Molly disrobed, without shame. She winced as she lifted her arms over her head for the dress to be put on her, and Agnes had to sit at her feet and help her into her shoes. ‘There you are. Perfectly respectable for a trip to the doctor.’
‘Doctor Lemaître,’ she said with a grimace. ‘He’s awful. We go to him for help keeping us out of the family way, or getting us out of the family way if we’re already in it. But he’s also one of our clients. He’s been with all the girls here.’
Agnes hid her distaste. ‘But he’s still a physician, Molly. He will be able to tell if your injuries are serious. He’ll stitch up your face if you need it.’
Molly smiled weakly. ‘But he won’t mend my heart or make me feel safe again,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Lordy, Agnes. I thought I could endure anything.’ She gulped, took a deep breath, then said, ‘Help me down the stairs?’
Agnes did as she asked. The lights in the entranceway were lit and Madame Beaulieu was waiting. The older woman put an arm around Molly’s shoulder and leaned in to kiss her forehead. She said something to her in French, in a soft, reassuring voice, and her hold of Molly was gentle.
‘Good luck,’ Agnes said as they left. She made her way back up the stairs and slid into her bed. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. She kept thinking about her belongings, locked in a strongbox inside Madame Beaulieu’s apartment: which was probably also locked. How she wanted to take her things and run. She’d been a fool to be here for so long. This was an awful place, where awful things happened. She had never been safe here. Tomorrow, she would retrieve her purse and be away for good.
•
Suzette woke her at dawn and shouted something at her in French. Agnes blinked into awareness. She looked across at her roommate’s empty bed and said to Suzette, ‘Molly?’
Suzette gave an exaggerated shrug and barked another order, then disappeared back down the stairs. Agnes rose and dressed, slipped her shoes on, and went down to start her kitchen and laundry work until Madame was awake.
She was on high alert, looking for Madame Beaulieu, eavesdropping on the other girls’ conversations to hear if they mentioned Molly’s name. Not that she would have been able to understand them if they had. Suzette kept her busy with cooking and cleaning until nine, then managed to say in English, ‘Linen. Second floor.’
Second floor. The rooms where the girls met their clients. Agnes had not set foot on that floor yet, and she recoiled. She didn’t want to see Molly’s blood on the sheets. She was tired of waiting for Madame Beaulieu to appear, so, instead of stopping on the second floor, she continued to the third, and went along to the large room at the end of the corridor. She knocked briskly. Madame Beaulieu called out, ‘Entrez,’ and Agnes opened the door.
‘Agnes,’ Madame Beaulieu said. ‘Again.’ She sat on the chaise drawn up under the window, where she had drawn the blind up half an inch to look into the branches of the sycamore tree outside. The rest of the curtains and blinds were drawn. Like the rest of the house, in perpetual gloom.
‘I beg your pardon, Madame. But I came to ask after Molly.’
‘That cad Bergeron will have to pay for everything. Molly is in the hospital,’ she said, her accent intensifying and her h’s disappearing as she grew angry. ‘A broken rib. Doctor Lemaître has got her in with a surgeon he knows. Don’t worry. You will see her again soon.’
‘Actually, Madame, no. I won’t. I intend to leave. My four days are up.’
‘Five,’ she said, with a slight smile. ‘You have been here five.’
‘Five, then,’ Agnes said, refusing to waver from her goal. ‘I have given you the agreed-upon period of service and I have decided that I do not wish to stay. If you would be so kind as to return to me my money and my papers.’
Madame Beaulieu stood slowly, and began to cross the room, her skirts rustling. ‘Are you sure? I have had a very good offer for you, my English rose.’
‘From whom? Nobody knows I’m here.’
‘Valois.’
Agnes’s skin seemed to shrink around her muscles. ‘What? No. You said you wouldn’t—’
‘He has offered four times more than usual. You could have one hundred francs in your purse tomorrow morning when you leave.’
One hundred francs! She could rent a room for a month with that. ‘No. I am leaving today. As per our agreement—’
‘Our agreement that you did not honour. For you did not leave after four days.’
‘You didn’t ask me to.’
‘The responsibility was yours. Our agreement is invalid.’ She narrowed her pretty eyes. ‘I could make you.’
Agnes felt fire in her veins. ‘I will never lie with a man for money,’ she spat, pulling her spine erect. She stood a full three inches taller than Madame Beaulieu and would not be intimidated into conceding to such a repugnant demand. ‘Certainly never with a man like Valois. Give me my things and let me go.’
Madame Beaulieu’s pretty face closed up. Her mouth a tight line, her chin set, her brow unyielding. A moment passed, and another. They glared at each other. Agnes’s heart thumped with anger and fear.
Finally, Madame Beaulieu forced a little smile. ‘Fine. I will get you your things. Go upstairs and pack your bag … your box … and I will bring you your purse.’
Agnes relaxed. ‘Good. Thank you.’
Madame Beaulieu strode back to the window, and Agnes left her there, drumming her fingers on the sill in the small strip of daylight.
She was upstairs, folding her nightgown, regretting a little the loss of the house dress she had given Molly, wondering where she was going to sleep tonight, when she heard Madame Beaulieu’s footsteps on the stairs. She expected next the sound of the door opening, but it did not come. Instead, there was a rattle and a clunk.
Agnes turned, her eyes on the door, fear blooming warm in her chest.
Footsteps again, this time descending.
‘Madame Beaulieu!’ she cried, hurrying to the door. She rattled the handle, but it was locked. ‘Madame Beaulieu!’ she called again. ‘No! You can’t lock me in! You can’t do this to me! Let me go! Let me go!’
But Madame Beaulieu did not return.
CHAPTER 11
Agnes’s over-inflated certainty that she could pick the lock led to an hour of panicked fiddling with pins, during which she cut her fingers and finally gave up and started shouting instead. Her voice grew hoarse and eventually she came to sit on her bed, fingers laced tightly together. The morning turned towards midday and the dark room became stuffy. Impulsively, she stood and opened the blind. If they saw the rule broken, the gendarmerie might come by and she would call out to them. She opened the window too, letting in a breeze that swished lazily in the high branches of the sycamore but didn’t do much to cool the heat in her face. She thought about calling out the window, but the tea merchant was close by and she didn’t want to alert Valois. The tree branches obscured her view down to the street, but she watched for hours, hoping to see somebody walk by to whom she could appeal. The street was quiet and narrow, and the solitary set of footsteps she heard belonged to somebody she couldn’t see, and therefore couldn’t trust. She laid her forehead on the sill and listened to her own pulse, her own breath. What am I going to do?
Wait until Madame Beaulieu brought her to Valois then run for her life? Madame would have already thought of that, and put some kind of measures in place, even if it involved allowing Valois himself to physically restrain her. She shuddered so violently at the thought that her teeth rattled once against each other.
Allow it to happen, take her hundred francs and forget it? No, this could not be her story. She had not come all this way, bent so many truths and worked so hard, to be forced to relinquish control of her body. The idea made her want to scream, I am my own.
I am my own.
What would her mother do? She thought about Genevieve, working at the tea merchant. Why had she left? Perhaps Valois had treated her despicably too. In the very moment s
he had the thought, she became utterly convinced of it. Of course that was what happened. She and Genevieve had a common enemy in Valois, and Agnes would make sure that he would not win with either of them.
She lifted her head and leaned out the window. The branches of the sycamore were too fine up here to hold her, but one level down she saw a sturdy branch that would take her weight. A narrow window arch jutted below her, and below that the tiny balcony on Madame Beaulieu’s floor. She would be seen; no, wait. The blinds were always closed. She could do it silently, reach for the branch and, from there, shinny down the trunk, using branches for footholds.
Agnes shook herself. It was too dangerous and she would have to leave everything behind. Perhaps Madame Beaulieu would come along soon and set her free. Perhaps Molly would come home from the hospital and let herself in. Perhaps it would all work itself out sometime in the next few hours, before the evening came and her appointment with Valois became inescapable.
She sat on her bed and waited as the afternoon wound out and the shadows outside grew longer, and all the while two awful scenarios played out in her head. In one, Madame Beaulieu gave her to Valois. In the other, Agnes fell to her death escaping out the window.
One after the other, over and over. Until she made her decision. If she stayed, a night with Valois was inevitable; if she left, a fall to her death was only a possibility. She wouldn’t have her belongings or her money, but she would still be able to find somebody to help her or some honest work for a bed somewhere.
Agnes went to the window. She slipped off her shoes and held them in her hand a second; she needed bare feet in order to feel her way down to the arch, but she didn’t want to escape shoeless. The street was quiet; no footsteps, no traffic. Agnes cast her shoes out the window and onto the street. There. Now she had to follow.
She hoisted herself up on the windowsill and sat for a moment, feet dangling. The breeze stirred the hem of her skirts, and this made her feel inexplicably heartened. She turned from the hips, grasped the sill and let herself out the window. Her upper body still held her weight, while her feet stretched out to find the arch beneath her. Slowly, she lowered herself further, terrified of the moment when she had to shift her weight to her feet on the curve of the arch. A little further, and her shoulders began to burn. Toes extending, only finding air. She clung to the sill with her hands and the last drop to the arch made her stomach flop over. But then she was on it, her hands sliding down, finding thin purchase in the gaps between the brickwork. She stood for a moment, fingers splayed on the wall, shifting her desperate feet so they felt more secure, and trying not to feel the distance between her soft body and the hard paving stones below.
When she had found her point of balance, she slowly crouched, knees turning sideways, one hand supporting her down the wall. She half-jumped, half-slid onto the balcony below, striking her elbow hard on the railing. The thud and the clang of her landing rang out through the street. If Madame Beaulieu was nearby, she would have heard. Now, there was no time for fearfulness. Agnes climbed onto the top of the railing and reached for the branch of the sycamore tree that grew closest to the balcony. She locked both her arms around it and heaved herself onto it, desperation infusing her body with strength she didn’t recognise. She held the branch and wormed her way towards the tree trunk, where she sat in a fork for half a moment assessing the other branches. Agnes was an experienced tree-climber – she had used trees to climb over Perdita Hall’s wall and back many times – and she knew that the trick was to plan the route up or down. She quickly assessed the tree, then began to descend. Down, one branch to another, until she was in the lowest fork, which was still at least seven feet from the ground. She could see her shoes – one upright, one overturned – waiting for her.
The only way now was to jump. Agnes lowered herself as far as she could, arms twisted behind her still holding the branch, but then her muscles gave way suddenly and she slid and tumbled to the ground, rolling over her ankle to land on her hip, her shoulder, head striking the ground. The thud juddered up through her skeleton. The world flickered and dimmed a moment before roaring back to life. Her ears rang and her head swam, but she sat up.
‘Agnes!’
Somebody was calling her from down the street. A man. Despite her grogginess, she knew to run.
But my shoes …
No time for shoes. She ran unevenly. The pain in her rolled ankle was excruciating but she wouldn’t be caught. Not now. Footsteps behind her, gaining on her.
‘Agnes, wait!’
In her addled state she couldn’t place the voice. It was male; but apart from that, she was in no rational frame of mind to figure out who it was. Valois. Or perhaps it was Madame Beaulieu’s crooked doctor who frightened Molly so. It didn’t matter. Only escape mattered. In her tiny French vocabulary, she found the words for ‘Leave me alone’ and ‘Help’ and she yelped them to the sky before ducking down a narrow alley, only to find she was facing a dead end. Fifty feet ahead she saw a stack of old crates and she ran to them, skidded to a halt beside them and sank down to hide. The man’s shadow fell ahead of him, his top hat, arms and legs grown long from the afternoon sun behind him.
‘Agnes?’
Her heart thundered, her throat closed up. She was a wild animal, trapped. She looked around for a weapon she could use against him, whoever he was; found a short plank of thin wood from a broken crate. A nail stuck out the end. She clutched it in her desperate fingers.
Then he was upon her hiding place, and his face appeared. She blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw.
He held out his hand. In it, were her shoes. ‘You forgot these,’ he said.
‘Julius!’ she gasped.
•
The grim, dark rooms of Maison de Cygnes could not have been more different from Julius’s rooms at Hotel Londres on Rue de Rivoli. The windows ran almost to the floor, and no blinds or curtains had been drawn to block the warm afternoon sun. It shone a healing light on everything she could see: the polished wood, the plump upholstery, the deep crimson wallpaper, and her own white ankle, which rested in Julius’s firm, warm hands.
‘Nothing is broken,’ he declared, his fingers feeling up and down. ‘Can you point your toes?’
She did as he asked, and winced.
‘Turn it this way … good, now that way. Which hurts the most?’
‘It all hurts,’ she said.
‘But which the most?’ he insisted.
‘That way.’
‘I see. Well, it appears you have damaged some of the smaller ligaments, but it should heal in about a week with rest.’ He gently lowered her leg onto a footstool and smoothed down her skirts. ‘Best to keep it up and don’t walk on it.’
How was she to obey that command? She had to find a job, somewhere to live, keep looking for her mother. ‘But, I—’
‘No,’ Julius said. ‘No complaining. Agnes, you climbed out of a fourth-floor window. You are lucky you didn’t die.’
Heat flushed her cheeks. She wondered if Julius knew what kind of establishment Maison de Cygnes was. Of course he did. He was no fool.
‘I didn’t work for her,’ she blurted. ‘Madame Beaulieu. I mean, I did work for her, but not … not with the men. I cleaned things, I shifted boxes. Owt I could to keep me away from that kind of work.’
Julius smiled. ‘Agnes, the fact that you climbed out of a fourth-floor window,’ he said again. ‘Only somebody who is desperate would do that. I know what you were escaping from.’
She sagged a little, feeling exposed and ashamed. ‘I suppose you think me a fool.’
‘That’s the last thing I think of you,’ he said, rising and going to the door. ‘Now wait here. I will be back directly.’
He closed the door of the apartment behind him, and Agnes looked around. It was small, but the light made it feel bright and airy. Over the carved mantel hung a gigantic mirror, and from the ceiling a polished chandelier. The cornices around the ceiling were elaborately patterned, and a la
rge, thick rug covered most of the floor. Beyond another door were, presumably, his bedroom and bathroom. She couldn’t stay here with him. It wouldn’t be proper, and she knew Julius worried about what was proper.
He had helped her hobble away from Rue Cousineau, then hailed down a horse and carriage travelling past. His good clothes and money convinced the owner of the carriage to help, despite Agnes’s dishevelled appearance. There had been time only to speak in snatches. When she disappeared from Belgrave Place, he had deduced immediately where she had gone. As soon as he could, he had followed her and was surprised, just as she had been, not to find a house but rather a tea merchant at his last address for Genevieve. He had been back three times, and a worker there had told him about the young blonde woman who had come to ask about Genevieve. On his fourth visit, from near the tea merchant, he had seen her tumble from the tree and come after her.
That was all they had managed to exchange. Once they were in his rooms, he became the gentleman physician, dressing the graze on her elbow she didn’t know she had, making certain she hadn’t a concussion, and tending to her injured ankle.
Agnes wanted to go to the window and look down at the busy street, but Julius had told her to keep her leg up and so she stayed where she was. Shortly, Julius returned. He sat in the chair opposite her and placed a key on the brocade footstool next to her.
‘I have rented you your own room,’ he said. ‘It is down one floor, and I shall take you there in a little while.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t go to any expense for me.’
‘Nonsense. If you are who we think you are, it is only right that you stay in a good hotel.’ His mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. ‘Not a bordello.’
‘I wouldn’t have stayed there if I had any other choice,’ she responded heatedly.
‘Clearly,’ he said. ‘Now you have choice.’
Although she felt guilty, Agnes was relieved and delighted to have somewhere comfortable and safe to stay.
Stars Across the Ocean Page 18