Forgiven Page 10

  The fruit seller, rain dripping onto his apples, called out only paces away from me. And there, again, like I’d called to her through some magic, like I’d drawn her to me, I saw Min. She hovered over the fruits, her head covered in a shawl to ward off the rain, but I knew it was her. She lifted her head; her face sported a black eye. I grew hot with anger.

  And there was Wilkie, stepping right behind her. I drew the hood of my cloak over my cheek.

  Min discussed the fruits with the seller, pointing and questioning, arguing in rapid Chinese. Wilkie moved on, away from the stall. This was my chance.

  I slid along the stalls to the end of the tray of embroideries. I did not know what I’d do when I reached her; I imagined some kind of slip, and off we’d go. I hadn’t planned. It hadn’t seemed important to plan.

  “Min!” My voice was low, a hoarse whisper. “Min!”

  The rain battered the tarpaulins and splashed noisily on the cobbles.

  “Woman!” Wilkie’s voice, harsh and loud, unlike mine, overcame all the noise. He marched right up behind her, and I bent almost double over the embroidery, huddling beneath my cloak. “Let’s go.” He took her arm; I could see his thick fingers out of the corner of my eye, wrapping those fat knuckles around her thin arm, tugging her away.

  I stared hard at the embroidered dragons, their flames and tongues darting. I examined the silks as if I was picking out individual stitches. I didn’t reach out and grab Min and run. I didn’t dare stop Wilkie, whose hand gripped her like a manacle. I let her go. I let her go with that devil.

  My fists curled into balls and my lips made flat planes, and the anger that I felt against myself burned in my throat. I’d failed, yet again. I’d been lucky enough to find her, and still I let her slip through my fingers. It was my fault, and I had no business feeling sorry for myself. I bit down hard as I could on my lip, closing my eyes.

  I knew I couldn’t face Wilkie. He was far too strong for me, a killer even. He was the wolf; I was the crippled doe.

  Wilkie and Min pushed away from me through the driving rain, disappearing into the crowd. I pushed away, too, in the opposite direction, the tears flooding my eyes as the rain flooded the streets. My feet and the hem of my skirt were soaked, but I didn’t care. I didn’t watch where I walked. I didn’t watch where I was going.

  I walked down one street and then down another, twisting and turning, twisting in a rage against myself. The rain dripped off my hood and blinded me. I reached a narrow alleyway and realized I was deep in the heart of Chinatown, in a place I hadn’t seen before. I stopped, trying to get my bearings.

  Through the pattering of the rain I heard whimpering, as of a wounded animal. Instinct told me to flee; instinct told me to help. The two sides of me were at war.

  The sound came from one of the darkest of the little passageways, off to my left. A stench emerged from the passageway, and other sounds that gave me chills, and a sense that if I went in there I might never come out. I took one step closer and sucked in my breath.

  Small windows with iron bars sat right at ground level, and at each of these windows faces pressed against the bars, the faces of Chinese girls so young they looked like tiny children, all dirty, all wide-eyed, all blank-eyed, as if feeling had been stripped from them, as if they were draped in a self-protective blankness of mind. Some of them wore so little clothing they might as well have been naked.

  I gripped my hands tight to my chest. The rain ran down my face as I tried to grasp the horror.

  I knew what I was seeing. I hadn’t lived a completely sheltered life. Pa had protected me, but I had eyes and ears. This was slavery in its worst form, humiliating and degrading, painful and frightening. And they were children, these slaves, all girls. They were all so small. Tiny fingers, gripping bars, slender fingers made for playing childish games. Oh, my heart. I thought I would die from the ache. I slumped against the far wall, staggered and sick.

  Kula Baker . . . Kula Baker . . . doesn’t know what to do.

  From the shadows at the end of the alley came a woman. She carried an umbrella; she was dressed in Chinese fashion. Her face was painted, her lips garish red against all the gray misery. She beckoned to me to come, come.

  “Pretty, pretty girl,” she sang. “You pretty, pretty. You come, my house.”

  Panic rose in me as a wave of nausea. I was rooted to this spot, chained by the tangible misery, by those blank eyes. The woman came toward me, beckoning, moving past the girls like an evil genie.

  One of the girls cried out. And another, and another.

  Awakened from my stupor by their hysteria, I didn’t hesitate. I yanked myself out of my nightmare and moved fast away from the alley, into the street and up, hoisting my skirts, and I ran, their cries following me; I ran, my skirts heavy and cumbersome, wet, tangling around my knees. I tripped; I almost fell; I pulled up twisting and limping. I sobbed, a single deep sob so that my chest heaved, my lungs ached.

  The end of the street was only a hundred yards. Market Street—I knew where I was now. I pulled my skirts higher, running like a deer runs in the woods, not caring how I looked, my hood falling open and my hair coming loose, until I reached Market and ran full into the street.

  I ran smack into a gentleman.

  “Hey! Watch yourself!”

  I pushed away from him, breathing with coarse, choking swallows, and turned, nearly running into another man. I ran up Market. An automobile pulled up alongside me.

  “Here!” A voice, addressed to me.

  I raised my arms in protest. My voice came out a croak, broken, choking. “No! Leave me be!” I feared being trapped, feared the bars, the tight space that I could avoid but those girls could not, feared what I’d just seen and its horror, feared what was happening to Min that I could not help.

  I rushed along Market, thrusting this way and that, heedless.

  “Miss Baker!”

  The automobile again. But this time, my name. I stopped and looked, peering through my wet hair that was matted and fallen and covering my eyes. The rain that mingled with my tears, the wet that threaded my face, clung to my cheeks, my throat, my aching throat.

  The soft, smiling face of young Will Henderson leaned toward me from the driver’s seat of a sleek black machine. “Come on, get in out of that rain.” He reached across the seat and opened the front passenger’s-side door.

  I slid into the seat, shaking like a quakie in a blue norther. I had no clue whether Will was friend or foe. Miss Everts did not like his father, that I knew. But me? I was no longer sure that anything I did would make one whit of difference to anyone.

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  April 4, 1906

  “Nothing about his betrothed pleased him

  more than her resolute determination to carry

  to its utmost limit that ritual of ignoring the

  ‘unpleasant’ in which they had both been brought up.”

  —The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton, 1920

  WILL PULLED THE AUTOMOBILE TO A STOP UNDER AN arched portico. Rain still hammered down, a curtain veiling the outside world, but beneath the shelter of the portico it was dry.

  I straightened and rubbed my face hard, as if to wipe the rain that dripped from my hair. He cut the engine. I found my voice. “Thank you.” Sheets of rain shrouded the portico. “Where are we?”

  “My house. Come on inside. Let’s find you a towel or two. I’ll have Xue make you some coffee.”

  I’d managed to swallow my grief, but I was soaked through and still shook from head to toe. “Maybe I should get back to Miss Everts.”

  He smiled that stunning smile. “Not to worry. My father’s at the bank. He rarely comes home before supper.” It was an odd thing to say, but in the face of my terrible experience I couldn’t worry over it. Will left his seat and came around to my side to help me out of the automobile. When he opened the door, the noise of the rain was deafening and the cold air made me shake.

  He led me inside. “So what were you doing
out there in the rain? Getting a feel for San Francisco at her worst?”

  “I got lost.”

  “You must be freezing. Come on.” I followed him into his family mansion through the kitchen door, where my jaw dropped.

  The kitchen alone was enormous, gleaming black-and-white tiles, shining copper and brass pots hanging above a long worktable, glass-front mahogany cabinets filled with white china. At one end a fire snapped in the stone fireplace, and as Will directed me to a chair by the fire I could see through swinging doors into the hallway: marble floor, dark polished wood walls, heavy brass door hinges, crystal chandeliers, artwork.

  Xue—a slender, silent Chinese man wearing a starched white smock—brought me coffee and towels. I alternately toweled my hair and warmed my hands by wrapping them around the hot cup. Will leaned against the fireplace, that smile playing on his perfect face.

  I blew on the coffee, sending up swirls of steam. “You stare at me as if you’ve never seen a dripping wet girl before.”

  “Do I?” He shifted. “Sorry. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” I lied.

  Xue bustled about at the other end of the kitchen. He seemed oblivious of us. His slight figure made me think again about the girls. I shivered.

  “I hope you haven’t caught a chill,” said Will, and he moved to sit in the chair next to me. His face was now creased with concern.

  “I was just thinking about something, that’s all.” I worked the towel on the ends of my hair. “What do you know about Chinatown?”

  He sat back. “They have their own lives, there. I don’t pay much attention to them.”

  I stopped rubbing. Them. “They” were not like him, so he paid no attention.

  He shrugged. “I’ve been on the East Coast finishing a bit of college. I’m only just back in town a few weeks. I haven’t been into Chinatown since before I left.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I don’t pay much heed to what people do there. What I’m interested in is the art.”

  “Art?”

  I leaned forward, warming my hands before the fire. He didn’t know what went on mere blocks from this grand home. He lived a fine life, sheltered from the horror of what others did. It shouldn’t surprise me; after all, wasn’t that the kind of life I wanted to live someday? Sheltered and content? I couldn’t let myself believe that he wouldn’t care if he did know. He was ignorant, that was all. Most rich folks were.

  “Art is my father’s business. Import, export. He wants me to take over that part of the company. But you must know that already. Father deals with Miss Everts, and that’s why I was at that meeting—he wants me to work with her. Miss Everts provides the clients through her connections, and we provide the art. It’s all very important, you know.”

  “Of course.” I toweled my hair again, hiding my face from him.

  “Here I am going on and on about it. I’m sure you already know something of it, being a model and all.”

  His knee brushed mine, and the sensation sent a shiver right up my spine and set my scalp tingling. “I haven’t paid much attention.” I floundered, trying to find a story. “You know, to the other side of the canvas.” Heavens, I surprised myself with the things coming out of my mouth.

  Will laughed. I peered out from behind the terry cloth. That blond Adonis hair, his silky eyes. He was really perfect, his legs sprawling and easy, his manner that of one so comfortable with himself. He occupied space like it was made to fit.

  He leaned toward me, his eyes sparkling. “Maybe I can find something for which you’ve posed. I’ll add it to our collection.”

  Kula Baker doesn’t often blush.

  “I’d like to find something new. Something impressive.” The sparkle faded a little. “My father . . I actually would like to make some finds on my own, you know? He’s difficult to impress . . .”

  “I’m sure he’s most proud of you.”

  Will brightened again, and then took my free hand. Now a current ran from my fingertips right through to my toes. He examined my hand, turning it this way and that, as he said, “Your last name. Baker. I’m familiar with a Baker family. Where did you say you came from?”

  I hadn’t, and I didn’t want him to know. A clock somewhere in the house chimed. I withdrew my hand from his, slowly, reluctantly. “My. Listen to the hour. Miss Everts will be most upset if I’m not home soon.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Oh, of course. I’ll be happy to take you.”

  As we left the kitchen, I stopped to thank Xue. He looked startled before his eyes crinkled with pleasure, and he bowed. And I noticed his smock: it bore an emblem. A dragon. That dragon. Which also hung above the door.

  “Mr. Henderson . . .” I pointed to the dragon.

  “Miss Baker, please call me Will.”

  “Will. What is that sign?”

  “That’s the family crest. Something about when the Hendersons arrived in San Francisco. They had luck finding gold, and then formed a relationship with a Chinese outfit and picked up that dragon thing. Something like that. I have to be honest, I never paid too close attention when those stories were told.”

  I had the feeling there was something he wasn’t saying, something he didn’t want me to know. I shook it off; he was so charming.

  He helped me into the automobile and closed the door. I glanced back at the house as he cranked the starter. Such a house—the house of my dreams, really. And Will—he could be the man of my dreams. I did like him, even though there were some things that bothered me; he was so very charming. And he seemed to like me. Why, he liked me even with my hair all wild and loose and soaking wet. Perhaps if I kept his interest . . .

  Will jumped into the automobile next to me, and as if to confirm my thinking, he leaned across the seat and in one swift move kissed me, hard and sure, on the lips. I was so startled I put my fingers to my lips as he drew back and smiled.

  It was forward, brazen. Unacceptable, really, and I shouldn’t have allowed it. I had never been kissed before, but that kiss warmed me right through.

  I said nothing, but left my fingers on my mouth on the short drive home. I tried to ignore that stuffy little voice inside me reminding me about Pa, about who I really was. What Will would think about me as Nat Baker’s daughter. I was no artist’s model, I was the daughter of a criminal.

  And then there was David. Oh, sweet David. They couldn’t be more different, David and Will.

  I shoved those images, those doubts aside, and watched the handsome, wealthy Will Henderson drive me home. And his soft lips brushed my hand in an oh-so-sweet way as he left me at Miss Everts. The charming Will Henderson and the possibilities he presented occupied most of my thoughts for the remainder of the afternoon.

  Most of my thoughts. Because no matter how hard I tried to forget what I’d seen, the image of the girls in their cages—their eyes—would not leave me alone. That image would forever haunt my every waking moment.

  Chapter NINETEEN

  April 5, 1906

  “The air is chill, and the hour grows late

  And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate

  Phantom fleets they seem to me

  From a shoreless and unsounded sea.”

  —“Evening,” Edward Pollack, 1870s

  A TELEGRAM FROM MRS. GALE GREETED ME THE NEXT morning.

  YOUR FATHER WELL TRIAL MOVED UP TO APRIL 12 STOP YOU MUST FIND BOX CONTENTS CRITICAL STOP DO NOT RETURN TO MONTANA WITHOUT IT STOP MY THOUGHTS WITH YOU HG

  Trial moved up. I stood in the hallway, holding the damp paper in trembling fingers. How was I going to get that box when Wilkie already had found it? Turned it over to someone else? And I didn’t even know what was inside.

  Wilkie knew where it was. If I confronted Wilkie . . . or found Min . . .

  The rain sheeted the window so that across and down the street the other houses looked like ruins, gray and ghostly and vanishing. The street cobbles appeared to flow like the Yellowstone. If I was going to save my father, I had to
get that box from whoever had received it from Wilkie. And Min. I had to free Min. So much depended on me; their futures depended on me.

  I straightened my shoulders. Kula Baker does not back down.

  I would uncover the whereabouts of Pa’s box. I would take the box back to Montana—and I would do this before April 12, when I knew Pa would be convicted and then hanged for a murder he did not commit.

  A murder that I felt sure Wilkie had committed.

  I paced the hallway, once more a caged cat, imprisoned by the weather and my fears. Time was of the essence, and yet I had no plan. No plan to go up against a murderer and an evil man. That’s what David had said—he traffics in evil.

  David—David was to come calling today. Was it only two days ago that I’d seen him? And just yesterday had been kissed, so unexpectedly, by Will. Anxiety gnawed at me. I had promised David nothing, yet why did I feel guilty for even thinking about Will? How would I feel when I saw David, after my encounter with Will?

  I asked Miss Everts for some sewing, knowing that keeping my hands busy was a good remedy for worry.

  She gave me a linen napkin to work. After a time she asked to see it, and I showed her the embroidery I made on the corner of the napkin. I’d done up a ribboned bunch of wildflowers from memory: yellow black-eyed Susans, red paintbrush.

  She examined it in silence for some minutes. “This is fine craft.”

  I sat up a bit straighter. “I’ve had lots of practice.” I’d taught myself embroidery and sewing when I was young, so I could hire out to do mending while I learned the finer arts. A good seamstress always has work.

  “Could you teach it?”

  I looked at her stiff fingers. “You could learn some stitches, I think.”