While three or four men at a time chatted with her and wrote their names on her dance card, Clara tried to count the women and men at Castle Hastings, but there were three different parlors and far too many people coming and going. And men were still arriving. So far she’d counted one hundred and two women and eighty-five men. In addition to that, there were six madams plus the Empress Kate, whose home it was, greeting the gentlemen at the door. There were sixteen men in the orchestra, seventeen men and women in serving uniforms, two men taking invitations, and two taking coats.
If Billy were here, he would challenge her on her count of all these people. She was sure she was right, though. But then, she didn’t really want him here seeing her as a courtesan. She was glad he couldn’t see her, glad Mamma couldn’t see her, glad Izzie couldn’t see her. Two more women she hadn’t noticed swept into the ballroom. That was one hundred and four women.
Mary Johnson and the other madams were hostesses and shared in the arrangements along with the Empress, and each madam brought her girls, but it was the Empress’s home and she was in command of the evening.
Earlier in the week Mary Johnson had prepared Clara and the girls with not only dance lessons, but a long lecture in which she had explained that the men would all be upper crust, fancy and fast, New York’s finest. She’d been like a schoolteacher presenting the day’s lessons, standing in her parlor with the girls all sitting around.
“The most celebrated courtesans from the Empress Kate’s house will be there—Mary Queen of Scots, Marchioness D’Orsay, Princess Jenny, the Jewess. And Julia Brown’s girls will be there too. I want you to watch them. Some of you are as accomplished as they are, but you can always improve yourselves. Watch them closely. What they eat and drink. How they move through a room. How they use their eyes, their hands, their faces. If you are near them in conversation, listen to what they say and when they say it. If they are silent, try to understand why they are choosing to be so. And don’t forget that your gentleman of the moment is your favorite. He is, as always, exceptional.
“This is a special opportunity for our new girls, Katrina, Lizette, and Duchess Elena. You may all drink the wine and champagne, but only very little. Take the smallest sips to make the gentlemen feel they are not drinking alone. You may enjoy yourselves, but you are working and you must stay alert.” She paused for a moment and looked around at all the girls carefully. “If anyone embarrasses me by their behavior at the ball, then I assure you, tomorrow you will be streetwalking.” Her eyes drifted from face to face, letting this comment sink in. “This is not an idle threat. It is a fact. I want you to make me proud. This is your chance to shine in front of the very best. If you do well, we will gain new clients. We will all do well.”
Later that day, Mary Johnson called Clara to her office and told her the best news of all. Lizette LaMer would be permitted to enter womanhood at the ball. She could wear a lady’s dress. Clara could be a young lady from now on. Since Clara could not yet afford a dress that would be suitable for an affair such as this, Mary Johnson would loan her one from a half dozen dresses she kept in her quarters for such occasions. Clara chose a blue and white silk and lace with four flounces on the skirt and wide ribbons flowing down from the waist.
On the afternoon of the ball, Clara’s new hairdresser came by the house and fixed her hair in perfect shiny coils at the back of her head and laced a string of imitation pearls through them like a heavenly vine. When she was ready, she stood in front of the mirror in her room and studied herself—dress shimmering, hair exquisite, lips painted to perfection, arms bare, and bosoms round and firm revealed by the low cut of the dress for anyone to see. She stared a long while at herself. She was Lizette. Lizette LaMer.
Hannah was stunning with her hair done by the same new hairdresser and she also wore a borrowed dress. Mary Johnson said her silver wasn’t quite provocative enough and loaned her a gold and blue satin. Then, at nine o’clock in the evening, five hacks arrived at their door on Green Street and carried all twenty-one girls and Mary Johnson off to Castle Hastings, home of Empress Kate and her girls.
Now, at eleven, the orchestra struck its first note. It was a waltz. Clara was relieved. That was the one they’d practiced the most.
“Lizette, I’m the first one on your card. Jim Fisk.”
Fisk, a roundish fellow with an extra chin, took her gloved hand and led her into the center of the floor. He was confident in his stride and she fell into his lead. They spun round. They glided across the room among the other twirling couples. The music was bright as sunlight. As she swept near the doors, she noticed Hannah wasn’t dancing, but instead was standing to the side with a girl Clara didn’t know.
When it was time for the next dance, another man appeared. He was tall with a mustache so long it hung two inches below his chin. He stepped on her foot, but she claimed fault as she’d been taught to do. As they reeled around, she noticed Hannah still wasn’t dancing. The third dance was another waltz. Two men came to her and checked her card. One of them was number three, the other four. Number three wore a red rose in his lapel. He was dark-complexioned like Carlotta Leone and could have been her brother. He was a better dancer than number two and tried to find out about her. Did she ever go to school? Where did she grow up? Did she have sisters as beautiful as she was? Clara was Lizette more than ever. Lizette did go to school and Lizette’s mother also taught her to read French, though she couldn’t speak it. She grew up right here in New York just above Washington Square. She had no sisters. Number three never said a thing about himself. He seemed enchanted with her every word and they were all lies.
When the music stopped, he stared into her eyes without speaking. Then he said, “I want you to come with me upstairs when the dancing is over.”
Clara nodded. He was the first to ask, so she had to agree. Going upstairs was part of the evening. First there would be dancing, then around one o’clock in the morning, any of the men could take a girl upstairs to one of the boudoirs, dressing rooms, or small parlors and have their pleasure if they liked. About an hour later, everyone would return to the parlors where tables would now be set with crystal and silver and a fine French supper. Then about three o’clock in the morning, the rooms would be swept clear of the dishes, tables and chairs and dancing would resume until daylight. The sporting men could also take girls back to their respective parlor houses or hotels or wherever they liked.
When the orchestra stopped for the break, Clara’s partner left her and she looked around for Hannah. She wanted to see how her friend was fairing so she began to search the crowded rooms for the large gold-and-blue bell of Hannah’s dress. Dead in the middle of one of the busiest parlors, she spotted Hannah. She set off toward her, but before she had gone more than a step or two, she realized Empress Kate and her courtesan Princess Jenny were heading straight for her with great welcoming smiles on their faces.
“Has someone invited you upstairs?” Empress Kate asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara curtsied. She didn’t know why she did it. Empress Kate wasn’t a real Empress, after all.
“What is your name, dear?”
“Cl … Lizette LaMer, ma’am.”
“Not royalty?” Empress Kate snickered, looking at her courtesan companion and winking.
The Empress extended her hand to Lizette. She was handsome, had probably been a beauty when she was young, but she had a hard look about her. Clara held her breath.
“I am pleased to meet you, Lizette. This is Princess Jenny. You are with Mary Johnson?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve had a number of compliments about you already tonight and the evening has only just begun.” Empress Kate’s diamond tiara glinted under the chandelier gaslight. Clara wondered if they were glass diamonds on the tiara or real ones. “I want you to keep me in mind if you ever decide to leave Mary Johnson’s, not that you would, of course. She has an excellent house. But you are always welcome to visit me and discuss your future.”
&
nbsp; Sporting gent number three, perspiring and smiling, popped into their group next to the Empress. Clara sank down but kept her smile on. It was time to go upstairs with him.
“Ah, Mr. Livingston. You’re here for Lizette?” Her wrist laden with bracelets, she reached over and touched his sleeve. “I won’t keep you.” She gazed at Clara. “Remember what I’ve said. Now, enjoy yourselves.”
“Thank you, we will,” said Mr. Livingston.
Empress Kate and Princess Jenny turned away. “And where was the other one?” the Empress said quietly to the Princess.
“Ready?” Mr. Livingston took a blue silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his brow, then, as he was replacing it, stared at Clara’s bust. Suddenly he lowered his damp forehead onto her bosom and left it there a moment. Hell-fire, what was he doing? And why was he perspiring in the first place? She hadn’t seen him dancing. It wasn’t a hot night and the tall windows were thrown open to the cool night air. Two gentlemen passed by, observed Livingston resting his head on her bust and laughed with each other. This was horribly damned embarrassing. What a stinkpot this muttonhead was.
While she waited for him to raise his head, she looked about the room again for Hannah, but she was gone now. Had someone chosen her friend to go upstairs?
Finally, Livingston stood erect and said, “I can tell already, I’ll have no self-control with you. You are divine.” He glanced over his shoulder at the room emptying. “The rooms will all be taken. Let’s get along.” He put an arm around her waist and led her brusquely toward the grand staircase out in the foyer.
As they started up the stairs, a familiar belly laugh broke above the blended voices. A chill ran up her neck and over her scalp. Reilly. It sounded like John Reilly.
“Just a minute.” She pressed backward against Livingston’s arm to force him to stop. From the height of several stairs, she searched the shapes and faces. It was Reilly. He was here. Here. She absolutely couldn’t be seen by him. He’d tell Papa if he knew Papa’s whereabouts.
“What is it, Lizette? Did you forget something?”
“Yes. Yes.” That was her escape. She could hardly speak.
“Shall I go on and find us a room?”
“Please. I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’ll get a room, then meet you at the top of these stairs.” He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t dawdle.”
“Yes. No. I’ll be right there.”
She descended the few stairs, turning her face away from Reilly’s direction and went back into the ballroom. There were no longer guests in the room, only staff carrying in tables and chairs. Clara approached one of them.
“I need air. I’m a bit faint. Is there a back entrance this way?” She gestured toward the big door where the staff was pouring in with the furniture.
The young man pointed and said, “Go half way through that room, turn right, then left, down the hall until you come to the upstairs kitchen. That’ll take you to the alley.
Too afraid to look back, Clara rushed against the stream of staff people through a drawing room and followed the directions. She kept mumbling, “Excuse me. I need air. Excuse me, I need air,” to everyone who seemed surprised by her presence in the rear quarters of the house. Finally she arrived at the service entrance. There was a long line of delivery wagons and horses waiting along the alley.
She couldn’t stay at the ball now. She couldn’t risk being seen by Reilly. Had he seen her already and not greeted her? If she went back in, and Reilly saw her, he might tell Papa and then Papa might find her and Euphora. But if she left the ball, Mary Johnson would boot her out of the house. And what about Hannah? She bit down on to the inside of her mouth. Hell-fire.
She had to go. She’d figure the rest out tomorrow.
<><><>
IT WAS EERIE BEING ALONE at Mary Johnson’s. Clara was the only one in the parlor house except for James and Lettie downstairs. At one in the morning there would usually be cackles of laughter, the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke, male voices booming and groaning intermittently, sometimes there’d be singing downstairs. Clara had undressed and gone to bed, but lay sleepless. Had she done the right thing? Would Mary Johnson really throw her out? Would Hannah go with her if she did? Clara doubted Empress Kate would take her in after insulting one of her guests. And Empress Kate probably wouldn’t take Hannah into her house anyway. Clara bit the skin inside her mouth. If Reilly had seen her, it was possible he could tell Papa. She sat straight up in bed. But maybe Reilly didn’t know where Papa was. That was possible, too. Papa had left Geneva after Mrs. Purcell died. Maybe she had a chance. Yes. She had a good chance.
Papa hadn’t been good friends with Reilly the way he had with Sam Weston. But then, what if Reilly told Sam Weston and Sam Weston told Papa? She lay back down, then after a few minutes, sat up again picturing Reilly and Weston talking, then lay back down. Did Reilly know Weston? She couldn’t remember.
After fretting for hours about Papa and Mary Johnson and Hannah and Reilly, Clara began to drift toward sleep but then heard the girls coming in downstairs. It was after dawn. They were giggling and chattering in high, excited voices. As they came up the stairs, they were finishing up stories about the gents from the ball, then saying goodnight to each other and going off to their rooms.
Her doorknob clicked. She sat up.
“Hannah?”
She could just make out Mary Johnson’s figure in the dark. In silence, Mary Johnson lit the wall sconce, then came and stood at the foot of the bed. Damn. Mary Johnson was jo-fire going to boot her out of the house. She could feel it.
“For Christ’s sake, Clara, I told you what would happen if you embarrassed me.” She slammed the door, then came and stood close. “Mr. Livingston was furious. He insulted Empress Kate in front of a half dozen people and stormed out. No one cares much for Mr. Livingston, but it doesn’t matter. If anything like that happens again, Empress Kate will cut me and my house out of her parties.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I told Kate you were taken ill.” She paused, waiting, but Clara said nothing. “Well, were you? People said they saw you run out the back saying you needed air.”
Clara turned and dangled her legs off the side of the bed. It would be easy to say she was ill, just the way it was easy to tell Mr. Livingston that she had forgotten something. Mary Johnson was angry, but so far Clara had told her the truth about everything except her age. She had told her about Papa and Weston and Reilly that first day at the interview. And she had told Mary Johnson about Mrs. Purcell dying, and about how some people, including the sheriff, thought Papa might have killed Mrs. Purcell, and how Papa had disappeared, and how she had Euphora hidden away at Mrs. Hogarth’s. Everything.
“I saw one of the men, one of them that Papa had me do the other thing with, back in Geneva. Mr. Reilly. I was afraid he’d see me, then somehow Papa would find out I was here. I got the all-overs and had to rush out.”
“What could your father do to you now? You’re free of him.”
“If he finds me, he’ll make me go with him.” A shiver ran down her back. She wrapped her arms around herself. “He’ll make me tell him where Euphora is and he’ll sell her to men, like he did me.”
Mary Johnson sat down on the bed close to her. She smelled like cigars and flowery perfume. “How can he force you to go with him if you don’t want to?”
“He’s my father.”
“But you left him. Why would you have to go with him now?”
“He’d take me. I don’t know. He has ways of making me do things.”
Mary Johnson sat there a while, her big shoulders slumping, her jaw shifting slowly, eyes squinting. She seemed like she might cry, like she was remembering something sad, but it was too long ago to cry over anymore. Then she drew in a long breath, squared her shoulders, and sighed.
“I’m not throwing you out. This time. We’re going to tell everyone you were deathly ill. If you pull one more blunder like that. Just one. You’re out. I do
n’t care how pretty you are.” Mary Johnson rose up tall as a tree and set her iron-brown eyes on Clara. “If your father ends up finding you here at the house, you call for me.”
Clara hopped off the bed and started to reach out to embrace Mary Johnson, but she caught herself. No one embraced the madam.
“Thank you.”
Mary Johnson lingered a half moment glancing around the room from spot to spot. Clara waited, sure she was about to say something else, maybe tell her a story about herself or another girl, but she didn’t. Finally Mary Johnson left and Clara ran to find Hannah.
Forty-Five
IZZIE SKIMMED OVER the morning’s trance letter. There was something about the universe, something about the seasons, higher purposes of humanity, something funny about a cat. As usual, there was nothing that could help her find her sisters. Her letters were becoming philosophical. They were interesting to Anna and Mrs. Fielding and Roland, but not to her.
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