I kept my expression neutral. “I think the lives of working-class women are often overlooked in history books. I’d like to shed a little light on them. Also, it’s an interesting mystery. My graduate advisor is enthusiastic about it too.”
Walter stared off into space, as if lost in thought. “Exposing secrets can be dangerous.” But then his eyes met mine. “And everyone has secrets, don’t they?”
The air in the hallway felt uncomfortably close. I blinked, a strange, unsettling feeling coming over me.
“Dad?” Hunter appeared around the bend, my knight in shining armor. He looked at his father with a raised eyebrow. “Everything okay?”
Walter’s face relaxed. “Fine, son. Everything’s just fine.”
“Good,” Hunter said. “Because it’s a little early for cigars and Scotch, don’t you think?” He threw his arm around his father’s shoulder. “And Mom needs help with something. Why don’t you come with me back to the kitchen.”
As Hunter steered Walter back down the corridor, I struggled to regain my breath. Had my father-in-law just threatened me? Reaching into my pocket, I wrapped my fingers around the key. This was my moment to put it back right where I’d found it—to do the right thing. But against my better judgment, I didn’t.
Chapter 10
Hanna, 1876
Hanna ran down Montgomery Street as if her father himself chased after her. Stabbing her insides like needles, a sharp pain caused Hanna to gasp for breath. She stopped short, holding her ribs. In that moment, Mrs. Cunningham’s bustled form emerged from Walton’s Tailor Shop.
God in heaven!
Quickly, Hanna stepped into a nearby doorway, hiding beneath its striped awning. She lowered her head so Mrs. Cunningham would not see her. Between the events of last night and her haste to find Lucas, Hanna had forgotten neither she nor Margaret had turned up for work this morning. Leaning forward, Hanna glanced around the corner. Mrs. Cunningham stood in the street, speaking with an elderly gentleman.
Fragments of their conversation carried on the breeze, Mrs. Cunningham’s voice barely audible. “. . . I always knew the O’Brien girl was trouble. No doubt she has gone the way of the devil. It’s the other one who has surprised me. She didn’t strike me as the type to run off. But you know how these shopgirls are, easily swayed by vice.”
The man stood before her with brows as thick as caterpillars, which drew together as he frowned. He shook his fist, jingling his gold pocket watch.
“No matter how grave the situation, I demand workers forthwith. I’ll not shut the doors of my business due to the antics of two fickle girls. Can you not find them? Where were they last seen?”
Mrs. Cunningham appeared shrunken before him, like an apple that had withered in the sun. Perhaps she would be out of a job. From his fine suit and shiny top hat, Hanna presumed this man to be the shop owner.
Mrs. Cunningham dropped her voice. “I last saw the O’Brien girl at supper hour. Unbeknownst to her, I watched her from my apartment above the shop. She stepped out with a rough-looking man, walking toward those debased saloons on Kearny Street.”
Straining to hear every word, Hanna covered her mouth. Mrs. Cunningham had seen Margaret! And what on earth had been troubling Margaret, causing her to walk toward the dangers of Old Sydney Town? Murderers and crooks swarmed the dives that stood along Kearny Street. It was hardly a safe place for a woman.
“Does the girl have any family you can contact?” the man asked.
Mrs. Cunningham lifted her nose. “I do not associate with the likes of Irish immigrants such as Mrs. O’Brien. The girl couldn’t even write her address.”
“And what of the other girl?” he asked, throwing up his hands. “Call on her family and bring her into the shop immediately. I care not if she is on her deathbed.”
Mrs. Cunningham pursed her lips. “The German girl wrote her address as Napier Lane. I suppose I could send a messenger to the home.”
The gentleman paced back and forth in front of the shop. “Please do so. In the meantime, call on whomever you must. I want seamstresses here within the hour. I shan’t leave my customers waiting.”
Mrs. Cunningham bowed her head. “Understood.”
“If the girls cannot be found . . .” The man removed his top hat and rubbed his silver hair. “Terrible misfortune may befall them. You must call the police.”
Mrs. Cunningham frowned. “Yes, sir, Mr. Walton.”
Hanna stood still as a statue. Pray that unfortunate messenger would not encounter Father in a drunken rage. Her palms began to sweat. If the police were to search for her, would she be arrested for stealing the beautiful velvet dress?
Bowing her head, Hanna left the doorway and walked quickly in the opposite direction. Turning right, she ran the remainder of the way to California Street. Her boots stopped before the imposing marble structure that housed the Merchants Exchange.
Hanna looked at the dirty hem of her dirndl, which had dragged through the mud. Tugging her shawl more tightly around her shoulders to shield herself from the cold, she blew hot breath on her reddened fingers.
You shall do this for Margaret. You must.
Walking with purpose, Hanna entered the building. She held herself erect, as though it were perfectly natural for a girl of her position to enter a place such as this.
A man with a waxed moustache sat at a desk in the lobby. “Excuse me,” he asked. “May I help you?”
Hanna’s mouth went dry as cotton, but she managed to form words. “Yes, sir. I am here to see Mr. Lucas Havensworth.”
His eyes narrowed. “And Mr. Havensworth is expecting you?”
Hanna crossed her hands to hide the trembling. “Yes, sir.”
The man’s moustache twitched as he spoke. “Mr. Havensworth is quite busy. He may well be in a meeting this very moment.”
“Please,” Hanna said. “Mr. Havensworth expects me.”
The man’s expression softened. “This way.”
Her footsteps echoed in the marble halls as she followed him down the corridor. Hanna’s eyes darted to the gilded columns, the glass windows, and the oil paintings. How much wealth could be contained in a single embellishment, while children outside starved in the street? She stopped before a frosted glass door, painted with a gold number 17. The man rapped his knuckles against it.
Lucas pulled the door open, his blue eyes meeting Hanna’s. Even under such terrible circumstances, seeing him again pleased her.
“Sir,” the mustachioed man said. “This woman states she has an appointment with you.” He looked at Hanna as if she were a mouse that had scurried inside. “But I am happy to escort her out if that is not the case.”
“Please do no such thing,” Lucas said. “I am expecting Miss Schaeffer. Hanna, do come in. Bernard, you may leave us now.”
“Thank you,” Hanna whispered to Lucas, watching Bernard turn away. Lucas shut the door behind them. Looking at Hanna, he reached up to touch her face where the bruise had come through. His cool fingertips settled against Hanna’s sore skin.
“Good God, Hanna. Who is the brute who did this to you?”
His touch was so tender she managed not to flinch. “My father.”
The cobalt ring around Lucas’s eyes deepened. “How dare he raise his hand to you! Are you all right?”
Hanna shook her head. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. “Lucas, I am sorry to trouble you, but Margaret . . . she is gone.”
“Gone?” He patted the chair next to him. “Here, sit down. I’ll bring you tea.”
Hanna sat on the soft chair upholstered in velvet. A silver dog rested atop Lucas’s desk, holding a stack of papers in place. That trinket could buy a family enough food to last a year. And here it sat, helping no one.
“What happened?” Lucas asked, pouring tea from a silver pot into a porcelain cup. Few men possessed his kindness, a special quality indeed.
Hanna reached into her dirndl pocket for a cloth handkerchief. Dabbing at her eyes, she recounted last night�
��s events. “I asked Margaret to mind the children while you and I were at the theater, and she agreed. But when I returned home, she was gone. The children told me she never arrived. My father was drunk, and he struck me.”
Lucas curled his hand into a fist. “What kind of man raises his hand to his own daughter?”
“Drink is a curse. Margaret’s father also beats her.”
Handing her a teacup and saucer, Lucas sat down next to Hanna. “How do you know Margaret didn’t return home?”
Hanna lifted the cup with both hands, allowing its warmth to comfort her. “I visited Margaret’s family early this morn.”
Margaret’s dreadful mother with her wild eyes and spittle was not a woman Hanna wished to encounter again. “Margaret was not there. Her mother told me she had been seeing a boy named Kieran McClaren.”
“Margaret had a sweetheart?” Lucas asked.
“I do not know,” Hanna said, hanging her head. “And I thought I knew everything about Margaret.”
“Do you think she’s with him now?”
Hanna sipped her tea, taking time to think. “She may well be. I heard Mrs. Cunningham speak to the owner of Walton’s Tailor Shop. She had seen Margaret on the arm of a man last night, walking to the saloons on Kearny Street.”
Lucas furrowed his brow. “And Margaret was not known to frequent saloons?”
“Of course not! She is a virtuous girl.”
“Forgive me,” Lucas said. “It was not my intention to offend. I am only trying to piece together the events of the evening. When did you last see Margaret?”
“At six o’clock. We were together when she helped me dress . . .”
Hanna’s throat tightened, remembering the smile on Margaret’s face as she fastened each jet button of the borrowed velvet dress. Margaret had brushed Hanna’s hair out for her, and pinned it atop Hanna’s head, copying the hairstyles of fashionable women she had seen in the street.
“Can you recall what she was wearing?” Lucas asked.
Hanna closed her eyes, trying to picture her friend. “Her brown day frock. She wore no ribbons in her hair, nor did she have any jewelry save for her grandmother’s silver claddagh ring. She never takes it off.”
“And according to Mrs. Cunningham, she was last seen with a man, walking in the direction of the saloons on Kearny Street?”
“Yes,” Hanna said, her shoulders slumping. “That is all we know.”
“Well then,” Lucas said. “We must make a statement to the police.”
“Mrs. Cunningham has done so already,” Hanna replied. “And I fear they will not act quickly enough. We must find Margaret before it is too late.”
Lucas placed his hand on Hanna’s. “Pray tell me then what you wish to do.”
Hanna sucked in her breath at the unexpected contact. But she felt reassurance in the warmth of Lucas’s touch. “May I ask you to accompany me to Devil’s Acre?” she asked softly. “And to prepare for the worst.”
Lucas clenched his teeth, setting his jaw in a hard line. “Have you no one else who can travel with you? Your brother, perhaps?”
“No. He’s too young. I do not wish to expose him to such vice.” She swallowed. Perhaps Lucas would refuse, leaving her with no one.
But Lucas nodded. “Then my decision is made. I would not wish any harm to befall you, especially when your father has already done enough.”
“Thank you,” Hanna said. “Now we must hurry.”
Even with Lucas by her side, Hanna felt her skin prickle with nerves as she walked down Kearny Street. Working girls stumbled onto the wooden sidewalk, their eyes glassed over from smoking opium. They wore lipstick, rouge, and little else. Even the pretty waiter girls employed at the melodeons donned gaudy costumes such as see-through shirts and frilly knickers to display their charms for the taking.
Lucas held Hanna’s arm tightly as the neighborhood grew rougher. She looked up at the signs above the grog shops, saloons, and dance halls: THE COCK O’ THE WALL, THE DEWDROP AND THE ROSEBUD, BROOK’S MELODEON, THE MONTANA. Which of these horrid cellars could Margaret have entered, and why?
When Hanna and Lucas reached the corner of Pacific Street, they stood in front of a dank saloon. Some called it a deadfall, for not many a man emerged from it with his life. It was known as the Billy Goat. A middle-aged woman stood outside smoking a cigarette. Her deep-set eyes shone black beneath frizzed hair, and skin hung from her face like dough.
“Aye, come inside,” she said, turning toward them. “Drink spirits and I’ll ’ave a right show for ye.”
Spitting tobacco on the dirt road, the barkeep stopped to wipe her mouth. The street smelled of urine and rotting vegetables. Hanna took a step forward, her muscles tensing as she prepared to follow.
“Are you mad?” Lucas whispered.
“Please,” Hanna said, navigating her way past a broken bottle. “The barkeep might have seen Margaret and known the man who accompanied her.”
The hag smiled, revealing blackened stumps of teeth. “What ’ave we here, a fine man and his slapper.”
Lucas’s eyes hardened, but Hanna squeezed his arm.
“Yes, we would like a drink,” she said. “May we enter?”
The barkeep laughed. “No need to be polite round ’ere, girl. This is Old Sydney Town, where the next fool you meet could stab you in the back.”
Lucas looked nervously over his shoulder. The woman beckoned them toward a stairwell leading down to a cellar. “Come in. Me name’s Pigeon-Toed Sal.”
Walking down, Hanna covered her mouth and nose. The repulsive combination of odors included sweat, urine, goat dung, and stale beer. Her heart pounded as she forced one foot in front of the other. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Hanna saw men in soiled coveralls sitting on stools around the bar.
From their sun-browned skin and wiry muscles, they looked like sea captains, dockworkers, and miners. They stared at Hanna, wetting their lips and stroking their beards. Turning to the crack of light seeping under the door from the street above, Hanna wondered how quickly she could run up the stairs.
“Fine lass you got there,” said a ruddy-faced man with chipped teeth, his fingernails embedded with dirt. “How much?”
Lucas made a noise like a growl. “She’s not for sale.”
Pigeon-Toed Sal waddled behind the bar and poured beer into a sullied mug, taking her time. Passing it across the bar to Lucas, Sal didn’t seem to mind when the drink sloshed everywhere. Nor did she make an effort to clean it up.
“Ten cents,” she said, her whiskery mouth sneering.
Hanna cleared her throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. Have you seen a girl by the name of Margaret O’Brien?”
Sal studied Hanna with her birdlike eyes. “It don’t ring a bell.”
Hanna lifted her skirt as she climbed onto the barstool. Bits of wet sawdust clung to the hem of her dirndl. “She’s a girl of nineteen. She has long red hair and a comely face. She wears a brown dress. Please?”
A rail-thin man leaned forward on his elbows. The whites of his eyes shone a sickly yellow. “I seen the lass. Real pretty like. Seen her yesterday.”
“You did? Pray, tell me where.”
He stroked his chin. “What’re you gonna give me if I tell you?”
“He’s lying,” Lucas whispered. “He wants money.”
“Please,” Hanna said. “I’m frightened for her.”
The miscreants around the bar chuckled. A fat sailor leered at Hanna. “Your grovelin’ won’t get you far, sweet cheeks. But I like the look of those cat’s heads.”
He stared at her breasts like they were juicy peaches.
Hanna’s face burned.
Jumping to his feet, Lucas knocked over his barstool. “Enough!”
Every man in the room stood up. One pulled a knife from his pocket, while another held a wooden club, ready to bludgeon someone to death. Hanna sucked in her breath, her muscles tensing in readiness for a fight.
“Oy! Settle down,” Pigeon-Toed Sal bellowed.
“It’s not yet noon. Put yer weapons away or I’ll throw ye out on the street. And shut your bone boxes. Have more drink, you idiots.”
The men grumbled at one another, then appeared to relax.
Sal poured a round of beers and vile-smelling whiskey, passing the oily glasses to her patrons. “On the house. Drink up, you cheap bastards.”
Hanna’s body shook as if with fever—such was her desire to run.
Pigeon-Toed Sal looked long and hard at Lucas. “You ’aven’t touched your ale, and you don’t want to hurt me feelings. Bottoms up.”
Lucas met Hanna’s eyes. Despite the fear etched on his face, he picked up the mug and raised it slowly to his lips. The faint smell of something chemical wafted toward Hanna. The free drinks for the others . . .
Sal hoped to catch a much bigger fish. With a quick swipe of her arm, Hanna knocked the mug from Lucas’s hands. It clattered against the wooden bar, beer spilling everywhere as it toppled toward the sawdust-covered ground.
Hanna wiped her hands on her dress and smiled at Sal. “Forgive me. I am so clumsy—”
Sal’s eyes narrowed. “Well, ain’t you a smart little trollop.” She reached across the bar and wrapped her thick fingers around Hanna’s wrist like a shackle.
“Let go!” Hanna yelled, tugging to break free.
“When he’s knocked senseless,” Sal spat, her eyes glinting darkly. “I’ll see how much I can get for you. After each man here has had a ride, I’ll take you upstairs for even more silver.”
Lucas grabbed the fallen beer mug and swung it at Sal’s head, knocking her sideways. Sal clutched her face. “I’ll kill you, you swine!”
Pushing Hanna in front of him, Lucas sprinted toward the staircase leading to street level. Hanna stumbled, but caught herself, using the handrail to steady her grip. Shouts erupted behind them. Hanna glanced over her shoulder, seeing a roughened man had Lucas by the collar.
“I’ll put you in your eternity box,” the vagrant yelled, pulling Lucas downward.
“No!” Hanna screamed, raking her nails across the man’s face.
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