The Harlot’s Pen (9 page)

“It’s true. I don’t know how you know. I suppose you have a sense about these things. I did live with Sam for nearly three years without a marriage license. I had been engaged years ago, but,” she paused and swallowed hard, “but I was left at the altar. I mean, really. Left at the altar in a dress, with fifty guests, my mother—my father died when I was twelve—and my girlfriends, and cousins. I can’t tell you what that was like. The tears, the hidden smirks, the pity.”

“And the baby?” Kate asked.

Violetta glared. “Gin and hot baths. Scalding. A lot of gin,” she whispered. Kate nodded. This, at least, was a regular part of the aspiring worker’s story. “I was twenty-two and had actually gone to college for two years. I had written poetry, stories, all under a pen name, and had sold more than a few. But the shame of being jilted and the aftermath, well, that took over everything. I went into seclusion for over a year. And when I ventured back out into the world, it was as a hardened woman. I met Sam at a reading of progressive writings. He was on the board at Nathan-Dohrmann, but he knew other poets, especially Maud Younger, and I was swept off my feet. He didn’t believe in marriage, he said. He was a leader of the Progressive Party, he believed in the unions, he believed in the minimum wage, all the right things. I felt had no choice. I was damaged goods, after all. After six months, I moved into his house on Russian Hill.”

Kate knew Russian Hill and how pleasant that area of San Francisco was. As girl from Healdsburg, she had understood the allure of San Francisco and had only retreated to El Verano after her efforts to expand her house to that delightful Russian Hill neighborhood herself had been opposed by the local powers and the climate of permissiveness in San Francisco began to chill. Sonoma was far more welcoming.

“Sam changed, though. Over time, he was less the romantic and more the hard-edged businessman. My charms, I guess, failed me. And though he had met me in the Progressive movement, and he turned his back on the movement, he called
me
inconstant and undedicated. He left me two months ago, for Argentina.”

“And then you decided to show him wrong? You wanted to prove your commitment? Is that why you had that verse published?”

“You are most perceptive, Miss Lombard. But not quite. I published the verses, and he left afterwards. I only had my writing to survive my second abandonment. I sought out the newspapers and hoped to get some interest, especially from Mr. Fremont Older, who has championed women as reporters and editors. Miss Bary had abandoned the cause for the increase in the minimum wage for women and had left for Washington. The bottom fell out of all of the work we were doing, and it needed someone to revitalize the fight.”

“Who is this Miss Bary you are so devoted to?” Kate asked archly. She was forming a rather unsavory picture of Miss Strone and her puppy-like devotion to this woman.

“Oh, you don’t know of Valeska Bary?” Kate started. Valeska? Was this the woman who had so enthralled Henry Lyon? Miss Strone obviously knew her, was in her thrall somehow, too. No wonder Henry had known about the poem and a couple of salty facts about the poetess. Kate shook her head, and Miss Strone continued her narrative. “She is the most amazing, dedicated leader of women. She single-handedly mediated labor disputes in Los Angeles, she campaigned for suffrage and protections for women and children workers, and even worked in the government in Sacramento. A most incredible woman. And when she speaks, you will follow her anywhere. The only woman who could outdo her in the world of persuasion is Alice Paul. Now there is someone so devoted to her cause that her heart has frozen over.” Miss Strone had become animated, her cheeks flushed no longer with the summer heat. She leaned forward, her modern-cut neckline giving a glimpse of full breasts and lightly, dewy skin.

“I’m afraid those names mean nothing to me,” Kate said. It wasn’t strictly true, of course, but her context had been different. They were names of women who meant something to the gentlemen who passed through her salon, women of a certain influence. Suddenly Miss Strone’s notion of influencing politics through the salon seemed slightly less preposterous. “Come to your point, Miss Strone. I am expecting company.”

Her momentum stopped, Miss Strone seemed to have trouble getting started again. “And so,” she paused. “And so,” she began again, “I am alone again. I came up with a plan. They say,” she leaned forward again, warming to her topic once more, “that women will turn to prostitution if they cannot be paid enough for other work. Miss Bary worked two weeks as a cannery worker to learn the real conditions of their labor. I wish to work for you to see the conditions of your labor. And to write the ultimate exposé of the true conditions….”

Kate had risen. “You are an idiot. I had no real understanding of your foolishness until this moment. I read your poem. It is moving, indeed. It led me to think you were more insightful, or thoughtful. But if you think you will work here as Marie Antoinette playing milkmaid at my expense, for your romantic and idiotic notion of experimentation… And then write about it? Get out!”

“No! That is not… well, perhaps at some level it is. But I beg of you, listen yet a bit more. There are very influential men who are entertained here. Mr. Older told me.”

“Really, Miss Strone?”

Miss Strone gazed up at Kate. “Yes. He told me about you.” Kate smiled tightly, an atypical sense of satisfaction in her throat. “And I can speak to those men. I cannot very well take the train to Sacramento and barge into Henry Lyon’s office, can I?”

Kate stood there, staring at Miss Strone. This woman could be the destruction of everything she had built.

“Or perhaps I could.” Miss Strone said suddenly. “Maybe, you could give me a letter of introduction. I know he visits you. Mr. Older said so.” At that, she put her head in her hands, the meaning of her words finally becoming clear to her. “I am not blackmailing you, Miss Lombard. Believe me. I am only dedicated to saving the Progressive movement, getting my work published, and rebuilding my life. My articles, the ones I will write, could allow me an independent life, the useful life of reform and writing that I crave. But the problem with the publication, well, there are some people who think that the poem shows, how can I explain this, communist sympathies.”

“You’d best be going,” Kate said. “Now.” She was barely resisting the urge to fling this woman out by her black hair, or call Moses, her peace-keeper, to eject her. A communist! There would be no exclusive interview. Troy, sensing her unease, bared a single tooth. Kate opened the door.

“Oh, Miss Kitty,” sang the voice of Lily, one of her best workers. “Guess who’s here?” Kate recognized the code.
Someone important is here
,
and the unspoken,
a little early.

She shot a killer glance at Miss Strone, who had not yet moved. Good Lord, a communist sympathizer who wanted to work in her house to be able to write about whoring and influence important men to her cause? There could be no greater damnation than that, except perhaps if she were diseased to boot: a poxy communist woman writer. She would get her out without delay.

Kate turned to the door, blocking its entry with her body, but the moment had been lost. A heavyset, mustachioed man walked towards her, holding out his hands.

“Well, come on in, Will,” she said, forcing a smile. William Hearst was always, always welcome.

“Don’t mind if I do, Kitty. It’s hotter than the Hell we’re all going to fry in out there.” He pulled his hat off his head, tossed it on the table, and loosened his cravat, all in one apparent motion. And caught sight of Violetta. “And what have we here?” he asked, his voice deepening into a throaty rumble. “A new kitten for our Spanish Kitty? Hello, darling. I’m William. And you are…”

Kate met Miss Strone’s eye and shook her head
no.
Miss Strone stood up, curtseyed a little, and held out her hand. Kate shut her eyes tight as Miss Strone shook William Randolph Hearst’s hand. “I’m Violetta. It’s my first day.”

* * * *

My God, William Hearst!
Violetta felt her heart double-strike, and for a moment the room throbbed. She held out her hand, and the great newspaper magnate shook it, a little smile on his lips. He looked her up and down slowly as she stood before him, trying to hide her shaking. He turned back to Miss Lombard. “Well, classy broad you’ve got here. Violet, eh? I like the name. So, Violet,” he said turning back to her and again giving her the once-over, “you new in town?”

Violetta resumed her seat as Miss Lombard’s eyes widened in warning.
Am I supposed to stay standing? What does a whore say to the greatest newspaper magnate in the State? And after all his scathing editorials against prostitution, to find him here! I can’t mention Fremont Older or anyone else I know, and I can’t talk about the Movement, or poetry, or, oh my goodness, what do I say?

Miss Lombard came to the rescue. “Will, Violetta is from your neck of the woods. She’s just come up from San Francisco and has really just arrived at the Resort. Fetch us some lemonade, would you, Violetta? And send Lily in. You may go to the porch and greet our later guests.”

“Certainly, Miss Kitty,” Violetta said, taking a tiny satisfaction in addressing Miss Lombard by her professional name. Even if she had to serve lemonade.

She crossed in front of Mr. Hearst, and as she walked by he reached out and patted her bottom. She whirled around, furious and affronted, only to find Miss Lombard’s raised eyebrows. Mr. Hearst laughed. “She
is
brand new! My goodness, a total novice!” She felt her face heat up. “Kitty, what on earth are you running here? A school for wayward girls?”

“Lemonade, Violetta.”

Violetta could not get out of that room fast enough.

“Though she’s hardly a girl,” she heard Mr. Hearst say as she shut the door behind her.

Violetta stood in the foyer, breathing hard. Lemonade. She needed to fetch two glasses of lemonade, and then she had to go back in there. Here, her first day, she had the chance to talk to William Randolph Hearst, the publisher of the
Examiner
, the
Call,
and so many others.
Mr. Fremont’s employer.
But what if Mr. Hearst decided to solicit her services? She stood frozen to her spot, her mind longing to run, her feet immobilized by shock.

Finally, her nerves steadied. She walked to the kitchen where Samantha, the young woman who had served the drinks earlier, stood leaning against the wooden table. She wore a long black skirt embroidered at the bottom with a pattern of birds and flowers, and a white blouse, all covered by a starched, white apron. Her sandy brown hair was wrapped in a knot, and she had put a flower into the center of the bun. Seated at the table was a thin, brown-skinned man with a shaved head, in a short-sleeved, white under-shirt and black pants. They both looked up when she came in. Samantha frowned. “Yes, miss?”

“Miss Kitty has requested two lemonades be brought to the parlor,” Violetta said.

“I didn’t hear the bell,” Samantha said, but she didn’t move from the table. In the silence, Violetta took in the suspicious look on the man’s face, the confusion on Samantha’s. Her incongruous situation was incomprehensible to them.

“She didn’t ring. She has a guest and simply asked me to ferry the request to you. It was a whim, I believe.” It was somebody’s whim. That was certain.

Samantha nodded, still puzzled, but took the jar of lemonade from the icebox and poured two glasses. Violetta allowed her to pass by with the glasses, making no move to take them from her. “Thank you,” she said, leaving the kitchen. Without reentering the parlor, she walked quickly out the front door onto the porch.

Lily and another woman, Sharon, sat on the porch fanning themselves. They eyed Violetta as she came across the porch and stopped. Violetta knew that this was the deciding moment. Either she sat down with them and threw her lot in with the whores, or she ran down the steps and back to her inn, and took the next train back to San Francisco.

There’s no home in San Francisco,
she thought. She was an impulsive, changeable fool.

“Miss? Are you all right?” the woman named Sharon asked.

Violetta looked at her, her vision swimming before her.

“Sit down. You’re overcome with the heat,” Sharon said kindly, rising and taking her arm. She led her to a wicker rocker next to her own. “That’s a right pretty dress you have, miss. It’s the latest in fashion, isn’t it?”

Violetta nodded.

“I saw that style in the Emporium catalog,” she went on. Violetta stiffened at the mention of the department store. “I love their catalog. I wonder where I can get a knock-off.” The catalog, full of up-to-the-minute fashions, was a fantasy book for those who then sought imitations at the lesser shops, replicas shoddily sewn in the sweatshops of Chinatown. A. B. C. Dohrmann was president of the Emporium, one of the many stars in his business constellation. Violetta had bought the dress at the store.

“Thank you,” she murmured. What would Sharon think if she knew that Violetta was her newest fellow worker and that she spent more on this dress than most women earned in a month? The contradictions were not lost on Violetta.

“Are you feeling better now, miss?” Lily asked. Violetta sensed an eagerness to get this intruder off the porch before the callers started arriving.

“Yes, much, thank you.” She started to rise. The whole idea had been idiotic, as Miss Lombard had said. And she was supposed to send Lily in.

“Violetta!” All three women turned at the sharp tone of Miss Lombard, standing at the door. “Come inside,” she ordered. “Mr. Hearst would like to see you.”

Violetta caught the stunned look on Lily’s face as she came fully to her feet, and eyes cast down, obediently followed Miss Lombard back into the house.

* * * *

Mr. Hearst leaned forward, his perspiring face near her own. “So, a San Francisco girl. How are you finding El Verano?”

“It’s a lovely spot, Mr. Hearst. I find the serenity and the warm breezes to be most conducive to relaxation.”

“Serenity? Conducive? Kitty, have you brought a college graduate into your bosom? Tell me, girl, Violet, isn’t it? Tell me, Violet, where did you learn such fancy words?”