She realized her grandmother would never finish the painting. A tightening sensation gripped her throat. When the tears rose, she didn’t fight them. She slid down to the floor and wept, her body shaking uncontrollably.
Eventually, she managed to sit up, roughly wiping away the tears. As she regained her composure, a glint of metal caught her eye. She reached down and touched the small, gold object on the floor. It was cold to the touch. The shiny key was about an inch long and felt heavy in her hand. She looked up at the wooden table, to the right of the easel. The oil on the palette looked fresh. It wasn’t like her grandmother to leave her work area without cleaning up afterwards. She shook her head from side to side wondering if she’d been painting on the day she died. If this was the case, at least she was doing what she loved most. Next to the palette was an old, leather bound book. She examined the worn material. The edges of the pages were gold leaf. There was a lock on the far right side of the cover. She hesitated for a moment. If it was a diary, perhaps she should leave it alone. She stood in silence biting her lower lip. In the end, her curiosity was too strong to resist the temptation, with a trembling hand, she placed the key in the lock. For a moment nothing happened. The metal rattled. There was a click, and the bound pages opened to her past. The scent of dried roses lingered in the air.
Chapter 2
Mary eyed the ivory pages—delicate handwriting yellowed with age.
This diary belongs to Mara Elizabeth McClain. November 4th, 1870, the Year of Our Lord.
Mary exhaled slowly. Her heart drummed as she realized that the diary belonged to her great-grandmother. McClain had been her maiden name. Her eyes moved back and forth over the page.
As I write these words, my hands are shaking. I arrived in the town of Oakland in the late afternoon. Soon after, a ferry brought me to San Francisco. The train ride was tedious. There was something wrong with the brakes. My stomach lurched every time we came to a stop. Little did I know this would be the least of my worries. Had I known the dangers of my newly adopted city, would I have dared to make this journey? I’m not certain. Although today was by far the strangest of my life, it did possess some magical moments. I fear that my very soul was shaken. These feelings are so overwhelming. Were there really flecks of gold in those velvety brown eyes? I was lost in his gaze. Looking at his face was like falling through space and time. His smile was gentle, playful, but honestly, really quite forward. It’s not like we are old friends after all! He’s a complete stranger. Honestly, it was really quite presumptuous of him to look at me so. Part of me wanted to run, to flee, another part wanted, well, something else entirely…
Her words were like gentle brushstrokes. Mary was vaguely aware of the art studio. She could hear the whistle of the train engine, the pounding of the rain against the windows. Long sheets spread across the glass distorting the scenery outside. The cold, damp air embraced her. The years rolled backwards and she found herself immersed within the shadows of San Francisco’s Gilded Age.
Chapter 3
Her eyes focused intently on her stitches, skilled fingers working the needle, moving rapidly over the cloth. An image of a cottage emerged within the colorful threads. Seven days had passed since her departure from Philadelphia. The train chugged forward, mile after mile it traveled, leaving behind the comforts of home. A sudden bump on the tracks made her pitch occasionally forward. She braced herself, clutching the arms on the leather seat. Just focus on your sewing, listen to the rain. Hail pummeled the window in violent sheets. The train car jostled from side to side, teetering on its tracks. Steamy swirls of mist floated by the glass. She let out a deep sigh. Echoes of the past surfaced in her mind. Her mother lying in a pink, satin lined casket. Plump, little hands clasped her beloved Rosary. No longer would she count the prayer beads, patiently reciting Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers. Mara’s chest tightened at the thought. The embroidery blurred as hot tears stung her eyes. She tried to blink them back. One drop escaped and rolled down her rosy cheek. She brushed it away like an annoying insect. Crying was useless. She had to stay in control. The train would soon arrive in Oakland.
Her inheritance would hold her over for a few months, she planned to invest most of her money into her business. Mara had reached out by letter to various rental homes in San Francisco. She’d been corresponding with a Mrs. Sarah Levy, a widow who owned a well-known boarding house in the city. The room was described as modest but affordable. Mara did not require much, only a clean space for a bed, a window to write by, and a safe haven. The matron would provide meals.
It was a leap of faith. She knew it. Opening an art gallery was a gamble. Would she find customers? She needed to procure a variety of artworks. So much was at stake. She’d reached out to dozens of art patrons over the past several months. There were few responses. Would anyone be interested in her gallery?
She would have to wait and see. Hopefully, she would figure it all out before her money ran out. Failure was not an option. She tried to push her worries to the back of her mind. Just take it one day at a time. The train whistle shrieked as it rolled towards Oakland Depot.
The passengers rose from their seats, collecting their bags and pocketbooks. Everyone was anxious to leave, to board the ferry over to San Francisco. Eager travelers pushed toward the dock. Icy winds chilled her body as she waited in line. A young man working on deck offered his hand and helped her climb the slippery steps. Mara found a seat near the front. A crimson sky swirled blood-colored streaks onto the swirling currents. Her eyes were heavy as the ferry made its way to San Francisco’s Embarcadero. She was beginning to drift off when she heard the captain announcing their arrival. Once again, she gathered her bags and made her way outside. The rain had tapered to a light drizzle, but the wind was cold and gave her a shock. She walked down a ramp leading to a covered building, and then stood for a moment looking out at the hazy street. She moved into the darkness, slowly, reluctant. Some boys began lighting street lamps and her eyes gradually adjusted to the muted light. By the time she made her way over to the parked carriages, they were already occupied. Eager families were loaded inside, ready to be on their way. An elderly driver called down from his buggy.
“Miss, there will be some more cabs arriving in the next half hour if you don’t mind waiting.”
The crowd had dwindled. Mara found herself alone on the quiet street. She lifted her silk dress as she walked, trying to avoid the mud and puddles. The odor of horse manure was heavy, the street littered with debris. A cool breeze touched her face as she searched for a dry patch of ground to set her bags. She looked up at the foggy sky. A sliver of moonlight slipped through the cloud cover illuminating the street. The wind whipped, making her eyes water. She pulled her overcoat tightly against her body, shivering.
A man appeared from the shadows. He watched in silence. Swiftly, he closed the distance, the sound of his feet concealed by the roar of the wind. Mara felt the heavy grip of his hands on her shoulders. Startled, she turned around. Greasy hair hung in his eyes. Rusty tobacco stains yellowed his graying beard. A smile moved over his leathery face.
“Well, little girly, are you lost? Do you need an escort?” he snickered. The sound of his voice sent a chill down her spine. Her throat tightened. He grabbed at her arms and began pulling her in the direction of the dark alley. As he pushed her into the shadows, she struggled, tripping over her feet, slipping in the mud. Her muffled screams drowned out by the roar of the wind.
“Let go of me!”
“Welcome to San Francisco, sweetness.” He shoved her down onto the cold cobblestones, eyes leering, his hands pushing up her dress. The air was heavy with the odor of dried sweat and stale tobacco. The sound of her beating heart roared in her ears.
And yet a sudden calm washed over her. She could hear the din of her mother’s voice in the wind. A lady must always be ready to protect herself. Wake up, Mara! Her right hand reached back to her bonnet, frantically searching. At first her fingers fumbled in vain, but she eventually managed
to retrieve the sharp hatpin wedged through the velvet cloth. The long needle hovered for a moment before finding its target. She stabbed it forcefully into his bulbous nose and yanked it back with a soft pop. A stream of blood flowed forth from the wound. He bellowed in pain, retreating with his hands over his face.
“You stupid little bitch!”
Mara managed to get back on her feet, her legs trembling. His eyes blazed with fury and he lunged toward her. She raised the pin in front of his face.
“Any closer and I’ll stab you in the eye. God help me, I will!”
Suddenly he was yanked backwards into the fog. A young man had him by the shoulder, turning him around. He pulled his arm back and punched him across the jaw. His head went backwards in an arch, and his figure collapsed into a motionless heap in the mud.
“Are you hurt, miss?” The man looked anxiously at Mara, and then moved closer, placing his hands gently around her waist to steady her. She looked up into his dark eyes. Her legs were weak from shock and didn’t feel as if they belonged to her. The ground under her feet seemed to be moving.
“I’m alright, I think. Thank you,” she answered, her voice faraway and low.
When he was certain she could stand her own, he stepped back, looking down into her soft blue eyes.
“I was just getting ready to ride home, and I heard your screams from the gym.” He pointed toward the street with a hand wrapped in white tape. “I’m not sure if you really needed my help,” he chuckled softly. “You had him on the ropes, lass,” he said. “I don’t think he expected a young lady to be armed.” He looked down at the hatpin she was still clutching. Mara vaguely noticed his Irish accent. His voice was warm and soothing, drifting in from a distance. It seemed as if she had fallen into a strange dream.
“Are you waiting for a cab? This is a dangerous area for an unescorted woman.”
“Yes. I…” she stammered. “I’m waiting for a cab. They were all occupied when I left the ferry. I think I lost my bags.”
The young man noticed them in the middle of the street. He quickly walked over and retrieved them. “I’d be happy to wait with you. You do seem a bit shaken if you don’t mind my saying so.” His eyes were gentle.
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“My name is Patrick Deane. And may I ask your name?”
“Mara McClain.”
A smile moved over his face. “Well now. That’s about as Irish as they come,” he said.
“Yes,” she answered slowly. “My grandparents came here from Ireland.” Her words seemed far away.
“Did you hurt your hands?” She looked down at his bandages.
“My hands?” he asked puzzled, then understanding, “Oh, the wraps. No. My hands are fine. The cloth helps to protect my fingers when I’m sparring.”
She looked up perplexed. She wanted to leave for the boarding house, away from this alley and its cold confusion. He studied her face, his dark hair scattering over top his forehead, falling into his eyes. He moved a few stray strands away with his taped hand.
His fixed gaze made her uncomfortable and she began speaking too fast. “I need to find Mrs. Levy’s Boarding house. I believe it’s on O’Farrell Street,” she replied, pointing down the cobblestone road.
His eyes flickered with a touch of mischief. He chuckled softly, “Yes. That’s right, darlin’.” Dimples surfaced around his mouth as he smiled. “Miss McClain, I happen to be very familiar with that side of town.”
Mara was not sure why this was so amusing. She looked up at his face. His skin was quite fair in contrast to his dark hair. Thick, black lashes framed vibrant brown eyes, flecks of gold radiating around the pupils. The color was intense, mysterious. She wanted to keep looking, but thought it rude to stare. Instead, she turned way, studying the street, searching for another carriage.
“I can follow alongside your cab when it arrives. I have my horse saddled up around the corner. I’d be happy to escort you over to the Levy house. I’m heading over there myself.”
“You are?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling. “It’s my home.” His eyes shone with amusement, looking down at Mara’s bewildered face.
“You live there?” She asked in astonishment.
He looked at her patiently. “Well, yes, Miss McClain. You know that it’s a boarding house, right? I just so happen to be one of the boarders,” he said, grinning. Mara barely heard the carriage pulling up alongside her.
“Looks like your chariot has arrived,” he said. “The young lady would like a ride to the Levy Boarding House on O’Farrell Street.” He handed the driver some coins.
“Oh, Mr. Deane, I can pay my own way.”
“I’m sure you can, Miss McClain, but I’d like to take care of this one for you.” he said firmly.
Patrick finished paying the driver and turned to Mara offering his arm. As she took it, she felt his firm muscles against her body. Her face flushed. She pushed a locket of strawberry blond hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. Once she was seated, he helped the driver with the bags and grinned up at her. “I’ll see yah back at Miss Levy’s house.” he said with a wink.
“Thank you, Mr. Deane.”
She watched him disappear into the fog and wondered if she’d imagined him: lost in thought, the carriage made its way down the cobblestone road.
Chapter 4
The horses moved in unison, blowing vapors of steam into the cold night air. A black gelding trotted on the left side, while a petite sorrel mare pulled on the right. They both appeared underweight, their ribs jutting painfully beneath glistening coats. Their heads were held rigidly by bearing reins, locked in a severe upright angle. They headed east, eventually making their way down Kearny Street. Mara looked out her carriage window. Loud, celebratory voices echoed from the open doors, passing saloons and gambling houses. The air was heavy with cigar smoke and perfume. A team of horses crossed their path, and they stopped momentarily in front of a two-story building covered in bright pink paint. A large sign outside read, Lola’s Ladies.
Scantily clad women paced the building’s balcony, waving and throwing kisses to the eager men below. A dark haired woman leaned over the railing, bending seductively to show off her well-endowed figure. She dropped a pink silk handkerchief over the balcony. It drifted lazily down toward the sidewalk. Two young men rushed for it, fighting over the treasure. The taller of the two caught the linen, but his companion snatched it out of his hand and he made his way inside the pink hotel.
Mara wondered if this was one of the city’s famed houses of ill repute. She had read about such places, never imagining she would see one in person. The carriage continued its slow pace, passing dining halls, saloons, and boarding houses. One building had a sign above the entrance that read, The Golden Queen. The door was open, allowing a glimpse inside. Men were gathered around various card tables. An attractive woman was dealing near the front entrance. Golden curls bounced down over her shoulders as she shuffled the deck. Her hands moved expertly over the hearts and diamonds, the cards floating down like the wings of a dove.
After a couple blocks, the buildings became refined in appearance. Several restaurants and hotels were open for business. Fancy carriages and well-bred horses lined the street. Dignified looking gentlemen escorted sophisticated ladies dressed in the latest fashions. Silk dresses layered in embroidered ruffles fluttered gracefully in the wind. Restaurant windows displayed silhouettes of couples illuminated by soft candlelight.
The carriage turned onto California Street and began making its way up the steep road. Overgrown hooves slipped along the cobblestones. Halfway up the street, the horses lost their footing, and the tug of gravity pulled them backwards. For a terrible moment it appeared they were going to roll back down the hill. The driver brought out a long switch of black leather and whipped it hard across their rumps, while saying “Move, you worthless beasts.”
They snorted, struggled, and eventually managed to get the carriage moving forward again. Mara was relieved th
at they’d gained their balance, and at the same time horrified by the cruel treatment of the animals. Halfway up, the buggy made a left turn, making its way toward O’Farrell Street. Mr. Deane was waiting outside a large, two-story house, an elderly horse was tied to a hitching post in front of the white picket fence. Patrick quickly made his way over to the carriage and helped Mara with her bags.
Once outside, she headed straight to the driver’s horses. Beads of blood and perspiration covered their sweat-soaked coats. Several angry welts rose over their rumps. She reached up, gently stroking the hot neck of the black gelding. He eyed her softly.
She turned to the driver in anger. “Sir, your horses have scars up and down their flanks. I can see their ribs sticking out plain as day.” She pointed with her gloved hand. “When’s the last time they’ve eaten or rested? You really should take better care of your animals! They’re God’s creatures after all.”
The driver’s mouth drew down in a grimace. His eyes narrowed, he began to reply, but took one look at Patrick and changed his mind. He yanked the reins, and the team disappeared into the fog. Mara listened sadly to the echo of hoof beats fading into the wind.
Patrick looked at the young woman with surprised admiration. “Well, you’re a regular little firecracker,” he chuckled softly, but he sobered when he noticed the tears in her eyes. “You’re absolutely right, my dear. Animals were not put down on this earth to be abused and neglected. They deserve our respect,” he said. “Just look at Sammy over there.” He walked over to the dapple-gray gelding. The elderly horse had a refined head, shiny silver mane, and intelligent looking eyes.
Patrick stroked its shoulder as the horse nibbled at his coat. “Don’t know what I’d do without my old friend.” He reached into his coat pocket and offered him a sugar cube. Sammy greedily took it from his hand, nudging him for more.
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