Bay City Belle

by Shirley Kennedy

  During the days that followed, Belle yearned for home, yet she’d resigned herself to the wait and easily fell into the routine of the household. After that first night when they all ate in the dining room, she took her meals with Mrs. Hollister either in the back parlor or her bedroom. During the day, she made herself as inconspicuous as possible, mostly staying by her employer’s side, reading to her, or simply chatting. They laughed a lot, played with Tippet, and got along fine. Once, her employer sighed and remarked, “I shall surely miss you when you’re gone, my dear. I didn’t realize how empty my life had become until you came along.”

  “But surely you have friends,” Belle said.

  “When my husband was alive, we had dozens of friends. We went to parties and threw parties of our own all the time. Even though we’d lost two children, after a time we were able to put aside our grief and entertain again. This house was full of fun and laughter, although it’s hard to believe now, isn’t it? And then, when Gerald died…” Mrs. Hollister heaved a sigh. “That’s when Malcolm and Eugenia moved in. He’s much too occupied with making money to even think of entertaining. As for her…” Mrs. Hollister’s face went grim. “I despise that woman and her self-righteous blather about how we’re all doomed if we don’t go to church on Sunday. According to her, it’s a sin to drink alcohol, dance, and you’d better not laugh too much. The house was bright and sunny until she came along. Now she keeps the drapes drawn so the sun won’t ruin the furniture and carpet. Her furniture and carpet, mind you, and that’s because she thinks of me as dead already and treats me that way. Well, her fondest wish will soon come true. At my age, I face the fact I can go anytime. Many of my friends are dead already. Not all, though. What friends I had, she’s driven away with her talk about how we’re going to hell unless we do exactly as she says. I avoid her as much as possible, even if it means I’m keeping to my bedroom and the back parlor.”

  “Maybe your son could speak to her?”

  “Ha!” Mrs. Hollister’s face grew red. “What does Malcolm care? He’s much too busy throwing my money away to concern himself with what his wife does.”

  Belle couldn’t keep the look of surprise off her face.

  Her employer shrugged wearily. “I’m sure the servants have already tattled. Told you what a scoundrel he is, and how he’s stealing my money. I know Malcolm is not, shall we say, taking as good a care of my investments as he should, but he’s my son, and I love him, so what can I do?”

  Get a backbone and throw him out, Belle longed to say, but not a good idea. Her employer was waiting for a response, though. She thought a moment. “Mrs. Hollister, nothing in the world is stronger than mother love, and a few words from me won’t ever change that. All I can say is there might come a day when you see your way clear to what’s to be done, and you’ll do it. Or maybe the day will never come. It’s as simple as that, and meantime, you shouldn’t worry. Malcolm doesn’t bother me, and neither does Eugenia. And another thing—I think that’s nonsense about how you could die at any moment. You look pretty healthy to me, and I’d wager you won’t be leaving this earth anytime soon. So let’s simply enjoy our time together and stop fretting about what may or may not happen, what do you say?”

  Just then Tippet gave a sharp bark and jumped into his mistress’s lap. She shook her head in regret as she gathered the little dog in her arms. “On the train I wasn’t very nice to you.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “It was only because my life was miserable, and I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize. What’s past is past. Let’s take Tippet for a walk, shall we?”

  “A lovely idea.”

  Chapter 17

  Each day Yancy told himself that tomorrow he would make his train reservation for home, but each day something came up that gave him an excuse to delay. For one thing, he couldn’t face leaving the children. Bernice had assured him they’d be well cared for. Yeah, sure. Mrs. O’Brien would be here. The maids. The cook. But who would tuck little Beth in at night and read her a story? Richard had his private school, and that was fine, but who would play chess with him and encourage his sharp mind to grow? The servants did their best, and he couldn’t fault them, but the children loved their uncle Yancy, and he loved them. How could he leave when only he could give them the love and encouragement they needed?

  And then there was Belle.

  He’d told himself to forget her. As yet, that hadn’t happened, nor was it likely to. She lived in his head, especially in the middle of the night when she was back in his bed again, in his arms, and nothing in his life had ever been so wonderful. He would see her again. How that would happen, he had no idea, but did he need to know? Linus had told him where she’d gone. Maybe he’d appear at her doorstep and…what? What could he say that hadn’t been said? The past was the past. Nothing he could do would change it, nor would he wish to. He’d think of something, though, he was sure of it.

  The answer to his dilemma came one evening when he and Richard were playing chess, which they did nearly every night now. Richard was moving his queen when out of the blue, he remarked, “I wonder what Miss Ainsworth is doing. I really miss her.”

  Yancy’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of her name. “Perhaps she’s gone home by now. She was only visiting in San Francisco.”

  “Or maybe she went to look for that boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “The boy named Luther, don’t you remember? She told me he helped her once—a whole lot, I guess, and she was very grateful. She said she wished she could thank him properly, but he didn’t live any place, just the streets, so she wouldn’t be able to find him.”

  “That’s too bad.” Yancy continued to play, but from that moment on, he couldn’t concentrate, and to Richard’s delight he lost the game. Belle had often talked of Luther Allen. What a fine young man he was; what a shame he lived on the streets of the Barbary Coast; how awful that his sister, Susan, who was six, and Helen, who was eight, had to live with a family that wasn’t treating them right.

  Of course! That’s what he’d do. A crazy idea but worth a try.

  The next morning, he went to the carriage house and found Linus mending a harness. “What do you know about the Barbary Coast?” he asked.

  “God in heaven.” Linus looked up in astonishment. “You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”

  “Maybe. What’s it like?”

  Linus laid down the harness, consternation in his eyes. “They call the Barbary Coast the wickedest place in the West. Maybe the wickedest place in the world, full of one den of iniquity after another. If you go to a brothel, you’ll likely be mugged and robbed. If you go to a saloon and order a whiskey, you could get yourself shanghaied. Those scoundrels will drug a man’s drink, and the next thing he knows he’s halfway to China in the stinking hold of some ship.”

  Yancy raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

  Linus warmed to his task. “It’s the haunt of the low and vile of every kind. Murderers, cutthroats, whoremongers, lewd women, cheaters, and scoundrels—you’ll find them all there. They drink vile liquor, engage in such vulgar conduct you couldn’t imagine, sing obscene songs, and do everything to heap degradation upon themselves. There’s drunkenness, debauchery, loathsome diseases—”

  “That’s enough,” Yancy said, laughing. “I get the idea. So if I decide to go, I’d better be careful. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, and if you don’t mind my honest opinion, any man in his right mind would never dream of going to such a place.”

  “I hear you, and I thank you for your advice.”

  “Then I hope I’ve talked you out of it.”

  “I’ll be coming to get my horse around dark, Linus. I’m going out.”

  “God in heaven,” Linus muttered to himself, and said no more.

  * * * *

>   The sun had barely set as Yancy rode along Pacific Street toward the Barbary Coast. So how could he find a fifteen-year-old boy who had no home? As yet, he had no idea, other than to ask around. He had no fear of the numerous “dens of iniquity” Linus was so bothered about. His only concern was that Luther might be impossible to find, what with the scanty information he got from Belle. The boy sometimes slept on the second floor of an opium den. Which opium den? Where could he find one? The boy scavenged for food in the garbage behind the restaurants. Which restaurants? Could he still be found there?

  And what if Luther Allen wasn’t around anymore? Maybe he’d left the Barbary Coast and gone who knew where?

  Keeping his horse to a slow pace, Yancy passed a fruit stand where the vendor, a heavyset man in his forties, was closing down for the night. On an impulse, he stopped and swung from his horse. He didn’t expect much, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. “Good evening, sir, can I speak to you a moment?”

  The man continued slinging crates of oranges into a wagon. “Talk all you want, but we’re closed.”

  “I’m looking for a boy of fifteen named Luther Allen. Do you know him?”

  “Where does he live?”

  “The streets.”

  The man snorted and paused in his labor. “One of the street boys, eh? This city’s full of the little varmints. They’re nothing but trouble—steal my fruit if I don’t watch ’em every second. If you ask me, the police should round ’em all up and throw ’em in jail.”

  Yancy maintained his patience. “I’ve never met him myself, but from what I understand this boy is tall, skinny, and has long, sandy-colored hair. He speaks well and has good manners. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think he’s the kind who would steal your fruit.”

  “Well, now...” Appeased by Yancy’s affable response, the vendor rubbed his jaw in thought. “Maybe I’ve seen such a boy. Well spoken, you say?”

  “Yes, and kindhearted, too. He helped a friend of mine, and I wish to thank him.”

  “Most of the ones I’ve talk to don’t speak well, and that’s because they’ve never been to school,” the man replied in a softer tone. “Most come from broken homes, a lot of ’em just kicked out to fend for themselves. It’s a pitiful sight when you see ’em at night, rolled up in a blanket, sleeping in a doorway or out in the open. I’ve talked to Luther a few times but can’t tell you where you could find him. They don’t sleep in the same place every night. One thing for sure, he won’t be in the dance halls or theaters or brothels. Most likely you’ll find him in some alley picking through the garbage.”

  The vendor had given good advice. Yancy thanked him. As he started on, the vendor called after him, “Watch out for the rowdies on the streets, all of ’em drunk, and they’d just as soon kill you as not.”

  Heeding the vendor’s admonition, Yancy avoided the clogged, unruly streets of the Barbary Coast and confined his search to the alleys. He disliked carrying a gun but was glad he’d brought his revolver along. After four years of war, he thought he’d seen everything but soon realized he hadn’t. A drunken woman accosted him, and he had to gently but firmly push her away. Four silent men in seaman’s clothes passed him by. Between them, they were carrying an unconscious man by his arms and legs and were no doubt headed for the docks where a ship awaited. Obviously, the poor sod had been either drunk or drugged, maybe both, but no way could Yancy come to the rescue, much as he’d like to.

  Once, as he was passing the back of a raucously loud saloon, he encountered a small, lean man with a kindly face, dressed in a plain black suit and the circular, white collar of a clergyman. When they stopped to talk, the man introduced himself as the Reverend Alpheus Madrid of the Franklin Street Church. When Yancy asked the usual question, he replied, “Luther Allen? The name sounds familiar. I may have run across him in my nightly wanderings. I try to know the names of all the children who have no homes.”

  Surprised, Yancy inquired, “You do this every night?”

  “Almost,” the reverend earnestly replied. “Countless numbers of homeless and destitute children are adrift in this city, many here in the Barbary Coast. We seek to rescue as many as we can, as quickly as we can. Children are impressionable and susceptible. If they stay too long in a depraved environment such as this, they’re beyond all help. Although”—he hastened to correct himself—“we never give up.”

  “You’re doing good work, Reverend,” Yancy said. “I admire you. It can’t be easy wandering the streets and alleys of the Barbary Coast nearly every night.”

  The reverend pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Yancy. “Here’s our address. If ever you care to join us in our nightly search, you’ll be most welcome. We can take in only a limited number of children now, but we plan to build an orphanage.” He chuckled and added, “With God’s help, the bank, and a lot of donations.”

  Yancy took the card, bid the reverend goodbye, and continued on his way. As the hours passed by, he began to see children, some he guessed as young as five, picking through smelly cans of garbage. Like little ghosts, they disappeared into the night when they saw him coming, although a few were brave enough to stay. If they did, he would speak to them in the most reassuring voice he could manage. “Don’t run off. I’m not going to hurt you. I want to know if you’ve heard of a boy named Luther Allen.”

  They all said no. By the time dawn was about to break, Yancy’s shoulders slumped. He was exhausted, and so was his horse. He ached for sleep and had to keep telling himself his search wasn’t hopeless, although he was beginning to believe it was. He began to retrace his steps. For the second time, he stopped at a row of garbage cans behind a restaurant and found a skinny, ragged boy of about twelve digging through one of the cans. He would probably run off, but when Yancy rode up, he stood straight and said, “Hello, mister. Can you spare a nickel?”

  “I can do better than that.” Yancy dug in his pocket and tossed him a quarter. “What’s your name?”

  “Arthur Sweeney, sir, and yours?”

  “My name is Yancy McLeish, and I’m looking for a boy named Luther Allen. Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, I have, sir, and if you give me another quarter, I’ll lead you right to him.”

  * * * *

  A week had gone by since Belle arrived at the Hollister mansion. In most ways, it had been a good week, and she’d kept busy. She’d written a letter to Victoria, wherein she’d announced her marriage to Robert Romano had fallen through. By way of explanation, she disclosed, “It didn’t work out,” and that was all. Her sister would be dying to know the details, but she’d have to wait. Belle had added she was staying with friends, having a delightful time, and would be home in a month. She made no mention of Yancy. Why should she? He was gone from her life now, and she’d be much better off pretending he never existed. Not that she was having much luck with that. She’d finally told Mrs. Hollister the truth about her relationship with Yancy McLeish. She hadn’t intended to, but the older woman listened with such a sympathetic ear she couldn’t resist.

  Her employer’s response wasn’t what she expected. “So let me get this straight, Belle. You love him, but you want nothing to do with him because he’s a Yankee?”

  “More than that,” she’d replied. “He’s a Yankee who fought in the Union Army under General Sherman.”

  “But the war’s over.”

  “According to my family, the war will never be over.”

  “And according to you?” Mrs. Hollister’s faded eyes snapped with challenge. “Do you really want old hurts and resentments to dictate what you do for the rest of your life?”

  Not knowing how to answer, Belle said nothing more, but she hadn’t forgotten the conversation. Was she wrong? Had leaving Yancy been a mistake? She knew her own mind, didn’t she? She certainly knew her own heart, and that was the problem.

  That afternoon, she was chatting with Mrs. Hollister in th
e back parlor, both crocheting as they talked. Eugenia had taken over the drawing room for the weekly meeting of her Total Temperance Union. Ardent in their desire to banish the demon rum from San Francisco, the ladies made a lot of noise. Once, when the sound of enthusiastic applause reached the back parlor, Mrs. Hollister sighed and dropped the scarf she was crocheting to her lap. “It’s a worthy cause, of course, but I do so miss a glass of wine with my dinner.”

  Belle had noticed nothing stronger than water ever being served at the Hollister dining table. Now she knew why. She’d kept her mouth shut on the subject of Eugenia, but for once, she spoke up. “If you don’t mind my saying so, it’s your house, and if you want wine with your dinner, you should have it.”

  “I know, I know.” Mrs. Hollister sighed. “If it were up to me, I would most certainly indulge in a glass of wine, despite the risk of going straight to hell. But my problem is, I dread unpleasant scenes, and that’s what would happen. Eugenia would throw a fit. Malcolm would take her side like he always does. So I drink water, just to keep peace in the family.”

  By now Belle had developed a deep regard for her employer and hated to see her controlled by her greedy son and his fanatical wife. She longed to say more but bit her tongue. She must keep reminding herself the clashes and conflicts within the Hollister family were not her concern.

  The doorbell rang. Belle thought nothing of it, assuming another of Eugenia’s guests had arrived. She was wrong. Bertha soon appeared in the back parlor. “There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss Ainsworth.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “It’s a Mr. Yancy McLeish, and he’s not alone.”

  Yancy? What on earth is he doing here? For a moment, all rational thought left Belle’s head, but Bertha was watching and so was Mrs. Hollister, so she’d better pull herself together. She arose from her chair in what she hoped was a slow and dignified fashion. “Did you show them in?”