Prologue
Friday evening, November 12, 1880
San Francisco
The flickering light from the lamp was just enough for Marie to see her way over to the bedside. As she leaned over to pull up the quilt to cover her sleeping child, she softly rubbed its threadbare border against her own cheek. Conjuring up her grandmother’s presence, she imagined that the familiar spicy essence of the old woman still lingered in the blue and brown patches that formed the Evening Star pattern on the quilt––the quilt her grandmother had given her on her tenth birthday. The quilt lovingly assembled from the silk and satin scraps rescued during a life-time of sewing elegant dresses for vain and thoughtless women. The quilt that her grandmother had promised would one day grace Marie’s marriage bed.
Not the first or the last of the failed promises in her life.
She tucked the ends of the quilt around her daughter and carefully lifted an errant curl tangled in the lace collar of the child’s nightdress. Feeling the heavy, silk-smooth strand slip through her fingers, Marie smiled. Her daughter’s hair, the color of dark honey, and her eyes, the blue of the bluest evening star in the quilt, assured a bright future for Emmaline.
Brighter than her own.
No. She would not feel sorry for herself. Every choice she’d made in life had been made with eyes wide open…aware of the sacrifices…prepared for the disappointments. But she would not disappoint this precious child.
They would be so angry when she told them of her decision. Say she’d broken her promises. But the only promises she needed to keep were to her daughter. They were the only promises worth keeping.
Chapter One
Saturday morning, November 13, 1880
“CHARGED WITH SHOPLIFTING The Wife of a Respectable Business Man Accused of Theft”––New York Times Dec 19, 1880
“Mr. Dawson, sir, this policeman has asked to speak to you.”
Nate looked up to see his law clerk standing in front of a man wearing the dark navy blue uniform of a San Francisco patrolman. Registering the officer’s copper-colored hair and mustache, he stood up.
“Thank you, Rodgers. Officer McGee, what can we do for you?”
Annie, Nate’s wife, rose quickly from one of the sturdy wooden chairs facing his desk when she heard McGee’s name mentioned. “Patrick, has something happened? Is your Aunt Bea all right? Kathleen? One of the boarders?”
“Come on in, man, and tell us why you are here,” Nate said, sharing Annie’s fear that someone had been injured at their O’Farrell Street boarding house. Walking around his dark walnut desk, he put his hand reassuringly on his wife’s shoulder.
“Ma’am…sir. Please, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s not anyone. I mean it issomeone…”
The young man wiped his forehead and took a deep breath. “Sir, it’s Mrs. Dawson. I believe she’s your sister-in-law. She’s asked for your help.”
Annie exclaimed, “Violet? She’s in town?”
Nate felt as confused as his wife. Violet Dawson was married to his younger brother Billy, and they lived on the outskirts of San Jose, a couple of hours down the San Francisco peninsula by train. He couldn’t think why Violet wouldn’t have sent a letter or a telegram ahead of time if she needed to consult with him.
“Yes, ma’am, she is, and she needs Mr. Dawson’s help.”
“What kind of help? Has there been an accident?”
His sister-in-law was pregnant with her second child, and Nate suddenly thought of all the things that could happen to someone traversing the crowded San Francisco streets—attacks by rabid dogs, runaway carriages, a purse snatcher, a fall from a moving horse car.
“No sir. No accident. And it isn’t Mrs. Dawson, sir, that’s in trouble. It’s her mother. A Mrs. Kemper, I believe, who has the problem.”
Nate had only met Violet’s mother a couple of times, but he knew she frequently traveled up to San Francisco to shop, so it made sense that Violet would agree to accompany her mother. But if not an accident, then what?
Annie, pouring out a glass of water for the young policeman, said, “Please, Patrick. Do explain. What trouble has Mrs. Kemper gotten into? And how might we be of help?”
McGee took a long swallow, wiped his mustache, and nodded his thanks, handing the glass back to Annie. “Well, you see, ma’am,” he said, taking another deep breath. “Mrs. Kemper and her daughter were shopping at the Silver Strike Bazaar, that big new store on the corner of Powell and Sutter. I’ve been assigned to that beat. So if there is any disturbance, they call me in. This morning, one of the store’s floorwalkers came and got me. Took me up to the owner’s office––Mr. Robert Livingston, a nice old gentleman.”
Here Patrick paused. Nate saw his face flush. The young man was embarrassed. Why? Whatever could have occurred?
When he didn’t continue, Nate prompted him. “You were called into Mr. Livingston’s office. And is that where you encountered Mrs. Dawson and her mother, Mrs. Kemper?”
“Yes, sir.” Patrick nodded. Then in a rush he said, “It seems that Mrs. Kemper was caught trying to leave the store with some items she’d not paid for. She’s been accused of shoplifting.”
