Gold Mountain (23 page)

“I am so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, so very sorry for your loss. I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish there had been another way.” But I had longed for rescue at the time, I recalled, and not cared that more lives would be endangered, and when the Marines had marched into Pekin, I had cheered as loudly as everyone else with no thought for the soldiers who had fallen during the approach. Why in the great and divine theme of life had my continuing existence held more importance than the well-being of their beloved Reese? I didn’t know what else to say to them, didn’t know how to make sense of those violent days in Pekin and the death and grief and loss that had occurred on all sides of the conflict.

“Leave Miss Hudson to her dancing, Eleanor.” To me Mr. Thomas gave a courtly bow, his look of terrible sadness and longing completely gone. Now he looked like what he was: a successful California business man of sound mind and good manners. He smiled at me. “You’ve been surrounded by men all night, young lady, with a line no doubt forming behind me as we speak, so thank you for your time. We appreciate it. Eleanor has spoken of nothing else since she heard that you were present this evening. I hope we haven’t distressed you.”

“No,” I responded. The word came out a whisper, and I cleared my throat to repeat it. “No, not at all. How could you ever think that? I just wish—”

When I faltered Eleanor Thomas patted my arm again and said, “I know, I know” before turning to place her hand on her husband’s sleeve and say brightly, “This is our dance, Stanley. You promised, remember?”

Even then, I think I would have recovered from that emotional meeting if immediately on the heels of the Thomases’ departure I hadn’t seen Irene Gallagher approaching and heard her say, “There’s the brave girl now. You’ve been hiding from your admirers, Miss Hudson. Shame on you,” everything about her false and condescending and as far from the genuine emotion of Eleanor and Stanley Thomas as it was possible to be.

I didn’t bother to look at Mrs. Gallagher; I simply turned on my heel and rushed out of the room. The farther down the hall I got, the faster I hurried, until I was finally holding up my skirts practically to knee level and running. I might have had demons at my heels, which wasn’t so very far from the truth.

When I finally stopped my mad rush, it was only because I was winded and literally gasping for breath. Corsets did not lend themselves to that kind of vigorous exertion. By then I was in another hallway, one dark and empty, and I peered through the closest doorway into what looked like some kind of intimate dining area before I stepped inside and sat down at a table there. The hallway’s lights illuminated the area by the door where I sat, but the rest of the room was dark, lit faintly by moonlight that shone through the high row of windows along one wall. I had cut and run, I thought, and couldn’t regret the action no matter what followed. I felt so sick of place and time and so tired of pretense and secrets that I wanted to be somewhere— anywhere—else. I couldn’t make myself get up and go back. I just couldn’t. I knew Ruth would miss me and I didn’t know how I’d get home, but I was finished with the city’s most glamorous fête and I wasn’t going back. I’ll just sit here, I told myself, just sit here for a while, and then I’ll figure out what to do, but I’m not going back in there. I am not.

After a while, the light from the hallway was blocked by the figure of man standing in the doorway. He looked in, saw me—probably heard me still trying to catch my breath after my run, more likely—and came to pull out another chair at the table where I sat.

“May I join you?” asked Jake Pandora, and I wasn’t even surprised to see him. Something was going on there, too, something to do with Jake Pandora and his presence in my life, no such thing as coincidence, and everything, no matter how insignificant, part of a divine plan and an answer to someone’s prayer. I had to believe that when it came to the life and death of young Reese Thomas. Maybe it applied to Jake Pandora, too.

When I didn’t speak, we sat quietly for what seemed like a long time until he reached out and gently placed his hand over mine. “Stop that, Dinah.”

Without realizing it I had reached up and grasped the two long strands of pearls I wore, holding them in an unnatural posture, a hand on each side and with a death grip. I couldn’t speak or move. I must be going insane, I thought in one clear part of my mind. Could it happen like this? One moment dancing and smiling and making social chatter and the next completely mad? My breathing had quieted but in direct proportion to my slowing heart my hands had begun, seemingly of their own volition, to clench the pearls I wore, clench and then briefly loosen their hold, clench again and loosen again, in a strange way mimicking the steady rhythm of my heart that I could hear beating in my ears.

Pandora’s hand over mine was warm and firm, the hand of a working man, calluses on his palm and the skin of his fingers rough to the touch. Enormously comforting. The touch unnerved me to even more improbable and uncharacteristic behavior. I began to cry and jerked my hands free to try to wipe away the ever-increasing tears, an impossible task.

I sensed that my companion was as unnerved as I by my unexpected weeping and perhaps uncomfortable, and I tried to tell him to leave me alone, just go away so I could compose myself without anyone’s attention, but all that came out of my mouth were unintelligible sounds, small trembling gasps and sobs I tried to stifle. After a moment of hesitation, he handed me a large handkerchief and went to stand in the doorway with his back to me. I was grateful that he hadn’t attempted any awkward comfort, no arm around my shoulders, no soft “What’s wrong?” or even worse, “It will be all right.” What solace would words like that offer? Some things could never be made right. Reese Thomas would not appear on his mother’s doorstep to lure her once more into the sunshine. The family would pick up the pieces and find a way to continue—as we had done when my brother Joe died—but the boy’s death had wounded the Thomases in a way that would stay with them forever. And somehow I felt responsible.

“I hate all the fuss.”

Pandora, recognizing intelligible speech, turned in the doorway to face me but didn’t come any closer.

“I hate all the fuss,” I repeated, “all that brave young woman nonsense, all the questions and the undisguised curiosity and acting as if any of it mattered to them. I hate it. I told Ruth I didn’t want to come. I told her what it would be like. No one understands, not even Ruth.”

“Understands what it was like in Pekin, you mean?”

“No,” I retorted fiercely. “Understands about me.”

“What is there to understand about you?”

Pandora’s tone, conversational, unperturbed, remotely curious, and slightly amused steadied me. I began to calm, felt my irrational panic and that horrible combination of guilt and responsibility and dishonesty and shame begin to fade. My heartbeat slowed and my hands rested quietly in my lap.

“That I’m a coward and because I’m a coward, a man died.” I apparently thought my words much more shocking than he did because he strolled back into the room, pulled out the chair across from me, straddled it, and rested his arms on the chair’s back to look at me in the dim light.

“Really? That’s not the picture you present to the world.”

“I’m not just a coward, I’m a hypocrite, too. Everything about me is a façade.”

“I see.”

It was his attitude of casual indifference that caused me to spill the story I had never shared before. That’s the only reason I can think of to explain why I told Jake Pandora, of all people, the shameful story of Alfred Betterman from London, England, the little man who died because of my cowardice and foolishness.

“No one was supposed to step outside the walls of the legation. It was an order we all knew and it was sternly repeated many times a day. The Boxers surrounded the little compound where we were holed up, and all the women and children were supposed to stay behind the walls of the British Embassy. But sometimes at night I would go to the edge of the embassy gardens for a little privacy and fresh air, and one night I thought I heard someone call for help. Honestly, I thought I heard someone. I had seen what the Boxers did to Chinese converts, and I knew that many of our own Chinese congregation had fled to Pekin from the countryside and were being flushed out of their city hiding places and murdered. I thought, what if it’s someone I know calling for refuge. I was restless, besides. It was hot and late and I thought, what harm can it do? I’ll just take a quick look in the park outside the legation, but all the time I knew I shouldn’t do it, that I was just asking for trouble. Dear God, if I could just go back to that moment and make a different decision, I would. But I can’t.

“I stepped outside the walls, hardly any distance at all, and he came after me. Corporal Alfred Betterman of the British Consulate force. He called, ‘Come back, Miss. Come back right now,’ and hurried up behind me. He saw the glint of the gun, I think. I don’t know for sure, but I believe the moonlight reflected off the sniper’s weapon and Corporal Betterman knew right away what it was. I saw the knowledge in his face, but I didn’t see a bit of fear. Isn’t that something? Someone was aiming a gun at us but he didn’t seem a bit afraid. He stepped in front of me, grabbed my arm, and tried to pull me along, and that was when the sniper fired his first shot. It missed us, but I felt the bullet’s breath by my cheek and I froze. I couldn’t move, not one step. I was so frightened and all I could do was stand there. I couldn’t think and I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t do anything but stand in the moonlight and invite the shooter to try again. Corporal Betterman could have run for safety, but he wouldn’t leave me. I can still hear his voice, encouraging, urgent, ‘Run, Miss! Come on now, run!’ and when I finally did, I could hear him running behind me. Then I heard another shot, and he wasn’t running any more. I looked back and he lay on the ground. That brave little man! He was dead before he fell.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, I went back. I couldn’t just leave him there. I crouched over him and his eyes were open, but there wasn’t any life in them. I could tell. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Then more soldiers came toward us from the legation, two were firing their rifles to cover the others, I guess, and two more grabbed me and Corporal Betterman’s body and dragged us both back into the compound. Thank God no one else was hurt. No one ever said a word of blame to me, either, but I wanted them to. I wanted someone to shout at me that I was a foolish, stupid woman and because of my cowardice a good man was dead! The ambassador told me that the only family Corporal Betterman had was the army, that it was his whole life and all he ever wanted, but I wonder if that’s true. He was there from the beginning of the siege so we were together in close quarters for weeks, but I don’t remember him and I never knew anything about him when he was alive, not what he liked or what annoyed him or made him laugh or lose his temper. I’m ashamed about that. It seems wrong, doesn’t it? Death shouldn’t be anonymous. I did what I knew I shouldn’t do, and he paid for my disobedience. Because I was so frightened I couldn’t move, he came back for me and because he came back for me, he died. That’s why I hate all that brave heroine talk and all that nonsense about being fearless and cheerful in the face of danger. It’s all a lie and I hate it.”

After a moment, Jake Pandora said, “That explains it then.”

Whatever I expected to hear, it was not words expressing the satisfaction of a riddle solved. Something a bit more sympathetic would have been nice, although I—and probably he—knew if he said anything that sounded like he was humoring me or speaking sympathetic words he thought I wanted to hear, I’d have bitten his head off.

“Explains what?” I finally had to ask, certain he waited for the question.

“The way you are. That need you have to make sure people know you aren’t afraid. That prickly fearlessness. It’s important to you that people see you as resolute and independent and able to go it alone, nothing tentative about Miss Dinah Hudson!”

I didn’t have to mull over his comments; the moment he spoke the words, I knew them to be true and was humbled that what I’d held inside so deeply and so secretly had somehow still managed to seep out and reveal itself. At least to him.

“Don’t be so clever, Mr. Pandora.” I repeated my words from earlier in the evening but without the edge, too weary and wrung out from emotion and tears to keep up appearances any longer. “You’re right, though. I’ve felt so ashamed for so many months. No culture values cowardice, you know, and I thought if people knew the truth about me, I wouldn’t have any place to go.”

I heard him take a quick breath and get up quickly to come and crouch in front of me. “Listen, “ he told me, looking up into my face, “being afraid doesn’t make a person a coward, it makes a person human. Just because you feel the need to prove your courage doesn’t mean you don’t possess it. You do. You have more nerve than many men I know.”

Crouched as he was, we were close to eye level so I could watch his face as he spoke. A streak of moonlight came in through the row of windows and lit up a portion of his face, illuminated the trace of dark stubble just beginning to show on his cheeks, smoothed his perfect skin, and shadowed the contours of cheek and temple. Involuntarily I laid the palm of one hand against the side of his face, just to feel the skin, just to see if it was as cool and perfect as it looked, and I heard him take a second quick breath. At that moment everything about him was mesmerizing and so incredibly attractive that I would have done anything he asked. Anything. I was very tired but relieved, too, experiencing an unexpected and contrary exhilaration from my confession. Jake Pandora and I had shared something intimate. In a figurative sense, he had seen me naked and vulnerable, but the mental, more literal picture that came with the thought brought quick color to my face. Even in the dim room I know he saw my blush, and I believe could read how pliable I was at that particular moment, pliable and willing, because something in his own face changed. From the sudden tensing of his body I knew that I had become desirable to him in a very human way. He stood quickly and took both my hands in his to draw me to my feet so that we stood very close. In the stillness, I could hear his breathing, quick and shallow. He said my first name in a voice that didn’t sound like him at all and would have kissed me, a kiss I would certainly have welcomed, returned, and pursued. I liked kissing, after all, and at that instant I more than liked Jake Pandora.