the ring of the doorbell. “Any minute now.” She arched a black brow at Elizabeth. “Make up your mind. What’s it gonna be?”
Elizabeth stood and smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, in a voice full of cool, regal dignity, “I’ll retire to my room for the night.” She inclined her head slightly at each of the women in the parlor. “Good evening.”
“And good evenin’ to you, too, Your Ladyship,” Phyllis mockingly called out to her as Elizabeth exited the parlor.
Augusta Bender caught up with her before she reached the stairs. Grasping Elizabeth by the elbow, Mrs. Bender turned her around to face her. “Go upstairs and stay in your room until mornin’. I’ll let it be known that numberfour is off-limits. If you stay out of the hallway and keep your door closed, you’ll be all right.” She let go of Elizabeth’s elbow and patted her on the arm. “Now, upstairs with you. Before I let the gentlemen in.” She winked at Elizabeth, then smiled before turning to answer the door.
If Mrs. Bender’s smile was meant to reassure her, Elizabeth thought as she hurried up the stairs, it had failed miserably. Her hands shook as she closed the door to her room and automatically reached down to turn the key in the lock. There was no key or a lock to hold it, so Elizabeth made do with the only chair in the room—a spindly-legged, rather fragile-looking boudoir chair that sat in front of the dresser. She dragged the chair across the floor, wedged it beneath the porcelain doorknob and piled two of her valises on it. Eyeing her handiwork critically, Elizabeth decided that the chair and valises wouldn’t offer much resistance to a determined intruder, but they would make a rather loud noise when they fell to the floor—a noise loud enough to wake her if she happened to fall asleep, which she admitted as she sat, fully dressed, at the foot of her narrow bed, didn’t seem very likely.
Shivering, Elizabeth stood up and walked over to the window. Glancing down, she was surprised to discover the streets teeming with life. The yellow glow of lamplight and raucous sound of loud voices and piano and banjo music poured from inside the restaurants, saloons and gambling halls while a steady stream of buggies and carriages deposited passengers on the sidewalks in front of those establishments. And, Elizabeth noticed, the alleys and back entrances leading to those businesses were every bit as crowded and as busy as the main streets and front entrances. Unlike the dark, quiet streets and neighborhoods of Providence, the streets surrounding Bender’s Boardinghouse and the adjoining streets of Chinatown were alive with the hustle and bustle of men and women in search of entertainment. And nearly every nighttime form of entertainment in this part of San Francisco appeared to be noisy and boisterous.
Even the piano music downstairs had grown louder. “Aura Lee” had given way to “Camptown Races,” and the quintet of female voices had been joined by several male tenors and one surprisingly good baritone. Elizabeth tried not to listen. The tenors reminded her too much of Owen, and the many happy evenings over the years, when she and he had stood around the piano and sung duets while Grandmother Sadler accompanied them. And the baritone voice …
The baritone voice reminded her of the night before, when James had rocked her in his arms and comforted her with lullabies. Elizabeth slowly lowered the window in a vain attempt to shut out the sounds around her. And the memories. Especially the memories. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying at her naïveté and her sheer stupidity. She was surrounded by hundreds of people, maybe even thousands, and yet, she had never felt so alone in her life. Not even when Grandmother had disowned her and asked her to leave the house on Hemlock Street. Although she had found it frightening to be on her own—to
Elizabeth stood and smoothed her hands over the wrinkles in her skirts. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, in a voice full of cool, regal dignity, “I’ll retire to my room for the night.” She inclined her head slightly at each of the women in the parlor. “Good evening.”
“And good evenin’ to you, too, Your Ladyship,” Phyllis mockingly called out to her as Elizabeth exited the parlor.
Augusta Bender caught up with her before she reached the stairs. Grasping Elizabeth by the elbow, Mrs. Bender turned her around to face her. “Go upstairs and stay in your room until mornin’. I’ll let it be known that numberfour is off-limits. If you stay out of the hallway and keep your door closed, you’ll be all right.” She let go of Elizabeth’s elbow and patted her on the arm. “Now, upstairs with you. Before I let the gentlemen in.” She winked at Elizabeth, then smiled before turning to answer the door.
If Mrs. Bender’s smile was meant to reassure her, Elizabeth thought as she hurried up the stairs, it had failed miserably. Her hands shook as she closed the door to her room and automatically reached down to turn the key in the lock. There was no key or a lock to hold it, so Elizabeth made do with the only chair in the room—a spindly-legged, rather fragile-looking boudoir chair that sat in front of the dresser. She dragged the chair across the floor, wedged it beneath the porcelain doorknob and piled two of her valises on it. Eyeing her handiwork critically, Elizabeth decided that the chair and valises wouldn’t offer much resistance to a determined intruder, but they would make a rather loud noise when they fell to the floor—a noise loud enough to wake her if she happened to fall asleep, which she admitted as she sat, fully dressed, at the foot of her narrow bed, didn’t seem very likely.
Shivering, Elizabeth stood up and walked over to the window. Glancing down, she was surprised to discover the streets teeming with life. The yellow glow of lamplight and raucous sound of loud voices and piano and banjo music poured from inside the restaurants, saloons and gambling halls while a steady stream of buggies and carriages deposited passengers on the sidewalks in front of those establishments. And, Elizabeth noticed, the alleys and back entrances leading to those businesses were every bit as crowded and as busy as the main streets and front entrances. Unlike the dark, quiet streets and neighborhoods of Providence, the streets surrounding Bender’s Boardinghouse and the adjoining streets of Chinatown were alive with the hustle and bustle of men and women in search of entertainment. And nearly every nighttime form of entertainment in this part of San Francisco appeared to be noisy and boisterous.
Even the piano music downstairs had grown louder. “Aura Lee” had given way to “Camptown Races,” and the quintet of female voices had been joined by several male tenors and one surprisingly good baritone. Elizabeth tried not to listen. The tenors reminded her too much of Owen, and the many happy evenings over the years, when she and he had stood around the piano and sung duets while Grandmother Sadler accompanied them. And the baritone voice …
The baritone voice reminded her of the night before, when James had rocked her in his arms and comforted her with lullabies. Elizabeth slowly lowered the window in a vain attempt to shut out the sounds around her. And the memories. Especially the memories. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying at her naïveté and her sheer stupidity. She was surrounded by hundreds of people, maybe even thousands, and yet, she had never felt so alone in her life. Not even when Grandmother had disowned her and asked her to leave the house on Hemlock Street. Although she had found it frightening to be on her own—to
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