Perfect Wedding Read online

  “Two.” Malachai sounded as if he were in a daze. “Two.”

  “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  “Two. My God.”

  And with that, Malachai thrust Jason aside and bounded the rest of the way up the stairs. Marjorie saw his coat tails flap as he disappeared down the upstairs hallway. Jason laughed softly. “Do you want to see her, Marjorie?”

  “Aye, but I want to see the bairns first.”

  Mrs. Brandeis appeared behind Jason, carrying two swaddled bundles. Marjorie gave a soft cry of wonder.

  “They’re as fine a pair as I’ve ever seen,” declared Mrs. Brandeis. “They’re fat and healthy and just beautiful.”

  Molly and Li surged forward, as if someone had cut the strings binding them to the far wall. “May we see, too?” It was Molly, of course. Li, a young Chinese girl who had gotten into the country in a manner that hadn’t been explained to Marjorie, was too self-effacing to utter a word except to Molly, and then only when they were working in the kitchen.

  Since she’d addressed the question to her, Marjorie said, “Of course. Let’s all look at the wee bairns, and then I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Quarles will want to cuddle wi’ them.”

  Jason was looking upon her with approval, and his notice embarrassed Marjorie. She tried to shake it off and sound neutral and practical when she said, “Do you think Loretta and the captain want me in there?”

  “Well . . . better give them a minute, but I know she wants to see you, because she asked for you.”

  “You look fagged, Doctor. Why don’t you go on to the kitchen and get something to eat and drink.”

  “What I really need is a bed and about twelve hours of sleep.” But he was grinning as he spoke, and Marjorie could tell he was both relieved and happy that the birthing had gone so well.”

  “After last night, and now this, I’m sure that’s so.”

  “But I’ll take you up on the food. I’m about to starve to death.”

  “Go to the kitchen, if you will. There are sandwiches laid out and coffee. I’ll be there as soon as I can be.”

  He took her hand as they passed on the staircase. “Don’t stay too long with Loretta. She needs her rest.”

  “And she needs her husband,” said Marjorie, in spite of herself squeezing his hand.

  “And her husband,” Jason agreed.

  With a tired sigh, he released her hand. He seemed to do it reluctantly, although Marjorie figured she was probably imagining that part. Neither before nor since Leonard had a man been particularly anxious to be in her company. As she headed down the hallway, eager to see Loretta, but reluctant to interfere in a loving domestic scene, she heard Derrick Peavey say, “It was the Moors done it,” and she thought with a grin, The captain won’t stand for that.

  # # #

  Humming to himself, Jason pondered his present mood. He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, when in reality, the person who’d had weight lifted from her was Loretta. Still and all, she was one of his oldest and dearest friends, and he was extremely gratified that the births of her twins had been accomplished with so little trouble. In spite of what Loretta probably thought about the matter.

  He sank into a kitchen chair, and could only be thankful that nobody else shared the room with him so he didn’t have to be polite or make small talk. Lord, he was exhausted. Thank God for this day’s blessed event, or he’d have been depressed for a week. Jason always took it personally when bad things happened in Chinatown. It was ridiculous of him. Just because he’d had a Chinese wife, the Chinese community would never be more than grateful to him. He wasn’t a part of their culture except by grace, and he never would be.

  Grace. Good word, that. Chinatown could use a good dose of grace. So could he. With a heart-weary sigh, he folded his arms on the kitchen table and rested his head on them. He was so tired.

  He’d dozed off when, little by little, he became aware of a hand lightly resting on his shoulder. Blinking sleepily, he sensed that Marjorie stood beside him. Smiling in spite of his weariness, he sat up in his chair. She drew away as fast as she could, but not fast enough for Jason not to know it had been her hand that had so tenderly rested there. He felt oddly as though she’d blessed him.

  “How’s she doing?” His voice pronounced his grogginess, and he sounded like a frog. So he cleared his throat.

  “She’s vurra tired.” Smiling, Marjorie sat in the chair farthest away from him at the table. “But she’s happy.”

  Jason sighed at this typical, distancing, behavior on Marjorie’s part. “She’s going to be tired for a long time. It’s difficult enough, giving birth to one infant. Two takes twice as much stamina.”

  “Loretta has lots of that.”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Have you eaten, Jason?”

  He liked the way his name sounded when she said it. “Not yet. I think I fell asleep.”

  Her smile made his toes curl and sweetness bubble in his heart. He knew he was exhausted when he had such a reaction to anything Marjorie, the Reserved and Occasionally Caustic, did.

  “Aye, you did take a wee nap. You need rest.”

  She got up again and headed to the kitchen counter. Jason noticed a silver tray with a white kitchen towel draped over whatever it held. His fuzzy brain conjured an image of the head of John the Baptist, and he shook his head to rid himself of the grizzly vision. Last night must have rattled him more than he’d realized.

  “True, true. But I’ll be able to get some sleep now. There’s nothing doing in Chinatown that needs my attention at the moment.”

  “Do you think that state of affairs will last?”

  “Not long enough.” He sighed again, in discouragement. “I’m worried about Jia Lee.”

  “The girl from last night?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “Aye, what a terrible life that poor thing must live. It’s a wonder to me the authorities allow such goings-on in this country.”

  “They tend to ignore what goes on in Chinatown.”

  Marjorie had lifted the towel. “Would you prefer a chicken or a ham sandwich? Mrs. Brandeis made some potato salad, too. I’ll fetch you some from the ice box.”

  The thought of food made Jason’s mouth water. “I’ll take one of each. And the mere thought of Mrs. Brandeis’s potato salad is making me salivate. Thank you, Marjorie.”

  “You’re welcome. Here, start in on these while I get your salad.” She set a plate of sandwiches on the table in front of him.

  Before she could turn away from him, he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips. He wasn’t surprised when her face flamed. “Thank you, Marjorie. You’re an angel.”

  “An angel?” As soon as he released her hand, she tucked it behind her back and turned to walk toward the ice box. “You’ve changed your opinion of me, then.”

  “Not really.” He must have stuffed half of the ham sandwich into his mouth on his first bite. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Marjorie he was hungry. Thinking back, he realized he hadn’t had a bite to eat since dinner last night, and it was now . . . Jason looked up to check the kitchen clock. Good Lord, it was going on towards five o’clock in the afternoon. No wonder he was having visions and kissing Marjorie’s hand. He really was starving!

  # # #

  Rehearsals for the Pirates of Penzance began two weeks after the captain and Loretta’s babies were born. Marjorie found herself in the awkward position of not wanting to tear herself away from the twins to participate in the opera. She loved them as if they were her very own, and she told the new mother about her reluctance.

  “Fiddlesticks,” said Loretta, who was suffering from uncharacteristic crabbiness.

  Marjorie chalked up her mood to weariness, lingering soreness in some delicate spots, and irritation at the nanny who’d been hired to care for the infants. Loretta had said in ringing tones that she didn’t want or need a nanny to take care of her children. The captain had insisted, and the argument had gr
own quite fierce at times. The household staff had taken bets on who would win, with Loretta favored two to one. But the captain had prevailed, much to Marjorie’s surprise.

  “You need to get out of the house. Anyhow, you’re Mabel. You have to go to rehearsals. The play can’t go on without you.”

  “Aye, I know all that, but I hate to leave Oliver and Olivia. They’re so wee and precious.”

  “They’re little monsters, is what you mean.”

  “Nae. I love them, Loretta.”

  “Well, so do I,” Loretta said snappishly. “You’d have babies of your own to take care of if you’d stop being so standoffish with all the men who fancy you.”

  Accustomed as she was to Loretta’s habit of speaking her mind, this sentiment so jolted Marjorie, it actually robbed her of breath. She stared at Loretta, her mouth hanging open with not a word to be found in it anywhere.

  Loretta glared back. “It’s the truth and you know it, Marjorie MacTavish. You’re beautiful and smart, and there are tons of men who’d love to court you, but you treat them all like dirt.” Since she was occupied in nursing both babies at the moment, she was unable to make one of her extravagant gestures. Her scowl was magnificent, though, and Marjorie got the point. “Why, only look at Jason, for heaven’s sake.”

  Marjorie was trying to regain her breath and didn’t know if she was more hurt than angry or the other way around, when she was spared thinking up a response to this preposterous allegation. The door had opened without either woman being aware of it, and Jason poked his head around the jamb.

  “Did I hear my name being taken in vain?”

  To judge by the twinkle in his vivid blue eyes, he’d had plenty of sleep since the last time Marjorie had seen him, which had been the day of the babies’ birth. She’d managed to avoid him since then during his frequent visits to check on Loretta and the bairns.

  She frowned, thinking it was just like him to interrupt an argument. He did everything he could to discompose her. Not that she’d have hollered at Loretta, naturally, especially not with the babies in the room, but she’d have liked to have given her a piece of her mind. There were more important things to do at the moment, however.

  “Och, wait a minute!” Flapping her hands at Jason, Marjorie glanced around wildly, searching for something to throw over Loretta so that Jason wouldn’t see her breasts. Granted, they were mostly covered by babies, still, it was shocking to nurse children in front of a man not one’s husband. Even in front of one’s husband, actually.

  “For heaven’s sake, Marjorie, never mind about covering me up,” Loretta barked, having instantly discerned Marjorie’s purpose. “Jason knows what women look like. Hell’s bells, he saw the whole of me when the babies were born.”

  Rather than teasing Marjorie as he generally did, Jason looked upon her with a kindly expression. Marjorie wasn’t sure she appreciated it. “There’s no taming her, you know, Marjorie. But it’s all right. She can’t shock me.”

  “All I’m doing is feeding my children,” growled Loretta. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a process decreed by God. It’s stupid to be embarrassed by so natural a process. Anyhow, I’m not trying to shock anyone.”

  She’d managed to shock Marjorie, displaying herself before Jason Abernathy. Deducing it would be unwise to admit it, Marjorie only said, “I’ll get my wrap.”

  Jason had telephoned earlier. Since he wanted to examine Loretta and the twins anyway, he’d offered to drive Marjorie to the first rehearsal. She’d agreed, with a strange fluttering in her bosom.

  Her bosom remained stony this evening when she marched out of Loretta’s sitting room. She had to pass by the captain, who was standing behind Jason, and who gave her an understanding smile. Malachai had been Loretta’s primary target of late. His sympathy didn’t make her feel any better.

  A half-hour later, she was bundled up and sitting in Jason’s Hudson, glaring out through the front wind screen at a scene of early autumn chill. A brisk breeze whipped up Lombard Street, sending leaves eddying skyward from the pavement and striking against the automobile. The usual evening fog hadn’t rolled in, and might not, given the windiness prevailing. Jason had lighted the Hudson’s front lamps, but Marjorie wasn’t sure how long they’d stay lit, due to the breezes.

  A full moon hung in the sky, looking like a silver dollar. Marjorie, who was accustomed to considering the moon a benevolent ruler of the night, felt a shiver run through her this evening. This particular moon seemed strangely sinister, pallid and cold as it was. She sensed no benevolence there; only unfeeling Nature.

  Because indignation and hurt had been building in her breast for at least thirty minutes, the amount of time Jason had spent examining Loretta and the babies, Marjorie finally blurted out a statement she knew would earn her a jibe or two. She didn’t care. She was furious. If Jason said anything mean to her, she’d just give him what-for and walk to the bluidy rehearsal. “The woman has no shame!”

  To her surprise, he didn’t attack. He only said, “She’s rich. Rich people can get away with lots of things poor people can’t.”

  Marjorie turned and narrowed her eyes at him. He didn’t appear to be joking. Nor did he appear cynical. Sad, perhaps, but not cynical. How peculiar. Uncertain as to whether his rational mood was sincere or only hiding a teasing attack about to be let loose upon her, she said cautiously, “I’m surprised to hear you say so.”

  He shrugged. “You know it’s the truth. Loretta can afford to bare her bosom to the whole wide world if she wants to, just as she can espouse her many causes, and she can do both with impunity. She can afford to ignore custom and tradition. No one is going to punish her, or take her job away, or sell her into slavery if she misbehaves.” With a discouraged sigh, he added, “Hell, half the slaves I know didn’t even misbehave. Their only sin was poverty.”

  “That’s . . . that’s tragic.” It was the only word Marjorie could think of.

  “Yeah. It is. Too bad Shakespeare’s not alive today. He could write a play about it.”

  The Hudson chugged along. Marjorie hugged her shawl closer to her body, remembering the dreadful night she’d spent in Jason’s office. “Have you seen that poor girl lately?”

  “Jia Lee? No.” He shook his head. “She’s being kept carefully hidden away from prying eyes. I’ve learned a little more of her story, though.”

  “Oh?”

  They’d reached the foot of Russian Hill, and Jason turned right onto Leavenworth. “She was brought to San Francisco by an importer of Chinese goods. A white man, naturally, since we don’t care to deal with Bret Harte’s heathen Chinee.” His mouth twisted, and Marjorie saw his customary cynical expression emerge. “Most of this fellow’s so-called Chinese goods are poor girls from the province of Canton whose parents or guardians have sold them into prostitution. It’s not an unusual custom in China, girls being worth very little otherwise, although I’m sure most of them would prefer to stay in brothels in China, near their parents.”

  Knowing it was inadequate, but also knowing it expressed her feelings, Marjorie whispered, “That’s horrible.”

  “It is horrible. And it’s also illegal, but, as you’ve already learned, the authorities tend to turn a blind eye to the Chinese problem unless it gets in their way.” He shot her a glance. “Did you know that the tongs post murder notices right there on the public streets? They’re called red sheets, and they proffer rewards for the deaths of certain people.”

  Marjorie felt her brow furrow. “I . . . I don’t understand. What people? I mean, rewards? For the deaths of certain people? What people?”

  “If someone annoys a tong leader badly enough, the tong leader will decide to get rid of him. Then he’ll either use one of his own hatchet men to accomplish the deed, or, because most enemies of tongs try to hide if they know what’s good for them, he’ll post a notice stating that he’ll pay so much money to whomever gets rid of so-and-so.”

  Still confused, because what she thought he meant wa
s so outrageous as to be unbelievable, Marjorie said, “Um . . . I don’t . . .”

  “Yes, you do,” Jason interrupted, his voice hard. “You understand perfectly. You just don’t want to. I meant exactly what you think I meant. A man’s name will appear on a red sheet, and the amount of the reward for his murder will be posted. A red sheet is, literally, a piece of bright red paper so that it’s clearly noticeable, and it’s posted throughout Chinatown on buildings and fences and lamp posts and anything else handy. Heaven forbid that the word not get out. You understand, all right.”

  “But . . . but that’s . . .”

  “Incredible? Unconscionable? Yes. Both of those things. But the white authorities don’t read Chinese, and the Chinese people don’t trust the authorities, and they’re also terrified of the tong bosses, so nobody tells anyone and the practice continues.”

  “But doesn’t anyone tell the authorities?”

  Again, Jason gave her a cynical glance. Marjorie felt it in her heart, which ached. “What for? Not only wouldn’t the so-called authorities believe it, but if they did believe it, they wouldn’t do anything about it, because they wouldn’t care. Besides, anyone who dares snitch gets killed. It’s a fact of life. Hell, even I don’t tell the authorities about such goings-on, because I figure I can do more good to the Chinese in Chinatown as a living medical man than a dead one. God knows, there’s no one else to see to their ills and injuries. Anyhow, the fewer Chinese in San Francisco, the better the authorities would like it.”

  “But . . . then why are the Chinese here?”

  A sharp bark of laughter from her chauffeur didn’t make Marjorie feel appreciably better. “They’re here because we needed them once.” A pregnant silence preceded Jason’s next comment. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘a Chinaman’s chance’?”

  “I think so.”

  “Know how it came about?”

  “No.” Marjorie’s whole being felt flat and sore, rather as if someone had jumped up and down on her heart and pounded on her soul with a mallet.

  “They imported Chinese—Chinese men, that is—to work on the railroads and in the mines. They imported Irishmen, too, but, even though nobody much likes them, the Irish are white, and the powers that be allowed their wives in, too. Anyhow, whenever there was a particularly dangerous job to do, most often involving dynamite or poisonous gas, they’d send in a Chinaman to do it, sparing the white men. More often than not, the Chinaman didn’t survive the experience. Ergo, when a job seems impossible to do and survive, anyone is taking a Chinaman’s chance when he tries to do it.”