by Deeanne Gist
Heavens, this bed was big. She scooted over, reaching, reaching. Nothing.
Abandoning all pretense, she sat up. ‘‘Lissa?’’ she whispered.
No answer.
She ran her hands all over the bed. Her heart began to pound. Perhaps she’d gone to the privy.
Placing her feet on the floor, she felt around for the lamp. ‘‘Michael?’’
No answer. But that wasn’t so unusual. Sometimes the odd jobs he picked up kept him out well after dark.
She hurried to the fireplace, stirred up the embers, and lit the lamp. The shanty was empty.
Rachel quickly dressed and checked the privy, then hurried down the alley. Staying in the shadows, she leaned against the side of the hotel. The Plaza took on such a dreamlike appearance at night. There were no public lamps, of course, but none were needed.
The slight construction of the frame buildings allowed lamplight from within to shine out through innumerable chinks, cracks, and knotholes, producing a most fantastic effect. The muslin walls of the numerous tents became wholly luminous, casting up gigantic silhouettes of grotesque figures.
Rachel scanned the crowds looking for some sign of Lissa, but with no luck. The daytime noise of saw and hammer had been replaced with loud talking, laughter, and music. Singing, dancing, and quarreling.
Yet something was different. Men normally swarmed around the glitter and music of the saloons, as a Plodia interpunctella to a flame.
But tonight they walked past tent after tent. All headed for the newly constructed two-story house on the north side of the Plaza. She’d heard it was to be the establishment of a noted courtesan. Yet it looked as respectable as any residence one might find back in New Jersey.
And, truly, she couldn’t quite reconcile herself to that beautiful structure being used for such decadent purposes. And right on the town square. No, she had dismissed it as nothing more than rumor.
Now she wasn’t so sure. The house was ablaze with light and activity. A line had begun to form at the door. And a lively waltz flowed through its windows.
Laughing, a group of men crossed right in front of her. She jumped back, but not quickly enough.
As one, they stopped. ‘‘Miss Van Buren. How are you this evening?’’
So many of the men in town knew her name, yet she knew hardly any of theirs. She squinted, realizing they were in costume. There were bandits, gypsies, and kings. There was even a ‘‘female’’ with nothing more than a crinoline fastened over his miner’s garb.
‘‘I’m fine, thank you,’’ she answered. ‘‘Where are you off to this evening?’’
Paper crowns, calico bonnets, and simple scarves were swiped off of heads.
A large, scruffy pirate spit a wad of tobacco to the side. ‘‘A costume ball, miss.’’
‘‘Oh? Who’s giving it?’’
The men shifted, each looking to the other.
A ‘‘French count’’ swept into a low bow before her. ‘‘A false visage is all that is required, mademoiselle, for entry into the soiree. If you deign to grace us with your presence, I pray you will save me a dance. Oui?’’
Good heavens. He had the accent down perfectly. Mayhap he was a real French count. One could never be sure of anything in this town.
‘‘Thank you, sir, but I’m afraid I have no plans to attend.’’
With as much grace as she could manage, she stepped back into the shadows, and the men continued on their way.
She pressed herself against the wooden siding of the hotel, covering her mouth. O Lord. Let Lissa return and squelch this awful premonition I am having. Please, Lord. Please.
But Lissa did not come home and Rachel’s distress escalated. What if the masquerade ball really was put on by a lady of easy virtue? And what if Lissa was there?
Rachel had discovered that the ladies of the night advertised for customers by throwing parties and by daily promenading about the Plaza. And she had caught Lissa avidly watching those promenades from the window of the hotel when she was supposed to be cleaning.
Instead of displaying repentance, the girl would ooh and aah over their fine silks and high-society fashions.
Rachel hugged her waist. She should have long ago put a stop to Lissa’s preoccupation with these women.
She moved back to the opening of the alleyway. The line in front of the house in question extended down Washington Street and beyond. She worried her lip. What to do? What to do?
She could wait on Michael, but sometimes he didn’t get home until well after the noon of night.
She peeked down the platform fronting the hotel. Lamps shone and music played, but no one loitered on the veranda.
Had Johnnie gone to the party? Surely not. He’d likely have customers, though few they might be.
But if Rachel was honest with herself, she knew, in her heart of hearts, that her sister had gone. And was most likely, at this very moment, dancing in the arms of a stranger . . . inside a brothel.
That thought alone provided her with the impetus she needed to lurch into the Plaza and stride to the brightly lit house. She didn’t even bother with waiting in line but went directly to the front door.
A large, burly sultan blocked her entrance. The red sash wrapped around his muscular waist held not only a sword but a pistol, as well. ‘‘You have an invitation?’’
She hesitated. ‘‘I don’t need one. Women are granted entry for free.’’
He smirked. ‘‘Not sunbonnets. Your kind aren’t allowed. You’d best go on home now, miss.’’
‘‘I’m, um, only dressed as a sunbonnet woman. This is a masquerade ball, isn’t it?’’
He took her by the shoulders, spun her around, and gave her a gentle push. ‘‘Good night, miss.’’
She turned back to him. ‘‘Please. I think my sister is in there, and I need to speak to her at once.’’
The man scowled. ‘‘I’m sorry, but you cannot come in.’’
‘‘I’ll only be a minute.’’
‘‘No.’’
She swallowed. ‘‘Then will you get her for me and bring her to me?’’
‘‘No.’’
She glanced at the men crowding the door but did not see the French count and his companions.
‘‘Will you help me, sir?’’ she asked the musketeer standing closest to her. ‘‘Do you know my sister?’’
The musketeer did not answer and would not meet her gaze.
‘‘Look, miss,’’ the sultan growled, ‘‘you are making my customers uncomfortable. Now, this is the last time I’m going to ask you to leave. After that, I’ll personally escort you home, if you get my meaning.’’
She squared her shoulders. ‘‘These gentlemen would not let you touch a hair on my head.’’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘‘Try me.’’
Glancing up his huge frame, she experienced her first bit of unease. He was a giant of a man, and he most likely knew exactly how to wield the weapons he wore. She had no wish to start a brawl. But there was more than one way to skin a cat.
She presented her back to him and made her way to the City Hotel.
The place was practically deserted. Soda laughed with a man at the plank bar and poured him a drink while that awful, awful statue proudly reigned over the room.
A group of men rolled some dice.
Carmelita sat skimpily dressed on the piano bench singing ‘‘Mr. O’Reilly’’ while a clean-shaven man Rachel had never seen banged out the notes.
Johnnie was nowhere in sight.
She quickly approached Carmelita. ‘‘Have you seen Lissa?’’
Carmelita stopped singing, reached over to take the cigarette out of the piano player’s mouth, and deeply inhaled.
Rachel swallowed her reaction. The girl had outlined her eyes with kohl. It looked positively wretched. A slow stream of smoke came from her puckered lips, interrupted by smoke swirling out her nostrils. ‘‘She no is here.’’
‘‘Do you know where she is?’’
The spangled camisole Carmelita wore hid nothing, revealing her entire upper body through its transparent film. ‘‘Same as everybody. She at the fiesta.’’
Rachel placed a hand against her stomach. She’d suspected, of course, but having those suspicions confirmed took the very breath from her body.
She looked to the window, then back at Carmelita. ‘‘I have a favor to ask you.’’
Carmelita flicked ashes from the cigarette.
‘‘I need to attend the party. But . . .’’ She moistened her lips. ‘‘I have nothing to wear. Might I borrow something of yours? I’ll pay you.’’
‘‘How much?’’
Rachel took a very deep breath. ‘‘Name your price.’’
The piano man started up on a new tune, eyeing them but saying nothing.
Carmelita crushed the cigarette tip into the bench. ‘‘I no can help.’’
‘‘Please. She’s just a child. I must bring her home, and I haven’t a moment to lose.’’
Carmelita rose. The two women stood face-to-face, each taking the measure of the other.
Finally, Carmelita sighed. ‘‘Come. I help you.’’
Thank you. Rachel followed her to the back, through the tiny kitchen, and out the door. Carmelita sailed past the shack and rounded the corner to a set of narrow stairs tucked into the side of the building. Rachel lifted her skirt and jogged up the steps.
Carmelita opened a door at the top and quickly lit a lantern. The room was shabby but clean, though a stale, closed-up smell pervaded the little cubicle. The orange cat lay curled up on a cot with a bunched up Mexican sarape at its side.
A battered chair and pork barrel sat tucked in one corner. Old calendars, gaudy hangings of silk and fancy cotton together with brightly colored flags decorated the coarse plank walls.
She wondered if this was where Carmelita entertained her customers, then dismissed it from her mind. This was Carmelita’s home. The place she lived.
A clothesline tied at eye level from one wall to the next held Carmelita’s wardrobe. A mélange of colors and spangles had been draped over it, causing the line to sag heavily in the middle.
The girl quickly flipped through the clothing, obviously looking for something in particular. Finding it, she shoved the clothes on top to the side and tugged a red skirt and bolero off the line.
‘‘Thank you. How much do I owe you?’’
‘‘I no take your money, señorita.’’
Rachel frowned. ‘‘But you must.’’
‘‘No. No money. Now quick,’’ she said. ‘‘Off with las ropas.’’
Rachel blinked. ‘‘I’m sorry?’’
‘‘Your clothes, your clothes. You must take off.’’
‘‘Oh, that’s quite all right. If you’ll simply give those to me, I’ll pay you and take them to my shack and put them on there.’’
‘‘Is too hard by yourself.’’ Carmelita pushed Rachel’s hands aside and with quick dexterity unfastened her dress. It crumpled to the floor. Rachel had not even bothered with a corset during her rush to find Lissa. Still, in fact, wore her nightgown in place of a chemise and petticoat. What would the woman think?
Carmelita tugged on the ties at Rachel’s neck.
Rachel captured the girl’s hands, holding them still. ‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘Is no good, señorita.’’ And with that, Carmelita disposed of the garment.
Standing in nothing but drawers, she crossed her arms over her bosom.
Carmelita lifted her brows. ‘‘Es muy bonita, sí?’’
Rachel felt heat rush up her neck and into her cheeks. ‘‘I’m going to need a mask of some sort.’’
‘‘No worry. We cover your face. No one know is you.’’ Turning, she yanked a gossamer chemise from the line and tossed it to Rachel. ‘‘Put this on.’’
She caught the garment one-handed. It was like holding a film of cobwebs. ‘‘No, Carmelita. Absolutely not. I’ll go get a chemise of my own.’’
‘‘Is no time.’’ She flipped back through her clothing. ‘‘Try this.’’
It was a cotton shift. Once she had it on, she realized it had an off-the-shoulder style and the neckline plunged daringly low. But with the bolero, her shoulders and torso would be covered.
Biting her lip, she secured the buttons along the front. Oh, but she was going to strangle Lissa when she got ahold of that girl.
Carmelita strapped an exquisitely made red corset—red—about Rachel’s midriff and helped her with petticoats and the red silk skirt, then rummaged through an old trunk hidden behind her clothing.
‘‘If you’re looking for a crinoline, no need to bother. I don’t wear them.’’
Rachel picked up the jacket and put it on. Land sakes. It was cropped off just below the bosom, calling attention to her exposed neckline above the chemise and the red corset hugging her waist. She tried to pull the edges together, but they would not meet. Clearly, the braided black frog closures were for decoration only.
‘‘I can’t wear this. It’s too small and my corset is showing.’’ She started to take it off but couldn’t get it past her elbows.
Carmelita surfaced with a black feathered domino. ‘‘Corset is supposed to show. That’s why is red.’’
‘‘No. I will not wear it. Now help me get this off.’’
A string of Spanish poured from Carmelita’s lips. Rachel had no knowledge of the language but was able to make a fairly good guess at the content.
‘‘No more time, señorita. Señor Parker no is happy when Carmelita no work. We must go. Hold this.’’ She placed the mask over Rachel’s eyes.
Out of reflex, Rachel reached up to hold it on. Carmelita tugged the bolero back up over Rachel’s shoulders and tied the mask on.
‘‘Ah, is Señorita of Mystery, yes?’’
Shooing Rachel out the door, Carmelita handed her a black fan and blew out the lantern.
The mask limited Rachel’s range of vision. She could only see what was directly in front of her. Disguising herself had seemed like such a good idea. Now she was not so sure. Perhaps she should simply wait.
Rachel tightened her lips. Of course, she couldn’t wait. She had to fetch Lissa. But, oh, was that girl going to get an earful once they returned home safe and sound.
And please, Lord. Please don’t let anyone recognize me.
chapter 10
Rachel hovered in the archway of the largest and noisiest parlor she’d ever seen, her black-feathered fan open and fluttering in double time. She had been given entrance by a different doorman. No sultan in sight.
The house reeked of smoke, perfume, sweat, and alcohol. Yet its interior decor smacked of wealth and affluence. White lace curtains, damask drapes, elegant fixtures, and luxurious furniture— though all furniture had been consigned to the perimeters of the vast room.
Along one wall, linen-covered tables held hundreds of bottles and decanters, manned by well turned-out butlers. Opposite the beverage tables was a full band and on the third side an ornately carved coffee-and-cake stand.
The centerpiece and focus of the room, however, were the dancers in a sea of motion. All conducted themselves with extreme decorum. The reception could be described as nothing other than tasteful, dignified, and very correct. Except, of course, that men with red bandannas tied to their arms assumed the female position in the waltz now taking place.
Only four women were in attendance. Women of unquestionable elegance. Women who wore the exquisite, intoxicating costumes of such characters as Cleopatra and Diana. Women who daily promenaded the Plaza.
No sign of Lissa.
A disturbance at the far corner diverted all attention. She caught a glimpse of three new women shepherding in a tall, gangly girl in a lavishly hooped dress with matching shawl. They introduced her as a visiting sister from the East.
The girl blushed, simpered and fiddled with her fan. The band struck up a rendition of ‘‘Polly Wolly Doodle.’’ The men crowded around her, vying fo
r a dance and giving Rachel a better view.
Her breath caught. Beside this new guest stood Lissa, in a provocative gown and a diamond tiara.
Before Rachel could make a move, the French count bowed before her. ‘‘May I have this dance, mademoiselle?’’
Without waiting for an answer, he swept her into his embrace and onto the parlor floor. The placement of their hands made it impossible for her to shield herself with the fan. Worse, it caused her bolero to gape open.
She tried to pull away.
He drew her closer. ‘‘Hush, my pet. I will not tread upon your slippered feet like so many of my compatriots.’’
Rather than make a scene and call attention to herself, she acquiesced to the flow of the dance, hoping it would bring her closer to Lissa.
‘‘And where has the countess been hiding you? For your beauty and grace surpass any woman present.’’
She dared not say a word for fear her voice would be recognizable. She tucked her chin, pretending shyness, which wasn’t far from the truth.
The man’s soft chuckle was deep, suggesting intimacy. ‘‘Ah, the countess misses nothing, I see. A bashful fille de pave.’’
The song came to an end. Rachel stepped quickly from his arms.
He bowed. ‘‘I look forward to furthering our acquaintance when, perhaps, so many are not around.’’
Rachel shivered. She spun to look for Lissa only to be caught up into the arms of the man who ran the printing press for the local newspaper. He’d dressed as a knight of old, though she supposed his sword had been confiscated, along with all the other weapons, at the door.
‘‘You are a matador, I see,’’ he said. ‘‘Your red gown and bolero enflame me as much as any hot-blooded bull. Might I have permission to enter the ring with you later this evening, my dear?’’
Shock held her tongue still.
He increased the pressure at the small of her back, pulling her against his chest.
She jerked back.
He lifted a corner of his mouth. ‘‘Do you toy with me? Or perhaps you merely want to wound me like the vaqueros before going in for the kill?’’
His eyes darkened, and he blew a steady stream of warm, mealy air across her chest. She broke from his hold and would have slapped him if a pilgrim hadn’t grabbed her hand and swung her into his clutches for a gallopade.