Captive Bride (23 page)

Back at the store, they found Dora knee-deep in the Saturday afternoon rush of customers. Although her nose was swollen and her face bruised, she was a natural saleswoman, serving people with chatty friendliness.

Alan barely had a chance to take off his coat. He served one customer after another until it was time to close up for the day.

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Before he left, Jeremy came over to Alan and shook his hand. “I just wanted to say good-night and thanks for everything. You’ve been a good boss and a friend.”

“Are you thinking you might not be back on Monday?”

The man’s always ruddy cheeks flushed darker.

“I’m not quitting, but if things go the way I hope…”

“Tell me you aren’t planning to run off with this girl. That’s not a good idea.” He could’ve asked how he planned to keep Miss Dodge in the manner to which she was accustomed, but the stubborn set of Jeremy’s mouth told him it wouldn’t do any good. “Good luck, then,” he said instead. “Your job will be here any time you might want to return to it.

After Jeremy left, Alan locked the door and went to the kitchen where his harem of two was preparing dinner and setting the table. He’d gotten used to his solitary bachelor ways and felt a little ridiculous sitting at the table while the women worked around him.

“Miss Cynthia Dodge is the prettiest thing, don’t you think?” Dora asked. “Her skin is so pale and her manners so fine. She’s a real lady. I wish I could be like that. I don’t much like the material she chose for her gown though. I tried to steer her toward light blue to bring out her eyes, but she insisted on lime green.

Still, imagine how she’ll look at that dance tonight in a fancy dress
we
made! She’ll be the envy of all the other young ladies. Men will swoon over her. Oh, I wish I could see the ball. How beautiful it must be.” Dora stood halfway between the cupboard and the table with empty cups clasped in her hands, sparkling Bonnie Dee

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fairy dust coating her vision of San Francisco’s elite waltzing the night away.

Alan recalled dances he’d been to in his youth and a particular night with a girl he hadn’t thought of in years. She’d laughed at the wilted corsage he’d given her, and they’d danced until past midnight one hot August night.

“These things are usually hot, smelly, long and dull,” he told Dora. “You’re not missing much.”

“Do you have a tuxedo to wear?”

“No. I’ll have to make do with my best suit and hope they won’t turn me away.” Not that he’d mind.

An evening at home sounded infinitely more pleasurable than spending time with the stuffy society set and he hoped to make his appearance there as brief as possible.

“You go dance?” Huiann poked at her dumpling with her chopsticks but her gaze was focused on him and there was a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Dora show me to dance American.”

“Oh, yes?” He glanced back and forth between the two women. He smiled, but his heart sank. Did Huiann hope he’d escort her to the ball tonight? She must know it was impossible.

“I showed her how to waltz,” Dora said. “Get dressed up and give us each a whirl before you go.” His tension eased but guilt mingled with his relief.

He was attending the kind of event at which Huiann would never be welcome, and he was hiding her from the world not only to keep her safe but because it was better for him that way. Not the actions of an honorable man.

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Huiann leaned across the table and put her hand on his. “It is all right, Alan. Good for business. You go.

We stay. It is good.”

He grasped her hand, so delicate yet so strong, just like her. She was a resilient and capable woman who appeared as fragile and breakable as a doll.

“All right. I’ll get dressed and we’ll have our own little party before I go.”

The women cleared the table then went upstairs so Alan could wash up at the sink. After that he went to his room and got his dress suit from the bottom of his traveling trunk. He should’ve taken it out days ago to let it air, but the garment didn’t appear to be too wrinkled. Outdated maybe, but not moth-ridden or musty. He’d packed the suit before he left New Hampshire on his Western trek, but hadn’t had call to wear it until now.

He put on a clean white shirt and the black suit, which still fit him, although it was tighter across the shoulders. Physically he hadn’t changed all that much since his college days, the last time he’d had occasion to dress up. The weight he’d lost during the war, he’d put back on again. He brushed back his hair and straightened his tie before heading downstairs. Passing the other bedroom, he heard the women chatting and laughing behind the closed door and wondered what they were up to.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. As he paced the kitchen floor, the click of feminine heels on the stairs drew his attention. He turned and caught his breath at the sight of Huiann and Dora descending the staircase. Both were dressed in the stylish gowns they sewed for their clients. Huiann wore wine-red satin Bonnie Dee

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that enhanced her flawless complexion and jet-black hair, which she’d piled on her head and fastened with the combs he’d given her. Dora’s pink-and-white-striped dress enhanced her rosy cheeks and made her look young and almost lovely. Although Huiann was the shorter of the two, she was a more vibrant, imposing presence than the other woman. She seemed to suck the very air from the room. Dora was a shadow compared to her.

Alan gave a low, appreciative whistle. Huiann smiled and dipped her head, her high-piled hair threatening to tumble down.

Dora giggled at his praise. When she reached the floor, she spun around, making her skirt bell out. She reached behind herself to adjust the elaborate bustle with its little train. “They’re day dresses, not evening gowns. But they’re real pretty, ain’t they? Customers don’t ever need to know we wore ’em for a spell.” The garments didn’t quite fit. The hem of Huiann’s dress trailed on the ground and the bodice was a little large for her. Dora’s was made for a wider woman and sagged on her skinny frame. The pair of them playing at dress-up like young girls was touching. They both deserved to own fine clothes of their own, tailored to their bodies. It seemed wrong that they sewed all day for other women. He would insist they add to their own wardrobes. Let their eager customers wait a bit.

Waiting would only add to the cachet surrounding Huiann’s services.

“You both look beautiful.” He bowed to each of them then approached Huiann and took her gloved hand, turning her around in a circle so he could admire 214

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her from every angle. “But how are we supposed to dance without music?”

“I’ll sing,” Dora said. “I’m a good singer, my ma always said. Ralph used to tell me to shut up, that I gave him a headache, but he don’t have to hear me no more.” She laughed. Her ability to find amusement in her life and remain cheerful was inspiring. And then she began to sing “Barbara Allen” in a rich soprano.

The melancholy folk ballad wasn’t the best tune for dancing, but Alan offered Huiann his hand.

She slipped one hand into his and rested the other on his shoulder. Her waist was warm beneath his palm and he felt her ribs expand as she breathed. Her face turned up to his, eyes bright and shining. In her deep red dress she glowed like a ruby, making his heart swell.

Alan guided her around the floor in a waltz. She followed his lead as if she’d been made to move in unison with him, and as she dipped and swayed, her skirts swirled around her. Her graceful beauty would eclipse any one of those society misses at the ball tonight.

“I dance good, yes?”

“You do,” he replied with a smile, gripping her slender waist just a little harder. “Beautifully, thanks to Dora.”

Their heels clicked softly on the wooden floor, and Dora’s voice warbled to the sad conclusion in which Barbara Allen and her lover are laid in separate graves, a rose and briar growing from each to entwine above them.

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Alan ended the song by lifting Huiann’s hand and turning her in a circle. She laughed with pleasure as he bowed and kissed her hand.

“Dora dance now,” she said, stepping aside so her friend could take a turn.

Dora hummed a fast tune Alan didn’t recognize and he swung her in a galloping polka around the table.

The song deteriorated into breathless laughter by the time he’d spun her around several times, and they finally collapsed into the kitchen chairs.

Dora fanned her flushed face and blew a deep breath. “We’d better stop. We’ll ruin these dresses sweating in ’em like this, and you don’t want to be all rumpled when you get to the shindig.”

“One more dance.” Alan couldn’t resist taking Huiann in his arms once more. He swayed her back and forth, hardly moving his feet, and hummed some tune from his childhood. Maybe it was a lullaby. He couldn’t remember.

And then suddenly he recognized where he knew the song from. It was a tune one of the other prisoners at Andersonville had hummed endlessly. The man had been half out of his mind from starvation and dysentery, as most of them were by the end. He’d stand and rock back and forth and drone his song for hours. One day Alan had had the nagging feeling something was different and finally realized the man’s singing had stopped. Later he saw his body on the pile of the dead before they were removed from the compound.

Alan stopped humming the tune but didn’t let go of Huiann. Heedless of Dora watching, he gathered her 216

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lush body close and breathed in the scent of her hair as she rested her head against his chest.

At last she pulled away, smoothing his vest and the lapels of his jacket. “You go now.”

“Lock up behind me and don’t go out to the pump.

There’s plenty of water indoors. I’ll be back soon.” He gave Huiann a last kiss as a promise for later and then set off for the ball.

A curious cross-section of the upper echelon from Nob Hill and those who aspired to be a part of their circle attended the opera house fundraiser. Alan was out of place in his dated suit among gentlemen in tuxedos or more stylish suit coats. But, as a successful businessman and potential councilman, at least some of the women appeared to consider him an eligible bachelor. He danced with a few hopeful daughters around the flower-bedecked hall, past mirrored walls which reflected the lights and the colorful couples whirling past. The strains of a string quartet playing a Strauss waltz filled the air, and the cascading fountain of flowers really did make a lovely centerpiece. Dora would have been enchanted.

Between dances, Alan held cups of punch that he barely drank and talked about inconsequential things with women who didn’t remotely interest him. At last Mr. Dodge drew Alan away from the perfumed flock, giving him a much appreciated break.

“You’re a good man, Sommers. I’d be pleased if you wanted to come and call on my Cynthia.”

“Oh.” For a moment, Alan couldn’t think of anything to say. “You flatter me, sir, but I’m currently seeing another young lady.”

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“Really?” Dodge’s thick eyebrows shot up. “My wife, who’s always up on the latest gossip, is going to feel a fool for missing that tidbit. Who’s the lucky girl?”

“I don’t believe you know her.”

“Well, her gain is my daughter’s loss.” Dodge gave him another hearty clap. “But that’s no reason two old soldiers can’t enjoy each other’s company. Why don’t we take a break from the ladies’ folderol and go outside for a smoke? I have some cigars and scotch that’s as smooth as silk.” He tapped his jacket, indicating a flask in an inside pocket.

Alan smiled. “Sounds wonderful, Mr. Dodge. A stiff drink and less dancing would suit me fine.” He followed the older man outside where other male refugees had taken shelter from the ball. A pall of blue cigar smoke shrouded a group huddling in the dark like cavemen in formal wear. The low rumble of their masculine talk was a blessed relief after the clamor of female voices and the orchestra’s relentless up-tempo waltzes.

Alan joined in the talk of local politics and what the upcoming elections could mean to area businesses, but kept an eye out for Jeremy. Was he fool enough to come sniffing around after Cynthia tonight? The likelihood of the pair slipping off somewhere with this group nearby seemed slim.

“Sommers, I hear you’re branching out into the dressmaking business. Proving lucrative?” asked Ed Bratt, another general mercantile owner.

“I’ve sold a few.”

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“My wife said she had her fittings in your parlor with some China gal. How’d you come across her?” another man asked.

Not liking the drift of the conversation, Alan ignored the question. “How’s your business going, Ed?”

“Not as good as yours apparently.” Bratt refused to be deflected away from the subject. “How
does
one go about finding a seamstress, particularly a Chinese one?”

“One of my neighbors, Dora Stubbs, sews the dresses. The Chinese woman helps her,” Alan said, but every word felt like a betrayal. Huiann couldn’t take credit for her own work and he continued to hide her like a dirty secret. Although it was mostly for her safety, it felt wrong. And to refer to her as “the Chinese woman” as if she meant nothing to him tore at his gut.

He turned the conversation in another direction and, as soon as the opportunity arose, he made polite excuses and left. Sweet violins and the unearthly glow of gaslights poured from the open windows, but Alan didn’t go back into the ballroom. He headed toward his store, his shoes ticking off the blocks that brought him closer to the comfort of home and Huiann.

And with each step, his confusion cleared a little more. His doubts and fears and worries faded away and one truth shone through like a beacon. He loved Huiann with every part of him. It didn’t matter that they would be outcasts in society, or that he would likely lose everything he’d tried to build here in San Francisco. He wouldn’t keep her as a mistress, a secret.

He wanted to marry her and weather whatever storm Bonnie Dee

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that brought—even if it meant risking the wrath of a powerful tong boss.