A-Splendid-Ruin(13)

“Nothing. Politics and rumors. No one cares.” Goldie stopped short, gripping my arm almost painfully. “How would you like to see the Palace Hotel? It’s the finest in the city. We’ll go there for tea.”

The gleam in her eyes told me that whatever she wanted to do was going to be as daring as flirting with young men in public. But again, perhaps it was not; I didn’t want to be a Mabel. I smiled. “That sounds perfect.”

Her answering smile made me glad I’d decided not to protest.

The Palace Hotel had six upper stories of bay windows and a facade of brick that had once been white, but was now patinaed by coal smoke to a drab gray. The gilded ornaments of the edifice tried vainly to sparkle through the soot. A doorman—Chinese, again—in maroon livery held the door. I followed my cousin inside, and was immediately overwhelmed by the Palace’s splendor: oak floors, white pillars, redwood paneling, and great brass cuspidors. The footman said, “The Ladies’ Grill is this way—”

“I know where it is. Haven’t I been here a hundred times?” Goldie snapped.

Whatever he saw in Goldie’s expression made him step back hastily. I followed my cousin to a bar bounded by a brass footrail. Shafts of sunlight glowed through a room fogged with cigar smoke and swirling with the scents of tobacco, seafood, and roasted meat. Goldie paused, no doubt searching for her father through the throng of palms and men.

I caught sight of him first. My uncle sat at a table in the center of the room, his back to us. Beside him was an excitedly gesturing man with a bushy mustache and short, dark curling hair receding from a shining forehead. On my uncle’s right was an auburn-haired woman, gowned elegantly in deep plum and black lace. She was not the only woman in the Palace Bar, but she stood out among the few. She was striking, with a face that in profile was sharply defined, large heavily lidded eyes, a long nose that, while dominating, was somehow regal, a small chin, and a jawline that accented the dangling pearl at her ear. Her neck was impossibly slender. More impossibly, she too smoked a cigar, and had a glass of whiskey before her. She sat very close to Uncle Jonny, whose red-gold hair shone in the sun-smoke and the light of the chandeliers. He said something, and she laughed, reaching over his arm to tap her ash. Too intimate. He turned to her with a smile, a word. I couldn’t see his expression, but he was obviously intent, focused in a way that made me think uncomfortably of my aunt. The woman laughed. The curly-haired man’s expression froze in impatience. He did not like dealing with my uncle’s momentary distraction, I thought. I had the sense that he was a man who expected devotion and undivided attention.

Goldie cursed beneath her breath. I felt her determination deflate into resignation.

“You see that man talking with Papa?” she whispered, inclining her head toward the other man at the table. “That’s Abe Ruef. Papa says nothing in this city gets done without him.”

It did not surprise me. He reminded me of Mrs. Beard’s brother—those same eyes that seemed to take in everything, that way he leaned back in his chair as if the room were his to command. “Then I imagine it’s a good thing he’s a friend of Uncle Jonny’s.”

Goldie laughed shortly. “A good thing. Yes, I suppose.”

The woman exhaled a thin and almost elegant stream of smoke, and then whispered something in Uncle Jonny’s ear. Goldie stiffened.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“Mrs. Edward Dennehy. Alma.” There was no mistaking Goldie’s scorn. “She’s a widow. Her husband worked at United Railroads. I don’t remember what he did, but he was important. She’s very clever. Very clever indeed.”

It did not sound a compliment. “Is your father investing in United Railroads?”

“Ha. He’s investing in her. She’s Papa’s mistress.”

It explained the intimacy and my discomfort, but it was another disparity, another thing to question. My uncle with his mistress in such a public place, talking investments with the man who ran San Francisco. Everything I’d learned today made my mother’s lessons obsolete. Either that, or San Francisco was truly nothing like New York. “Aunt Florence must be mortified.”

“She doesn’t know.” Goldie fixed me with a searing, pointed gaze. “And she won’t. The widow lives in a suite here, for which my father undoubtedly pays a great deal. Good God, that diamond she’s wearing is huge—do you see? I wonder when he bought her that?”

It was hard to miss. Its flash competed with that of the crystal drops on the chandeliers—and won handily.

Goldie said sharply, “Let’s go.”

We were both quiet as we left. The carriage waited outside. I touched her arm gently. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For your father. I imagine it’s very hard to see.”

Goldie’s gaze was long and lingering. “You are not what I expected at all.”

Compliment or curse? I didn’t know. When I frowned in confusion, she smiled.

Even as I noted that it did not reach her eyes, she said, “You’re more than I hoped for, May. Truly you are.”

So I ignored the rest. I ignored everything that told me nothing was as I’d believed. That was my first mistake.





On the way home, it was as if Goldie had forgotten I was there. She stared silently out the carriage window, and when we arrived, my cousin hurried up the stairs, leaving me alone in the foyer.