by Megan Chance
Now I am thinking of Barret, and the drinking and opium eating he could not give up. Gideon is like that for me. I think I shall have to go very far away to cut him from my heart. At least I still have singing. If I had to give them both up, I think I would shrivel up and die.
AUGUST 16, 1877—Tonight is the night.
Alain returned last week, and he has been very flirtatious and on his best behavior. He is now talking about returning to Paris very soon, but he still will not say when, and by the way he looks at me, I know I am the one who will make up his mind. At dinner last night, when Gideon went to speak to someone across the room, Alain leaned very close and took my hand, and beneath the table he ran his thumb along the inside of my bare arm until he raised shivers on my skin. His eyes grew very dark, and he said he dreamed of my breasts and when would he have the chance to see them again, because it was the only reason he had returned to New York. “You do not mean to disappoint me, do you, chérie?” he asked, and I told him that I had planned a special supper in my room for us alone whenever he wished, and he said, “Tomorrow.”
So it is done, and my stomach is upset thinking of it.
I told Gideon that the dinner is tonight, and he has been short with me all day, which is what I want. I think if he were kind I would lose my courage. There is a part of me that cannot bear the thought of never seeing him again. But there is another part—a bigger part—that tells me I must save myself. And he no longer needs me. He is a brilliant impresario and everyone knows it. There are singers who would do anything to work with him. The rest of the company love him. He will be a success even without me.
He is gone to the theater now. He told me he will take the others to supper and not return until very late, though neither of us will admit the reason for him to stay away.
I mean to ask Alain to hide me at another hotel until he can arrange for passage out of the city, because I know Gideon will not let me go so easily, and I do not trust myself to hold to my purpose if he were to try to dissuade me.
So much depends on tonight that I have taken special care. I am wearing my dressing gown of pink silk, which is Gideon’s favorite, and the corset that matches it and very fine silk stockings with ribboned garters and slippers with little jeweled bows. I brushed my hair until it gleamed so golden in the light it did not look real. I am wearing four strands of pearls, and I spent a great deal of time arranging them so that they emphasize my breasts and let one of the strands fall inside the lace of my corset so that Alain will feel compelled to follow it there.
The dinner I’ve ordered up is oysters and strawberries and grapes and capon stuffed with sweetbreads and a silken custard and wine—there is a great deal of wine.
I am nervous, though I think I have no reason to be. Alain wants me desperately; I think he would do anything for me. I know he will be happy to take me from Gideon—how could he not? I am Sabine Conrad, after all, and I mean tonight to satisfy his every desire, and perhaps some he doesn’t realize he has.
Now all that remains is the waiting. He will be here soon.
After tonight, my new life will begin.
CHAPTER 18
Seattle, Washington Territory—January 1882
I drank three shots of whiskey in quick succession, nearly choking as the last one burned its way down my throat. Duncan frowned at me. “You all right, Marguerite?”
“No,” I snapped, pouring another.
I glanced at the stage. Annie and Lil were up there now, dressed in trousers and shirts as they sang their ribald song, grinning knowingly at the audience while the men hooted and laughed in reply. For the years that the Palace had been a box-house, I’d watched these girls and listened to the music and managed to inure myself to it all. But that was impossible to-night. I felt the lure of that stage, as simple as it was—new now, and larger, but still plain, with holes drilled in the apron for foot lights that had not yet been installed and no curtain or drop or single bit of scenery. I saw the sweat glow upon Annie’s skin and the way Lil’s eyes shone when she bowed, and I remembered how it felt to be up there. The stage in the Völksstadt had been simpler than this, and I had loved every moment upon it, and the memory of that came so hard and fast I was unprepared. Gideon’s words had done that. For more than four years, I’d managed to hold the barrier between the world I lived in now and the one I’d left behind, and it had taken only a single sentence to collapse it. “You could have it all back…. You could be what you were before. More than that.”
Sarah bounced up to the bar, her sleeve slipping from her shoulder, her hair prettily disarrayed. “Mr. Ryan says he needs you at his table, Miss Olson.”
“Tell him to solve his problems himself.” I drank the fourth shot in a single gulp. Still, the numbness I’d hoped for didn’t come. I looked at the bottle, wondering if I would have to finish the entire thing. “Better yet, you go over there. Suck whoever you must to calm them down.”
Sarah looked startled, but she left again quickly, and I saw her whisper something to one of the other girls heading toward the bar. The girl glanced at me and turned around again.
Duncan said, “Ain’t many drinks getting sold.”
I knew what he meant; that I was the reason for it, standing there as I was, glowering at everyone who came near. I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and the glass and said, “I’ll be in Johnny’s office.”
Once I was inside, I shut the door with my hip and slammed the glass onto Johnny’s desk. Then I took the bottle and went to stand at the window, leaning against the weathered wooden Indian with his handful of cigars that Johnny kept there. The scent of tobacco wafted up to me; in a sudden fit of pique I grabbed two cigars and snapped them in half, dropping them to the floor and grinding them beneath my foot. The smell was even stronger then. I saw him before me, smoking his cigarette as if the very fact of it wasn’t a change, watching me with those long blue eyes….
“You could have it all again. You could have everything.”
I closed my eyes, and the memories rose through the haze of alcohol, soft and blurry and alluring. The feel of a stage floor beneath my feet, the glare of the footlights, that growing nervousness as I waited in the wings, as I raised my forehead for his kiss and his words, “In boca al lupo.” The feel of my voice, full strength, not held back, not blending with nine others, my own distinct sound. The straining of my lungs, the push of air from my diaphragm, the sense that a single note might sear everything away—
“What the hell are you doing?”
The door thudded against the wall hard enough to slam shut again. I turned slowly from the window.
Johnny strode to me, jerking the whiskey bottle from my hands, throwing it to the floor. The neck broke off, and the bottle rolled crazily into the corner, spilling whiskey all the way, and all I could do was watch it in dismay.
“I wasn’t done with that,” I said.
He trapped my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You got a meeting tonight. Or have you forgotten?”
Portland. “You can have it without me.”
“What the hell has got into you?”
“Whiskey,” I said with a nasty smile. “And there would have been more of it if you hadn’t spilled it.”
He let me go so quickly I stumbled. “Lyman Kerwin is sitting out there at a table right now, waiting for the both of us. He ain’t going to be disappointed.”
“I’m not going out there.”
“The hell you ain’t.” Johnny’s expression was grim. He grabbed my arm, hard, and I thought, there will be bruises there tomorrow, and then what will Gideon say? and then I was angry with myself for thinking of him at all.
“I’m in no mood to seduce a man tonight.”
“You don’t got to seduce him. You only got to be your charming self.”
“I can’t do that either.”
“Well, ain’t it a pity you got no choice. You knew he was coming tonight. If he has to wait ‘til tomorrow, my bet is the whole thing’s off. So put on a smile, hone
y, and get ready to charm the fuck out of him. Oh, and Prosch is here as well.”
“The newspaper editor?”
“Kerwin’s idea. He wants an ‘objective viewpoint’ on whether Seattle can ‘support culture.’ “Johnny’s voice was mocking. His fingers tightened; he opened the door and escorted me out, whispering, “Smile.”
The whiskey was roiling through my veins; my feet were unsteady. But I did what he asked—even drunk as I was, I knew how stupid it would be to challenge him. He led me through the bar, a riot of noise and motion I could hardly focus on. Johnny took me to the farthest table and said, “Mr. Kerwin, meet my partner, Miss Olson. And I believe the two of you are already acquainted, Prosch.”
“Delightful to see you again, Miss Olson.”
I blinked, trying to focus. Mr. Prosch’s large forehead, prominent ears, larger than I remembered. Something warned me to be careful; I was too addled to remember why. I looked at the other man. Lyman Kerwin. He had a long face, thinning hair, full lips beneath a mustache that was scarcely there, and a straggling Van Dyke beard. He rose—his eyes seemed very close together, too close … had he one or two?—and bowed slightly. “Miss Olson. How pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”
Johnny pulled out a chair, nearly pushing me into it before he took one of his own. Sally was at my shoulder as if she’d suddenly appeared out of vapor, and I jumped a little. “How about a drink?” she asked.
“Bring a bottle,” Johnny said shortly. “And three glasses. Miss Olson ain’t drinking.”
“Like hell I’m not,” I said. “Four glasses, Sally,” and when she left and Johnny glared at me, I broadened my smile and ignored him and scooted my chair around the table until I was sitting next to Mr. Kerwin, and then I said, “What can I do to convince you to join our circuit?”
Johnny looked thunderous. “Now, Margie—”
Kerwin waved his protest away. “No, no, Langford, it’s all right. It’s a fair question, and I appreciate Miss Olson’s frankness. My concern is whether we can get the acts we need, even with San Francisco involved.”
“The city is growing day by day,” Prosch said. “Faust made an impressive showing, better than I imagined.”
“A one-time treat will always draw, of course. What about a regular diet?”
“We’re ready for it,” Johnny said. “I’m thinking something big to start, something that shows we ain’t playing around.”
“A combination act,” Prosch suggested. “Or perhaps, if I might make a suggestion, something like Uncle Tom’s Cabin.“
Johnny snorted. “Christ, if I have to see another production of Uncle Tom. …”
“An opera singer, then. In concert,” the newspaper editor suggested.
The warning buzzed again in my head. I wanted another drink. I glanced around for Sally, wondering where the hell the bottle was.
“You might be able to get Ellen Siebert,” Prosch said.
“Who the hell is Ellen Siebert? That ain’t the kind of big I’m talking about,” Johnny said.
Kerwin smiled. “She’s good enough. Who else do you expect to get in this city? Pauline Lucca? Sabine Conrad?”
Sally brought the bottle. I nearly tore it from her hands. I poured myself a shot, ignoring Johnny’s warning glance, and drank it, then poured another. Johnny took the bottle and poured for the others.
Prosch leaned forward. “That maybe isn’t so far-fetched, you know. I’ve got a friend in New York. A fellow newspaperman. He says Conrad’s manager got out of prison several weeks ago.”
I could not even breathe. I clutched my glass and thought of Gideon, only a few blocks away, if they could have known it.
“So what?” Johnny asked.
“So … there are some of us who think he’ll go to wherever she is.”
“You think he knows where she is?”
“Who better?”
“So where is he now?”
Prosch shrugged. “No one’s seen him. Not yet. But someone will. Men like that don’t stay hidden. He’ll turn up again.”
I wanted to leave, but even as drunk as I was I knew that would only raise Johnny’s suspicions, so I stayed. The talk went on, but I did not hear anything they said. All I could see was Gideon’s face before me, all I could think of was more whiskey. I drank another, and another. And then, I couldn’t think of anything. I hardly knew what I was doing, or what I was saying. At one point, I found myself draped over Kerwin’s shoulder while he and Prosch laughed and he told me some obscene limerick, and the lights and sound in the Palace were nothing but a big kaleidoscope swirling around me, and I think that was when I slipped my hand between the lapels of Kerwin’s vest and looked brazenly at Johnny, wanting to see jealousy in his eyes, daring him to stop me. His careful expression pricked at me—not what I wanted. No banked passion, no promise of something darker, no hidden games, and I leaned closer to Kerwin, brushing my lips against his cheek.
Johnny stood and said something, but whatever it was got lost in the kaleidoscope. Suddenly Kerwin wasn’t there. Suddenly I was on my feet, and Johnny had hold of me, and I was stumbling after him through the Palace and up the stairs to his room, trying to catch my balance against the flimsy curtains of the boxes lining the hallway. When he opened the door and we went inside, I was glad. This was what I wanted—jealousy, punishment. I wanted him to take away the mocking blue eyes, the thoughts of my other life. I turned to him, pressing my hands against his chest. He was so solid. All muscle and brawn. Not thin from four years of prison—
I felt for the buttons at his trousers. Johnny grabbed my hands, stilling them, his fingers strong about my wrists. He threw me to the bed, and I sprawled upon it like a whore, my hair falling down around my shoulders. I waggled my fingers at him.
“Come here,” I said.
He turned away, heading for the door. “Sleep off whatever’s got into you.”
It took me a moment to realize he was leaving. I struggled to get off the bed. “Johnny, no, stay—”
“I thought we were past all this,” he said impatiently. “Who is it you want, Margie? Me? Or Kerwin? Or someone else?”
His words cut through the fog of my drunkenness. I could only stare at him.
He said, “You want to fuck Kerwin, just say the word. I’ll have him brought up. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.”
I could not answer; it was so far from what I’d intended—what had I intended? To make Johnny jealous, to use him to forget. To make today disappear. Suddenly I wanted to cry.
At that moment, the whiskey turned, my stomach grabbed, and I jerked myself over the edge of the bed, vomiting.
Johnny said, “I ain’t here to clean up your messes,” and left me there.
IN THE MORNING, I woke alone, sprawled on the mattress with the stench of vomit heavy in the air, and I groaned and crawled from bed, my head pounding, feeling sick again as I nearly slipped on the pool beside the bed. I tiptoed around it, going to the basin, pouring water, gulping it down with trembling hands before I plunged my face in and let the cool water do its work. I washed myself as carefully and thoroughly as I could, trying not to think of why I was taking such care, wincing at every too-loud splash.
When I was finished, I cleaned up the vomit and opened the door to the little balcony so that the cold wet wind rushed inside, and only then did I feel better. I did not think about last night, not about Mr. Prosch’s words, not about what I’d done. The morning was far advanced; there was someplace I had to be. I was possessed with the urge both to hurry and to delay.
I grabbed my cloak and crept from Johnny’s room. The Palace was dark and quiet, smelling of whiskey and smoke and the lingering stench of sweat. I heard my own footsteps echo as I went down the stairs. Johnny was nowhere to be seen, but Duncan was behind the bar, and he looked up in surprise and said, “You’re up early.”
“Where’s Johnny?”
“Sleeping in his office.”
I went to the back door. “I’ll be back later.”
“He’ll ask where you are.”
“Breakfast.” I braved a smile; it seemed to split my skull. “With Charlotte.”
Duncan nodded, and I slipped out the back door, breathing a sigh of relief.
I had not realized how nervous I was until I was outside. I took a deep breath of the cold air, but it did nothing to ease how tightly I was wound. The rain was light but steady, the clouds so low it seemed one could reach up to touch them. There was a delivery wagon across the street, a drover unloading barrels, and I drew up the hood of my cloak, pulling it forward in an attempt to disguise myself. Though I doubted anyone would take the time to notice me, I did not want it getting back to Johnny that I’d made a morning visit to the New Brunswick Hotel.
I told myself to slow, but my nerves sent me racing onward. I was jangled and unsettled when I reached Commercial Street and the old door of Squire’s Opera House. I glanced up at the sign reading NEW BRUNSWICK HOTEL before I went in and climbed the stairs.
The lobby was still wide and open, though not so much as before, because there was a desk there now, behind which a man stood, and behind him a row of cubbyholes holding keys. He looked up as I came in, and I approached him and said, “I’m looking for Mr. Price’s room.”
“Around the corner to your right, number ten,” he said, and I nodded my thanks and went past him, following his direction, into the hallway that had once been the theater, sliced up now, the ghost voices from Faust imprisoned behind pine boards and wallpaper. The hallway was dim, the gaslight turned low. The closer I got to his room, the more my footsteps faltered. I was at number ten before I was ready. I stood there for a moment and then I knocked lightly, tentatively—perhaps he would not hear.
But then I heard his steps, and the door opened, and I was blinking in the light from the room that seemed too bright after the dim hall.
“You’ve come,” he said.
“Did I have a choice?”
He stepped back, motioning me inside, shutting the door, and I was thrown so far back into the past it was as if there were no present to be had or as if I did not exist in it.