Toby drew closer. “You’ll make more money tonight than you’ll make in six months, whatever you’re doing now. If you’re very, very good, you’ll make more than you make in a year. And tomorrow you’ll wake up and your room will be filled with roses. Maybe even a diamond necklace or two.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Marguerite said, but she saw herself waking up to a roomful of roses, and she was bewitched. She had been respectable, and she had nothing to show for it. She had no scruples, so why was she pretending she did? She had already lost her virginity, and that experience had showed her that she was not the girl she thought she was. She was bad.
Toby had, in a few short words, unknowingly touched upon a secret desire she had nursed since childhood. The stage. What if he could really do it? What if he could get her on the stage?
And besides, she rationalized, going on the stage was no longer such a scandalous profession. Hadn’t Jay Gould’s son George married an actress? Now Mrs. Gould was entertaining in a Fifth Avenue mansion. Marguerite wouldn’t be spoiling her chances by participating tonight. She might be ensuring her success!
She turned to Toby. “Could you really help me if I wanted to go on the stage? I can sing. I mean, my mother always said I could sing.”
“Delightful. I knew it. Of course I can help you. I know everyone. You can come to my rooms tomorrow.” He held up one hand. “Just business, I promise. I have a piano.”
He took her elbow. There was no erotic charge to Toby; it was the touch of a brother, of a colleague. Marguerite knew, instinctively, that she could trust him. “But start tonight,” he murmured, close to her ear. “Show me what you can do, tonight.”
Nine
MARGUERITE WAS SMALL, the shawl was large, and she raided Gem’s little tufted sewing box for pins. She anchored the shawl securely and prayed it wouldn’t slip. The gauze left nothing to the imagination. Every time she looked down, she blushed. There were her legs, plain as day underneath her, soon to be stared at by a table full of strange howling gentlemen.
It wasn’t too late to back out. Marguerite firmed her resolve with visions of roses and diamond earrings. She had never been shy; why was this unaccustomed modesty cropping up so inconveniently? But it was one thing to expose her breasts for a fleeting instant to Horatio Jones. Flashing them to a roomful of strangers was quite another thing.
The girls waited around the table toying with empty champagne glasses, for Toby had removed the champagne lest they get sleepy. But the silliness had worn off, and now they were bored. Next door at the grand dinner, the toasts went on and on. The longer it took the better, the seasoned girls advised. The drunker the men, the less agile their groping hands, and the sooner the night would end. With any luck, the old goats would be snoring on the tablecloth by two o’clock.
The elusive Mollie Todd wandered in sulkily at ten. She was the most beautiful creature Marguerite had ever seen, with shockingly white skin, pale as milk and translucent as moonlight, and hair the color of the most flaming sunset. She unpinned it before a mirror, and the girls watched, fascinated, as it spilled from a coil at the top of her head to lay, gleaming red-gold in the gaslight, spread across her breasts. Her eyes were catlike, green dusted with gold, and slanted at the corners. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched. She slipped out of her clothes and into a dressing gown and sat smoking cigarettes by a window, her long, luxurious legs crossing and recrossing restlessly.
“Man trouble, I suspect,” Gem whispered to Marguerite. “She’s in love with Willie P.”
“Who?” Marguerite whispered, and Gem shook her head warningly and placed a finger on her lips. She mouthed “later,” and Marguerite nodded.
At a quarter to eleven, Toby finally appeared. “You’re on, girls,” he said jovially, his amiable face flushed with liquor and excitement. “Mollie?”
Mollie Todd rose negligently, untied the braided cord on her gown, and let it slip from her ivory shoulders. She stood, resplendently nude, her red hair covering her bare white breasts. Marguerite watched, fascinated, as she crossed to the rug in the middle of the adjoining room and lay down on it, arranging her hair to cover her.
Toby was all business now, crossing to Mollie on the rug. “Comfortable?” he asked.
“Just hurry, will you?” Mollie said crossly.
Toby turned to one of the women. “Fannie, call the men in the next room—I’m not John L. Sullivan, I’ll never manage to roll her up.”
Fringe fluttering, a plump black-haired girl ran out the other door, and twelve huge, muscled black men marched back in. Their chests were magnificently bare, and they wore gold turbans and silky purple trousers that gathered at the ankle. One of them grinned and winked at Marguerite, whose mouth was open in astonishment, but none of the others even glanced at the rest of the girls. They simply crossed to the parlor, and, with great economy, took an end of the rug and rolled Mollie up in it like a crepe. They might have been a crew of workmen, so brawny and professional was their manner.
“Hurry, will you?” came the muffled voice from within. “I’m suffocating.”
The men hoisted the rug with ease and settled it on their broad shoulders. Then, in single file, they went to the door of the parlor. Toby flung it open, and Marguerite heard their footsteps going down the carpeted hall.
She started after them, but Gem put a hand on her arm. “We still have time. Mollie’s first.”
“I want to see!” Marguerite whispered.
Gem grinned. “This way, then.”
She led Marguerite through the other door of the dining room, into a smaller room where the men had been waiting. There, too, a supper was laid out, not as grand as theirs. Gem hurried through the room, opened another door, which led into a long room that Marguerite saw was an artist’s studio of some kind. Quickly, they ran across the wooden floor to a double oak door.
“Not a sound, now,” Gem whispered. She opened the door a crack, and pushed Marguerite forward. Then she knelt below her and placed her own eye to the crack.
Like the drawing room she’d entered at first, this room was all damask and voluminous velvet drapery. Huge paintings of pink nudes in ornate gilt frames hung against the crimson walls. Palms scraped the ceiling, and the chandelier was a magnificent creation in crystal hangings and rose-pink globes.
A long table dominated the room, now cluttered with brandy glasses, wine glasses, and champagne. The men lolled about, heavy with their meal, and most seemed either drunk or happy, or both. Toby had not exaggerated; she could see that these men were prosperous. Their evening clothes were impeccable, their white shirtfronts starched and snowy white. They looked portly and magnificent, and ranged in age from their twenties through their fifties, though most seemed in their thirties. But the effect of their magnificence was offset by their headgear. Each man was wearing a fez, and each man looked remarkably silly in it. Most were tilted askew on balding heads, and tassels waved in a feckless manner as the men reached for their wine glasses or laughed, their hands on their round bellies. Marguerite started to giggle, and she could not stop.
Gem poked her to quiet her, but started to giggle, too. Luckily, the double doors at the other end of the room opened, and the men began to cheer, drowning out any noises the two girls might be making. Marguerite stopped giggling and watched in fascination as the twelve black men carried in the Turkish rug.
They headed for a man at the foot of the table. He had a young face underneath a beard probably grown to make him look older. His red fez tilted precariously on his narrow head. He waved a champagne bottle and laughed uproariously. “So this is my present, Stanny,” he said. “A Turkish rug. Original, I grant you.”
“I went all the way to Turkey for that damn rug, Stiers,” bellowed the man at the end of the table. Large and amiable, his hair was sandy red, and his face was flushed with drink and amusement. “It’s one of a damn kind, too.”
The table roared as the dozen black men brought the rug to the feet of Stiers. With a flourish, they unro
lled it and the exquisite Mollie Todd was revealed. Marguerite couldn’t believe the change. Could this be the same sulky, bored creature she’d seen in the other room? This woman was alive and sparkling. Her boredom had changed to an elegant langour. Her green eyes glittered as she stretched and smiled a radiant smile at Stiers. “Happy birthday,” she said.
The men roared louder: they pounded the table with their fists and the floor with their boots. Fezzes went flying and champagne spilled onto the tablecloth. Marguerite traded excited glances with Gem.
“She’s something, isn’t she,” Gem sighed enviously.
“Magnificent,” Marguerite breathed. She couldn’t take her eyes off Mollie. Was this what Toby had told her she possessed? Marguerite knew, at that moment, that it was what she wanted. For every man in the room was fascinated by Mollie as she sinuously rose and made her way to Stiers. Their mouths were open, their expressions rapt. Mollie appeared to have no shame about her nudity; she was a wood nymph, a creature accustomed to her body and its loveliness, as natural as a faun. She slipped into the young man’s lap and twined a slender arm around his neck. Stiers looked merely embarrassed, and Marguerite found herself liking him for it. He gave a glassy smile as Mollie kissed him lightly on the lips.
“We’re up next, dearie,” Gem said in her ear. “Let’s go.”
Marguerite tore herself away from the crack in the door. Gem grabbed her hand, and together they ran back to their rooms. The girls were just beginning to stir, prompted by Toby. They grabbed shawls and smoothed hair and checked each other’s appearance. Marguerite fussily adjusted her shawl.
“Who’s Willie P. ?” she whispered to Gem.
Gem shook her blond curls. “You are green. William Miles Paradise, the biggest theatrical producer on Broadway. He has a diamond head on his cane and his dog has a diamond collar. Mollie is the latest of his, oh, shall we say ‘special projects.’ He’ll put her through hell, but he’ll make her a star. Lucky girl,” Gem sighed enviously.
Toby clapped his hands. “Follow me, girls,” he called.
He led them quickly down the hall, pausing before the grand oak doors. He turned to examine them one last time in a professional manner. “Beautiful, beautiful. All right, girls. One, two, three: sparkle!” He threw open the doors, stood aside, and they spilled in.
At first, Marguerite was only conscious of noise and light. A roar of approval met their entrance, and several men stood and cheered. Marguerite tried to head for Stanford White at the head of the table, the man of the extravagant gift-giving propensities, but was swept along with Gem, down the far side of the table, as heads turned, one after the other, to follow their progress. Gem giggled and pranced and flicked the ends of her shawl and appeared to be having a marvelous time. She stopped in front of one gentleman, turned her back and wiggled her hips at him while he banged his wine bottle on the table and cried, “That’s it, by jingo!”
Marguerite tried to smile as widely as Gem, but she felt rather silly. Some of the men were standing now, chasing down various girls and trying to capture their shawls. It was an easy conquest. Soon half the silky fringed shawls were drifting down to rest on the carpet. Were these the same bored girls who had disparagingly referred to the men as goats in the other room? Now these same young women blushed and cavorted and wiggled their way around the room. The once-melancholy Mollie Todd picked a shawl off the floor and eluded a pursuer with a laugh as she headed for Stanford White, to all eyes seeming a young girl on a festive picnic running toward a favorite uncle.
Legs and spangled-covered breasts swam before Marguerite’s eyes, and she backed up steadily until she hit a tapestry-covered wall. But then she looked over to the double doors and saw Toby watching her with a frown. This was her chance. Was she destroying it because of a sudden, surprising shyness? She was being ridiculous; she could be as captivating as any of these girls!
Squaring her shoulders, she approached an older man sitting morosely at the table. She trailed her fringe along his shoulder and he looked up. Marguerite leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips, as she’d seen Mollie do. “It can’t be that bad,” she whispered, and he smiled. She sashayed on.
Perhaps champagne would help. Marguerite allowed a bushyeyebrowed gentleman to pour her a glass while he watched her avidly. She drank a glass down in a gulp, and her situation improved immediately. She accepted another glass from another admirer, and sipped it sparingly while she eluded grasping hands, sat on laps, stroked beards, danced with Gem and then with a redfaced man who presented her with his fez.
Suddenly, the sound of banjo music filled the air, as Toby ushered three musicians into the room. A cry went up for a song. Toby banged a spoon against a crystal decanter until the men quieted. “Perhaps Miss Marguerite Corbeau will favor us with one,” he said. His laughing eyes turned to her. There’s your challenge, his eyes said. Show me.
Marguerite’s lips pressed together for only an instant. She lifted her chin and tossed her head. “Perhaps one,” she said flirtatiously. “For I’m in a mood to be generous tonight.”
Applause and laughter rang through the air as one of the men stood, and with a flourish helped her up on the table.
The room had gone suddenly quiet. Marguerite felt her mind go blank. The banjo players looked at her expectantly. For the life of her, she could not think of a song other than “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and that was hardly appropriate under these circumstances. The faces of the dinner guests looked like gaping fish to her. Their little red mouths were open, waiting …
A lyric of a popular song floated into her mind, and she grabbed it. The melody was easy, and she began by humming it softly. Behind her, Gem took up the melody and sang a pretty counterpoint. God bless Gem! Then the banjos picked it up.
Marguerite launched into “Father You Raised a Virtuous Girl, But the City is Full of Vice.” Her low contralto began on a quaver, but she gained confidence quickly as she saw the men begin to smile. She caught each man’s eye as she wrung every nuance of suggestiveness out of the lyrics. Standing on the table, Marguerite felt a strange power infuse her. And she’d thought being in bed with a man was exciting! Some of the pins had come loose on her shawl, and she tore the rest free and slid the silk off a shoulder or parted it to reveal a spangled thigh while she sang a song of innocence corrupted. She trailed the fringe along rapt faces; she clutched it to her modestly only to fling it wide again. The men were roaring their approval by the end, and they joined in on the choruses with energetic, though slightly off-key, fervor.
They stood and cheered when she finished, and she gave a low bow. As she lifted her head, she looked into the glittering eyes of Mollie Todd. Sparks of jealousy and spite jumped across the room at her, but Marguerite forgot them in the heady confusion.
She’d never felt so exhilarated. Pushing aside dishes and coffee cups and brandy glasses with a dainty booted foot, she danced her way to the end of the table and fell into the arms of Steirs, the birthday boy, who caught her with surprising strength.
Under the cheers, he gazed at her with moist hazel eyes. “Say, that was fine,” he said. He held her securely against him, and Marguerite realized he wasn’t as drunk as she’d thought. She slid down the length of his body and her feet hit the floor. In her high-heeled boots, he wasn’t much taller than she was.
“Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”
“And you’re very pretty, Miss—”
“Corbeau.” Her eyelashes fluttered downward. Marguerite thought it rather outrageous to pretend shyness under such circumstances, but why not? Modesty and transparent gauze could be an enticing combination.
“Will you have a glass of champagne with me?” Edwin Steirs looked down at the adorable creature who sang like an angel and had flung herself in his arms. Her black lashes cast shadows on her pale cheeks. She was as delicate as a bird. Most women made him feel small, unmanly. But this girl was all light and air. He could protect a girl like this. She looked up at him, and her eyes were
the blue of a midnight sky.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. Her voice was low and musical; it seemed to tease him even while it purred approval.
“I’m twenty-three today,” he blurted.
Smiling demurely, Marguerite gathered the silk shawl around her. She sat in the red velvet seat and arranged the fringe to cover her like a lady. Holding out a hand, she accepted the champagne with a gracious smile. She noticed that Mr. Stiers wore no wedding band. “That is a very good age for a man to be,” she said, while naked spangled girls sang and aging florid men joined in the ribald choruses. She’d had a wonderful time, but she wouldn’t want to be trapped in this kind of life. There had to be another way, and she was just lucky enough to find it at once.
“Now, tell me more about yourself, Mr. Stiers. Tell me—oh, everything.”
Everyone was bribed not to talk, but the news got out anyway, and the Seraglio Dinner burst onto the New York winter gossip circuit, supplanting the already tired stories of Ambrose Hartley and the fireworks on New Year’s Day. Stanford White retreated to his wife on Long Island and birthday bachelor dinners were for the time being off until the furor died down. Mollie Todd became an overnight celebrity, and William Paradise immediately spotlighted her in his newly opened revue and sent her six dozen roses every day for a week.
Marguerite awoke to roses the next day as well, from Edwin Steirs. There was no diamond necklace that day, but one arrived two weeks later, when she slept with him. Marguerite hid it in her purse and only put it on when she was in a private hired carriage heading for Delmonico’s to meet Edwin. She enjoyed the thrilling secretiveness of her new life, for Edwin needed time before he announced his love to his family. Meanwhile, Marguerite had Toby Wells, her new friend and music teacher (Edwin paid for the lessons, of course) to amuse her. Marguerite took up smoking and began to buy silk stockings.
She put off Horatio Jones for two weeks, arranging to be out when she knew he would call—he was such a methodical creature—and ignoring his messages. Finally she agreed to see him when she grew afraid he would, in an excess of passion, follow her right to Edwin Steirs’ private dining room at Delmonico’s, where so far most of their encounters took place.
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