Gold Mountain (22 page)

For all that intangible unpleasantness, the evening did not start out badly. Irene Gallagher was not the only person at our table, and the woman on my other side conversed comfortably about topics that had nothing to do with me personally. When I mentioned that I was assisting Donaldina Cameron, she asked for more information and listened intently.

In addition, the surroundings were beautiful, the meal delicious, and at the conclusion of the meal, the orchestra promised a professional level of music that I hadn’t heard in a long time. Certainly nothing like the Policemen’s Brass Orchestra, I thought with an inward smile, and prepared to enjoy myself. At the first song, I watched Martin lead a glowing Ruth to the dance floor and turned to find Ralph Gallagher beside me, his hand outstretched.

“May I have the honor, Miss Hudson?” he asked in a manner surprisingly old-fashioned for a modern-day man of commerce and industry.

I was flustered for a moment, forced myself not to look at his wife to see how she felt about an invitation which should properly have been hers, and finally stood. Frankly, I would have preferred the man clearing the dishes from our table to Ralph Gallagher, but I couldn’t think of a way to refuse him for the first dance and then proceed to dance with other men later in the evening. Such behavior was not socially acceptable, and this was Martin’s employer, besides.

“Of course. Thank you.”

Ralph Gallagher danced well and possessed the ability to converse easily as he did so. I had not danced in a long time and confessed the fact to him as the music began.

“That’s why men lead, Miss Hudson. To keep women moving in the right direction.”

I wanted to bristle at the remark but contented myself with saying, “I have often wondered about that arrangement, Mr. Gallagher, and am relieved to have you provide so logical an explanation.”

After a slight pause, my partner murmured, “I am not my wife, Miss Hudson. I know when I’m being mocked or patronized.”

I looked at his face quickly, but he was smiling. More than smiling, I realized. Flirting. The man was flirting with me!

“I have not mocked your wife, and I am certainly not mocking you. Believe me, I haven’t the social competence to do so with the subtlety with which you’re trying to credit me. I promise that if I ever hold you up to ridicule, you’ll be the first to know it.”

He laughed at that but said no more, and we finished the dance without further talk. As we walked off the dance floor, we were stopped by a couple who said they wished to meet me, and they in turn were joined by another couple. After that a man I didn’t recognize asked me for the next dance and for the next few hours the evening was a blur. In passing I met the infamous Judge Mackiver, who smelled like cigars and brandy and was intoxicated enough to leer in the general direction of my chest. I found him offensive and ridiculous and had to stop myself from scrubbing at the spot on my shoulder where his hand had brushed.

Mackiver introduced me to Abe Ruef, a prominent attorney whose name was well known in the city and to Eugene Schmitz, a man rumored to have designs on the position of mayor. I knew better than to make hasty judgments but my instincts told me that Ruef and Schmitz and Mackiver were cut from the same cloth: all prominent and successful scoundrels. San Francisco seemed to have an over-abundance of such men.

Mayor Phelan also found his way to me through the crowd. He was a clear-eyed, bearded man of obvious intelligence and gracious speech. A natural politician, an Irishman, a gentleman, and as Ruth had pointed out to me hopefully, also a bachelor. I liked the mayor a great deal, enjoyed our dance and our conversation, and was flattered when he returned for a second dance. He asked me about my experiences of the Boxer Rebellion—nearly everyone did—but he seemed sensitive to the tone of my responses that indicated I did not wish to spend a great deal of time on that personal history. Unfortunately, not everyone was as perceptive or as kind as he.

Whenever I returned to our table, Irene Gallagher would drag over a new audience and introduce me as the “heroine of Pekin,” pronouncing the words with the same dramatic relish she would have used if she were reading the cover of a particularly salacious romance novel. She treated me like a pet monkey capable of a string of clever tricks, and I found it increasingly difficult to be civil to the woman. When I overheard Ruth telling her that I was still bothered by unpleasant memories of the events of that summer and wanted to remain as anonymous as possible, I hoped that Mrs. Gallagher would understand the message Ruth intended by her murmured comment.

Mrs. Gallagher’s only response, however, was to lean forward and ask in a voice that was not as low as she imagined, “What events exactly, Mrs. Shandling? There were always rumors that some of the white women fell into the hands of the Chinese barbarians and were treated quite shamefully.” Her tone left no doubt about what she meant by
quite shamefully
. Raped, she might as well have said, her tone a mix of curiosity and horror and disgust. Her outrageous curiosity made me want to slap her hard and perhaps I would have, despite Ruth’s best efforts to insert herself between us, except exactly at that moment Jake Pandora asked me for the next dance.

I had not seen him before that moment, but as I looked up at him, I wondered how I could possibly have missed him. If ever a man belonged in formal evening clothes, that man was Jake Pandora. The black coat and tails, the perfectly tailored waist coat and full trousers and pristine white shirt with gold buttons and black silk tie all complimented him, emphasized his lean waist and broadened his shoulders, made him astonishingly handsome. I wasn’t the only one who thought so, either, because I watched several women on their way to the dance floor turn their heads to glance back at him as he stood next to my chair.

I gawked, swallowed, and blurted, “What in the world are you doing here?” Not, perhaps, the most sophisticated response I might have made, but I’ve never handled surprises well.

“Good evening to you, too, Miss Hudson. Is that a yes or a no to my offer?” I took his outstretched hand and allowed him to draw me to my feet.

“A yes.”

“Good.” I was still so amazed to see him that I could only stare, so that finally he murmured, “You may have noticed that there’s a floor set a little closer to the orchestra and I believe people use that for dancing.”

“Don’t be so clever, Mr. Pandora.” He continued to hold my hand as he led me away from the table, and we didn’t speak again until we had joined the crowd of dancing couples. Then I said, “How did you ever wrangle an invitation to this evening?”

“It’s all about who you know.”

“And you know the right people?”

“I do.”

“I don’t know why I find that so hard to believe.”

“I know why. Because I’m the son of Greek immigrants. Because my education was acquired on the docks. Because I live in rooms above my office instead of in a fine Nob Hill mansion. That’s why. I pegged you as a snob the first time I saw you, and it appears I was right after all.”

“Wrong yet again, Mr. Pandora.” His words stung, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “My opinion of you has much more to do with your bad manners than with your education or your parentage or your living quarters. All those things deal with the surface of a man, but bad manners reflect inner character. Besides, you must admit that we didn’t get off to a very good start with that small matter of the Pandora Two between us. I admit to being far from perfect, but I am not a snob.” He was silent a long time, long enough for the music to end and for both of us to begin a leisurely walk back to my table.

“No,” he agreed, finally. “You’re not. I am sometimes hasty in my assumptions, a fact you’ve probably noted.” Another slight pause, then a thoughtful, “I don’t know exactly what you are, Miss Hudson, but you are not a snob. I’ll grant you that.” As I sat down at our table, he bent forward and said in a voice so low only I could hear, “You ought to wear that color more often. It does remarkable things to your eyes.” Without looking at me, he straightened and strolled leisurely away, women sending a variety of glances—all of them admiring, some of them speculative, and a few openly inviting—after him. The crowd parted for him as the Red Sea must once have split for Moses.

“Was that Mr. Pandora?” Ruth asked. “I didn’t realize he would be here. I’m surprised.”

“So am I,” I replied. “Believe me, Ruthie, so am I.”

I hadn’t known what to expect from the evening and was relieved as the hours passed and questions about the Boxer Rebellion and my experiences under siege waned. Ruth was having a wonderful time—she always carried a radiance about her when she truly enjoyed herself—and because she was happy, so was Martin. I observed the two of them together with a touch of wistfulness. Ruth loved and was loved in return, and somehow that fact seemed to reduce life to its simplest, most gratifying perspective. My sister had always seen life in different terms and in different colors than I, had always sought out the good in people and situations and even as a child had attracted affection from the most unexpected characters. I wished I had her ability to see good and to be good but knew that was not the case and never would be, yet to see Ruth happy and smiling had the same energizing effect on me as a good tonic.

I didn’t enjoy the evening simply because Ruth was happy, however. That would credit me with far too generous and altruistic motivations; vanity would be the more honest reason. Heroine status aside, I was a single woman complimented and admired and much in demand. I sat out dances only if I chose to do so and maintained a steady stream of partners made up, by and large, of pleasant, polished, engaging men. I had to laugh at my spoken intention to Jake Pandora to listen to the conversations in the hope of finding out more about the human smuggling trade. Even with the lavish flow of champagne, the people around me were much too practiced and urbane to say anything they didn’t want repeated a hundred times over.

I had just returned from a trip to the Ladies’ Lounge, still smiling at the mental picture of myself eavesdropping, when I was approached by a man and woman. I could tell, just by the apologetic way the woman met my gaze, that they were going to ask about China, and I steeled myself for the requisite questions and comments. They were both gray-haired, older than my father in appearance, and had an appealingly ordinary look about them. No diamond stick pin the size of a fireplace log in his lapel or enormous earrings dangling like chandeliers from her ears; both wore perfectly presentable evening dress but not to excess. I warmed to them as people I thought I would like.

“Miss Hudson?”

I put on my polite face, nodded, and waited.

“I’m Eleanor Thomas. This is my husband, Stanley. We heard that you were here tonight, and I realize it’s hardly the time and place for such a discussion, but we were wondering when you were in Pekin during that terrible time if you had the opportunity to meet Captain Myers.”

“Not really,” I answered, surprised by the inquiry. “The captain led the troops that rescued us, but he was wounded himself and transported to the naval hospital in Yokohama. I recall that he was pointed out to me, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t recognize him if he walked into the room right now. Is he related to you in some way?”

Eleanor Thomas’s ageing face softened. “Not exactly, not the way you mean. Our grandson, Reese, served under him and admired him a great deal.”

“I see,” I said but didn’t, not really. The conversation was headed in a direction I hadn’t expected and didn’t understand.

“My husband told me not to bother you; he told me it would serve no purpose, but I had to meet you. I wanted to see someone who had been part of the group rescued by Capt. Myers’s Marines. I told Stanley it would make a difference, and I don’t know how exactly but it has. You’re so lovely and I can tell by your face, you’re kind, too, and that helps me.”

By then I was completely baffled. “Helps you,” I repeated. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

She reached out to pat my arm before smiling gently and responding, “Of course, you don’t, my dear. How could you? Stanley was right. I’ve made a mess of it, embarrassed you and myself, as well.”

“You haven’t embarrassed me at all, Mrs. Thomas. I just don’t understand what I’ve done to help you.”

“Our grandson, our son’s only child, died with the Marines during the rescue, Miss Hudson. Only two men were lost in the attack, but one of them was our Reese and, of course, that makes the number
two
a very great number indeed.” Her voice cracked and behind her Mr. Thomas rested a hand softly on her shoulder. “He was a fine young man, Miss Hudson, and he loved military service, was proud to do his duty, but we miss him terribly. His mother hasn’t been outside her home since she received the news and our son—well, it was a terrible blow to him. A blow to all of us. I don’t know if we’ll ever recover. But seeing you here, so beautiful and alive helps me understand Reese’s sacrifice.”

She continued to speak, but my gaze was transfixed on her husband’s face. For a brief moment, he looked so anguished at his wife’s words, so completely desolate, that I moved forward instinctively to put my arms around him for comfort. Mrs. Thomas had learned to talk about her loss, but I thought this man had not and for whatever reason might never be able to. Of course, I could not embrace him, standing there as we were on the edge of the dance floor of the most lavish room in the largest hotel in the world, surrounded by San Francisco’s most elite and influential citizens, but for the moment it was all I could think to do to alleviate the profound grief I saw on his face and the glaze of tears that made the older man’s eyes sparkle in the lights.