Hanna smiled with relief. “You are welcome.”
They stood together beneath the gas streetlamps, listening to the rhythmic clopping of horses’ hooves. With a gust of wind, Hanna caught a whiff of pine needles and cigar smoke, the scent of Lucas’s skin.
“Now that Miss Heathcote has abandoned me,” Lucas said, “I don’t suppose you would wish to go in her place to see Lotta Crabtree perform?”
“Thank you,” Hanna said, ignoring the flutter in her stomach. “But I would not wish to trouble you. Surely there is someone else you wish to invite?”
Lucas smirked. “I’m afraid all the women I’m acquainted with are attending the party for Viscount Theodore Wharton. And I am but a lowly real-estate investor.”
“That is not true,” Hanna said, shaking her head. “You are a good man. And I would love to go.”
“Come then,” Lucas said, taking a step toward Montgomery Street. “If we meet any of Mother’s gossiping friends, we shall say you’re the Baroness of Bayern, visiting from Europe. Having never seen you before, they shall be none the wiser.”
Hanna giggled, covering her mouth. “If you say so.”
It was ridiculous to think she could pass for nobility, considering she wore no diamond jewelry, nor had the manners of a lady. But Hanna quite enjoyed Lucas’s silly sense of humor, so different from his brooding cousin.
Strolling on her way to the theater in a beautiful dress, Hanna glided past shop windows as if she weighed no more than a feather. Catching her reflection in the glass, she saw a handsome, proud woman staring back at her.
As Hanna walked with Lucas down Kearny Street past the dance halls and saloons, he held his cane with purpose, as if ready to use it as a weapon. Hanna dared not go near the Opera Comique on Jackson and Kearny, better known as Murderer’s Corner. The pretty waiter girls there were known to put on the bawdiest and most obscene shows of any melodeon or concert saloon on the Barbary Coast. Hanna had heard of those girls selecting their victims, usually a sailor or miner, and giving the man a drugged drink. Once he’d lost his faculties, the poor fellow would be knocked unconscious and robbed blind—then rolled into a back alley and left for dead.
But that was how it was here, kill or be killed. Horrible crimes beyond comprehension befell women of these saloons. Hanna shivered as a man’s dark eyes passed over her. San Francisco was not a safe place for anyone.
Lucas and Hanna turned onto Bush Street, where other couples had formed a queue, men in tailcoats and top hats and women bedecked in jewels and feathers. The California Theatre loomed before Hanna, an impressive marble structure.
An usher led them upstairs to a private booth overlooking the stage below. Inside the theater, the gilded ceiling, red velvet curtains, and frescoes adorning the walls brought a silent intake of Hanna’s breath. The array of colorful silks and plumed hats and the glint of diamond bracelets dazzled her. She had mended fine dresses many times, but to see the fabric shimmer under the stage lights brought the garments to life.
“Please, sit.” Lucas gestured toward a plush bench.
When Hanna did so, she nearly cried out. The whalebone corset constricted her lungs. Surely women couldn’t tolerate such torturous devices every day?
“Champagne?” the waiter asked, holding a silver tray with two crystal glasses.
“Yes, please.” Lucas took one and handed the other to Hanna.
“Prost,” she said, touching her glass against Lucas’s while looking him in the eye. “It means ‘to your health.’ ”
“I like that,” Lucas answered. “And to your health as well.”
The champagne bubbles tickled Hanna’s throat, lovely and sweet, unlike anything she had ever tasted before. The crowd cheered as the velvet curtain rose, and Hanna looked down to see Lotta Crabtree onstage. There she was, the actress’s lively, diminutive figure immediately captivating the audience. Hanna clapped her hands as Lotta began to sing and dance.
Lucas bought Hanna a second glass of champagne. Through a pleasant haze, Hanna watched Lotta perform Little Nell and the Marchioness. Portraying little Nell, a virtuous girl of fourteen, Lotta told the story of how the character was orphaned. Nell’s grandfather cared for her, attempting to earn her a good inheritance through gambling. Both Nell and her grandfather came into misfortune due to her grandfather’s gambling debt, and they were forced to run away.
“Have you tried oysters?” Lucas asked, handing Hanna a silver fork so small it could have been used by a porcelain doll.
Hanna shook her head.
“Here,” Lucas said, giving Hanna a scalloped shell with a fleshy gray lump inside. “Squeeze a bit of lemon on it. You can eat it with the utensil or simply let it slide down your throat.”
Hanna stabbed the oyster with her fork, prying it loose. When it reached her tongue, the briny, soft, and almost creamy flavor pleased Hanna, despite the strange consistency.
“Do you like it?” Lucas asked.
“Yes,” Hanna said, though her stomach grumbled. What she would give for a hot loaf of brown bread with butter.
Hanna gasped as Nell’s evil brother searched for the young girl with the malicious, deformed dwarf, Daniel Quilp.
“Oh no,” Hanna whispered. “Please tell me he doesn’t find them.”
Lucas smiled with kindness in his eyes. “You’re quite enraptured by the story. Have you read Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop? The novel inspired this play.”
“No, I haven’t. I would like to.”
Even if Hanna had the time to read for pleasure, it would have to be done by candlelight, away from Father’s unforgiving gaze. The Dickens book probably contained words far too difficult for her to comprehend. Hanna swallowed, anxiety creeping through her heady buzz. If she was to run away, would Father look for her, just as these evil men never relented in their search for Nell and Nell’s grandfather?
Hanna thought of the children. Were they all right? Surely Margaret had kept them entertained. Margaret was always full of stories and games. Hanna bit her lip. What if Father came home whilst Margaret was still there? Unlikely. He preferred to drink until the small hours of the morn. But if he did . . .
Hanna exhaled to dispel her anxiety, except the corset was too tight, her breath catching in her throat. Sweat glistened on her upper lip.
“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked.
“It’s late,” Hanna said. “And the children. I fret for them. I ought to leave.”
Lucas stood up and took her arm. “Of course. I shall take you home.”
“Thank you,” Hanna said.
As they descended the stairs, Lucas looked about with darting eyes, as if he feared encountering someone he knew. He had been all too eager to leave, perhaps because he was embarrassed to be seen with her.
Outside of the theater, Lucas helped Hanna into his carriage. The wind cooled her skin as they rode toward Telegraph Hill. Her stomach sank, knowing she had cut a wonderful evening short, but she had already asked such a great favor of Margaret. Hanna would feel better seeing the children safe in their beds.
As they passed the foulest of dives on Pacific Street, the carriage lurched forward, causing Hanna to fall, her bare hand landing atop Lucas’s. Her body warmed with pleasure at the contact, but she cringed in embarrassment. “Forgive me!”
Lucas slowly pulled his hand away. “It is quite all right. These streets are terrible and badly in need of repair.”
As they rode through Devil’s Acre, men hollered at one another and smashed bottles as women with bare feet and hair askew stumbled out of saloons.
“Have you ever been inside one of those melodeons?” Hanna asked.
Lucas shook his head. “No. Though many of my contemporaries enjoy the bawdy shows at the Bella Union. You’ll see men of respectable family connections, their parents dozing away in their residences on Rincon Hill, under the impression that their worthy scions are attending the Young Men’s Christian Association.”
Hanna laughed at the vision. “They
haven’t any idea that their sons are watching waiter girls do the cancan?”
Lucas smiled. “Not a clue. What the rich don’t want to believe, they ignore, even if it’s taking place right under their noses.”
Hanna breathed in the faint scent of Lucas’s coat, cigar smoke and pine, as they rode together in silence. Closing her eyes, she savored the warmth of his body next to hers. When Hanna opened her eyes again, the carriage had turned onto the dirt road leading toward the clapboard houses of Telegraph Hill.
“Stop here,” Hanna said to the driver, who brought the carriage to a halt in front of Frau Kruger’s house.
Lucas stepped out and helped Hanna down from the carriage. The chickens clucked inside their coop and the smell of goat dung filled the air.
“Is this your house?” Lucas asked, turning to Frau Kruger’s wooden cabin.
The home, though modest, was nicer than Hanna’s. “Yes. That is the one.”
Hanna took a step back and knocked something over with her foot. Looking down, she saw leaves and sticks, mottled brown against the damp earth. And then her eyes alighted on a painted canvas, lying facedown in the dirt. “Oh drat!”
Hanna bent down and picked up the painting. Seeing that no leaves had stuck to the oils, Hanna smiled in relief. It had dried in the sun. “Thank heavens.”
“What is it?” Lucas asked. “May I see?”
Hanna handed him her rendering of the landscape.
Lucas stared at it for a long time. When he looked at Hanna, his eyes were serious. “Did you paint this?”
Hanna’s cheeks tingled. “Yes. I know it is a foolish hobby. But my mother was an artist and I . . .”
Lucas smiled. “Hanna, it’s lovely, finer than the paintings done by my sister Georgina, and believe me, she’s had only the best instructors. Did your mother learn from a master of the arts, or was she self-taught? You have inherited quite a skill.”
“Thank you,” Hanna answered. “My mother learned from a tutor. She was an educated woman who came from a good home. Though my father was the town blacksmith, she married him in spite of their differences.”
“Ah,” Lucas said, gazing at the painting. “For love.”
Hanna nodded. “Yes.”
Lucas would never know the truth of how that love had turned rotten, like a peach riddled with mold and worms, or how Mother had been cut off. Father’s sour breath and tobacco spittle flashed in Hanna’s mind. Father would slice the canvas with his knife, just as he had broken Mother’s porcelain plates beneath his heavy boots.
“Please.” Hanna looked into Lucas’s eyes. “You should take this.”
“Do you mean it?” he asked. “Surely it would look fine on your mantel.”
“Yes,” Hanna said, lowering her voice to a whisper. The last thing she needed was Frau Kruger pulling back her curtain to eavesdrop. “I want you to have it.”
Lucas stepped closer, his face a hairsbreadth from Hanna’s. “Then I will cherish this beautiful work of art.”
Gently, he took Hanna’s chin and tilted it upward. “How you intrigue me, Miss Schaeffer. You are not at all what you seem.”
The air charged with an electrical current, like the sky before a thunderstorm. Hanna trembled, hardly daring to breathe. His lips were so close.
“Good night,” Hanna whispered, turning her face away.
The intensity in Lucas’s eyes faded. Sliding his thumb ever so softly over her bottom lip, he let his hand fall by his side. “Good night.”
Hanna lifted the hem of her velvet dress, turning to leave. Lucas tipped his hat toward her. “Tonight was a pleasant surprise. Thank you for accompanying me to the theater. I’ve never seen someone enjoy it as much as you did.”
“It is you I should thank,” Hanna said. “For an experience I will never forget.”
As Hanna walked toward her father’s house, her insides felt warm. Had Lucas meant to kiss her, or had she imagined that moment between them? Hanna pulled open the door, willing it not to creak. Margaret had likely tucked the children in their beds, and Father would be at some debased saloon or grog shop. Hanna couldn’t wait to tell Margaret how their plan had actually worked.
With a loud crack, pain flooded Hanna’s skull. She fell and shielded her head as fists pummeled her ribs. She gasped for breath as her stomach clenched from the impact. Piercing needles of pain penetrated her insides.
Rolling over, Hanna looked into her father’s dark eyes, bloodshot and fiery. She wiped a tear to clear her vision. Her German words hardly came fast enough, tumbling out of her mouth. “Where are the children?”
From her position on the floor, Hanna could not see Katja, Hans, or Martin. Where had they gone? Dear God, were they safe?
Father unfastened his belt from his trousers so his massive belly hung low over his dirt-stained pants. With a firm grip on the leather, he held the belt aloft. The metal end of the buckle glinted in the moonlight.
“They are with me, you whore.”
Hanna’s blood ran cold. What had he done? She couldn’t breathe. Her corset and the heavy folds of the velvet dress restricted her movement. Sweat pooled under her arms and trickled down her back.
Katja cried out from the other room. Hanna recognized Hans’s whimpering as well. They were safe behind the bedroom door. For now. The belt came down across Hanna’s back, the corset doing little to lessen its bite. Hanna screamed. Father tore open the dress, buttons popping off one by one as the velvet ripped apart.
“Margaret!” Hanna yelled. “You must take the children away from here.”
No one answered. Hanna’s gut writhed like maggots eating away at her flesh. Something had gone very wrong.
With the dress and corset torn open, Hanna inhaled deeply. Pain stabbed her ribs, but she needed to move. If Margaret wasn’t behind that door, where had she gone? Hanna rolled onto her back and pushed herself to her feet. The room spun, like she’d drunk too much champagne. But a surge of energy prompted her to act.
Father stood before her, belt in hand. Hanna lunged for the iron frying pan and grabbed its handle. Steadying her grip, she held it aloft. “Move now. Or I swear to God I will kill you.”
Chapter 7
Sarah, Present Day
At a long wooden table in Zeitgeist’s beer garden, I sat wedged between Jen and Nick. The sound of laughter carried on the breeze and marijuana smoke lingered in the air. Pink painted elephants danced along the brick wall. My eyes roamed the graffiti art as my mind wandered to Hannelore and Margaret.
“Hey, Sarah, you want another beer?” Nick lifted a pitcher of pilsner.
I looked down at the glass in my hands, still half full. “No thanks, I’m good. Tell me everything. I miss you guys. How’ve you been?”
“Ugh,” Jen said, rolling her eyes. “Not great. Our new editor in chief, James, is totally tech-obsessed. He doesn’t like any of my pitches.”
“Not even the one about the mass exodus of working-class people to the East Bay?” I asked. “What about the families who’ve had to move as far as Sacramento?”
She took a swig of beer, then set the glass down. “It’s like he’s oblivious to the fact that my rent has been raised an unholy amount, forcing me to move to Oakland . . . and it’s all the fault of these assholes with 300K salaries, who came into the city like they own it.” Her eyes grew sad. “No one cares about the original residents.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Were you able to write your piece about the teachers who can’t afford to live in the district on their teaching salaries?”
“Nope,” Nick said, cutting in. “I think the last meaningful piece we published was the one that you wrote six months ago about sex trafficking.”
My eyes moved from Jen to Nick. “My piece?”
It had been a heartbreaking feature on the sex-slave industry right here in Chinatown, the underbelly of San Francisco’s massage parlors. Hundreds of readers had written in, to express outrage at what had been going on right in our own backyard. I’d had a tough
time writing that one, but the article had prompted the mayor to pass new legislation to protect victims, and to increase funding to advocacy groups.
I shook my head. “Have things really gotten that bad since I left?”
Jen rubbed her face. “Yes, they have. Every time I pitch a story idea, it gets shot down. James doesn’t want to hear about the Mexicans and Filipinos who’ve lived in the Mission for generations, and who are being pushed out because of gentrification.” She looked at me. “Pulse of the City has totally lost its soul.”
Nick threw an arm around Jen’s shoulder. “I promise I’ll come visit you in Oakland. And you can crash at my place in the Castro anytime.”
She looked at him meaningfully. “Will you still be living there in three months?”
“Rent control. My building is old as hell.”
“Yeah, well just wait until they knock it down to build condos for the tech scum. Did you hear the tiny studios in Civic Center are renting for three thousand a month?”
My stomach tightened with guilt. I also disliked the wave of change taking over the city, but unlike my friends, Hunter’s money protected me from eviction. I didn’t have to worry about finding another job, because I could afford not to.
“You’re so lucky,” Jen said, as if reading my mind. “You get to do exactly what you want, and Hunter supports you one hundred percent.”
“I know,” I said, looking down into my beer glass.
“Hey now,” Nick said, giving me a bright smile. “Jen’s just jealous. We love you, Sar. You hang on to that hot, dreamy husband of yours.”
I swallowed, my chest constricting. “I’ll do my best.”
Three years ago, before Hunter had proposed, I’d sensed things becoming serious between us and made up my mind to tell him the truth about my past. My stomach had knotted as I’d waited for seven o’clock—and Hunter—to arrive. I’d decided to tell him over burgers at this very beer garden, hoping it would ease the blow. My chest had tightened when I’d glimpsed Hunter walking onto the patio.
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