Pilfered Promises

by M. Louisa Locke

  What followed, apparently, was years of intensive training, in everything from pattern making, choosing fabrics, fitting clients, and doing finishing work. She said, “There was another apprentice for the first few years who was hired before me. Marie let her go about four years ago. I think that at that time the shop wasn’t selling enough to warrant a second employee, and she said I was the better seamstress.”

  Annie asked, “Do you believe Mrs. Fournier owned the shop outright when you started working with her?”

  “Oh yes. I remember her showing me something she called ‘the deed,’ although she was never explicit about how she’d gotten the money to buy the property. I always assumed it was from her husband who’d died at sea the year before she opened the shop. Perhaps from life insurance?”

  “And how old was Emmaline when you started working here?”

  “Just about one. So sad. Marie said her daughter was born when her husband was away on his last voyage. So he never even saw his child.”

  “Mrs. Fournier and her daughter lived up above the shop, I presume,” said Annie. “And there were no other relatives?”

  “Marie mentioned once she was from Mississippi. Said that was where she met her husband, who brought her out here sometime in the early sixties. It was my impression that she may have come from a family of some wealth…or at least the family had money before the civil war.”

  “What gave you that impression?”

  “The other apprentice told me that there had been an old woman she called Nana Charlotte…a former slave…who worked for Marie in the first months after the shop opened. She said the old woman treated Marie the way an old family retainer might. Cooked and cleaned, fussed over her and the baby, even commented on Marie’s designs. And Marie was very distressed by this woman’s sudden death.”

  Annie thought briefly about Miss Minnie mentioning that they wondered if Marie Fournier was from Natchez, which would explain why she seemed to have a design style similar to their own. Odd to think about there being a regional style, perhaps taught by old black seamstresses. Although no one doubted that you could spot a French design a mile away, why not a Natchez design?

  She asked, “Did Marie ever say where in Mississippi she grew up?”

  “No. She didn’t seem to want to talk much about her past. I thought the memories might be painful…perhaps she lost family fighting for the Confederacy or something.”

  Annie sighed. Such a trail of heartbreak that stupid war had created for both sides. “So as far as you know, there was no family there or in San Francisco?”

  Miss Spencer hesitated then said, “There was the brother-in-law.”

  “Her husband’s brother, you mean? Did he live in San Francisco? You’ve met him?”

  “A few times. I gathered he mostly came here at nights and on weekends. She said this was when he could get away from his work…whatever that was.”

  Something about this brother-in-law was making Miss Spencer uneasy. Annie let the silence grow, hoping she would elaborate.

  Finally, Miss Spencer said, “I may have just jumped to conclusions about his relationship to Marie. But Emmaline called him ‘uncle.’ And once when I asked Marie if she had any siblings she said that she was an only child and that her mother had died birthing her. She seemed so sad when she told me that I didn’t like to press her.”

  “You don’t happen to have an address for this man? Perhaps he would know something more about a will, maybe even act as Emmaline’s guardian.”

  “Oh dear. He’s dead. She told me when I came in to work one day, just about two and a half years ago, and found her weeping. She was usually so composed. Nothing rattled her. Not even a difficult client or problems with bills. She quickly pulled herself together, but while she never said anything more about him, it was my impression that his death increased her financial difficulties. And I certainly never saw him again.”

  “Do you think he might have been helping her out financially?” Annie was beginning to see why it was that Marie Fournier would have given up running her own shop to work for the Silver Strike. If she’d been dependent on subsidies from this mysterious man, a lover perhaps, his death could have put her in a perilous position. I wonder if the shop is mortgaged?

  Following this thought, she said, “As far as you know, when she left to work at the Silver Strike, she still owned the shop. And you mentioned a rental agreement?”

  Miss Spencer jumped up and went into the back room to get the agreement. When she returned, she handed it to Annie. It was a simple document that leased the shop to Miss Spencer, with furnishings, as well as the small apartment above the shop, for a monthly fee. A fairly hefty fee. The agreement was for a calendar year, which meant that it ended in less than a month. No wonder Miss Spencer wanted to know what was going to happen to the shop.

  Looking up from the document, Annie said, “My husband is a lawyer. If you like, I will ask him what your legal status would be at the end of the year if the question of who owns the property hasn’t been settled.”

  The dressmaker shot a look at her nieces, who’d been closely following the conversation, and said, “Mrs. Dawson, that would be too kind of you. I have been so worried. My sister lent me the capital for the material and other supplies that I needed to get started in the business, and I am just beginning to make enough profit to pay her back. I would sincerely hate to have to start over somewhere else.”

  “I quite understand. Let’s hope that won’t be the case. May I ask, when was the last time you saw Mrs. Fournier?”

  “Wednesday afternoon, the day before she died. Which was unusual. Our usual pattern was to meet Saturdays, in the afternoon. We would go over the week’s orders, do the books, and so forth. Then after my nieces and I went home around six, she would often go up to the room she kept upstairs…really, I think she just enjoyed the time to herself. So it was unusual for her to show up on a Wednesday. She didn’t stay long. And my nieces and I were busy up front. We had several women who were picking up dresses they planned to wear the next day for their Thanksgiving parties, and we were doing last-minute adjustments.”

  Annie again noticed the hesitation in Miss Spencer’s voice and wondered why Marie spending time up in her room would be disturbing. She asked, “Would you mind if I took a look at the room she kept upstairs? Perhaps Miss Hennessey and I might discover something the police overlooked.”

  “Oh certainly. Anything that can help. I just can’t conceive of why anyone would want to harm, much less kill, Marie. She was a very private person, but so kind and a real artist.”

  As Annie rose, she suddenly remembered another question she wanted to ask. “Miss Spencer, I noticed that the shop still carries Madam Fournier’s name.”

  “She insisted. You see, the patterns I use in making dresses are still hers. She trusted me to do the actual work, but every dress this shop makes is…was…an original Fournier design. She had agreed that next year she would let me start my own design line to sell out of the shop. Then, just a month ago, she suddenly told me her plans for next year might change. I tried to get her to tell me what was happening, but she kept putting me off. Now I don’t know what to do.”

  Chapter 15

  “RETAIL PRICE LIST: The following are the prices now ruling in the retail markets for articles of general family use. Pineapples 75 cents.”––San Francisco Chronicle October 9, 1880

  Wednesday afternoon, December 1, 1880

  “If you don’t mind, I will leave you two to go through the room yourselves,” Miss Spencer said as she unlocked the door. “I have a client scheduled for a fitting in a few minutes. When you are finished if you would just stop by the workroom and tell one of my nieces so they can lock up.”

  After Miss Spencer left, Kathleen looked around the room and said, “My goodness, this wasn’t what I expected, ma’am.”

  “Me neither. When Miss Spencer said that Marie Fournier only came to the shop on Saturdays, usually to work on patterns for the shop’s clients
, I imagined a workroom, not this fancy bedroom.”

  Kathleen nodded. The room, twice the size of her own bedroom, was beautifully furnished. There was a rocking chair by one of the large windows and a small shelf of books under the other, and a mahogany bedroom set consisting of a large wardrobe, dresser, dressing table, a small writing desk, and a four poster bed.

  “Ma’am, are those supposed to be pineapples at the top of the bed posts?” Kathleen walked over and peered at the carvings.

  “Yes they are, and if you look closely you will see pineapples are on knobs for the other pieces of furniture.”

  “Heavens above. Everything in here must have cost a pretty penny. I’ve only once had a bite of pineapple. Sweet and tart at the same time, but it made my ears itch!”

  Mrs. Dawson laughed and said, “Pineapples aren’t everyone’s favorite fruit. I wonder if Marie Fournier’s husband captained a ship that traded with the Sandwich Islands and that’s why she chose that for her decor? It just seems a shame to have this lovely room and only visit it a couple of times a month.”

  “Maybe she came here more than that,” Kathleen said, running her fingers across the carved headboard. “Only a slight bit of dust, what you would expect for a room sitting for a week. And the bed’s made.” She picked up the pillow and sniffed. “Linen smells fresh.”

  “I agree, this looks like a room that was being used.” Mrs. Dawson went over to pull out dresser drawers. “Look, the bottom drawer has extra sheets and blankets and the top one holds at least a couple sets of underthings and a nightdress.”

  Kathleen lightly touched the chemises, corset covers, drawers, and slips, all made of fine cotton. The nightgown felt like silk and was a dark blue that matched the room’s curtains. Next to her, Mrs. Dawson was opening the wardrobe door, revealing several beautiful dresses, along with an elaborately embroidered wrapper that matched the nightgown.

  She had a sudden image of this hard-working woman, who spent all day sewing for rich ladies, sitting in the rocking chair, late at night, sewing these exquisite garments. Just for herself?

  “Ma’am, do you think that Miss Spencer would tell us if Mrs. Fournier met someone here? Maybe Saturday nights when the shop is closed?”

  “Someone, like a man? I don’t know. She seemed genuinely fond of Mrs. Fournier, so I don’t expect she would want to say anything that would hurt her friend’s reputation. Yet there was that man whose death a couple of years ago upset Marie Fournier and apparently left her in some financial difficulties.”

  “The one the little girl called ‘uncle’?”

  “Yes. It sounded to me like he might have been the one who bought the shop for her and helped pay the bills.” Her mistress fingered the dressing gown and went on, saying, “It could be he was, in fact, her brother-in-law and administering his brother’s estate on her behalf. But…”

  Kathleen nodded. She didn’t need Mrs. Dawson to spell out what she was thinking––that Marie Fournier might have been this man’s kept woman. Before coming to work for the boarding house, Kathleen worked in a home where the gossip in the kitchen was that the gentleman who visited the newly widowed lady of the house was really her lover. At the time, Kathleen, who’d been only twelve, hadn’t completely understood what they were talking about or why the cook laughed so unpleasantly when she said the widow’s little boy was supposed to call the gentleman “uncle.” Since then, she’d come to realize the servants were hinting that immoral relations between the widow and this man had started before her husband’s death, and that the boy might have actually been the lover’s son.

  Mrs. Dawson said, “I hope for Emmaline’s sake my suspicions are completely unfounded. What would help is if we could find something in this room about Mrs. Fournier’s financial and personal affairs. A will, the deed that Miss Spencer spoke about, or a marriage certificate to Captain Fournier. Given how much furniture is in this room, the police might have overlooked something.”

  “Yes ma’am. I can just picture Patrick bumbling around, being too embarrassed to even look through the woman’s underthings.” Kathleen thought fondly of her beau’s essential innocence. He dealt with the underside of the city on a daily basis, but he remained somehow untouched by all of the nastiness.

  “Why don’t you start on that side of the room, Kathleen, while I go through the desk and the bookshelf? Do you happen to have any matches, so I can light this desk lamp? It is getting dark out. I hope we don’t have to go home in the rain.”

  Kathleen reached into the pocket of her coat, where she kept matches in a twist of paper, and handed one to her mistress. Then she started in on the dresser, going through each drawer more thoroughly, even taking the time to unfold the sheets and blankets. She pulled the dresser out from the wall and felt along its back and knelt to feel its underside. She followed the same procedure with the wardrobe, even getting the desk chair to stand on so she could see if there was anything stored up top.

  Finding the desk completely empty, Mrs. Dawson moved on to the bookshelf, commenting, “Apart from some novels, these mostly seem to be old grammar books and children’s readers. There aren’t any names written in them, but they could have been Marie’s childhood books. Although I am surprised to see novels by Harriet Beecher Stowe, not something most Southern women read. Oh, here is a collection of Edgar Allan Poe. How odd. I wonder if I should ask Emmaline if she would like me to bring these books to her?”

  Not knowing who either author was, Kathleen didn’t reply and simply moved to the dressing table next. The top was covered by porcelain jars holding creams, a powder puff, and a small crystal perfume bottle, in addition to a silver comb and brush, and a scattering of hair pins. In the small drawers on either side of the table, she found more hair pins, handkerchiefs, and one drawer filled with expensive silk stockings and satin garter belts. This was a woman who really liked nice things. The bottom door on the right held what Kathleen recognized as the woman’s monthly rags.

  Ever since Mrs. Dawson’s marriage this August, Kathleen found herself paying more attention to the covered pail kept in the boarding house washroom for just such objects. But with four…five if you counted Tilly…women in the house it was difficult to keep track of who added their bits and pieces. If Marie Fournier had been some man’s mistress, would she have been happy when she found she was with child? Or, did she worry about being thrown over by the future baby’s father? And what if the father had been the man who died two years ago…perhaps leaving her and Emmaline to fend for themselves?

  And what about recently? If she took a new lover, did she count the days every month in fear? Having a child was a huge risk for any woman. Death could come so swiftly, as it had come for Kathleen’s ma. Patrick just didn’t understand why she wanted to postpone that possibility for as long as she could. Perhaps that was the downside of his innocence; he couldn’t imagine what terrible things could happen to a woman in this world.

  Her hand suddenly encountered a hard edge under the rags. “Ma’am, I think I’ve found something.” She pulled a large wooden box out and brought it over to the desk.

  “Oh, good for you, Kathleen. However did the police miss this?” Mrs. Dawson opened up the lid, which was on hinges, and carefully lifted out a thick piece of folded paper. “Ah, here we go. This is definitely a deed of sale to Mary Charlotte Fournier for this property. It’s dated 1870. The former owner is listed as a Mr. Harrison.”

  “Who might he be?” Kathleen peered at the official-looking paper and the faint writing that filled in the blank lines.

  “When Mr. Dawson gets back from Sacramento, he can probably find out if this Mr. Harrison owned the property for long. If so, then the question is simply where did Marie Fournier get the money to buy it from him? I’ll also ask Nate to see if there is any record of a will going through probate for a Mr. Fournier in 1869 or 1870.”

  “What would that tell you, ma’am?”

  “Besides confirming that there really was a Captain Fournier, if he left Marie mone
y, this could solve the mystery of how she got the shop. And if he listed a brother in the will, well then we would have a better idea of who this ‘uncle’ really was.”

  Mrs. Dawson lifted out a second paper and said, “Oh, here is a birth certificate for Emmaline. Her full name is actually Mary Emmaline Fournier, and see there, her mother’s name is listed as Mary Charlotte Fournier, and the father, as Captain Gustave Fournier.”

  “So there really was a Captain Fournier,” Kathleen said, feeling better about the status of a little girl she’d never even met.

  “Well, this really doesn’t prove that fact. I mean, Mrs. Fournier could just have told the person who filled out the form that was her husband’s name, and he was out to sea. On the other hand, the existence of the property deed plus the birth certificate should be all that is necessary for determining that Emmaline should inherit from her mother. Even if we can’t find that Mrs. Fournier left a will.”

  “Is there anything else in the box?”

  “Some photographs, and see here, there is a ring.” Mrs. Dawson held up a gold ring holding a small pearl. “Emmaline might be very glad to get this. I wonder why her mother kept it hidden away?”

  Kathleen picked up the first photograph in the stack. Tattered and faded, it showed a very old colored woman sitting stiffly on a chair. Her white hair was neatly parted in the middle, and she was wearing a white, starched apron over a dark dress with intricate ruffles around the neck and a kind of old-fashioned sleeve that was puffed out at the top.

  Mrs. Dawson leaned over and said, “My, I haven’t seen a leg o’ mutton sleeve like that since I was a child, and even then they were out of date. That must be the old woman that Miss Spencer mentioned…the one she thought was a former slave.”