Hers the Kingdom (78 page)

Connor opened the door himself, and led Philip into a darkly paneled room in which a fire had been lit. He motioned his guest to have a seat in one of two leather chairs pulled to the fireplace.

     They covered the amenities quickly. Each knew the other by name, by reputation. Connor was cautious, waiting to find out what Philip Bourke wanted of him.

     "We have a good many mutual friends, I suspect," Philip said. "Sara Hunt, for instance."

     Connor nodded, but waited still.

     "And Kit Reade. I've known Kit most of her life. We had dinner together last evening.

     Connor leaned forward and poured two brandies. He took his time, swirling the amber liquid in the snifter as if to study it before handing one to Philip.

     "Thank you," Philip said absently, leaning back and sighing. "Look," he said, "the advantage is mine. I know a good deal more about you than I think you know about me . . . though I am told you make it a policy to know a good deal about many things. However, since I feel I do have an advantage, why don't I attempt to rid myself of it, so that we can talk straightforwardly?"

     Philip started at the beginning, with his first trip West as one of T.R.'s boys. He told Connor all that he knew, traced all of the connections, talking for three quarters of an hour without interruption. Connor listened, occasionally taking a long swallow of brandy, sometimes looking into the fire with a pained look which might only have been a reaction to a deep swallow of the drink in his hand, or something else entirely. Philip couldn't be sure.

     When Philip finally fell silent, Connor asked, "Why are you telling me this?" His voice was calm but his eyes were wary.

     "Ah yes, my motive," Philip said. "I sat up half of last night asking myself that same question." He went then, step by step, through his reasoning. He spoke of Calabasas and Rodriguez, he spoke of Charles Emory and of Amos Proctor. He spoke, even, of Willa and himself. Very carefully, methodically, he marched through each of the possible motives, speaking at times as if he were alone in the room, yet knowing full well the risk he was taking.

     He was not sure how much of what he said Connor already knew. He was not sure what Connor knew that he did not. And he had no way of knowing what Connor would do with the information he gave him.

     "I came because of Kit," he finally said.

     Connor began, "It was an accident, my meeting her. I assure you, I . . ."

     "I know that you've discouraged her, and I tried to also. It didn't work, and it won't . . . I know Kit well enough to know it won't. She is determined to know you. I suggested to her that you might very well have someone . . . that there might be a woman . . ."

     "No," Connor said firmly, "no one."

     Philip looked at him directly, then. "Is it because of her mother?"

     Connor only shook his head. "Do you mean, is Willa Reade the reason there is no woman in my life, or do you mean, is Willa Reade the reason I won't allow myself even a casual acquaintance with her daughter?"

     "Both, I suppose," Philip answered, not sure that he wanted the answer but certain he would have to accept it.

     "Willa taught me a major lesson, she taught me that women were a peculiar weakness for me . . . that I could become too . . ." he paused, ". . . dependent. When I discovered that to be the case, I decided not to let it happen again. I haven't. That's all. I have no feelings for the woman now, haven't had for a very long time. You know enough of the details to know why. As for Katharine, I simply feel that it would be a mistake to bring it all up again. It could only cause trouble—and I understand that she and her mother are . . . that they care a good deal about each other. Sara has been careful to keep us separate."

     "Except for the parade, when you rescued the twins."

     Connor grimaced. "I'm afraid that was purposeful. I knew there would be trouble, I tried to warn Sara, but she wouldn't listen. And I knew that Lena and the children would be along—I've always had a fond feeling for Lena. I could say it was duty—I owe Sara everything—but it wasn't just that."

     "What then?" Philip wanted to know.

     "Curiosity, perhaps. I seem unable to avoid the Reades."

     "Do you want to?" Philip asked.

     Connor frowned, his face flushed. "Damn!" he said under his breath. "Yes. I do. I have to stay clear of them."

     "Kit is extraordinary, as you've already discovered. My advice would be to see her. Not seeing her might be the real mistake. Remember, too," he said, "she was born after it was over, all of it."

     "She's a child," Connor said.

     "Don't make that mistake," Philip answered. "She is young, but she is not a child. In a good many ways, she is one of the most mature women I know. And that includes her mother."

     "So you did come because of Katharine, is that it?" Connor asked him at the door.

     Philip smiled, his sardonic smile. "That, and in the interest of justice. That is my major interest these days, you know," he joked.

     "Thank you," Connor said, and the two men shook hands, Philip knowing by the other man's firm grip that what he had done was appreciated, and understood.

KIT WROTE TO us in Macao, a letter several weeks old by the time we received it but filled with bubbling good news. She said she had decided to stay on in San Francisco for a time. She was busy going to museums and the theater and had even accompanied Porter to some political rallies. The city was wonderfully exciting. She had had her hair cut in the new short bob, and had bought several dresses she described as "scandalous" at the City of Paris. They were, she said, in the new style, with shorter hems and longer waists. She was considering throwing out all of her corsets, in favor of some loose crepe de chine undergarments she had purchased. Near the end of the letter she mentioned that Sara had neglected to cancel a luncheon meeting with Connor McCord. "He came to pick you up," she wrote, "and since I hadn't anything to do at the moment, I was terribly forward and invited myself in your place. I pointed out that we were hardly strangers, since he had rescued Porter and me that time at the parade. Mr. McCord was singularly polite, though I think unimpressed with a young ranch woman up from the country."

     I didn't like it. She was too flip. Sara said not to worry, that Connor could be trusted not to get involved. I hoped that she was correct. More than that, I hoped that Kit was not interested in seeing Connor again. I knew how willful she could be. She was like her mother in that respect. I had seen Kit when she was determined; I did not underestimate her resolve.

"What I am having difficulty understanding is the sea change," Kit told Connor, her hand on his arm lightly.

     "Sea change?" he asked.

     "In you; last week I was chasing you madly over the beaches and through the streets, this week you look at me, talk to me, agree even to take me to Chinatown. If I ask to go to an opium den, will you take me there, too?"

     "What opium den?"

     "The one Sara and my Aunt Lena went to in their wicked youth."

     Connor smiled, remembering. "I think all that is left of those wicked times are a few smoking rooms. The Chinatown squad lets them be—mostly it's just the old men who frequent them, more sad than wicked."

     "Wasn't that always the case?" Kit asked.

     "As long as you know that, I'll be glad to show you Chinatown."

     "Let's walk," she said, pulling on a dark blue coat. "Can we see the back alleys too?"

     Connor fell into step with her. "It's not romantic, Katharine, not at all. Poverty breeds all kinds of ills—and Chinatown is a slum. What goes on in the alleys isn't very pretty."

     She nodded. "A ghetto, only a few short blocks from Nob Hill. If it weren't seen as exotic, I doubt it would be allowed to exist."

     They made their way down the steep hill alongside the Fairmont, and continued until they reached St. Mary's Church,
where Kit stopped to put on a kerchief, before beginning their stroll down Grant Avenue, through the heart of Chinatown.

     When they stopped to look in the windows of apothecaries, she surprised him by knowing the Chinese names for the seahorses, snakes, birds, and crabs that were arrayed in the windows. Inside, Chinese in black coats waited patiently in teakwood chairs while their prescriptions were filled.

     The odor of camphor and strange herbs mingled with the smells of food cooking in hidden kitchens. They paused to stare at the live ducks and huge green frogs in window fronts of stores. "It's strange," she said, "when I visit in Cambridge, where my father's relations are, I get a sense that they think of us— Westerners, that is—as if we are somehow temporary, as if our cities and culture are young and inferior. But when I come here, to Chinatown, I feel a timelessness—the Oriental culture is so much more sophisticated . . ."

     "Unfortunately," Connor told her, "other Westerners do not think of the Chinese in that way."

     "Immigrants are perfect targets—you should hear my Boston relatives on the subject of the Irish," she said, raising her eyebrows. He touched her arm and murmured, "I can imagine!"

     At a candy shop he bought her a sugared water lily and watched how delicately she held it between her fingers.

     "On to the opium den," she said as she licked the sugar from her fingers.

     "My friend Sergeant McGee tells me that if we walk down this alley," he pulled her into a narrow walkway that reeked of dampness and age, "we will come upon what is known as a smoking room." They made their way down the narrow passageway until they found an opening in the wall over which someone had hung a wet blanket, which served the purpose of screening out most, but by no means all, of the sweet, fetid fumes.

     She breathed deeply, not letting herself cough or back away. "How do they get it, the opium?" she asked. "It's illegal, isn't it?"

     "Oh, yes," Connor answered, "it's illegal. But you can buy almost anything, if you can pay the price."

     Two old men entered the alleyway. They paused when they saw the two whites, then came on, chattering in the Cantonese dialect.

     When they had passed, Kit chuckled. "They called us 'big noses.' They also had something to say about my virtue."

     Back on the street, he asked where she had learned Chinese. She told him about Wing Soong, and how Porter had insisted they also learn the Cantonese dialect, since so many American Chinese came from the south.

     He took her to dinner in a restaurant which had at least fifty tables, all covered in spotless white cloths, with only six of the tables occupied.

     "It's early still," Connor explained. "It looks as if they have a large banquet scheduled for this evening. The Chinese are famous for their banquets, and this is a favorite place."

     A young Chinese stopped and, in singsong English, told Connor how greatly honored he was to see him. When he left, Kit asked, "Who is that boy?"

     "He's not exactly a boy. He's at least twenty, and he's a lottery runner. I'm one of his white customers."

     Kit looked pleased.

     Amused, he said, "You like it that I gamble?"

     "I like it that you think twenty not young."

     He looked at her and nodded. Then he picked up her chopsticks, deftly twirled a prawn in a mysterious sauce, and raised it to her mouth. She chewed cautiously, her expression at first wary, then delighted.

     "What is it?" she asked.

     "Do you really want to know?" he answered.

     "No," she said, "I think not. I've never really felt I needed to know everything." And they both laughed.

     "You said you wanted to know something about gambling in Chinatown," he said after a while. "Are you ready for a lecture?"

     She looked at him steadily, trying to gauge if this could be the right moment to ask. She wasn't sure, but she felt she had to clear it up. She needed to know.

     "Connor," she began carefully, "I know something and I want you to know I know it because . . . well, because I think it may have something to do with the sea change . . . why you wouldn't see me, at first. I know you've been in prison. I don't know why . . . I thought perhaps . . ." She watched the steel come into his eyes and it made her voice falter. "I don't need to know," she said softly. It wasn't the truth, but his eyes made her say it, "Really, I don't."