The Price of Innocence (The Legacy Series)

by Vicki Hopkins

  Afraid to disagree lest he change his mind, Suzette followed behind him like an obedient, frightened puppy dog. Once again, her life had turned upside down, and she hadn’t been given the opportunity to thank Sister Mary for her kindness. However, as she walked through the facility following Monsieur Brouchard, she began to wonder if she would be as thankful a week from now.

  The facilities were stifling hot from the rising steam of large washing bins on the lower floor. Suzette glanced at the working women as she passed by their stations. No one was talking in front of the manager, and there were only a few individuals who raised their eyes in her direction.

  The air was moist and hot and filled with odors that irritated Suzette’s nose. Tiny beads of sweat formed on her forehead as Monsieur Brouchard escorted her through the facility and up a narrow staircase to the second floor. Once upon the landing, he flung open a wooden door to a small, dark room. Inside were four cots pushed up against the wall.

  “The one on your right is yours. The others are taken already. A bath chamber is down the hall on the left.”

  Suzette stared at the cramped quarters and the dirty mattress on wooden slats with a wool blanket and no pillow. “Do you have much in the way of clothes, shoes, personal belongings to get?”

  “No sir. I’m afraid very little is back at the charity.”

  “Well, I suggest you retrieve what you do have when you can. Sometimes we have clothes that are unclaimed, and you can pick through the leftovers if you need anything. You won’t need to dress in your evening gown to get the work done here!” His condescending laugh filled the hallway. “As you can see, most women around here strip so they can handle the heat.” His lecherous behavior became obvious as he added, “And I don’t mind the show.”

  He headed back and spewed out an order. “Follow me! I’ll introduce you to Flora.”

  They walked downstairs, and Suzette followed him over to large piles of dirty linens that looked like mountains of white cotton. Upon closer inspection, Suzette noticed blood and other stains. The stench turned her stomach.

  “This is where we sort the linens for our customers. You will serve the smaller accounts, and I have one in particular that will suit you just fine.” He noticed her scrunched-up face over the odors. “Yes, dirty laundry stinks. What did you expect, perfume?” He turned and snarled orders at Flora. “Show her what to do.” As he walked away with a smirk on his face, Suzette felt an immediate dislike for her new boss.

  She looked at Flora. “Welcome to hell,” she said. “Come here, and I’ll show you what to do.”

  Chapter Five

  Suzette spent her first night on a lumpy cot with a thin, wool blanket. Sleep quickly claimed her exhausted body. When she woke the next morning at 5 a.m., her back and feet ached.

  “You best get up if you want to keep working here, dearie,” Flora warned. “Monsieur Bouchard will dock your pay, if you’re not at your station.”

  Her work companion was at least kind, though Suzette thought her a bit abrupt in her mannerisms. She looked like she was around forty years old, but Suzette couldn’t believe it when Flora told her that she was only thirty. There was no refinement about her whatsoever. Her manner and features conveyed hardness and premature aging from years of work.

  “Yes, of course,” Suzette moaned. She heard soft laughter from another woman.

  “Welcome to the life of a laundress!” she laughed. “Wait until you start hauling your first basket of laundry down the street. You’ll wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  Without further word, the women whose names she didn’t know, giggled and left the room. Suzette slipped on her dress over her undergarments and wandered down the hall to the bath chamber. It was occupied, so she stood in the hallway until the door opened and another woman appeared.

  “You must be the new one,” she grumbled. Her face looked tired and sour. She lowered her gaze and pushed by Suzette. Everyone appeared miserable.

  Suzette quickly splashed water in her face, and tried to brush the tangles from her hair. She pinned her long strands upon her head, away from her face, so it would be cooler in the heat of the washroom. Afterward, she ran downstairs to meet Flora, who she found sorting and tagging the incoming sheets.

  She learned that once they sorted through the piles of dirty laundry from hospitals, clinics, and other establishments, other workers took them to the vats where they washed and dried the linens. Afterward, the sheets were returned to Flora and Suzette to fold and deliver back to the clients.

  “There’s a basket of folded and clean linens over there by the wall,” she announced, pointing her finger to a white mound a few feet away. “Brouchard wants you to deliver them to the Chabanais immediately.”

  “Now?” she questioned, appalled at the timing. “It’s only five in the morning. Will the client even be awake?”

  Flora laughed. “Oh, yes, I’m sure someone will answer the door.”

  “Chabanais? I don’t know what that is or where it’s located.”

  As soon as the words left her lips, she could feel the manager’s menacing presence behind her. Suzette clamped shut her mouth. When she felt his hot breath touching the back of her neck, she turned around to face his grotesque appearance. He looked no better in the morning than he had the day before.

  “It’s the brothel at 12 Rue Chabanais. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign right outside the door.”

  Suzette’s eyes widened. Brouchard laughed.

  “What, you’ve never been to the door of a brothel before?” He enjoyed every moment of taunting his naïve, young worker and walked off sporting a sly grin.

  Flora stood up from her stooped position. “He’s the most disgusting man I’ve ever known,” she hissed, in his direction. “And you wonder why we drink alcohol in the afternoon on the job. It’s because of his asinine attitude.” She looked at Suzette and encouraged her to leave. “You better go now, or he’ll come back screaming at you wondering why you haven’t left.”

  Suzette walked over to the basket filled to the brim with clean sheets and pillowcases. She bent over and attempted to lift the basket, but failed to do so her first try. Flora watched her struggle, bending her back, and then walked over to her side.

  “Here . . . do it like this.” She bent her knees and grabbed the two side handles of the wicker basket. When she stood upright, she swung the load until it landed upon her right hip. “Carry it like this. Just think of it like a child on your hip, and you’ll get the hang of it. It helps defray the weight.”

  After Flora lowered it back to the floor, Suzette took hold of the basket and did the same. She grimaced in discomfort. “How far is the Chabanais?”

  “About two miles. Go out the door, turn to your right, and follow the street until you come to Rue Chabanais. When you reach the avenue, the brothel is on the left toward the very end of the street.”

  Flora returned to her duties, picked up another dirty sheet, and tagged it for washing. Suzette let out a deep sigh and went out the door toting her first basket of laundry. The heavy load challenged her strength, but she felt relieved that she was leaving the washhouse for a while. As soon as she walked out the door, the cold morning air accosted her thin dress. She had no shawl for her shoulders.

  The wicker basket gouged into her hip, and the longer she carried it, the heavier it became. The weight pressed upon her waist, and every few blocks, she needed to stop, put the basket down, and rest. If Brouchard witnessed her weakness, she knew she’d never keep the job. Why he didn’t deliver the laundry by cart was beyond her understanding, but she often saw women throughout the streets carrying large laundry baskets and sacks back and forth without a second thought. Once again, her sheltered life had turned into a painful lesson in reality.

  Finally, after a long, arduous trek, her eyes fell upon a conspicuous sign above the entrance, Welcome to the Chabanais. Thinking that it must at least be six o’clock by now, she wondered if anyone would be awake. As she appro
ached the front door, a befuddled expression came across her face. The entrance looked like a cave.

  She giggled at the absurdity of the situation. There she stood, in front of a brothel, with a basket of laundry on her sore hip at six o’clock in the morning. It was the last place in the world Suzette could have imagined herself weeks ago. Thankfully, Rue Chabanais was not a main thoroughfare and traffic was light in the early morning hours.

  She examined the strange wooden door before grabbing the brass knocker. Suzette gave it a few strikes, dropping it against the metal plate with a clang. A few moments passed with no answer, so she tapped it again, only much louder the second time. The brass knocker dropped, and suddenly a small panel in the center of the upper door slid open. Startled, she stepped back and heard a voice but saw no face.

  “We don’t receive customers until seven o’clock at night. Come back then,” snapped an irritable female, slamming the opening shut.

  “But I’m here with the laundry,” yelled Suzette.

  The small panel opened again, and a pair of beautiful hazel eyes, with long lashes, peered at Suzette. “Laundry? Good gracious, woman, deliver it to the back door.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the side alley,” she spat, slamming the panel shut again.

  Suzette glanced to her right and saw an alleyway. She turned the corner and proceeded to walk down the narrow, dark passage. Her nose caught the smell of urine, and a homeless drunkard lay asleep by a door with an empty bottle in his hand.

  Carefully, she stepped around his snoring body and stood in front of a doorway with the name Chabanais etched on a small metal plaque attached to the door. She rapped with her knuckles, while balancing the full laundry basket on her hip. If she didn’t put it down soon, she was sure it was going to dump on the head of the drunk that lay at her feet. Then she’d be in real trouble.

  With no immediate answer, she knocked again, until the door finally flung open revealing a woman clad in a silken black robe. A cigarette dangled between her plump red lips.

  “Come in,” she grumbled, in a raspy voice. Suzette entered into a back room adjacent to a kitchen area and immediately released her burden by dropping the basket at her feet with a thud.

  “Is there anywhere in particular you want these linens?” Her eyes darted around at her surroundings, and she spotted a small hallway beyond the woman standing in front of her. Suzette’s curiosity piqued at the beautiful sight that lay beyond.

  The woman took a puff on her cigarette, then took it from her lips and blew the smoke into Suzette’s face, causing her to wince and cough.

  “You’re new. I can tell. Where’s the other one?”

  “The other one?” Suzette responded, still trying to clear her lungs from the irritating smoke.

  “Yes, the other one. An old drunk who knew exactly what to do with the basket of linens.” She gave Suzette the once over and quipped sarcastically, “It’s apparent you haven’t a clue what to do.”

  Ridiculed and exasperated from the walk, Suzette snapped back. “Can you just tell me where they go?”

  “Nadine, leave the girl alone.”

  The deep, stern voice caught Suzette off guard, and her eyes met a tall, beautiful woman dressed in a dark blue brocade gown standing in the kitchen entranceway. Her brown upswept hair, flawless features, and dark eyes exuded power.

  “Can’t you tell she’s new? Don’t make her feel like a fool.”

  “Fine! You deal with her then,” she said, spinning around and heading out the doorway.

  The mistress’s face turned dark as she watched her employee leave the kitchen. When they were alone, she returned her attention to Suzette, who stood motionless as she eyed her from top to bottom.

  “I’m Madame Laurent, the owner of this brothel.” She paused for a moment and raised her brow. “And you might be?”

  Suzette, struck by the velvet coolness in the tone of her voice, nervously blurted out her name as she curtsied. “Suzette, Madame. My name is Suzette Rousseau.”

  “Good Lord, girl. There’s no need to curtsy to me.” Astonished by her visitor’s formalities, Madame Laurent looked more closely, studying the young girl’s regal face. “You appear much too pretty to be working in a sweatshop.” Scrutinizing her once again, she finally gave her instructions regarding the laundry. “Follow me, and I’ll show you where we keep our linens.”

  Suzette picked up the basket and followed the Madame. She watched her saunter down a long, carpeted hallway, while her hips swayed back and forth moving her bustle. Her deep blue satin gown trailed behind, and Suzette sighed with longing at the elegant dress. The woman’s movements were poised and graceful.

  While she was gawking at her clothes, it dawned on her that she was inside a brothel. Her poor, dear father would be horrified over her whereabouts, and a blush burst up her neck as she wondered what went on behind closed doors.

  They arrived in front of a long line of closets built into the hallway wall and stopped. Madame Laurent opened one door and showed Suzette the interior.

  “We keep our linens here. You can place what you have in the basket on the shelves. I expect the sheets to be arranged in a neat and orderly fashion.” The mistress noticed Suzette’s flushed face, and a hint of amusement sparkled in her dark eyes.

  “I’m afraid there’s a basket waiting for you to carry back too. You are to leave the basket you empty each day, then pick up the basket filled with dirty laundry for return to the washhouse.” In a low, sultry voice she added, “Our customers come every night, so every day we have sheets to wash.”

  Suzette glanced away.

  Madame Laurent sensed her teasing had gone far enough and decided to end the conversation abruptly. “I’ll leave you to your duties. You may let yourself out the way you entered.”

  “Thank you, Madame,” she answered in a low voice.

  Suzette watched the woman depart and went about her job. Neatly, she lined up the pristine white linens, left the empty basket, and picked up the one filled with dirty sheets. With a sigh of relief, she retreated to the back door. Her feet stepped over the drunk on the stoop and quickly left the alley carrying another load on her sore hip.

  The trek back to the washhouse was excruciating. She still wore the same floppy shoes stuffed with paper in the toes and her feet hurt. The physical activity caused sweat to bead on her brow as she struggled with the load. She realized how weak and out of shape her body had truly been, after boasting she could handle the weight. It would have to change soon, or there would be no surviving her new job if Brouchard found out.

  When she returned, Flora said little, except to give her instructions on what to do with the sheets she had hauled from the Chabanais. The routine had begun, and Suzette tried hard to accept her new station in life. It wouldn’t be easy.

  Chapter Six

  The weeks passed, and Suzette’s depression deepened as she toiled in the heat and stench, learning the life of a laundress. Daily her boring schedule repeated itself, starting with tiring trips back and forth to the Chabanais. She hauled the laundry in all sorts of weather conditions. It made no difference to Monsieur Brouchard whether it was sunshine or rain; the items had to be delivered. If it rained, it was her responsibility to make sure the load did not get wet during the two-mile trek. She usually arrived looking like a drowned rat, but faithfully covered and shielded her basket, so that it would arrive dry.

  Every morning, Suzette woke from a restless sleep on a lumpy mattress. Flora seemed to have an internal clock after years of toiling and would wake Suzette at four-thirty. With only a half hour to freshen for the day and barely time to take a bath, Suzette was required to be dressed and at her work station by five “come hell or high water,” as Brouchard so aptly put it.

  After weeks of toiling back and forth and little interaction with anyone at the brothel, Brouchard suddenly announced that she could make her delivery to the Chabanais an hour later. Suzette did not question the change, but wondered if Madame Laur
ent had somehow found pity on her poor soul and requested a later time. Suzette was thankful nonetheless.

  When seven o’clock arrived, she would throw her basket of laundry on her hardened hip and make the walk to the Chabanais. As she had done countless times before, she entered through the back door, proceeded to the linen cabinet, and neatly restocked the sheets. Because her visits were early in the morning, she rarely encountered any prostitutes, except Nadine who was the rude woman she met the first day. Madame Laurent rarely said a word when their paths crossed, except to glide her eyes up and down her petite frame. It made Suzette feel uncomfortable.

  On her return from the Chabanais, she hauled the dirty linens back to the washhouse. Her hips had become use to carrying the weight, and her arms grew stronger each day from hauling the baskets. It was easy, now, for her to pick up the heavy linens with little effort on her part.

  As spring gave way to summer, conditions worsened in the washhouse. Between the hot air outside and the sweltering steam inside, there were days Suzette felt dizzy from the heat. She continued to push herself in fear of finding displeasure in Brouchard’s eyes.

  Flora was instructed to teach Suzette washing of the linens, so her duties expanded beyond folding and delivery. It was just more work to accomplish in the same amount of time, and Suzette could barely keep up with the demands.

  The Chabanais and her other clients kept her workdays busy. When she sorted the laundry from the Chabanais, taunting thoughts plagued her mind about what transpired behind closed doors. Suzette knew little of the intimate ways of men and women. Her father never spoke of such matters, and her mother passed away too early to teach her anything about sex.

  During her days of hard labor, Suzette learned that workers who ironed clothes possessed the better paying jobs. Experienced laundresses worked on high-end clothing such as shirts, pants, bonnets, and dresses. In addition, the washhouse employed a variety of seamstresses and lace makers, who repaired clothing.