Pilfered Promises

by M. Louisa Locke

  She felt Nate relax, and he took a piece of paper out of his pocket, saying, “Here is a form that I have signed, and if you sign it as well, then everything you tell me from this point on is protected by lawyer - client confidentiality. Which means I can’t repeat it to anyone. I know you have no reason to trust the laws of this state. But it is as much as I can do to assure you.”

  After the porter looked through the document, Nate handed him his McKinnon pen, and Donahue signed with a flourish.

  Then he began to speak, as if the faster he could get the words out the less damage they could do.

  He’d met Marie and her grandmother in Natchez during the war, while they were working for a local merchant, making dresses. He’d assumed the merchant was their master, until in ’63 he learned that the man who really owned them had sent for them to join him in San Francisco.

  Marie told him much later that her grandmother, Nana Charlotte, had been born and raised in New Orleans, where she and her future husband were owned by a family named Fournier. They were then both sold to a family in Natchez. Marie told Donahue that after years of service to that new family, their mistress had promised her grandmother to free her and her granddaughter, Marie, in her will. This was to be in compensation for the fact that her mistress had sold all her grandmother’s children. All of them except her youngest daughter, Marie’s mother. That daughter had been raped by one of the mistresses’ cousins when she was only thirteen and then died birthing Marie, which was why Marie was raised by Nana Charlotte.

  Annie worked to keep her tears at bay as Donahue continued with the sad story.

  He said, “Despite her promises, their mistress didn’t free them in her will, and at her death her son simply rented them out to the merchant and moved west. When the war broke out, he began to worry that if he left them in the South, they might slip completely out of his grasp…run away behind Union lines or something. So he paid a man to bring them to San Francisco on a ship. Even though they would be technically free once they got to California, lots of Southerners brought their slaves with them to California and treated them as if they still legally owned them. Once they were here, he settled them in rooms and put them to work making dresses that he sold to local stores. What he hadn’t counted on was that Marie, who he’d last seen as a six year old, had grown into a great beauty and that he would want her for himself.”

  “And the reprobate made her his mistress,” Nate said, the anger now coming from him.

  “Well, not right away.” Donahue actually chuckled. “Charlotte was a fierce old woman. I only met her a few times back in Natchez, and once in San Francisco, and she scared the pants off me. And scared the weak-willed man who wanted her granddaughter. Nana Charlotte knew that in California they were free, so she bargained with him. Said they would work for him, but he had to wait until Marie turned eighteen to have her, and then he had to buy them a dressmaking shop and put the title in Marie’s name. She also insisted that Marie begin the process of passing as white. Marie hated pretending that her grand-mère, as she called her, was just a servant in her household. But the old woman had her way.”

  “And their former master did eventually give Marie the money to buy the shop,” said Annie.

  “Yes, but only in ’69 when Marie became pregnant with Emmaline. Her grandmother shrewdly used getting access to the child as further leverage. She died shortly afterwards. Marie said it was as if she could finally rest once she knew Marie’s and Emmaline’s futures were secure.”

  “And when this man died,” Annie said, “your hopes looked like they would finally come true as well.”

  “Until she discovered he’d forged her signature on a loan and she might lose the shop.”

  “And that is when she went to work for the Silver Strike.”

  “Yes. And postponed making any decision about us. Deep in my heart I knew the loan was just another excuse. As much as she loved me, she loved her daughter and loved designing for the rich ladies of the city even more. And that’s what it came down to at the end. She would have to leave both behind if she came with me.”

  Puzzled, Annie said, “If she never planned on bringing her daughter with her when she married you, how was that supposed to work? Who was going to raise Emmaline?”

  “She said that the Frenchman that got her the job at the Silver Strike wanted to adopt Emmaline, that his wife was crazy for a child. The woman kept telling Marie about all the advantages she and her husband could give Emmaline, access to some fancy school, trips to Europe, a proper dowry so she could marry well. Marie tried to convince herself that Emmaline would be better off with them. She said that the secret of Emmaline’s heritage would never be exposed if she was raised by two French emigres. Then she changed her mind.”

  This last statement came out strangled. Donahue took a deep breath and said, “I got a letter the Monday before Thanksgiving, right before I left for Ogden. She said that she couldn’t go through with giving Emmaline up for adoption. She couldn’t leave her and she couldn’t ask her to come and live with us. She’d told me a couple of months earlier that the son of the Silver Strike owner had been after her to come work in a new store he was starting. In this letter, she wrote that she’d gotten him to give her the money to pay off the loan in exchange for agreeing to work exclusively for him. That after the first of the year she would move back to the shop with Emmaline and we needed to stop seeing each other. That it would be too painful for her to go back to sneaking around, always worrying that someone would discover her secret.”

  Donahue paused and looked down the corridor, fighting back tears. He said, “I was so angry. Well, you know, you read the last letter I wrote to her before boarding the train. I immediately regretted it, so when I got back, I went to the shop. It was Saturday night, which is when we would usually meet. She wasn’t there, and I thought that was her answer. Only later, when I picked up a newspaper a passenger had brought on board the train to Ogden, did I learn that she wasn’t there because she was dead and that someone had killed her.”

  Chapter 32

  “The genial spirit of the season seems impervious to rain and to defy the gloominess of leaden skies.”––San Francisco Chronicle December 25, 1880

  Friday afternoon December 24, 1880

  “I think we need to go to the police. Right now. And tell Thompson that we’ve tracked down the letter writer and are sure that he has an alibi for Thanksgiving and that he isn’t Emmaline’s father. Convince him that it will do no one any good, particularly the child, if the existence of this lover becomes part of the public record,” Nate said. “And then we need to go home and get some food into you.”

  Annie sat huddled up against him. They were sitting on one of the long benches in the covered top deck of the ferry going back to San Francisco. It was only a little past noon, but the newest winter storm had steadily worsened, bringing on a preternaturally early twilight. The waves were even choppier than on the ride over, and Nate was feeling a bit queasy himself.

  She said, “I’m all right, if you will just refrain from talking about food.”

  Nate knew she wasn’t all right, either physically or emotionally. His wife was frustrated because Donahue refused to tell them the name of Marie’s former master, the mystery man who’d made her his mistress. The porter argued that unless the man had come back from the dead, he couldn’t be Marie’s murderer, so there wasn’t any other reason for anyone else to know his name.

  When Annie had responded that the man’s relatives might want to know about Emmaline, be of help to her, he’d just scoffed, saying, “The time they could have helped was when the man didn’t honor his mother’s promise to free Marie and her grandmother. They can do nothing for Emmaline now but make her feel unwanted and reveal the secret that would ruin her life. Marie never wanted to go to them for help while she was alive, and I won’t betray her wishes now that she’s dead.”

  Nate tended to agree with the porter. Better for Emmaline to continue to think she was the da
ughter of some sea captain who died, leaving no other family members.

  But he knew his wife was fretting, so as they disembarked from the ferry, he said, “Look, Donahue was correct that in terms of the murder investigation, it’s irrelevant who Emmaline’s father was because he was dead. But we do need to make sure the police aren’t trying to track down Donahue right now. So I will have our cab swing by and drop me off at the police station and then take you on home. I promise I’ll ask Thompson whether or not they checked Mrs. Villenueve’s alibi about going to church the morning Marie was killed.”

  Taking his arm, Annie said, “You must admit it is suspicious that Monsieur Villeneuve didn’t mention to anyone that he had already asked Marie to let them adopt Emmaline.”

  “Yes, and I imagine the French couple would have been quite upset that Marie changed her mind.” Nate hugged her closer. “But, darling, you can’t believe they would kill Mrs. Fournier to get their hands on her daughter? How could they even be sure that the courts would grant them guardianship, much less adoption? It would be more rational to try to change her mind or adopt one of the other orphans in the city.”

  “But that’s just it; I am worried that the person who killed Marie wasn’t rational, at least at the time of the murder. What if the Villeneueves met her on the stairs that morning and there was an altercation? And in the heat of the moment, Marie was pushed or simply fell by accident.”

  “Yes, that is a possibility. Something for the police to investigate.”

  “No, wait a minute, Nate. That wouldn’t explain why Marie’s death was due to suffocation or why the light at the top of the stairs had been turned off. That suggests pre-meditation. Which would be even worse. To think that one or both of the Villeneuves were cold-blooded killers.” Annie’s voice rose in alarm.

  “Yes, dearest, that would be terrible. Which makes it even more imperative that I get to the police station as quickly as possible to tell them of our suspicions. What we shouldn’t do is investigate this ourselves.”

  He felt his wife shake her head and knew he’d not convinced her.

  “I’m worried about Emmaline,” she said. “Today, the day before Christmas, the store is going to be inundated with customers and the staff is going to be run off its feet. Who will be paying attention to that little girl? I know it’s not rational, but I will feel better if we check on her right away. Maybe invite her to come home with us and spend Christmas Eve. That’s not investigating anything, is it?”

  Nate knew she’d won, and as they stepped up into the hansom cab that pulled up in front of them, he told the driver to take them straight to the Silver Strike Bazaar.

  The wind practically blew them through the front door and into the warmth and good cheer of the Silver Strike Bazaar. The fiddlers were sawing out a lively rendition of “Good King Wenceslaus,” the gas chandeliers fought valiantly against the gathering darkness outside, and Annie noticed that there was an unusually large number of men in the store. Last minute purchases for their wives and sweethearts, no doubt.

  For an instant, she felt relieved by the general high spirits and good will that everyone seemed to be exhibiting and a certain pride that her efforts had probably helped slow the hemorrhaging of revenue from the store. Even if a day like today must offer a terrible temptation to ladies like Violet’s mother.

  Then the anxiety she’d been fighting flared up again. “Nate, I think I see Mr. Livingston over by the toys. Let’s go ask him if we can get Emmaline and bring her home with us, at least until the store is closed.”

  “Do you want to tell him that we are now pretty confident that no one will be stepping forward to claim a relationship with Emmaline? We don’t have to tell him why.”

  “No, not now. Not until you’ve gone to talk to the police this afternoon. Anyway, he’s too busy to bother with details.”

  Livingston was indeed busy settling another dispute between harried shoppers, two fathers this time who’d been sent out by their wives with very precise instruction on the right hair color for the dolls they were to buy. Once he’d been able to turn his attention to the Dawsons’ request, he’d been delighted to say yes. He confided that he’d already planned to have Emmaline and Miss Birdsoll come and spend the night at his house, so they would swing by and pick her up later that evening when they finally wrapped up their duties at the store.

  Annie and her husband then took the stairs to Miss Birdsoll’s office, avoiding the long lines in front of the elevators. Livingston told them he thought that the girl was probably there. But she wasn’t, and the usually neat-as-a-pin Miss Birdsoll, looking uncharacteristically frazzled, said, “Oh dear. I’m not sure where she is. Madame Villeneuve came to take her to lunch up in her apartment, but they should have returned by now. Emmaline has probably gone to the workroom to work on her doll clothes, but I will feel better when I know that for sure. I’ve got to wait for an important telephone call. Mix-up in an order that must be delivered this afternoon. So once you’ve collected her, please let me know.”

  They checked in the dressmaking workrooms and the millinery department, and when they saw that neither Emmaline nor Madame Villeneuve was there, they headed up to the fifth floor to see if they’d been delayed over lunch. But no one answered when they rang the bell to the Villeneuve apartment. They also didn’t hear anything when they knocked on the door to the Fournier’s apartment across the hall.

  Annie felt a flutter of panic. She told herself the two were simply somewhere else in the store, maybe buying last minute presents for Monsieur, a nice normal activity. But she said to Nate, “Could you run down and get the keys to Emmaline’s rooms from Miss Birdsoll? The child might have fallen asleep or be hiding to be mischievous. I will stay here to make sure she doesn’t slip out.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze and said, “I’m sure it’s something like that, but I will get the keys, maybe ask Miss Birdsoll to call the Villeneuve apartment. Didn’t you say they had a telephone instrument in their place?” Then he ran down the corridor and disappeared into the stairwell.

  She knocked again on Emmaline’s door, announcing who she was and that she wanted to invite her to come spend the evening playing with Jamie. She pressed her ear against the door, hearing nothing. She went over and rang the bell again at the Villeneuves’ place, and this time she thought she heard some rustling sounds and then a sharp cry.

  Seeing Miss Birdsoll and Nate come out of the stairwell, she said, “Please, hurry, I think they are in the Villeneuve apartment. I thought I heard a cry. Do you have the keys?”

  Then she saw that Monsieur Villeneuve was with them and said, “Oh, good, could you please go in and check on your wife? See if Emmaline is with her? Make sure they are all right.”

  That’s when she noticed how agitated the Frenchman was. He was having difficulty getting the keys in the lock as he mumbled, “Ma femme, pas responsable ne savait pas ce qu'elle a fait,” which Annie’s rusty French translated into a terrifying sentence about his wife not being responsible for what she’d done.

  When Villeneuve got the door open, he turned and said, “Please, let me go in alone. It is important that she not feel imposed upon,” and before they could respond, he’d gone in and closed and locked the door behind him.

  Annie found herself wringing her hands, and after a moment she said, “Miss Birdsoll, do you have keys? I don’t think we should leave Emmaline in there alone with them.”

  Nate put a comforting hand on her shoulder, saying, “Yes, Miss Birdsoll, I think that Annie is correct.”

  Just as Miss Birdsoll reached out with her key, the door opened to reveal Villeneuve holding a sobbing Emmaline in his arms. Thrusting the child forward, he said, “Please take her; see that she is unharmed. I must go to my wife.”

  Nate took Emmaline into his arms as Miss Birdsoll rushed to open up the door to the girl’s apartment so he could carry her inside. He placed her carefully down on the settee, and Annie sat down beside her.

  “Sweetie, let me look at
you. Did Madame hurt you?” Annie asked, taking out a handkerchief and gently mopping the child’s eyes.

  “No, ma’am.” Emmaline’s sobs quieted into a few shallow breaths. “But…but…she wanted me to drink something that tasted nasty. I spit it out. Then she got very angry and hit me.”

  Annie folded the girl to her chest and said, “Poor dear, I’m so sorry. You are safe now. Madame Villeneuve isn’t well, but her husband will take care of her.”

  “Mrs. Dawson,” Emmaline whispered, “I don’t want to go live with her. She said God wanted us to be together, even if it had to be in heaven. But I don’t think my mother would want that.”

  “No, she wouldn’t. And I promise you that you won’t have to live with Madame. But you don’t need to worry about any of that right now.”

  Emmaline pulled back and looked up into her face. “Ma’am, I don’t think Madame liked my mother very much. Do you think she could have killed her?”

  “Honey, I think you are a very intelligent girl. But that’s for someone else to handle.”

  Hearing a faint pounding coming from across the hallway, Annie said, “Would you like to go into your room and pack a bag? Mr. Dawson and I’d like to take you to my house so you can keep Jamie company tonight. We are going to pop popcorn and sing carols and eat lots of sweets. You can put up a stocking for Santa Claus. It will be lots of fun.”

  The girl nodded gravely, and Miss Birdsoll, after handing over her keys to Annie, led Emmaline into her bedroom and shut the door.

  Annie quickly went into the corridor where Nate was leaning up against the closed door to the Villeneuves’ apartment. She heard shouting from within, a sudden crash, then silence.

  “I think I should go down to Miss Birdsoll’s office and call the police,” he said.

  “There isn’t time, Nate. From what Emmaline said, it’s pretty clear that Madam Villeneuve killed Marie. Can we trust that she won’t try to harm her husband? Besides, we can call the police from the instrument in there, once we know what is going on.”