The Gilded Age, a Time Travel by Lisa Mason Read Free Book Online Page B

unsullied by any mundane contact with the world. Her fingers
twitch in her lap as if longing to touch a man.
    Indeed,
sir, that is the only conclusion Daniel can draw.
    “Good
morning, ladies,” Daniel says, carelessly tossing himself on the chair beside
her. She’s tall, he can see that. Tall with a long slim body beneath the coat,
the skirts, the bodice, the corset. Rochelle was tall, too, and her long legs
literally went up to her throat when she danced the cancan at La
Nouvelle-Athenes. Of course, Rochelle was a whore. But this one, this one. He
is smitten. What a marvelous land, this Californ’!
    “Good
morning, sir,” they murmur and recommence their conversation.
    “But,
Evie, darling,” says the elegant lady, “the Young Women’s Christian Association
puts up dozens of these Chinese girls every month. Every month! And still
dozens more are defiled in Chinatown. Defiled, imprisoned. They are literally
sold into slavery! In the United States of America!” Her melodious voice quavers.
“Can you imagine our dear Jesus Christ tolerating this abomination?”
    “Well,
they are heathens,” says the mousy girl.
    “All
the more reason, Evie! In San Francisco! Young girls! Oh, our Christ would
surely die all over again to see such a thing!”
    Uh
oh, Daniel thinks, a Holy Roller.
     “And
here we are, celebrating the one hundred nineteenth anniversary of our great
nation founded on freedom,” the elegant lady says. “The shame!”
    Indeed
it is the nation’s anniversary, why, it’s the Fourth of July. He’s lost track
of the days during his trek west. The elegant lady glances at Daniel. Such eyes!
With the depth of intelligence, the sheen of passion. Clearly, passion! Passion
in a lady is a far different thing than the depraved opportunism of a whore.
His heart assumes a more frantic pace.
    “That
is why our dear Christ has sent for you, Dolly,” the mousy girl says. She darts
a disapproving look at Daniel and sniffs loudly.
    “In
point of fact, Miss Culbertson sent for me,” the elegant lady corrects her with
refreshing logic. “When the directress of our mission at Nine Twenty Sacramento
Street invites one, one goes. One goes gladly, to serve our Lord.”
    “But
I am so worried for you, Dolly. San Francisco is such a dreadful dirty city. So
low class. And we’ve got so many parties planned for the season.”
    “I
shall stay at the mission only a little while, I promise. But perhaps we should
not speak of such things in front of this gentleman.”
    “You
may speak of anything you like, dear ladies,” Daniel says. “The sound of your
sweet voices is all I crave.”
    “Dolly,
he’s stinking,” the mousy girl whispers. “Perhaps we should find another
table.”
    “Yes,
it’s true, I’m stinking,” Daniel says. “I confess all before Our Savior, you
need not whisper.” Now there’s a fine line for a couple of Holy Rollers. He
congratulates himself and reaches for the mousy girl’s paw. She snatches her
hand away. He pantomimes having seized her hand anyway and kisses the air in
his palm. “I confess I’m drunk on your presence, dear ladies, drunk with wonder
at this marvelous land. I have been away too long. And now I have returned,
your true native son.” He slides off the chair and kneels before the elegant
lady, taking her hand between his two, boldly clasping the whole package on her
knees, and breathing deeply of her fragrance. She’s a hummer, all right.
    The
mousy girl gasps at his impropriety, but the elegant lady smiles indulgently
and neither reclaims her hand nor casts him off her knees. Smitten by him, too?
Better and better!
    “And
who might you be, sir?”
    “I
might be the Devil but in fact I am Daniel J. Watkins of Saint Louis, London,
and Paris. And you?”
    The
mousy girl gasps, perhaps appreciating him after all. London and Paris? She
widens her eyes and blushes, adding a modicum of charm to her sallow face.
“Why, I’m Miss Evie Brownstone, Mr. Watkins, and this