“Luke never wastes words. What he says he means, but I won't let him take Mark away, I won't! I'll kill anyone who tries to take my baby.”
“Jo!”
She ignored Fiona's shocked cry and rushed off to bed.
***
Several weeks passed with still no sign of Luke, so Jo started to relax. She enjoyed her baby son, who ate and slept contentedly. One Monday in September, as the late flowering wattle cast its yellow mantle about the bush, Glory visited them again.
She was in a hurry and wouldn’t stay. “I came to see if you'd like a job, Jo, as a bookkeeper. You're a school teacher, so I figure you must be good at sums.”
The proposition tempted her, as jobs like this for women didn't come along too often. “I'd like to, we could do with the money, but there's Mark.”
“Bring him along with you.”
“What employer would put up with that?”
“Me.”
Jo hoped her mouth didn’t gape open. “You mean, you mean the job is with you?”
Glory laughed. “Yes, I wouldn't be hiring people for anyone else now, would I?”
“You mean, I'd have to work in your, well, er, establishment?”
“Yes. I don't mean for you to mix with the clients, though. Saturday night's my busiest time. I handle a lot of money and need someone I can trust. I've worked it all out. I can set aside a room for you and Mark, you can come Saturday afternoon, then stay the night. What do you say?”
Fiona frantically waved her arms behind Glory's back for Jo to refuse the offer, but she ignored it.
“I say yes, thank you. I'll give it a try. We could do with the money. If Luke didn’t send food over, we'd be starving.”
It rankled that they needed to accept his charity. Had he come over or showed some interest in the son who bore such a likeness to him, it would have been different. A hated little voice whispered from deep within, some interest in me also.
“When do you want me to start?” Jo asked.
“This Saturday coming.”
“So soon?”
“I need someone straight away. I wanted to give you first offer.”
“I appreciate that, tell me where to come and I'll be there in the afternoon.”
After Glory departed, leaving a clinging aura of perfume wafting behind her, Fiona pleaded with Jo not to take the job.
“Think of it, working in a brothel and taking a baby there. It's too dreadful for words.”
Sometimes she wanted to smack her sister-in-law. “Listen to me! We need the money! Anytime now, Luke might decide to cut our supplies, then where will we be? I have to take Mark so I can feed him.”
They argued on and off all evening, with Jo becoming more and more determined to give it a try. For the first time since they had known each other, they went to bed without speaking.
***
The baby woke up early to be fed. With his hunger appeased, Jo set about getting breakfast ready. The fire, which they banked up the previous evening, glowed red. It took only a matter of minutes to stoke it up with fresh logs. Breakfast in bed would be her way of apologizing for last night's outburst, not that her resolve had altered. I'm taking the job because I have to.
Boiled eggs, toast and tea. She found a tray, spread out a napkin, laid everything out neatly and took it into Fiona's bedroom. Asleep, she appeared even more vulnerable and helpless than usual, from the way her cheeks were stained she had been crying.
“Fiona.”
“Jo?”
“I've brought you breakfast.” She put the tray on the dresser and sat down on the bed. Grasping one of Fiona's hands she inspected the nails as if they were the most important things in the world. “I'm sorry for acting so beastly last night, but we need the money.”
“I know. I acted silly, too, but I didn't want you to make things worse for us.”
“They won't blame you as a respectable widow with a little girl. I hate to think what they say about me. Later on if we can get some money behind us, we could sell up, start afresh somewhere else where we aren't known. America even, I’ve still got relations over there.”
For herself, she loathed the idea of running away, but for Mark she would storm the gates of hell if necessary.
Jo rushed through the outside chores. Staring at the charred black patches where their outbuildings once stood, she could not suppress a shudder. What a grim reminder of what could have happened that night.
They had no money to rebuild, as Luke only sent food and firewood over. Mrs. Osborne smuggled a note in with the food one day, apologizing for not having come over to see them, but Luke had forbidden anyone to have any contact with them at all. Jo understood. They were all too frightened of him to disobey.
He was a tyrant. She hated him. When she nursed her son, and found him to be so like his father, deep down she feared it wasn't hatred she felt at all.
Chapter Twelve
On Saturday, in the early afternoon, Glory sent a carriage for them. With the baby wrapped up warmly, Jo let the middle-aged driver help her into the seat. He stowed a carpetbag with a few necessities in the back, and with a feeling of nervous anticipation she waved goodbye to Fiona and Lucy.
As they drove along, the weak spring sun made a valiant attempt to part the clouds. The orchards were starting to break out into blossom. Perhaps this sign of new life would be an omen things might pick up for them also.
The baby stayed awake for his first carriage ride, contentedly sucking his fingers. The driver spoke very little, but he gave her speculative glances now and again when he thought himself unobserved.
They passed through the almost empty main street of town, and about half a mile further on pulled into the drive of a large house. It was a double storied place, with delicate cast iron lace work on the balcony. An impressive entrance door had a huge fan light with pictorial stained glass side panels. Surely this wasn't where Glory operated from?
In the cobbled backyard, the man helped them down before depositing the bag on the ground.
“Thank you.”
He acknowledged this with a nod, touched his hat, and drove towards a red brick coach house.
Glory hurried over, her large breasts bulging from the low cut bodice of a bright green dress. “You’re here at last! Come to Auntie Glory.” She scooped Mark out of Jo's arms, and left her to carry the bag inside. “I thought,” she spoke over one shoulder, “you might prefer to come in through the back entrance because it's private.”
Inside this section of the house, Jo was surprised to find it tastefully decorated. In the hallway stood a seventeenth century, long case clock with marquetry inlay and a glass 'bull’s eye' at the bottom of the trunk. Entering the sitting room, she noticed several miniatures on the walls.
“How lovely.” She tried to hide her surprise at finding such a tasteful décor.
“Surprised, are you?” Glory might well have been a mind reader.
“It's different than what I expected.”
Glory took her into a large airy room full of cedar furniture. “This is your room.” There was even a carved rocking cradle for the baby.
“You've gone to so much trouble. Thank you.”
Glory put the now sleeping baby, into the cradle, then took Jo back to the sitting room where a middle-aged housekeeper poured their tea into white, gold rimmed, delicate china cups.
“I've had a bath house built recently.” Glory sounded almost childlike in her endeavor to impress. “Come and see it when you've finished your tea.”
On the back lawn, almost concealed behind tall shrubs, was a brick building with arched windows and doorway. The central bath had water pumped through pipes from the river.
“It's the latest thing, Jo.”
Out in the daylight, the thick make up could not conceal the deep wrinkles creasing Glory's face.
“It's all very nice, but maybe a bit pretentious, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
The other woman patted her on the shoulder, laughing u
proariously. “Don't quite know about pretentious, but I like it. So do the customers.”
They passed a large pond with pink water lilies floating on top. Jo averted her eyes from the centerpiece of a white marble statue of a naked woman mounted on a rearing horse.
“Whereabouts do, well, the girls, work from?”
“Upstairs. I'll show you around inside now.”
The gaming room had mahogany tables and chairs. Another room, obviously a private bar by the numerous bottles displayed at the back of a circular counter, was upholstered in velvet. Glory did not offer to take her out to the public bar, thank goodness.
In all the rooms, she noticed that the ceilings had white plasterwork and intricately crafted cornices. Basket-shaped chandeliers formed the lighting. Obviously, no expense had been spared to cater for everyone's comfort.
The bar room had a small highly polished dance floor and a large piano set on a raised platform. Frescoes of naked cherubs decorated the ceiling in this room, and one wall was crafted out of beaten copper. Classy, all right, where a local man with money might indulge himself for a few hours, or a wealthy traveler could stay for days.
Glory explained that the girls circulated round the tables, letting the men choose their drinks and a partner if they felt so inclined. She offered to show Jo the rooms upstairs, but she could not bring herself to inspect them.
Jo’s work room was opposite her bedroom, so if Mark cried she would hear him. The job consisted of getting the ledgers into order. No mean feat, as whoever worked here before had been careless.
Stopping only for afternoon tea and to attend Mark’s needs, she worked steadily, trying to unravel the mysterious columns and figures.
In the evening, she met several of the girls. Although branded harlots by the pious ladies of the town, they all seemed friendly, smiling and chatting as if they had known her for years. Surprisingly, two of them were married with children, their husbands either unable or unwilling to find permanent work.
Rosa, an attractive raven-haired Italian with a slim figure, had huge breasts that nearly fell out of the plunging bodice of her red dress. She fell in love with the little “bambino” and wanted to sing him an Italian lullaby.
“I come from da big family, sixteen brothers and sisters.” Her voice, though heavily accented, sounded cultured, and Jo wondered why she had ended up working in a brothel.
Katie, a pretty Irish girl, had a bubbly laugh. “Very popular with the young men,” Glory confided.
Francy had wonderful, corn-colored hair and violet eyes. She would have been beautiful except for a permanent petulant droop to her lips.
She and Rosa were in a constant state of warfare. Rosa, hot-blooded and volatile, cursed the blonde girl in virulent Italian. Francy sneeringly referred to her as 'the countess.'
Yasmin, an exotic dancer, claimed to have spent time in a sultan's harem. Jo felt skeptical about this, as the girl spoke with a broad English accent. When she took to the stage later on in the evening, Jo vowed to watch from a discreet corner. Except for Rosa and Francy, the others got along quite well with only a small amount of friendly bickering.
Saturday night was the busiest of the week, as the stock hands and men from the outlying stations came in for relaxation. George, a fat jovial man who ran the bar, explained about the cover charge for service in the private lounge, which kept ordinary working men out. They normally availed themselves of the facilities in the outside bar where girls were employed on a commission basis.
What a huge operation! No wonder Glory made money faster than she could spend it. The money coming through the books for the last few months amounted to hundreds of pounds.
They all ate their meal in Glory's private sitting room, roast duckling in orange sauce. Jo tucked in with a hearty, unladylike appetite, as did the other girls except for Francy, who nibbled at her food like a fussy little bird.
The baby didn't seem to mind his change of environment, content to be fed and changed at regular intervals. A whimper would have one of the girls or Glory at his cradle in next to no time.
When the girls left to go about their business, she missed their banter. A few short weeks ago, if anyone had suggested she might be working in a brothel, even a high-class one like this, she would have thought them crazy.
The loud clapping, intermingled with Arabic-type music, finally had her putting the ledgers away. Ten o'clock was later than she needed to work, as Glory's instructions were to ease into the job. Jo stood inside the doorway of the bar room, where she could see yet not be seen.
Yasmin wore scanty, almost see-through harem pants and a minute top. The way she swiveled, lying back so her head almost touched the stage floor, caused Jo to wonder why she did not lose her clothes, break her back, or even both. Yasmin captivated the male audience, with every eye in the room riveted on the stage.
Glancing around in the subdued but adequate lighting, she could not believe the number of upright men from the town sitting at the various tables; Mr. Griffith, even the birdlike Mr. Kilvain. You hypocrites, castigating me, yet frequenting a place like this.
The tables seemed full except for one. Francy and a man sat at it. She recognized the arrogant carriage of his head. Luke! Shock froze her to the spot. A sickening sensation churned in the pit of her stomach.
He watched Yasmin intently. When Francy’s arms encircled his neck, and she brought his mouth down to meet hers, a sharp pain stabbed Jo’s heart. She didn't want to watch this little seduction scene, but somehow her legs refused to move.
“Why should I care what he does?” she muttered, “I hate him after the way he’s treated me.” Maybe he felt her staring, perhaps it was pure coincidence, but he raised his head and locked gazes with her.
She turned and dashed into her office, banging the door behind her. Leaning against it to recover, she desperately hoped he hadn’t seen her. A sudden hungry wail came from Mark. A hasty glance along the hallway showed it to be empty, so she scuttled into the bedroom. The baby's cries filled the air. He had kicked his covers off, and by the time she reached him, his little bare legs threshed wildly.
“Don't cry so, my darling.” She cuddled him close, loving the sweet smell of him. She sat on a cane barley sugar twist chair, inlaid with mother of pearl, to loosen her bodice.
The hungry little mouth clamped around one rose-tipped nipple and started sucking strongly. She stroked his downy hair. It was black and stuck out in the front. Her back was to the door and she did not hear it open.
“What the hell are you doing here?” At the sound of Luke’s enraged question, she jerked her head around.
“I’m working.”
“Since when?”
“I started today.”
He made to lunge, then noticing the baby his upraised arm fell to his side. Standing near the bed, he stared down at them. The initial fury in his eyes gradually subsided as he watched the baby suckle.
“How long before he's finished, Jo?”
“It depends.”
“On what?” he snapped.
“How hungry he is.”
“Why are you working here?” he growled.
“I need the money.”
“I'm sending supplies over, there's no need for you to come here.”
“I'm to be satisfied with that, am I? To accept your grudging charity.”
An angry hiss escaped him. “Why do you continually and deliberately goad me? I would have thought that Yankee pride of yours would have been trampled into the dust by now.”
She stiffened her spine and held her head proudly. “No one breaks me. I'll walk down any street in this town and carry my baby with me. You thought to shame and degrade me. Well, I can stand anything you or the pious populace of this place can dish out.”
The baby, giving contented little snuffles, was half asleep. “Leave me alone. Go back to Francy. I'm sure she's willing to entertain you for a price.”
He came to stand beside her. “What's your price?” he asked softly.
“My price? You couldn't afford to pay it.”
“I envy our baby.” He squatted down on his haunches, and his hand moved to touch her exposed breast.
“Go away.”
She stared straight into his face. Sheer animal hunger burned in his eyes. A pulse convulsed at the side of his jaw. Anger or desire, she couldn’t tell which.
“I'll double the normal fee.”
“Get out. I'm working here as a bookkeeper.”
Luke’s kneading fingertips on her upper breast flashed heat around her body. “He's asleep. Put him in his bed.”
“He needs changing.” She eased the baby's mouth from her nipple and stood up. Luke did not move so much as an inch. His fiery gaze followed every movement as she laid the baby on the bed and proceeded to change him.
“I thought you might have come over to see us,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered.
“Why should I?”
“He is your son. Aren't you interested in how he's progressing?”
“Babies hold no interest for me; it's a woman's job to tend them.”
“You unfeeling brute.”
“When he's older, I'll make a man out of him.” His flat statement left her speechless.
After tucking Mark up in the cradle she straightened up and made to draw her gaping bodice together.
“No.” With a hand on either shoulder, he spun her around and into his arms.
“I’m mad for you,” he groaned hoarsely.
She fought him, stiffening in his arms, beating at his back and shoulders with clenched fists. If she didn't stop him now, it would be too late. Already her traitorous body, with a will of its own, had started responding.
He buried his face in the valley between her breasts. She tried to pull his hair, but her fingers became tangled in the crisp waves at the nape of his neck. Hating herself for wanting his passion, she became powerless to do anything to stop it.
He felt the wetness of her tears against his face, but was too inflamed to stop. He snuffed out the lamp before lifting her on to the bed, stilling her struggles with the weight of his body. Her breasts swelling against his hands aroused his passion until it raged out of control.
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