by Toombs, Jane
“Well, you must stop being serious this very instant. I become impatient with serious men.” She took his hand and pulled him after her across the room to the foot of the stairs. “You must see the upstairs, Barry. I have the most wonderful bedroom you’ve ever set eyes on.”
He followed her, smiling and shaking his head. When Selena reached the top of the stairs, two workmen stood and doffed their caps.
“Horace, Manuel,” Selena said, smiling dazzlingly at them. “The house looks just magnificent.”
They mumbled their thanks. Barry didn’t think the two men had even seen him, so taken were they with Selena.
“You’ve changed,” he told her when he finally caught up to her in the upper hallway.
“Isn’t that what growing up is for? To become different? Wouldn’t life be boring if we were always the same, day after day?” Selena stepped over a two-by-four. “This is my room,” she said. “I intend to put the bed over there. You don’t know about my bed, do you? It’s a Louis XIV, all curtains and cords and tassels.”
Barry stopped in the doorway.
“Don’t be shy,” she told hun. “Surely there’s nothing improper about entering a lady’s bed- chamber when all of San Francisco can see us.” She swung her parasol toward the city below them.
“I don’t know that I’m shy,” he told her, smiling. “It was something altogether different. As I looked at you, I realized I’d never seen a lovelier woman. Never.”
“Why, good heavens, Captain Fitzpatrick. And you a well-traveled man, too.”
“Wait.” He made no move to approach her. “I had a feeling, a premonition if you will. A warning. It told me to go back to my room at the Oriental, pack up, and leave.”
She poked the point of her parasol at a curled shaving on the floor at her feet. “Why, captain,” she said. “I think you’re being most ungallant. Threatening to run off no more than ten minutes after meeting me again.” She speared the shaving and flicked it aside, and leaned the parasol against the wall.
“Selena!”
She looked up. The shout had come from below. Selena walked past Barry, smiling up at him, and crossed the hall to one of the front rooms. She waved down to someone Barry couldn’t see.
“It’s Leland,” she said when she came back. “Leland’s one of our leading merchants, you know. I promised to go riding with him today. And just when we were having such a fascinating conversation.”
He bowed. “Miss Selena.”
When she was halfway down the stairs he called after her. “You’ve forgotten your parasol.” He stood at the top of the steps holding it toward her.
They heard footsteps below them. “Selena, where are you?” a man’s voice asked.
When she realized Barry had no intention of coming to her, but was simply going to stand there smiling at her, Selena ran up the stairs, grasped the parasol and ran down again. “I’m here, Lee,” she said gaily. She glanced up the stairwell. “I thought you’d never come. I’ve been so bored waiting.”
Later that day, Captain Barry Fitzpatrick pushed his way to the bar of the Golden Empire, surprised at the spaciousness and ornate furnishings of the gambling hall. The light of many chandeliers glowed through the smoke-filled air; croupiers called monotonously from behind card tables. A dark-haired girl in a low-cut bodice spun a ball on a whirling roulette wheel, the ball circling and circling before clicking into the zero slot.
“Your pleasure, sir?” the barman asked.
“I’m looking for Wordsworth Rhynne.”
“Mr. Rhynne? Just a second.” He signaled to a big man lounging beneath a painting of a diaphanously draped woman testing the water of her bath. “Mr. McSweeney,” the barman said, “this gentleman here’s inquiring for Mr. Rhynne.”
McSweeney towered over Barry. He seemed as large as a grizzly and moved as quickly. Barry had a fleeting memory of an English big game hunter he’d met in Oregon telling him, “Your bloody grizzly is more dangerous than the most ferocious tiger.” Best not to underestimate McSweeney.
“I’m Captain Fitzpatrick,” Barry said. “Tell Rhynne I’d like to have a word with him.”
“It’s Mr. Rhynne,” McSweeney said.
Barry shrugged. “Tell Mr. Rhynne.”
McSweeney walked away but when Barry started to follow him the big man stopped and turned, thrusting his finger to within an inch of Barry’s chest.
“You’d best be waiting here, I think,” he said.
Barry felt the excitement of the challenge course through him. McSweeney eyed him appraisingly but made no move to back down.
“Sir,” McSweeney added. His tone took away all the respect the word might otherwise have held.
Barry turned and went back to the bar. He wasn’t here to fight anyone. He was downing the last of his whisky when he sensed someone standing behind him. It was McSweeney.
“Mr. Rhynne says, ‘Bring the gentleman up,” he said.
McSweeney scanned Barry’s buckskins.
“I’m not armed,” Barry told him.
McSweeney nodded and led him upstairs to a thickly carpeted hall lit by glowing lamps in sconces along the walls. He ‘tapped on a door, opened it, and stepped to one side. Barry walked into the room.
Rhynne’s office was spartan, the furnishings consisting of a pine desk, two chairs, a single potted fern near the window, bookshelves and a clock on the wall behind the desk. Only the dark leather bindings of the many books contradicted the room’s frugal image.
“I’m Captain Fitzpatrick,” Barry said.
“I’ve heard of you. Excuse me, captain.” He looked at McSweeney who was waiting in the doorway. “Has there been any word?” he asked. “There’s been no change.”
“Let me know the minute you hear.” Mc-Sweeney nodded and shut the door.
“Ned Heineman, a friend of mine, was taken ill last night. He’s the best piano player in all of San Francisco.” Rhynne put both of his hands palm down on his desk. “Now, how can I help you, captain?”
“I’ve been hired by the Committee of Vigilance.”
“So I’ve heard. I’ve been expecting you since word of your coming circulated. I wondered if you’d turn out to be Wordsworth’s ‘happy warrior.’”
Barry looked at him questioningly.
“The man ‘that every man in arms would wish to be.’”
“Ah,” Barry smiled. “You’ll have to judge that for yourself, Mr. Rhynne. May I speak in confidence?”
“Of course.”
“I have some advice for you. Leave San Francisco.”
“I like you, captain. You come directly to the point.”
“The Vigilance Committee will see to it that you leave, one way or the other. Why not steal a march on them by leaving on your own?”
“Would you, Captain Fitzpatrick, if you were in my position?”
“Probably not. Though I’d realize I might be making the biggest mistake of my life.”
“My feelings exactly. Do you want to know why Coleman would like to see the last of me?”
Barry shrugged. Rhynne smoothed his mustache. “He needs a piece of property I own to build an auction house on.”
“I know nothing of that.”
There was a knock. When Rhynne called, “Come in,” McSweeney opened the door. He stood shaking his head. It was several seconds before Barry saw that the big man was crying.
“Out with it, Mac,” Rhynne said.
“He’s dead, Mr. Rhynne. Ned died a few minutes ago.”
“Damn.” Rhynne struck the desk with his fist. “Did they decide what it was?”
“Cholera.”
The word hung in the room like an intimation of doom.
“Thank you, Mac,” Rhynne said. “I’ll see to the arrangements myself.”
After McSweeney shut the door, Rhynne stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you for the warning, captain,” he said. Barry hesitated a moment before shaking Rhynne’s hand.
“Don’t be oversure of yourself,” R
hynne said. “Little is as simple as it seems.” Barry said nothing.
Once the captain had left, Rhynne walked to the window and looked down into the Square. He stood to lose more than he cared to think about in Sutton’s mining scheme. Captain Fitzpatrick posed a threat--he was a dangerous man. And now Ned was gone.
Wordsworth Rhynne wondered if his luck had begun to turn for the worse.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
“Are you going out again?” Pamela asked
Selena turned from the pier glass. “Lee’s asked me to dine with him tonight. We were to have lunch but—well, I changed my mind.” She didn’t feel she wanted to talk about her encounter with Barry Fitzpatrick. Not yet.
“Who else will be with you?” Pamela’s voice was sharp.
“Oh, mother, will you stop worrying about my reputation. You know Leland’s already asked me to marry him. I’m the one who doesn’t want to get married. All Lee talks about these days is building a railroad over the mountains, I don’t find that especially romantic.” Selena eyed herself appraisingly in the glass.
“Well, at least you’ve given up the idea of singing in public places. I never did approve of that.”
“You were quite right, mother,” Selena told her. She wondered what Pamela would think if she knew why she didn’t want ever to sing publicly again—in the Golden Empire or any other fancy hotel in town. Selena rearranged a curl above her forehead and smiled secretly at her reflection.
She’d intended to keep up her singing when they’d returned from Hangtown. When W.W. had told her positively he wouldn’t have her in the Golden Empire, she’d put on her very newest French brocade and bearded him in his office at the back of the hotel.
“Why is there any difference between singing in Hangtown and your new hotel here?” Selena had demanded. “They’d like me just as well in San Francisco.”
“How well they’d like your singing has nothing to do with it.” Rhynne sighed, looking at Selena’s determined face. He’d put off talking to her, knowing she wouldn’t accept what he had to say.
“At least you could let me try.”
“Selena, I’m going to take you somewhere. But first you have to promise me you’ll never tell your mother.”
“Not tell Pamela? Where on earth are we going?”
“Promise me, Selena.”
“But why?”
“Because I value your mother’s friendship. I’d never do anything to hurt her and if she finds out where I’ve taken you she’ll be very upset. Does that satisfy you?”
“You’re in love with my mother, aren’t you?” Selena asked shrewdly.
“My dear girl, I expected you to become wiser with age but there’s such a thing as being too smart for your own good. Now, will you promise?”
“All right, W.W., I give you my word I won’t tell Pamela. Now, where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
W.W. escorted Selena from the Golden Empire by a side door. In the street men stared after her as he assisted her into his carriage. As the horses pulled them away from downtown, he commented on the new buildings, on the results of the latest fire, saying not a word about their destination.
At last the coachman halted the horses in front of a large well-appointed house standing apart from its neighbors with an iron fence surrounding the grounds.
“Have you bought yourself a new home?” she asked.
“In a way.” Rhynne helped her down and offered his arm. They walked slowly through the open gates and up a brick walkway to the entry porch. Rhynne pulled a cord and she heard bells tinkle inside the house.
A large man dressed like an English butler opened the door. Selena had to remind herself not to stare. This, in San Francisco?
“Good day, Mr. Rhynne,” the man said. “Nice to see you, sir.”
“Hello, Talbot. Would you tell Madam Tussey I’ve brought a guest? Perhaps she should receive us in her private quarters.”
“Of course, sir. May I take your hat?” Selena and W.W. followed Talbot along a short hall and through a door into a small sitting room.
“I’ll tell Madame you’re here,” Talbot said, bowing. He left the room.
“My curiosity has reached the bursting point,” Selena warned Rhynne.
Moments later a well-corseted middle-aged woman with impossibly red hair entered and smiled at Rhynne, then looked appraisingly at Selena. “A real beauty!” she exclaimed.
Rhynne frowned and shook his head.
The woman raised her eyebrows, then nodded. “Private property, right?”
“I’d like to show my friend around the premises,” he told her.
“Whatever you say, W.W. The place, after all, is yours. Nice to meet you, Miss . . . ?”
“Jones,” Rhynne said hastily. “Her name is Jones.”
“Miss Jones. If you ever need work, just remember you’re more than welcome here any time.”
“Thank you,” Selena said faintly as Rhynne took her elbow to lead her from the room. “Wasn’t Madam Tussey wearing an extreme amount of rouge?” she whispered to him. “And her hair!”
“It’s mandatory. Like aprons on maids.”
“Oh.”
They passed through a large room, somewhat like a parlor, with a rosewood piano at the far end. Selena caught her breath when she saw the nude depicted on the gilt-framed canvas above the fireplace mantel. Surely what the woman was doing was, well, too private to be the subject of a painting. Her face flamed.
She thought she heard W.W. chuckle but when she glanced sideways he was smoothing his mustache. He led her through an archway toward a wide curving staircase. Two women looked down from the upstairs hall and as they began to climb the steps
Selena saw both of them had on transparent robes with nothing underneath.
“It’s Mr. Rhynne,” one said.
“Yeah but who’s she?” the other responded.
“Alice”, Rhynne said, approaching them. “And Theresa, isn’t it? I’m showing Miss Jones through. She’d like to see one of the rooms. One of the unoccupied rooms.”
Both of the women looked her up and down. Selena tried desperately not to stare at their bodies, which were so suggestively revealed. Alice turned away and threw open a door at the top of the steps. Selena stopped in the doorway.
Inside was an ornate brass bed cover with crimson velvet. On a wall hung another oil, this one of a man and woman. Selena looked away immediately. She had no idea such paintings existed. The ceiling above the bed reflected the room and she realized with astonishment a mirror had somehow been mounted there. She looked at W.W. with dawning realization.
“I believe Miss Jones has seen enough. Thank you, girls.” Rynne nodded politely and steered her down the stairs.
She held her words until they were back in the carriage. “That was a—a house of ill repute, wasn’t it?”
“A whorehouse, yes,” he said bluntly. “I own it.”
She stared at him,
“Oh, come, Selena, you’ve heard my name connected with such places before. It turns a decent profit and I make sure the girls are well taken care of and that they all want to be where they are. I’m no white slaver.”
“But why did you bring me there?”
“Because that’s where you’ll wind up if you start singing at the Golden Empire. Not only my ‘pretty waitress girls’ are expected to satisfy the customers—the entertainers are too. It’s part of an unspoken contract. The customers expect it and won’t patronize you if you don’t provide it. In Hangtown, things were different. There you could sing and the men were satisfied to dream about you. Not in San Francisco. Here they expect to be able to have you. Is that what you want, Selena? For any man who’s taken with you to think he has the right to have you?”
She shuddered. “No! You know I’d never permit such a thing!”
“Pamela has made a great deal of money. You’ll qualify for what passes for society in this town. You’ll be desired by every man who sees you in whatever cir
cles you move in, but at least you’ll have the right to pick and choose. One or none, as the fancy takes you.”
“I’m sorry you had to be exposed to Madam Tussey’s, but I felt you had to be shocked into accepting the fact that you can’t possibly sing in a public place in San Francisco.”
Selena swallowed. “She—Madam Tussey offered me work!”
Rhynne grinned at her. “Well, why not? To her way of thinking it was a compliment to your attractiveness. All her girls are pretty.”
She stared at him, then reluctantly began to smile, finally laughing out loud. “Oh, W.W.,” she said. “There isn’t another man like you in the whole world.”
When Pamela sneezed, Selena jerked out of her reverie. She turned from the mirror to look at her mother. “You aren’t getting another cold?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Mother, are you still friendly with King Sutton?”
“Friendly? I see him occasionally—why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought once maybe you and W.W. would marry.”
“We’re friends, Selena.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Don’t be late tonight; you need your beauty sleep. We’ve yet to find you a husband who suits your fancy.” Pamela yawned. “I’m retiring early, I have an appointment with Robert Gowdy tomorrow, plus some other business errands to see to.”
“If you wish me to continue to act as your agent, I shall, of course, do so,” Robert Gowdy said.
Pamela thought he sounded more like a great sulky boy than anything else. All because she had made this unlikely sum of money without taking his advice. She still had trouble believing how wealthy she actually was.
The hidden reason for Robert’s dissatisfaction was that he suspected she listened to W.W.’s advice and not his. Which she did. But Robert would never be able to understand that she herself had a good head for business. In that way he was like her late husband. On the other hand, W.W. gave credit where credit was due.
Why then did she continue to see King Sutton? She no longer really loved him, indeed no longer respected him. Perhaps because he had no one else. Pamela sighed and gave her attention once more to Robert Gowdy who, whatever he felt about her, was an excellent agent and well worth the percentage she paid him.
