Poor Miss Brennan, to think they were only dancers, and that Mr. Dupont was only the owner of an eating house. Did she not notice the adjacent hotel that belonged to him as well?
Only a virgin would be so ignorant.
He congratulated himself. A virgin would fetch ten times the amount of his father’s watch. He had only to polish her up a bit. Make her shine. Show her off. Get that piano onstage, along with the right combination of clothing or lack thereof, and Evelyn Brennan would become a more succulent feast for the eyes than anything Dupont could prepare in the kitchen. Then, when her audience refused to be teased any longer, the bidding would begin. And by that time, if Cherie did her job, the absinthe would have worked her magic, and Evelyn would be in such a state of perfect bliss she would not know what on earth was going on.
Mr. Dupont made his way through the dark backstage corridor and rapped on the doorframe of Cherie’s dressing room. He glanced inside, where his wife eclipsed his view of Evelyn.
Cherie instructed him to enter.
“How does she look?” he asked.
His wife cast him a glance over her shoulder.
“Are you prepared for this?”
Dupont rolled his eyes. The wench could be embarrassingly romantic.
“Don’t tease me, Cherie. Let me see her.”
The woman stepped to one side, revealing a heavily-lidded vixen. The satin black and blue attire offset her tumbling auburn tresses, which were crowned with a circlet of velvet sapphire and decorated with a bursting plume of feathers. Her skin was soft and white as porcelain, her facial features starkly enhanced by deep paints, creams, and powders. Eyelids to match her outfit, lips the color of scarlet, cheekbones accentuated with feminine rouge, and a mark of beauty drawn just above her blooming rose of a mouth. Her small bosom was elevated enticingly in a whalebone corset, her waist cinched into the shape of an hourglass.
As she met his gaze, Mr. Dupont was momentarily enchanted. He might have to sell the watch after all, for he was tempted to take Evelyn for his own.
She was, in a single word, stunning.
Until she opened her mouth.
“Mr. Dupont!” she cried, awareness brightening her eyes. She seemed to awaken from a stupor. “I am ever so delighted to see you! By Jove, I am starving! I did not realize you would be gone for the greater half of eternity. You might have warned me, you silly man! Where is my supper? Have you brought it?”
She was shouting so loudly the entire city of Panama would hear.
Mr. Dupont cast a sharp look at his wife.
“Shut her up, Cherie,” he demanded, “before she frightens every customer away!”
“Customers!” Evelyn cried. She almost choked on her laughter. “You haven’t got any customers!”
“What do you propose I do?” Cherie asked. “She hasn’t eaten, and she has had too much to drink.”
“And whose fault is that, hm?”
“It is her fault!” Evelyn declared. “But I daresay I don’t mind. The absinthe was lovely! Might I have another?”
Cherie spat a quick “No.”
“You must distract her, Cherie. Get her on the piano. And do not, under any circumstances, feed her.”
This was a very displeasing bit of conversation for Evelyn. She stood awkwardly and balled her fists against her hips.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I came to you for food, Mr. Dupont, and I am very disappointed in your establishment. Disappointed indeed! Such a dishonest businessman! My father would be disgusted. I demand the meal you promised me!”
“You will throw up all over the piano. Is that what you want?”
“I am starving!” she repeated, indignant.
She was positively wired. If she continued talking, no man would want her. She looked beautiful, yes, but Mr. Dupont had to find a way to calm her down and shut her up before his plan was completely sabotaged.
“I’m not so certain this will work,” Cherie muttered, as if responding to her husband’s thoughts.
Mr. Dupont rubbed his forehead with his fingers. He really wanted to fire his wife. From her job, from their marriage, from life. Leave it to her to practically poison the girl. One shot of absinthe would pickle a woman Evelyn’s size. He had wanted her complacent. Docile. Loose. Not hammering drunk.
“Then you must give her some opium,” he told his wife flatly, slowly.
Cherie adamantly shook her head.
“She won’t take it.”
“Did you offer it to her before or after she was completely drunk?”
Cherie stared at Mr. Dupont. What he was suggesting was potentially dangerous. Here was a girl who could not even handle strong drink, and now she must be drugged?
“Husband, I do not believe that is the best idea. She could be damaged, or faint-”
“Then you can be the one to stand behind her onstage and make sure that doesn’t happen, concord?”
“But monsieur-”
“The opium, Cherie!”
Mr. Dupont was done arguing. His wife had made a mess of things, and it was up to her to clean them up.
He turned to leave.
“I want my veal!” Evelyn shouted after him, oblivious to all else. She was really angry with Mr. Dupont. Really, really angry. In fact, she pretty much despised him. She didn’t want to play his insipid piano anymore, and she was now considering stealing these pretty clothes and walking straight back to camp. She didn’t give a deuce about that silly performance, and she expressed as much to Mr. Dupont’s disappearing silhouette.
He grunted, muttered something about a watch, and vanished into the corridor.
* * *
A gathering of nearby voices gave Lucius something other than his depression to think about. He heard laughter, and shouting, and the level of noise seemed to grow by the second as more and more voices joined the mix.
He considered his options once more. He could remain here, bored and sullen, or he could remain sullen while taking care of his boredom and see what all the fuss was about.
Lucius really hated being bored, so he stood up, and a bit too quickly, at that. A rush of blood to his head nearly knocked him back over.
Once he had steadied himself and conquered a new wave of nausea, he took a walk towards the street gathering. As he came closer, he heard the sound of roosters. These people had assembled for a cockfight.
It was a popular event here, and when Lucius saw the creatures, he knew them to be the victors of past altercations. Their feathers were limp and tattered from previous squabbles, and their faces and feet betrayed a number of battle scars. They had the look of death in their eyes as they charged one another, claws flailing and beaks pecking. One was quite a bit larger than the other; indeed, he was a bit larger than most roosters, for which he had merited the name “Goliath”, as the men were now shouting out. The smaller bird was consequently referred to as “Pigmy”, and bets were taken as to whether Goliath’s brute strength would conquer, or Pigmy’s swiftness would take the victory.
The situation was a bit too reminiscent of Lucius’ own, and he sadly shook his head for poor Pigmy. He might be a scrapper, but the giant was sure to come out on top. Just like Brock Donnigan.
A wiry young lad conducted business as men called for him, and he zipped here and there with a scrap of paper and a bit of coal. Lucius was busy staring at the boy’s unusually red nose when that very nose appeared before him, belonging to a pair of inquisitive eyes.
“You wanna place a bet, sir?” the boy asked.
Lucius had never bet on this sort of thing before. How could he know what the birds might do? Were they his friends, that he might place his faith in them? Were they his enemies, that he might know their sins and weaknesses? Lucius was not a bird man. He was a poker player.
And yet this cockfight bore a striking resemblance to reality. The scrawny bird was like Lucius, up against Mr. High-and-Mighty Goliath, the scoundrel who thrived on the defeat of weaker, smaller birds. Goliath strutted through life, gainin
g strength by taking things as he pleased. Someone else’s job here, his money there, and when he was feeling especially greedy, he snatched up another man’s wife. Most likely, Goliath slept in the warmth and comfort of the henhouse, surrounded by indulgent females, while Pigmy roamed through the night, cold and alone. Pigmy had scraped through a few battles, but this underdog had never come up against a beast like this.
“I would put my money on the big one,” Lucius thought aloud.
Excitedly, Red Nose lifted his scrap of paper so high it hurt Lucius’ eyes just to watch. The poor wretch must be far-sighted.
“And what are your figures, sir?” the boy inquired.
Lucius’ hand traveled unconsciously to his pocket, and reappeared consciously empty.
For a moment, he stared blankly at his palm, then blinkingly returned his eyes to the Nose.
“Sir?” the boy prodded. “Your bet, sir?”
Behind him, there was a loud squawk, and the boy turned quickly, forgetting all about Lucius.
Cheers filled the street as Goliath emitted a gurgled cry and curled his legs beneath his body in the mud at Pigmy’s feet. The underdog had ripped open the larger bird’s throat, and Goliath was burrowing down to die.
“Wait for it! Wait for it!” someone announced.
The men leaned in for a closer look, as Pigmy took another dive at Goliath, pecking out the other bird’s eyes.
“Ohhh!” the crowd cried with inhumane delight.
“That’s it!” someone shouted.
“Told you ‘e would git ‘im, Rob!”
“Little devil always goes back for the eyes!”
Lucius shook his head slowly, and turned to walk away. The demon of Despair settled upon him once more, as he realized that even if he had possessed the money, he would have lost it again anyway.
* * *
Lucius and Evelyn had been gone for hours, and Josephine sat facing the sea, her thoughts directed towards them and her prayers directed towards God. Behind her, Adele had emerged from her tent, and was feeling well enough now to pick up Evelyn’s reading lesson where she had left off with Samuel. Hungry to learn, Samuel hung on every word, while Bartholomew admired the detailed illustrations in a volume of Aesop’s Fables.
From a cluster of nearby tents, Josephine overheard a man as he excitedly relayed news to a friend.
“George! George!” the man cried. “Come quickly, you lazy git. You’ll miss all the fun.”
There was a bit of grumbling on George’s behalf, followed by “Go away, Amos.”
“But Dupont’s got a new girl.”
George grumbled some more.
“Dupont?” he said. “He pick a good one this time?”
“I saw her, George.”
“And?”
There was a pause.
“She was playin’ the piano. Loveliest face I ever seen. Like a China doll, only they say she’s from Ireland. An Irish rose! And do you know what else, George?”
There was some rustling as George began to move about.
“What?” was the gruff response.
“You know her.”
“Know her? How?”
“Think, George. How many Irish girls we got here?”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Flynn’s girl?”
“She ain’t Flynn’s girl! She ain’t anyone’s girl! I don’t know how he did it, but Dupont snagged her, and she’s performin’ this minute. They say she ain’t ever been touched. She’s fresh! Clean! And Dupont’s gonna auction her off. Might already be startin’.”
“How in the world did he get a hold of her?”
“I said I don’t know! Maybe she needs the money. Doesn’t matter, anyhow. We gotta get there fast if we wanna chance at her.”
“Like hell! Let’s get a move on!”
Josephine stood. Evelyn had been abducted and was about to be sold to the highest bidder. Indeed, how had they gotten a hold of her? And what did they have to do to force her into such bondage? Threaten her? Drug her? A prostitute! Evelyn would never sell herself. Not willingly.
It could not happen. It would not! Josephine had stood by long enough. She had to do something. She had to find Lucius and together, they must claim Evelyn, before it was too late.
If the others knew Josephine was going off on her own, they would try to stop her. They would not understand, and neither of the adults could accompany her. It was not safe for Adele, and Samuel could not leave the tents.
Josephine must go. Now.
She stealthily ducked behind the nearest tent, disappearing into the vastness that was American Camp. Alone.
* * *
Evelyn could barely hold up her head. She just wanted to sleep. Did anyone else notice the clumsiness of her fingers? She continuously missed the note by fumbling into another. As the audience grew, she was certain someone who understood music must be present, and she watched for the disapproving shake of his head.
There was no sign of disapproval anywhere, however. There was only mirth and exhilaration as the place filled with body after body, and the air grew heavier and heavier with sweat, smoke, dust, and spit. Mr. Dupont must be thrilled. Here was the full house he had been praying for. But where was he? He owed her at least one free meal for all the trouble she had gone through for him. Perhaps another time, though. The sharpness of her hunger was somewhat assuaged by the numbness that had taken over. She could not feel a thing, and sometimes she had the sensation she was falling, until a pair of strong, bony arms would catch her around the middle and tilt her up once more. It was Cherie, standing behind her should she collapse beneath the weight of her intoxication.
Evelyn decidedly did not enjoy this feeling. This stirring drunkenness, this confusing nothingness, only stole from the elation she usually felt when she played music. She was trapped within herself, in a foggy glass prison, from which she could not escape. Here there was no clarity, no freedom.
She was beginning to feel sick, and the closeness of the room was pressing in on her as more men piled into the establishment. They were laughing, shouting, hollering indecent things. Were they directed at her? They must be, if the direction of their eyes was any indication. Everyone, everyone was looking at her, as feelings of insecurity, vulnerability, fear, and uneasiness descended upon her. The bubbly sort of silliness, the fiery fits of anger, and the careless apathy she had felt after her first glass of absinthe were dissipating into a frightful melancholy. As she transitioned from a bouncing melody into a mournful sonata, she found herself longing for home with a strength she had not felt for some time. She felt small and fragile, and she yearned for the warmth and familiarity that did not exist here. She wanted her father; but not only was he absent here, he was absent everywhere.
A cry of displeasure arose from the crowd, as they did not care for the present tune. It sounded like a dirge, and the only thing worse than a dirge was a hymn. The men did not want to be reminded of the difficulty of their circumstances. They craved the illusion of perfection. Happiness. No one wanted to spend the evening with a despondent woman. Despondency meant talking, and tears, and all sorts of other painful things.
Their dissatisfaction bore great influence with Mr. Dupont, who quickly appeared out of nowhere and flew to Evelyn’s side. He leaned forward and whispered fiercely into her ear.
“Give us something jolly, pigeon, or they will tear the house down.”
She was slow to comprehend the request, and the transition into a happier tune was even slower. Mr. Dupont was not pleased.
“Something jolly, Miss Brennan!”
She tried to remember, tried to conjure a piece that hinted of lighter, happier times. But as her fingers lingered on the minor keys, songs of despondency were all that came to mind.
The noise of the place was almost overpowering. Words like “rubbish” and “depressing” were called out over and over. If Evelyn was not so alluring, the men might have begun to throw vegetables.
Mr. Dupont feared th
e produce might be thrown anyway. Perhaps not at Evelyn, but certainly at him.
He leaned in once more, demanding a particular tune that Evelyn knew quite well.
It was the song she had sung with Lucius that first night they danced around the campfire.
Her fingers stopped moving as she recalled the memory, and with her silence and distant stare, a hush pervaded the room. The men were pleased to have overcome the will of this sublime female, and watched with superior curiosity to see what the plumed goddess would do next. None of them knew how Mr. Dupont had captured this creature, but they knew that by the end of this night, only one of them would walk away with her. For all but that singular and most definitely rich man, this performance was all the show they would get. It was really such a shame that Mr. Dupont had moved the piano so far back from the edge of the stage, for no man possessed an arm long enough to get a pinch of that delightfully white skin. They must be content with one elongated gaze, and the coming opportunity to place their bids.
There were very few men present who had not seen Evelyn before, and they could hardly believe their luck that it was she who sat at the piano, she who had riveted them upon her first arrival to American Camp, she who had obliged to dance with one or two of them, and she who had diligently ignored each and every one of them every single day since arriving here. Yet here she was, offering herself like a sacrifice to the gods. Unblemished. Flawless. Perfect.
With the separation that acted like a barrier between herself and her admirers, the men could not see the tears that filled her eyes. They did not know of the bribe and inducements that had brought her to this place, the cunning injustices of the Duponts. They also did not know that Evelyn was oblivious to how this night would come to an end; that she had not offered herself to Mr. Dupont; that she was an innocent girl who was only looking for a meal and a chance to play the piano.
They were not heartless men, and their excitement did not come from her deception. Perhaps her money had run out and she needed it for passage to California. She needed help, and she offered herself as a reward. As every man here was something akin to being in love with Evelyn Brennan, they would happily accept this offer. Women were fragile, rare things, not to be broken or wounded; but they were to be indulged, and if Evelyn was asking, not one of them was about to refuse her. As proof, their purses were counted and ready.
Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) Page 34