Samuel gave a grim little laugh. “That isn't so young when it comes to prostitution, Sarah. Some girls are barely fourteen or fifteen when circumstances force them into that trade.”
“I'm painfully aware of the tender age at which some girls are forced into white slavery,” I said grimly.
“Yes, of course,” said Samuel, looking a bit abashed. “I'd forgotten your wild midnight raid with Miss Culbertson of the Presbyterian Rescue Mission last year. But what makes you think Brielle Bouchard was telling you the truth? She might well claim she was an innocent to present herself in a more sympathetic light.”
“It's possible, of course, but somehow I believe her. In fact, I was astonished by how frankly she discussed her situation. She is obviously well bred, yet she made no excuses for her present predicament. She claimed that her sole reason for consulting me was to seek justice for her child.” I hesitated, not sure how to explain the impression I had formed of Miss Bouchard. “I don't know, Samuel. It's one thing to imagine her as the mistress of a prominent businessman. It's quite another matter to think of her living in a brothel!”
I was interrupted by the waiter delivering our entrees. When he left, Samuel said, “Don't look so stricken, Sarah. As these places go, Madam Valentine's is one of the more fashionable establishments.”
“Being fashionable does not alter the nature of its business. I just find it difficult to understand why she would agree to live in such a place—even the kind of parlor house you have described. And with her baby!”
“Has it occurred to you that she might have nowhere else to go?” Samuel said, his tone challenging. “If, as you say, she was evicted from Gerald Knight's home when he discovered she was pregnant, the poor girl might well have considered a high-class brothel a great deal more attractive than living on the street. Where, I might add, many of these women end up when their beauty fades and they've outlived their usefulness.”
“But Brielle is only nineteen,” I protested. “And she's extremely lovely.”
Naturally, I was aware that places such as Madam Valentine's parlor house existed in San Francisco. Nay, I knew that they thrived in our city and had since the forty-niners first landed on its shores. I did not advertise the fact, but I had even visited one during the Nob Hill murders, although admittedly I did not actually enter the establishment. I could not, however, keep from wondering what this said about our society when, in order to avoid the poorhouse, innocent young girls were often forced into such a life.
“If what you suspect is true, it's no wonder Brielle refused to tell me where she was living,” I said, toying with my plate of lasagna. It smelled delicious, but I seemed to have lost my appetite. “From a grand house, jewels, fine clothes, and a seemingly devoted lover, to a—”
“Life of a common prostitute,” Samuel finished for me. “I understand what you're saying, Sarah. However, you must understand that not all girls who end up in such places have been forced into the business, nor are they there simply to ensure a roof over their heads. Some choose the life because it pays a good deal better than being a domestic servant or a seamstress—especially in quality houses like Madam Valentine's.”
“You paint a pretty picture, Samuel,” I commented, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “But I still have a hard time imagining why any woman would willingly choose such a life for herself.”
“Of course it isn't all pretty,” he said, swallowing a bite of his spaghetti. “I didn't mean to imply that it was. Many, perhaps most, of the houses in town are unclean, often violent, and treat their girls little better than slaves. I'm merely pointing out that a few of them, like Madam Valentine's residence, are held to higher standards. Take my word for it, Sarah, you will not be welcomed with open arms if, for the women's sakes, you attempt to close them down.”
“I understand what you're trying to tell me, even if I don't like it. The important thing now is to establish if Brielle has actually gone to stay with this Madam Valentine.”
“Of course it is. Unfortunately, I didn't have time this morning, but I promise to look into it when I return to town on Monday.”
“Not until Monday?” My heart sank. “Is there no way you can postpone your trip until tonight? Or even tomorrow morning?”
“I'm to ride in the Talbots' carriage, Sarah, and there is to be a dinner party tonight that I really can't miss. One or two members of the jury who overturned Laura Fair's conviction will be there, as well as several reporters who covered both trials.”
“And you hope they'll be able to provide you with valuable information for your book,” I said with a sigh of acceptance.
Samuel was referring to the book he had recently commenced writing, revisiting famous murders, robberies, and mayhem committed in and around San Francisco since the days of the Gold Rush. He planned to include Laura Fair's case, which captured headlines some ten years earlier when she fatally shot her married lover, Alexander P. Crittenden, a member of the California bar and recording secretary of the State Supreme Court. Laura Fair's first trial concluded with her being found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. Her second trial, held shortly thereafter, ended in her acquittal, a reversal which caused a torrent of outrage and disgust throughout the city.
He had stopped eating his pasta and was watching me with a worried expression. “I know what you're thinking, Sarah, and it is a very bad idea. You can't possibly visit a brothel on your own, not even one as upper-crust as Madam Valentine's. If Mama found out, there would be hell to pay—probably for me! There's no reason you can't wait until Monday, when I can go with you.”
“I understand your concern, Samuel,” I said calmly. “But I assure you there is no need to worry.”
I considered his answering laugh to be rude in the extreme. “Don't you believe me?” I demanded hotly.
“Not for one minute.” He stared at me for a moment, then said, “All right, little sister, I know well and good that you're going to do whatever you please no matter what I say. Just promise me that you won't visit Madam Valentine's parlor house alone.”
I hated it when Samuel pressed me into making a promise I had absolutely no desire to keep.
“Well?” he prompted, and I knew he had no intention of letting the matter rest.
“Oh, all right,” I gave in ungraciously. “I don't know why you insist on making such a fuss about this. It's not as though I'm planning to spend the night roaming about the streets of the Barbary Coast. You said Madam Valentine's parlor house is on Montgomery Street. That isn't such a bad neighborhood.”
He didn't answer. Given my brother's streak of stubborn German tenacity, I decided it was time to change the subject.
“Were you able to learn the identities of the two men who confronted Brielle outside my office yesterday morning?”
“It seems probable that they were Gerald Knight's men. Unlike the Bouchard girl, it wasn't difficult to uncover information about him. I don't know if you're aware of this, but Knight is married to the former Lily Randolph.”
“Randolph? You mean of the Randolph steel family in Pittsburgh?”
“The very one. She's several years older than her husband, and it's her family money that keeps that awful broadsheet of his up and running.”
“I thought you sold several stories to that ‘awful broadsheet,’ ” I put in with a wry smile.
“One or two of my articles have appeared there,” he admitted, “but very early on in my career, when I was all too pleased to see any of my scribblings in print.”
“Didn't I hear his name mentioned in connection with Millie Javers, the singer who took San Francisco by storm two or three years ago?”
“You have a good memory. According to my sources, Knight did his best to hush up that particular scandal. He fancies himself to be a patron of the arts, though, at least of the Tivoli Opera House, and any other theaters in town that employ lovely young singers and actresses.”
“You mean he's actually involved in the productions?”
; Samuel smiled. “No, although I'm sure he'd love nothing better. He contributes financially, which probably affords him some say on minor cast members. As I mentioned, he's well known for his roving eye when it comes to beautiful young women, very young women, I might add.”
“If he's contributing to the arts, then his paper must be doing better than I thought. I could have sworn I read somewhere that the Daily Journal was closing its doors a year or so back.”
“It did. Circulation dropped nearly in half after the paper printed dangerously libelous gossip about some prominent members of city government. Evidently, it was only his wife's influence, and a great deal of money, that kept him out of court. Still, bad publicity nearly cost Knight his newspaper.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Close to twenty years, I'd guess. About fifteen years ago, Knight bought the newspaper using her money. They have three children and a large home on Nob Hill. Mrs. Knight is a prominent member of San Francisco society. I'm sure Mama must know her.”
“I believe I've heard her name. I just didn't connect it to Gerald Knight.” My mind was racing, trying to digest this information. “What makes you think it was Knight's men who convinced Brielle not to keep her appointment with me yesterday morning?”
“Apparently this isn't the first time he's pulled a heavy-handed tactic in order to shape a story to his liking—or to squelch an unfavorable rumor. My guess is that he's been keeping an eye on the girl since she left his house. They parted under less than harmonious circumstances, and you know the old saying about a woman scorned. He can't afford to let this get back to his wife, particularly since she controls the purse strings.”
I sat quietly pondering my brother's words. “I wonder if there's some way we might use this information to our advantage?”
Samuel stared at me. “Sarah, you can't be serious. Brielle Bouchard's case is hopeless. Gerald Knight would never risk his wife's fury by publicly honoring that contract. The foolish girl should have known that from the start of their liaison.”
“A much older woman might have been misled,” I said, coming to Brielle's defense. “She was a girl of barely seventeen.”
Samuel dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “It's not that I don't sympathize, but there is simply no way to prove that he fathered Brielle's child.”
“I know you're right, but— At the very least, we have to do what we can to ensure that she's protected from Gerald Knight's thugs.”
“All right, I agree that providing for her safety would be an admirable idea,” Samuel said with feeling. “And while we're about it, why don't we protect the thousands of other homeless women and children living from hand to mouth in this city?”
“Samuel, Brielle Bouchard is more than just a faceless statistic to me. I've met her. I've seen her beautiful little daughter. I cannot bring myself to abandon them without doing everything possible to help.”
Samuel sat back in his seat and gave a long sigh. “Of course you can't. It simply isn't in your nature to give up without a fight. I suppose I just wanted to state the realities of the situation, on the off chance you might actually listen to your big brother for a change.”
Pulling out his fob watch, he looked at the time. “I have to be on my way. I'm supposed to be at the Talbots' home by three o'clock, and I have to make a quick stop at the newspaper before going home to pack.”
He rose from the table and reached for the check, then looked down at me until I raised my face and met his eyes.
“I know what you mean to do, Sarah,” he said, his voice sober. “But I insist that you keep your promise. Do not pay a visit to Madam Valentine's parlor house, or any other brothel for that matter, alone. Do you agree?”
Realizing he would worry all weekend if I did not accede to this demand, I grudgingly nodded.
“Good,” he declared. “I'll see you on Monday, then.”
After Samuel walked me back to my office, I spent an hour or two reading through several of the law books I kept in my library, then found myself at sixes and sevens. Without something tangible to occupy my mind, I was unable to concentrate on anything besides Brielle Bouchard and her impossible situation.
I still had a difficult time accepting that she would take refuge in a bordello, even the fashionable one Samuel described. It was sad enough to contemplate a woman trading her body for a comfortable home and a generous weekly allowance.
To my mind, it was infinitely worse to take a different man to your bed every night—perhaps more than just one! For a woman as beautiful and refined as Brielle it seemed little less than a tragedy. And the baby! What kind of life would it be for a child growing up in a brothel?
By half past four, I was on tenterhooks and decided to leave the office for the day. I told myself that anything was better than pacing the floor until I wore a groove in it.
I was just gathering up my things to leave, when there was a knock on the door. Pulling it open, I found a street urchin standing on the landing, his face smudged with dirt, hair so mussed it resembled a mop, and with a worn burlap bag slung over his bony shoulder.
“You Miss Woolson?” he asked. At my nod, he said, “Got a message for ya, miss.”
He dug into the bag and presented me with a sealed white envelope. It was fine quality paper, and my name was neatly written upon its face. I recognized the script at once. The missive was from Pierce Godfrey.
“The feller what gave this to me said he'd be obliged if You'd send him back an answer,” the boy added. “He said I was to run yer message back to him full chisel.”
Requesting the boy to wait, I slit open the envelope and read:
My dear Sarah,
I have obtained two tickets for tomorrow night's opening of The Merry Wives of Windsor, being performed at the Baldwin Theater. I would be honored if you would accompany me as my guest.
The boy has been instructed to wait for your reply.
Yours respectfully,
Pierce Godfrey, Esq.
For a moment I was not certain how to respond to this unexpected invitation. On the one hand, I am a great admirer of the theater, and particularly of the works of Shakespeare. On the other hand, I had no wish to lead Pierce to believe I had changed my mind concerning our relationship.
“Miss, I got a lot more letters to deliver,” the boy complained impatiently, as I stood pondering what to do.
“Yes, of course.” Realizing I must come to a decision, I impulsively reached for a pen and paper and accepted Pierce's invitation with my thanks. I went on to request that he pick me up here at the office, rather than at my home.
Sealing the envelope, I handed it to the boy along with a coin for his services. He regarded the money, then grinned up at me, displaying several cracked teeth.
“Thanks, miss,” he said, already turning back to the stairs. “I'll get this right back to the gent.”
At least, I thought, as I stood in a queue on the corner waiting for the public horsecar line, Mama need not know that I would be seeing Pierce again so soon. Of course, it meant that I would have to bring a suitable change of costume to my office the following morning, and engage Eddie's services.
Thinking of the lad gave me a sudden idea. I had promised Samuel that I would not pay a call on Madam Valentine's parlor house alone, not that I would entirely refrain from visiting the establishment. I felt immediately uplifted by this plan. All might yet work out to my satisfaction.
Instead of going directly home, I transferred to a cable car on Franklin Street which would take me to Laine Carriages, where Eddie was employed as a driver. Now that I had formulated a plan, I hardly noticed the dreary weather as I departed the cable car and briskly walked the last two blocks to the cab company.
As it turned out, Eddie wasn't at the terminus. Undeterred, I penciled a quick message, making sure to print in neat characters—although the boy's reading skills had greatly improved over the past few months, he still experienced difficulty reading cursive—instructing him to pick
me up at my home tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. He was not to come to the door, I told him, but to wait for me discreetly down the street, hopefully away from my mother's observant eyes. From there we would drop my evening clothes off at my office, pick up the paperwork I had completed for Robert, then proceed directly to Joseph Shepard's law firm. Sealing this missive inside an envelope, I handed it over to the care of the office clerk to deliver to Eddie when he came in from his day's work.
As I exited the omnibus and walked the short block to my home, I suddenly wondered what I would do if Robert were not available to accompany me to Madam Valentine's brothel the following morning. I had to smile as the answer came to me immediately. It would be a good deal less than ideal, but at least I would not have to break the silly promise I had given Samuel at lunch. If all else failed, Eddie would go with me, of course.
Satisfied that I had duly considered all aspects of my little plan, I opened the front door and entered my home.
CHAPTER TEN
In the end, I was forced to enlist Celia's assistance in slipping out of the house unnoticed the following morning. Naturally, my mother was accustomed to seeing me depart for my office before eight o'clock, however, I had never done so carrying an evening gown—wrapped in a garment sheet—a hat suitable for the opera house, as well as a change of shoes, jewelry, and some personal items which would be required to dress my hair.
Dear Celia carried out her part of the subterfuge to perfection, asking Mama to care for baby Charlie while she saw that Tom and Mandy were fed and dressed for the day. Charles and Celia employed a most capable nanny, Mary Douglas, to care for the children, but Celia delighted in attending to many of her offsprings' daily routines herself. Consequently, Mama sensed nothing suspicious when asked to rock and soothe her precious new grandson, a charge she was more than happy to fulfill.
It was lightly raining when I exited the house, but as I had instructed, I found Eddie waiting with the brougham halfway down the block. He grinned broadly as he jumped down, took my belongings, and laid them out neatly on one of the two carriage seats which comprised the double brougham.
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 12
