Chapter One
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient
Mariner
San Francisco — August 1857
"Murder? Impossible!" Della Stared at her landlady in
disbelief, but the woman only nodded her neat gray head.
"Murder," she repeated. "That's what they're saying in the
streets. Mr. Potts claims it was the Dr. Mirabula's
Sovereign Remedy for Ague you sold him that carried off
his wife last night. And that apothecary, Mr. Willis, is
telling everyone who will listen that it must be true."
The bristle brush she'd been pulling through her thick,
carroty curls hung suspended as Della absorbed the
words. "That's preposterous! I mixed that remedy myself.
It contains nothing but vanilla, quinine, and a jigger of
brandy. It may not cure the ague, but it's perfectly
harmless. More likely it was one of Mr. Willis' own brews
at fault."
Mrs. Lewis shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised. But be that
as it may, I've turned away four people already this
morning wanting their money back for medicines you'd sold
them, and I fear there'll be more. This could take an ugly
turn, dearie. "
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it could." Remembering the vigilante
sweeps of the previous year, Della shuddered. More than a
few accused "criminals" had been hanged without benefit of
trial, and on evidence that was sketchy at best. Standing
up from the dressing table, she crossed the tiny room in
three steps and cautiously parted the yellow chintz
curtains to peer outat the dusty street below.
A crowd had gathered two blocks away, in front of the
Euphemia, once a landlocked ship and now converted to a
hotel. Even from this distance she could hear the high,
nasal voice of Mr. Willis as he shouted and gestured
toward Mrs. Lewis' boardinghouse. The apothecary had been
trying to put her out of business for months, seeing her
as his greatest competitor. Now it looked as though he
might succeed.
Selling patent medicines had been Della's mostsuccessful
enterprise yet, first in the outlying min-ing towns, then
in Sacramento, and now in SanFrancisco. A dash of this and
a dash of that, andshe could command far higher prices
than hersewing or produce had ever brought in. Of
course,most of her remedies were useless, which causedher
the occasional twinge of conscience. But she'dalways made
absolutely certain they would causeno harm, in accordance
with Hippocrates — and incontrast to others peddling
medicines, to includeMr. Willis.
"They're getting louder. What will you do?" The landlady
wrung her hands vigorously, as though to compensate for
Della's immobility.
"Do?" She turned from the window and shrugged with
resignation. "Why, leave, I suppose.
Mrs. Lewis stared. "Leave? Leave San Francisco, you mean?
But if you're sure your tonic did no harm — "
At the moment, Della felt far older than her twenty years —
far older than Mrs. Lewis, even. "Of course I'm sure. But
that may not matter." Quickly she weighed her options.
She could face her accusers, attempt to prove her
innocence and dear her name. But the coroner was a
longtime friend of Mr. Willis, as was the chief of police.
And even if she prevailed against all odds, most of her
customers would likely desert her.
Two weeks ago she'd squandered most of her money on a new
dress, in hopes it might elevate her social standing — a
business investment of sorts-and she had yet to be paid
for most of the past two weeks' sales. Now she likely
wouldn't be, which meant she'd have nothing to pay her
creditors when they came knocking. And they might come at
any moment, as today happened to be steamer day, the twice-
monthly date when all San Francisco businesses — and
individuals — settled up accounts.
"At best, my business is ruined," she said to Mrs. Lewis
at the end of her ruminations. "At worst, I'll be charged
with murder. Leaving is the sensible thing to do."
She left unsaid what they both knew: Once a charge was
brought, the verdict would depend as much on public
sentiment as on the truth of the matter. Though the
vigilantes had officially disbanded, justice was still
frequently swift and careless in this exuberant young
city — especially when a prominent man such as Mr. Willis
had an incentive to affect the outcome.
"You're paid through the end of the month," Mrs. Lewis
reminded her, pale blue eyes crinkled with worry.
Della smiled at the woman's kindness. "Consider next
week's rent my gratitude for your help in this matter."
She glanced out the window again at the milling
crowd. "They'll be heading over here any time now. Hold
them off as long as you can while I slip out through the
kitchen. You've always been kind to me, Mrs. Lewis, and I
thank you." She absently kissed the landlady on the cheek,
already planning her escape.
As the woman bustled out of the room, ducking to herself,
Della's mind worked rapidly. With a decisive nod, she
pulled out her largest valise the trunk would be too
heavy — and began throwing necessities and her most
valuable possessions into it. The brooch and rings that
had been her mother's, her real silk scarf, the silver-
handled hairbrush. No room for her bottles of Carter's
Consumption Cure or Dr. Brown's Brain Tonic. Nor for her
new hooped dress, the beautiful but expensive green dimity
with the seed pearls that had taken her savings.
She'd wear that, she decided. Being dressed like the cream
of society might give her more choices. Besides, she
couldn't bear to leave it behind. She'd pack the old lilac
one she had on. She slipped her mother's wedding ring onto
her left hand, thinking she might pose as a married woman
or a widow. That would give her more freedom.
Unable to afford a maid, Delia owned only dresses with
front closures, so she was able to change quickly and
without help. Throwing an ivory shawl over her telltale
red hair, she tucked her few remaining twenty-dollar gold
pieces into her bodice and headed down the back stairs,
suitcase in hand.