The Measure of a Lady (12 page)

Rachel hugged her stomach.

‘‘I won’t let her out of my sight.’’

She perused the house’s facade. ‘‘You tell her I’m going to stand right here until she leaves.’’

The sultan growled.

Johnnie leaned close to her ear. ‘‘If you loiter at the door of this house dressed like you are, the men will mistake you for something you are not. And they are not so easy to handle after an evening of revelry. I’m taking you home.’’

Grabbing her elbow, he steered her toward the hotel.

‘‘Fine. I’ll go home, change into my calico and then come back to wait for her.’’

He tightened his grip. ‘‘So help me, Rachel, I will leave Lissa to her own devices if you do not stay where I put you.’’

‘‘Why? The men would not dare mistreat a lady.’’

‘‘Not normally. But they are unpredictable when they are intoxicated. It is simply too dangerous.’’

She tried to stop.

He increased the pressure. ‘‘I will drag you if I must.’’

‘‘But, Lissa.’’

‘‘I will bring her home as soon as I can do so without endangering her.’’

She looked up, tears spilling onto her cheeks. ‘‘You will?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Why?’’ She couldn’t quite catch the expression in his eyes.

‘‘I have no idea,’’ he sighed.

chapter
11

R
achel was waiting the moment Lissa walked through the door. Michael had retreated to his pallet by the fireplace after receiving the dressing down of his life.

Helping him remove all of the feminine paraphernalia he wore had been embarrassing for them both—particularly when wads of handkerchiefs fell out of his bodice. She used his discomfort to her full advantage, shaming him at every turn.

Removing the crinoline had been the worst, of course. Their beloved mother had died when her crinoline became entangled in the steps of a carriage from which she was alighting. The commotion had spooked the horses, and with her mother’s head and shoulders dragging upon the ground, the animals had run quite a distance before anyone could stop them.

To this day Rachel refused to wear a crinoline and wasn’t much for carriages, either. She certainly hadn’t allowed Lissa to wear the loathsome undergarment, though clearly the girl wore one tonight.

Lissa threw her reticule onto the table and began to remove the white gloves that ran all the way up her arms. She said not a word, but the look in her eyes as she glared at her sister said it all.

Rachel could not care less. ‘‘Do you have any idea what kind of place that was?’’

Lissa laid one glove over the back of a chair and started on the other. ‘‘I believe they call it a parlor house. And only the cream of the crop are allowed to work there.’’

‘‘Cream of the crop? Cream of the crop! There is no such thing for women of their kind. They are at the very bottom of the rung. The scourge of society. A woman can go no lower than that.’’

Lissa paused, studying her sister. ‘‘You know, Rachel, I don’t think it’s as bad a life as we’ve been led to believe.’’

Where before Rachel’s blood had been pumping through her like a river busting through a dam, it now crashed to an abrupt halt, leaving a backwash of panic. ‘‘Oh, Lissa. I don’t know what kind of tales those women have been feeding you, but their lives are nothing short of pathetic.’’

‘‘And just what, exactly, do you know of their lives?’’

‘‘I know they are morally weak. I know they are everything a proper woman is not. They are not pure, virtuous, tender, delicate, or fragile.’’

‘‘Good heavens, Rachel. And you believe we are?’’

‘‘I believe we strive to be.’’

Sighing, Lissa removed the pins holding her tiara in place. ‘‘Well, I’m not so sure being a proper woman is the be-all and end-all.’’

Rachel grabbed onto the back of a chair. ‘‘How can you even say such a thing?’’

Lissa set her crown on the table and proceeded to remove the rest of the pins from her loosely twisted blond hair. ‘‘Well, think about it. We live in a shack. We never have time for the finer things. We work ourselves to the bone. And for what? So we can marry some man who will run off chasing after gold that may or may not be there? Only to then come home, get us with child, and gamble away all of our treasure, forcing him to go back and do it all over again?’’

Rachel didn’t know which issue to address first. Or even how to respond. Her face warmed at such casual mention of procreation, though what Lissa said was certainly true.

She sighed. Never had the two of them needed a mother more than this night.
Help me, Lord
. ‘‘Everything will change when we return home.’’

Scooping her hair to one side, Lissa presented her back to her sister in a silent request for help.

Rachel automatically began to unfasten the girl’s gown.

‘‘Yet the women over at the parlor house,’’ Lissa continued, ‘‘don’t have to cook, clean, wash their clothes—nothing. They dress in the height of fashion. They are as close to each other as any group of women I’ve ever known. And no one shuns them on the street except you. The men treat them as if they were royalty. Did you see who was there tonight?’’

She didn’t answer. For she had recognized a few of them. And, truthfully, had been sorely distressed at her realization that the town’s businessmen frequented such places.

Lissa lifted up her fist, ticking her fingers one-by-one. ‘‘Why, Mr. Schermerhorn from the mercantile was there. Mr. Beekman from the newspaper. Mr. Wingate from the surveyor’s office. Mr. Kirk from the customhouse and even Mr. Livingston. Do you know who he is?’’

Rachel shook her head.

‘‘He’s a farmer from Kansas here in California with his wife and eight children. He leaves them up in the mining camp and comes to San Francisco under the pretense of picking up supplies.’’

Lissa stepped out of her gown. The two of them carefully folded it seam-to-seam. ‘‘He visits the girls that work for the countess every time he comes to town.
Every
time. And him married. With his wife waiting. And all those children.’’

Rachel had read about such appetites in married men. But there was a world of difference between reading it and seeing it with her own eyes. Still, perhaps she should try to explain what she had learned to her sister.

She said nothing about the crinoline as Lissa untied it and allowed it to collapse onto the floor.

After shooting a quick glance across the room at Michael to ensure his back was still to them while he huddled on his pallet, Rachel lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘‘Perhaps you’re not aware, dear, but I happen to have learned that a proper wife only submits to her husband out of duty. So men like Mr. Livingston, not wanting to cause their wives any unhappiness, evidently seek relief at the kinds of places the countess runs.’’

Lissa froze. ‘‘Are you justifying him?’’

‘‘No! No, of course not. He’s clearly of a weak nature.’’

The girl propped a hand against her waist, but its impact was a bit lost when she stood in nothing but drawers and corset. ‘‘Seems every man in town is of a weak nature.’’

Rachel shook out her sister’s flannel nightdress and slipped it over Lissa’s head. ‘‘It’s because they have nothing else to occupy themselves with. There are no churches to speak of, no lending libraries, no ice parlors, no theatres, no parks, no nothing. And perhaps it is time to do something about it. What would you think about opening a restaurant?’’

Lissa’s elbows and hands poked against the fabric as she removed her undergarments beneath the shelter of her nightdress. ‘‘There, you see. That’s just what I’m talking about. You want to work us to the bone, while all of
them
kick up their heels.’’

Lissa’s movements stopped, a dreamy look transforming her face. ‘‘Oh, Rache, they give all kinds of fancy parties and balls. And you should see their wardrobes. It’s like a museum of Godey’s fashion plates. With no expense spared. And their food. Why, they have a cook that makes meals you couldn’t buy anywhere in town.’’

As soon as Lissa threaded her hands through her sleeves, Rachel grasped them. ‘‘You mustn’t glamorize them, Lissa. For at the dark of night, they debase themselves in unnatural and unwholesome ways.’’

The girl looked down at their clasped hands. ‘‘You want to know a secret?’’ she whispered.

Alarm bells clamored inside Rachel.
No. No, I do not
.

‘‘I think I might be suited to be one of them.’’

Rachel gasped.

Lissa squeezed her hands, swallowing but refusing to look up. ‘‘I know this shocks you, but try to understand, Rache. I . . . I like the attention the men give me. I like it when they touch me. I
especially
like it when they touch me in places they oughtn’t.’’

This last was said in such a hushed tone, Rachel could hardly hear it. But hear it she did. And with it came the horror of realization that she had experienced those self-same pangs in the arms of a saloon owner.

Rachel wrenched her hands free and grabbed Lissa, hugging her tightly, the smell of smoke clinging to her hair. ‘‘It’s only because it’s forbidden that you feel that way. Eve felt the same thing about the apple, and look what happened to her. You must turn away from it. Stuff it down into a deep hidden place within and never let it out.’’

Lissa gently withdrew from her sister’s embrace, a wry expression on her face. ‘‘Perhaps Dr. Everett has some tonic I could take. He should know. He was there tonight.’’

Rachel groaned. ‘‘Oh, Lissa, please. These . . . these
feelings
you have. Are they for someone in particular?’’

Moistening her lips, Lissa nodded.

‘‘Well, what happens when the next man wants a turn? Women of that sort have to go the whole hog. Don’t you see what I’m saying? They lose the right to say no. They have to accept the touch of
any
man who wants one.’’ She swallowed, apprehension shuddering through her body. ‘‘Think, child. Envision some of the filthy puguglies in this town. I cannot even stand to smell them. Those poor women have to accept touches of the most intimate nature from them.’’

Lissa cocked her head. ‘‘How do you know all this?’’

Rachel took a deep breath. ‘‘I’ve read most every book in Father’s library. You would be shocked to your very toes were you to have an inkling of what I’ve learned.’’

‘‘Tell me.’’

‘‘Certainly not. I had no business reading them. I’m not going to compound my sin by repeating their contents to you.’’

‘‘Did you read about kept women?’’ Lissa asked.

‘‘Kept women?’’

‘‘Yes. Women who are kept, or supported, by one man. He lavishes her with gifts, flowers, poetry, fancy clothes. Everything.’’

‘‘In exchange for her favors.’’

‘‘But she doesn’t mind sharing her favors with him. She loves him.’’

‘‘Then why doesn’t she marry him?’’

‘‘Not all men are the marrying kind.’’

‘‘The respectable ones are.’’

‘‘Like the respectable ones that came to the party tonight?’’

Rachel had no answer for that. ‘‘Kept women aren’t loved, Lissa. They are like animals. Petted, offered a few treats, and caged. What woman wants that?’’

‘‘What woman wants to kill herself providing for a husband who saves all the sweet stuff for his moonlight lady?’’

Rachel wrung her hands. ‘‘Not all of them have moonlight ladies.’’

Lissa raised an eyebrow.

‘‘They don’t. And you’ll just have to take my word for it. Now, we’ll hear no more of this foolish talk, and we’ll no longer fraternize with women of ill repute. Do you understand?’’

‘‘Where did you get your costume?’’

O, Lord
. ‘‘Where did you get yours?’’

‘‘From Carmelita,’’ Lissa answered.

‘‘Me, too,’’ Rachel replied softly.

‘‘Well, give it to me, and I’ll return it to her tomorrow when you go water the trees.’’

Rachel was already shaking her head. ‘‘No, Lissa. You must stay away from those women.’’

Smoothing the folded gown on the table, Lissa sighed. ‘‘Good night, Rachel.’’

A lump as hard and heavy as a flat iron settled in Rachel’s stomach as Lissa pulled back the blanket and cozied into bed.

————

Try as she might, Rachel could not get Lissa to accompany her. The girl outright refused. So, leaving her sister under Michael’s watchful eye, Rachel dressed in her Sunday best and made her way to the surveyor’s office on the corner of Sacramento and Stockton streets.

The smell of fresh wood permeated the newly constructed one-room building. Architectural drawings, plot maps, and assorted papers covered every available surface. Surveying instruments and compasses leaned against the plank walls.

In the center, a man in tattered flannel, dirt, and buckskin sat huddled over his scarred desk, scribbling notes. ‘‘Be with you in a moment, boys.’’

Rachel’s stillness must have struck him as unusual, for he looked up and jumped to his feet. ‘‘Oh. Pardon me, Miss Van Buren. I didn’t realize it was you.’’

‘‘Good afternoon, sir.’’

Rachel scrutinized him, trying to remember if he was one of the men who had attended the ball but could not tell for certain.

‘‘If I may say so, miss, you look lovely today. Quite lovely. Is there something I can assist you with?’’

‘‘I’d like to open a restaurant, sir. You are the Mr. Wingate that is on the town council, are you not?’’

‘‘Yes, yes. I certainly am, and this is wonderful news. I know the boys would love to sample some of those dinners they’ve been smelling over at Johnnie’s place. What did you have in mind?’’

‘‘I’d like a sound structure with a kitchen, at a good location, and for a reasonable price, please.’’

He chuckled. ‘‘You and everybody else, miss.’’

She folded her gloved hands in front of her and his expression sobered.

‘‘Oh, well.’’ He shuffled through some papers on his desk. ‘‘Ah, here we are.’’

He withdrew a large diagram of the city showing a grid of streets. Instead of forming them around the hills, the men had graded the thoroughfares to run north and south or east and west without regard for the difficulty the people would have traversing up and down the steep inclines.

‘‘Here’s one a little distance from the business portion of the city that’s twenty-one feet by a hundred twenty. It’s going for seven to eight hundred dollars.’’

‘‘Per year?’’

‘‘Per month, miss.’’

Rachel swallowed. ‘‘I think that particular location might be better suited for a residence. Have you anything else not quite so costly?’’

He slowly straightened. ‘‘That was for the lot alone. Without a building.’’

‘‘I see.’’ Rachel glanced at the plot map. They had saved somewhere in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. A fortune back home, mere pocket change here.

‘‘Are there any lots with buildings on them?’’ she asked. ‘‘Wooden ones, of course, not canvas.’’

‘‘Oh, sure, sure. But those run about eighteen hundred a month.’’

Good heavens. ‘‘Mr. Wingate, I cannot afford such sums. Is there anyone you know that is looking to transfer their holdings? Perhaps while they go up to the diggings?’’

He unhooked the glasses that perched on his nose. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

Frowning, Rachel bit her lip. ‘‘I’ve noticed that the building next to the City Hotel has been boarded up since my arrival two months ago. Whom does that belong to?’’