Read Online The Harlot’s Pen by Claudia H Long - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claudia H Long
Tags: Historical, Mainstream
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be seen.
She snorted with disgust. What blinders she had worn for the past month that even allowed her to consider such an assignment? She imagined Fremont Older leaning back in his chair, laughing in amusement that she would be willing to become a whore—a whore!—to write an article.
And yet, in her heart there was a part of her that relished the idea, the same part that was excited to flout the marriage laws in the name of revolution, that had gleefully allowed her fiancé privileges that no sane woman would have allowed… Her heart was excited, but her head mocked her heart and reminded her that if she succeeded, or if she failed, she would have completed her ruin nonetheless.
She had committed herself to this adventure, and it had to work. After all, her father had died for championing the rights of women, and if she couldn’t convince Spanish Kitty to take her on, how could she even think of persuading her high-rolling readers to her cause?
She sat alone at her little table, a candle lighting her dinner of boiled meat and a lumpy but delicious dish of cornmeal and little, hot, green peppers. The spiciness made her drink more of the landlord’s fine ale than she was accustomed to, and she rose a little woozily from her table at meal’s end. She dreaded the slow climb back to her room in the fading light of early summer, unwilling to face the heat of the second floor. Sonoma was far enough from the San Francisco Bay to have real summers, not the foggy coolness that June in San Francisco always brought, and Violetta had long forgotten how to survive in anything other than a brisk, salt air breeze.
Instead, she walked out onto the porch and took a wicker rocking chair that was unoccupied, next to a dozing woman with gray tendrils escaping her bun in the heat. As she rocked gently she thought about what Fremont Older had told her about Kate Lombard, Spanish Kitty. She had been a fancy girl in San Francisco, but about ten years ago she had moved up to Sonoma, and opened her salon, or Resort, as she called it, in El Verano, near the town of Sonoma. She was as beautiful as Fremont Older had suggested, as tall as Violetta, and according to him, she had entertained every important man in the northern half of the state of California. The gracious house, the exotic dog, the careless housedress of meticulously soft weave, all spoke of influence and success.
She thought of Sam, now certainly in Argentina, where he hoped to make a real fortune, separate from the perfectly adequate maintenance his family’s wealth and his position at the Nathan-Dohrmann department stores provided. Stores that he maintained treated their workers as well as necessary, and no better than they needed. Stores that hired more apprentices than was legal, so they could pay less than the paltry minimum wage she had railed against last Christmas.
She tried to imagine Argentina. It would be hot there, she thought, perhaps as hot as Sonoma. Buenos Aires was said to be a boomtown, greatly resembling San Francisco with its glittering wealth, grinding poverty, and a world-class seaport that brought money, sailors, whores, and murderers together in a salty stew. She wondered how Sam would get on there, and for a moment she felt a pang of longing for him. Then she remembered his slaps, his disdain, his contempt. “You’re a dreamer, and have no concept of what the world is all about. Full of crazy ideas, but at least you’re too inconstant to do any real harm.” He had let those federal goons take her away without protest. She could not wish him well.
Before going to bed, she fingered the keys she had taken from the old jail, now talismanic in their importance. She closed her fingers around them, closed her eyes tight. This had to work.
* * * *
“As one of my constituents, I think I should tell you that there seems to be considerable unrest about pawnbrokers. I enclose a bill which is introduced in the house.” Henry Lyon to Abe
She snorted with disgust. What blinders she had worn for the past month that even allowed her to consider such an assignment? She imagined Fremont Older leaning back in his chair, laughing in amusement that she would be willing to become a whore—a whore!—to write an article.
And yet, in her heart there was a part of her that relished the idea, the same part that was excited to flout the marriage laws in the name of revolution, that had gleefully allowed her fiancé privileges that no sane woman would have allowed… Her heart was excited, but her head mocked her heart and reminded her that if she succeeded, or if she failed, she would have completed her ruin nonetheless.
She had committed herself to this adventure, and it had to work. After all, her father had died for championing the rights of women, and if she couldn’t convince Spanish Kitty to take her on, how could she even think of persuading her high-rolling readers to her cause?
She sat alone at her little table, a candle lighting her dinner of boiled meat and a lumpy but delicious dish of cornmeal and little, hot, green peppers. The spiciness made her drink more of the landlord’s fine ale than she was accustomed to, and she rose a little woozily from her table at meal’s end. She dreaded the slow climb back to her room in the fading light of early summer, unwilling to face the heat of the second floor. Sonoma was far enough from the San Francisco Bay to have real summers, not the foggy coolness that June in San Francisco always brought, and Violetta had long forgotten how to survive in anything other than a brisk, salt air breeze.
Instead, she walked out onto the porch and took a wicker rocking chair that was unoccupied, next to a dozing woman with gray tendrils escaping her bun in the heat. As she rocked gently she thought about what Fremont Older had told her about Kate Lombard, Spanish Kitty. She had been a fancy girl in San Francisco, but about ten years ago she had moved up to Sonoma, and opened her salon, or Resort, as she called it, in El Verano, near the town of Sonoma. She was as beautiful as Fremont Older had suggested, as tall as Violetta, and according to him, she had entertained every important man in the northern half of the state of California. The gracious house, the exotic dog, the careless housedress of meticulously soft weave, all spoke of influence and success.
She thought of Sam, now certainly in Argentina, where he hoped to make a real fortune, separate from the perfectly adequate maintenance his family’s wealth and his position at the Nathan-Dohrmann department stores provided. Stores that he maintained treated their workers as well as necessary, and no better than they needed. Stores that hired more apprentices than was legal, so they could pay less than the paltry minimum wage she had railed against last Christmas.
She tried to imagine Argentina. It would be hot there, she thought, perhaps as hot as Sonoma. Buenos Aires was said to be a boomtown, greatly resembling San Francisco with its glittering wealth, grinding poverty, and a world-class seaport that brought money, sailors, whores, and murderers together in a salty stew. She wondered how Sam would get on there, and for a moment she felt a pang of longing for him. Then she remembered his slaps, his disdain, his contempt. “You’re a dreamer, and have no concept of what the world is all about. Full of crazy ideas, but at least you’re too inconstant to do any real harm.” He had let those federal goons take her away without protest. She could not wish him well.
Before going to bed, she fingered the keys she had taken from the old jail, now talismanic in their importance. She closed her fingers around them, closed her eyes tight. This had to work.
* * * *
“As one of my constituents, I think I should tell you that there seems to be considerable unrest about pawnbrokers. I enclose a bill which is introduced in the house.” Henry Lyon to Abe
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