Read Online The Harlot’s Pen by Claudia H Long - Free Book Online Page A

want to change them here? Under my roof?” Kate laughed, her mirth brittle and harsh. “Go, Miss Strone. Take your poetry with you. And leave my salon alone.”
    Miss Strone gathered herself up. “Please. At least read it. And think about what I ask. I would only want to work, like any other denizen of this salon, and be entertaining. I would be ever so careful not to disturb the peace of your establishment.”
    “Peace! You have clearly no idea what you are talking about!”
    “It is likely you are right, Miss Lombard. But I can only know if you allow me to learn. I cannot write in ignorance. If the story of a prostitute is only presented through the judgmental lens of moralizing men, then the crusade that has shut the houses of San Francisco will continue unabated. The closing of houses throws women into the streets at the mercy of the criminal class, or floods the cheapened labor force, earning pittance at the cannery and the sweatshop!”
    Miss Strone gasped for breath after her impassioned speech, but Kate only raised an eyebrow. “I am staying at the inn off Linden Street, close to here,” Miss Strone murmured. “Please think about it. Keep the pamphlet.”
    Miss Strone stood up and brushed past Kate as she left the cool shade of the house. But she looked over her shoulder one last time, just as Kate looked up from reading her pamphlet. Though their eyes met, Kate did not acknowledge Miss Strone, as she was drawn back into the rhythmic verse before her.
     
    * * * *
     
    Well, that could not have gone worse, Violetta thought as she hurried along Solano Avenue. She felt her cheeks burn as she recalled Miss Lombard’s disdain. “You, work for me? I’m afraid you have no idea what nonsense you’re speaking.” And that dog—he reminded her of a giant, gray rat.
    The dusty street widened, and the buildings on Solano Avenue became more numerous as Violetta approached her inn. The wide, shaded porch looked inviting, with its scattering of woven wicker rockers and low tables, and a glass of lemonade would have been very welcome, but Violetta walked quickly past the stooped man at the receiving desk and straight up the broad staircase to her room. She shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of frustration. First she took off her straw hat, then loosened the collar of her dress, now damp with sweat, and fanned herself with the hat. The little breeze she could create didn’t do much to cool her, as the heat came from within.
    She had had such high hopes for the encounter. She had assured herself that she had a fail-proof plan, and yet she had not managed it well. Once again, she had gone off half-cocked, without thinking through her strategy. Relying on her beauty, her quick wit, and her innate intelligence had gotten her far in her youth, but now as a woman nearing thirty, she needed more. And it got her nowhere with the madam of a salon. Surely she should have anticipated that.
    Planning, careful strategy, Miss Bary had emphasized the need for these above all. Knowing the enemy, the stakes, the route to a favorable outcome, Violetta had disregarded all of these lessons. Miss Bary had worked for two weeks in a cannery just to be able to speak with authority on the labor conditions for women there. Violetta had only read a few old newspaper articles on the pitch of the do-gooders urging the prostitutes off the streets and into factories, articles obviously deeply meaningless to her in her quest.
    Violetta closed her eyes. In the weeks after meeting with Mr. Older, she had tried to consider all of the angles of the absurd task she had undertaken. Years ago she had been left at the altar, hiding a shame that could ruin her. Then she had lived in sin with a man who had fled to Argentina when the opportunity presented itself. Now she was hoping to masquerade as a prostitute in order to write the definitive series that would cement her reputation—but whether as an immoral fool or as a serious journalist remained to