Tapestry Of Tamar

by Reece, Colleen L.

  “Where?” Gordon wanted to shake him. “Don’t you understand? I was on my way to ask her to marry me! And I didn’t betray her. O’Donnell got tired of getting no results and hired a private detective who somehow did what my man couldn’t.”

  A wide range of emotions played on George’s round face. Disbelief, scorn, growing acceptance, pity. “It’s too bad she doesn’t know that.”

  “She will.” Gordon grimly set his jaw in the look lying witnesses dreaded. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find her and when I do, only God Himself will ever take her away from me—if she’ll forgive my not speaking sooner.”

  “Then we’d better hurry!” George became an ally. “Joy—I’ll always think of her by that name—is leaving for the East Coast on the next train out of Oakland. A boat captain friend took her and Gilda across the Bay.” His accusing gaze cut deep into Gordon. “Seemed better that way than having her start her journey here where she could be traced.” He answered the unspoken questions that hung in the air. “We figured you’d show up so I came back to stall for time. Confound it, O’Donnell, how could you treat that beautiful sister of yours in such a way?”

  A flush rose under Carlos’s dark skin. “I’ve asked myself that a hundred times.” He stared out the window and in spite of the perilous situation, Gordon felt sorry for him. All he said, however, was, “Can’t we go faster?”

  It took time to reach Oakland, more time to get to the railway station. When they did, a lone blond-haired woman stood weeping beside empty tracks with her face turned east.

  “She’s gone?” George put his arms around her shoulders.

  “Yes.” Gilda’s red-rimmed eyes and swollen face showed the cost of Tamar’s leaving. George quickly explained what had happened.

  “When’s the next train?” Gordon demanded.

  “I don’t know. It won’t do any good, anyway,” Gilda said in a flat voice. “Joy doesn’t even know where she’s going. She laughed, a hurting little laugh, and said it didn’t matter. We can’t do anything until we hear from her. She promised she would let me know where she goes.”

  “I still think I should go,” Gordon insisted. Yet those long rails that dwindled into the distance, calling him to follow, held no clue to what lay in Tamar’s mind. In addition, his work schedule and sense of duty tugged heavily at him. Finally, he and Carlos reluctantly agreed the best thing was to return to San Francisco and wait for a message.

  ❧

  From the frail shelter of neatly stacked boxes a short distance away, Tamar watched them go. After Gilda saw her on the train and unwillingly left her, Tamar sank into a ball of helpless misery, but only for a few moments. Then her O’Donnell strength and grandmother’s pluck jerked her upright. More important, a whisper in her heart grew more insistent and pounded in her brain that there must be some explanation for what Carlos had told her. Gordon Rhys, with his steady gray eyes, could not be untrue! If she ran away now, she would never know—and she must. The scene at the Pantages had done more than humiliate her. It had also opened the door to the knowledge that she loved Gordon. Otherwise, the pain could never be so intense, her disappointment in him so great.

  “I’ll go straight to him and find out for myself,” she decided. The train gave a warning whistle and Tamar sprang to her feet. Yet even as she started toward the station, she hesitated. If Carlos became unpleasant, wouldn’t it affect her new friends?

  She instinctively turned the other way, going from car to car until she had put a goodly distance between herself and Gilda. Snatching up the faithful woven bag she had so hastily stuffed with the tapestry and a few clothes, she bided her time. Just as the warning whistle sounded again, she slipped off, shielded by a group of laughing passengers who stood nearby. She bowed her head and shrank among them, then followed until they began to disperse. With a frantic prayer, Tamar darted to the boxes, knowing she must get away before someone came to move them. Not yet, for Gilda still stood looking east.

  Tamar turned and watched the train disappear from sight. When she finally looked back, three men had joined Gilda. Tamar crouched lower, her body turned to ice. George. Carlos. Gordon. Why? Had her brother convinced the others they must turn her over to him? She searched for another explanation and found none, then ventured a peep. Now Gilda was saying something and shaking her head. Gordon moved impatiently, and she saw the sun glint on his bare, sandy head. He pointed down the tracks, then took a step toward the station. Did he mean to go after her?

  No, for Gilda spoke again. Oh, God, had she been wrong about the Smiths? The little group appeared to be arguing, but after a short time, they walked away together without a backward glance. Tamar wanted to run after them, to plead with Carlos for the truth and freedom, to look into the Smiths’ kindly eyes and find the faithfulness she had trusted in for all these weeks. Her legs wouldn’t move. Gordon had linked arms with Carlos, and the quartet gradually became blurred by distance and tears. So it was true. All Gordon Rhys ever wanted from her was to confirm her real identity. Well, now he knew. So would the world. What would Veronica and all the proud Rhys relatives say? That Gordon got what he deserved for dallying with anyone who had heathenish hair, dyed, of course?

  ten

  Again, Tamar began a new life. She had tried to be a children’s companion, with disastrous results. Her career as the Unknown Angel had ended abruptly. She carefully considered her narrowing choices and at last decided to simply let God order her future. For the present, the earnings from the Pantages would keep her for a long time. She decided to remain in Oakland. Few knew her there, and she would avoid those who did. To that end, she stayed away from the fine stores patronized by the rich and made her purchases in smaller, less pretentious establishments. She sought out the simplest accommodations and disclosed nothing of her past. She also gave up the name Joy Darnell and signed herself J. Donald to prevent discovery.

  The lonely life on which she had embarked offered security and little else. Some contentment came from spring itself, but even though Oakland was a beautiful city, she missed San Francisco. Did she dare return? Could she lose herself in the crowds and yet be in the city she loved?

  One morning she awakened from a dream in which Gordon Rhys had stretched out pleading arms. His gray eyes looked sad and she heard him whisper, “Come back, Tamar.” When she opened her eyes and realized where she was, she remembered he had said “Tamar,” not “Joy.” All day she was distracted by the question of whether she had been betrayed by the man she had grown to love. By nightfall, she decided she would go back to San Francisco, in spite of the possible risk. She had successfully hidden in Oakland crowds; in San Francisco she could catch glimpses of Gordon from some obscure spot, and with her plain garb and shaded face, he’d never know. An obsession took hold of her—that just seeing him would in some way let her know if he truly had been false.

  As much as she wanted to return to her first San Francisco landlady, Tamar knew it would never do. Neither could she contact George and Gilda Smith when they might be influenced by Carlos. So again she sought and found the plainest of lodgings, smiled, and kept her own counsel. “J. Donald” slipped back into the pool of San Francisco humanity without a ripple.

  Unwilling to do anything to call attention to herself, she carefully portioned her money so it would last the longest possible time. The feeling persisted that God would lead when the time came. In the meanwhile, what need had she of fancy clothing and fripperies?

  Gradually, the lonely girl set aside her troubles and became interested in life around her. The city buzzed with excitement over the coming of the Metropolitan Opera Company from New York to perform in the Grand Opera House. From Market Street to Telegraph Hill, stories ran rampant, stories of the luxurious cars in which the stars traveled with costumes and scenery, of the European tours where the stars’ fame had shone bright, and of the display of jewelry to be worn by patrons. The Palace Hotel preene
d itself for their elegant rooms near to the opera house, thereby garnering most of the visiting singers. Flowers filled the Hotel, and the Palace’s usual excellent service became even better.

  The second piece of news that April of 1906 concerned the terrible fact that Italy’s Mt. Vesuvius had roused from dormancy and begun to shake itself into action. San Francisco with its many Italians sent aid to the fleeing homeless in Naples. Several other towns were also in danger, just as in the days of Pompeii.

  “How can people be so stupid as to live near an active volcano?” many asked, even while gathering funds.

  Tamar had long since managed to purchase entrance to the opera Carmen, scheduled for April 17. When the night came, she hurried into an obscure corner, peered at the flashing array of jewels, and noted with a twisted smile how Phillip-with-two-l’s Carlin occupied a prominent box with a jeweled dowager and a haughty ash blond woman. Tamar breathed a little prayer of thanks. But for the grace of God, she would be Tamar Carlin now, bound forever to a selfish, domineering man.

  The Grand Opera House had been garlanded with blossoms and greenery. Roses perfumed the air. Tamar forgot Phillip Carlin and lost herself in the performance.

  Not until intermission did Tamar catch sight of Gordon Rhys, aisles away. Her heart fluttered when his keen eyes lit up and he half rose. Had he seen her? She shrank back; hopefully, if he looked her way again he would think he’d been mistaken. She peeped around the shelter of a broad-backed man and saw a woman had clutched Gordon’s arm and motioned him to be seated again. Tamar had to know who she was. She waited until Gordon turned his gaze toward the stage where the performance had resumed, then leaned sideways until she could see the woman. “Veronica!” A sigh of relief escaped her.

  “Shhh,” the heavy-set man beside her admonished.

  Tamar obediently subsided, but although Enrico Caruso, the great Italian tenor, sang as never before, only half of Tamar’s attention stayed with him. She must leave before the performance ended, but how? She frantically considered ways to escape and rejected them all. If she feigned illness, it would cause a stir and those gray eyes would see it. Finally, she decided her best plan lay in mingling with the crowd. Gordon and Veronica would need time to leave their seats and reach her. She would be inconspicuous among the crowd.

  A silent prayer for help shot skyward. During the standing ovation, she slipped from her place, and ignoring the black looks she received when she stumbled over feet, she reached the door. She dared not use a public conveyance whose driver might remember her, and so despite the miles that lay between her and her boarding place, she darted away from the Grand Opera House into the night.

  Lower lip caught between her teeth, haunted by fear but trusting in the Lord, Tamar set out on the most frightening walk of her life. Each time a dog or cat separated itself from the shadows, she cringed. Most of the streets were lighted, yet here and there she passed dark alleys where danger might hide.

  Hours later she reached the haven of her sparsely furnished room. Midnight had come and gone. Exhausted from her trek, heartsick at the vivid thrust of emotion she had felt when she saw Gordon, Tamar listlessly undressed, got into her nightgown, and fell into bed. She wondered why life had to be so hard and if it would ever get better.

  ❧

  The moment Gordon saw Tamar across the flower-filled opera house, hope revived in his heart. Until now, he, Carlos, and Hood had made no progress toward finding the whereabouts of the Unknown Angel. No trace of her remained. Gordon lost weight and took little care of himself. Veronica stormed, Hood encouraged, to no avail. Somewhere the woman he loved and had hoped to marry wandered the country friendless, believing he had betrayed her. Only the necessity of diligence in his job kept him from total despair.

  “Sit down, Gordon, it’s beginning again.” Veronica’s low reprimand brought him back to the present. “Whatever is the matter with you?”

  Before the house lights dimmed, Gordon looked across the space separating them from Tamar. To his amazement, she appeared to have vanished. Surely she couldn’t have seen him and fled so soon! He strained his eyes and discerned a bit of black clothing just behind a moon-faced man. His legal mind tackled the problem. If she hadn’t seen him, he needn’t worry. If she had, she couldn’t get out without attracting attention. He settled back in his chair for the rest of the performance and heard as little of it as Tamar had. The instant it ended, he leaped to his feet. “I’ll be back,” he told his amazed sister.

  It took Herculean effort to get through the milling crowd. “Well, really, I never saw such a rude man,” followed him when he dodged between two society women.

  Gordon had marked well the exact location where Tamar sat and lunged toward it—only to find a gesticulating man who beamed and pounded a friend on his back.

  “Did you see a young lady?” Gordon interrupted.

  “Did you lose one?” The man and his companion roared with laughter. “Plenty more young ladies. Take your pick.” He waved and went into fresh gales of laughter.

  Gordon turned away. He crowded through droves of people and finally reached the door. Private carriages stood waiting for their owners. He questioned a few of the drivers and received only head shakes. Too many people had poured out for anyone to remember one young woman in black.

  Defeated, yet strangely exhilarated that Tamar at least was in the city and not somewhere known only to God, Gordon wended his way back to Veronica.

  Her sandy brows rose at his disheveled appearance. “Well, you decided to come back, did you?”

  He lowered his voice, aware of curious onlookers. “She was here, Veronica. I saw Tamar.” He had told his sister the girl’s identity after his frantic trip to Oakland weeks before.

  “Impossible! She left on the train, didn’t she?”

  “We thought she did. Either she never went or has come back.”

  “You must be mistaken, Gordon.” Sympathy showed in the gray eyes so like his. “Why would she risk being seen by coming here tonight?”

  “Perhaps she couldn’t resist the temptation of hearing Caruso sing. You know how she loves music,” he reminded and helped her into her lightweight cape.

  “What will you do now?” she asked before turning to go.

  “Turn San Francisco upside-down if I have to,” he grimly said. “Even if she can never learn to care for me, she has to know I didn’t give her away to Carlos.”

  Once at home on Nob Hill, they talked far into the night. Veronica’s support had swung to the mysterious singer once she realized how much her brother loved Tamar and how courageously Tamar had fled from marriage with Phillip. “If she’s back in the city, Hood will find her,” she told Gordon, then yawned. “We’d best get to bed. It’s only a few hours until daylight. Don’t worry, old dear. If the good Lord wants you to find her, you will.”

  “I just wish I hadn’t waited so long to tell her I cared.” Gordon moodily stared at the wall. “All this could have been avoided. I guess I was afraid it was too soon to speak.”

  Veronica patted him on the shoulder and said nothing. He went to his own room but lay sleepless. Had there been reproach in the dark eyes when their fleeting gaze had met his? He tossed and turned, knowing he must sleep. Tomorrow, no, today, offered a new chance to find her. Yet his eyes persisted in popping open and he watched the pre-dawn gloom grow lighter.

  Suddenly a violent lurch of his bed brought him upright. Another leap sent him to his feet, the floor beneath him rolling like ocean breakers. Priceless paintings and statuary plummeted from the walls. “God, help us! And Tamar.” His fear for her was greater than for himself as the earthquake continued its devastation.

  “Gordon!” Veronica’s voice rose above the screaming of the servants. He somehow managed to step into trousers, wondering if the ceiling would come down on them all before they could get outside. A minute of calm only preceded ano
ther grinding, groaning attack as the earth slid and quivered and bucked.

  “Go outside!” Gordon bellowed. “Into the garden, away from the house.” The sound of falling masonry all but drowned his voice. He raced to steady Veronica, who had struggled into a dressing gown. Together they lurched into the hall toward the head of the staircase. They skirted piles of smashed treasures, clutched one another for support, and somehow made it down the dancing staircase that threatened to buckle beneath their feet. Master, mistress, and servants gathered in the garden and clung to one another. Like a scene of horror, the streets were filled with half-dressed people under a steel-blue sky. Unlike many spring days that began with soft fog, at 5:13 in the morning this April 18th was already hot, a merciless sun beginning to rise.

  “Look.” Gordon pointed below them. Smoke drifted up from the south of Market Street. “Fires,” he quietly added. “From overturned stoves and gas lamps.” He turned from the scene. “Thank God none of us is hurt. I’ll check the neighboring homes.”

  “Wait, Gordon.” Veronica’s face looked ghastly in the early morning. “The people. They’re coming here.”

  He whipped around. Far below a steady procession of men, women, and children fled the fire and destruction surrounding them. The distant fires grew more menacing, and when the first of the refugees reached them, he panted, “Water main’s broken! Can’t stop the fires. God, send us rain.”

  Before long the lower end of Market Street lay masked by smoke and the Mission District pulsed with noise and confusion, engulfed with fire. Tall buildings became black ruins. Morning limped on, and a line of red fire serpentined up the hills toward Nob Hill. With only water from the Bay available, the best efforts proved futile. The dull boom of dynamite added to the pall over the city; buildings were being blown up to try to stop the fire.