Ernest thought Fahn might have received a note in reply, but if she did, she never mentioned such a thing. And a few days later she moved upstairs into Maisie’s room.
Ernest suspected that whether Maisie found her mother or not, the Mayflower had set sail for good and was never coming back. She’d sealed her deal with her silence.
That revelation was finally confirmed when Mrs. Blackwell discovered Maisie’s wedding announcement a few months later in the society pages of the Seattle Times.
“It says here that Louis J. Turnbull and his young ward, the lovely Margaret N. Turnbull, have returned, after a European courtship and a marriage at sea, with plans for a honeymoon cruise around the world.” Mrs. Blackwell had sat down for once, as though the truth wearied her. Though the maids and the upstairs girls almost swooned.
The article didn’t mention Madam Flora. Not that Ernest was surprised.
“What is it with robber barons and their young puppy wives?” Mrs. Blackwell asked rhetorically. “First it was the copper king, William Clark, and his young ward, Anna Eugenia, now our Mayflower. God bless ’em all.”
Since hearing of Maisie’s nuptials, Ernest would occasionally notice her in the newspaper, where writers would describe her elegant dresses, her curled hair, dyed a light pink at the tips, an indulgence in the latest fashion craze, and the glittering diamond necklaces and bracelets she wore to yacht races or tennis matches at Viretta Park. But the articles on Seattle’s newest continental debutante never once mentioned her humble beginnings. It was as though Margaret Turnbull had been conjured out of thin air.
“She’s someone else these days,” Ernest said.
Professor True said, “There are people in our lives whom we love, and lose, and forever long for. They orbit our hearts like Halley’s Comet, crossing into our universe only once, or if we’re lucky, twice in a lifetime. And when they do, they affect our gravity.” He said, “You know what I mean? These people are special.”
Ernest nodded. Halley’s Comet had come and gone and the world hadn’t ended. But it wasn’t ever the same again. And if he ever missed Maisie, he only had to console himself by walking past the less glamorous places where she might have ended up, the cribs that Madam Flora had tried to shut down.
As Ernest thought about the police, he realized he hadn’t seen an officer on foot in weeks. Not even to stop by the Tenderloin to “ticket everyone for vagrancy,” which was merely a way of taxing the business. In the past Mrs. Blackwell would have cheerfully taken the papers from the officer, paid him the fines out of petty cash, offered him a slice of fresh-baked apple pie and a cup of coffee, and then tossed the tickets into the fireplace.
No more.
As Ernest looked up and down the street, searching for an officer in uniform, he heard bells ringing, cheering, and the roar of a crowd several blocks away. Then he heard singing—voices that sounded more like an army on the move.
“They never give up,” the Professor said as he pointed to a parade of women in black who were marching down the middle of Third Avenue.
From three blocks away, Ernest recognized Mrs. Irvine—the mother of the Mothers of Virtue. They were back, louder than ever, and in greater numbers than he’d ever seen, even though business had been quiet in the Garment District.
Rose and Violet came outside to watch the rally as they always did. As the women marched closer, Ernest could plainly read their banners and signs, the same ones that called for an end to the crib joints, casinos, saloons, taverns, bars, dance halls, and even the social drinking clubs. The normal rhetoric.
But this time he also saw that Mrs. Irvine was shouldering an ax.
“Hoo-boy, we’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Rose asked no one in particular.
“I read the latest in the paper this morning,” Violet said. “Since us women got the vote back, the suffragists have been reorganizing. They’ve formed a giant group. They’re on a new crusade—twenty thousand strong.”
“Looks like they’re all here.” Professor True pointed.
Ernest hadn’t seen that many people in one place since the closing of the world’s fair. He stood and backed up as the sea of women kept pouring down the street.
Many of the marchers carried brooms and yelled that they were here to “clean up” the Garment District. But just as many carried axes, sickles, and crowbars. Others stormed into saloons, past shocked, drunken patrons. Then they rolled out kegs of beer and smashed them open in the street with picks and hammers, like angry birds pecking a larger animal to death. Others flocked to the alleys, where they’d never gone before, knocking on doors and breaking up dice games.
Ernest noticed that the bawdy ladies who normally heckled the marchers peeked out from their second-and third-story windows and then retreated inside, closing their shutters or drawing their curtains and blinds to block out the horde.
As the marchers paraded past the Tenderloin’s front entrance, Mrs. Irvine sauntered over, ax in hand. “Where’s the lady of the house?” she demanded. “I have a little present I’d like to give to her personally—it’s been long overdue.” She reached into her deep dress pocket and withdrew a rolled-up paper.
“Who are you, Carry Nation?” Rose said, before Violet shushed her.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Professor True said, removing his hat and speaking gently. “But Madam Flora and Miss Amber are still gone, taking care of things overseas. She’ll be back soon. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to let her know that you paid us a visit.”
Mrs. Irvine smiled. “Well, in that case.” She handed the paper to Ernest. “Why don’t you take this, young man? And pass it along to everyone here with my regards. Oh, and Ernest, you do know that I’m a forgiving sort, so you’re always welcome to come back. As for the rest of this sorry lot…”
She turned on her heel and marched off singing a hymn.
“What’s it say?” Rose asked.
Ernest unrolled the paper. It was a legal notice, along with a page torn from The Seattle Star. The headline read: MAYOR GILL LOSES IN RECALL ELECTION. A NEW DAY FOR SEATTLE AS WOMEN UNITE TO MAKE THEIR VOICES HEARD.
The Professor took the paper, skimmed the headlines, and then translated the bad news. “Well, boy and girls, looks like the mayor and the police chief got caught with their pants down, financing that crib joint of theirs on lower Beacon Hill. So the city is busting up the neighborhood—all of the parlors and cribs. Thirty days’ notice hereby given.”
Rose asked, “What’s that mean?”
“It means we’re all out of a job,” the Professor said. “And a home too, for that matter. The mayor’s been kicked out of office, effective this week. And Wappenstein got reinstated as chief of police just in time to get himself arrested. The City Council is giving us a month to move out, or they’ll come down here with paddy wagons and take us away. Either way, says here there’s an unpaid lien on our building, plus a hefty fine against Miss Amber for operating all these years without a liquor license.” Professor True shook his head. “Now it’s illegal for you ladies to work anywhere that serves a touch of alcohol.”
Ernest thought of endless bottles of whiskey, brandy, port, and the cases of wine—and the men, the city officials who drank it.
“They can’t do this!” Rose looked as though she were about to storm into the parade and start swinging, but Violet held her back. “Miss Amber won’t allow it!”
That’s when Ernest heard Mrs. Blackwell from behind them. “It’s done, dear.” The cook removed her apron and bonnet and let them fall to the ground. “All of us, done for—it’s over.” In her other hand she held a wrinkled slip of yellow paper. Her face was ashen. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. A messenger boy came to the servants’ entrance with a telegram three months ago with news from Miss Amber. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings. But in light of things…”
The sounds of protest seemed to fade to a dull ringing as Mrs. Blackwell read the telegram aloud.