Parlor Games A Novel

A JOURNEY OF SOUL SEARCHING



TOKYO TO VANCOUVER—JUNE 1891



As the crew pulled up ropes and the ship drifted away from Tokyo’s harbor, I sought a perch at the rear starboard. The lumbering Maiden of the Seas turned and headed for open water, destined for Vancouver, Canada. I leaned over the ship’s rail to study Tokyo’s bustling shoreline and the buildings rising beyond its piers. Johnny was back there, at the Imperial Hotel. And I, standing apart from my fellow travelers in mourner’s black, already grieved our loss.

By now he’d probably awakened and discovered my note and the engagement ring (for I could not keep sweet, innocent Johnny’s ring under the circumstances): “Forgive me, Johnny. I love you, but we cannot be together. I am not who you think I am. Though I will treasure your memory always, I beg you, for your sake and mine, to forget me. I am leaving Tokyo—and you—today, because I am not good enough for you. Yours, Pauline.”

All I could think of was Johnny reading my words, crying out in anguish, and racing out of the hotel in search of me. Even now he might be standing at water’s edge, watching my ship dwindle on the horizon.

Tears, unbidden, streamed down my cheeks. I hated writing that farewell note, wrenching myself away from Johnny. Only the necessity of my sacrifice spurred me on. My poor, dear Johnny. He wouldn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Even if Dougherty broke his promise and told Johnny everything he knew about me, it wouldn’t have mattered to him. Sweet, naïve Johnny would have told me he loved me just the same. But I knew his family would never accept me, and I refused to condemn Johnny to a life apart from them. My love for him compelled me to save him from my mistakes. If I’d allowed my selfishness to prevail, I would have ruined the man I loved—my trusting, loyal Johnny.

The ship picked up speed, its propellers churning the waters in its wake and heaving it over the waves. The chill, damp air misting my face and neck sent shivers through me. With each lurch of the ship, my stomach writhed. I believed I had found my one true love in Johnny. But now the cold, hard metal of the ship parted the waters, speeding me out onto the deep sea, dispatching me to an uncertain future. A future without Johnny.

Dirty smoke belched from the ship’s two stacks, roiling into a murky trail pointing back to Tokyo’s harbor. Might Johnny check the boat departures and discover I’d taken this ship to Vancouver? Would he board the next ship, the one sailing for America, and try to track me down?

Much as I hoped he would find me, I knew I couldn’t allow it. I would spend only one day in Vancouver, long enough to purchase a train ticket and continue my eastward journey. Even if Johnny took the next ship out of Tokyo, he’d never make it from San Francisco to Vancouver in time to stop me. Nevertheless, fantasies filled my mind: I imagined Johnny finding me, swooping me into his arms, insisting we need never, ever part.

Still, in numb conviction, here I was, rushing away from him. How it stung my heart to know that each day at sea and each mile of rail would take me farther and farther from Johnny.

All I had ever wanted was a respectable and happy life. Yes, I admit, I desired the ease that wealth brings, but not money simply for money’s sake: money so that I might enjoy travel, fine dining, and exotic sights in the company of someone I loved.

Had I ruined my chances for such a life? Were my prospects doomed ever since hunger and destitution drove me to Carrie Watson’s in Chicago? After all, my association with Miss Watson had given Reed Dougherty the ammunition he needed to break up my engagement to Dale, my hopes for a life with Johnny. Had I erred in joining forces with Sue Marie? If I’d never met her, I wouldn’t have been seduced into the plot that landed us in jail. Could I ever live these things down?

How different my life would be if I’d never crossed paths with the Pinkertons. I could hardly believe Dougherty had tracked me down in Tokyo. How incredible that he’d managed to foil me with the only two mistakes I had ever made in my life—being desperate enough to enter Miss Watson’s employ, and being foolish enough to allow Sue Marie to use me for her schemes.

I couldn’t undo my past, but I could learn from it. I would go someplace where no one knew of my mistakes, find the dignified and cultivated life I longed for, and live it honorably, albeit without Johnny.

I’m sorry, Johnny. So sorry my mistakes cost us a future of bliss. May you find happiness with someone more worthy than I.





FROM MENOMINEE TO NEW YORK



1891



I spent the rest of the summer in Menominee, basking in the acceptance and easy amiability one can find only with family. Young Gene had sprouted into a lean fourteen-year-old, rambunctious as a colt raring to run the range. Maman still took in sewing orders, but only for people she was “partial to.” As for Paul, he rose with the roosters six days a week to slave away at the lumber mill.

Over those late summer months, thoughts of Johnny rushed into any empty space in my mind, every idle moment of my time. I hashed and rehashed the events leading to our forced parting—the incredible happenstance of it all, how Reed Dougherty had robbed me of the love of my life. Could I have done anything differently? Should I have called Dougherty’s bluff? No, no, I always answered the same way: I’d done the right thing for Johnny. Young and well educated, he had the assurance of a position in an established business and the welcoming society of his well-to-do family. How could I have allowed him to turn his back on this bright future? No, if I had stayed and permitted Dougherty to tell Johnny of my past, Johnny would have clung to me all the same. But the cost to him would have been more than he could or should have borne.



As the leaves in Menominee took on red and pumpkin hues and fall’s chill tinged the air, my thoughts turned to travel. Before the funds I’d acquired from Mr. Carlyle in Hong Kong ran out, I resolved to explore London. And to get to London, I would have to journey through New York. Johnny was most certainly settled there by now. Perhaps I could catch a glimpse of him—undetected, of course—just to assure myself that he had adjusted to his new life. Still, I knew I’d need to stay on alert for Dougherty, in case he expected me to resurface there.

I would require a companion for my travels. Upon arriving in New York, I placed an advertisement in the “Women Wanted” employment section of the New York Herald. I knew exactly what I wanted in an assistant: She must be competent, worldly, well versed in fashion, and not overly serious. In my room at the Gilsey House, I interviewed the candidates, dismissing one after another of the dreary lot. Late in day two of my search, yet another applicant knocked at my door.

“Yes, come in,” I called, too disheartened to rise and open the door after hours of wearying exchanges with the most humdrum creatures.

The door opened to reveal a young woman dressed in a rather daring outfit for an October day, albeit an unseasonably sunny one: a cream-colored blouse and matching skirt, tawny lace-up shoes, and a toque decorated with a few slips of purple aster. Her broad mouth, close-set eyes, and longish face suggested an alert pensiveness. The whole effect—her fashionable but out-of-season dress, the self-assured look on her plain face, and a hint of expensive gardenia perfume about her well-proportioned figure—was as incongruous as a rose blooming in snow.

I rose to greet her. “Hello, I’m May Dugas.” I had chosen to use my real name again, since I had nothing to hide from anybody in New York. Besides, if Johnny—or Dougherty—hoped to find me here, they would not be searching for May Dugas. And, after all, I had resolved to make a fresh start.

“Pleased to meet you, miss.” Her torso dipped in the slightest approximation of a curtsy. “Belle Emmett at your service.”

“Please, have a seat.” I directed her to the overstuffed chair I’d had installed for the interviews and took my seat opposite her. “Tell me, have you had any experience as a lady’s assistant?”

“Yes, I have.” She sat upright, with hands folded on her lap, and her expression danced with lively intelligence, as if she were on the verge of delivering some brilliant nugget. “Here in New York. For the past three years.”

“And what were your duties?”

She unclasped her hands and patted her fingertips together. From the pink flush of her smooth complexion, I estimated her age to be eighteen or nineteen. “Anything and everything. I was maid to Mrs. Edmund Swinburne.”

“Was? Are you no longer in her employ?”

“No, Mrs. Swinburne will be leaving the city.”

“And you’ll not accompany her?”

Miss Emmett cast her eyes to the side a moment and tilted her head back in a prideful pose. “Mrs. Swinburne is going to live with her sister and brother-in-law. Mr. Swinburne was just sent to prison for insurance fraud.”

I nodded. “And you are all honesty, I should say.”

“I hope my employer’s ill-chosen deeds won’t disqualify me.”

Who was I to hold such a thing against her? Besides, the girl had spunk. I smiled at her. “I should think a weeklong trial is in order. Would that be satisfactory?”

Miss Emmett accepted the terms of my offer, and I asked her to begin the very next day by taking me on a tour of New York. As she gripped the doorknob to let herself out, she turned and asked, “What of New York have you already seen?”

“I’ve walked Central Park and the Brooklyn Bridge. Seen the shops on Fifth Avenue. And dined at Delmonico’s.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Would you like to see the other New York, then? Its people and merchants?”

“I should like that very much.”



Miss Emmett, in a sturdy blue day dress quite appropriate to the season and nature of our outing, met me in the Gilsey lobby promptly at 10 a.m. We boarded a carriage she had arranged for our tour, a dull red brougham with fraying seams and a musty interior.

“Carry on, Dicky,” she called to a boy of no more than fifteen sitting in the driver’s seat. With a jiggle of the reins and a heigh-ho, we were on our way, traveling at a trot over the city’s cobblestone streets.

“You know the driver?” I asked.

“He’s my brother. He’s been working for the Swinburnes, too.”

“And this brougham?”

She hesitated a moment, and I wondered if a long story might be in the offing. But if that was the case, she opted for the short one. “He’s borrowed it for the day.”

Miss Emmett and I sat side by side in the compact brougham, with me taking in as much scenery as the two-by-two side windows allowed. The day had turned chill, with thick clouds blocking out the sun. As the carriage turned, I spied a church with a tall, knob-decorated spire rising above all the neighboring buildings. “What a beautiful church. How it reaches to the heavens.”

“Oh, that’s Trinity Church,” Miss Emmett said. “One of the oldest buildings in Manhattan.”

The carriage trundled over several narrow streets, and the harbor came into view.

“And that round building,” said Miss Emmett, pointing out her side of the carriage, “is Castle Garden. Where they process the immigrants.”

We passed by the building’s domed rotunda. Two flags as wide as small houses—Old Glory and the New York State flag—graced the poles on opposite sides of the building’s dome, their rippled weight snapping under the harbor’s steady wind. In front of the building, wagons packed with people, trunks, and lumpy sacks wove among a horde of pedestrians—men in rumpled pants and jackets, women in droopy dresses, and wide-eyed children muddling along beside their parents. Our carriage slowed as we merged with the clutter of wagons and walkers weaving about in front of Castle Garden.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the multitude of people in all their slatternly garb.

“It’s like this nearly every day,” Miss Emmett said.

Our carriage cleared the clot of wagons, and Dicky turned onto a street bordering the harbor.

“Would you care to stroll the piers?” Miss Emmett asked.

“Yes, let’s do.”

She rapped on the front of the compartment, and Dicky pulled the carriage to the street side. Before we could let ourselves out, he had jumped down and opened the door for us. Dicky, whose neat jacket could not hide the ill-fitting pants roped around his skinny waist, offered his hand and stole a glance at me as he helped me out.

We walked along the pier, passing an array of ships in the harbor: the ocean liner La Gascogne; sailboats of forty- to fifty-foot lengths; and tugboats coming and going. Fall’s cold air wafted in from the river, carrying scents of fishy seawater and the ships’ dusty coal smoke. As we approached one of the jutting piers, the sounds of splashing and children yelping increased, arousing my curiosity as to the cause of the commotion. We strolled to the other side of the pier. There the shore sloped into the water, and young boys and girls in nothing but undergarments ran about in the shallows while a loose gathering of women in scarves and shabby dresses watched. Given the chill of the day, the youngsters’ squeals did not surprise me.

“Swimming?” I said to Miss Emmett. “At this time of year?”

“No, no,” she said, chuckling. “They’re bathing.”

Behind me a burst of laughter sounded. I spun around to discover Dicky doubled over and clapping a hand over his mouth. When he saw me, he straightened up and said, “Not swimming, miss.”

I turned to find Miss Emmett hunched over in a feeble attempt at restraining her amusement, whereupon I, too, burst into laughter; it was a good while before the three of us regained our composure.

“Oh, dear me,” said Miss Emmett. “I’ve worked up an appetite. Do you like oysters, Miss Dugas?”

“I love them.”

We returned to the carriage, and Miss Emmett instructed Dicky to drive us to City Oysters and Seafood, a raucous restaurant overlooking the Hudson River.

As Miss Emmett and I settled at a table by the expansive front window, I asked, “Won’t Dicky want lunch?”

“Dicky can take care of himself. He’s been working on his own for two years now.”

“Driving a carriage?”

“Yes. He learned about horses and driving by frequenting Central Park. Did chores for lessons.”

We ordered our oysters, and I asked Miss Emmett, “Do you have any other brothers or sisters?”

“Had a little sister. Died when she was six.”

“Are you from New York?”

“New Jersey, right across the river from here.” Miss Emmett poked her chin, and I followed her gaze to the jagged string of buildings on the opposite shore.

“Do your parents still live there?”

“Mother does. We don’t know where Father is.”

“What was his work?”

“He used to own a grocery store.”

The clang of plates and utensils rang out around us, and the buzz of chatter pulsed over the jam-packed booths and stools. I leaned across the table to better hear and be heard. “What happened to his grocery business?”

“He sold it. Or lost it gambling.” Miss Emmett shrugged. “Took up professional card playing.”

“So he travels around doing that?”

“He’s made a life of train and boat travel. Playing cards with strangers.”

“You mean with people who don’t know he’s a card sharp?”

Miss Emmett nodded, her lips clamped in glum resignation.

“And your mother. How does she manage?”

“She takes in laundry. And Dicky and I help as much as we can.”

I reached out and patted her hand. “We have a few things in common, I’d say.”

She studied me with unblinking eyes. “How’s that?”

“Having mothers who are on their own. Who need our help.”

A smile of knowing recognition flitted over her face. “Most people call me Daisy. I’d be pleased if you would, too.”



It appeared that Daisy Emmett was someone I could trust. She was not afraid to tell the truth, but she showed good judgment, too. After we agreed on her salary, I apprised her of my intent to journey to London, which pleased her greatly. But first, I explained, I wished her to make discreet inquiries about an old friend, a young man now in the arts-and-antiquities business in New York.

Two days later, she strode up to me in the lobby of the Gilsey. “Miss Dugas,” she said, “I’ve news of John Graham.”

I slipped a marker into the page of my Baedeker’s London and Its Environs. “Yes—what did you learn?”

“I think we should go to your room.”

I closed the book on my lap. “Why?”

She stood as erect as a pine tree, her five-foot-six frame looming over me. “You said you wanted to be discreet, didn’t you?”

I rose and headed for the stairs, all impatience. “Must you be so awfully good at following instructions?”

Once in my fifth-floor room, Daisy led me to my easy chair and commanded, “Sit.”

I eased down and looked up at her.

She unfurled a New York Sun and pointed to a column. “It’s old news now. Happened two weeks ago.”

My eyes latched on the column headline: “John D. Graham Found Dead in Apartment.”

I stared at the words “John D. Graham.” “No, no, it can’t be,” I said. “It can’t be my Johnny.”

Daisy cocked her head to meet my gaze. “Your Johnny?”

“We were engaged.”

“Did you meet him in Tokyo?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my.”

“Please,” I said, more as a desperate prayer than anything else, “don’t let it be him.” I pictured Johnny: bounding up our hotel stairs and turning to scoop me into his arms; glowing with awe at Japan’s intricate, soaring temples; laughing so hard at my imitations of Kotone that he rolled off his chair. Johnny, so spirited, so full of life, couldn’t be gone.

“I’m sorry, then, for it is your Johnny.” Daisy ran her hand down the column. “It says here he killed himself for love of a woman he met in Tokyo.”

I crumpled over my knees. “Oh, no. Oh, Johnny, please forgive me.”

Daisy brushed her hand over my back. “You loved him.”

I buried my face in my hands. The headline’s words imprinted on the dark screen of my tight-closed eyelids, glaring at me like an indictment. “I killed him. I killed him.”

Daisy gripped my shoulder. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” My insides sloshed. Nauseous, I crumpled over. “I didn’t have the courage to stand by his side.”

“How could you have known?”

“What does that matter?” I dug my fingernails into my forehead. Their sharpness cut into my flesh. I wanted to feel pain. “Johnny’s dead. And it’s because of me.”