Scandal on Rincon Hill (29 page)

“I can go around back and see if Annie's there,” offered Eddie hopefully, popping up from behind us.

“Thank you, but we'll ring at the front door,” I told him, determined not to sneak around the house like some beggar or thief in the night. “Please wait here with the carriage, Eddie. We shouldn't be long.”

With a disappointed look, the lad kicked at some loose pebbles in the street, then made his way dejectedly back to the brougham. As he walked, I heard him bemoan the many injustices he was forced to endure, and that his Annie would surely have seen to it that we got inside the barrelhouse without a fuss, and probably come up with a piece of cake for him to eat in the bargain.

Ignoring the boy's self-pitying laments, I ascended the stairs and
rang the bell. A moment later a Negro maid, wearing a neat black dress, a starched white uniform, and lacy cap, opened the door. She started to welcome us inside, then stopped when she caught sight of me.

“I'm sorry, missus, but y'all got the wrong house,” she said with a Southern drawl. Without waiting for an answer, she began to close the door in my face.

“Wait, please,” I cried, pushing against the door to hold it open. Behind the maid, I saw a great bustle of activity: Servants hurried about carrying drink trays, bottles of champagne, and even furniture, while men dressed in formal evening clothes carried musical instruments down the hall and into the room where we had spoken to Madam Valentine and Brielle several days earlier. Since that visit, the house had been colorfully bedecked for the holidays, and bright, glittering candles set a scene of Yuletide revelry.

“We are here to see Miss Brielle Bouchard,” I told the maid, as she once again exerted pressure to close the door.

“Ain't no girl here by that name,” she insisted, looking confused and increasingly alarmed by my insistence. “I told y'all, you've got the wrong house.”

Belatedly, I remembered that the “ladies” of Miss Valentine's house did not go by their real names, but by more exotic sobriquets better suited to their line of work. Since I had no idea what pseudonym Brielle might be using, if indeed she had yet chosen one, I asked to see Madam Valentine herself.

The maid stared at me as if I had requested an audience with President Arthur himself, then reluctantly stood aside and allowed Robert and me to enter the foyer.

“I'll get her. Y'all wait here,” the girl said, and with one last doubtful look at me, set off up the stairs.

“We've come at a bad time,” Robert said from behind me. “They're getting ready for tonight's business. I don't see why this can't wait until . . .”

His voice trailed off when two beautiful young women came
down the stairs dressed in stunning evening gowns. As the women passed by us in the front hall, they slowed their pace and stared openly at my companion.

“Hello there, big boy,” purred one of the girls, allowing her ring-bedecked hand to sweep seductively over his chest. “My name is Honey, 'cause I'm extra sweet. You and me could have a real good time together.”

“And I'm Rose Petal,” the second young woman breathed, letting her hand rest lightly on Robert's flushed cheek. Giving him a little wink, she added, “Me and Honey are real good at sharing, sweetie—if you know what I mean.”

If my associate's face turned any redder, I feared it might actually burst into flames. He stood there staring at the two girls in genuine alarm, as if afraid they might actually attack him on the spot.

Giggling merrily—and well aware of the effect they were having on my bedazzled companion—the young women gave him one last pat on either cheek, then continued down the hallway. Robert's blue-green eyes seemed glued to the girls' derrieres, as they gracefully swished their way into the parlor behind the musicians.

“My knowledge about these establishments is admittedly limited,” I said to him, after the ladies had disappeared from view. “But is it usual for the, er, young women who work in these places to dress so elaborately, or for there to be musicians present every evening?”

He started to answer me, when three more girls, each of them wearing tight and extremely low-cut gowns, made their way down the stairs, swaying seductively past his wide, awestruck eyes.

“Robert,” I said a bit sharply, nudging him with my elbow. “Close your mouth and stop gawking. You look as if your eyes are about to pop out of your face.” When he still did not move, I poked him again, this time not so gently.

“Ouch!” he exclaimed, rubbing his ribs. “What did you do that for?”

“I'm attempting to bring you down to earth,” I told him crisply.
“I asked if you knew whether all this folderol is normal for places of this nature. This seems more like a soiree on Nob Hill than a typical night at a brothel.”

“That's because it is not a typical night at a brothel, Miss Wool-son,” came a voice from behind me.

Turning, I found Madam Valentine standing on the lower landing of the stairs. Again I was amazed that a woman of her bountiful proportions could move so gracefully. She was beautifully attired in a black velvet gown cut low at the neck to display a generous amount of cleavage, and with a waist cinched so tightly that it spoke well of her corseting, although how she could breathe was a mystery. Her thick dyed hair had been arranged in intricate curls atop her head, and was decorated with ebony combs, inlaid with what appeared to be real diamonds, rubies, and other precious gems.

“Every month, we hold a reception to introduce girls who are newly arrived in San Francisco,” she explained. Nodding her head in the direction of a statuesque, sloe-eyed brunette with glowing ebony skin, she said, “That is Cleopatra. She has come to us from Kate Townsend's house in New Orleans. That blonde coming out of the front parlor is Evangeline. She has just arrived from New York.”

“You say that you hold these receptions every month?” I asked, marveling at the organization and expense required to arrange such an evening. “Do these young women really move so easily about the country?”

She nodded. “Most don't stay in any one place for more than a month or two. That's why I work so hard to entice my girls to stay longer. After all, I have invested a great deal of time and money in their training and wardrobes.”

I remembered what Fanny had told me about Matilda Abernathy's determination to make something of her life. If one cared to credit a very active and luxurious parlor house as an indicator of success, then Matilda had indeed caught her golden ring.

We were jostled by servants making their way up and down the stairs, causing Madam Valentine to suggest that we adjourn to her office. Robert and I followed her down the hall and into a room
which was considerably smaller, but every bit as expensively furnished as the parlor where tonight's soiree was being held. She indicated that we should be seated on a settee, while she took her place opposite us in a comfortable-looking armchair, once again upholstered in a vibrant shade of red.

“Now Miss Woolson, Mr. Campbell, what has brought you to my house this evening?”

“I wish to have a word with Brielle Bouchard,” I told her. “I can see that you're very busy tonight, so it needn't take long.”

She looked at me guardedly. “What has happened? Do you have news for her?”

Before I could answer Robert broke in, his tone disparaging. “Sarah has some bizarre plan to introduce Gerald Knight to his daughter. She hopes that he'll be instantly taken with the tyke, leave his wife, and he, Brielle, and the baby will live happily ever after.”

“Don't be absurd, Robert,” I said, annoyed. “Pay no attention to him, Madam Valentine. While it's true that I—”

There was a knock on the door, and Brielle's lovely face peered into the room. “Nancy said you wished to see me, Madam Valentine. Oh,” she said, noticing Robert and me on the settee. “I didn't realize you and Mr. Campbell were here, Miss Woolson.”

“Sit down, Brielle,” the older woman told her. “Miss Woolson has something she would like to discuss with you.” She rose and indicated that Brielle should take her seat in the red upholstered armchair. “If you will excuse me, Miss Woolson, Mr. Campbell, I have a great number of things to attend to before our first guests arrive.” With that, the woman swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“What is it you wish to tell me?” Brielle asked, after she had seated herself on the edge of Madam Valentine's chair. “Does it have to do with the lawsuit?”

I felt Robert draw in breath and spoke quickly, before he could blurt out the purpose of our visit, along with his negative view of the plan.

“I'm sorry to bear discouraging news, Brielle, but there is simply no way we can take your case to trial.”

“Because we cannot prove that Gerald is Emma's father,” she said with a sigh of resignation.

I nodded. “Even if we could somehow convince Mr. Knight's men to testify that you entertained no male visitors except their employer, we would still have a difficult time proving that you did not once slip out of the house unobserved during the entire time you lived in the home. And realistically, I doubt we could ever persuade those roughs to take our side against the man who pays their salaries.”

She smiled wanly, trying without notable success to disguise her disappointment. “Please, Miss Woolson, do not distress yourself. You have been wholly honest with me since my first visit to your office. I see now how naïve I was to believe I could protect myself from a man like Gerald Knight. He must have had a good laugh over that silly contract I insisted he sign, knowing full well that it would never hold up in a court of law.”

“You were only trying to protect yourself,” Robert told her gallantly. “That man is the worst sort of cad.”

“Yes,” she agreed in a small voice. “I know that now. In the beginning, he appeared to genuinely care for me. He bought me beautiful clothes, settled me in a lovely home, saw to my every need. In a way, I think I gradually grew to return his love, or what I imagined to be his love. Now, of course, I know better, and I shall have to accept the consequences of my foolish choices.”

I leaned forward in my seat. “I don't want to unduly raise your hopes, my dear, but there is one thing more we might try.”

“Really, Miss Woolson, what do you have in mind?”

Robert harrumphed, but surprised me by managing to keep his misgivings to himself.

“I wonder, Brielle, has Mr. Knight ever seen his daughter?”

“No, he hasn't.” She looked at me questioningly. “Why? Have you been in touch with Gerald? Has he asked about Emma?”

“I haven't contacted Mr. Knight,” I told her. “But it occurs to me that he has gotten off far too easily in this affair. If, as you say, he has never seen Emma, then it has been simplicity itself for him to pretend that she doesn't exist.”

Unable to contain himself any longer, although in milder tones than I might have expected, Robert put in, “Sarah has some absurd idea that you should confront Knight with his daughter.”

Brielle looked at him in surprise. “You mean introduce Emma to her father?” She sat quietly for a moment pondering the idea, then turned to me in obvious enthusiasm. “But that does not strike me as the least bit absurd. It's true that he has never set eyes upon her. Once he has, perhaps he will no longer be so eager to abandon her.”

I was taken aback by the renewed hope I saw shining in the girl's eyes. So, apparently, was Robert, for he said, “My dear, you mustn't get your hopes up. Given Mr. Knight's reputation, this meeting is not likely to alter his behavior toward the child.”

“I understand what you're trying to say, Mr. Campbell,” Brielle said, her excitement seemingly unaffected by his warning. “But Miss Woolson is correct, it is something we must try. I feel that if Gerald can but see Emma, there is a good chance that his heart will melt.”

Robert gave me a pointed look, but with effort managed to keep his views on Gerald Knight's alleged ownership of a heart—much less one capable of melting—to himself. I, too, was concerned that he was right, and that I had fostered false hope in the girl.

“I know just how I will dress her,” Brielle chattered on. “She has a little blue dress that will bring out the color of her eyes. Emma looks a great deal like her father, you know, even Madam Valentine agrees. Surely he will see the resemblance and be forced to admit that she is his daughter!”

Despite our efforts to make the girl view tomorrow's meeting with Knight more realistically, Brielle fairly danced out of Madam Valentine's office, still planning how she might present the baby to her father in the most favorable light.

Robert and I followed in her wake, to find the first guests of the
evening already being shown into the parlor. Inside the room, musicians were playing a lively tune, and the sound of men and women's laughter was accompanied by a strong odor of tobacco and expensive whiskey. It seemed that Miss Valentine's monthly reception was off to a good start.

R
obert appeared so subdued when we left the parlor house that I suggested we partake of a quiet dinner at a small restaurant I had noticed upon our first visit to Madam Valentine's establishment.

“I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Robert,” I apologized, feeling responsible for his dour mood. After we were seated at a table and presented with menus, I went on, “I insist on paying for dinner. It's the least I can do.”

“You'll do no such thing!” he declared. “That law firm of yours is barely keeping its head above water. At least I'm bringing in a steady salary.” He picked up his menu, then placed it back down on the table. “And while I may not approve of this business with Miss Bouchard and that Valentine woman, I would never allow you to visit a place like that on your own. Of all the ridiculous ideas.”

His expression was so earnest I felt a sudden surge of gratitude. “Robert, despite all your grousing and hovering over me like a mother hen, I am truly thankful to have you as a friend. No matter how much you disapprove of some of the cases I accept, or the way I manage them, I know I can count on you to be at my side when I most need you.”

His startled expression gave way to one I couldn't fathom. The way he was looking at me, his blue-green eyes staring into mine as if he were trying to burrow his way inside my mind, was disconcerting.