it in her eyes. More passionate than her younger companion, either because she’s experienced more of the world or less than she’s longed for.
She is well-dressed, too, a quality in ladies for which Daniel has the highest admiration. The young companion wears proper travelling togs. But her. The elegant lady wears a full skirt the color of a good French burgundy. An ivory silk blouse with abundant lace spills over the chinchilla collar of a cashmere coat belted tightly around her waist. A gay hat, piled high with ribbons and flowers, perches upon the pompadour. A voluminous veil is drawn over her face and pinned at her throat with a glittering Art Nouveau brooch. And gloves. The elegant lady wears immaculate gloves that accentuate her long, fine fingers, the white cotton unsullied by any mundane contact with the world. Her fingers twitch in her lap as if longing to touch a man.
Indeed, sir, that is the only conclusion Daniel can draw.
“Good morning, ladies,” Daniel says, carelessly tossing himself on the chair beside her. She’s tall, he can see that. Tall with a long slim body beneath the coat, the skirts, the bodice, the corset. Rochelle was tall, too, and her long legs literally went up to her throat when she danced the cancan at La Nouvelle-Athenes. Of course, Rochelle was a whore. But this one, this one. He is smitten. What a marvelous land, this Californ’!
“Good morning, sir,” they murmur and recommence their conversation.
“But, Evie, darling,” says the elegant lady, “the Young Women’s Christian Association puts up dozens of these Chinese girls every month. Every month! And still dozens more are defiled in Chinatown. Defiled, imprisoned. They are literally sold into slavery! In the United States of America!” Her melodious voice quavers. “Can you imagine our dear Jesus Christ tolerating this abomination?”
“Well, they are heathens,” says the mousy girl.
“All the more reason, Evie! In San Francisco! Young girls! Oh, our Christ would surely die all over again to see such a thing!”
Uh oh, Daniel thinks, a Holy Roller.
“And here we are, celebrating the one hundred nineteenth anniversary of our great nation founded on freedom,” the elegant lady says. “The shame!”
Indeed it is the nation’s anniversary, why, it’s the Fourth of July. He’s lost track of the days during his trek west. The elegant lady glances at Daniel. Such eyes! With the depth of intelligence, the sheen of passion. Clearly, passion! Passion in a lady is a far different thing than the depraved opportunism of a whore. His heart assumes a more frantic pace.
“That is why our dear Christ has sent for you, Dolly,” the mousy girl says. She darts a disapproving look at Daniel and sniffs loudly.
“In point of fact, Miss Culbertson sent for me,” the elegant lady corrects her with refreshing logic. “When the directress of our mission at Nine Twenty Sacramento Street invites one, one goes. One goes gladly, to serve our Lord.”
“But I am so worried for you, Dolly. San Francisco is such a dreadful dirty city. So low class. And we’ve got so many parties planned for the season.”
“I shall stay at the mission only a little while, I promise. But perhaps we should not speak of such things in front of this gentleman.”
“You may speak of anything you like, dear ladies,” Daniel says. “The sound of your sweet voices is all I crave.”
“Dolly, he’s stinking,” the mousy girl whispers. “Perhaps we should find another table.”
“Yes, it’s true, I’m stinking,” Daniel says. “I confess all before Our Savior, you need not whisper.” Now there’s a fine line for a couple of Holy Rollers. He congratulates himself and reaches for the mousy girl’s paw. She snatches her hand away. He pantomimes having seized her hand anyway and kisses the air in his palm. “I confess I’m drunk on your presence, dear ladies, drunk with wonder at this marvelous land. I have been away too long. And now I have returned, your true native son.” He slides off the chair and kneels before the elegant lady, taking her hand between his two, boldly clasping the whole package on her knees, and breathing deeply of her fragrance. She’s a hummer, all right.
The mousy girl gasps at his impropriety, but the elegant lady smiles indulgently and neither reclaims her hand nor casts him off her knees. Smitten by him, too? Better and better!
“And who might you be, sir?”
“I might be the Devil but in fact I am Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London, and Paris. And you?”