The Girls at the Kingfisher Club

by Genevieve Valentine

  Seven girls. If they had gone, if seven of them had gone to Tom’s place because she’d told them it was safe (oh God), then one of them was still sitting upstairs—too afraid to go out, waiting for Jo to return. Rebecca? Sophie? Would it be better or worse for that one girl, having stayed?

  Rounding the second-story landing, Jo had a terrifying premonition of opening doors to empty rooms; she imagined walking right to the end of the fourth-floor hall and out the back stairs, out to the streets, never stopping.

  At the third-floor landing (dark and quiet; it could mean anything), she had to search for enough breath to walk forward and knock on Rose and Lily’s door.

  Her blood pounded in her ears so loudly she couldn’t hear if there was noise from inside. She forced herself to count to ten before she panicked—tears would muddy her powder, and she didn’t dare give her father the satisfaction, no matter what happened.

  (Her eyes were stinging. She blinked once, hard.)

  On the count of eight, Lily opened the door.

  Her hair was sleep mussed, and she frowned blearily at Jo. “What’s wrong?”

  “Is everyone here?”

  For a moment neither of them moved, breathed.

  Then Lily frowned. “Jo, I don’t—”

  “Lily.”

  Her voice was thick—Lily flinched away from it.

  “Yes, of course, you said we shouldn’t—”

  “Get them up,” Jo said. “Line up on the stairs to the second floor.”

  “Jo, what’s hap—”

  “Up,” Jo snapped, still too panicked to even be relieved. She was taking the stairs to the fourth floor, moving by rote.

  Hattie didn’t even bother to ask questions when Jo knocked; she and Mattie grabbed their robes from the foot of their beds and followed Jo.

  Lined up on the stairs in nightgowns and bare feet, they looked like a collection of orphans, and Jo walked between two columns of girls toward the first floor as if she wielded the willow switch.

  (Perhaps all of this, all these years, had only given their father what he’d always wanted from Jo—an instrument.)

  “Father,” she said at the landing, the flint in her voice surprising her. “You wanted to see them.”

  Tom was still in the foyer, looking at her with something that might have been sympathy. She didn’t bother meeting his eye. He could keep it.

  Their father seemed taken aback by the speed with which she had rounded them up. He cleared his throat and excused himself again, smiling, to the gentlemen at the dinner table.

  “Back in a moment,” he said.

  There were soft noises from the dining room as the older sisters fidgeted in their seats.

  Tom looked over at the dining room, smiled encouragingly. Probably at Lou.

  He’d better hope Ella took Lou’s knife, too, Jo thought.

  Jo couldn’t look at the girls behind her, didn’t want to look at their father, refused to look at Tom. She fixed her gaze on the front door, wishing for nothing more than a head start to reach it.

  Their father took the first few stairs, then hesitated. Jo wondered if things were going to get worse—if he could even do any worse, unless he called the men over and told them to take their pick.

  But he didn’t move for a moment, and then another, and suddenly she realized what the matter was.

  He’d never seen them all together.

  He must not have seen more than three of them at a time, ever since Ella was young. He was about to meet some of his daughters for the first time, and all at once, and if he was suspicious enough to be willing to buy information about some girls going out, then he must suspect his daughters’ hearts were set against him.

  He was a fool. He’d ordered himself into confronting eight strangers he’d fathered who lived like mice in the attic above his house. He hoped to sell them off one at a time as untouched goods who had never been so wild as to go out dancing; his only concern for them had been for their reputations, and now he was standing before them, afraid of what he had made.

  He was afraid.

  Good.

  “You’ll have to come a little higher,” Jo said, and after too long added, “sir.”

  Tom took one step closer to the bottom of the stairs. It was just enough that their father would have to excuse himself if he turned back; there was nothing for it, now, but for him to stay where he was and meet them.

  Jo met Tom’s eyes for a moment. Then she turned like a society hostess and swept her arm to the girls on the stairs.

  She opened her mouth to introduce them one by one, but her father held up a hand.

  Jo swallowed.

  He didn’t want the guests to know how many more girls there were, that there were other girls being saved for someone better.

  Jo wanted to look over at her sisters (this was horrible, even more surreal for them than for her, and though she wasn’t Ella they needed comfort from someone), but she couldn’t tear her eyes from her father’s open palm, held out like a talisman against them.

  He didn’t look any of them in the eye. He glanced over just long enough to count them, and then he was back down the stairs, as unflappable as ever, tugging gently on the hem of his jacket and looking at Tom.

  “Well, I appreciate the information,” he said. “And I appreciate your discretion on this matter—though, as you can see, should anyone insinuate, loose girls who go out dancing are no daughters of mine.”

  Tom’s face was inscrutable. “I can see that.”

  “Unfortunately”—and their father gestured to the table—“I’m not in a position to leave my guests waiting any longer. Come by tomorrow—I pay a fair price for good information. Of course, you can join us for dinner, if you like. My daughter Josephine is hosting”—and he indicated Jo—“and her sisters, Louise, Ella, and Doris are entertaining some associates of mine.”

  From the dining room came the sound of three people shifting in their chairs to stare at the man who had come to give them up, and a thick, tense silence before Tom nodded acknowledgment. Probably Ella’s gesture, Jo thought. Manners ran deepest in her.

  Tom looked levelly at all of them, and Jo tried not to think that his gaze was sympathetic as he looked at her sisters, and harder as he locked eyes with the men.

  (It was, though; it was like looking into a mirror, watching him look around the table and wonder what was going on.)

  Their father went on. “I had a place set out for you, just in case. You’re welcome to join.”

  Tom’s placid smile when he shook his head was only a mask over his panic and bewilderment. Their father didn’t see it, but oh, Jo could.

  “I’ll have to decline,” Tom said. “It’s getting late, and I have work to do yet.”

  Jo motioned for the girls to get back upstairs while they were safely forgotten.

  She ignored the hateful looks she got from Rebecca and the twins, the fearful ones from Sophie and Violet. They could hate her all they wanted, so long as they obeyed.

  She glanced down the stairs to make sure their father wasn’t watching; when she looked back at the staircase a few moments later, they had vanished. (They knew, by now, how to disappear.)

  “Come by as early as you like,” their father was saying to Tom. “I’ll have compensation ready.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Tom, shaking hands like they were friends. “Tomorrow morning. Have a good night, sir. Enjoy your party.”

  On his way out, he glanced into one of the narrow windows beside the door, trying to catch Jo’s eye in the reflection.

  Her throat was tight. She looked away.

  Then he was gone, and their father was smiling and closing the door.

  “Come, Josephine,” he said, holding out his hand for her as if nothing had happened. “It’s time for dessert, and we’re neglecting our guests.
”

  • • •

  The guests went home more than an hour later, after dessert, and coffee, and one last drink to toast the Danube because it was a shame to waste good sherry, and a round of extended farewells.

  Van de Maar had talked business with their father. Lou had been resolutely silent. Ella had also been quiet, but Prescott seemed happy to answer his own questions, and she needed only to nod and agree to keep him happy.

  Doris and Sam Lewisohn had recovered best. They made small talk about his business and her favorite books; if she hadn’t known better, Jo would never have guessed they’d spent nights at the smoky Kingfisher, zooming through the room whenever a Charleston played.

  Foster was a drowsy drunk. Jo was worn thin with second-guessing and dread, and was happy to have such an easy problem. She spent the rest of the dinner waiting until he nodded himself awake, head snapping upright, to ask him a question. He blinked and gave her a muddy answer, and dropped off to sleep again; she gathered several facts about bootlegging and decided his business was better off with him here, asleep.

  When the last man (Lewisohn) had shaken all their hands and been escorted out, Walters closed the door, leaving the sisters and their father alone in the little parlor. From the dining room came the soft sounds of china being cleared away.

  “Well,” their father said, “you girls must be tired. It’s very late.”

  Doris grinned, managed to turn it into a yawn at the last ­second.

  “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Father,” said Ella, and kissed him on the cheek before she started up the stairs. Lou followed, fuming, and then Doris.

  “Josephine,” their father said as she turned to go, “we can discuss how the evening went in the morning.”

  “Sir,” said Jo.

  He leveled a look at her. “There are several matters to discuss.”

  He still suspects, she thought, but just as quickly she caught herself. Don’t give anything away. Don’t give in. If he’s going to catch you, he’ll damn well have to catch you in the act.

  “I look forward to it,” she said evenly. “Good night, Father.”

  On her way upstairs, she passed the younger girls’ bedrooms on the third floor. Each door was open a crack, but she didn’t slow down, and no one was brave enough to step out from safety and question her.

  She must have looked as angry as she felt.

  Lou was already shoving herself into her nightgown when Jo got there.

  “So,” Lou said, “how long have you been planning to have your boyfriend come over and meet the family? What did he need the money for, your elopement?”

  Lou was in a panic and striking where she could, but still Jo felt something snap—a betrayal from Lou she couldn’t bear, not on top of everything, not tonight—and she sucked in a deep and satisfied breath before she said, “Go to hell, Louise.”

  She’d never said anything like that, never to Lou, and it froze Lou solid.

  Lou was still standing with fistfuls of nightgown in her hands, gaping at Jo, when someone rapped softly from the doorjamb outside the open door.

  Without turning, Jo said, “What is it, Doris?”

  Doris’s cropped head appeared in the reflection from the window. “White flag?”

  Lou let out a heavy breath and opened her fists, letting the nightgown fall. “Go on.”

  Doris grinned and slid inside, her hands shoved into the pockets of her robe. Jo turned to face her.

  Doris cleared her throat. “General, I just wanted to say thanks, for earlier. Sam’s much nicer than—well, nicer than I ever expected from any man Father picked.”

  Jo looked her over. “How much nicer?”

  Doris flushed. “A lot nicer. I’ve always thought he was sweet.”

  So many things had happened that first year that Jo had been blind to.

  “What does he think of you?”

  “He’s asked if he can see me again.”

  “No,” said Lou.

  “Good,” said Jo.

  Lou stared.

  Doris grinned. “I really do like him.”

  “Fine,” said Jo.

  Doris looked from Lou to Jo and pulled a face. “Right. I’ll just—Good night.”

  Jo closed the door behind Doris and waited.

  “You can’t let her marry him!”

  Jo moved to her bed, scooping up her nightgown from under her pillow. “Why not? She likes him.”

  “And it would appease Father after that stunt tonight!”

  Jo slammed a fist down on the dresser. Lou jumped.

  Jo choked out, “You think because I’m playing for time I’m out to appease him? I have eleven girls on my hands with no education except the third-floor library and going out nights—where exactly shall I take them? Where would they have a life, if we ran from him now?”

  “So what, you’re going to hope a few more good men wander in the door so you can palm us off?”

  Jo snarled, “I haven’t palmed anyone off! Doris isn’t stupid. She knows him, he seems kind, and Father would be pleased—the rest of us should be half so lucky.”

  “Listen to you, telling us all to wait until you say, to go where you say! You’re no better than he is!”

  Lou might as well have hit her; the pain was sharp enough, deep enough.

  Jo pressed a hand to her ribs and concentrated on breathing in and out.

  After a moment, she looked up. Lou looked halfway apologetic, halfway defiant, waiting for the answering volley.

  “If the girls ask where I’ve gone,” Jo said, “tell them you can handle it.”

  And then she was moving down the hall, out the back stairs (quickly, avoiding the faint light from behind the kitchen door), through the alley and around the corner, out of sight of the house.

  By the time she thought about where she was, she was already standing on a street she’d never seen before; she was alone and free.

  fifteen

  She's So Unusual

  Jo all but ran the first few streets, shocked at herself—General Jo, fleeing from the house without a friend in the world or a penny in her pocket.

  She shoved her fists into the folds of her skirt and slowed down, forced herself to pick a direction, as if she knew where she was going.

  She looked over her shoulder a dozen times in the first five blocks, uneasy and not able to articulate why, until she passed a shop window and saw her reflection.

  Then she realized she was uneasy because she had never gone out at night alone before.

  She was surrounded by sisters at night, the alpha of a little wolf pack in dresses.

  In the apothecary window with the skyline of bottles inside, Jo felt anonymous, swallowed up by the city.

  It was intoxicating.

  She walked without thinking, past the house on Seventy-Ninth that looked like a palace in a Gothic fairy tale, turning onto Lexington when the sharp blue awnings of a chemist caught her eye, ignoring the ache in her feet. She was angry enough that it thrilled her to be lost, with no one to answer to, no one to keep track of, without anywhere to be or anyone to tell where she was going.

  She should be going to the Kingfisher, she thought; but even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true.

  She knew exactly where she was going.

  At last, she flagged a cab and put on her most winning smile as she gave the address of the Marquee.

  • • •

  The party was in full swing.

  Girls had feathers plastered to their hair with sweat, and the men had already begun to unbutton their collars. The frantic conversation threatened to drown out the music, and a cacophony of clinking glasses sounded along the bar in a futile attempt to drink away the heat.

  The bandleader seemed determined to drive the crowd into the ground; he was playing a quickstep in
what felt like double time, and the couples flew around the floor, narrowly missing one another, arms pressing forward into the sea of people like the prows of glittering ships.

  It sounded like Jo felt. Her heart was a drum.

  I’d dance this with anyone, she thought as she stepped inside; just give me a partner and get out of the way.

  Alone, Jo was just one of a hundred other girls who came out for a good time. She was still wearing the dinner dress, black with net over it like a shroud.

  It was equal parts terrifying and comforting that without her sisters, Jo was unremarkable.

  No one even looked up from their drinks as she came in, except Tom.

  He was beside her before she even got her bearings.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, eyes searching her face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Can you pay the cab?”

  He frowned. “Of course. Do you need anyth—”

  “I’m fine,” she said, and plucked the drink out of his hand as he passed.

  The band struck up a foxtrot. Some of the dancers stumbled back to their tables to recover; the rest shrugged off the sweat and aches and kept dancing.

  Jo knew how they felt—at the beginning, that first year, she had often danced to songs she hated, just to be moving, just to feel music under her shoes.

  When Tom appeared beside her, she handed him the empty glass. She felt more than saw his eyes on her.

  She was going to crawl out of her skin.

  “Let’s go someplace quiet,” she said.

  • • •

  The second floor of the town house had a pair of doors just off the landing. Tom unlocked the left-hand one, and she let him turn on the light before she stepped inside, as if cops were lying in wait and he wanted to make sure they weren’t in for another bust.

  Of course they weren’t. Like a good businessman, Tom had paid off the cops. This place was safe as a bank.

  Under the stark light of the bulb, Jo saw this was only a studio apartment, not quite what she’d been expecting of a man with a deed to the place. There was nothing in it but a bed and a desk and a chair that looked ready to collapse. Tucked to one side was a kitchenette that looked like it had never been touched, the top of the cabinets an inch thick with dirt.