The Legend of Belle Cora: Lust and Mayhem in the Gold Rush Days of San Francisco

By Phil Ryan and Dina Bitton

In the Gold Rush days, San Francisco city grew tenfold, where dreamers came to build a new world, and ruthless men enjoyed their own money grab in a corrupt free-for-all. It was the ultimate political startup of its time. And into this lawless shantytown stepped Belle Cora. A stunning beauty with a stunning mind to match, she had ambitions of her own to be the most powerful woman in the city.

 

The Legend of Belle Cora is a sweeping, historical account of her coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of a still-young America expanding west. Her journey starts in her hometown of Baltimore as the beloved daughter of a merchant, takes her through an adventure in New Orleans, and ends with fame and heartache in San Francisco.

 

Originally written by the late San Francisco celebrated lawyer and native San Franciscan Phil Ryan, and completed by his widow, Dina Bitton, The Legend of Belle Cora was his second novel to cast a critical eye at the life and times of a struggling America and its people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: San Francisco City Press
• Release date: Aug 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736496800

Book preview

Prologue

On Thursday evening, November 15, 1855, under an ornate stone arch that was the first of its kind in the city, Tom Maguire opened the doors to his spanking new opera house on Washington between Kearny and Montgomery Streets. Belle selected her gown for the San Francisco premiere of the Verdi opera to coordinate with the theater’s color scheme. The auditorium was white, set off by red and gold gilded moldings and drapes. Belle’s full-length gown shone pearl white but for a red-gold trim that trailed from her off-shoulder strap, following the dell of her breasts and plunging daringly down her back. Her only jewelry was a snug gold necklace from which dangled a lovely ruby that rested on the soft dimple formed by her collar bone.

Charles Cora sported a charcoal waistcoat, gray pants with thin black stripes, and a silk, ruby-colored cravat that perfectly matched Belle’s neck stone. Charles looked like an Italian count and Belle, a fair-skinned contessa. The couple was enthusiastically greeted by proprietor Tom Maguire, in black tie, diamond stickpin and tails, and he personally escorted them to the house seats located in the very center of the orchestra floor. The Dress Circle, as Maguire called it, seated seven hundred patrons and was preferred by the ladies. From this spot, they could be easily viewed in their finest wardrobes and jewels. The orchestra was equally preferred by male members of the audience because the floor-level lobby opened directly into the Snug, where gentlemen could purchase high-quality brandy and rum before, during, and after intermissions. Tom Maguire, like 19th century Italian impresarios in Milan and Naples, underwrote his ventures into opera and drama with the ample profits of his saloons.

The upper gallery of four hundred seats Maguire called the Family Circle, and it had its own entrance from the street. When Charles and Belle took their preferred seats in the dress circle, the first thing they noticed was a glittering, brilliant gas chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. Maguire was the first theater operator to switch from candlelight to gas lighting. Aside from the improvement in illumination, the gas lighting created an ambiance of pleasing airiness and, since the house lights remained on during the performance, gentlemen could steal looks at the lovely ladies in general. And at Belle Cora in particular.

At least one gentleman didn’t wait for the performance to begin to ogle the feminine beauty assembled in Maguire’s Opera House. And so, began the trouble.

Seated in the Dress Circle was General William H. Richardson, the thirty-three-year-old United States marshal for the Northern District of California. Richardson had served with distinction in the Mexican War. Although it’s not clear that he reached the rank of general, it was common for veterans to carry their military appellation into civilian life—particularly if they were Southern gentlemen like Richardson. He was accompanied to the theater by his wife and her friend, a Mrs. Whiting.

Mrs. Whiting noticed that a man in the first row near the orchestra pit was staring at her and Mrs. Richardson with an intensity that disturbed her. She whispered to Mrs. Richardson about the man’s leering, and both women became sufficiently annoyed to call it to Marshal Richardson’s attention. He quickly assured the ladies that he would take care of the matter and left his seat to confront the staring man.

As the musicians filed into the orchestra pit, Richardson informed the ogler that it was most ungentlemanly of him to gawk at ladies in such a public place and even more offensive since his own wife was the object of his no doubt lurid look.

The man blandly inquired where Richardson’s wife was sitting, and the marshal pointed to her row and seat. The man shrugged, spat a stream of chewing tobacco into a gold spittoon and said, I ain’t looking at your wife. I’m looking at who’s sitting behind her, as is every man in this house with at least one working eyeball.

Richardson glanced to the row behind their theater seats and instantly recognized Belle Cora, the notorious Madame of Waverly Place. My God, he muttered to no one in particular. We shall see about this.

He approached Charles Cora and, affecting his most courtly manner, said, Sir, I think you’ve mistakenly taken the wrong seats. I believe there are boxes reserved for …for her.

Cora replied coldly, Sir, I suggest the mistake is yours.

Mine? How so?

Cora, who delighted in showing Belle off and never failed to notice the subtleties of human folly, replied condescendingly, You were in error to believe that gentlemen’s admiring gazes would be directed at your wife rather than mine.

Richardson’s cheeks flushed in fury, and he bolted for the lobby in search of the theater manager. He found Tom Maguire with his wife going over box-office receipts. Not aware that Emma Maguire was Belle’s dear friend or that she was her husband’s full business partner, he asked to speak alone with Tom on a delicate matter not suitable for a lady’s ears. Emma suppressed a grimace and excused herself. Richardson explained that his wife and her friend had become upset at a theater patron who they thought was unduly staring at them. When Richardson remonstrated with the man, he learned that it was the notorious Belle Cora upon whom the man’s eyes were riveted. I attempted to resolve the problem with the woman’s gambler paramour, only to be insulted by this Italian, this foreigner.

Calming himself, Richardson said to Maguire, Now, sir, I appreciate that this is your opening night, but I must insist that proper decorum be observed. We cannot have abandoned women seated in the audience with proper ladies. It is my understanding that soiled doves and negroes must be seated, if at all, in private boxes adjoining the stage or at the rear of the orchestra, preferably out of sight. I should greatly appreciate your services in having her moved to her proper place. Marshal Richardson did not know that Belle Cora was a substantial investor in Maguire’s Opera House, as she had been in all of Tom’s theaters.

Maguire ran his fingers over his walrus mustache and replied, Sir, I’m afraid that your request is quite impossible. My theater is a public place. I have no more right to decide who walks on our public thoroughfares and with whom they stroll than I do to tell my patrons where to sit or how to dress. I understand how you and your wife feel. But allow me to be frank. On the stage of this theater, or any theater for that matter, acts of murder, mayhem, patricide, war and love take place nightly. We give you heroes who are slaves and kings who are vile. Our plays may present courtesans godlier than nuns, wives more perverse than common prostitutes. I cannot decide whom Shakespeare should populate his plays with, nor can I advise Verdi on the notes he should compose to engender pathos or love. What I can say is that no drama or comedy will entertain an audience if the story does not depict, in fictional form, some truth they already know or a reality they have already experienced. Whomsoever sits in what chair in my establishment has no more to do with the higher purpose of the theater than sitting in a front or back church pew has to do with the spirituality of the gospel.

Richardson puffed up his chest, saying, Then I take it you will do nothing about this harlot and that kept man of hers?

Maguire at his courtly best, My dear marshal, the comfort of all our patrons is my responsibility. That you and Mrs. Richardson are so distressed is a great concern to Maguire’s Opera House. I will be pleased to refund your ticket price. Perhaps you and the missus will attend another performance. Maguire added, not without sincerity, As our guests, of course.

Richardson turned abruptly and walked with severe agitation back into the auditorium to retrieve his wife and Mrs. Whiting. The audience buzzed excitedly at the sight of the diminutive United States marshal’s manifest rage. Next to the Customs Officer, William Richardson was the highest-ranking federal official in San Francisco. Like his patron, Senator Gwin, Richardson tolerated Senator David Broderick and his Free Soil Democrats, of whom he knew Tom Maguire was a one. But for Richardson, this incident transcended political differences. He felt that he, a Southerner and ranking federal officer, had been publicly defeated by a common gambler while defending his wife’s honor. For Richardson and his Southern San Francisco brothers, the greatest male distinction outside combat warfare was the exhibition of prowess in defense of a lady. Yet here he was, in front of thousands of San Franciscans, defeated by a dark Italian gambler and a shanty Irish saloonkeeper.

Richardson realized that his humiliation would be the talk of the town. He had made his demands on Charles Cora and Tom Maguire in an authoritative and loud voice. They had defied him. His embarrassment would be the subject of all conversations at post-theater parties, in the restaurants and saloons. All because of her, Belle Cora, that damnable woman, he fumed.

Although Belle had triumphed in this encounter with the very proper Mrs. Richardson, she was angered by the insult that she be removed from the theater that she partly owned. She had justly expected that her Charles and Tom would defend her completely, and they had. Their loyalty to her grew from their deep affection for her. Richardson’s gallantry toward his wife was bred by custom, and custom, by any name it carried, had always been Belle’s personal oppressor. She had flaunted custom, but that did not make her any less a lady than the marshal’s wife. Like Mrs. Richardson, Belle was a daughter of the South and of a devout Christian father. In family and breeding, she was easily Mrs. Richardson’s equal. And she fervently believed that she was as true and faithful a wife to Charles Cora as Mrs. Richardson was to her husband. The sole difference between the two women was that society had given its imprimatur to one union and not the other.

As the strains and swells of Aida began to fill Maguire’s Opera House, Belle clasped Charles’s hand and drew comfort from their fierce and abiding love.

There was no mention of the incident in the press, only raves about Verdi’s masterpiece and Maguire’s Opera House. Two nights later, however, United States Marshal William Richardson was found shot to death in the doorway of Fox & O’Connor’s store on Clay Street. Charles Cora was in the City Jail on Broadway Street, charged with Richardson’s murder.

PART ONE

THE EASTERN SEABOARD

Charles Street

She wasn’t always Belle Cora, the Madame of Waverly Place, but she had always been a stunning beauty. At sixteen, strolling up Baltimore’s teeming Charles Street on the arm of her father on the first day of September 1846, she turned heads of men and women alike. With her dapper, derby-wearing father at her side, resting her hand on his gray waistcoat sleeve, she noticed passersby staring approvingly. But it did not occur to her that it was she, her powder blue cotton dress swaying and her hatless, honey-colored hair cascading in rivulets around her elegant neck, embraced by the lace trim of her white spencer, who was the primary object of admiring eyes.

Christened Arrabelle Ryan in Baltimore’s Basilica of the Assumption, the first Roman Catholic cathedral in America, she had spent her childhood in this very neighborhood, which stretched from Inner Harbor at the Patapsco River up the incline of the merchant avenue of Charles Street to Federal Hill to the 178-foot marble pillar of the original Washington Monument and Mount Vernon Place. Although the Ryan home was only about a mile from the Cathedral—as Baltimore natives referred to the neo-classical church, rectory and convent school—her father had enrolled her in the Cathedral’s boarding school where she had studied the classics, music, and fine arts. The teaching nuns considered Arrabelle a brilliant and creative student but far too mischievous, in their words, to be considered for sacred vows.

Upon her graduation in June, the nuns recommended to her father that he explore employment opportunities at an appropriate shop on Charles Street, just a few blocks from the Cathedral that had been the center of Arrabelle’s young life.

Not only had Arrabelle been christened and educated in this neighborhood, she had fond memories of spring Sundays in Mount Vernon Place after mass, where she and her older sister, Anna, mingled with eligible young gentlemen under the watchful shadow of George Washington’s memorial. All predicted that a young woman of Arrabelle’s beauty and skill would be married within the year, so she needed only a brief distraction.

The nuns had explained to the girls’ merchant father that a respectable employment on Charles Street would keep Arrabelle within the familiar environment of church, school, and family even as it allowed the spirited girl to venture modestly into a somewhat larger world. They went so far as to recommend a certain dress shop on Charles Street between Saratoga and Pleasant Streets. Her mother, who deferred to her husband in these matters and who had never known what to do with her younger daughter, was in agreement. And so, John Paul Ryan arranged an appointment with his fellow merchant, Betsy Osbourne.

Arrabelle’s father owned and operated a religious supply store. He liked to introduce himself by saying, I was named after the saints, not the sailor. Privately his daughter thought that despite his piety, her father might, in his heart of hearts, have wished for a life more like that of the adventurer Captain John Paul Jones. John Paul Ryan had no sons. Perhaps this was even why he, not her mother—a Merrill from Boston with no particular objection but no particular desire—had insisted that his youngest girl be raised with many of the privileges normally reserved for sons, the most important of which was education.

It was a lovely morning for a walk. The muggy Baltimore summer temperatures had abated, and the chill of autumn had not yet arrived. Arrabelle loved the smell of steamed softshell crabs at Inner Harbor and the sweet scent of the Pabst Brewery hops mingling with the breeze off Chesapeake Bay. As they began their ascent up Charles Street, she squeezed her father’s arm and closed her eyes. I can almost tell what block I’m on by the smell, she whispered.

She felt a warm intimacy that her father was escorting her to her new unchartered life as a young woman.

At the corner of Saratoga and Charles, her father pointed across the street. That is the establishment.

They waited at the walkway curb for a number of carriages to rumble by then briskly crossed Charles Street. Betsy Osbourne’s Dress Shoppe was a two-story building, fronted with a large bay window that displayed two elegantly clad mannequins. The building was painted cream, with rust-colored woodwork framing the front bay window. Father and daughter stepped up the stoop that marked the shop’s entrance at the side of the building.

There were no shoppers in the store yet. A woman with a trace of the Rubenesque, her round face jovial and hair that defied discipline, approached. You must be Mr. Ryan and you, his lovely daughter. She half bowed at her waist.

Mrs. Osbourne, I wish to present my younger daughter, Arrabelle, and inquire if she might find employment in your fine establishment.

Respectfully, Arrabelle half curtsied, and Betsy Osbourne acknowledged her with a nod.

My daughter completed her studies in June, and the nuns have taught her well. She’s fluent in French and quite facile on the piano—two aptitudes that utterly escape me.

And I as well, Mr. Ryan, Mrs. Osbourne graciously admitted. Turning to Arrabelle, she said, That’s quite a lovely dress, Miss Ryan. The woman observed the cut of the girl’s gown, lighter than the fashion of the day in that it required no rigid whalebone to support her corset, its bodice clinging to, rather than restraining her body.

Thank you, ma’am. I made it myself. Arrabelle glanced around the room. In addition to the backs of the bustle-clad mannequins, she noted three dress racks with distinctly different styles of garments. Along one wall were three floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the reflections of which seemed to expand the width of the room. Doors to the right of each mirror led to dressing cubicles. In the rear corner of the room, a banister announced a stairway to the lower floor.

My daughter sews most of her own clothes, her father added, as Arrabelle, with Ms. Osbourne’s permission, fingered hanging gowns.

I see, Betsy said, A craft she no doubt learned from her mother?

In fact, not, Mrs. Osbourne. My wife and daughter have somewhat different tastes. It was John Paul’s great sadness that his wife and younger daughter did not share more past times together. But Arrabelle was who she was, and she was not her mother’s daughter. It was as if the girl had sprung from a different soil altogether. The convent nuns trained her, and they were the ones who suggested I speak with you about employment. They felt your shop a suitable establishment for a young lady’s employ.

Taking a hanging silk chemise between her fingers, Arrabelle tried to imagine how it would feel on her skin. At the mention of her mother, she glanced over her shoulder at her father, scarcely able to contain her irritation. Though grateful that he had seen to her education, unaided by the good sisters, Arrabelle had taught herself to wed needle and fabric into beauty. She did so not for utilitarian purposes but because she loved to imagine a dress then execute its creation. From her mother, the former Abigail Merrill, she had learned how to set a table, write a proper thank you note, walk and talk, greet a husband, father, beau or servant, eat politely and sniff a flower. Abigail had also given her daughters lessons on how to faint without injuring themselves, a skill Arrabelle vowed never to employ.

As a childless widow, it was acceptable in the society of the day for Mrs. Osbourne to be the proprietress of a successful business. And perhaps because Maryland was the only Catholic colony of the original thirteen, the religious tolerance of its founders had inculcated a bit of freedom from the dour black and gray attire of Anglo-Saxon Puritanism. The garments on display in Betsy Osbourne’s shop were hardly subversive of Victorian virtues. But she did encourage her girls, as she referred to her eight dressmaking employees irrespective of age or marital status, to experiment with pastels beyond the virginal whites so prevalent in sultry Baltimore summers.

Mrs. Osbourne turned to John Ryan and said, Perhaps you will allow your daughter and me to chat for just a bit?

But of course, Mrs. Osbourne. I confess to a gentleman’s ignorance in matters of female attire. I have an appointment at the Chancery office that should give you all the time you require.

Excellent, Mrs. Osbourne agreed.

As Arrabelle’s watched her father walk out the door, she felt a slight pang. Her gaze followed his suited back until it disappeared in the crowded street. She noticed four gaily dressed young women entering the Lutz Hotel across the street. Their youthful beauty, elegant attire, and graceful carriage made her wonder if they were what her mother would call women of ill repute. Yes, perhaps. Yet their immaculate appearance rebelled at such an artless appellation. From a distance, everything about them seemed most artful. Their dresses were rich in colors and elaborate in style. Almost as soon as they had appeared, they disappeared between two Doric columns into the five-story Lutz Hotel.

Mrs. Osbourne followed her young charge’s eyes with circumspect interest. She then led Arrabelle on a guided tour of her establishment. First, they preceded downstairs to a nicely appointed sub-basement, furnished with three rows of long tables with chairs. On the tables were fabrics, sewing equipment and garments in various stages of construction. Mrs. Osbourne explained that this was the work area for her seamstresses, who would all arrive in the next half hour. She pointed out fitting and dressing cubicles that provided privacy for patrons and employees to custom-make ladies’ apparel.

Mrs. Osbourne led Arrabelle out of the workroom up to the second floor. Like the shop’s ground level, the second floor was expansive and well-lit. A windowpane arch invited light and gave the room an airy feeling. Along the full length of the room’s sidewalls were floor-to-ceiling oak closets. Head-high cabinets separated each of the wall closets. In the right corner of the room was a roll-top desk, two chairs and a black wrought iron combination safe.

She invited the young woman to be seated and took her own seat in front of her uncluttered roll-top oak desk. Some tea, perhaps? she inquired.

Arrabelle politely demurred. She cleared her throat. Mrs. Osbourne, if you would be so kind. What would be my salary and hours? How would I be of service here, precisely?

To Arrabelle’s delight, Betsy Osbourne did not appear offended by her brashness. The older woman noticed that Arrabelle’s gray eyes had turned green, as if indicating the girl’s excitement.

My dear, I see that you are more than a young woman looking to bide her time before being married off. No doubt I will be able to use you well. She went on to relate a modest salary and length of the working day.

Arrabelle pointed to the large oak wall closets bordering both sides of the room. What, if I may inquire, are those for?

Mrs. Osbourne’s cheeks flushed slightly, but she answered calmly. We store our more formal attire there. The gowns inside are quite elaborate and reserved for special occasions and…special customers. The ladies who favor such gowns prefer a bit of mystery.

Curiosity shone in Arrabelle’s eyes. Indeed, Arrabelle said, sensing something undisclosed in Betsy Osbourne’s reply.

Mrs. Osbourne studied the curious girl for a moment before asking, Would you like to see one?

Oh, could I?

Betsy took a key from a chain around her neck and unlocked one of the panel doors. From within, she withdrew a gown of burgundy satin. Its neckline plunged, and it was accented with the finest black lace.

A thrill passed through Arrabelle, and she gasped. It’s marvelous. May I?

Betsy nodded, and the girl examined the stitching as if memorizing it.

Mrs. Osbourne, I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but what are your expectations of me as your employee?

Betsy Osbourne smiled, then raised a thin eyebrow and replied, My dear girl, it is not I who have expectations. As the proprietress, I have requirements. I demand of all my employees the same standards. They are not to be tardy, their appearances suitable, but not dramatic. And they must be loyal and diligent. Expectations, my dear, like dreams and ambitions, are entirely yours.

Arrabelle smiled broadly. She wanted to tell Mrs. Osbourne how much she liked her but feared that such an expression would make her seem too giddy. She’s so different from Mother, Arrabelle thought. Abigail Merrill Ryan was a quiet, stern, thin woman who always wore her hair parted down the middle and pulled back severely. Arrabelle felt that her mother never understood that she had dreams because Abigail had never had any of her own. She was a wife and mother, and that was all that was expected of her. Yet, Arrabelle thought, this childless widow, whom I barely know, seems to possess more confidence and interest in me in the few moments we’ve chatted than Mother has shown in my lifetime.

Did you enjoy your stay with the nuns? Betsy Osbourne asked, I’m told they are excellent teachers.

Arrabelle smiled. Well, as you can imagine, the wardrobes were not terribly exciting, but the library certainly was. But yes, I think the sisters were excellent tutors, given the limits within which women are taught.

Leaning forward slightly, Mrs. Osbourne said, I’m afraid my education has been limited to life experiences.

Perhaps the greatest teacher of all, Arrabelle mused sincerely.

But not always the gentlest.

Arrabelle restrained herself from asking more. She thought, too, of the injustices that prevented her sex from matriculating to Harvard or Yale, or even for that matter to the Jesuits at Georgetown founded by Baltimore’s own Archbishop John Carroll. She decided to save for another time the information that the dear nuns had tolerated her studying French only until her love of the language led her to an unhealthy interest in French philosophers and the French Revolution.

Deftly changing the subject again and with uncanny prescience, Mrs. Osbourne said, I’m curious about the cut of your dress. Do I detect a Parisian influence?

Only insofar as my imagination interprets French novels, Arrabelle answered. What I attempt to accomplish with needle and fabric is…escape.

Mrs. Osbourne smiled. Escape from?

Oh, the feeling of being trapped in my clothes. I seek to fit garments to my body, not my body to garments. My first attempt to do away with the whale bone was cream cotton sateen with a natural muslin lining.

Betsy smiled again and, glancing at Belle’s well-formed figure, added, Perhaps when you’re my age, a whale-bone will serve a more utilitarian purpose.

Perhaps. Arrabelle shrugged. But I still feel multiple petticoats and a posterior bustle are more like poorly drawn cartoons than ornaments of beauty. I think Greek sculpture selects the female form because the lines express motion in stone. We spend hours practicing how to walk or lift a teacup to our lips to display the natural fluidity of our bodies, then drape ourselves in garments that have all the allure of a soldier’s tent.

Still smiling faintly, Betsy rose from her chair and stepped over to a wrought iron wall safe. After entering the combination, she removed three portfolios and spread them on her desk. Perhaps you’d like to see some of the latest Parisian designs.

The two women thumbed through what seemed to Arrabelle to be a French anthology of drawings of bonnets, formal gowns, recreational attire, petticoats, pantaloons, corsets, and even women’s slacks.

Arrabelle felt breathless. Oh, my goodness. It’s just like I imagined. The lines and the grace… I can almost feel the flow of the gowns.

Well then, you must employ your French to translate the texts for me so we can discover the best fabrics.

Arrabelle scrunched up her shoulders shyly. You mean you’re hiring me?

Indeed, my dear. Indeed. Although I daresay that you are the one who has interviewed me today. Betsy Osbourne raised an amused eyebrow.

Oh, please forgive me, Mrs. Osbourne. I…

My dear, interrupted Arrabelle’s new employer, never apologize for a stitch well sewn.

THE LUTZ HOTEL

In her first year as a dressmaker, Arrabelle quickly became Betsy Osbourne’s favorite. Her fingers were faster and more facile than those of any seamstress Mrs. Osbourne had ever employed. And Arrabelle always remained after closing time, assisting Mrs. Osbourne in closing down and preparing for the next business day. She was particularly gracious and helpful to customers, complimenting them on their taste or counseling them on style or colors. Ladies began requesting Arrabelle’s assistance in their shopping. And she respected the other employees with whom she worked, all senior to her in point of years and time of service. She peppered them with questions, investing them with wisdom born of greater experience, and was patient, if not sincerely interested, when they prattled about men or gossiped about each other. With her flashing smile and innocent wit and charm, she avoided the petty jealousies that her beauty might have occasioned in her dourer workmates. To Mrs. Osbourne, she was a blessing. No task proved too small nor responsibility too great for Arrabelle Ryan.

One evening as she and Mrs. Osbourne were closing, the store bell clanged. Arrabelle peered through the windowpane.

In the shadows of Charles Street’s gaslights, she spotted a short, squat gentleman dressed in seaman’s suit and captain’s cap. He was accompanied by the shadowy figure of a woman an inch or so taller than he. Through the door window, Arrabelle mouthed the words, We’re closed. I’m sorry.

The gentleman called out, Madame Osbourne, it is I, Captain Fourçade. May we impose upon you for a moment?

Arrabelle turned to see Betsy Osbourne’s expressive eyebrows rise. A crack of a smile appeared, and she nodded to let the couple in. Arrabelle slid the iron deadbolt and opened the door.

"Merci, mademoiselle," Captain Fourçade said, his eyes taking her in.

Arrabelle greeted him with a deferential nod. He appeared to be a middle-aged man with black, slicked-down hair and a thick, waxed mustache that curled upward at its tips. His large, round, dark brown eyes gave an impression of perpetual gawking. In contrast to the Captain’s homely, almost comical face, the woman he escorted was a dark-haired beauty, clad in burgundy satin that complemented her olive skin. Arrabelle immediately recognized the woman’s gown. It had been the one hanging in the shop’s locked wall-closet on Arrabelle’s first day. The lovely, elegant woman swept past Arrabelle and embraced Betsy Osbourne, busing both cheeks, a fragrance of jasmine floating in her wake.

Captain Fourçade bowed at the waist and said, My apologies, Madame, for such a late arrival. We’ve just docked, and I have a gift for you.

My dear Captain, your presence is gift enough. Turning to the young woman, Betsy said, Magdalena, ’tis always a pleasure. May I present my assistant, Miss Arrabelle Ryan?

Arrabelle curtsied to the couple.

Magdalena’s black eyes momentarily studied Arrabelle. Her thin eyebrows rose, and she said to no one in particular, "Très belle."

Captain Fourçade returned to the door well and motioned to the street. Two uniformed sailors appeared out of the dim and carried a large wooden crate into the store, setting it on the floor.

My heavens. What do we have here? Mrs. Osbourne asked.

It’s a sewing contraption. I discovered it in the hold of a ship in London. You’d be astonished at the peculiar items one finds in abandoned vessels. Where would you like me to open the crate?

Perhaps your men could take it downstairs, Mrs. Osbourne suggested warily.

"Allez." the captain ordered.

His sailors struggled to lug the large wooden shipping crate down the narrow stairway. Arrabelle, her employer, and the odd couple followed. The sailors’ difficulty came more from the bulk of the crate than its weight. Betsy Osbourne pointed to a rear corner of the room, and the sailors deposited their burden.

As the men pried open the crate with crowbars, Captain Fourçade explained, I have been told that a French tailor invented this device. He claimed it would revolutionize garment production. Rumor has it that he may have been correct as the French Army commissioned his shop for a dozen machines to produce their uniforms. Apparently, his early success with his invention caused an uproar among Parisian tailors, who promptly stormed the inventor’s plant and razed it by fire.

Magdalena threw her head back and laughed. "Les Parisens sont fous...so excitable."

Arrabelle added, "Mais aussi, très excitants." It was terrible how innovation had ended in destruction, but she also had sympathy for any overcome by strong emotions.

Captain Fourçade, impressed by the purity of Arrabelle’s accent, turned to her and asked, "You have been to Paris, cherie?"

Only in literature and my imagination. Arrabelle smiled shyly, delighted that a true Frenchman complimented her accent.

Mrs. Osbourne interrupted, I have an absorbing curiosity to learn what happened to that French tailor.

Captain Fourçade grinned, Fearing for his life, the inventor fled to England where he died a pauper. It seems the English were no more enthusiastic than my countrymen about his sewing machine. I have no idea how or if it works but thought you, Madame, might find a use for it.

The three women circled the uncrated wooden contraption and examined it. While Betsy and Magdalena scanned the waist-high tan-colored machine, Arrabelle studied it intently and ran her fingers over its tabletop parts. She noted that a barbed needle would pass downward through the cloth to grab the thread on a tube-like roller then be pulled up to form a loop locked by the next loop. She reached for the knob of the wheel that set the parts in motion. With her right hand, she attempted to rotate the wheel, but it was either stuck or so tightly constructed as to require two arms to make the machine function. The contraption reminded her of a demonstration she had seen during her summer visit with her maternal grandmother. What is it, Arrabelle? You seem familiar with the Frenchman’s machine.

Oh, Mrs. Osbourne, Arrabelle replied. Last summer, visiting my grandmother in Boston, I witnessed a demonstration of a machine like this. Actually, it looked quite a bit different, but I suppose it served similar purposes.

So you know how to operate this thing? Mrs. Osbourne asked Arrabelle.

I’m not sure. Perhaps, with time, I could discern it.

Arrabelle, does the machine you saw demonstrated in Boston operate in the same or similar manner? Magdalena gently inquired.

I’m not certain. I can tell you what I observed and what little I did learn. The inventor of the sewing machine I saw in Boston was a Mr. Elias Howe. He claimed that his machine could do the work of five seamstresses in less time and more precisely. And it was true. I saw it with my own eyes. I thought it quite a remarkable demonstration.

No wonder French tailors were so outraged, Captain Fourçade remarked.

Betsy Osbourne asked, Does your memory serve you well enough to remember Mr. Howe’s price?

I’m afraid not, Arrabelle confessed. But I do recall that it seemed to me frightfully expensive. Perhaps that is why the ladies exhibited so little enthusiasm for it.

More likely, Magdalena wryly remarked, the good New England matrons were as frightened as those rabid French tailors by its function. After all, such an invention would appear to steal a third of their useful, female lives. Liberated from sewing family wardrobes, they might be tempted to read a sonnet or even have an independent, original thought of their own.

Arrabelle studied Magdalena’s smiling expression. Not only was the lady beautiful, her obvious intelligence and almost contemptuous words intrigued and frightened the younger woman.

Ladies, I’m afraid we must be off, Captain Fourçade announced. Magdalena and I are attending the Governor’s Ball, and we have barely enough time to change. Madame, please accept my humble gift in appreciation for the many kindnesses you have extended to Magdalena and me.

The scent of Magdalena’s perfume lingered in Betsy Osbourne’s Dress Shoppe after the couple had departed for The Lutz Hotel. Wide-eyed and breathlessly, Arrabelle asked, Who is she?

Betsy hesitated, then spoke slowly, studying Arrabelle’s reactions. My dear, she’s a courtesan. Undoubtedly, Baltimore’s most…notable. She maintains her salon across the street at The Lutz. Henri Fourçade is a French sea captain, a man of rank, as are all of the gentlemen guests at The Lutz. I have known them both for some time and have done much business with them.

Arrabelle felt her heart pounding in her chest and prayed that Betsy did not notice her cheeks flush.

Are you shocked, my dear?

Perhaps, Arrabelle replied as she deadbolted the front door. But one cannot love French literature, as I do, and fail to admire the gay beauty and wit of Parisian salons…and the women who grace them, she hesitantly confessed.

Then you are not offended that I misled you about the elaborate gowns in my second-floor wall closets?

Arrabelle fought back a sly smile and shook her head.

Mrs. Osbourne continued. Captain Fourçade has been the source of the Parisian designs that you have been translating for me. I have made dresses for Magdalena and her other courtesan friends. For appearances’ sake, she visits the shop only after hours, and I labor on her wardrobe when none of my girls are here. Frankly, it has become quite burdensome, but the courtesans and their gentlemen are extremely generous.

Arrabelle gently grasped her employer’s hand and said, How can I help?

Betsy Osbourne was silent for a moment, contemplating the proper response. To involve a sixteen-year-old girl in creating fashions for Baltimore’s fallen women was less than respectable. Yet from Arrabelle’s first days in the dress shop, the two had developed a rapport that was both easy and dear. And the girl was so bright, so eager and talented. Betsy chose candor when she said, Arrabelle, I would very much like you to take over the design and creation of apparel for Magdalena and her sisters. I suggest that you meet with her privately at The Lutz for fittings and such. I think you will find her easy to work with. Of course, these responsibilities must take place after store hours, and she will pay your compensation. Simply add what she’ll understand as a ten percent surcharge to my store price.

Arrabelle smiled. I suggest fifteen percent is a more reasonable figure.

Fifteen?

Shrewdly, Arrabelle explained, Yes. Ten percent is for my services, and another five percent for my discretion.

Both women laughed heartily and hugged in agreement.

Betsy let Arrabelle out the door where the shop’s buggy waited to take her home. The teamster helped Arrabelle up onto the carriage seat. She stared across the street at The Lutz Hotel. Its two Doric granite columns stood sentry-like, guarding a massive brass framed door. She tried to imagine the interior. But only the vision of Magdalena, draped in jasmine-scented burgundy, came to her. She both wondered and worried about the prospect of working with her. She had no concept of the protocol of relating to a woman of such manifest intelligence and dubious profession. She had surprised herself by so quickly agreeing to join her employer’s dubious business relations with soiled doves, as they were called in Catholic Baltimore. Yet her heart beat more rapidly when she tried to imagine the mysteries that awaited this newest endeavor.

CHARLES STREET MERCHANTS

As a seamstress’s assistant, Arrabelle was introduced to the art of managing others, and her design and sewing tasks for Magdalena infused breadth and depth into her imaginings of courtesan life. Being a productive worker imposed a much different regime on Arrabelle than what she had experienced as a brilliant student.

Every evening after days spent crafting gowns for ladies her family would not call ladies, she jumped from Betsy’s carriage in front of her home and waved her driver goodnight. She would stand for a moment on the wooden sidewalk and scan the two-story, brick building in which she had spent her entire life. The light in her bedroom shone through a second-floor front window. Her sister, Anna, stayed awake to greet her. Arrabelle couldn’t share with Anna that she’d met a courtesan at work, much less that she had agreed to work for her. She dearly loved her older sister, but Anna was very much their mother’s daughter. The realization that she was keeping secrets from Anna made Arrabelle wonder, Do I still belong in the house of my childhood?

She no longer had time for idle adolescent musings and felt that little of the mundane occurred during her six-day, ten-to-twelve-hour labors. Her social life was mostly limited to informal gatherings of young men and women in Mt. Vernon Park after Sunday Mass. But in the frigid Baltimore winter, these events were severely limited. The only time Arrabelle had for quiet reflection was writing in her diary before turning off the kerosene lamp on the small walnut nightstand that separated her bed from her sister’s.

One November night, as a storm lashed at their bedroom windowpanes, Anna said, Arrabelle, you seem to be spending more and more time writing in your diary. Is there anything you’d like to tell your big sister?

Arrabelle looked over to Anna, who had pulled her down comforter up under her chin. Arrabelle’s diary entries were all in French to assure that no one in her family could penetrate her privacy. But she dearly loved Anna, and if her writing had been about boys or schoolgirl subjects, she might have responded bigheartedly to her sister’s curiosity. But there was no way that Arrabelle’s independent income and how she earned it could be explained to her innocent, loyal sister. And these were the entries that filled her diary.

Anna, since I’ve been working for Mrs. Osbourne, I make daily lists of what I must do and sometimes customers’ measurements or fabric orders. Things like that. It’s hardly passionate prose.

I see.

Just then, their mother made the sharp rap on the door that was her perfunctory goodnight.

Goodnight, baby sister, Anna said, with a