Page 5 of Native Hawk
There was no work available at the Assay Office. Nor were there any positions open at the bakery. She sidled discreetly past the Red Dog and Pair-o-Dice saloons. The boardinghouse could offer no pay, only free room and board in exchange for labor. The hall already had a caretaker. The barbershop would hire no women. And the Hill Hotel had enough Hills to fill all the available positions.
There was just one more business on this side of the street. It was at the spot where the woman in burgundy had disappeared. The beautifully scrolled red letters rimmed in gold above the door said simply The Parlor.
As soon as she turned the brass handle on the heavy oak door and stepped inside, she gasped in wonder and delight. This was the kind of elegance to which she was accustomed.
Here she fit in perfectly. Here she felt right at home.
The ceiling was high, like that of her family’s villa. A staircase led up to a balcony with a carved wood balustrade that looked down on the first floor. The large salon had a bar on one side and was filled with plush sofas and chairs which were upholstered in scarlet velvet to match the walls. An enormous mirror took up most of the wall behind the bar, reflecting the brilliant chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Flowers were placed in the middle of a few card tables and elsewhere around the room in vases of crystal. The scent of roses and lilacs mingled with traces of whiskey and tobacco, filling the salon with a pleasant aroma.
No one seemed to be here. She wondered where the woman in burgundy was.
As she gazed around the salon, it suddenly occurred to her that this might be a private residence.Santo cielo!Had she trespassed into someone’s home, without even ringing the bell?
Before Catalina could slip away, she heard a woman’s voice calling from the next room.
“You’re startin’ a little early, hon,” she said as she swept into the salon. “The girls don’t get up and around till—” She stopped when she laid eyes on Catalina.
The woman was older than Catalina had first assumed. The way her face was painted had made her look younger, at least at a distance. This close, the lines around her eyes were visible, and her cheeks were obviously rouged. Her burgundy dress was a bit worn in places, but it was well-fitted to her body. The velvet dipped with risqué daring at her neckline, clung to her waist, and flared smoothly over her hips. Her feathered hat perched at a playful angle atop her graying red hair. And a large ruby pendant sat upon her bosom. In this exquisite room, her formal clothing didn’t look out of place at all.
“I’m sorry,” Catalina said. “I did not realize this was—”
“Well, well.” The woman placed her hands on her hips and smiled. “If it ain’t the lady with the bustle. How do you do?”
“Good morning,” she said, still perusing the luxurious room.
“Come on in. You like the place?”
“Very much. It is beautiful. It reminds me of my home.”
The woman coughed. “Your home? Well.” She squinted. “Where do you call home?”
“Ferrar-…” Catalina caught herself before she slipped and revealed her true title. “Ferrazzano, in Italy.”
She didn’t want anyone to know exactly who she was or where she came from. If her father heard a young lady by the name of Ferrara had been found in America, he would track her down and bring her back. But she was also keenly aware of bringing further shame to her family name. According to her father, she was already a disgrace. She’d spurned suitors and engaged in artistic pursuits instead of marrying the man of his choice like an obedient daughter.
“Italy,” the woman repeated.
She was studying Catalina, discreetly sizing her up from head to toe. Not that it made Catalina terribly uncomfortable. After all, she did the same thing all the time. One could learn a lot about a person from the way they dressed.
If the woman was as discerning as Catalina, she’d realize Catalina was a woman of quality who took care with her appearance.
“Would you care for a cup o’ coffee? I just put a pot on.”
Catalina smiled and nodded. Finally, someone in this town was offering her hospitality.
From the next room, which Catalina assumed was the kitchen, the woman called out, “What brings a lady like yourself from Italy to this neck o’ the woods?”
Catalina frowned, puzzled. She wasn’t sure what a neck of the woods was. “I am a designer of clothings.”
“So I heard.” The woman entered with a tray. On it were a pot of coffee, two flowered bone china cups and saucers, spoons, a small pitcher of cream, and a bowl of sugar. “But why California? Why Paradise?”
She set the tray on a low table and gestured for Catalina to have a seat.
“My uncle came here twenty-five years ago for gold,” she said. “He said it was a beautiful place, a place to make a fresh start.”
The woman gave her a calculating glance as she poured the coffee. “So is that your plan—makin’ a fresh start?”
“Si,yes.” She didn’t know why, but she felt like she could confide in this woman. “My father did not wish for me to design clothings.”
