Perfect Wedding

by Duncan, Alice

  “Yes, it’s a good practice. The pater doesn’t believe in handouts, though, so I’m starting from the bottom.”

  Somehow, Marjorie fancied a St. Claire’s bottom and another person’s—hers, for instance—probably weren’t equivalent. She didn’t say so. “That’s good,” she said sweetly. “It’s supposed to be bad for one’s character to have too many things given one.” Not that she’d know anything about that.

  “That’s what the pater says.”

  Why in the name of wonder is he calling his father “the pater?” Again, Marjorie kept her comment to herself. “He’s wise man, Mr. St. Claire.”

  “He’s a great egg, my pater,” said Hamilton cheerfully. “But won’t you please call me Hamilton?”

  Oh, yes, she’d forgotten about that. Producing another sweet smile—although why she was bothering, she wasn’t sure, since he couldn’t see her—she said, “Of course. And please call me Marjorie.”

  “Marjorie and Hamilton. Why, they go together like ham and eggs, don’t they?”

  Did they? Marjorie thought not. But she laughed and told herself she was being far too critical where Mr. St. Claire—she meant Hamilton—was concerned. He was a nice boy, and he liked her. He was ever so much nicer to her than Jason ever had been. She ought to be lapping up his attention as a kitten lapped cream.

  Somehow, though, she couldn’t overcome her gut feeling that Hamilton was something of a lightweight in the overall order of human events. Jason might be sarcastic, and he might be occasionally unkind, and he might tease her unmercifully, but he was a good man who did good works, and his goodness pervaded his entire life. She sensed Hamilton was only interested in his own pleasure and succeeding in his so-called pater’s law firm.

  Sweet Lord in heaven, was she serious? As Hamilton babbled beside her, Marjorie tried to decipher her feelings on the issue of Jason Abernathy. The task proved formidable, and she ultimately determined not to tackle it right then, with so much noise in the air to interfere with her thought processes.

  “So, you see, Marjorie, I’ll be well fixed in a couple of years.”

  “Er . . .” Marjorie hadn’t been paying any mind to Hamilton’s chatter. In an effort to disguise her inattention, she said brightly, “Yes, indeed, Mr.—I mean Hamilton. That’s wonderful.”

  “It sure is. Why, I’ll be able to take a wife, buy my own home, start a family, and carry on the St. Claire tradition in fine style.”

  In order to decipher his expression—she wasn’t sure why he’d suddenly started blathering about wives and families—Marjorie squinted hard in his direction. The darkness prevented her from accomplishing her quest, so she decided on another noncommittal, “Yes, indeed.”

  The sound of the motorcar’s engine and the shrieking wind accompanied the two of them for a few minutes. The Model T didn’t take kindly to San Francisco’s many hills, Marjorie noticed. It was neither as zippy as Loretta’s Runabout nor as powerful as Jason’s Hudson. Not that it made a particle of difference to her.

  “Say, Marjorie, have you been to the Pan Pacific Exhibition yet?”

  Momentarily befuddled by this abrupt change of topic, Marjorie made a frantic search in her brain’s archives to figure out what the man was talking about. Then she remembered. San Francisco was playing host to a World’s Fair this year, and had titled it the Panama-Pacific International Exhibition. “Why, no, I haven’t had the opportunity.” She and Loretta had both wanted to go, but neither of them had made it yet. Marjorie couldn’t remember why at the moment.

  “Would you like to see it? It’s quite something.”

  Was Hamilton going to ask her to attend the fair with him? What was it people called these types of rendezvous? Assignations? No, that was far too ominous. Trysts? No. Too romantic. Dates? Perhaps that was it.

  “Er . . . yes, I’ve been meaning to go.”

  “Well, then, how would you like to visit the Exhibition with me? I’d love to escort you. Would this coming Saturday be a good day for you?”

  Fear instantly erupted in Marjorie’s breast. Her heart gave a huge spasm, her mouth went dry, her nerves skipped, her libretto crinkled in her suddenly clenched fists, and she told them all to stop misbehaving. Dr. Hagendorf’s advice and her own sincere, if timid, desire to expand her horizons, ricocheted about in her brain.

  She wanted to get out and about more, didn’t she?

  Yes, she did.

  But did she want to do so with Hamilton?

  Um . . .

  Anyhow, she was frightened of the very thought of attending even so public an arena as a World’s Fair, alone, with a man—and with Hamilton St. Claire, of all people. She entertained the fleeting and ridiculous notion that if Jason had asked her, she’d have agreed on the instant.

  So, what should she do? A quick glance in Hamilton’s direction didn’t help, since she couldn’t see him. But she couldn’t just sit here and not answer him. “Er . . .”

  Hamilton didn’t seem to notice her state of panic, thank God. “We can have supper at the Fairfield afterwards.”

  Good Lord. The Fairfield was a first-class hotel and was the site of one of San Francisco’s most expensive restaurants. Her good friend and fellow Titanic survivor, Isabel FitzRoy, used to dance there. Marjorie’s heart started beating against her ribs like a frantic woodpecker.

  With a quick, panicky nod at Dr. Hagendorf’s sage advice to do things scared, Marjorie said, “Why, thank you, Hamilton. That would be very nice.”

  “Super! I’ll pick you up at noon, if that’s all right with you. There are all sorts of wonderful restaurants at the fair itself, many of them featuring foreign fare. Perhaps we can take luncheon at the Russian House.”

  Holy heaven. Marjorie guessed her horizons, especially in the realm of food, were going to begin expanding sooner than she’d anticipated. “My goodness. I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten Russian food.”

  Hamilton chuckled. Unlike Jason’s deep chuckles, which sent rivers of prickly sensation through Marjorie’s veins, Hamilton’s chuckle was thin and tinny, rather like his voice, and it left her unmoved. “It’s super, really. I’m particularly fond of the piroshki. And they serve hot tea in glasses.”

  “Hot tea? In glasses? How . . . um . . . interesting.” Wouldn’t the hot tea make the glass break? She didn’t feel up to asking.

  “Yes, and they serve some kind of rice that’s tasty, too.”

  Curious, Marjorie asked, “How often have you visited the fair, Hamilton?”

  “Oh, five or six times. I enjoy seeing how the rest of the world lives. They don’t have it as good as we do, let me tell you.”

  She did let him tell her, the rest of the way home, and was grateful to the Pan Pacific Exhibition for sparing her the trouble of unearthing topics of common interest between them. More and more, she thought, there weren’t any.

  # # #

  The day was fine, the weather crisp but not cold, the air was beautiful and unmarred by fog or mist, and a gentle breeze stirred the fall leaves on the sidewalks, making music with their rustling and crunching. In short, the sun shone down with benevolence upon the city of San Francisco . . . and Jason Abernathy was furious.

  He paced before Loretta in her sitting room, his hands clasped behind his back, a scowl on his face, and his heart in a raging turmoil. Every now and then, his peripheral vision took in Loretta or Malachai, both of whom were staring at him, Malachai in befuddlement, Loretta with what Jason could only describe as unfounded and inappropriately wry humor.

  “I can’t believe she went to the Exhibition with that idiot St. Claire!”

  Malachai said, “Uh . . .”

  Loretta said, “And why shouldn’t she? She and I were going to attend, but we never got around to it, and then I had the twins and that took care of that. Besides, Mr. St. Claire asked her, unlike some people.” Her voice was as dry as the leaves smacking against the windows outside.

  Still pacing, Jason muttered, “Well, but he’s such a . . . a . . . prig!”<
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  “And you,” Loretta reminded him, “haven’t bothered to speak to Marjorie since you were called away from rehearsal on Thursday night.” She lifted a baby, the girl, Olivia, to her shoulder and gently patted her on the back. A hefty belch rewarded her effort and she smiled as if the child had performed a feat of wonderment and awe. “And, if I recall correctly, she said you were none to friendly when she asked if she could assist you.”

  Turning on his heel, Jason roared, “She’s not a nurse!”

  The boy baby, Oliver, who had been napping on his mother’s lap, woke with a start and let out a bellow that was almost as loud as Jason’s. Olivia made a face and spat up.

  Jason grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “Honestly!” said Loretta. “Men are such nitwits.”

  Her husband gave her a frown, but didn’t contradict this broad statement. He probably didn’t dare, Jason thought unkindly.

  “Marjorie may not be a nurse, but she’s had some training. Besides, she’s got a good heart, the best of intentions, she’s smart as a whip, and as capable as anyone you could ever find to help you. You could train her as your nurse, Jason Abernathy. Did you ever think of that, pray tell?”

  No, he hadn’t thought of that, as a matter of fact. He’d slipped up and told her he could teach her to speak and understand Chinese, but he hadn’t thought about training her as a nurse. The notion made his stomach hurt. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the idea of having Marjorie around more often, but he didn’t want her exposed to the violence and pain Jason witnessed daily. “It’s too difficult a job for a woman.” Instantly, he regretted his choice of words.

  Before Loretta could screech at him, he held up a hand. “I didn’t mean that, exactly. But . . . well, curse it, I don’t want Marjorie exposed to that sort of thing. It’s . . . it’s . . .” He sighed. “It’s really ugly, Loretta.”

  Malachai glanced at the ceiling, his lips pressed together tightly. With burgeoning indignation, Jason realized he was trying not to laugh. This was no laughing matter, damn it!

  “I believe,” said Loretta in a voice that would have withered leaves if they hadn’t already fallen from the trees, “that Marjorie is intelligent enough, and vigorous enough, not to mention sensible enough, to decide for herself what’s too difficult for her and what isn’t.” She’d picked up Oliver and was cuddling him in an effort to soothe his shattered nerves. Therefore, this speech was interspersed with a number of coos and “there, there’s,” and one “Uncle Jason is just being an old meanie.”

  “Vigorous,” repeated Jason. It seemed a strange word to describe Marjorie MacTavish, the least forthcoming person of his acquaintance. He had to admit, however, that when stirred, she could be quite outspoken. And she hadn’t fainted or run away during that catastrophic night in his office.

  He still didn’t want her exposed to the mess that could be Chinatown. Knowing full well that to say so was to court rebuke, he didn’t. He resumed pacing, however.

  “Mai survived Chinatown,” Loretta reminded him. “Or she would have, if she hadn’t contracted tuberculosis.”

  His late wife’s name on Loretta’s lips brought Jason up short. Again, he whirled around. This time, he didn’t yell; he only stared. Loretta and he had never discussed Mai. Most people, including Loretta, knew the subject was painful to him and tried to spare him. Of all the people he knew, Loretta was the only one who hadn’t tried to dissuade him from marrying a Chinese woman. His breath lodged painfully in his throat.

  “You know it’s true, Jason.” Her voice had gentled. “Poor Mai wasn’t nearly as strong as Marjorie, either, physically speaking. If anyone can survive the tong wars without fainting or flinching, it’s Marjorie MacTavish.”

  After clearing his throat and swallowing his breath, Jason said, “Do you really believe that?”

  “Well, of course I do.” Emphatic. “Mind you, I don’t have a notion about her life before Titanic, because she’s never told me anything, but I can tell you this much: She’s not a quitter, and she’s been through hell. She has no relatives that I know of. At least, she’s never written a letter to Scotland since she moved into my house. That leads me to believe that her family is dead and that her friends probably all perished in the Titanic catastrophe. Her life as a stewardess involved service, and I know she feels stifled working as my secretary. I honestly believe she wants to continue to be of service to mankind.”

  Fascinating. And utterly unexpected. Jason tried not to gawk at Loretta, who’d finally calmed her son into a state of hiccupping stillness. Malachai had stuck his feet way out in front of him, folded his hands in his lap, and was watching his wife and his friend as if he were taking in a tennis match.

  Because he didn’t want to talk about it any longer, Jason said, “Where did you say they were going to take lunch?”

  “You’re not going to follow them there!” Loretta erupted into laughter, once more disturbing poor Oliver, who whimpered. She picked him up and kissed his pudgy cheeks until he quieted down again.

  Frowning, Jason said, “I’m not following them. I just wondered, was all.”

  “Right.” Still grinning like mad, Loretta added, “The Russian House is the place Mr. St. Claire mentioned.”

  “Piroshki and hot tea in tall glasses,” Malachai supplied helpfully. “Marjorie doesn’t understand how the glasses survive the hot tea.” Leaning toward Loretta, he relieved her of Olivia. Jason thought the rugged sea captain made quite a charming spectacle with the infant cradled in his arms. Who’d ever have thought?

  Heading toward the door—he couldn’t get out of the Quarleses’ presence fast enough. He had the uncomfortable feeling that both Loretta and Malachai were seeing through him—Jason said, “Thanks.”

  Loretta’s voice trilled after him. “Tell Marjorie hello from Olivia and Oliver.”

  Malachai’s deep chuckle followed Loretta’s trill.

  Damn them both.

  Anyhow, he wasn’t following anyone. He’d been meaning to go to the World’s Fair for months now.

  Chapter Eight

  “This is quite tasty.”

  Marjorie nibbled another bite of her piroshok. She’d been hesitant at first, but finally told herself that Russians ate these things every day and none of them had ever died from the experience. She couldn’t help but wonder what was in it. Every time she did so, she hesitated as she plied her fork. In the back of her mind, Dr. Hagendorf’s voice kept repeating, Eat scared.

  So she took another bite, thinking she was behaving like an explorer venturing into new territory. Had Sir Richard Burton felt this way when he journeyed into Mecca, disguised as an Arab and certain to suffer death if his identity was discovered?

  She told herself not to be silly. “They remind me of Cornish pasties.” In a way.

  “I love these things.” Hamilton had no trouble eating his own luncheon. He took another big bite of pilaf.

  Marjorie found herself admiring his ability to experience new things with gusto. It was an attribute she wanted to cultivate in herself, if she could find its seed. Until her visit with Dr. Hagendorf, she’d believed herself unable to embrace novelties with anything other than fear and loathing.

  Eat scared, Marjorie reminded herself Thank God loathing had nothing to do with this particular experience. “The rice is good, too.”

  “Delish.”

  Delish? Marjorie wished she knew how old her luncheon companion was. He behaved rather like an adolescent, but he had to be in his twenties. “I’m enjoying the tea, too. I didn’t realize the glasses would be placed in wicker holders. They’re quite charming.”

  “They’d be too hot to hold otherwise.”

  “Yes.” She spooned up a driblet of borscht. It was quite savory, actually. It was fortunate for her that she’d never encountered a beet she didn’t like. “The soup is wonderful. I wonder if Mrs. Quarles has a Russian cookery book in her library. Perhaps Mrs. Brandeis might make it one day. I’m sure it would be quite nourishing for a new mother.”
Especially one who was determined to nurse her own children. Naturally, she didn’t mention Loretta’s odd behavior to Hamilton. One didn’t discuss breasts with men.

  Hamilton didn’t respond. Since he was a chatty fellow, Marjorie, glanced up from her soup dish to see if he’d discovered something unpleasant in his piroshok. If he had, she might have to reconsider . . .

  But no. Evidently his silence had nothing to do with the food. She discovered him staring fixedly into the throng of fair-visiting diners. His expression wasn’t one of warmth and joy. Curious, she turned her head.

  Her mouth fell open. Lucky for her, and for anyone who might be watching, there was no food in it.

  “Say, isn’t that your doctor friend?” Hamilton’s tone of voice was no more warm or joyful than his expression.

  Stifling a spurt of elation that was liberally laced with fury, Marjorie said calmly, “I do believe it is. I had no idea he had planned on coming to the fair today.”

  As she spoke, she searched the sea of faces for a possible companion for Jason. If he’d brought a woman with him . . . well, Marjorie would endure. She was a past master at that. And, since she really didn’t want to see the other woman—why, it might even be Ginger Collins, perish the thought—she returned to her borscht.

  Hamilton said, “Hmmm,” in a somewhat menacing tone.

  Peering at him closely, Marjorie detected signs of annoyance on the young face. How strange.

  “He’s spotted us.”

  Marjorie resisted the urge to turn around and stare. After all, Jason had every right to attend a World’s Fair on a Saturday afternoon if he wanted to, and even bring a female companion with him, confound the man. One thing of which Marjorie was certain was that he hadn’t followed her here. He couldn’t have. He hadn’t known she’d be here.

  But here he was. Right next to her chair.

  After first giving Hamilton, who had stood politely, a curt nod, Jason spoke to Marjorie. “Loretta said you’d be here.” Only then did he remove his hat.

  Her mouth fell open. Nothing came out of it but an inquisitive syllable that wasn’t quite a word, undoubtedly because her brain had suddenly stopped working.