Gossamer

by Rebecca Hagan Lee

  “Wot’s this?” The young woman in the red camisole and pantalets turned to glare at Elizabeth as she slipped into a vacant seat at the end of the long dining table. “ ’ave we got a bloomin’ duchess here at Bender’s?”

  Augusta Bender placed a huge bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. “What we have here is a lady,” she announced to the occupants seated at the table, shooting a warning glance at each of them. “A lady a bit down on her luck. She moved into number four this afternoon.” Mrs. Bender abruptly turned and exited into the kitchen. She returned a few moments later carrying a plate of fluffy yeast rolls and a platter of fried chicken. Mrs. Bender set the dishes on the table and began introducing the residents of her boarding house to Elizabeth, nodding her head at each woman as she introduced her. “That’s Phyllis seated next to you. She’s the Brit. Dove is beside Phyllis. Jennie’s the youngest. Trudy’s sitting beside Jennie. Eleanor is across from Jennie and Ida’s at the end of the table. Girls, this is Elizabeth Sadler. Be nice to her while she’s here,” Mrs. Bender instructed. “No more talkin’. Dig in to your supper while it’s hot. After all, you’re paying for it.”

  There was no further attempt at dinner conversation, and Elizabeth was relieved that she didn’t have to try to fill the dinner hour with polite small talk or amusing anecdotes or to remember everybody’s names. And she needn’t worry about embarrassing lapses in table conversation, for the silence in the dining room was filled by the sounds of eating and the clatter of knives and forks against china. The women at the table ate with gusto, relishing the fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings. And once supper was over, each woman carefully stacked her dishes and carried them into the kitchen for washing. That chore completed, two women hurried upstairs, while the other four withdrew to the front parlor.

  After finishing the last of the peach cobbler Mrs. Bender served for dessert, Elizabeth rose from the table. Deciding to follow the example of the four women who had withdrawn to the front parlor, she carried her dishes into the kitchen. She retraced her steps through the dining room and into the front parlor, where one of the women—Trudy, she thought—was playing “Aura Lee” on a slightly out-of-tune piano.

  Seating herself on a horsehair loveseat near the doorway, Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap and politely waited to see if the other women would invite her to participate in their after-dinner conversation and entertainment. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect in a cosmopolitan city like San Francisco, but back home in Providence it was customary to host after-dinner musical recitals, book and poetry readings or play parlor games like anagrams or charades.

  “Some gent taking you out on the town tonight? To the opera or something?” the young woman in racy red camisole and pantalets asked, nodding her head to indicate Elizabeth’s evening dress.

  “No.” Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Why you all dressed up?” another asked.

  Elizabeth glanced down at her gown. “I’ve always dressed for dinner.”

  “I’ve always dressed for dinner,” someone mimicked. “What about the way we dress for dinner? What do you think about that?”

  “I didn’t think it was polite to comment,” Elizabeth addressed the room. “For all I know, your mode of dress may be customary in this part of San Francisco.”

  A trill of high-pitched laughter drowned out the sound of the piano.

  “She didn’t think it was polite to comment on our mode of dress!” the young woman in the racy red camisole laughingly exclaimed. “Thought it might be customary in this part of Frisco! Did you hear that, Eleanor?”

  Eleanor, dressed in the corset and silk stockings, turned to glare at Elizabeth. “You meeting a gentleman here tonight? Is he coming to the party?”

  “I don’t know anything about a party,” Elizabeth replied. “I just assumed it was customary for the residents to gather in the parlor for after-dinner entertainments.”

  “You assumed correctly,” Eleanor said bluntly. “And incorrectly. We”—she waved her hand to encompass the other women in the room—“do gather in the parlor every night after supper for after-dinner entertainments. But I don’t think it’s the type of parlor games you’re accustomed to.”

  Eleanor looked over at Augusta Bender. “Did you invite Miss Sadler to our little social gathering this evening?”

  Mrs. Bender shook her head.

  “Then maybe it would be better if she didn’t stick around to witness the gentlemen’s arrival.” Eleanor leaned so far forward on her chair that Elizabeth could see the rouged tips of her massive bosom peeking out above her corset.

  Augusta Bender shrugged her shoulders at Eleanor’s suggestion. “Miss Sadler’s paid her money,” she announced. “In full and in advance. And she’s free to stay and receive the gentlemen callers same as all of you if she chooses.”

  “You’re receiving gentlemen callers tonight?” Elizabeth couldn’t believe her ears. “Dressed like that?” She blushed when she realized how rude her question was.

  “That’s right, Sugar,” Eleanor drawled as the heavy tread of male feet and the low murmur of masculine voices sounded on the front porch, seconds before the ring of the doorbell. “Any minute now.” She arched a black brow at Elizabeth. “Make up your mind. What’s it gonna be?”

  Elizabeth stood and smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, in a voice full of cool, regal dignity, “I’ll retire to my room for the night.” She inclined her head slightly at each of the women in the parlor. “Good evening.”

  “And good evenin’ to you, too, Your Ladyship,” Phyllis mockingly called out to her as Elizabeth exited the parlor.

  Augusta Bender caught up with her before she reached the stairs. Grasping Elizabeth by the elbow, Mrs. Bender turned her around to face her. “Go upstairs and stay in your room until mornin’. I’ll let it be known that number four is off-limits. If you stay out of the hallway and keep your door closed, you’ll be all right.” She let go of Elizabeth’s elbow and patted her on the arm. “Now, upstairs with you. Before I let the gentlemen in.” She winked at Elizabeth, then smiled before turning to answer the door.

  If Mrs. Bender’s smile was meant to reassure her, Elizabeth thought as she hurried up the stairs, it had failed miserably. Her hands shook as she closed the door to her room and automatically reached down to turn the key in the lock. There was no key or a lock to hold it, so Elizabeth made do with the only chair in the room—a spindly-legged, rather fragile-looking boudoir chair that sat in front of the dresser. She dragged the chair across the floor, wedged it beneath the porcelain doorknob and piled two of her valises on it. Eyeing her handiwork critically, Elizabeth decided that the chair and valises wouldn’t offer much resistance to a determined intruder, but they would make a rather loud noise when they fell to the floor—a noise loud enough to wake her if she happened to fall asleep, which she admitted as she sat, fully dressed, at the foot of her narrow bed, didn’t seem very likely.

  Shivering, Elizabeth stood up and walked over to the window. Glancing down, she was surprised to discover the streets teeming with life. The yellow glow of lamplight and raucous sound of loud voices and piano and banjo music poured from inside the restaurants, saloons and gambling halls while a steady stream of buggies and carriages deposited passengers on the sidewalks in front of those establishments. And, Elizabeth noticed, the alleys and back entrances leading to those businesses were every bit as crowded and as busy as the main streets and front entrances. Unlike the dark, quiet streets and neighborhoods of Providence, the streets surrounding Bender’s Boardinghouse and the adjoining streets of Chinatown were alive with the hustle and bustle of men and women in search of entertainment. And nearly every nighttime form of entertainment in this part of San Francisco appeared to be noisy and boisterous.

  Even the piano music downstairs had grown louder. “Aura Lee” had given way to “Camptown Races,” and the quintet of female voices had been joined by several male tenors and one surpris
ingly good baritone. Elizabeth tried not to listen. The tenors reminded her too much of Owen, and the many happy evenings over the years, when she and he had stood around the piano and sung duets while Grandmother Sadler accompanied them. And the baritone voice …

  The baritone voice reminded her of the night before, when James had rocked her in his arms and comforted her with lullabies. Elizabeth slowly lowered the window in a vain attempt to shut out the sounds around her. And the memories. Especially the memories. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying at her naïveté and her sheer stupidity. She was surrounded by hundreds of people, maybe even thousands, and yet, she had never felt so alone in her life. Not even when Grandmother had disowned her and asked her to leave the house on Hemlock Street. Although she had found it frightening to be on her own—to lose her job and her grandmother’s love, respect, and support—Elizabeth also found the situation oddly liberating. For the first time in her life, she was free from her grandmother’s critical eye, impossibly high standards, morals and the social restraints that had weighed on her since birth. For a few short days during the train trip from Providence to Oakland, being a social pariah and the first fallen Sadler woman in generations had been fun. Her grandmother might have disowned her, but she still had Owen. Owen loved her. Owen didn’t care that she’d made a mistake. Owen would love her no matter what. But then she had arrived in this horrid city and learned that Owen was lost to her, too.

  She was completely alone. Elizabeth rubbed at her eyes with the back of her fist. She knew she was feeling sorry for herself, knew that she shouldn’t. But she couldn’t seem to help it. So much had happened … So much had changed … Her plans for a new life in San Francisco had been destroyed. And all because a Chinaman named Lo Peng ran an evil place where young men like her brother, Owen, were introduced to opium and encouraged to spend their hard-earned money indulging. All because Lo Peng had allowed Owen to die from his weakness for opium.

  Elizabeth raised her fist and placed it against the cool glass of the windowpane. She wanted to let go of her hard-won control. She wanted to cry and scream and pound at the glass. She wanted to throw a fit, to shout and break things, and to give vent to the frustration and fright building inside her. So much had gone wrong. Right from the beginning. She thought she was so clever when she removed James’s key from his pocket and replaced it with her own. She thought she was so clever when she talked the desk clerk into giving her the spare key to James’s room to further delay him and keep him from following her. She’d even congratulated herself for her ingenuity when she realized that by sneaking out of the Russ House she could avoid having to face James again. Well, look where her cleverness had landed her! She had run away from a nice, respectable, expensive hotel and a man who had offered her nothing but kindness, and had taken refuge in a shabby, inexpensive boardinghouse inhabited by an assortment of women who could only be described as disreputable. She had run from the Garden of Eden straight into Sodom and Gomorrah—and without a backward glance.

  She didn’t feel so clever now. She didn’t feel anything except stupid. And alone. Completely, utterly alone. What would James think if he could see her now? Would he come to her rescue once again? Elizabeth walked over to the bureau, opened the top drawer, and pulled out his embroidered handkerchief. She held it to her nose, inhaling the faint masculine scent that clung to the fabric. She glanced over at the window. Was he still at the Russ House? Or was he someplace else in the city? Had he left? Had he returned home to a family?

  Elizabeth didn’t know. But as she climbed onto the center of her narrow bed and sat huddled against the headboard, she felt comforted by the presence of his handkerchief. By the initials embroidered on it. J. C. C.

  She sighed. She’d run away from him because she didn’t want to face him, but Elizabeth knew that at the moment, she’d give anything to see James’s handsome face again.

  Six

  BY ONE O’CLOCK the following afternoon, Elizabeth had revised her charitable thoughts about James. She’d still give anything to see his handsome face again. But now she wanted to see him so she could have the pleasure of scratching his beautiful blue eyes out!

  Two members of the San Francisco police department, including kindly Sergeant Terrence Darnell, had descended upon Bender’s Boardinghouse after lunch. San Francisco’s finest were engaged in a house to house search of saloons, hotels, boardinghouses, and other less reputable establishments within walking distance of Saint Mary’s Church and Chinatown. Augusta Bender had a certain reputation as a successful madam and for offering shelter to petty thieves and “day ladies,” ladies who lived in furnished rooms or boarded with respectable families, but who had no visible means of support, fine ladies who offered themselves as companions to gentlemen, who left their photographs and calling cards with the madams of local brothels and prostituted themselves for a living without their families and friends being the wiser.

  But the police waiting at Bender’s weren’t looking for day ladies. They were looking for a thief. A thief named Elizabeth Sadler, who was wanted for burglarizing a very important guest at the Russ House Hotel.

  Elizabeth was returning to the boardinghouse after lunch from another morning spent on an increasingly futile quest for a job whose requirements did not include taking off her clothes, painting her face, or dancing a lewd version of the can-can when Jennie, the youngest of Mrs. Bender’s girls, intercepted her two blocks away.

  “The police are waiting at Bender’s,” Jennie told her. “They’re there to pinch you for stealing some rich gent’s handkerchief.”

  “What?” Elizabeth was appalled.

  “The police plan to nab you and take you to the jug.”

  “For stealing a handkerchief?”

  Jennie nodded. “You got to run. Hide. Until they go away.”

  But Elizabeth suspected there was nowhere to run or to hide. If the police were looking for her, they’d find her. And while jail was a real possibility for the act she had been flirting with all morning, Elizabeth didn’t intend to go meekly to jail for the theft of a handkerchief. If she were going to jail, she’d only do so in the name of justice. Owen’s justice. Her justice. She looked over at Jennie and asked, “What’s the quickest way to the Red Dragon on Washington Street?”

  THE POLICE FOUND her there—at the Red Dragon—forty minutes later. They arrived to find Lo Peng and three other Chinamen restraining her. Lo Peng hurried over to the officers. “Arrest her!” he cried. “Arrest the crazy missy. She break up my shop. She wreck the place.”

  And she had.

  Elizabeth smiled with satisfaction. Her hair had come undone from its neat chignon, the pins scattered across the floor. Her bonnet had been ripped loose and crushed in the struggle, and she was missing a button from the bodice of her dress. But the wrecked interior of the opium den was a sight to behold. Elizabeth had oftentimes suspected that she harbored a first-class virago deep inside her, a virago she kept hidden beneath her calm, capable facade, but she hadn’t been certain of it until she crossed the threshold of that horrid little opium den and began swinging her parasol. It had taken three men to subdue her as she’d overturned berths and gaming tables, crushed paper lanterns, and shattered pipes, bowls, and lamps. Elizabeth had raged through the den of iniquity that had cost Owen his life and felt an overwhelming sense of satisfaction at seeing it in a shambles.

  But the police had eventually shown up at the Washington Street address and Elizabeth had been summarily dragged kicking and screaming out of Lo Peng’s establishment and hauled to jail with the sounds of a dozen shouting Chinamen ringing in her ears. She was charged with disorderly conduct, assault, and petty larceny, and escorted to the courthouse by the same policeman who had helped her locate Owen’s grave.

  She jumped in her seat as Judge Clermont banged his gavel on his desktop and called the next case. “Miss Elizabeth Sadler.”

  “Here, your honor.” Elizabeth raised her hand.

  “Rise
and approach the bench.”

  Elizabeth did as she was instructed. After rising from her seat in the third row, she made her way down the aisle to the front of the courtroom. The matron from the city jail went with her and kept a firm grip on Elizabeth’s left arm as they stood before the judge.

  “Elizabeth Sadler,” the judge intoned, “you’re charged with misdemeanor crimes of disorderly conduct, assaulting a merchant, and petty larceny. How do you plead?”

  Elizabeth bit her bottom lip as she glanced down at the hem of her skirt. Although she was guilty of disorderly conduct and assaulting a merchant, she balked at being accused of petty larceny. She didn’t agree that failing to return a handkerchief given to her to use constituted stealing, but honesty compelled her to admit that James hadn’t said she could keep his handkerchief, had, in fact, only loaned it to her. And, Elizabeth reminded herself, she hadn’t kept the handkerchief because she needed it, she had kept it because she wanted a memento, a tangible reminder of James.

  “How do you plead, Miss Sadler?”

  She looked up at the judge and blushed with shame. “Guilty, your honor.”

  Judge Clermont stared down at the young woman before him. “The court finds you guilty as charged. That’ll be a minimum of fifty dollars or three days in jail and sixty days’ probation. And if I see you in my court again, young lady, I’ll sentence you to thirty days in jail. Pay the clerk on your way out.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open as the judge banged his gavel again and called the next case. She had been tried, found guilty, and sentenced, all in a matter of minutes. Her ordeal was over—except for two small details. She had yet to face the man who had accused her of stealing his handkerchief. And she didn’t have fifty dollars.

  “Come on, Sadler,” the matron tugged at Elizabeth’s arm. “You’re done. Pay the clerk and you’re free to go.”

  “Free to go?” Elizabeth repeated dumbly.