With a shake of her head, Serena turned to push open the door of the Eldorado and step inside. She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust after the blinding light outside. The barroom was dark and cold, since the fire in the stove had been allowed to go out in the early hours of the morning. The sour odors of spilled liquor and the contents of the cuspidors that were set at intervals along the bar hung in the air. So murky was the light it was a moment before Serena noticed Pearlie standing on the stairs.
“Well!” Pearlie said, as Serena turned in her direction. “So you came back. After the way you and Nathan Benedict left here, I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I came back last night, you know, but you were otherwise occupied at the time.”
The woman gave a negligent shrug. “If that’s so, then more fool you. I saw how Benedict looked at you. He’s a rich man, richer than most ever dream of being. If you played your cards right you could have a snug position and an income for life, on top of the things that he could give you. He has a reputation for generosity. There would be jewels, furs, everything you ever imagined you might have.”
“I only just met the man.”
“That doesn’t matter. Things happen quickly out here. You needn’t look so skeptical. It really is a great opportunity for you. Why, he might even marry you. Stranger things have happened. That would serve Ward right, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Serena answered, shifting the bundle she carried.
“Don’t be stupid! Ward ruined you, didn’t he? Oh, I know he made amends in his own way, but you do realize he has done all he is going to do? There won’t be a wedding ring for you from Ward Dunbar, and that’s the only way he can make it right, isn’t it?”
“He doesn’t have to make it right, as you call it.” The woman’s intention was so obvious it was irritating.
“How sweet of you. I wouldn’t be so generous in your place. He would pay for what he had done to me, one way or another.”
“Maybe,” Serena answered, preparing to ascend the stairs, “but the only way my favoring Nathan Benedict would hurt Ward would be if he cared for me, and, Pearlie, you have already assured me he doesn’t.”
Pearlie stepped aside. “You would also deprive Ward of your company.”
“And leave the way open for you to — how was it you put it — console him? I grant you that might be a form of punishment, though somehow I don’t think it would give me much satisfaction.” Hefting her bag a little, Serena brushed past the other woman.
A flush of anger stained Pearlie’s face, then she tried another tack. “From the looks of things, you have been spending quite a lot of money. Did Benedict give it to you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“No, but Ward might make it his.”
“Let him,” Serena answered, and did not look back as she reached the upper hallway and turned down it toward her rooms.
Now that she had food, she could not be starved into submission, but there was still the threat of Otto. The big man might be wary of mistreating her after his encounter with Nathan Benedict; still, she could not depend upon it. The best thing she could do might be to put in an appearance below, just as she had the night before. There would be no excuse then for Otto to come to her rooms. She had not forgotten the threat he had made. This way, so long as they were in public view, any impulse he might have in that direction would have to be contained. In the topsy-turvy world of Myers Avenue, it was the nights, while she was in the barroom, that she was safest.
During the early hours of the day, while she slept, there were always the overstuffed chairs and ottomans to use as a barricade. When Ward returned, she would ask for a key to the outside door. He had one, she knew. Of course there might be no necessity. It was all too likely that she would have to look for other accommodations when Ward returned. She would have to wait on that time, wait and see.
Serena set her purchases down on a table in the sitting room and looked around her. A swift inspection of the bedroom showed that also to be just as she had left it. And yet, Pearlie had come from these rooms; there was no other reason for her to be on the stairs, and if further proof was needed, there was the smell of her patchouli perfume lingering in the still, close atmosphere.
What had she been doing up here? What was she after? Was it curiosity that had prompted her visit, or something else? Serena had no way of knowing.
Serena had forgotten to provide herself with a knife to slice the slab of bacon she had bought. Her inspection of Ward’s desk turned up a penknife, however, and using this she was able to cut off several chunks. In the grease left from frying these, she cooked a combination of biscuits and flapjacks. Because of the altitude, more than her skill or ingredients, they rose up thick and fluffy. Wrapped around the bacon, they were the most delicious food she had ever tasted. She ate every crumb and licked the last sheen of fat from her fingers.
With her hunger satisfied for a time, she fried more bacon, and leaving it in the pan with the drippings for seasoning, she put a double handful of beans on to simmer for her supper. While they boiled, she brought out her tin plate, fork, and cup from her trunk. Rinsing them, she dried everything and set a single place for herself at the sitting-room table.
By midafternoon snow clouds had closed down around the town once more. Inside, it grew dark and the lamps had to be lit. The snow, so thick it was like fog, blew in upon them. Serena, keeping an eye on her beans, replenishing the water in them now and again, looked over the smaller tables in the sitting room. Choosing one, she set it near the nickel-plated stove. She draped a linen towel over the top to protect the finish, then placed her food upon it. Nothing she had chosen would spoil; the bacon was well cured and smoked, the cheese, she felt sure, would not be around long enough to mold. If she should find it necessary in the few days before Ward’s return to buy something that might turn, such as a quart of milk, there was no problem; she had only to open the window and set the can outside on the sill. In a short time it would probably be frozen solid, but it could always thaw.
While the beans were finishing their last hour of cooking, Serena tested the water in the bathroom. The boiler had still not been stoked for her. The water was like ice, and Serena, letting it run over her hand, was surprised it had not frozen in the pipes. No doubt it was only the heat in the rooms, both upstairs and down, that kept it from doing so.
Undaunted by this setback, she marched out of the rooms and down the stairs. Behind the stage there was a storeroom where cases of liquor were kept, along with supplies for washing the many glasses used every night and keeping the bar room semi-clean. There she found what she wanted, a heavy tin bucket. With a triumphant set to her shoulders, she carried it back up the stairs. By the time she had finished eating, there was hot water to wash her dishes in, and a short time later, hot water for her bath.
As she performed her ablutions, a hurried job in the chill bathroom, Serena wondered what Ward would think of her new arrangement. He might not like having his rooms filled with the smell of food, or putting up with the clutter where he sat of an evening. He would have no trouble, she was sure, persuading Sanchow to resume serving his meals once more. It was virtually certain that the Chinaman could provide greater variety for the menu; still, it was worth something to be able to eat when a person wanted to, instead of when the food arrived.
She had no idea why she was concerning herself with such matters. In all likelihood, how, when, and where Ward ate would not concern her.
Her second appearance on the stage of the Eldorado was much like the first. Timothy was at the piano, banging out a rollicking rendition of “The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo” as she came downstairs, He tipped her a sly wink as he broke into song. Consuelo, with a full-length cloak of black velvet wrapped tightly around her as she sat at a table near the stage steps, called over the music, beckoning to her. The Spanish girl indicated a chair, then flicked a fingernail against t
he glass that sat in front of her.
“Would you like a brandy? It will keep out the chill.”
Serena smiled, shaking her head. “I’m not cold.”
“You should be,” Consuelo said with a realistic shiver. “I am frozen. I hate the snow, snow, snow. One day, when I have made all the money I want, I will go back to Mexico. I will buy myself a husband, eat all I want, and lie in the sun all day.”
“You will grow fat and lazy,” Serena teased.
“Yes, that is what I want. You smile. Don’t you believe me? I tell you I do. My father was an Englishman, my mother Spanish. He left her when I was a baby. She worked in the cribs in silver-mining towns like Aspen and Leadville, taking men into her bed while I hid underneath. But there was never enough money, always there was a man to take it, or an official to pay. One day, when I was twelve, a man came when my mother was not there. Since then, I have worked, and I have learned much. I have never let a man get close to me, close enough to talk sweet, then beat me and take what I have earned. I have saved, even when I was hungry, never spending more than was necessary so that I can have the future I have described to you.”
“Consuelo,” Serena breathed, but the other woman went on as if she did not hear.
“Soon I will have enough to build a house of my own, and then it will not be long. Only a few years more, and I will be rich, rich enough to eat as I please, make love as I please. And never, never will I live in the mountains where the snow falls nine months out of the year.”
“A house? You mean a home?”
“No, my innocent. I mean a parlor house.”
“Like Pearlie’s?”
“Pearlie? Bah! She knows nothing of what a parlor house should be. She runs it not with her head but with what is between her legs. She is stupid and greedy and miserly. She opens her doors to all men, reaching for their money before she gives them what they want, and therefore her place is no more than a bordello. It has no distinction, no class.”
Serena watched the Spanish girl sip her brandy. “What are you saying? Isn’t that what a parlor house is, a bordello?”
“No, and no again!” Consuelo said, laughing. “If you would know what a parlor house should be, you should see the Old Homestead. You should watch how the madam handles her clients. Her establishment is of the most exclusive; no man may enter, no matter who he is, without an appointment. Before such a thing can be made, he must first speak to the madam. He must give his name and address and provide references, the names of men already known to her. He must be willing to discuss his finances, and show himself able to afford fifty to a hundred dollars for his hours of pleasure.”
“A hundred dollars?” Serena exclaimed. That was more than most men made in a month.
Consuelo shrugged. “It is often more, much more. The men who go to the Old Homestead are not miners and shopkeepers; they are the men who have made fortunes in mining stocks and gold claims, real estate, and railroad shares. For most, their wealth came easily. Why should they not pay it out in the same way?”
“Even so—”
“These men aren’t paying merely for the body of a woman, you understand. They are paying for membership in a club, a most exclusive club. If they are acceptable to the madam, once she has checked them out, then they will be admitted to a house where all is luxury, where there is good food and wine, liquor and cigars, where lovely young ladies entertain on the piano, or sing and dance while other musicians play. They are paying for someone to listen to them and ask intelligent questions, to amuse them and make them feel relaxed, important, at home. And then, when the gentleman so desires, there is an adventure into the delight of the senses. He may choose which woman he will, so long as she has not promised her time to another, and when with her he may suggest what will please him most, even that which his wife refuses.”
“I don’t think,” Serena said, her face pale, “that I want to hear any more.”
“Why, Serena? You need no longer pretend to virtue, the virtue that men expect while they retain their vices.”
Serena stared at her a long moment, then, thinking of Elder Greer, gave an abrupt nod.
“Where was I? Ah, yes. At the Old Homestead, if a man is undecided which lady he prefers, there is the viewing room.”
“The what?”
“The viewing room, a most genteel practice, I assure you. In most places, the girls parade around either in their underclothes or as near naked as makes no difference. Not so, at a well-run parlor house. While downstairs in the entertainment rooms, they are fully, even magnificently, dressed. Upstairs it is very different, of course. They wear as much or as little as the man they are with pleases. But first he must choose one of their number, and that is where the viewing room proves its advantage. There the women naturally wear nothing whatever.”
Serena lifted a brow. “Yes, that sounds very genteel.”
Consuelo laughed. “Well, at least it’s modest.”
“Oh, yes?”
“The girls who are not occupied enter the room and disrobe. The gentleman who has requested the showing, and perhaps one or two others who are merely curious, troop upstairs and peer into the room through a special window.”
“I fail to see the modesty in that, since the girls must know perfectly well why they are there.”
“Oh, but yes, and so they either let down their hair and, turning what they consider to be their best feature toward the window, stand around like statues of Eve, or else they do their best to appear unconcerned.”
“You sound,” Serena said carefully, “as though you had been in such a room.”
“No, never. But often and often I have wished, when some man commanded me to take off my clothes before him, that I had at least that much protection from his stares.”
How easily the other girl spoke of such things. Would the time come, Serena wondered, when she would find herself in such a position, parading before men, doing her utmost to attract their interest, or else trying desperately to seem uncaring. She would not think about it. Surely she could not be forced into such a life against her will. Still, much could change in the space of a few weeks or months. A year ago she would not have dreamed that she would be where she was at this moment, the kept woman of a gambler, parading in her mother’s finery for the entertainment of a crowd of crude miners.
In an effort to turn the direction of her thoughts, Serena said, “Regardless of how much the girls may be paid, if the Old Homestead is so exclusive, there must be a limit to what they can earn.”
“There are near a dozen millionaires in the district, and their numbers are increasing every day. Of men who are not quite so wealthy, but still comfortably well off, there are scores more, all certain they deserve the best. The madam of such a place as the Old Homestead, which is the position I crave, is more often than not the first choice of the gentlemen. In this way she scrapes off the cream, plus she receives a portion of the earnings of the other girls. Moreover, there are gifts from her admirers, jewelry from Cartier’s, magnificent furnishings, gowns from the marvelous stores in the East, or even from Worth in Paris. Furs, carriages, and a thousand small treasures are hers. Then there is the possibility that one of her admirers may become permanently attached to her. In that case, he may bestow a house upon her, land, even mining claims in order to wean her away from the parlor house. It is even possible that if he is enraptured enough with her charms, he will offer marriage.”
“Surely not?”
“No? You must have heard of Baby Doe Tabor?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She was a young married woman who came out to the state some twenty years ago, during the first gold rush. Her husband made money for a time, then he went bust and took to drink and playing around with other women. Baby Doe found out, and she took a lover for herself. Eventually she divorced her husband, an act that put her beyond the pale, made her, in the eyes of respectable women, little more than a whore. With her lover, she went to Leadville, and there she m
et the silver-mining king, Horace Tabor. She caught the great man’s fancy; he paid off her lover, and Baby Doe became his mistress. In time, Tabor divorced his wife and married his kept woman.”
“She was never a parlor girl,” Serena pointed out.
“I will grant you that. Still, it isn’t impossible, not out here where women are scarce and the strict rules of civilization, even civilization itself, seems far away. A number of the girls have married. But I only mention it in passing. That isn’t what I want.”
“Isn’t it?” There was such an air of strength about Consuelo. It was as if she, and she alone, controlled her destiny. Watching her, Serena knew a fleeting taste of envy.
“No. As I said before, I mean to make what I can in the next few years, then take my savings, go where no one knows me, and begin over again. If I married a rich man and stayed here, I would be always that woman from Myers Avenue, never trusted, never accepted. No, I prefer my independence to such false respectability.”
The Spanish girl fell silent as Pearlie entered at the back door of the barroom. The red-haired woman hesitated, then with a frown drawing her brows together over her pale-blue eyes, she came toward them, the taffeta skirts of her costume rasping about her ankles.
“Well,” she said, a hard note in her voice. “Is this all you girls have to do? Sit here and gossip? You should be circulating.”
Timothy brought the chorus of his song to a flourishing finish. Before Consuelo could speak, he said, “Don’t shoo my girls off now, Pearlie, me darling. Show starts in two minutes.”
Pearlie compressed her lips into a thin line. “Very well,” she flung over her shoulder at the Welshman behind her. “Serena, I had an interesting inquiry about you a little while ago.”
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 106