Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [7]
Francie shook her head. “For the Chinese the past is still part of life.”
“More’s the pity,” Annie Aysgarth muttered under her breath as they walked to the door.
Francie watched the taillights of her Packard disappear into the misty night. It was only nine o’clock, but California Street was deserted. Up the hill she could sec the lights shining on the sidewalk outside her childhood home. Of course, it wasn’t the same house, because that had been destroyed in the great earthquake in 1906, but her brother, Harry Harrison, had rebuilt the mansion immediately, “To show San Francisco and America that nothing—not even an act of God, could defeat the Harrisons,” he had said. Only Francie had ever been able to do that.
She looked down the hill at the blurred lights of San Francisco, thinking of the happy people going out to dinner or dancing or to a show, and loneliness enveloped her like the cold gray mist, chilling her very bones and making her shiver. Hurrying back inside she threw another log on the fire and curled up on the sofa, wrapping the soft paisley blanket around her. Silence settled about her like the fog; the logs crackled and the clock ticked, but there was not another sound. She might have been the last person on earth.
It was the way she always used to feel when she was a child, alone in her room in the big Harrison mansion on Nob Hill.
The lonely minutes were dragging past and she glanced at her watch. It was small and gold and simple and it had been bought for her years ago by Buck Wingate—and that was another name from the past she shouldn’t be thinking of tonight. But she was. His dark, lean, handsome face swam into view in her mind as clearly as a photograph. Eight years had passed and she still thought of him every day and every night. The little portrait of the child he had given her one Christmas was still on her bedside table, his watch was on her wrist and his brand on her body. She was helpless with love for him and she hoped she would never see him again.
Hadn’t the Mandarin told her before he died that she must put all that had happened behind her and go on? That she should never look back? She shook her head—it was easy to say but not easy to put into practice.
She stood up, smoothing her soft white dress over her hips and stretching. Then she walked restlessly to the window and pulled back the curtains.
Down the road every window of her brother’s house blazed with light and a row of smart, chauffeured automobiles waited outside. Harry was giving another of his famous parties. She knew that despite his rumored financial troubles no expense would have been spared to achieve the perfection he demanded. The food would have been prepared by his French chef; the wines and champagnes would no doubt be the greatest vintages, the best hothouses would have been stripped of their choicest blooms and fashioned into breathtaking bouquets by a dozen fashionable florists. The footmen would be wearing the burgundy Harrison livery and the English butler, who had once worked for a duke and who was said to be more snobbish even than Harry, would announce the guests as they arrived. She knew there would be well-bred women wearing satin and lace gowns from Mainbocher and jewels from Cartier, and the men would look distinguished in black tie and tailcoats. And no doubt Harry would have the latest hopeful movie starlet by his side. And no doubt she would be working hard to please him, because even with two divorces and a reputation for being as chauvinistic as their father, her brother, with his social position and his depleted millions, was still a catch.
She closed the curtains, thinking bitterly that his timing was perfect. It almost seemed as if he were celebrating because at long last the Mandarin, Lai Tsin, was dead and could no longer tarnish the Harrison name.
CHAPTER 2
At eleven-thirty Harry Harrison said good night to his dinner guests. He gratefully watched them go, all except for Buck Wingate and his wife, Maryanne, whom he personally escorted down the marble steps to their car. The Wingates