Read Waltzing In Ragtime Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
Waltzing In Ragtime (14 page)
Matthew Hart stared into the three-way mirror. Black, white, formal. He wished it was Thursday so he could go to Golden Gate Park and look at the lions, then meet Sidney Lunt for the latest show at the Orpheum. Then walk the streets to hear music pouring out the windows, homemade music from guitars, mandolins, accordions.All this dressing up and scurrying about, room to overstuffed room, was just to eat. Courses upon courses, late into the night. No wonder these city people suffered so many ailments.
He knew the men were already talking of nothing but money, the women of he hadn’t a clue what in their separate parlors. Olana was well, why couldn’t they let him go home? Visiting her eccentric aunt was one thing, but now her father brought him on excursions to his logging camps, his deafening mills. Why? Why did her mother eye him with suspicion? He hadn’t kissed Olana, hardly. He’d barely touched her, though there was motive, opportunity, and permission to do the wildest conjurings of his too fertile imagination. That steel-backed woman couldn’t dictate that, his imaginings of Olana free of them, free of San Francisco social circles, free of her corsets. Water. Cold water. He’d stand under another shower of it tonight in the fancy bathroom within his
quarters. His skin was going to fall off, while he was behaving better than any of them had a right to expect.
quarters. His skin was going to fall off, while he was behaving better than any of them had a right to expect.
Damnation, he couldn’t get everything looking straight if he had a six-way mirror. Perhaps he could find Patsy — she’d help him if she was finished with Olana’s hair.
“This is impossible! I look quite lopsided!”
“Beg pardon, miss —”
“Start again, and do hurry, or Mother will be — ow!”
He entered the room as Olana whirled, snatched the brush from Patsy’s hands, and struck her hard across the knuckles.
He came between them, yanking the brush from her grip. “Go on downstairs,” his gentle voice directed the maid. “Rest a little while.”
“What —” Olana began.
“Go on,” he urged again. The maid made a confused curtsy to them both, and hurried out the door.
His stance starched. “You know she’s been sick,” he said.
“Sick? Only lovesick, because the footman left us. Her first duty is to me! She pulled my hair, Matthew,” she said, a soft pout forming in her voice and under her lip.
“Damnation,” he muttered, staring at the pearl handled brush.
“You are not to blaspheme!”
He threw her weapon on the dressing table. “Go on, stick that pole up your back now! But you know better than to —”
“That clumsy girl is lucky she’s not let go.”
“She’s already been let go by that bastard.”
“Matthew!”
He took her arm, lifting her from her chair. “Her feelings matter, ’Lana! She’s part of your household, even if she ain’t in your damned social circle!”
What was he doing, putting fear in her eyes again? He let go of her, realizing for the first time that her arms were bare, that she had very few clothes on at all. He’d done something wrong,
even being there. He hadn’t knocked when he’d heard Patsy’s cry. Then he’d used language he swore himself off while he was in her father’s house. He looked at her arm. Soft, white, glowing in the electric light. No marks. At least he wasn’t a hypocrite, he hadn’t hurt her in his rage over her treatment of her maid. But he’d put the fear back in her eyes. Mr. Parker had asked too much of him.
even being there. He hadn’t knocked when he’d heard Patsy’s cry. Then he’d used language he swore himself off while he was in her father’s house. He looked at her arm. Soft, white, glowing in the electric light. No marks. At least he wasn’t a hypocrite, he hadn’t hurt her in his rage over her treatment of her maid. But he’d put the fear back in her eyes. Mr. Parker had asked too much of him.
Matthew turned and walked from her rooms, kept walking as she called out, fiercely demanding his return. He’d gotten down the stairs, but had not found a door to get him outside before her father had his arm, was leading him into the men’s parlor.
“I’ve taken to bringing Matthew up to the camps now that Olana is doing so splendidly,” he announced to the familiar circle.
Sidney Lunt, lounging in his white pique waistcoat and formal black, grinned. “Capital idea, sir! Our ranger was growing pale as a hothouse flower away from his wilderness. How do our redwoods compare to your sequoias, Matt?”
“They have a similar, mammoth beauty —”
Darius Moore laughed, too loudly for this early in the evening. “Have a care, Mr. Whittaker, or another servant will be lost!”
“Matt’s not a servant, and do not compare him to my footman in any case! He has not taken a marriage gift to set himself up in an automobile venture and then jilted his bride!”
“You must admire the man’s ingenuity, sir! They say his little shop is the stable of the future —”
James Whittaker frowned. “Matt’s got some interesting ideas about the timber business and its future as well!”
“I wouldn’t wonder if they were revolutionary.” Darius Moore raised his glass in Matthew’s direction, pointing. But it was not liquor that had those black eyes looking pupiless, had sent his rigid manners slightly careless. Darius Moore smiled, an unnatural act for him, so unnatural it appeared … what? Crazed? “I do hope he’s not convinced you to create a parkland of the new mill
site. The Japanese market is quite taken with the possibilities of expanded trade.”
site. The Japanese market is quite taken with the possibilities of expanded trade.”
“You were able to discuss our trading venture today?” James Whittaker turned to Moore as his hand finally left the ranger’s shoulder.
“Better still, Mrs. Whittaker and I took the liberty of inviting him here this evening.”
This was his chance to slip away. But Matthew’s eyes lingered on the perfectly dressed man. His sense of danger heightened, like it did sometimes in the woods. What was wrong with him? Get out, now, while the conversation shifted to business. Only Sidney Lunt still appeared interested in his presence. Damnation, what wasn’t on straight? He didn’t care anymore. He slipped through the doorway as the new guest arrived on Mrs. Whittaker’s arm — a small, Asian man with a red diplomatic sash and white gloves. Matthew Hart went through the dining room doorway and on into the night.
“Olana!” her father summoned. “Surely he’s out in the solarium?”
“No, Papa.”
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, if my daughter can’t find our ranger, he is not in the house. I’m afraid we’re left bereft of lively debate!”
“Nonsense. I shall be Mr. Hart’s proxy.”
She swept her skirts aside and sat, tugging at her choker of lace and garnets as if it were a stiff collar, drawing a muted guffaw from Sidney. Encouraged, she lowered the pitch of her voice dramatically.
“Now, Mr. Whittaker, are you aware that your company routinely destroys half to seven-eighths of each tree it cuts through wasteful lumbering?”
“Olana!”
“Hart, sir,” she lowered her voice further. “The name is Hart.”
The air was damp, heavy. Was it ever different in this blasted city? Matthew kept walking. James Whittaker’s guests admired the jilting footman’s enterprise. Mrs. Whittaker labored tirelessly for poor people a continent away, yet at best would demand Patsy give up her child. Even Olana was whacking knuckles. What kind of people were they? He wanted no more of them tonight.
He knew where he was, thanks to Sidney. And he liked the long distance sight of the city’s lights. He’d trudge up the summit of Russian Hill, then climb Nob and Telegraph Hills. That should wear his anger away.
But Matthew realized the streetlights were fewer, more of them broken on the eastern slope of Nob Hill. And the night fog almost obscured the buildings. He’d left the exclusive mansions, gardens, lawns. That scent — exotic, spiced, dangerous. The only white men on the streets were the ones stumbling in an opium haze. He was in Chinatown. So close to the place that called, mocking him, since that first night. Daring him to return to that other side of this guilded city. He turned northeast, toward the waterfront. Could he find the place? Was it still there?
Yes. It appeared, as it had that night a lifetime ago, out of the fog, the briny scent of the sea. The clapboard was the same worn gray, the swinging sign still creaked on rusted hinges. But where once a three-breasted mermaid beckoned, a clipper ship sailed over freshly painted waves. Men in tattered wool coats brushed past him, entered. There was new leaded glass in the transom over the doors. Don’t. He had no business here. What did he think he was doing? He stopped thinking. He entered.
It was so silent, out of the salt wind. Matthew’s eyes stung from the smoke, the oil lamps. The place was half full. He scanned the faces that regarded him, but avoided the tables, the same tables, now more deeply carved by sailors who couldn’t stop whittling, even when ashore. He approached the bar.
“Looking for someone?” the proprietor asked.
Yes, he realized. Himself. “Whiskey,” he said. The man
looked somehow relieved at the word. He put down the glass he was wiping, filled it. He left the bottle. Matthew Hart stared at it. His empty stomach heaved.
looked somehow relieved at the word. He put down the glass he was wiping, filled it. He left the bottle. Matthew Hart stared at it. His empty stomach heaved.
“You going to drink that?” the bartender demanded.
Matthew raised the glass, sent the whiskey down his throat.
The proprietor smiled. “Well, you’re not one of them rug biting temperance preachers then, are you?” he said, loud enough for his table patrons to ease their lovers’ grips on their drinks. He poured Matthew’s glass full again. The men went back to their conversations.
Damnation, taken for a temperance preacher, about to break up the place. Was he getting that single minded? He’d have to tell Annie when he got home, to make her laugh. A smile played around his mouth, before he caught a glance of a sealskin coat. It was inhabited by a man talking to a dull-eyed boy. Christ. That voice. McPeal.
“We’ll clear your debts first, tomorrow morning. Then you’ll be free, lad, free for the adventure of your life!”
“The crossing to New York were no adventure, sir.” The boy’s head bobbed as the man refilled his glass.
“Steerage? Packed with immigrants? Not this ship. Wait until you see her outfitted for the Pacific — the balmy Pacific of exotic paradise. You like women?”
“Aye.”
“The island girls, they give it away for free. And the things they know, and the way they serve!”
A faint smile slouched its way across the boy’s mouth, even as his eyes were closing. The man’s hand emerged from the too long sealskin sleeves. It slipped the document under the boy’s chin, the pen into his hand. “There, make your mark.”
McPeal’s victim found the pen on his second cast for it, but his signature went askew with the pressure of Matthew Hart’s hand. The boy looked up, smiled a greeting before his eyes went back into his head, which in turn fell into his arms.
“Still using laudanum and lies on your prey?” Matthew asked the spike-toothed man quietly.
McPeal’s eyes squinted into pinpricks. “You’ll regret that, brother.” He kicked back the chair. A knife appeared, as in a magician’s trick, down his overlong sleeve, into his left hand. His first cut sliced open Matthew’s linen shirt, freeing the smell of starch but not blood. His second stabbed the air. The third changed direction to lateral. Matthew raised his forearm to protect his heart. He felt one sharp cut, then another. Stop. Matthew grabbed his wrist, twisted, shook. The knife fell to the floor.
The man staggered back. A hand emerged from his remaining sleeve. No. Not a hand. Blunt, cold iron. Something new in his arsenal. A blow from it glanced Matthew’s head. The second struck his middle, sending him into the wall, driving the breath from his lungs, the strength from his legs. He heard distorted voices as the pounding continued, but listened only to the frightened fifteen-year-old one inside him pleading, “don’t fall.”
He thought of the bear, whose face was benevolent compared with McPeal’s. Then he laughed. McPeal stopped his iron assault. He stared, his eyes steady, remembering. With his good hand, the ranger clenched the hand that blood was invading. Together they cut under the chin, then across his attacker’s jaw.
McPeal staggered. Then he fell to the floorboards.
A giant with the bald head and face of a baby took his place. “Catch him, Serif,” someone urged, “before Mr. Hart hits the skids atop his vanquished.” The room dimmed around Sidney Lunt, resplendent in his red silk lined opera cape. Safety. The boy inside Matthew Hart finally gave him permission to fall.
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