gasps, perhaps appreciating him after all. London and Paris? She widens her eyes and blushes, adding a modicum of charm to her sallow face. “Why, I’m Miss Evie Brownstone, Mr. Watkins, and this here is Miss Donaldina Cameron. We all call her Dolly.”
Dolly! Yes, a Dolly! Very much a Dolly! Daniel eagerly leans forward, and her knees part a little.
“Or Donald,” the elegant Miss Cameron says, frowning at her friend’s familiarity.
“Donald?” Daniel shuffles back on his knees, lurches to his feet, regains the chair. Oh, no. She cannot be one of those peculiar women who cannot decide if they are female or male. He bows a little stiffly. “Miss Cameron.”
“Dolly is one of the MacKenzie Camerons,” Miss Brownstone rattles on, uncertain how she has offended her friend. “Of Scotland, New Zealand, San Francisco, Oakland, and the San Gabriel Valley!” she says with another doubtful look at Miss Cameron.
Daniel rouses himself. “Ah, then you know San Francisco, Miss Cameron? You know Oakland? Still the mud hut frontier, these towns, are they not?”
Oakland glimmers behind the windows of the Overland train. After the golden-brown hills and rustic flatlands, he has not expected this--a shimmering lake, a stylish city. Three-story Queen Anne mansions line the littoral shore, with astounding gardens and sprawling lawns, carriage houses and small private parks set with classical sculptures wrought in marble. Daniel spies fine carriages driven by liveried coachmen trotting down well-worn lanes bordered by more of the astonishing succulents and palms, broad swooping oaks with reddish-green leaves unlike any foliage he’s seen back East.
Miss Cameron coolly regards his surprise. “We call Oakland the Continental Side of the Bay, Mr. Watkins. Evie attended Snell’s Seminary here.”
“Snells?” Daniel thinks of escargot in garlic butter.
“The finishing school, of course.”
“Of course.” The sliver of a headache pokes behind Daniel’s eyes.
She gazes out the window, shifting into a pensive mood. “The good people live in Oakland, Mr. Watkins. People who love books and art and sculpture. Aesthetes, Mr. Watkins. Birders, scholars, astronomers, entomologists. Dr. Merritt lives here, and the Peraltas, and Joseph Knowland the publisher, and Judge Sam McKee. Mr. F. M. Smith, who discovered all that borax in Nevada. His ballroom accommodates hundreds and his gardens are legendary.”
“I’ve heard of his gardens.”
“And the houses in Oakland have telephones, Mr. Watkins. Do you know of the telephone?”
He laughs indignantly. “Why, of course. In London and Paris—“
“Oaklanders own more telephones than people in San Francisco,” Miss Cameron continues, growing animated. “They’ve got more electricity in their homes than anyone.”
“Mother’s got a system of electrical buzzers to summon the servants,” Miss Brownstone says breathlessly. “Like Mrs. Winchester, the rifle heiress.”
“And electrical lights,” Miss Cameron says. “Oaklanders employ Mr. Edison’s genius to good advantage, Mr. Watkins.”
“I never said you didn’t.”
“Mother’s got hot water for my bath,” Miss Brownstone yelps, getting into the spirit. “Pumped right into my rooms on the third floor!”
“You say you’ve seen London and Paris, Mr. Watkins,” Miss Cameron says imperiously. “Well, the McPhail mansion was designed by California architects, and do you know what those clever fellows did? They installed a chute in the wall that opens up in the boudoir of the lady of the house upstairs and goes all the way down to the washerwomen’s tubs in the basement. No one has ever seen anything like it.” Miss Cameron’s flowers and ribbons quake with civic pride. “Have you ever seen such a thing in London or Paris, Mr. Watkins?” Before he can respond properly or crack a joke, she snaps, “No, I thought not, sir! We are scarcely mud huts in California. We are quite modern and striding forth into the future. And don’t you forget it!”
The two ladies storm out of the dining car, leaving Daniel dazed.
* * *
The Overland pulls into the station at the Port of Oakland. Daniel collects his bags and his trunk, and disembarks. At midday, a languor has settled over the port. Sunlight filters through a high haze, a breeze whips in from the bay. Clang of ships’ bells, slap of waves, squeak of tightly drawn rope around wood. Ah, London, how he recalls those sounds, his night walks along the piers.
By God, his head aches. He lights a ciggie, inhales deeply. His stomach rolls over. Another shot of puma piss would put him right. But the old cowboy has vanished as surely as his invisible companion.
“Porter,” Daniel calls, extracting coins from his coat pocket. “Where’s the ferry bound for San Francisco?”
“You’ll be wantin’ the Chrysapolis, sir, and a lovely steamer she is,