Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "Don't you think you sho­uld go to yo­ur hus­band?"

  Re­gi­na's eyes flas­hed. "No, I do not."

  Edward was si­lent for a mo­ment. "I see. And when are you plan­ning on se­e­ing Sla­de? I me­an, I can only as­su­me that that is the re­ason we ha­ve co­me to the city."

  "To­mor­row, I think." She was re­ser­ved. She did not want to en­co­ura­ge Ed­ward in­to ven­tu­ring mo­re de­eply in­to this to­pic.

  Edward co­uld only be gal­lant. "Wo­uld you li­ke me to stay at yo­ur un­c­le's so I can ta­ke you to my brot­her to­mor­row?" His vo­ice was soft, des­pi­te her to­ne.

  Re­gi­na bit her lip. How co­uld he gu­ess that des­pi­te the an­ger, she was just a lit­tle bit frig­h­te­ned at the tho­ught of con­f­ron­ting Sla­de? "You re­al­ly don't ha­ve to do that."

  Edward smi­led; he was han­d­so­me eno­ugh to ca­use the three mat­ronly la­di­es sit­ting on the ot­her si­de of the ais­le, who had be­en ste­aling pe­eks at him all af­ter­no­on, to turn and sta­re. Ed­ward ga­ve them all a dim­p­led grin be­fo­re con­ti­nu­ing. "It will be my ple­asu­re."

  Re­gi­na co­uldn't help thin­king that if Sla­de had one oun­ce of his brot­her's com­pas­si­on she wo­uld not be in this mess.

  The tra­in fi­nal­ly stop­ped and they di­sem­bar­ked. A ste­ward bro­ught the­ir bags and hel­ped them to the de­pot's do­ors, whe­re Re­gi­na saw Ed­ward slip him a sil­ver half-dol­lar. Tip­ping was ex­pec­ted, of co­ur­se, but she was sur­p­ri­sed that Ed­ward wo­uld be so ge­ne­ro­us- too ge­ne­ro­us, in fact. A nic­kel wo­uld ha­ve suf­fi­ced. And Ed­ward had no we­alth that she knew of.

  Pas­sen­gers we­re crow­ding the stre­et. A do­zen han­soms we­re li­ned up, wa­iting to pick up fa­res, whi­le a crush of cab­le cars and hor­se-drawn trol­leys of­fe­red slo­wer pub­lic tran­s­por­ta­ti­on to tho­se who pre­fer­red it. Mo­ments la­ter they we­re in a cab and Re­gi­na had gi­ven her un­c­le's ad­dress on Ca­li­for­nia Stre­et.

  "Nob Hill?" Ed­ward as­ked.

  "Yes," Re­gi­na sa­id, kno­wing what he was thin­king. Nob Hill was li­ned with spec­ta­cu­lar and os­ten­ta­ti­o­us man­si­ons. It hadn't al­ways be­en that way. When Re­gi­na had first co­me to San Fran­cis­co as a lit­tle girl, her un­c­le had re­si­ded the­re, his for­ty-ro­om ho­me to­we­ring over most of the ot­her re­si­den­ces on the stre­et. Se­ve­ral ye­ars ago Re­gi­na had re­tur­ned to the city and was shoc­ked to find her un­c­le's ho­me now gre­atly re­du­ced in sta­tu­re, for mas­si­ve man­si­ons li­ned Ca­li­for­nia Stre­et, each one big­ger than its ne­ig­h­bor.

  "Char­les Mann li­ves on Nob Hill, too," Ed­ward sa­id qu­i­etly.

  Re­gi­na ten­sed. Be­ca­use she had not dis­cus­sed Sla­de, she did not even know whe­re he li­ved, or whe­re he wor­ked, or what he did pre­ci­sely. She he­si­ta­ted, then was ca­re­ful to ke­ep her to­ne im­per­so­nal. "And Sla­de?"

  "He rents a mo­dest ho­me on Go­ugh Stre­et, al­t­ho­ugh he is hardly ever the­re. He works la­te at the of­fi­ce mo­re nights than not, and even go­es the­re at un­godly ho­urs. And he of­ten di­nes with Mann. I think his ho­use is used so­lely for sle­eping."

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed. It was now clo­se to six o'clock. She ima­gi­ned that so­on they might be pas­sing by Mann's re­si­den­ce and that Sla­de might even be wit­hin. She was agi­ta­ted at the tho­ught. She re­ali­zed she was per­s­pi­ring slightly, al­t­ho­ugh it was qu­ite co­ol out be­ca­use of the sum­mer fog. "Whe­re is his of­fi­ce?"

  "His of­fi­ce is with Mann's, in the Fel­d­c­rest Bu­il­ding- which Mann hap­pens to own."

  Re­gi­na sta­red out the han­som's win­dow, ba­rely se­e­ing Mar­ket Stre­et as they cros­sed it. The eve­ning rush to get ho­me was not yet over and pas­sing thro­ugh the in­ter­sec­ti­on to­ok ten mi­nu­tes. She knew not­hing abo­ut her hus­band's li­fe in San Fran­cis­co. She did not want to know. But she sa­id, "I don't un­der­s­tand his re­la­ti­on­s­hip with this Mr. Mann."

  Edward re­gar­ded her tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly. "Mann to­ok him in when he was a ho­od­lum of fif­te­en."

  Re­gi­na tri­ed not to be in­te­res­ted, but she was. "What is a ho­od­lum?"

  "The­re are gangs which ro­ve the stre­ets of the city af­ter dark-and so­me­ti­mes du­ring the day. They prey on the Chi­ne­se mostly, but al­so on ot­her fo­re­ig­ners. Sin­ce the dep­res­si­on, the­re's be­en a lot of an­ger. Pe­op­le fe­el that the Chi­ne­se are res­pon­sib­le for the dep­res­si­on, for the lack of jobs. I do­ubt if s true."

  "That’s sad."

  "Yes, it is. I per­so­nal­ly think they're go­od for the city, they're hard and ef­fi­ci­ent wor­kers, but I wo­uldn't sta­te such an un­po­pu­lar opi­ni­on pub­licly. An­y­way, the ho­od­lums are not­hing for you to worry abo­ut, not un­less you go alo­ne to Chi­na­town at odd ho­urs." He flas­hed her his win­ning smi­le. "Sla­de ca­me he­re when he ran away from Mi­ra­mar as a boy. He was pen­ni­less and on the stre­ets and he to­ok up with a gang. For­tu­na­tely the gang cho­se to rob Mann. Mann is an in­te­res­ting fel­low, as you shall see. He's abo­ut sixty now-back then he was just out of his pri­me, but he al­so grew up in the stre­ets, tho­ugh it was New York City's east si­de, not San Fran­cis­co's back al­leys. He cha­sed the gang off, ap­pre­hen­ding Sla­de. That's how the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip be­gan."

  Re­gi­na did not want to be in­te­res­ted. She was very, very angry with her un­s­c­ru­pu­lo­us, im­mo­ral hus­band. But she felt a pang of sympathy for a boy who had be­en re­j­ec­ted so of­ten that he had run away from ho­me and ta­ken to the stre­ets as a 'ho­od­lum.' Des­pi­te her­self, she as­ked, "What hap­pe­ned?"

  "I gu­ess Mann saw the go­od in Sla­de, or may­be he saw so­me of his own mis­spent yo­uth. In­s­te­ad of tur­ning him over to the po­li­ce, he to­ok him ho­me. Ga­ve him a bed, a me­al, and a job. Sla­de star­ted out as a mes­sen­ger boy. To­day he runs a go­od de­al of Mann's em­pi­re."

  Re­gi­na blin­ked. "Just what is it that Mr. Mann do­es?"

  "He ma­de his mo­ney in the Com­s­tock du­ring the sil­ver rush in the la­te fif­ti­es and early six­ti­es. And he was smart eno­ugh to sell out be­fo­re it col­lap­sed. He didn't sit on his mo­ney eit­her. Du­ring the sil­ver-bo­om ye­ars, he ow­ned half of Vir­gi­nia City. To­day he owns the Mann Gran­de Ho­tel, which is se­cond only to Ral­s­ton's Pa­la­ce Ho­tel, as well as the Ran­c­ho Ni­ca­sio, which is the lar­gest ranch in Ma­rin, and pro­bably a tenth of this city's pro­perty. I he­ar he's a very big in­ves­tor in the Oc­to­pus."

  "The Oc­to­pus?" Re­gi­na sa­id we­akly. Sla­de was this en­t­rep­re­ne­ur's rig­ht-hand man?

  "The So­ut­hern Pa­ci­fic is fon­d­ly-or not so fondly- cal­led the Oc­to­pus," Ed­ward sa­id. "It owns most of the sta­te's tran­s­por­ta­ti­on, tho­usands of mi­les of track, mil­li­ons of ac­res of land, and is rat­her in­f­lu­en­ti­al in sta­te po­li­tics." He smi­led wryly. "And that is an un­der­s­ta­te­ment, Re­gi­na. An­y­way, Char­les Mann is qu­ite a so­me­body. He's one of the ric­hest men in San Fran­cis­co."

  Re­gi­na sa­id not­hing. But she was even an­g­ri­er. How da­re Sla­de! He pre­sen­ted him­self as if he we­re one of tho­se ho­od­lums, but he was no ho­od­lum-oh, no! Why did he go to such tro­ub­le to pre­sent him­self as a down-and-out re­bel when he was ac­tu­al­ly a res­pec­tab­le bu­si­nes­sman?

  Edward ap­pa­rently was re­ading her tho­ughts. "Sla­de sheds his re­al li­fe li­ke a sna­ke sheds its win­ter skin whe­ne­ver he co­mes ho­me. You might ha­ve so­me tro­ub­le re­cog­ni­zing him, Re­gi­na."

  "That's ne­it­her he­re nor the­re," she sa­id briskly. 'Frankly, I wo­uldn't ca­re if he was Char­les Mann him­
self."

  Edward win­ced.

  "We're he­re," she sa­id, re­cog­ni­zing her un­c­le's ho­me. Whi­le Ed­ward pa­id the cab­bie, Re­gi­na alig­h­ted, trem­b­ling with re­li­ef. Brett's ho­me lo­omed as a sud­den and very wel­co­ming re­fu­ge, and she wan­ted to fly up the walk and up the ste­ep front steps and in­to his arms or her aunt's em­b­ra­ce. But she wa­ited for Ed­ward and the cab­bie, who bro­ught the­ir bags.

  Her re­la­ti­ves we­re ex­pec­ting her, for she had sent a wi­re just af­ter the di­sas­t­ro­us in­ter­vi­ew with Rick in which she had le­ar­ned of Sla­de's de­ser­ti­on, ex­p­la­ining that she was fi­ne and she wo­uld be ar­ri­ving in the city as so­on as pos­sib­le. Still, Re­gi­na was sur­p­ri­sed when the front do­or was ope­ned by her aunt her­self.

  Her aunt Storm, a very tall, sta­tely, han­d­so­me wo­man in her la­te fif­ti­es, shri­eked li­ke a yo­ung girl and hug­ged her with aban­don, pul­ling her in­to the fo­yer and le­aving Ed­ward to am­b­le in on his own. Storm roc­ked her. Re­gi­na clung, fin­ding her­self ne­ar te­ars. How she felt li­ke spil­ling her he­art out to her be­lo­ved aunt!

  "Whe­re ha­ve you be­en?" Storm cri­ed. "We ha­ve be­en sick, sick with worry! Do you know yo­ur po­or pa­rents are in the mid­dle of the At­lan­tic this very mi­nu­te, with no ho­pe of re­ce­iving word that you are all right un­til they ar­ri­ve in New York?"

  "I'm sorry." Re­gi­na me­ant it. She spot­ted her han­d­so­me un­c­le stan­ding be­hind his wi­fe, lo­oking both grim and re­li­eved. She re­cog­ni­zed the ex­p­res­si­on well; it was one her own fat­her had worn of­ten eno­ugh, al­t­ho­ugh ne­ver be­ca­use of her, but al­ways be­ca­use of her hoy­de­nish sis­ter-who was now a duc­hess. Then she re­mem­be­red Ed­ward.

  "Oh, de­ar," she cri­ed, pul­ling him for­ward. Brett now lo­oked acu­tely sus­pi­ci­o­us. "Uncle Brett," she sa­id, smi­ling bril­li­antly, awa­re he must be thin­king the worst, "you can see that I am fi­ne!"

  "Yes, I can see, and I ho­pe you ha­ve a damn go­od ex­p­la­na­ti­on for di­sap­pe­aring wit­ho­ut a sin­g­le word."

  "I ha­ve a very go­od ex­p­la­na­ti­on, but first let me in­t­ro­du­ce my fri­end, Ed­ward De­lan­za."

  "Yo­ur fri­end?" Brett as­ked. He eyed Ed­ward, ma­king no mo­ve to sha­ke his hand.

  Re­gi­na's he­art trip­ped. "He's not exactly my fri­end," she sa­id, flus­hing. "He is my brot­her-in-law."

  Edward had con­ve­ni­ently as­ked to adj­o­urn to his ro­om, cla­iming that he was very ti­red from the­ir jo­ur­ney. Re­gi­na knew he un­der­s­to­od her di­lem­ma. She now sto­od in the cen­ter of the lar­ge lib­rary, wrin­ging her hands. Her aunt was be­si­de her, too shoc­ked to sit down. Brett was the only one fun­c­ti­oning-and he was po­uring him­self a do­ub­le Scotch whis­key.

  "Let me get this stra­ight," he sa­id, tur­ning to fa­ce her. "You are mar­ri­ed to Sla­de De­lan­za?"

  She nod­ded.

  "Let's go back. You jum­ped from the tra­in du­ring the rob­bery and lost yo­ur me­mory in the fall. And you we­re mis­ta­ken for this ot­her wo­man, Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, by the De­lan­zas this en­ti­re ti­me."

  She nod­ded aga­in.

  "When did you re­ga­in yo­ur me­mory?" Brett as­ked ter­sely.

  "J­ust a few days ago," she whis­pe­red.

  "I want the best damn doc­tor in the sta­te, and I will ha­ve him he­re to­mor­row." His ex­p­res­si­on sof­te­ned. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  Sud­denly he frow­ned. "De­lan­za?"

  Re­gi­na ten­sed. "Do you know of him?"

  "I know him. Not well. We run in the sa­me cir­c­les, ob­vi­o­usly, but he ke­eps his dis­tan­ce from ever­yo­ne ex­cept for Char­les Mann. I ac­tu­al­ly know lit­tle abo­ut Wm, ex­cept for the fact that he's a hard wor­ker and de­di­ca­ted to his em­p­lo­yer." Brett frow­ned aga­in. "What in hell pos­ses­sed you to marry so pre­ci­pi­to­usly? It's not li­ke you. Did you know who you we­re when you mar­ri­ed him?"

  Re­gi­na co­uld not lie-the­re had be­en too many li­es al­re­ady. "Yes." “For the li­fe of me, I can't see you and him to­get­her,"

  Brett sa­id grimly. "And I still don't un­der­s­tand."

  Re­gi­na did not say a word, trying to de­ci­de if this was the mo­ment to drop the can­non­ball right in the­ir laps.

  "I can," Storm put in smo­othly. "I think you both com­p­le­ment each ot­her ni­cely." She smi­led at Re­gi­na, but, be­ing mo­re as­tu­te than her hus­band, her lo­ok was al­so in­qu­iring. "The la­di­es in this town are go­ing to be very di­sap­po­in­ted."

  Des­pi­te her­self, Re­gi­na felt her he­art drop. "They are?"

  "I think it's the mystery sur­ro­un­ding him that has half the wo­men in this city in­te­res­ted in him. Of co­ur­se, he is a han­d­so­me gen­t­le­man, which has ne­ver hurt a bac­he­lor's pros­pects." Se­e­ing Re­gi­na's tightly pur­sed mo­uth, she has­te­ned to as­su­re her ni­ece, "He has ne­ver pa­id co­urt to any lady that I know of. In­de­ed, I don't think he even pays the la­di­es any at­ten­ti­on. Whe­ne­ver I see him, he is with Mann and ot­her gen­t­le­men, in se­ri­o­us dis­cus­si­on. He is not a la­di­es' man, my de­ar."

  Re­gi­na mur­mu­red, "It re­al­ly do­esn't mat­ter."

  "Re­gi­na," her aunt sa­id, co­ming for­ward, "what is wrong?"

  Re­gi­na to­ok a bre­ath. "It do­esn't mat­ter," she re­pe­ated firmly. "You see, I-I am di­vor­cing him."

  The­re was si­len­ce in the lib­rary.

  Re­gi­na ad­ded ner­vo­usly, "And I do so ne­ed yo­ur help. I ne­ed you to ob­ta­in di­vor­ce pa­pers for me, as so­on as pos­sib­le."

  Storm squ­e­ezed her arm. Brett sa­id omi­no­usly, "What?"

  "I am di­vor­cing him."

  "Did I un­der­s­tand cor­rectly that you we­re mar­ri­ed just two days ago?"

  "It was a mis­ta­ke."

  "Re­gi­na, what the hell is go­ing on he­re?" Brett de­man­ded.

  "It's a long story." She swal­lo­wed. "I am go­ing to do this, Brett. I tho­ught I co­uld co­unt on you. I had ho­ped I co­uld co­unt on you. But if you will not help me, 1 shall ob­ta­in the pa­pers on my own. I am su­re, be­ing who I am, I can ob­ta­in them al­most as qu­ickly as you co­uld."

  Brett lo­oked thun­de­ro­us. "I didn't say I wo­uldn't help you."

  Qu­ickly Storm to­ok his arm and led him to­ward the do­or. "Let us talk, dar­ling," she ca­j­oled. "Wo­man to wo­man. Let me han­d­le this."

  "You know yo­ur brot­her Nick is go­ing to be li­vid abo­ut this mar­ri­age, much less a di­vor­ce," he sa­id tightly, re­fer­ring to Re­gi­na's fat­her. "Ma­ke su­re you get to the bot­tom of this, Storm." With a last lo­ok at Re­gi­na, he left the ro­om.

  Re­gi­na had he­ard his every word. She had no in­ten­ti­on of re­ve­aling ever­y­t­hing, and she did not want to think abo­ut her fat­her. He wo­uld be very angry that she had mar­ri­ed wit­ho­ut his ap­pro­val. How he might re­act to a di­vor­ce was al­most be­yond con­tem­p­la­ti­on. She lo­ved her fat­her, but right now he was the last per­son she lo­oked for­ward to fa­cing.

  Bri­efly she clo­sed her eyes as her aunt to­ok her hand. It was un­be­li­evab­le that her li­fe had co­me to such a pass. Af­ter a di­vor­ce she wo­uld ne­ver be ab­le to re­co­up her re­pu­ta­ti­on. Most wo­men wo­uld ne­ver be ab­le to marry aga­in, or at le­ast not res­pec­tably, but of co­ur­se the Earl of Drag­mo­re wo­uld see to it that she was re­mar­ri­ed, and well, im­me­di­ately. Re­gi­na plun­ked her­self down on a long red so­fa, very clo­se to crying. If she tho­ught abo­ut that she wo­uld lo­se the last shred of her con­t­rol. "You ha­ve to get him to help me. Eit­her that or I shall run all over the city to find
myself a law­yer who un­do­ub­tedly will ta­ke gre­at ad­van­ta­ge of my na­ive­te in mat­ters li­ke this but will gladly draw UP pa­pers des­pi­te the fact that I am mo­men­ta­rily pen­ni­less."

  "You are not pen­ni­less, de­ar." Storm sat be­si­de her. You know you ne­ed only ask for funds. Is this a lo­vers' qu­ar­rel?" "No." “Did the two of you con­sum­ma­te the mar­ri­age?" she he­si­ta­ted. "Yes."

  "Did he se­du­ce you, Re­gi­na? Is that why you mar­ri­ed him in such has­te?"

  "No."

  Storm re­gar­ded her, per­p­le­xed. "I ha­ve known you all yo­ur li­fe, de­ar. This is so­met­hing I co­uld see yo­ur sis­ter, Ni­co­le, do­ing, but not you. You knew who you we­re when you mar­ri­ed him, Re­gi­na. I can only think that you must ha­ve fal­len in lo­ve with him," Storm sa­id gently.

  "No!" Re­gi­na sho­ok her he­ad wildly, te­ars spil­ling. "He is very han­d­so­me, he did turn my he­ad." She lo­oked up from her hands, her eyes overly bright. Ha­ving de­ci­ded not to tell any mo­re li­es ma­de an ex­p­la­na­ti­on dif­fi­cult, for she co­uld not bla­me the am­ne­sia for her mar­ri­age. Per­haps the truth, in hal­ves, wo­uld sa­ve her af­ter all. "I be­li­eved he ca­red for me. But he did not. He mar­ri­ed me in or­der to sa­ve his pre­ci­o­us ho­me. He mar­ri­ed me for my mo­ney, not out of lo­ve. And now he has de­ser­ted me, Aunt Storm!"

  And Storm be­ca­me as grim as her hus­band.

  At two o'clock the fol­lo­wing af­ter­no­on Re­gi­na had her pa­pers.

  Brett and Storm had de­ci­ded to help her. That Sla­de had mar­ri­ed her for her mo­ney in or­der to sa­ve Mi­ra­mar an­ge­red them as much as it now an­ge­red Re­gi­na. She had ca­re­ful­ly omit­ted the fact that she had, at the ti­me, be­en fully cog­ni­zant of his in­ten­ti­ons. She had ca­re­ful­ly skip­ped over the ex­tent of her in­fa­tu­ati­on for Sla­de, which was how she now cho­se to la­bel what she had on­ce felt for him. Still, the­re was so­me skep­ti­cism on the part of her re­la­ti­ves. They we­re as awa­re as she was that such a spon­ta­ne­o­us mar­ri­age, wit­ho­ut her fat­her's ap­pro­val, was en­ti­rely out of cha­rac­ter for her.