Victorian San Francisco Stories by M. Louisa Locke Page A

several long orange threads lying on the floor, bright against the dark brown of the carpet. She bent over, picked them up, and began to twist them around her index finger, thinking to herself of the old adage, another of her sister’s favorites, Waste Not, Want Not . She then saw several more of the orange threads, leading like so many breadcrumbs to the door to the bedroom. As she picked these up, she felt a growing unease.
    It was unlikely that the threads had come from either her sister or herself, because this morning, as they always did, they had brushed each other down and checked the soles of their shoes before leaving their attic rooms. This was one of Minnie’s rules. They were never to risk bringing the flotsam and jetsam of their craft into the homes of their clients. “We must be neat as a new pin,” she would say. They also tried to make sure that they left behind no bits of thread or cloth, but the orange thread suddenly put her in mind of the way they had been hustled out of Mrs. Roberts’s hotel suite the day before.
    Unbidden, Millie had a vision of Mrs. Roberts, her cotton chemise and petticoat catching the small loose threads from the unfinished seams and hem of the skirt they had been working on. But how could these threads have made it across town to the Porter’s home in the Western Addition?
    “Mrs. Porter,” Millie blurted out, “do you know a Mrs. Andrew Roberts?”
    Lydia Porter stopped fanning herself for a moment and stared at Millie, who felt the old familiar menagerie of panic: the tiny bird that fluttered in her chest, the coils of the snake that squeezed her throat closed and hissed in her ears, and the shaggy brown bear that loomed over her, cutting out the light. She stood still, willing herself not to faint, and slowly the comforting sounds of her sister’s voice chattering on about the benefits of drinking water with lemon penetrated her consciousness and released her from the paralyzing fear. Millie took a deep breath and walked unsteadily over to her sister, who looked questioningly at her. She wordlessly gave her the little pile of orange thread she had accumulated, and then she went and got poor Mrs. Porter her glass of water.
    *****
    Mrs. Annie Fuller looked across at her two elderly boarders, Miss Minnie and Miss Millie Moffet, and wondered if she would ever learn why they had asked her to join them after dinner. She had been glad to oblige since she didn’t have any clients scheduled for this evening (a widow, she supplemented the income from her boarding house giving business and domestic advice as the clairvoyant Madam Sibyl), and she had a deep affection and respect for these two spinster seamstresses who seemed to embrace life with such good cheer.
    However, Miss Minnie, the elder, had been speaking for nearly five minutes about the Christmas tree her family had when she was fifteen and her sister Millie was eleven, and Annie doubted very much if that had been the point of their invitation to join them in the formal front parlor of the boarding house. While Annie rather enjoyed imagining these two women as girls, stringing popped corn and dried cranberries around a fifteen-foot fir tree, her time this evening was limited. She had promised Nate Dawson, the local lawyer who was courting her, that she would be free if he stopped by, and he would not appreciate finding her chaperoned by Miss Minnie and Miss Millie since he had the unreasonable belief that they disapproved of him.
    Annie repressed a grin. Miss Minnie did have the habit of talking about the particular charms of the young men of Natchez when Nate was around. He said that this was proof they felt he wasn’t good enough for Annie. She thought that it was more likely that he simply reminded them of the gentlemen of their youth because he was clean-shaven, which had been the fashion back then, and because he treated them with such kind politeness.
    “… and that was the Christmas when our older brother brought