Market Street and all the wealth of Nob Hill. San Francisco is an old seaport. Lots of sailors come and go. And with the gold rush came other types. And those types brought their new wealth and a desire for pleasures of all kinds.” He dipped his head. “I shouldn’t speak of these things to you. They’re ugly.”
“And Wilkie is mixed up in them.”
“Yes. I hate what he’s done. Everything.”
“Well.” I reached my hand to him again, this time letting my gloved fingers rest on his arm. “That makes two of us.”
A silence settled over us. Then David shifted, his hand covering mine. “May I escort you back to a safer place?”
“Please.”
We walked back toward Market Street. When we reached the intersection, we stopped again. “Which way are you headed?” he asked.
Back on Market we were again in crowds of people. Right away scathing looks met us as David and I stood together, arms linked, on the sidewalk. I glared back at them, but I didn’t want David to bear insult for my sake. “I have to walk in this direction. There’s an automobile waiting for me,” I said. “I’ll be safe now.”
He squeezed my hand. “I hope the next time we run into each other we’ll be somewhere we can talk without feeling that the eyes of the world are watching.” He smiled, a shy smile.
I returned it, shy myself. Then, seeing a scowl on a passing gentleman, I lifted my hand to David in a quick good-bye, slipped my arm from his, and turned away.
And I promptly stopped. I turned around; David was still watching me. “I’d welcome a visit. Should you wish to pay that call you mentioned last time we met.”
“Can I call on you the day after tomorrow?”
I nodded, my tongue having become tied up in unaccustomed fashion. I did so much like that David Wong. He was not the right man for me; he wasn’t what I was looking for. Still and all, I liked him. I turned away again and left him watching me, feeling his eyes on my back. Liking that feeling.
Now I had to face Miss Everts. Had she played me for a fool to recover my pa’s box for herself?
Chapter SIXTEEN
April 3–4, 1906
“Angry words, much strife, and perhaps
some bloodshed, were generated . . . and the
hapless Chinese were driven backwards
and forwards and their lives made miserable.”
—The Annals of San Francisco, 1854
THE AUTOMOBILE SAT IN THE SAME SPOT AS WHEN I’d left it. Jameson stood stiff as a rail by the passenger’s-side door, scanning the street. When he saw me coming, something passed over his stiff features before he was once again a closed book. Was that relief? Why should he care even one whit about me? He leaned over the door and spoke to Miss Everts, who sat waiting in the back of the conveyance.
Jameson opened the door. I stood on the paving, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to form whatever words I could pull together to express my jumbled thoughts.
Miss Everts leaned forward. “Well? Does it please you to so upset an old lady with your whimsies?”
“Whimsies?” I stopped shifting. “Upset you?”
“Jameson tells me that you ran off down the street without a thought to your own safety or the worries you’d impose on me.”
Now I was mad, and my tongue flew off by itself. “Oh, that’s rich. You leave me out of knowing what you’re up to . . . I think you’ve been using me.” I planted my hands on my hips and glared.
She leaned close to me, gazing at me with wide-open eyes. “Kula. Get in.” Concern and sadness all rolled together in her. I hesitated; but at last I slipped into the seat next to her as she made room. “Jameson, if you could give us a few minutes to converse, we’ll sit right here.”
Jameson moved down the paving and out of earshot.
“Kula. Now, listen. I went to discover what I could. There are parts of San Francisco that you know nothing about. People in San Francisco who would be a danger to you. I did not wish to risk—” She stopped and pursed her lips.
“And Wilkie is mixed up in them.”
“Yes. I hate what he’s done. Everything.”
“Well.” I reached my hand to him again, this time letting my gloved fingers rest on his arm. “That makes two of us.”
A silence settled over us. Then David shifted, his hand covering mine. “May I escort you back to a safer place?”
“Please.”
We walked back toward Market Street. When we reached the intersection, we stopped again. “Which way are you headed?” he asked.
Back on Market we were again in crowds of people. Right away scathing looks met us as David and I stood together, arms linked, on the sidewalk. I glared back at them, but I didn’t want David to bear insult for my sake. “I have to walk in this direction. There’s an automobile waiting for me,” I said. “I’ll be safe now.”
He squeezed my hand. “I hope the next time we run into each other we’ll be somewhere we can talk without feeling that the eyes of the world are watching.” He smiled, a shy smile.
I returned it, shy myself. Then, seeing a scowl on a passing gentleman, I lifted my hand to David in a quick good-bye, slipped my arm from his, and turned away.
And I promptly stopped. I turned around; David was still watching me. “I’d welcome a visit. Should you wish to pay that call you mentioned last time we met.”
“Can I call on you the day after tomorrow?”
I nodded, my tongue having become tied up in unaccustomed fashion. I did so much like that David Wong. He was not the right man for me; he wasn’t what I was looking for. Still and all, I liked him. I turned away again and left him watching me, feeling his eyes on my back. Liking that feeling.
Now I had to face Miss Everts. Had she played me for a fool to recover my pa’s box for herself?
Chapter SIXTEEN
April 3–4, 1906
“Angry words, much strife, and perhaps
some bloodshed, were generated . . . and the
hapless Chinese were driven backwards
and forwards and their lives made miserable.”
—The Annals of San Francisco, 1854
THE AUTOMOBILE SAT IN THE SAME SPOT AS WHEN I’d left it. Jameson stood stiff as a rail by the passenger’s-side door, scanning the street. When he saw me coming, something passed over his stiff features before he was once again a closed book. Was that relief? Why should he care even one whit about me? He leaned over the door and spoke to Miss Everts, who sat waiting in the back of the conveyance.
Jameson opened the door. I stood on the paving, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to form whatever words I could pull together to express my jumbled thoughts.
Miss Everts leaned forward. “Well? Does it please you to so upset an old lady with your whimsies?”
“Whimsies?” I stopped shifting. “Upset you?”
“Jameson tells me that you ran off down the street without a thought to your own safety or the worries you’d impose on me.”
Now I was mad, and my tongue flew off by itself. “Oh, that’s rich. You leave me out of knowing what you’re up to . . . I think you’ve been using me.” I planted my hands on my hips and glared.
She leaned close to me, gazing at me with wide-open eyes. “Kula. Get in.” Concern and sadness all rolled together in her. I hesitated; but at last I slipped into the seat next to her as she made room. “Jameson, if you could give us a few minutes to converse, we’ll sit right here.”
Jameson moved down the paving and out of earshot.
“Kula. Now, listen. I went to discover what I could. There are parts of San Francisco that you know nothing about. People in San Francisco who would be a danger to you. I did not wish to risk—” She stopped and pursed her lips.
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