down the hallway. “I hope it’s nothing serious. It would be awful if we had to stop work on the hospital now.”
I had no time to reply, as Margaret had stopped in front of a storeroom where dozens of old, rusty paint cans were piled everywhere. As she went on about projected occupancy, I’m afraid my mind wandered. Mama was right; Arlen appeared unusually upset. Moreover, I was sure it had something to do with the books. Raising money for a project of this magnitude was always a challenge, but I’d heard that thus far donations had been generous. What could be wrong?
Mama gave me a little nudge, and I came out of my thoughts to find the group trooping up the stairs to the top story. As we climbed, I glanced out a dirty window, surprised to see how dark it had become outside. Clouds blotted out the sun, and streaks of fog billowed in from the Bay to grip the streets with long, ghostly fingers.
I shivered and realized it had nothing to do with the chill warehouse or the gathering fog. Whatever Lucius Arlen was so anxious
to tell Mrs. Barlow, I had an ominous feeling it did not portend well for the new hospital.
I had not invited Robert to join me on my visit to Lily Mankin the following afternoon. As a matter of fact, I had actively opposed it. But of course the redoubtable Scot was not easily discouraged. He’d discovered where Lily Mankin lived, and he flatly refused to allow me to travel alone to this—according to him—less than reputable district. Ever since Joseph Shepard had bribed him into dogging my steps during the Nob Hill murders, he seemed to consider my safety his personal concern. In all fairness, this attitude had, upon occasion, proved useful. At the moment, it was simply annoying.
“What do you really know about Lily Mankin?” he demanded. “You’ve spoken to her what, twice? Yet here you go butting into her life. I can tell you who they’re going to blame if this little arrangement doesn’t work out.”
“Oh, Robert, do be quiet.”
“Blast it, woman, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it—”
“Far too many times. If you dare say it again, I’ll scream. I’m not interfering, Robert. I’m simply bringing Mrs. Mankin and the hospital together for their mutual benefit. And that is all I care to say on the subject.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, contemplative on my part, sulky on Robert’s. Ever since I’d toured the warehouse the day before, I’d been eager to give the widow the good news. Adelina French said Lily could move into her new rooms as soon as they’d been given a fresh coat of paint. The timing was perfect, as Lily had less than a week before she’d have to vacate her current premises.
When our clarence—a brougham converted into an extension-front hack capable of carrying four instead of the usual two
passengers—drew up before a frame house several blocks south of the Slot (that is, south of the Market Street cable car line), I was pleasantly surprised. The neighborhood, though poor and unpretentious, was hardly the disreputable district of Robert’s imagination. In fact, San Francisco teemed with areas like this, where hardworking men and women eked out a modest livelihood in the fastest growing city on the West Coast.
Lily, appearing weary and somewhat disheveled as she tried to calm the child squirming in her arms, seemed genuinely delighted to see us. Turning the toddler over to her daughter, she led us into a room that evidently served as kitchen and parlor for the family. Through an open door, I spied a second, smaller room, furnished with a small bed and several cots. Toys were scattered about, but otherwise the room appeared spotlessly clean. The dingy walls were hung with prints—most of a religious nature—as well as several beautifully executed embroideries, which I assumed the widow had done herself. Beside the room’s only overstuffed chair sat a basket of mending, most of it, I’m sure, sent over by Mama and her
I had no time to reply, as Margaret had stopped in front of a storeroom where dozens of old, rusty paint cans were piled everywhere. As she went on about projected occupancy, I’m afraid my mind wandered. Mama was right; Arlen appeared unusually upset. Moreover, I was sure it had something to do with the books. Raising money for a project of this magnitude was always a challenge, but I’d heard that thus far donations had been generous. What could be wrong?
Mama gave me a little nudge, and I came out of my thoughts to find the group trooping up the stairs to the top story. As we climbed, I glanced out a dirty window, surprised to see how dark it had become outside. Clouds blotted out the sun, and streaks of fog billowed in from the Bay to grip the streets with long, ghostly fingers.
I shivered and realized it had nothing to do with the chill warehouse or the gathering fog. Whatever Lucius Arlen was so anxious
to tell Mrs. Barlow, I had an ominous feeling it did not portend well for the new hospital.
I had not invited Robert to join me on my visit to Lily Mankin the following afternoon. As a matter of fact, I had actively opposed it. But of course the redoubtable Scot was not easily discouraged. He’d discovered where Lily Mankin lived, and he flatly refused to allow me to travel alone to this—according to him—less than reputable district. Ever since Joseph Shepard had bribed him into dogging my steps during the Nob Hill murders, he seemed to consider my safety his personal concern. In all fairness, this attitude had, upon occasion, proved useful. At the moment, it was simply annoying.
“What do you really know about Lily Mankin?” he demanded. “You’ve spoken to her what, twice? Yet here you go butting into her life. I can tell you who they’re going to blame if this little arrangement doesn’t work out.”
“Oh, Robert, do be quiet.”
“Blast it, woman, if I’ve said it once I’ve said it—”
“Far too many times. If you dare say it again, I’ll scream. I’m not interfering, Robert. I’m simply bringing Mrs. Mankin and the hospital together for their mutual benefit. And that is all I care to say on the subject.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, contemplative on my part, sulky on Robert’s. Ever since I’d toured the warehouse the day before, I’d been eager to give the widow the good news. Adelina French said Lily could move into her new rooms as soon as they’d been given a fresh coat of paint. The timing was perfect, as Lily had less than a week before she’d have to vacate her current premises.
When our clarence—a brougham converted into an extension-front hack capable of carrying four instead of the usual two
passengers—drew up before a frame house several blocks south of the Slot (that is, south of the Market Street cable car line), I was pleasantly surprised. The neighborhood, though poor and unpretentious, was hardly the disreputable district of Robert’s imagination. In fact, San Francisco teemed with areas like this, where hardworking men and women eked out a modest livelihood in the fastest growing city on the West Coast.
Lily, appearing weary and somewhat disheveled as she tried to calm the child squirming in her arms, seemed genuinely delighted to see us. Turning the toddler over to her daughter, she led us into a room that evidently served as kitchen and parlor for the family. Through an open door, I spied a second, smaller room, furnished with a small bed and several cots. Toys were scattered about, but otherwise the room appeared spotlessly clean. The dingy walls were hung with prints—most of a religious nature—as well as several beautifully executed embroideries, which I assumed the widow had done herself. Beside the room’s only overstuffed chair sat a basket of mending, most of it, I’m sure, sent over by Mama and her
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