I was still trying to grasp the fact that my grandmotherly, down-to-earth neighbor was friends with one of the most notorious madams in all of San Francisco, when Fanny laughed and went on.
“Never met another woman like Matilda when it came to twisting a man right around her little finger. Had a real way of getting them to come around to seeing things her way, without them being any the wiser.”
“Did the other women of the Suffrage Society know that Matilda Abernathy worked as a madam?”
“I doubt it,” said Fanny, fetching more cream from the ice box, pouring some into her cup, then placing the pitcher on the table. “The only reason I found out was because we worked together on the same committee.”
“And she freely shared this with you?” I found it amazing that the woman would voluntarily confide such personal, and potentially damaging, information. What if Fanny had betrayed her secret to other women involved in the local suffrage movement? Surely Matilda Abernathy would have been instantly ostracized.
Fanny seemed embarrassed by my question. “Not exactly. Actually, I found out when Matilda sent several of her girls to purchase some millinery goods from my shop. One of them was very talkative, and I fear not terribly bright. I think she assumed I knew what Matilda did to earn her living.”
She sipped her coffee. “I'm ashamed to say that I found the girl's rather risqué stories about life in a brothel fascinating. I said nothing to correct her misunderstanding concerning the degree to which Matilda did or did not confide in me.”
I started to comment on this deception, then realized it was hardly any of my business. What's more, I was interested to hear the young prostitute's gossip. At this point, I welcomed any information which might help me better understand the life Brielle meant to adopt.
“What else did the girl tell you? That is, if you don't mind repeating it.”
Fanny appeared relieved that I did not plan to pass judgment on her harmless ruse. Settling her plump body more comfortably in her chair, she leaned forward and dropped her voice conspiratorially, although we were the only ones in the room, or in the front shop for that matter.
“Well, I gathered from what the girl said that the place didn't amount to much. As I say, it was located on the Barbary Coast, as bad a neighborhood then as it is now. Matilda's place wasn't the only house of ill fame on the block, either. The girl said there was heavy competition among the brothels and gambling houses, and drunkenness and rowdy customers were a constant nuisance. And of course the Society for the Suppression of Vice was forever campaigning against all the brothels in the district, which made it even more difficult to make a decent living.”
“How in the world did she manage to move from the Barbary Coast to the house on Montgomery Street?”
“Oh, I think even then Matilda was determined to make something of herself. According to the chatty prostitute, she did her best to dress up the place, make it more high-class, which, given the area of town she was operating from, must have been a pretty frustrating task.”
“Did Matilda own the house herself?”
“No, it was rented, which was something else that stuck in her craw. For all that the place was a dump, the landlord—whom she never even met, by the way—kept raising her rent so that there was little enough cash left over to make the improvements she had in mind.”
“Still, she must have done well enough to set up her current house,” I said, finding it impossible not to admire the woman's ingenuity and business acumen. “Which, if you haven't seen it, is very modish.”
“Yes, she finally made good, if that's the way you want to phrase it, although it didn't happen overnight. And she didn't move directly from the Barbary Coast to where she is now, I assure you. About two or three years after I met her, she opened a second brothel in a classier area of town. She must have done a lot better there, because after a couple more years, she was able to move to Montgomery Street in '77.”
“Do you still keep in touch with her?”
“Not much anymore. As I said, I've seen little of her at our suffragette meetings over the past few years.” She paused to chew a bite of her sandwich. “I can't believe you actually went to the parlor house, Sarah. You do beat all. Now I want you to tell me all about it. From the beginning.”
She laughed as I related how I had persuaded Robert to accompany me to the parlor house, then listened in amazement as I described Madam Valentine's lavish accommodations.
“She must be very pleased with what she's achieved,” Fanny commented. Then realizing that this praise was directed toward a house of ill repute, no matter how well appointed, she once again laughed. “That doesn't sound quite right, does it? I wonder what my friends would say if they heard me admiring the accomplishments of a madam?”
Our conversation was cut short as the bell over the street door jingled, announcing that a customer had entered the shop. As Fanny bustled out to serve the woman, I quickly cleaned up our dishes, then departed the store and ascended the steps to my office.
There, spread out across my desk, were the papers I had taken from Robert's office the previous Friday. While it was true that I had completed his most pressing case—the one he'd claimed Joseph Shepard expected on his desk Friday afternoon, but which turned out not to be needed after all!—I had accomplished next to nothing Saturday afternoon, when all I'd been able to think about was Pierce. Considerable work remained to be finished. And I had no idea when Robert might charge into my office, demanding to know if his case files were ready.
Before starting, though, I finished reading the newspaper stories describing my clients' arrests. Every one of them assumed that the two young Chinese were guilty, despite an almost total lack of evidence. As I noted earlier, Ozzie Foldger's article was the most virulent, and I feared that his words would only further incite the citizens of our city to attempt violence against Lee Yup and Fan Gow. It was at times like this that I was inclined to agree with my father's overall indictment against the journalistic community. Although my own brotheras a member of the “club,” so to speak, I still could not excuse this blatant racism.
Forcing myself to concentrate on the business at hand, I set the disturbing newspapers aside and set to work on Robert's cases. As usual, the ones he'd been given were dull and uninspiring, work that any law student could complete with his eyes closed. However, I dutifully plowed through the pile of papers, and was nearly finished when Eddie burst into the room, waving his copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer at me. Glancing at my timepiece, I was surprised to note that it was nearly six o'clock. Despite the dreary nature of Robert's files, time had passed surprisingly fast.
“I finished it, Miss Sarah,” he said jubilantly, plopping down in the chair across from my desk. “Wasn't half bad, neither. That Tom Sawyer is a real cracker, ain't he?”
“Isn't he, Eddie,” I automatically corrected.
“Ain't that what I just said?”
“Your meaning was clear, Eddie, but you used an improper contraction,” I explained. “You should have said, ‘isn't,’ not ‘ain't.’ ”
He tilted his thin, angular face and regarded me with suspicion. “Are you tryin' to hornswoggle me, Miss Sarah? I dunno nothin' about no contract, but I swear I ain't cussin' or nothin', if that's what yer gettin' at.”
“I know you aren't. It's just that—” I ran my thumb and forefinger over the bridge of my nose, where I felt a headache coming on. As I say, although Samuel, Robert, and I had been amazingly successful in teaching Eddie to read, trying to correct his woefully poor grammar was a different story. Striving for patience, I reminded myself that the lad had spent most of his sixteen years on the street, doing whatever it took to ensure his family's survival. When there is no food to put on the table, syntax cannot be a high priority.
“Never mind, Eddie, it's not important.” Giving the boy a smile, I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a narrow volume that Samuel and I had much enjoyed as children. “Here,” I said, handing him the book. “This is a
perfect story for this time of year. It's called A Christmas Carol, and it was written by a wonderful author by the name of Charles Dickens. It's quite short, and I think you'll find it very interesting.”
“A Christmas Carol,” he said, turning the slim book over in his hands. “You mean like them songs people sing at Christmas?”
“Yes, only Dickens wrote his Christmas carol as a story, instead of a song. It's about a very rich and greedy man who has forgotten how to love, and a very poor family who struggles to get by, but who knows how to appreciate and care for one another.”
He looked at the book skeptically. “Sounds pretty grum. I don't figure I need to read no book about bein' poor, seein' as how my family ain't never had no money worth mentionin'.”
I realized at once that I had chosen a poor way to describe Dicken's classic story. “It also has ghosts in it, Eddie, rattling chains and all. And the ghosts come at night to haunt Ebenezer Scrooge, that's the selfish rich man.”
His eyes lit with immediate interest. “Ghosts, huh? Now that's more like it. Kin I start it right now?”
“Now might not be a good time, Eddie. But you can take it home with you to read. Actually, I have need of your brougham, if you're free for the next hour or two. There's an errand I wish to run.” The lad wouldn't be the ideal companion, but having him along would be better than paying a return visit to Madam Valentine's parlor house on my own.
“Sure thing, Miss Sarah. Where do you wanna go?”
Before I could draw breath to answer, the door opened and Robert strode into the room.
“Have you finished the rest of my work yet, Sarah?” he asked, as usual without bothering with so much as a polite “hello.”
Giving an inward sigh, I nodded toward the neat pile of papers stacked to the side of my desk. “I have finished all but the Ernesto case. I can probably complete that in the next half hour, if You'd care to wait.”
He consulted his timepiece, then nodded. “I can wait. When you're finished, perhaps we could, ah . . .” He hesitated, stealing a glance at Eddie, who had taken his favorite perch on the windowsill to read. He seemed relieved to see that the boy was paying us no attention. “I thought we might have dinner.”
I smiled, thinking how well this fit in with my own plans. “That sounds delightful, Robert. If you're amenable, however, perhaps you could accompany me on a short errand before we dine.”
“An errand where?” he asked, his blue-green eyes regarding me suspiciously from beneath raised eyebrows.
“I must pay a visit to Madam Valentine's parlor house.” His mouth opened in disbelief, but before he could explode I hurried on. “Only long enough to give Brielle Bouchard a message. I'll explain in the carriage.”
I handed him the copy of that morning's Examiner. “Here, you can read this while you wait.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Robert was still grumbling about our return visit to Madam Valentine's brothel as we turned onto Montgomery Street. Even after I had explained the reason for tonight's call, he had come up with a myriad of reasons why my planned confrontation with Gerald Knight was a terrible idea. Bringing Brielle and her baby along, moreover, was sheer folly!
“Please, Robert, stop complaining,” I told him wearily, as Eddie brought the brougham to a halt. “This should not take more than a few minutes. You needn't go inside if you'd rather not.”
“That's not the point, Sarah. You're leading that poor girl on. This whole idea is doomed to failure, and you know it. Miss Bouchard's life has been difficult without your making matters worse.”
“I understand your concern, Robert, but this is our only hope to change Gerald Knight's mind about his daughter. You said yourself that a brothel is no place to raise a child.”
He threw up his arms in a gesture of defeat. “Why do I even try? You never listen to me. I just hope Miss Bouchard has the good sense to say no to this whole crazy scheme.”
“Fine. We'll let Brielle make the decision for herself then, shall we?” I gave him a pointed look. “Without attempting to assert our own views upon her, one way or the other.”
Allowing Eddie to assist me out of the carriage, I let my gaze sweep up and down the street. By now it was eight o'clock and quite dark. Street lamps had been lit, but they were set far enough apart that they did little to penetrate the deep shadows which were present to either side of the block. I admit that I was filled with a sense of quiet expectancy. Turning my attention back to Madam Valentine's brothel, I noted that lights were visible in nearly every window, and dark silhouettes bustled about behind the drawn shades.
As Robert was exiting the brougham, a cabriolet reined up behind Eddie's cab, and a well-dressed man stepped down onto the street. He started to walk toward Madam Valentine's parlor house, then caught sight of me and abruptly stopped. A look of mixed astonishment and dismay crossed his face, and for a moment I thought he might be about to address me. Then, as if having second thoughts, he turned abruptly on his heel and bolted back inside the cabriolet. I could hear the sound of his voice yelling for the cabbie to drive on.
“You're not good for business,” Robert commented, chuckling at the man's abrupt departure. He looked at Madam Valentine's house with misgivings. “I'm not sure what sort of welcome we're likely to receive, especially at this time of the evening.”
“I can go around back and see if Annie's there,” offered Eddie hopefully, popping up from behind us.
“Thank you, but we'll ring at the front door,” I told him, determined not to sneak around the house like some beggar or thief in the night. “Please wait here with the carriage, Eddie. We shouldn't be long.”
With a disappointed look, the lad kicked at some loose pebbles in the street, then made his way dejectedly back to the brougham. As he walked, I heard him bemoan the many injustices he was forced to endure, and that his Annie would surely have seen to it that we got inside the barrelhouse without a fuss, and probably come up with a piece of cake for him to eat in the bargain.
Ignoring the boy's self-pitying laments, I ascended the stairs and rang the bell. A moment later a Negro maid, wearing a neat black dress, a starched white uniform, and lacy cap, opened the door. She started to welcome us inside, then stopped when she caught sight of me.
“I'm sorry, missus, but y'all got the wrong house,” she said with a Southern drawl. Without waiting for an answer, she began to close the door in my face.
“Wait, please,” I cried, pushing against the door to hold it open. Behind the maid, I saw a great bustle of activity: Servants hurried about carrying drink trays, bottles of champagne, and even furniture, while men dressed in formal evening clothes carried musical instruments down the hall and into the room where we had spoken to Madam Valentine and Brielle several days earlier. Since that visit, the house had been colorfully bedecked for the holidays, and bright, glittering candles set a scene of Yuletide revelry.
“We are here to see Miss Brielle Bouchard,” I told the maid, as she once again exerted pressure to close the door.
“Ain't no girl here by that name,” she insisted, looking confused and increasingly alarmed by my insistence. “I told y'all, you've got the wrong house.”
Belatedly, I remembered that the “ladies” of Miss Valentine's house did not go by their real names, but by more exotic sobriquets better suited to their line of work. Since I had no idea what pseudonym Brielle might be using, if indeed she had yet chosen one, I asked to see Madam Valentine herself.
The maid stared at me as if I had requested an audience with President Arthur himself, then reluctantly stood aside and allowed Robert and me to enter the foyer.
“I'll get her. Y'all wait here,” the girl said, and with one last doubtful look at me, set off up the stairs.
“We've come at a bad time,” Robert said from behind me. “They're getting ready for tonight's business. I don't see why this can't wait until . . .”
His voice trailed off when two beautiful young women came down the stairs dressed in stunning even
ing gowns. As the women passed by us in the front hall, they slowed their pace and stared openly at my companion.
“Hello there, big boy,” purred one of the girls, allowing her ring-bedecked hand to sweep seductively over his chest. “My name is Honey, 'cause I'm extra sweet. You and me could have a real good time together.”
“And I'm Rose Petal,” the second young woman breathed, letting her hand rest lightly on Robert's flushed cheek. Giving him a little wink, she added, “Me and Honey are real good at sharing, sweetie—if you know what I mean.”
If my associate's face turned any redder, I feared it might actually burst into flames. He stood there staring at the two girls in genuine alarm, as if afraid they might actually attack him on the spot.
Giggling merrily—and well aware of the effect they were having on my bedazzled companion—the young women gave him one last pat on either cheek, then continued down the hallway. Robert's blue-green eyes seemed glued to the girls' derrieres, as they gracefully swished their way into the parlor behind the musicians.
“My knowledge about these establishments is admittedly limited,” I said to him, after the ladies had disappeared from view. “But is it usual for the, er, young women who work in these places to dress so elaborately, or for there to be musicians present every evening?”
He started to answer me, when three more girls, each of them wearing tight and extremely low-cut gowns, made their way down the stairs, swaying seductively past his wide, awestruck eyes.
“Robert,” I said a bit sharply, nudging him with my elbow. “Close your mouth and stop gawking. You look as if your eyes are about to pop out of your face.” When he still did not move, I poked him again, this time not so gently.
“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his ribs. “What did you do that for?”
“I'm attempting to bring you down to earth,” I told him crisply. “I asked if you knew whether all this folderol is normal for places of this nature. This seems more like a soiree on Nob Hill than a typical night at a brothel.”
Scandal On Rincon Hill Page 22
