boating on the bay this afternoon."
"Splendid."
"Would you feel the same if Ward didn't come from a wealthy family?"
"What do you take me for—a fortune hunter?” When she nodded, Philippe smiled. “I'll admit that, although the rich have their faults, their money somehow makes it easier to overlook them."
"I won't marry a man just because he has money. I'd have to love him."
"Of course. I quite agree."
"Oh, Philippe,” she said, “I owe you so much.” On impulse, she rose and made her way to his chair where she kissed him on the forehead.
He reddened and she resumed her seat. “But I want you to know,” she added, “that I'd like you, even if I wasn't beholden to you."
"I've grown fond of you, too, Monique. More than I ever thought I could.” He patted his lips with the napkin and changed the subject. “I look forward to hearing all about your boating expedition."
She didn't see Philippe that evening. When she met him at breakfast the next morning, his eyes were shadowed and he looked tired.
"We sailed to Alcatraz Island,” she said when Philippe asked about Ward Chambers. “The view of the bay and the hills is delightful from there."
"And Mr. Chambers? Was he equally delightful?"
Monique put her napkin to her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Poor Ward,” she managed to say.
"What happened?"
"I realize men try to impress women. And his sailing was impeccable on the trip over. On the way back, though, in order to avoid a two-master, he was forced to maneuver close to the shore, where we ran aground. When Ward attempted to push the skiff off the rocks, he fell into the bay. He was terribly embarrassed when I had to assist him back into the boat. Especially when I giggled. I just couldn't help it."
"Yes, I can see where he might have been. You shouldn't have laughed."
"The dunking rather put a damper on the excursions as far as Ward was concerned. I will say, though, that he didn't lose his temper or even swear."
"I should think not. He was with a lady."
She smiled at Philippe. “Thank you."
Actually, the incident had rather endeared Ward to her. On the island he'd told her his plans to enter his father's law firm now that he had his degree from Harvard. “Dad always told me I was born to be a lawyer,” Ward had said. “Even as a baby, apparently, I exhibited lawyer-like attributes."
Solemnity being one of them, she had thought to herself. Ward smiled, but she had yet to hear him laugh. She mentioned this.
"I fear I've never learned to see the humor in situations that amuse others,” he'd said. “My lack, I realize.” He'd gazed at her, admiration in his hazel eyes. “I fear I don't know the first thing about courting a lady, either."
"I shouldn't worry about that, if I were you,” she'd told him. “Any woman worth courting will value you on who you are, not how romantic you can be."
He hadn't looked entirely convinced, but seemed in good spirits when they'd re-boarded the boat for the return trip. Then, of course, had come the fiasco. She'd assured him it didn't matter, but it obviously had affected him deeply.
Which was probably why he made no attempt to see her the next day.
The following morning, Philippe was again late for breakfast. When he arrived, he slumped into his chair and put a hand to his forehead. Finally he managed a smile.
Concerned, she asked, “Are you all right?"
"I ventured into the El Dorado in Portsmouth Square last night,” he said. “Unfortunately, the cards went against me.” He paused, then asked, “Have you heard from Ward Chambers again?"
"In a way."
"I'm intrigued. In what way?"
She sighed. “I was roused in the middle of the night, thinking I'd heard a noise. It came again, like something hitting the side of the hotel near my window, so I put on my robe, crossed to that window and looked down. It must have been well after midnight. Who do I see by light from the hotel lobby but Ward. As I looked, he lobbed a stone at my window to attract my attention."
"A romantic notion."
She rolled her eyes. “He obviously hadn't seen me peering out because the stone hit the window pane and broke it. Luckily, I'd ducked back, so it missed me."
"Are you telling me that proper Ward Chambers hurled a stone so hard at your fourth-floor window that he broke it? Good God. What happened next?
"I opened the window and called for him to stop. I didn't realize he'd brought a fiddler with him until the man began to play “Oh, Susanna.” Which was bad enough, but worse was yet to come. Ward had propped a fire ladder against the side of the hotel and he began to climb up toward me."
"Ah, shades of Romeo and Juliet. ‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be tomorrow.’ Did Ward have elopement in mind?"
"I can't be certain what his intention might have been because
, when he reached the second floor, he fell from the ladder, frightening me half to death."
Philippe shook his head. “Was he hurt?"
"I rushed downstairs to find out and discovered he was pixilated. He didn't even seem to know he'd cut his arm, though he was bleeding. Fortunately, he wasn't seriously injured."
"Drunks seldom are. You and he, though, do seem to be a pair of star-crossed lovers."
"Lovers! After last night, I'm not sure I ever want to see him again. He frightened me when he fell or I wouldn't have rushed outside in my nightclothes. Apparently by that time Ward and his fiddling friend had awoken half the hotel guests, who all gaped at me both from the street and from their windows. I was acutely embarrassed."
"The man showed poor taste in the first place, choosing “Oh, Susanna” to serenade a lady when there are so many more appropriate ballads endorsing moonlight and roses and things of that sort. He may have made the grade as a lawyer, but he flunks as a romantic. I fear I'll have to cross him from the list, a victim of a ladder's broken rung."
"I wasn't amused, Philippe. What if he'd been killed?"
"His fate was to escape unscathed and lose the chance for your hand. Farcical."
"However...” Monique said after a moment.
"There's that devilish gleam in your eye again. Tell me."
"Don Fernando Martinez intends to invite me to his ranch near Monterey. He'll present the formal invitation to you, as my guardian, later today. We're both to go, if you accept."
"Don Fernando Martinez. I've heard of him. Isn't he the eldest son of the eldest son of Esteban Martinez, one of the great Spanish landholders, the Californios? Of course we'll go. What's he like?"
"Nothing like Ward Chambers. He's tall and slender and dark. A charming gentleman. So gallant. So masterful."
"I like this Don Fernando already. He may be one of the last of a dying breed, but the Spanish dons are dying out so magnificently."
Before the time came for them to be guests of Don Fernando Martinez, flowers were sent to Monique's room, white roses, with a card from Ward Chambers asking if she, out of the goodness of her heart, would meet him in the lobby for a few moments. She stood undecided for a moment and then nodded. He deserved the chance to apologize.