Autumn Lady

by AnneMarie Dapp

  “How shocking,” he said with a hint of anger in his voice.

  “Why yes. I mean…I moved into this home expecting it to be a wholesome environment, a place I could relax safely while I attended school, but the things that go on in this house at night…” she said with an eye roll.

  “Oh, dear, you poor girl. What kind of things are you talking about?”

  “Well, just the other evening, something woke me up from a sound asleep. I was so frightened,” she whimpered.

  “I can imagine. How dreadful, but go on.”

  “I peeked out my door, and I saw Mr. Deane climbing the stairs. He was all beaten up with a black eye no less. God knows what he was up to. I’ve heard he boxes down on Kearny Street.” She shuddered. “But then things really got crazy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Suddenly, Miss McClain came out of her room, and she wasn’t even decent!”

  “Please, go on.”

  “Well, she was wearing this frilly little robe. Oh my…you could see right through it,” she whispered.”

  “And?”

  And she went back into Mr. Deane’s bedroom!” she said, her eyes widening. “I almost fainted dead away. Can you imagine?”

  Silent rage washed over his pallid face.

  “I must be going.” He quickly grabbed his hat and gloves and rushed out the door. The box of chocolates and flowers fell across the kitchen floor.

  Jane Darby watched him leave from the parlor window. His carriage raced down the street. The sound of a cracking whip traveled on the wind. A satisfied smile lit up her face as Mr. Williams disappeared into the mist.

  * * * *

  Mara paused before releasing the final drop of color onto her canvas.

  “Patrick, I’m finished with your portrait, if you’d like to take a look.”

  He crossed the room and stood by her side. His eyes traveled over the painting and his lips parted as he took a deep breath. He turned with a puzzled expression.

  “Is it alright?”

  “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Well, next to you that is.” His eyes glistened as he reached down and took her hands. He studied them a moment and said, “I can’t believe how talented you are, love. It truly is amazing. Sammy looks like a fine thoroughbred! But…” he hesitated, “that fellow in the picture can’t be me?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for starters, the bloke is too damn good looking!” But he grew serious, and his brow furrowed. “Do you really see me that way?”

  “I do. Why, you’re gorgeous.” She smiled. Mara studied his face, trying to express something her words couldn’t. “But it’s the beauty of your soul that really speaks to me,” she said, pointing towards his heart. His eyes filled with tears as he held her.

  “You truly are a remarkable woman.” He swept her up in his arms, kissing her softly, and then more urgently. He carried her over to a stack of hay bales, lowering her down onto the dried grass. Her hands gripped his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. He caressed her body, hesitating for a moment. She gazed back with a radiant smile, encouraging him to continue. Their eyes locked and his hand reached down, carefully loosening the buttons of her dress. Her blue eyes widened and pupils dilated. She exhaled with anticipation and whispered, “Yes”. His mouth lifted at the corners, his eyes burned with passion. His fingers released the last fastener. She sighed deeply, and he pulled her closer, his mouth traveling over her neck and down to her breasts. His tongue flicked across supple curves, teeth grazing over the delicate skin. He pressed closer. Her hips arched against him, answering his desire. His hand reached under her dress, first exploring, and then satisfying the eager flesh. Mara leaned back, eyes half closed, biting down on her lower lip.

  They were so enraptured with one another, that neither heard the footsteps. A shadow fell over them and Mara’s eyes flew open. James Williams peered down, his face distorted by lunacy. She let out a scream. Patrick jumped, and looked over his shoulder. He hastily covered her up, blocking the intruder’s view. She struggled for balance, clutching her bodice.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Patrick asked in outrage.

  James’ eyes were empty husks. He silently backed away into the shadows. His face was a mixture of rage and astonishment.

  “Katie, so it’s true, I see. You’re a little whore after all.”

  Mara looked up in shock, and a flash of anger washed over her. “You have no right barging in on us. How dare you! I’m leasing this property. So, you’re trespassing, and my name’s not Katie. Get out!” She clutched her bodice, to keep it from falling back open. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her view became distorted. Patrick stood up, blocking her from James’ leering gaze.

  “Get the hell out of here, or I’ll make sure you’ll be needing a cane for the rest of your life,” he hissed between clenched teeth. James slowly backed away. The corners of his mouth turned up, his eyes seething with hatred.

  “Our little arrangement is over, my dear. I took a look at the repairs today, and they’re not acceptable. So, your rent just got bumped up to one hundred dollars a month. If you can’t pay the dues on time, I’m closing the gallery.”

  “You can’t do that!” Her body shook, a cold tremor running down her spine.

  “Oh, I most definitely can. There’s a clause in the contract. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Mr. Cohen at the bank. I have the right to raise your rent anytime I please. Maybe next time you might consider leaving business management to men, so you can stay on your back where you belong.”

  He turned to leave, and Patrick started to follow. Mara reached for his arm. “Please, don’t go after him; he’s just taunting, trying to get you in trouble.” He turned back frustrated, and gathered her up in his arms. Her body shook, and she cried softly against him. He smoothed her hair back, and held her tightly. “Don’t cry, little rose. This is my fault. I’m so sorry.” He kissed the top of her head, holding her close.

  “No, it’s not,” she said between short gasping breaths. “We’re not doing anything wrong. You’re my fiancé. Maybe we got a little carried away, but that doesn’t give him the right to…” She couldn’t finish the sentence and instead began to quietly sob against his chest.

  He held her close until she stopped. She wiped at her face, and gingerly stood up. “Can we drive to the bank? I need to talk to Joshua to find out if the landlord can really raise my rent like he threatened.”

  Her mind raced as they drove down the street. Joshua Cohen smiled when they entered, but his face quickly turned to worry after seeing their expressions. He led them over to his desk and they took turns explaining James Williams’ visit. They left out the part concerning their adventures in the hay. Joshua shook his head back and forth, and headed to the back, returning with a stack of paperwork. He thumbed through the documents.

  “Damn it,” he said, angrily. He looked up at Mara and quickly apologized for his language.

  “Mr. Williams has been a loyal customer for some time. I never imagined that he would do anything so vicious. If I had known his intentions, I would have never arranged your meeting with him. I’m so very sorry.”

  “So, there’s nothing that I can do about him raising the rent?”

  Joshua’s face grew solemn, his mouth pinched together. He tapped the desk with his pen, tracing his hands over the documents “Well, the problem is that he offered you a verbal agreement, to exchange labor for a reduction in the rent, but there’s no rent control clause in your contract. The paperwork states that you’ll be paying twenty-five dollars a month on the agreement that the appropriate repairs are to be completed in a timely fashion, but there’s nothing legally preventing him from raising your rent. The agreement was on the honor system, and I’m afraid he’s not proven to be an honorable man to say the least.”

  Mara looked down at her lap, biting the inside of her lip, “I see,” she said softly.

  Joshua looked back and forth at them. “Let m
e give you a few minutes to talk,” he said quietly.

  Patrick took her hand, “My fight’s just around the corner. I can get the money.”

  She smiled up at him. “I don’t want this to fall on you, love. I still have my gallery opening coming up. I started this business, and I really want to earn my way by paying my own bills.”

  “You’re a stubborn little thing,” he said, kissing her softly “We’ll get through this. There are a lot of people standing behind you. We’re going to figure this out.”

  They went back to the boarding house. At dinnertime, their housemates were quiet as Patrick explained what happened at the gallery.

  “Why, it’s outrageous,” Jeremiah spoke up. “To take advantage of such a sweet young woman. It’s unacceptable! He can’t get away with it. I’m barring that monster from the store.”

  “Absolutely,” Donald said, nodding his head vehemently.

  Mara noticed that Jane Darby was absent from dinner that evening. It was a bit strange, but she was relieved that she wouldn’t be there to gloat over her misfortune.

  Betty reached over and put her hand on Mara’s shoulder. We’re going to work this out, honey. And just think, tomorrow people will be dropping by with their artworks at the gallery. You might find some wonderful pieces to sell.”

  Mara looked into her vivid green eyes. They were full of empathy and concern and she loved her for it. “I hope so. It’s just that I’m worried about how far he’ll go with this. What’s stopping him from raising the rent again? He could keep doing it.”

  They were all quiet as they considered the possibility.

  Sarah Levy put her hands together and leaned forward. “You can’t worry about that now. Take it one step at a time. Try to focus on getting your paintings for the grand opening. Think about the rest later, and we’re all here for you, Mara. You’re a San Franciscan now. So, you’re in good company.”

  They all nodded in earnest. She was grateful for their support, but her stomach felt like it was full of lead. She picked at her dinner, barely touching it. Her dreams that night were a mixture of losing the gallery and the shadow of her landlord’s dark presence. His empty eyes were waiting.

  Chapter 12

  Mara awoke Friday morning with a sense of purpose. Patrick met her in the dining room for a quick breakfast before leaving the boarding house. The day was cold and bright as the carriage neared the gallery. Her heart raced as they turned the corner. A line had formed outside the door. Several men and women waited, most with paintings in their arms. She looked up at Patrick and he was grinning.

  “Looks like the advertisement was a good idea, darlin’.” Her hands shook as she climbed out of the cart. All eyes were on her as they walked over; she looked out at the crowd, trying to gather her thoughts.

  “Thank you all for showing up today for our first painting call. My name is Mara McClain and I’m the owner of…” she hesitated a moment realizing that she had not named her gallery, “I’m the owner of The Muse.” A murmur ran through the crowd, voices filled with curiosity and intrigue.

  “We will be having our grand opening next Saturday. The pieces chosen today will be displayed and commissioned for this very special event. I’ll be in the gallery office searching for works that best represent our great city. My associate, Mr. Deane, will call you in one at a time, so I can view your lovely artwork. Thank you very much for your cooperation. I’m looking forward to meeting each and every one of you.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd as she walked past. There was a sense of expectation in the air, a nervous excitement. It was a long day, and Mara examined many paintings. There were many levels of experience. Some of the artists were beginners, just discovering their craft, others were professionals, eager to show off their work and grateful for the chance. She was able to pick and choose from the best pieces. There was a variety of San Francisco scenes, portraiture, wildlife, and several landscape works. For the ones that weren’t chosen, she gave words of encouragement, and advice on how to improve, suggesting they come back again in the future.

  By noon, she had visitors from Mrs. Levy’s house. Jeremiah and Donald brought their paintings, along with some extra chairs from the store. Betty and Joshua set up a card table, and went to work helping with commission contracts. Betty assisted by filling out the names of the artists and paintings, and then Jenjie arrived in the early afternoon. He had his canvases, along with a plate of sugar cakes from the restaurant. His mother had baked them special for Mara. He explained how proud his parents were to have him showing his work at the gallery. Sarah Levy arrived soon after with a basket of sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea.

  Soon, there were stacks of paintings in her office. Betty helped arrange them according to subject. Near sunset, her friends and clients slowly made their way back home. She looked around, took a deep breath, and stifled a yawn.

  Patrick peeked inside and said, “You have one more artist that would like to speak with you.”

  She looked up as an elegantly dressed woman walked into the room. A forest green gown and matching hat complimented her dark hair and eyes. There was an air about her that made Mara take notice.

  “Congratulations on opening your gallery, Mademoiselle McClain. It looks like you’ve had quite a success finding new pieces,” she said, looking at the canvases organized throughout the room. She spoke with a heavy French accent. “Are you an artist as well as a business woman?”

  “I am,” she said. “I have a few of my works over here.” Mara held up one of her oil paintings, a street scene from Philadelphia. It was a moody piece, displaying the setting sun, a row of buildings and people on their way home from work.

  The visitor’s eyes traveled over the canvas, taking in the delicate brushstrokes, the romantic air, and a day in the life scene, capturing the city’s pulse.

  “Yes, you most definitely are an artist.”

  “Thank you very much.” She studied the woman with interest. Her dark hair and eyes were quite striking, her gaze direct.

  “My name is Berthe Morisot. My home is in Paris, but I came to the states for a short holiday. I read about your gallery in the paper, and was quite excited to see that a woman happened to be the curator,” she said. “I brought along a painting that I recently finished.” She reached down by her chair and retrieved the canvas, placing it carefully on Mara’s desk.

  She studied the image. It was a rather small painting, a mother and child, sitting alone in a parlor. Short, rapid brushstrokes danced across the canvas. The contrast of white paint and dark hues accentuated the figures. The bold color choices regarding the mother’s dress, and the child’s dark hair allowed the figures to leap off the canvas, while the room itself was pushed far into the background. The outer edges of the painting were unfinished, giving the composition a free and spontaneous appearance.

  “Oh, my, this is truly remarkable. You know, there’s something about your brushstrokes that seem so familiar. My friend recently showed me a photograph of the work of an artist from Paris. His name is Claude Monet. Your painting is quite different, both in subject and substance and yet, there is a similar sense of freedom, a feeling of abandonment. Your art depicts a powerful intimacy between the mother and child. It’s as if you’re allowing the viewer into a secret world. You’ve actually captured the essence of love. It’s incredible…beautiful.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. A smile flickered. “Oh, and Claude Monet, yes, we’re old friends. He’s quite the artist, a bit on the obsessive side…though, aren’t we all?”

  Mara nodded in agreement, an unspoken understanding between them.

  “He’s been known to paint the same church from morning to sundown just to capture the changing light. I’m afraid I do most of my painting inside the home. Paris is transforming itself right before our eyes. It’s quite hectic at times. It seems that there’s a new building or street every time I leave the house.” She was quiet for a moment, looking out the window.

  “I admir
e you, Mademoiselle McClain. It’s not easy to stake a claim in this world; men run it, and we have to tread ever so lightly, but you’re doing it, aren’t you? Never let anyone say you can’t. Always remember that, chéri.” They looked at each other, speaking without words.

  Mara sensed she was in the presence of someone special, although she wouldn’t fully understand it until many years later, after she’d read about the French Impressionist Movement and discovered how her new friend, Berthe Morisot, was one of the founding artists, and a leader in her circle. They’d exchanged addresses that afternoon and would continue to write to one other for the rest of their lives, their friendship growing stronger with each passing year, a window into the ever-changing French art society.

  The words she spoke that day helped to strengthen her resolve to go forward with her gallery. When her key locked the door, Mara had a new sense of determination. She had no trouble sleeping that night.

  BOOK TWO

  The Barbary Coast

  Samuel Johnson was a giant of a man. Born and raised in San Francisco at the height of the Gold Rush, his father an escaped felon, his mother was a prostitute from one of the city’s original whorehouses. He’d been raised on the streets, and had been sheltered from nothing. He knew all the johns by name, and the house Madame, Aunt Dottie, was like a second mother. Sometimes, she gave him candy and sent him out to play if his own mom was entertaining a gentleman caller. He knew nothing different, and his childhood was a fairly happy one, but children are cruel, and at the age of nine, neighborhood boys started calling him a bastard and his mother a whore. He asked around until he learned what the words meant, and he went back to the boys later that day and proceeded to beat them bloody, leaving them covered in tears with a few broken bones. When their blood flowed red, it stirred something in him. It was a nice feeling, peaceful in a way. You see, he never really felt alive until that moment. Once he saw those first scarlet drops, he was thirsty. He searched for it, and was often successful. Over the next seven years, he would be in and out of jail cells, accused of fighting, stealing, anything that would give him a little release. This was his life, and it was all right.