Phillip’s order, “thirty minutes after the last guest leaves,” drummed in Tamar’s ears. The certainty grew that she must escape now. He would be waiting in the library, not expecting her until the time he set. Her timing must be perfect to avoid being seen.
She flew to turn out the lights. There. If her employer came to the door, no betraying glimmer would give her away. The woman would think she had gone to bed. Once more she hid in the spot where she could see the guests leave. When the hall below lay empty, she snatched her bundle of belongings, crept down the long hall to the back stairs, and descended. Twice she hesitated when a whistle or snatch of laughter warned that the servants had begun the gigantic task of cleaning up after the party.
At last she reached a seldom-used door. It creaked so loudly when she unlocked it she felt the noise could be heard in San Francisco across the bay. When no one came to investigate, she sighed with relief, breathed a prayer of thanks, and stepped into the night, glad for the shelter of hedges and shrubs and trees.
She reached the tallest hedge, prepared to dart from it into the street, when the sound of carriage wheels broke the stillness. She involuntarily glanced at the conveyance that rounded the corner, heard the command to stop, and realized she had been seen. In the past, fear had given her speed. Now it froze her still. She couldn’t move. How much worse for Phillip to discover her out here than inside! He must have changed his plans or somehow discerned she had no intention of keeping the appointment.
“God, are you here?” she cried, feeling the world had ended.
“Yes, child—or at least one of His children is.” A woman’s voice—warm, rich, and comforting—reached out to the frightened girl. She instinctively turned to it, reassured, and found two arms around her. They reminded her of Mother’s long ago.
“Come to the carriage.”
Tamar didn’t hesitate. Like a child she stumbled along with her rescuer, felt herself pushed into the carriage, and heard a deep masculine laugh Phillip Carlin could never have imitated. “Gilda, my love, what have we here?”
“A frightened child. Drive on,” the woman called. The carriage started. Tamar leaned weakly against the arm of the woman called Gilda, too tired to even wonder who these people were or where they were taking her. She only roused when the man asked, “Where do you want to go?”
She gave the address of her rooming house, knowing it safe for the night but not for long. Mrs. Gregory would be sure to contact the music school concerning her vanished employee, especially after Phillip concocted some lie. The school director had her address.
“Miss Darnell, we’re from San Francisco but staying here in Oakland for the night. May we see you first thing in the morning?” Gilda asked when they reached Tamar’s boarding house. “It’s obvious you are in some kind of trouble and need help. Just maybe God sent us to offer it.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” the man put in. “Don’t know any other reason why my wife and I ever agreed to attend this affair.”
Their invitation gave Tamar enough hope that she was able to sleep. She woke at first light and lay wondering what was ahead of her. Had it all been a dream, the kind woman who proclaimed herself to be a child of God? No, for if she had been dreaming, she’d be in her room at the Gregories’ instead of here at the rooming house. Tamar sprang up, packed everything she owned, and wrote a quick note to her landlady. She explained she’d be changing jobs and left a bit of money for the woman’s kindness. Regardless of what Gilda and her husband said, Tamar could no longer stay where she was.
The carriage came just as she finished her note, and she hastened down, glad for the early hour that kept anyone from seeing her. Gilda and her husband, who said his name was George Smith, proved to be a gentle pair. Each no more than five foot six inches tall, George topped his wife’s 130 pounds by another thirty. Thinning brown hair above his round face matched his kind brown eyes. Tamar judged him to be about forty, perhaps five years older than his wife.
Gilda’s blond hair towered in improbable curls, but her brown eyes showed compassion and trustworthiness, and her wide smile warmed Tamar’s frightened heart. They took Tamar to a quiet hotel with an even quieter private dining room, waited until a substantial breakfast arrived, and then George said, “Let’s bow our head in thanks.”
Tamar wondered if she could swallow past the thankfulness in her throat but gradually relaxed and found herself hungry. “I didn’t eat dinner last night,” she confessed. “Mrs. Gregory had just told me I had to sing.”
George looked astonished. “With a voice like that, you need never dread singing, young lady.” He laid his fork down and continued. “God has given you an instrument to use for good in this bad old world.”
“I wasn’t afraid of singing,” Tamar told them. “I just didn’t want to be recognized. My name isn’t really Joy Darnell, but—”
“It doesn’t matter, and if we don’t know we can’t tell.” Gilda beamed until laugh lines crinkled around her eyes. “Do you have anyone who has claim to you, child? When I saw you huddled by the hedge it gave me a turn, all white-faced and scared as you were.”
“Someone there did recognize me. He threatened to expose me. I’ve done nothing criminal and I’m eighteen years old—but there will be unpleasantness if certain persons know where I am.”
“Joy, you don’t mind if we call you that, do you?” When Tamar shook her head, Gilda said, “George and I own the Pantages Theatre in San Francisco. How would you like to sing for us there?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Tamar thought of how her family had often regarded theaters with suspicion, carefully choosing only the finest entertainment when they honored even the Grand Opera House with their presence.
“We don’t have anything that would offend you,” George quietly said as if he could read her mind. “Our performers are ladies and gentlemen. They dress so and conduct themselves so. The Pantages will never risk its reputation by using bawdy or common acts.”
“For some time we’ve been wanting a soloist to sing just the kind of thing you did last night.” Gilda warmed to her subject. “We’ve also had requests for hymns. If you feel you can work with us, we’ll give you three numbers: a ballad or folk tune, something fairly light from the classics, then a hymn for your closing song.” She looked wistful. “I used to sing some, but my real talent is with the piano, accompanying others.”
“What if I’m recognized?” Tamar voiced her greatest fear.
“Why should you be?” Gilda’s eyes opened wide. “George and I talked it over, and if you choose to sing at the Pantages we’d like to bill you as ‘The Mystery Lady.’ Patrons will be charmed with the idea. We’ve even discussed costuming. You’ll wear frothy dresses, usually black or white. Mantillas will cover your hair and, if you like, most of your face.”
“I’d have to find somewhere to live.” Tamar felt herself weakening.
“Our home is no Gregory mansion, but it’s clean, comfortable, and you’d be guarded well,” George promised with a steady light in his eyes. “We hate living in hotels so we purchased a comfortable dwelling that’s spacious but not fancy.” Gilda patted Tamar’s hand. “If you need references, we’ll be happy to have you speak with our banker and minister.”
Tamar made up her mind. “If you really believe I can do it, I’ll try. The only references I need are already here. You love the same Lord I do.” She held a hand out to each of them. “I believe He sent you when I needed help desperately.”
Tamar slipped into her new life without much notice, although from her first appearance, the Pantages Theatre rang with applause. True to their word, the Smiths whisked her in and out for rehearsals and performances; even the rest of the cast had no opportunity to form any kind of intimacy with her. Tamar had long since told the Smiths that she had run away from a loveless, arranged marriage. She suspected they knew exactly who she really was, but George and Gilda called her Joy and left it at that. Their modest house became her home, and Tamar felt like their adopted daughter. Her quiet manner and warm smile endeared her to her fellow performers, especially when she never tried to take the limelight. The portion of her face exposed below the mantilla was left in shadows by the carefully placed lighting. Secure in her anonymity, Tamar poured her golden voice out in songs that tugged at hearts. Her closing hymn always brought a reverent silence before the applause.
One night an enterprising reporter from San Francisco’s largest newspaper slipped into the gallery and slumped to his seat. How could he get a decent story from a theater that refused the more risque entertainment presented in others? When George Smith introduced the next act as, “Our own Mystery Lady,” the reporter snorted. The mystery would be if she could carry a tune in a teacup, although the orchestra and previous numbers had been amazingly better than he had anticipated.
Into his bored ears came the trill of bird song, wild flowers, sunrises. He jerked upright and leaned forward, entranced. “Jove, what a voice!” His mind raced with phrases to use in his column, none of them doing justice to the singer. When the final notes of her closing number died away, he leaped to his feet and made his way forward. George Smith stopped him before he could mount the steps to the stage.
“Please, I’d like to interview your singer—the Mystery Lady,” the reporter pleaded.
George’s short stature could still be imposing when he chose. “I’m sorry, sir, but she grants no interviews.”
“Preposterous! Any woman who sings like that needs to be heard.”
“She can be heard. Here. Goodnight, sir.” George crossed his arms and barred the way. He couldn’t still the reporter’s voice, however. The next day the popular columnist’s regular offering carried the banner headline: Who Is the Mystery lady?
The article that followed included the fact that George and Gilda’s new singer at the Pantages Theatre permitted no interviews.
The wily reporter closed with the tantalizing comment, “If I were billing anyone with such a voice, it would not be as a Mystery Lady, but as an Unknown Angel. This seasoned reporter has heard the finest visiting singers and few can compare with her pure voice. She has the ability to evoke memories of home, love, and, yes, of God.”
**
Veronica Rhys read the paper and lifted an eyebrow. “Hmm.” She glanced at Gordon, deep in the business section of the newspaper. “Listen to this, will you?” She read the column aloud. “Gordon, why don’t we go hear this so-called Unknown Angel?”
Mind still busy with other affairs, Gordon’s gray glance showed his abstraction. “Probably more a fallen angel, I’d say. Isn’t the Pantages a second rate establishment?”
“It’s perfectly respectable and I understand that it’s far above others of its ilk. Will you take me tomorrow night?”
“If you wish.” Gordon absently turned a page. His fingers stilled and a crease formed in his forehead. “Veronica, read that again, please.”
With a resigned sigh born of long experience with her often preoccupied brother, she repeated the words for him. This time his eyes glowed. She finished with, “I know this writer. Anyone who can wrest such praise from his cynical pen has to be good.”
“I’ll get tickets this morning,” he promised.
To Gordon’s chagrin, he came home from work empty-handed. “Everyone in San Francisco must have read that column,” he complained. “The earliest I could get seats is Friday.” He didn’t add that all during his workday the thought of this Unknown Angel, as the reporter dubbed her, had intruded. For weeks and months he had sought Tamar O’Donnell. Even Hood, the human ferret, had lost the trail at the Wilsons’. The young attorney’s anger burned at the way Tamar had been driven from her work by the drunken Edgar. Joy Darnell, as she had called herself, evidently had won the love and respect of the other servants. Not one had anything but praise for her and contempt for Edgar. Yet when Hood asked for an address, they clammed up.
“Clever, they are,” Hood reported with a sardonic grin that changed his bland face. “One and all responded, ‘I really couldn’t say, sir,’ leaving me to decide whether they couldn’t say out of ignorance—or loyalty to Tamar.”
Carlos was more haggard than ever when he learned of the indignity his sister had suffered at the Wilsons’. “She has to be somewhere,” Gordon insisted. “I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s obvious from the Wilson fiasco that she inspires friendship among the staff and that gives her protection.”
“Protection her own brother didn’t give,” Carlos groaned. “Well, don’t spare any expense.”
Now Gordon sat and wondered. Should he mention to Carlos his niggling suspicion that this singer might be Tamar? He shook his head. If the singer was not Tamar, Carlos would receive another crushing blow. Better to see and hear her and attempt to get information the reporter had missed.
Friday evening the Pantages overflowed. The Standing Room Only sign came down with dozens of irate patrons left waiting. George and Gilda alternately rejoiced and exchanged looks of trepidation. Even high box office receipts wouldn’t compensate for the loss of the girl who had taken a daughter’s place, should she be recognized.
Perhaps in anticipation of hearing a new and highly lauded singer, the audience had never been more responsive. In turn, every performer sparkled. No smutty stories or suggestive acts. Just good harmony, stirring melodies, and genuinely funny exchanges between the comediennes. Then a figure swathed in a cloudy white dress and matching mantilla slowly walked to the front of the stage. A single red rose, clasped in her hand, provided color.
Gordon strained his eyes to see her shadowed face and gasped when the first notes of Stephen Foster’s beautiful ballad, “My Old Kentucky Home,” rang throughout the hall. He felt Veronica stir beside him, but he was too mesmerized by the singer to glance at his sister. His face flushed when he remembered how he had classified her as a probable fallen angel. No one on earth could sing like that unless she possessed a soul clean before God.
A second song followed. Gordon closed his eyes and let the lilt of an Irish melody wash over him. But when the Unknown Angel sang the opening lines of John Newton’s heartfelt cry of God’s forgiveness, Gordon shivered. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.”
Her every word breathed her knowledge of the song’s truth, and jaded San Francisco heard the message of salvation as effectively as ever preached from the pulpit. When she reached the final stanza, she opened her arms, and hundreds of voices joined in: “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise, then when we first begun.”
The audience rose for its applause. Gordon caught the satisfied smile on Veronica’s lips and whispered in her ear, “Quick, the stage door!” They reached the street just in time to see a dark-cloaked figure climb into a closed carriage that drove quickly away.
“Well?” Veronica turned to her brother.
“No person here tonight can ever again plead ignorance of God’s love,” Gordon told her.
“I wonder who she really is and why she uses no stage name,” Veronica speculated on the way home. “The way they keep her face in shadow—perhaps she is badly scarred.”
Or wishes to remain incognita, Gordon’s heart replied, but he stifled the words. Not even his sister must know what had become certainty from the moment he heard the Mystery Lady sing. The Unknown Angel was Tamar O’Donnell.
Now he faced a new dilemma, the worst conflict of interests he’d ever encountered. Allegiance to his client Carlos waned, while loyalty for Tamar grew out of nowhere. How could he expose her identity and have her hounded by Phillip Carlin again? His code of ethics required him to give his best to those who hired him, but he would not be part of any plot that might result in Tamar’s unhappiness.
Torn by conflicting emotions, Gordon slept little that night. The next morning he called for Hood, explained the problem, and ordered him to quietly observe the Unknown Angel. He was to tell no one except Gordon what he discovered.
“Do you think she’s the one?” Hood cut to the heart of it.
“If she is, I’m not sure what we’ll do about it.”
Hood smiled, went on his way, and came back undaunted but rebuffed. “There’s better security around her than in most prisons,” he cheerfully said. Gordon knew that the tougher the case, the better his secretary-turned-sleuth liked it. Hood continued, “She’s delivered to the Pantages, watched like sunflowers watch for the sun, protected by the Smiths and a troupe who are strangely averse to answering questions. Every time a performance ends, she is smuggled out and away.” He laughed ruefully. “I’ve tried three times to follow the closed carriage and three times a skillful driver has outwitted me by turning and doubling back. He ends up on busy Market Street and ostentatiously stops as if the occupants had all the time in the world before going home. But when I managed to look inside, the carriage was empty. Somehow they always manage to get out without me seeing.”
“They?”
“Mrs. Smith is always with the singer.”
“Keep trying.” Gordon told him. “I’ll approach it another way.” He went to the minister of a leading cathedral and suggested that he ask the new singer to perform. His idea fell on closed ears.
“I’d as soon ask the devil himself to sing in my church as some dance hall girl,” the man exploded. All Gordon’s explanations only increased the minister’s frown. “The theater and all who are in it are doomed to eternal punishment,” the man proclaimed. “Furthermore, this—this person’s daring to sing hymns to a trashy bunch of gawpers is blasphemy!”
Gordon subsided and marched out, then tried a new tack. Through business connections and a professed interest in the Pantages—which had certainly become real—he succeeded in meeting George Smith at a pre-arranged luncheon with a friend. George’s steady gaze and kindly eyes impressed Gordon. When the mutual friend was conveniently called away, through assistance from Hood, Gordon sat on chatting. He openly expressed his appreciation that the Pantages now had someone who would bring the Gospel through song. He said nothing of wanting to meet the singer—then. Instead, he dwelled on his relationship to the Lord and how much San Francisco needed the Gospel. The city’s wickedness had never been completely stamped out by the earlier vigilantes.
A few nights later, Gordon introduced Veronica to George and Gilda. The women eyed each other—one, a Nob Hill leader who had worked hard to get there; the other, a woman whose goodness couldn’t be hidden by her mass of blond hair. Both smiled and an unlikely friendship began.