The Dressmaker's Dowry

by Meredith Jaeger

  Letting go of Lucas, he swiped for Hanna. “You cunt!”

  “Give her an anointing!” cried the skinny man.

  “Go,” Lucas said, hoisting Hanna upward. “Go now.”

  Hanna reached the top step and pushed open the door. Lucas followed behind her, tumbling into the sunlight. Hanna’s breath came in ragged gasps as she turned to see two men from the pub, quick on her heels. “Run faster!”

  She and Lucas ran the length of Pacific Street, dodging vendors hawking their wares, newsboys, and street children. Even when the shouts faded into the distance, Hanna didn’t dare turn around. She narrowly missed the wheels of a carriage, which could have crushed her foot. At the corner of Montgomery Avenue, Hanna doubled over, gulping in air. Her lungs burned.

  “Are they gone?” Hanna asked, looking to Lucas.

  Lucas held his sides. “I believe we lost them.”

  “Good,” Hanna said. “I have bellows to mend.”

  Lucas smiled, his breathing equally labored. “I do as well.” With a shaking hand, he smoothed his hair into place. “Are you all right? Blazes! That was terrifying.”

  “Yes, thank you. I am sorry we went inside.”

  Lucas waved a hand toward the saloons lining the street. “These pestholes of debauchery and corruption should all be shut down.”

  Hanna wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. “Now you see why I fear for Margaret.”

  “We will find her.” Lucas reached for Hanna’s hand and held it in his own. “We’ll bring Margaret home.”

  Hanna held her breath, stunned by the warmth of Lucas’s large hand keeping hers safe. She should not have brought Lucas to this befouled place. But what choice did she have? It would have been more dangerous to travel these streets alone. And Margaret needed her. She had no one else.

  “This man in the bar,” Hanna whispered. “Do you truly think he has seen Margaret?”

  “I cannot say. It could be a mendacious report. If he has seen her, then others have too. We must keep looking.”

  Hanna’s boots crunched along the gravel- and straw-covered road. Passing the melodeons frequented at night by criminals and society men alike, popular for their cancan shows, she saw gamblers, pimps, sailors, and miners, degenerates of every description. These hardened men looked as though they had not washed in months, and stank of sweat, whiskey, and tobacco.

  In the doorway to a melodeon stood a man with a snow-white ruffled shirt, in the bosom of which sparkled an enormous cluster of diamonds. He also possessed a very large silky brown moustache, and wore the tightest lavender trousers Hanna had ever seen. His hair curled out in two poufs beneath his plug hat.

  “Good day,” he said, smiling. “My name is Happy Jack Harrington.”

  “Good day,” Hanna answered, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. Glancing behind her, she checked to see if they were still being followed.

  “Do you care to see a show?” Happy Jack asked, his blue eyes sparkling. “We’ve singing and dancing, the most fun performance in town. Come inside!”

  Hanna looked up at the building’s marquee. It read “The Opera Comique.”

  “Are you the owner of this establishment?” Lucas asked.

  Happy Jack smiled. “Why yes, I am! And trust me, we have far better shows than you’ll find at the Bella Union. You’ll have the grandest time.”

  “Please sir,” Hanna said. “Have you seen a pretty red-haired girl? Her name is Margaret. She may have passed by here yesterday night.”

  Happy Jack chuckled. “My dear, I cannot keep note of every comely redhead that has walked through these doors.”

  Lucas reached into his pocket and removed a silver fifty-cent piece. “Perhaps this will jog your memory?”

  “Well then,” Happy Jack said, stroking his moustache. “There was a ginger girl who passed by last night. She appeared quite drunk. A man with a nasty scar across his cheek practically dragged her down the road.”

  Hanna gasped. “A scar?”

  Happy Jack nodded, his face grave. “Long and raised, from his eye to the jaw. Quite the brute, I’m afraid.”

  Icy terror coursed through Hanna’s veins. She turned to Lucas. “Recall the man from the pier with the knife? He said that . . .”

  Lucas touched Hanna’s arm, his eyes soft. “I know what he said.”

  Neither of them spoke the awful words aloud.

  “Where have they gone?” Hanna asked.

  Happy Jack pointed toward Montgomery Avenue. “Up that way. They turned onto Dupont Street, then I lost sight of them.”

  “And the girl appeared to be drugged?” Hanna asked, feeling sick to her stomach.

  Happy Jack nodded, his gaze sympathetic. “Or very drunk. She did not have her wits about her, I’m afraid.”

  “Thank you,” Lucas said. “If you see this girl again, please send word to the police commissioner immediately. Her name is Margaret O’Brien. I will make sure that you are compensated for your trouble.”

  Happy Jack tipped his plug hat. “Good luck to you both.”

  As Hanna walked with Lucas in the direction of Dupont Street, women ambled toward them, their fleshy curves barely contained by their corsets. Hanna gazed up at the three-story building next to Sullivan Alley. Men inside the dance hall guffawed and hollered. The sound of shattering glass pierced the air, causing her to jump.

  “Scheisse!” she muttered, feeling like a skittish horse.

  A girl Hanna’s age with heavily rouged cheeks and kohl around her eyes darted at Lucas, tugging at the waist of his trousers. “Hello, handsome. Fancy a taste?”

  “Miss,” Lucas said, stepping backward. “Let go of me immediately.”

  She giggled, jiggling her breasts. “Oh, don’t be shy now.”

  “Leave him be,” Hanna said, stepping in front of Lucas.

  “Don’t act so fancy,” the girl slurred, struggling to stand straight. “You’re no better than I am. You may well find yourself working at the Bull Run soon enough.”

  A small circle of waiter girls gathered around, their breath smelling of whiskey. What kind of establishment allowed the women to drink spirits? Looking upon their vacant eyes, Hanna did not wish to know what horrors they had been subjected to.

  “This place is mad,” Lucas whispered. He turned to the women, throwing up his hands. “Have you no shame? Where is your decency?”

  A voluptuous brunette with a dead tooth shook her finger at him. “Don’t tell me I ain’t got no decency. I’m not a common whore.”

  “Right,” a freckled girl piped up. “We’re performers. Waitresses. Not slappers the likes you’ll find in Madame Susan’s house above the tavern on Dupont Street.”

  “Up there.” The brunette waved her hand, pointing to a red clapboard building. “Seventy-five cents will get you a ride.”

  The freckled girl smiled at Lucas. “I’ll give you one for a dollar.”

  “No, thank you,” Lucas said, his cheeks reddening.

  The girl puffed out her bottom lip. “I can do better’n you anyway.”

  “Wait!” Hanna said. “What type of girls work for Madame Susan?”

  The freckled girl glared at Hanna, her collarbone jutting sharply beneath her bare shoulders. “The kind who ain’t got nowhere else to go. Opium addicts, the lot.” She shuddered. “God help ’em.”

  “Thank you,” Hanna said.

  “Do you think Margaret was taken there?” Lucas asked, pausing at the corner of Dupont Street and Sullivan Alley.

  Hanna looked up at the building before her, painted red. Black curtains covered its windows, lending it an ominous feel. Only the tavern below had a clear view of the interior, where a barkeep polished glasses with a rag.

  “Let us go inside,” Hanna said to Lucas, leading him by the hand into the welcoming warmth of the bar. A tune carried from the piano, and cigar smoke hung in the air like a thick blue mist. Coughing, Hanna made her way toward the barkeep, her boots crunching the orange peels and peanut shells that littered the floor.r />
  “Sir,” she said. “I must speak with you.”

  When the man’s eyes met hers, they were green as the sea and sunken deep, his appearance skeletal. Hanna shivered.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice soft. “How can I help you?”

  “There’s a man,” Hanna started, her hands trembling. “With a long scar down the right side of his face. Was he here last night, with a red-haired woman?”

  The bartender frowned. “I know of no such man.”

  Hanna looked past the bartender, for a crack in the wall that might lead to a door. How would one get upstairs from here? Men such as those in the Billy Goat watched her like dogs salivating for a scrap of meat. Every hair on Hanna’s body stood at attention. But this green-eyed man was not telling the truth. She could feel it.

  “Where you from, girl?” asked a vagrant smoking a porcelain pipe. His boil marks gave him the appearance of having been homeless.

  “From Bavaria,” Hanna answered, moving closer to Lucas.

  He laughed. “Another immigrant, just what this city needs. Perhaps we should put you to work.” He nodded at the bartender. “Jim, think you could use a barmaid? Look at the form of this one.”

  Hanna crossed her arms over her chest, shaking with anger. The scent of flat beer and cheap perfume had caused her head to spin. Already she had spent too much time here. The children were waiting for her at the inn.

  “Let us go,” Hanna said to Lucas.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Hanna said. “We can resume our search tomorrow.”

  As she turned to leave, Hanna heard a chair screech against the floorboards, while the man with the pipe stood up. As he made his way across the room, his breath sounded wet and ragged. He slapped a heavy hand on Lucas’s shoulder.

  Hanna spun around, glaring at the man’s red, lumpy face. “I will not work for you. Lay your hands off him!”

  The pustule-covered man grinned at Lucas, his gums and teeth blackened by tobacco. “She is a feisty one. You’ll have to tame her.”

  Lucas swatted the man’s hand away. “State your business!”

  The man wet his lips and stared at Hanna. “I overheard you, girl. And I know who you’re looking for. The man with the scar.”

  Hanna held her breath, praying for a crumb of information.

  The vagrant turned his palm upward, his fingers fat like sausages. “Give me a dollar.”

  Hanna’s skin crawled as if cockroaches burrowed beneath her dress. Everyone wanted money, and yet no one could be trusted.

  Lucas reached into his waistcoat for his coin purse, his eyes on Hanna.

  “Don’t,” Hanna said, shaking her head. “It’s far too much.”

  The boil-faced man leaned in close, his breath sour on her cheek. “I ain’t lying. I know him.”

  “His name,” Lucas said, retrieving a dollar. “And step away from her, you brute.”

  The man snatched the money from Lucas’s hand with his thick fingers. “Sam O’Grady. Folks here in Devil’s Acre know him well.”

  “Thank you,” Lucas said, placing a hand on Hanna’s shoulder.

  “I wouldn’t cross him if I was you,” the man replied. “Best to keep away.”

  Hanna’s stomach growled. She’d hardly eaten and walked quite far. Martin, Hans, and Katja sat in the boardinghouse, awaiting her return. It was now past noon, and she had promised not to take long. Her search for Margaret would have to wait.

  “Hanna, are you all right?” Lucas asked, slipping his arm around her waist to support her. “You look pale.”

  “Perhaps I should take a drink,” she said, warming at his closeness.

  “One soda water with bitters,” Lucas said to the bartender. Turning to Hanna, Lucas frowned, his face creased with worry. “I’ll call us a carriage. We’ve walked quite a ways. And this dreadful place has taken its toll on you, I fear. It is no place for a lady.”

  Though the soda water soothed her parched throat, Hanna felt overcome with dizziness. Snapping his fingers, Lucas hailed a carriage driver.

  On the bumpy ride, the rhythmic clopping of the horse’s hooves lulled Hanna to sleep. She slumped against Lucas’s shoulder, floating in and out of consciousness. Visions of Margaret appeared before her, and then the brutish face of her father, his features contorted with rage. Perhaps he walked the streets now, looking for her.

  “Hanna,” Lucas whispered. “Are you awake?”

  She opened her eyes. The stately hotels and gas lamps of Montgomery Street allowed her to get her bearings.

  “Where shall I take you?” Lucas asked.

  Hanna pointed to the right. “I’m lodging at a boardinghouse on Minna Street.”

  Lucas frowned at the waste thrown into the street and the scraggly dogs running about, looking for scraps of meat. “All right then.”

  Arriving in front of Tomkinson’s livery and stable, the carriage slowed to a halt. A man sprawled out in the dirt in front of the boardinghouse, a whiskey bottle in hand. Hanna shuddered, smelling his stench even from yards away.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling at Lucas. “For everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” Lucas said, tipping his hat.

  Climbing down from the carriage, Hanna crossed the dirt road, making her way toward the entrance of the inn. But as she got closer, the drunk awoke, sitting up and rubbing his matted hair. With his eyes fixed on Hanna, he licked his lips.

  “Oy!” he called out. “Aren’t you a bushel bubby? With those cupid’s kettledrums, you could let me into cock alley, I’d say.”

  Hanna recoiled, sucking in her breath. Before she could turn around, she felt Lucas’s hand on her arm, guiding her away from the lecherous prick.

  “Forgive me,” Lucas said, looking over his shoulder. “I should not have brought you here. Surely you cannot stay there? Such places are not safe.”

  Hanna sighed. “I am aware of that, but I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Have you no other family?” Lucas asked. “Aunts, uncles?”

  “They are in the old country,” Hanna said. “I am on my own.”

  Lucas held her gaze. “It is a difficult life you lead. More and more, I see that now.”

  The blue of his eyes seemed to intensify. It was not pity, but determination that Hanna saw in his expression.

  “Come with me,” Lucas said. “My home is quite large. I shall invite you and your siblings as my guests. You may stay the night.”

  Hanna let out a deep breath. What would Lucas’s family think if he took in four immigrants? She could not fathom such hospitality. And yet, to remove Martin, Hans, and Katja from the dangers of the inn . . .

  Hanna shook her head. “It is not proper.”

  Lucas took her hand. “Please, accept my offer.”

  His eyes, blue as a cloudless sky, told Hanna he meant his words. Wherever Lucas lived, it would be far removed from Father, drunken vigilantes, and the corruption of Devil’s Acre. Hanna thought of her young siblings, alone in the horrid inn.

  “All right,” she said. “We will come with you. But only for tonight.”

  Lucas smiled. “I am glad you will accompany me. I shall introduce you to my parents. Please, do not take offense at how they might react. I don’t often invite Prussian families for tea. You understand.”

  Hanna could not bring herself to laugh at the joke. Deep in her belly, she had a horrible feeling about how poorly she and her family would be received. Turning to look behind her, Hanna imagined she saw Margaret standing in the shadows.

  Chapter 11

  Sarah, Present Day

  I buried my nose in the crook of my elbow, light-headed from the paint fumes trapped in the small apartment. Pushing open a window, I breathed in a gulp of fresh air. My thesis deadline loomed before me like a dead end.

  I stared out at the twilit streets. Past Grant Avenue, the Zoetrope Building stood before the Transamerica Pyramid. I liked the juxtaposition of San Francisco’s most famous skyscraper with the Zo
etrope’s aged green copper spires, two centuries standing side by side. Even Columbus Avenue was visible from here.

  In the narrow alley below, two guys leaned against the wall, smoking cigarettes. I got the amused feeling I had as a child when I used to spy on my neighbors. Whoever snagged this North Beach apartment wouldn’t be at a loss for people watching.

  Taking one last look, I tried to picture a turn-of-the-century brothel with undergarments flung haphazardly across cots and perfume bottles sitting on the vanity. But the room looked like an ordinary city apartment. Soon it would be filled with Ikea furniture and twentysomethings drinking bottles of cheap wine.

  I sighed, wondering what, exactly, I had hoped to find here. It had been nice of Ed to let me inside, but I hadn’t found any information to use for my article. Perhaps the descendant of the original owner, Anna Heinrich, would have more insight into the murder of the prostitute that had occurred in 1876.

  Pulling my phone from my purse, I composed a quick email, explaining my research and asking Anna Heinrich if she’d be willing to meet with me. The original photographs and newspaper clippings that Ed had mentioned sounded fascinating, and I hoped that she had kept them.

  I checked my watch. The game had just started. If I caught an Uber now, I could be at AT&T Park in twenty minutes.

  As the Uber wove through traffic, I looked out at the houseboats and high-rise condos lining the waterfront at Mission Bay. This used to be where Long Bridge began: a pedestrian walkway that Hannelore and Margaret might have used.

  Beneath the dominating glass skyscrapers, a working-class neighborhood had once thrived. Strangely enough, a lone blacksmith shop still stood on Folsom Street near First Street, a squat building from 1906, tucked in between the apartment towers. I admired the owner’s stubborn loyalty to tradition.

  “Thanks,” I called to the Uber driver, hopping out in front of the baseball park. As I went through the Public House entrance, my mouth watered at the scent of bratwurst and garlic fries. I pulled my ticket from my pocket, looking at my seat number. From my knowledge of the park, it was somewhere behind home plate.

  I made my way through the crowded restaurant and toward the entrance to section 115 of the stadium. An usher directed me to the Field Club, a fenced-off area with a private bar. I felt the chilly ocean breeze on my face, carrying with it the scent of wet fog and sea brine.