by Jane Toombs
"I'm on my way to San Francisco,” he said through the closed door. “I have to see you. It's important."
How could she let him see her like this? “Go away. I don't want to talk to you ever again,” she told him.
There was silence in the hall. Was he leaving? Despite everything, she didn't want him to go. She needed to be soothed by the comfort of his arms. How could she hate him and love him at the same time?
"Please,” he said softly. “Please open the door, Mary ... Monique."
Like Mr. Goodman, he had trouble remembered the name she'd chosen. Her real name as far as she was concerned. Sighing, she made her way to the dressing table where she powdered her face to cover the bruising. If she pulled up the collar of her robe and pulled down the shades, maybe he wouldn't notice how she looked.
Unbolting the door, she opened it and stepped back.
Jeremy paused on the threshold, peering into the darkened room. He wore what she thought must be a new gray frock coat and, in his hand, he held a glossy gray top hat. McAllister money, she told herself.
"It's dark in here,” he said, stepping into the room. “Smells like lilacs."
She took care to stand apart from him. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice steel-tipped.
"I'm leaving for the coast on this morning's stage. I had to see you before I left."
"Are you tired of her already?” As soon as the words were out, Monique regretted them. But, unable to stop, she said, “I told you what would happen, that you'd think of me when you were with her.” She hoped it was true.
He gripped her sore upper arm, causing her to wince with pain. Letting go at once, he demanded, “Are you all right? Is something the matter?"
Nothing more than rape and, perhaps, murder. I hope the bastard does die.
"No, nothing,” she said, remembering not to shake her head because that made her dizzy. Before he could look at her closely, she moved away from him, her face turned so he couldn't see it. “Say what you came to say,” she told him, “and then go."
"You remember the day Philippe was killed? How you and I rode down to the cabin below Gold Hill?"
How can I ever forget? she wanted to tell him. Tears welled in her eyes and she fought to blink them back. Had he come to torture her with reminders of their hopeless love? Her hopeless love.
"You remember you threw a rock at me?” Jeremy went on. “Well, that rock had the look of silver ore so I had it assayed. I was right. It was silver, and not more than twenty feet from the cabin. Not a big deposit, but a rich one."
She glanced at him. “Why are you telling me this?"
He strode to the lamp table and tossed something on it. She heard the clink of coins. “This is your share,” he said.
"I don't want your money."
"This isn't mine, it's yours. A discovery fee. I wouldn't have found the mine if it hadn't been for you."
"I don't want it,” she sad stubbornly.
"Don't be a fool. The money's yours.” He peered at her. “Are you sure you're all right?"
"I'm not pining away, if that's what you're thinking,” she snapped. “I have no intention of dying of a broken heart. Why, I never felt better in my life. You'd do better to spend the money on Laura."
"Damn you.” Anger flared in his voice. “I told you not to say her name to me again. I don't want the damn money. It's yours. And, no, I didn't think you were pining away without me, not with you dancing as a hurdy-gurdy girl and what else goes along with it. Philippe may have lied to me about your beginnings, but he was right when he said you had the instincts of a whore."
"Get out!” she screamed. “Go back to that blonde bitch of yours.” She grabbed the pouch from the table, momentarily startled by its weight, and threw it at him. It struck the wall and dropped to the floor.
Jeremy, now at the door, paused and looked back at her. She drew in her breath. Would he come to her and take her in his arms? He couldn't know how she longed for his touch.
"Goodbye, Mary,” he said softly. Then he opened the door and was gone.
"I'm Monique,” she cried, rushing to bolt the door after him. She flung herself onto the bed, pounding it with her fists. No tears came. I'm never going to cry again.
After a time she took a deep breath and then another, finally levering herself off the bed. She stared at the pouch on the floor, then went over and picked it up. Sitting on the bed again, she opened the pouch and poured silver and gold coins onto the blanket. So many of them! She gazed at the money for a long time. At last she stood, knelt beside the bed and retrieved the silver dollar the bastard had lost in her room. Adding it to the other coins, she nodded. With a grim smile, she dropped them all, one by one, back into the pouch. No man would ever make use of her again.
Not so long ago Ward Chambers had urged her to come to him if she ever needed help. He was a banker, wasn't he? Bankers knew how to make money grow. She'd give him some of this to invest for her and she'd already made up her mind what to do with the rest.
So Jeremy wouldn't be the only one traveling to San Francisco. Not that she intended to have anything to do with him. She'd tell Hans Hahn later today that she wouldn't be back to the dance hall and then make arrangements for the trip, as Jeremy had put it, to the coast.
Loving him and expecting love in return had been the notion of a romantic young girl, Mary's Vere's notion. It had nothing to do with who she was now, nothing to do with Monique Vaudreuil. Jeremy thought she was a whore, did he? She'd show him!
Yes, she'd keep the money and, along with what Philippe had won, use it—she knew exactly how. Men behaved like animals, true, but she intended to teach them a lesson in behavior. When everything was in place, The Flame would return to the Comstock. And when she did, Virginia City would never be the same again.
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CHAPTER 16
Looking from the window of the stagecoach as it climbed the long hill to Virginia City, Monique remembered another spring when she'd made this same journey with Philippe. She sighed, missing him. Although he'd been dead almost a year, she had no more idea who'd killed him than she'd had then.
After murmuring a prayer for his soul, a gesture Philippe would have scoffed at, she decided the recent war news about a Union victory at Shiloh, in Tennessee, wouldn't have interested him either. How many times had he told her war was a foolishness men could ill afford?
Monique shifted her attention to what was outside the window, her excitement accelerating as they pulled into town. How it had grown! Today there were more two- and three-story building, more miners crowding the board sidewalk and, surprise of surprises, occasional hoop-skirted women. Glancing into the valley toward Chinatown, she saw no trace of last year's fire. She wondered what had become of Chai.
The stage driver snapped his whip as they clattered up C Street. When he reined the six horses to a halt in front of the Wells Fargo office, a few idlers lounging along the street looked up briefly before returning to their whittling and their tales of the old days. No longer was the arrival of the stage a major event in Virginia City.
A wave of panic swept over Monique. During the long period of extensive and expensive preparations, she'd been so sure she'd succeed in her enterprise, but now that she was actually here, doubts surfaced. She quashed them firmly. Of course she'd be a success. She wouldn't allow any other possibility. She was sure Ward Chambers would die of mortification if he knew what his careful investments had helped her achieve. The thought made her smile.
"Ladies, we're here,” Monique said to the four young women in the coach with her. “This is your new home"
Ah Sing stared straight ahead, her ivory face showing no emotion. Gabrielle nodded, exclaiming excitedly in French. Mariana smiled, her white teeth flashing.
Tall, blond, regal Astrid said, “It sure as hell better be. My ass is getting damn sore."
Monique raised her eyebrows. “Astrid?"
Astrid's hand flew to her mouth. As long as she remained
silent, no one would doubt she was, as she claimed, a native of Stockholm. As soon as she talked, even the most unperceptive miner would realize she was New York City born and bred.
Monique climbed down from the coach first, standing aside to watch the other women descend. All were modestly dressed in the latest fashions, but still, Monique had to admit, there was an aura about them suggesting lives spent far from hearth and home.
Ah Sing, barely five feet tall, left the coach first, her eyes lowered, the pearl-gray gown falling straight down from her shoulders, giving only a hint of the curves beneath. She was followed by Mariana, a dark beauty with high cheekbones, the golden skin of Spaniards intermingled with Indians, and hair as black as Monique's own. Then came Astrid, tall and big-breasted, a Viking queen of a woman. Finally Gabrielle, bird-like, her hands fluttering like wings, climbed to the ground and stood twirling her mauve parasol. The beautiful girl's lively talk and sudden moods reminded Monique of Philippe.
"We'll walk,” Monique told them when they gathered around her. “It's only two blocks from here."
They set off along the boardwalk with Monique leading the way. Miners stopped to stare, sweeping off their hats even as they nudged one another. Men who'd been dozing in tilted chairs, looked up, blinking. A woman glanced at the five newcomers, started to smile, then, after looking more closely, sniffed and walked quickly away.
"Monique!” Hans Hahn raised his hat as he walked from his dance hall to greet her.
"I told you I'd be back,” she said.
"Fräulein, I never doubted you. Introduce me to your friends, bitte."
"We're tired from the ride over the mountains, Hans. You'll meet them all in good time."
"Do you mean to open a dance hall? A hurdy-gurdy parlor?"
Monique smiled. “You'll find out soon enough."
Hans stepped aside, shaking his head.
Though she looked neither right nor left, Monique soon became aware they were at the head of a small but growing procession of miners, teamsters, gamblers, idlers and several solemn-faced Paiutes. Virginia City hasn't changed as much as I thought, she told herself with rising confidence.
She stopped in front of a vacant two-story building a few doors from the Silver Dollar. Taking the key that had been sent to her the month before, she climbed the steps and opened the door, hoping the alterations she'd ordered had been done as she specified. As soon as the other four women followed her inside, she turned to face the crowd gathering on the street.
"What're you intending to do, Monique?” one of the miners asked.
Recognizing him from the hurdy-gurdy palace, she said, “You'll see, Floyd. As soon as we arrange the place to our liking."
"Them are mighty beautiful gals you brought with you,” another miner called out. “I'd sure like to get to know ‘em better."
"Maybe you will, Hank,” she called back. “All in good time."
Looking from face to face, Monique recognized a man here, another there. “Slim, Chet,” she said, “it's good to see you again."
"Going back to Hahn's, Monique?” Chet asked. “We had us some good times there."
She shook her head. Still glancing about the crowd, she realized with a shock of annoyance who she was looking for—Jeremy. Of course he wasn't there. He wouldn't be. Angry at herself, she concealed it, smiling and waving at the men before closing the door.
A pox on Jeremy Johnston. Yet she knew she'd returned to Virginia City, in part, at least, to spite him. Wait until he heard she was back. The look on his face when he discovered what she had in mind would be priceless.
* * * *
Two weeks later, Monique entered the office of the Enterprise. A young man she'd never seen before hurried up to her. “Can I help you, ma'am?” he asked.
Not wishing to deal with a stranger, she smiled and shook her head, saying, “I see Mr. Harrington is here."
Harrington, who'd been sitting tilted back in a chair reading a newspaper, brought the paper down when he heard his name, then rose and walked over to her. At his approach, the young man left.
"Miss Vaudreuil,” Harrington said, “I wondered where you'd got to. San Francisco, I was told."
"As you can see, I've returned. It's good to see you again. Does Mr. Twain happen to be in?"
"Ah, you came to see Mark."
He looked so crestfallen she touched his hand lightly with hers. “I came to see you both."
"As it happens, I'm the only one you'll get to see. Mark left town last month, skedaddled actually. It seems he got involved in a dang-fool duel and someone convinced him the law was after him, since dueling's a punishable offense here in the territory."
Monique raised an eyebrow, remembering how Alex Campbell had shot a man dead in the street without even giving the victim a chance to draw. If Daggett had even had a gun. “But in cold blood is still legal?"
"I believe I detect a touch of cynicism. You're far too young for that. Be that as it may, Mark lit out for parts unknown. I suspect he's headed for the Sandwich Islands via San Francisco. He always wanted to visit them. So, alas, he's not available, but perhaps I can help you. “Last week Joe Goodman told me that since I took up so much space here I might as well do some of the work. I took that as an invitation, resigned from the Union and here am I."
"Well, then,” she said, “I do believe you can help me. My place is opening next Friday night and I wanted the news to get around. Not with a notice in the paper, but by word of mouth."
"I'd be right glad to help, Miss Vaudreuil. A word to the reporters here at the paper and to the boys at the drinking establishments along the street should do the trick. If you'd just give me a hint what to say, since I'm in the dark as to the nature of your business. I've heard all sorts of rumors."
"What were those rumors?"
"Some say you're intending to open a hurdy-gurdy palace like Hahn's. Some others say it's more likely to be, if you'll excuse my expression, a whorehouse. That's what I've heard."
Monique gazed directly into his eyes. “Mr. Harrington, if you don't mind, I prefer to call it a parlor house."
Harrington frowned. “I take it you mean like those in San Francisco."
She raised her chin. “The Flame won't be like any you or the other men have ever see before."
"The Flame?” he echoed.
"What better name, since I'm the proprietor? Philippe Manigault showed me how to be a lady and, by God, I'll put what he taught me to good use. There'll be no cussing and spitting, and I'll expect the men to dress and behave as though they're going to call on a lady."
Both Harrington's eyebrows went up. “You're expecting a lot from these miners. What if the boys don't agree?"
"I've hired Jess Hubbard to make sure they do."
"Jess must be six-foot-six if he's an inch and I'd guess his weight at two-fifty. Plenty big enough to handle trouble. Do you think the boys will take sass from a Negro, though?"
"Jess won't give them any sass. He'll just politely tell them to take their business elsewhere if they can't behave."
"He's sure one big son-of-a—” Harrington paused. “Son-of-a-gun,” he finished.
"Exactly,” she agreed.
He took a deep breath and let it out. “I know it's not my place to interfere, Miss Vaudreuil. Yet I can't help wondering if this idea of yours to open such a place is a good one. I don't know if you've noticed, but Virginia City's been changing. There's more women here now, wives of miners for the most part, and we've got us some new churches. The boys are as wild as ever, true enough, but there's bound to be trouble if you flaunt your parlor house in the churchwomen's faces."
"They'd be hypocritical if they made trouble for me and no one else. What about Chinatown and the houses on D Street? Nobody's tried to close them down."
"Out of sight, out of mind, don't you know. Opening your place right smack on C Street's different. I don't know what might happen once Laura Johnston and the likes of her hear about it, and they'll hear soon enough."
Monique blinked. “Laura Johnston?"
"You've heard of her, I take it. She and her husband are the movers and shakers among the local Presbyterians. For a frail little lady, she's got a lot of spunk. She won't take this lying down. So to speak."
"Laura Johnston had best not interfere with me,” Monique said fiercely.
Harrington shrugged. “I don't care much about what people might think, but I do care what happens to you. I'd hate to see you bite off more than you can chew. It can be a dirty business you're getting into."
"I won't allow any drugs, if that's what you're talking about. And I've already seen Dr. Jamison. He's promised to stop by regularly."
He sighed. “I can see your mind's made up. I'll pass the word."
"Thank you, Mr. Harrington. And thank you for caring about what happens to me."
"I'm not the only one,” he said with some embarrassment. “Everybody who knows you cares."
* * * *
A week after Monique Vaudreuil's parlor house opened on C Street, Van Allen Reid climbed from his carriage, paused to gaze at the metal torch with its copper flame mounted above the door, then slowly mounted the steps and pulled the bell. A giant Negro opened the door.
"How-do, Mr. Reid, sir,” Jess Hubbard said, stepping aside.
"I do right well, Jess. And you?"
"Been awful busy this last week."
"Heard you had a bit of trouble with some of the boys."
Jess smiled good-naturedly. “First few days a couple of ‘em didn't think Miss Monique meant what she said about cussing ‘n’ spitting ‘n’ the like."
"I understand you made believers out of them."
"You might say I did, Mr. Reid. Ain't a one lately don't know he's got to behave in this place."
With a nod, Van Allen walked past Jess into the front parlor. The walls were draped with red velvet and decorated with gilt-framed canvases of nudes done in the French manner. In a room beyond, several well-dressed men, their hair slicked back neatly, were drinking at a long mahogany bar. Over their heads candles glowed in a five-tiered chandelier, the light glittering from an array of decanters behind the bar. To the right of the bar was a raised platform for an orchestra, next to a small dance floor.