The Dressmaker's Dowry Read online

  I sighed as I opened my browser, preferring to lose myself in research instead. I’d always been drawn to the visual imagery of San Francisco in the nineteenth century—the beauty and harshness of the Wild West. The journalist in me couldn’t stop mining the digital archives of the Daily Alta California and the Sacramento Daily Union, San Francisco’s oldest newspapers, for tidbits to include in my book.

  I settled into my desk chair and looked at the large framed picture of Hunter and me on our wedding day, both of us grinning like idiots. A chill passed over my body. My husband knew only the details I provided him. I was an orphan. I entered UCLA on a merit scholarship. I didn’t stay in touch with my high school friends because Eagle River held too many sad memories.

  When I’d changed my name on our marriage license, a weight had lifted. I was no longer Sarah Schmidt, the girl followed by rampant whispers. I was Sarah Havensworth. Hunter waited for me at the end of the aisle, promising a new life. There was a time when I thought I’d tell him the truth. The risk of losing everything kept me silent.

  I let out a deep breath and Googled “Barbary Coast” because looking at images of San Francisco during the late 1800s often helped me with my writing. The screen populated with links. The red-light district of old San Francisco was nine blocks bound by Montgomery Street, Washington Street, Stockton Street, and Broadway. Today’s sleek skyscrapers bore no resemblance to the cobbled streets of the past.

  I clicked link after link, rejecting generic sites designed to attract tourists, and hoping for inspiration to strike. I’d been toying with the idea of developing a romance between Mrs. McGeary and a German-Jewish merchant, Herr Blumberg, who owned the jewelry shop across the street from her boardinghouse. I’d set the story against the backdrop of the Silver Rush, a time when businessmen earned fortunes from the silver found in the Comstock Lode mine in Nevada.

  Much like the controversy surrounding San Francisco’s current tech boom, the San Francisco of Victorian times was also a tale of two cities. The influx of wealth following the silver rush created a growing disparity between rich and poor. I intended to weave this theme throughout my narrative, focusing on the lives of the working class.

  I chewed on my bottom lip, looking again at my wedding photo. I’d wanted to have a small, rustic wedding at a barn or a winery, but Gwyneth and Walter had insisted on the Flood Mansion, a magnificent Pacific Heights home once owned by James Clair Flood, one of the original “bonanza kings” and stock manipulators.

  They had generously offered to pay for the wedding, and since my parents were no longer alive, I agreed. The opulent ceremony and reception with two hundred guests was beautiful, if not at all my style. My in-laws’ Victorian mansion with its coveted Pacific Heights address nearly rivaled the Flood Mansion in size and opulence. Yet Gwyneth and Walter lived there alone, accompanied only by their housekeeper, Rosa.

  I rubbed my temples and thought about the average people of the 1870s: the dockworkers, Chinese railroad workers, and immigrant families. Those were the people I was interested in. But somehow I had failed to bring my story to life. Perhaps I needed to introduce a new character to spark my imagination?

  I clicked another link, “Events in the West, 1876,” from PBS.org. A few more clicks, and I’d found a few sourced San Francisco news stories.

  June 8. Tom Williams drowned in the bay. A man named Jones dies suddenly in a saloon.

  July 3. John Miller arrested as a counterfeiter.

  August 7. Jim McGreevy, a tinsmith, fell from scaffolding and was killed.

  September 15. A child of Mrs. Wilson had his foot cut off by the streetcars.

  I sucked in my breath. How horrible.

  October 10. The tobacco factories of Harris & Co., and Moore & Co., destroyed by fire, and a Chinese boy burned to death.

  November 17. Large quantity of smuggled opium seized.

  December 6. News received of a declaration of war by France against Prussia.

  January 10. Missing dressmakers believed to be murdered.

  My skin prickled. Working women in the Victorian era did not have an easy life. I clicked on the newspaper citation, January 10, 1876, Daily Alta California, to read more about the seamstresses. Hunter often teased me about my feminist values, but the plight of women in history would always interest me more than the countless men who’d felt it their right to rape and plunder, claiming the land of native peoples. Good. The Daily Alta California was part of the California Digital Newspaper Collection.

  The scanned newspaper appeared on my screen as a grayed image. Zooming closer, I clicked each segment of text until I found the original article. I squinted, trying to decipher the old-fashioned font.

  Missing Seamstresses Presumed Dead

  It was rumored this morning that a fearful murder has been committed in the southern part of the city. The facts that can be ascertained are these: Miss Margaret O’Brien, an Irish girl, and Miss Hannelore Schaeffer, a German girl, were employed as dressmakers at Walton’s Tailor Shop of 42 Montgomery Street. The young ladies introduced on this page did not turn up for their shift at eight o’clock yesterday forenoon.

  Mrs. Jane Cunningham, proprietress of the shop, reports seeing from her window Miss O’Brien, accompanied by a man, walking in the direction of the saloons on Kearny Street. Several atrocious murders of young ladies with handsome countenances have been recently committed in San Francisco County.

  Four months past, a prostitute was found lying dead on the Northeast corner of Hinkley Alley and Dupont Street, before a house of ill repute that sits above the Tavern. Blood was oozing from her ears as if she had received a crushing blow to the head, and there were marks on her throat and mouth, which led to the supposition that she was murdered. Could these two seamstresses have met the same fate?

  Hannelore Schaeffer is about 20 years of age, dark hair and light eyes, well formed, rather bold in appearance and speaks good English with a German accent. Margaret O’Brien is about 19 years of age, red hair and blue eyes, very handsome and well formed and speaks fluent English with an Irish accent.

  Though the bodies of neither Schaeffer nor O’Brien have been discovered, residents fear hearing cries of “Murder, murder, help, for God’s sake, help!” once again, should the killer at large not be stopped for these dreadful crimes.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms. Two young dressmakers had disappeared while a killer was on the loose? The room seemed to fade away as my screen took on a razor-sharp focus. I felt an electric energy I hadn’t experienced since my days at the magazine—I knew in my gut I’d found an incredible story lead.

  Closing the Word document that housed my novel, I opened a new one. Without thinking, my fingers flew across the keyboard. My novel could wait.

  There was something about this story, a true story, that I couldn’t ignore. Who were these women? What had happened to them? A shiver ran down my spine as I read the headline I’d written:

  The Lost Dressmakers of the Barbary Coast

  Chapter 2

  Hannelore Schaeffer

  San Francisco, January 1876

  The sting of Father’s palm spread across Hannelore’s face like the burn of hot coals. He leaned in close, his sour breath reeking of whiskey. Blood trickled down Hanna’s nose, the metallic taste reaching her tongue.

  Raising his sinewy, soot-covered arm for another strike, Father resembled a roaring bear covered in grease. Hanna’s heart pounded against her rib cage. Perhaps this time he would kill her, just as he had her mother.

  Hanna shielded herself from the second blow, dropping the bowl of small boiled potatoes. It clattered to the ground, spilling its contents to the dirt floor. Hans and Katja cowered beneath the table, whimpering. Father frightened them so.

  “You dumb cow!”

  He spat the insult in German. Years of working as a blacksmith had hardened his muscles, and Hanna hurled herself away from his swinging arms. Martin ran from his hiding place and thrashed his fists against Father’s burly chest, his t
welve-year-old arms thin but strong. What a brave, stupid boy.

  Father pushed Martin to the ground, where he landed with a heavy thud. Martin’s chest heaved and his nostrils flared. “Stop it!” he yelled. “Don’t hurt her.”

  Father laughed, resting his hands on his round belly. In addition to drinking too much ale, he ate his fill at the gambling houses, where men were served hot luncheon. Yet he gave nothing to his children, so that Hanna and her siblings had no means to quell their hunger. Father’s laughter grew louder and louder.

  “You sound like an American,” he bellowed, wiping a tear from his ruddy face. The next one left a trail on his cheek before reaching his black beard.

  Hanna’s younger brother, Martin, had no trace of an accent, and a clouded memory of the boat that had carried them to this godforsaken place. Martin stood up, hands balled at his sides, his body shaking.

  Looking at Hanna with bloodshot eyes, Father tilted his head back and cackled. She waited, holding her breath, until he stumbled backward and fell into his chair.

  “Where is my money?” Father asked, pointing a thick finger at her. He was so drunk he couldn’t hold it straight.

  “We gave you all of our money,” Martin said, stepping between them. “She doesn’t have any. Tell him, Hanna. Tell him we don’t have any.”

  “I have no money,” Hanna answered, trembling as she spoke. “I’ve given you every penny that I’ve earned, and you’ve spent it all!”

  Father lunged for her, smacking Hanna hard across the jaw. She should have seen it coming. He would never take her accusations without a fight. Hanna held her ground. Father’s eyelids drooped even as he glared. Once more, he slid into his chair. A moment later, a snore like a bear rumbled from his throat. He’d fallen asleep, drunk, his mouth open, his cruel hands hanging by his sides.

  “Come now,” Hanna whispered, gathering Katja and Hans into her arms. “You eat your potatoes.”

  She set the small spuds down on their crude wooden table, wiped the blood from her nose, and managed a smile. Katja, Hans, and Martin reached for the food with dirty fingers, and swallowed it down like wolves. Hanna’s stomach growled. How she craved the fatty taste of meat. They never had bratwurst anymore.

  Smoothing Katja’s dark curls, Hanna kissed the toddler’s damp forehead. “Eat up, little deer.” Katja’s soulful brown eyes darted toward their slumbering father.

  “It’s all right,” Hanna whispered, hoping the child wasn’t coming down with a fever. She’d once found her little sister curled up in the grass outside after one of Father’s drunken rages, like a fawn in a meadow.

  With her mother dead, and her father useless, Hanna found herself solely responsible for keeping her siblings clothed and fed. A portion of her wages from the tailor shop went to their elderly neighbor, Frau Kruger, who watched Katja and Hans during the day. The widow fed them brown bread and eggs. Thank God, for they often had nothing more than scraps. Father spent every penny at the saloons.

  He beat Hanna when he thought she was withholding her coins from him. And she had been. She’d managed to stash away nearly eight dollars in a jar, which she kept hidden. Soon it would be enough money to escape.

  Hanna closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Mountain air. Wildflowers. In her memories, she could see the green fields surrounding her cottage in Mittenwald and Mother’s wise hands, rolling dough for schnecken.

  But when Hanna opened them, Mother was gone. An icy wind seeped through the cracks of the ramshackle house, and Hanna shivered. While the children were eating, she pried the board in the bedroom floor loose and added more coins to her savings jar. Next to it stood the delicate plate Mother had painted. Hanna wished to live in that idyllic scene amongst the weeping willows. Trailing her finger along Mother’s brushstrokes, she imagined Mother watching over her from heaven.

  Hanna sniffled, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. The damp air penetrated the threadbare fabric. Setting the wooden plank back into place, she ignored her rumbling belly and hoped the children had eaten their fill. Father groaned in his sleep, causing her to flinch. Mother had been foolish to fall in love. Such vulnerability was a sign of weakness. And Hanna could not be weak if she wanted to stay alive.

  Father’s greed had been the reason their family had left Bavaria and come to this vile and sinful place. No man would decide her fate, not Father, not a husband, no one. From the doorway to their kitchen, Hanna looked at Martin, his face partially illuminated by the glow of their kerosene lamp. Her brother’s lip quivered.

  “Martin,” she asked. “What are you feeling?”

  When he turned to her, his eyes shone with tears. Hanna didn’t need him to explain further. Their mother’s absence ached like an open wound.

  “Do you remember the ship?” Martin asked. “And the train from Hamburg, how we were loaded in like pigs?” He shook his head. “Mother was sick with pneumonia, and yet Father insisted we travel to America. We never should have come here.”

  Martin had been only a boy of seven when they had traveled in the belly of the steamer. It stank of feces and rot. Hanna hadn’t expected him to remember Mother’s rattling cough, or her ragged breaths. But perhaps it was the painful things in life that people remembered most.

  “I know,” Hanna said, her shoulders slumping. “Yet there is nothing we can do. San Francisco is our home now. Take the children. It is time for bed.”

  Father let out a grunt, and Hanna clenched her fists. She could purchase a packet of poison at one of the low groceries and slip it in his drink. But she wasn’t capable of murder. Or perhaps Father could be drugged and clubbed over the head, put aboard a merchant ship to set sail for foreign lands. No one would miss him.

  “Hanna, I’m still hungry,” Hans said, tugging the hem of her dirndl. His blue eyes pleaded with hers. She knelt on the dirt floor and hugged him tight. Katja cowered behind Hanna’s skirt, watching Father twitch in his sleep. “Ana, I scared.”

  “Don’t be frightened,” Hanna said. “I will sing you a lullaby.”

  The little ones nodded.

  Leading Hans and Katja by the hand, Hanna entered the small room they shared and tucked them into bed. Martin stood in the kitchen, staring out the window into the darkness. What dreams did he have, kept in those stars? Hanna wouldn’t relinquish hers either. Father couldn’t control her forever.

  “Martin,” Hanna whispered. “You come to bed now?”

  “In a moment,” he said. “Good night.”

  “Sleep well.”

  Hanna tucked Mother’s quilt under Hans’s heart-shaped face and patted the thick cotton fabric. The colors had faded, but the birds and flowers formed an intricate design. Every day, Hanna silently thanked Mother for sitting by her side and teaching her how to sew. As a child, Hanna had hated sewing. But now it was her most valuable skill.

  Closing her eyes, Hanna remembered the sound of Mother’s voice. A song crept past her lips. She stroked Katja’s cheek as she sang.

  Sleep, baby, sleep.

  Across the heavens move the sheep.

  Hanna blew out the kerosene lamp and set it next to the bed. Her jaw ached where Father had struck her. Sucking in her breath, Hanna let her cool fingertips settle on the sore spot. Ship bells tinkled in the distance, and she curled up against Hans’s and Katja’s warm bodies. In the smoky darkness, her lids grew heavy and she sank into the lumpy straw and cotton mattress.

  Pushing open the door of Walton’s Tailor Shop, Hanna walked past the counter into the back room. Piles of silk and taffeta dresses awaited mending, their fabrics more rich and sumptuous than anything she could ever dream of wearing.

  “Be careful with those grubby hands of yours,” Mrs. Cunningham said, looking down at Hanna over half-moon spectacles. “The pearls that must be reattached to the collar of Miss Jameson’s gown are worth more than you could understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hanna said, picking at her cuticles, which had become red and raw from how hard she scrubbed them
with soap.

  The corners of Mrs. Cunningham’s mouth turned downward, her eyes resting on Hanna’s jawline. “Stay in the back room.”

  Hanna touched her face. The bruise must have come through.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Mrs. Cunningham had gone, Hanna laid a dress flat across the table. What had this woman done to tear the pleated hem of her striped silk gown? Perhaps she’d been dancing at a private party for the fashionable set, something Hanna would never get to do. The black buttons along the bodice had become loose, as though the wearer had been careless unfastening them. Hanna threaded a needle and began to work on the large bustle, stitching a rip in the fabric.

  A moment later, the bell at the shop door jingled.

  “Sorry I’m late, ma’am,” Margaret said, scurrying inside, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Margaret looked at Mrs. Cunningham. “My sister has got a fever. She’s a wee thing, and I couldn’t leave until it had broken.”

  “I don’t care for your personal business,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “There are plenty of other girls who’d be grateful to take your place.”

  Margaret bit her lip. She walked briskly into the back room and took a seat beside Hanna, her pretty, pale face creased with worry.

  “Is it Finna?” Hanna asked, reaching out.

  Margaret clasped Hanna’s hand in hers. “Oh, Hanna, I’m worried sick.”

  Hanna nodded. “I will work late. When Mrs. Cunningham goes home, you ought to go home too.”

  Margaret shook her head, her deep red curls swaying against her shoulders. “You’re such a dear. But there’s too much work for one person.” She bit her lip. “Oh, love. Does it hurt?”

  Hanna shrugged. “It is not so bad.”

  Margaret threaded her needle. She picked up a yellow silk ball gown with short sleeves and large bows. “Drink is a curse, I tell you. And so is bloody gambling. Eight mouths to feed and me da throws money at the roulette wheel like he’s Mr. Rockefeller. I need every penny for Finna’s medicine.”