Forgiven Page 12

  April 9, 1906

  “The civilized world is trembling on the verge

  of a great movement. Either it must be a

  leap upward, which will open the way to

  advances yet undreamed of, or it must be a plunge

  downward, which will carry us toward barbarism.”

  —Progress and Poverty, Henry George, aka

  “The Prophet of San Francisco,” 1879

  ʺKULA,ʺ MISS EVERTS’S VOICE BELIED HER IMPATIENCE with me. “It’s perfectly all right. He wants to do a series of studies of your face. Normally, he only paints landscapes. But he’s working on something different.” Miss Everts pulled on her gloves as I waited by the door.

  “And you said he’ll pay?”

  “Handsomely. Which you could send to your father’s defense.” Jameson drove us to the home of Sebastian Gable. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but my nerves were calmed the minute we walked through the door and stood in his broad entry hallway. His paintings were everywhere, and what a collection they made.

  I’d never seen the like. These landscapes were not dreamy or dark. They were so colorful and riotous that I had to whisper to Miss Everts if he painted real, actual places.

  “Yes. Why, that one’s Goleta Point, and there’s Mount Tam. In a few weeks, when the wildflowers are out in all their glory, you’ll see. This is the way it looks here later in the spring, and in summer and fall.”

  Mr. Gable appeared from the end of the hall. He greeted Miss Everts, and turned to me. He made a slight bow. “Miss Baker. I’m delighted. And happy you’ve given me this opportunity. Phillipa has told me so much about you. Come.” He pointed down the hallway to an open door through which intense light spilled.

  All that light came from a bank of windows that formed one wall of his studio. Even in the gray weather—rain had finally given way to dull and damp—the light in this room was rich and cheering. Paintings in various stages of completion hung or stood or leaned on the other surfaces. He’d set a chair in the center of a low dais.

  “Would you like anything? Some tea?” His courtly manners settled my nerves once and for all.

  I sat and posed for him for over an hour while he sketched. Every so often he would ask me to move or turn and look in another direction. Miss Everts sipped tea and watched him work. When he finally seemed satisfied, he let me see what he had done.

  There were three or four studies all done in pencil, and I felt both embarrassed and thrilled. It was me, but it was not me, and he’d captured something else, something inside me. Obstinacy. Pride.

  “What will you do with these?” I asked.

  “I am working on something different. A large work, a series of murals. It’s a commission for the State Capitol. I want to represent California in a new way. The new California. All of her people, waking to a new century.” He paused. “Would you care to see what I’ve begun?”

  “I’d love it.”

  He led me to the back wall and pulled a cord, revealing from behind a curtain a series of three huge panels, eight feet high and ten feet long, in various stages of completion. He led me along, pointing out places and people, the snowy Cascades, the southern deserts, the industry and commerce, and the great bay of San Francisco, its fleets of ships and flower-studded slopes and bustling thoroughfares.

  “This is beautiful.” I paused. I followed with my finger his representation of Market Street. “But you’ve forgotten something.”

  “Really?” He seemed interested, leaning toward the painting first, and then turning to me, puzzled.

  “You’ve left out the cruelty.”

  I heard the sharp intake of breath from Miss Everts. I felt Mr. Gable’s eyes on me.

  I didn’t care. “You’ve left out the alleys in Chinatown. The bawdy houses in the Barbary Coast. Did you mean to leave them out?”

  “Kula.” Miss Everts’s tone was sharp.

  “No, Phillipa, she’s quite right. I shall make amends for it, shall I?”

  We exchanged a glance, and he gave me another slight bow. “I believe I know where to place you in this work. I would like to make new sketches. Would you be willing to return?”

  I nodded.

  In the hallway at her house, Miss Everts handed me an envelope with twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars! For one hour’s work, if you could call it that. Why, twenty-five dollars was a fortune for so little effort.

  “Your comments were quite forward,” she said.

  I knew they were. I didn’t know what came over me. Why should I care about the lives of these girls, these unfortunates—what did they mean to me? I’d been looking after myself for long enough, and all I wanted was freedom from what I’d seen as my own slavery. All I wanted was to free my pa so that we could then make a life for ourselves. And a life for me with a rich husband and a high station and pretty things all around. What did the lives of these girls—the ones behind the bars—matter to me?

  They mattered. They did. I would never forget their eyes, their thin fingers. Oh, I still wanted a decent life for myself, but maybe I could have everything I’d always wanted, and more besides. Maybe I could have something more, something larger than even my dreams.

  “But it was also quite right that you spoke up,” Miss Everts murmured, her words an echo to my thoughts. Her steel eyes met mine. I squared my shoulders. “Now. On Thursday night, you will have to pretend you know nothing of that side of life in San Francisco. You will have to put on a show. Can you do that?”

  I nodded, once.

  “Only a little while longer. That’s all. Then you’ll understand. Then I’m confident you’ll be able to help your father. It will all come out right.” She turned to remove her hat and left me fingering the envelope.

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  April 12, 1906

  “If you would slay the Social Snake

  That brings the Bosom grief and ache

  Dance while you may, dance while you may

  For heaven comes forth in Social Play.”

  —Thomas Lake Harris, founder of

  Fountain Grove in Sonoma, 1875

  THE WEATHER CLEARED AT LAST, AS A BRISK, STINGING wind blew in from the ocean, blustering all those rainy clouds off to the east to make way for a robin’s-egg-blue sky behind. By noon on Thursday the sun threw glinty sparks off all the rain-washed trees and streets and houses. By the afternoon the breeze had all but dried out the city.

  Either way, change was in the wind. On that Thursday it was time for me to play my part and attend the Henderson party, the first social affair of my life.

  On that same Thursday my pa would stand trial, far away in Montana. I had to trust Miss Everts’s assertions that playing my role at the party would bring me closer to freeing my pa.

  Dress, shoes, gloves, delicate underclothes all laid out across my bed for me.

  Here was a thing I’d waited for all my life, had envied other girls for—a social occasion at which I was a guest and not a servant. And my mind was a whirl of mixed-up fears and longings and confusions. The butterflies in my stomach carried on so I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or nerves. I knew I’d see Will Henderson tonight, and yet I could not stop thinking of David Wong.

  As Mei Lien helped me into my corsets, I thought I’d ask her. “How well do you know Mr. Wong?”

  It seemed an innocent enough question. But maybe I’d asked it at the wrong time. Mei Lien was in the midst of tugging those laces. She gave a yank that nearly pulled me off my feet.

  “Not know him,” she said. “Never see him. He never come here.”

  “But he was here just the other . . .” I wheezed, and gave up as Mei Lien yanked again. It was all I could do to breathe, let alone pry further.

  Jameson drove Miss Everts and me in the horseless—its bonnet pulled up snug against the breeze so we wouldn’t end up with hair like a rat’s nest—to the Henderson mansion.

  My. Such a grand place. I’d seen the back entry; now we arrived in full sp
lendor at the front. Unlike Miss Everts’s house, the mansion was made all of stone, white and gleaming in the electrics that flickered along the front. Horseless carriages and fancy traps drawn by well-groomed ponies lined the street up and down. Jameson had to pull around and leave us in the hands of the doormen, who guided us inside.

  An orchestra played music in one corner. Along the wall sat a table spread with small packages—gifts for us guests to take home, Miss Everts whispered. Gifts for us!

  I began to yank off my long kid gloves—dyed to match the dress—before Miss Everts stopped me. Even though they chafed my upper arms, it seemed I had to keep those gloves on all evening. I wished that I knew more about how this socializing was done. One thing was certain. I wouldn’t be slouching in that scarlet crepe dress. Thanks to the whalebone, my back was ramrod straight and my stomach tightly cinched. I didn’t think I’d be eating much, either.

  Mr. Henderson greeted his guests at the entry to a room big enough for a small town. I shook his hand and made a little curtsy.

  “Young Will is visiting with other guests,” Mr. Henderson said. Was he excusing his son or suggesting I leave him alone? I didn’t like the way Mr. Henderson looked at me. I was being inspected, his eyes looking me up and down. I almost thought he’d ask me to open my mouth so he could see my teeth.

  As we moved away, I whispered to Miss Everts, “Where’s Mrs. Henderson?”

  “Dead.”

  A widower. Maybe that accounted for the examination. Still, I felt like an object, pure and simple.

  Miss Everts and I made our way through the throng. Right and left I was introduced as her protégée, an artist’s model. All according to her plan. I remained silent through much of it, fearing I would give myself away by saying something foolish.

  Thin-lipped matrons and their goggle-eyed husbands swirled through the room. A clutch of young women gathered in the chairs along one wall. Single men slipped in and out, stealing to the back terrace for what I presumed was a puff on a cigar. Inside grew warmer and warmer due to the press of bodies.

  The mansion stretched from one exquisite room to the next, all furnished in grand high style. The central hallway featured a stair that curved up and then split in the middle, and I imagined going up one side and down the other, like the grand entrance a lady could make. Statues stood rank on rank along the hallways to either side of the stairway. I wandered off from Miss Everts’s side and peeked into this room and that for at least half an hour until she found me again and tugged me back into the ballroom.

  The orchestra played waltzes, and waiters slid through with trays of delicacies—a seafood (shrimp, according to Miss Everts’s whisper), a pastry filled with small black nubbins (caviar, Miss Everts called it), and, of all the awful things, snails. Due to my constrained condition and the peculiarity of these dishes, I declined to eat.

  Will materialized in front of us.

  “Miss Everts! And you’ve brought your lovely guest. Hello, Kula.”

  He bowed over my hand, his eyes lifting to mine the lower he went. Right off the bat, I was flustered. Back in Yellowstone, one of Pa’s men told tales of magicians who could enchant a subject with a mere look, put her to sleep or make her do silly things. Mesmerizing, after the doings of a Dr. Mesmer, he’d said. I’d scoffed—surely that wasn’t possible. But now I knew it was true. I wondered what silly things I might do under the gaze of that Will Henderson.

  “May I get you something to drink, ladies?”

  Miss Everts glanced at me and spoke up. “Kula, I shall socialize. Will.” She slipped right away, leaving me alone with Will, who looked at me.

  “Some punch?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Punch.” I followed him across the crowded space, slowing to regard the artwork on the walls as we passed.

  There were the usual landscapes and portraits, but there were also paintings the likes of which I’d never seen. I confess that the naked ladies made me blush, and I moved past them with a quick step. Heaven forbid I—the “artist’s model”—should ever pose as such. But there were also two panels of work that captured me. They were in gilt frames around painted images that progressed as if the subjects were on parade, from top to bottom: ladies in their odd robes cinched at the waist with their hair tied up in wide ribbons, wandering in gardens with arching bridges, passing through willows that wept over rippled ponds, serving tea in tiny shelters with wing-tipped roofs.

  I stood before these panels long enough for Will to fetch my punch and return.

  As I took a sip he asked, “You like Chinese art?”

  I nodded. And then drank a few swallows of the punch, my thirst making up for my lack of appetite. There was alcohol in that beverage; I recognized the pungent taste from sips I’d stolen while working in a steamy kitchen. “I’ve never seen such work before. I had no idea it could be so lovely.”

  “There is nothing lovely in this room. Except for you.”

  I was in the middle of another sip and gulped it down in surprise. On top of what I’d already drunk, the alcohol went straight to dizzying my brain. I choked out, “Ah . . . thank you.”

  “It’s true, you know. You’re turning heads.”

  “You are blunt, Will Henderson. Is it warm in here?” I suddenly knew the reason for the fan that dangled from my wrist. I snapped it open and waved vigorously.

  He lifted his hand to push that thicket of wavy hair off his face. I dared not look him in the eye, and instead examined the other guests more carefully. There were any number of girls my age about the room. Most of them had eyes planted firmly on Will. I could certainly understand why. And yet Will was here next to me.

  I took another swallow of punch. “You know,” I said, tilting my head at the other girls, “I believe many of those heads turn this way for you, not for me.”

  He smiled through his teeth. “They’re waiting like vultures.”

  I had to laugh. “For what?”

  “For me to make up my mind.”

  “About?”

  “Which one of them I’ll marry.”

  The alcohol was having a most uplifting effect. I giggled. “Oh, and do you have a favorite?”

  “No.” He looked in my eyes. That mesmerizing technique worked its magic on me, again. “None before now.”

  I drained my punch cup. “And now?” The squeaky voice must have been mine, though I didn’t recognize it.

  “Now I’ve found someone so different, so . . . unspoiled.” He leaned toward me, his lips brushing my ear. “It would send all their tongues wagging, would it not? Me with someone like you?”

  His words had an immediate sobering effect. I pulled back. “Someone like me?” Someone with my skin color, he meant. Of course. I pursed my lips.

  “Oh yes! Why, you know what I mean. Gorgeous. Unique. Not from their silly little circles.” His eyes met mine, and his seemed so genuine, so filled with sweetness, or what I took for sweetness, that I forgave his comment. I wished his lips would brush my ear again. He asked, “Would you dance with me?”

  I took a breath. “I’m not practiced.”

  “It’s not hard. I’ll show you.”

  Which he did. When his arm circled my waist and his hand pressed my back, I thought I might dissolve. After two waltzes, during which I became increasingly dizzy—whether from that punch or the dancing or some combination—I begged for a rest.

  Will asked, “Would you like more punch?”

  I nodded, unable to speak. In point of fact, my tongue was a massive object that seemed to be giving my mouth a certain deal of trouble.

  Will went for the punch and returned almost immediately. We sat now, in a pair of chairs against one wall of the room. I drank, trying to cool my mouth. The alcohol taste was stronger in this cup. It gave me a loose, dizzy feeling that only seemed to increase my fondness for this charming boy beside me. He was elegant, friendly . . . I remembered how he had rescued me from the rain.

  I leaned toward Will. I felt so safe, so sure that I c
ould tell him anything. “I have a secret. Shh.”

  He leaned toward me so that our faces were only inches apart. “Please share.”

  “I know about your dragon, you know. I’m not really . . . I’m really here because I’m looking for a box that belongs to my father. And, you know,” I tapped his arm with my fan. His eyebrows lifted, but I pressed on. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I think it must be full of gold.”

  He smiled. It was a funny smile, not one I’d ever seen from him before. It was almost cruel. But his warm eyes crinkled again. “Why do you think so?”

  “Oh, the gold rush. The past. Something about that dragon brotherhood.” The room spun around me. It was so warm in that grand room. “And it needs to be gold, in order to set Pa free.”

  “Set him free!” Will laughed, so I did, too. He laid a hand on my arm; it was soft, warm. “What, is he an outlaw? Or some kind of a captive?”

  I nodded. “Sadly, yes. He’s both. But he didn’t do it, what they’re saying. He was bad in the past, but he doesn’t deserve this. Not my pa. It was that Snake-eyes, evil Snake-eyes.” I shook my head, trying to clear Wilkie’s looming face from my mind. I thought of my father’s eyes, those sad, clear, blue eyes. My poor father. “And when I set Pa free, then I’m going to set myself free.” I smiled at the thought. “Yes. Set myself free. Not wait for someone to do it for me.”

  Will lifted his hand and brushed a stray hair from my face. “Aren’t you free now, Kula?”

  Melt—I thought I might melt. Oh, I could be free with you, Will Henderson.

  He leaned closer, and I thought for a second he would kiss me, right there, in public, in front of fine society. Me, Kula Baker. But instead he whispered, “I’ll go fetch more punch.” And he was gone.

  I blinked. The dancers swirled about on the floor. Heavens. My brain was addled. What had I just said to Will? The room closed on me, the bodies pressing in on me from the dance floor. I lifted my fan and batted like crazy. I stood. The press of bodies around me grew like a wall. I gulped air. I had to get out, get some air.