by Jane Toombs
The laughter subsided when the men saw Monique. A few smiled sheepishly. Hal, still holding the glass, said, “Miss Monique, it's right good to see you."
She frowned. “Tell me, Hal, exactly what are you up to here?"
"Ain't you glad to see all of us?” he asked. “We might be a mite early tonight, but we fetched you a new customer.” Some of the men snickered. “Yes, ma'am, a real honest-to-goodness new customer,” Hal went on. “At least that's what we been thinking.” More of the men laughed.
He stepped to one side to give her a clearer view of the man in the chair and, with a sweeping gesture, announced, “Miss Monique, may I present The Right Honorable High and Mighty Sir Georgia—” He broke off, smirking and the men around him roared, slapping one another on the back. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Hal said to the man in the chair, mock-polite. “I mean George. The Honorable Sir George Guildford."
The Englishman blinked up at Monique. She saw his fair skin was flushed and his blond hair tousled. Faint lines around his eyes and mouth belied his boyish looks. His fawn-colored trousers spoke of expert tailoring, as did his pale-yellow coat. The bow of his large lavender cravat was pulled askew at the side of his neck.
George Guildford rose woozily to his feet and bowed. Only the quick action by miners to either side of him prevented him from falling on his face. “Charmed,” he managed to say. Hearing his accent, Monique understood why Jess had a problem understanding him.
"You boys have gotten him drunk,” Monique accused.
"Ma'am,” Hal protested, “we only finished what he'd already started. He didn't do no protesting till we brought him to The Flame."
"I stopped at a pub after departing a late afternoon church social at Mrs. Laura Johnston's,” George said, enunciating each word slowly and carefully as drunks sometimes did.
That woman again, Monique thought with annoyance. Wasn't it bad enough to have Jeremy's wife trying to turn all Virginia City against her? Now she'd more or less sent this drunken Englishman here.
"I apologize.” George had trouble getting the word out. “Apologize for my most unfortunate condition. These men forced liquor on me and brought me here against my will. As you can see."
"Now that just ain't true,” one of the miners said. “We asked him if he'd like to met a nice refined lady and the best we could make out, he said yes. Didn't he, boys?"
"Sure did,” one of his companions agreed, while others nodded solemnly.
Monique felt a twinge of sympathy for the Englishman. He seemed genuinely confused by his situation and, besides, he reminded her of someone. Who? she wondered.
"We told him,” Hal said, “that if he don't have a woman, everybody here in Virginia City's gonna take him for a nance and sure as shooting he wouldn't want that."
"The English go for boys,” a miner said. “Bonnie Prince Charlie and some of them other kings and all."
George Guildford raised one arm heavenward, staggered sideways, but caught his balance, and cried, “How much longer must I suffer these slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?"
"'Or should he take up arms against a sea of troubles?'” As Monique completed the quotation from Shakespeare, she realized that the Englishman reminded her of Philippe. Still, if he was a friend of Laura Johnston's, he could be no friend of hers.
"What do you say, Miss Monique?” Hal asked. “Ain't we doing his lordship a favor by letting him prove himself? Virginia City's no place for a man what ain't a man, if you know what I mean."
"I think,” Monique said slowly, “that he'd like Astrid. She'll find out what kind of a man he is."
"Astrid, Astrid,” the miners chanted. The tall Swedish girl from New York City had become a favorite with the men of the Comstock.
Monique called up the stairs, “Astrid, you have company."
A moment later the tall, flaxen-haired girl, who'd obviously been listening, started down the stairs. Looking up, the miners saw first her gleaming red slippers, then a red diaphanous skirt revealing the outlines of her long legs, a boldly cut red bodice that barely concealed the nipples of her large breasts and finally her rouged face, framed by blond hair cascading over her shoulders.
The men cheered appreciatively when Astrid stopped a few steps from the bottom of the stairs and posed with one hand on her hip. Two miners grasped George Guildford's arms and half-led, half-carried him to the stairs. He gazed up at Astrid with what Monique recognized as awe and fear.
"Turn him loose, boys,” Astrid said. Reaching out, she ruffled the Englishman's hair. “Don't be afraid of Astrid, honey,” she told him.
"I'm not afraid of you, my good woman,” George said with a hiccup.
"That's the way to win her,” Hal whooped. “To the best of my recollection you're the first hombre that's ever called Astrid a good woman."
Monique leaned toward Astrid, her soft words lost to the laughing men. “He may need some encouragement."
"I'll give him all the encouragement he can handle,” Astrid announced in her booming voice.
"She sure will,” a miner said. “The only question is, will it do any good?"
George reddened, and again Monique pitied him. Yet he had no right coming to Virginia City, she told herself, if he didn't know how to take care of himself.
"Come on, sweetie,” Astrid told George. “Come along upstairs with me.” Taking him by the hand she guided him to the second floor. Just before disappearing along the upper hall, George looked back with an unspoken plea for help clearly written on his face. Only Monique saw it because the miners had turned toward the bar.
"We'll hoist a few while we wait to hear what Astrid has to say about Sir George,” Hal was saying. “Whether he's a bonanza or a borrasca. To my way of thinking, it ain't gonna take very long."
As the men lined up at the bar, laughing and hollering, Monique sighed and started up the stairs. Poor George Guildford, she thought. After tonight, the boys would laugh him out of town.
"Miss Monique.” Jess, his hand clamped on a boy's shoulder, came toward her from the front of the house. She looked at the youngster twice before she recognized him as the boy who'd found her standing over Philippe's body on the night he was killed.
Poor Philippe. Despite what he'd done to her, he hadn't deserved to die. She still had no clue to who'd killed him. Van Allen Reid's suggestion she have her girls ferret out information for him had given her an idea, though, and she'd asked all of the girls to bring her any information that might relate to Philippe's death.
"This young fella,” Jess told her, “saw something you oughta know about."
"Let go of me,” the boy said, trying in vain to free himself from Jess’ grip.
Monique nodded, and Jess released him. “What is it?” she asked the boy.
"Gimme a drink first,” the boy said, trying a swagger. “Whiskey."
Monique gazed at him sternly. “You'll get no liquor here. You ought to know better."
"Ain't no harm in asking, is there? I'll tell you anyway for a dollar then. It's about them Presbyterians."
Monique took a silver coin from her pocket and held it in her fingers, the silver glittering in the light from the recently lit lamps. When the boy reached for it, she closed her fist around the coin. “Tell me about the Presbyterians first."
"They was holding this big meeting at the Johnston place."
"That ain't news,” Jess said. “We already heard it from the English gent."
"There's more,” the boy insisted. “It's what they're doing now you're gonna be interested in. That Reverend MacDonough was there, and he made a speech about the evils of fair but frail women. I heard him through the open window. He got them ladies so riled up that when he suggested they march down here, they all allowed as how that was a right fine idee. So what I came to tell you is they're on the way, singing hymns to beat the band."
"The churchwomen are coming here?” Monique asked.
"With the reverend leading them. Swear to God. Don't know what they plan to do, bu
t they was sure breathing hellfire and damnation when they left Johnstons'. I ran all the way here to beat ‘em, just to warn you."
"I'll be Goddamned,” Jess said. “Begging your pardon, Miss Monique."
Monique spun the coin into the air. Catching it in one hand, the boy darted past Jess and through the open door to the street. Jess followed him as far as the door and looked out.
"Sure enough, the boy's right,” he said over his shoulder to Monique. “I can hear ‘em singing like a flock of hens at feeding time. Reminds me of the Baptist chapel back home. ‘Cept our women sings like they means every word."
Monique joined him at the door, peering along C Street. Though she couldn't see the singers, she could hear voices raised in a hymn, even making out some of the words.
"Rock of ages, cleft for me..."
A flickering light appeared several blocks up the street, followed by another and another and then still another. Candles, Monique thought. The women carried candles shielded from the wind by glass chimneys. The lights approached in single file, the women's faces pale in the candle-glow, their voice high pitched and strident.
"If it ain't one damn thing, it's another.” Jess ran a hand over his bald pate. “What you want me to do, Miss Monique? Don't want to hurt no one, so best thing I can think of is to shoo ‘em off with a broom."
"No, don't do that. I'm not afraid of them. Or her."
"Her?” Jess echoed, but she didn't answer.
As the marchers neared with their candles held aloft, Monique was reminded of another night when the men of Montgomery, by the light of torches, had beaten Philippe for daring to bring her to their ball.
The women, still singing “Rock Of Ages,” stopped in the street outside the parlor house. The men who gathered on the sidewalks to watch were strangely quiet, as though not quite sure what side they were on. The times were changing, she told herself. She suspected that a year ago the churchwomen would have been the butt of derisive jokes and catcalls.
When the hymn ended, one of the women stepped forward to the foot of the steps leading to The Flame. Monique drew in a quick breath as she recognized Laura Johnston. The other woman's blonde hair curled around the edges of a prim bonnet. Her white muslin gown was decorated with a delicate design of pink tea roses.
Laura looked tired, Monique thought. Was she ill? Her pale face was thinner than Monique remembered and there were dark circles under her eyes.
"We have come to bear witness,” Laura said.
Monique stepped from the shadowed doorway to the top of the steps and stared down at the other woman.
"Amen.” The word came from the man in back of Laura, his cadaverous face grim. The Reverend August MacDonough.
"We ask you,” Laura said, “to turn away from evil, and to ask the Lord to forgive you for your sins."
"The Lord welcomes the return of the prodigal daughter just as he does the return of the prodigal son,” Reverend MacDonough intoned. “He seeks the lost ewe to lead her back into the fold."
Flabbergasted, Monique stared from the preacher to Laura, not knowing what to say.
"There's still time,” Laura said. Her breathy, high-pitched voice betrayed her nervousness, yet she spoke intently, almost fiercely. “It's wrong to lead men into the ways of Satan."
"What? What did you say?” Anger rose in Monique. Was this woman telling her she'd led Jeremy into sin? That certainly hadn't been the way of it.
"Enter into the house of the Lord,” MacDonough said. “Follow the path of righteousness for His namesake."
"There's still time for you to repent, Miss Vaudreuil,” Laura told her.
"Repent?” Monique asked. “What have I got to repent?"
"The sin of bringing the evils of Sodom and Gomorra to Virginia City,” the reverend said. “The sin of leading men along the path of the devil. The sin of being less than a virtuous woman."
Monique, furious, glanced from MacDonough to Laura. “A virtuous woman?” she asked. “Is the woman who steals the man you love a virtuous woman? I've seen chaste women, if that's what you mean by virtuous, who were nasty, mean and cruel, who were bad-tempered and malicious. Were they virtuous women? Answer me. Were they?"
"The Lord forgives all those who repent their sin,” MacDonough said.
Ignoring him, Laura answered Monique. “No, of course they weren't virtuous."
"I've known other women,” Monique went on, “and men as well, who were kind and good, warm-hearted and generous. Some of those women work here. They work here because men don't give them a chance to earn their living in any other way."
"Surely they do it for other reasons,” Laura said.
"They do it for the same reason any woman might have for working rather than being beholden to a man."
"Sin is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord,” MacDonough said. “And the wages of sin are death."
"Let Miss Monique have her say,” a miner shouted at the preacher. “She makes more sense."
There was a murmur of agreement.
"Let us pray for the sinner among us,” MacDonough said, glancing at the crowd. “Let us all pray."
"Not just for the sinners,” Laura said in her high, clear voice. “Let's pray for every one of us."
In the light from the candles, Monique saw a man standing apart from the crowd in the shadow of a feed store across the street. She recognized Jeremy at once. Their eyes met and held. Finally he looked away, folded his arms and stared at the ground.
Monique's anger slipped away, leaving a great emptiness, as if all feeling had drained from her. As if she'd been drifting without sustenance for countless days on a vast ocean under a searing tropic sun.
"Silently pray,” Laura said to the reverend.
"As you wish,” MacDonough said.
The preacher dropped to his knees in the dirt of the street. Laura sank down beside him, and the rest of the women followed her example until they were all kneeling, the candles in their hands glowing like haloes.
Monique walked down the steps, knelt on the boardwalk and bowed her head. One by one the miners, looking sheepish, knelt wherever they'd been standing. When several remained on their feet, Jess walked over and stared down at them. “I reckon Miss Monique would appreciate seeing you kneel,” she heard him say.
They all knelt, though one muttered, “What the hell have I got to pray for?"
"For your Goddamned immortal soul,” Jess told him as he joined the others on the ground.
In the hush they all heard the far-off rumble of the stamp mills, the whinny of a horse and the tinkle of the piano in Hahn's Hurdy-Gurdy Palace. A deep melodious voice began to sing:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord..."
Jess, Monique knew. She closed her eyes.
As he continued on, others began to sing, men's and women's voices joining the chorus:
"Glory, glory hallelujah, His truth goes marching on."
Inexpressibly moved by the soaring exultation of the hymn, by the candles, and, she admitted, by seeing Jeremy again after so long, Monique's throat tightened and tears welled in her eyes. It took her a moment or two to realize someone was calling her name.
"Miss Monique."
Opening her eyes and blinking away the tears, she looked up at the doorway of the house. Astrid stood there motioning urgently.
Monique realized she'd completely forgotten about George Guildford.
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CHAPTER 18
"The boys were right,” Astrid told Monique as soon as the two women were inside the parlor house. “If me and Sir George had been in a poker game, he wouldn't've been able to open. He held nothing high. Nothing."
Monique glanced toward the men in the bar. “They got him pretty drunk. I sort of feel sorry for him."
"You and me both,” Astrid said. “I like the bugger, even if he can't get it up. He's kind of sweet. Drunk as he was, he treated me like a lady."
Philippe had his shortcomings, but he
always treated me like a lady, Monique thought. She saw Hal look up from his drink and glance their way.
"This is what we'll do,” she told Astrid, lowering her voice so only the other woman could hear.
A few moments later, Hal led the other men into the parlor, and Monique stepped aside to allow them to gather around Astrid. From outside the receding sound of singing drifted through the still-open door as the church group left. “Rock Of Ages” again.
"Astrid,” Hal said, “that was mighty quick."
"Boys,” she said, “I raised the white flag. I've known a few good men in my time, but never one the likes of Sir George. I came downstairs to thank you for bringing him around. He's one of a kind."
"You're funning us,” a miner said.
"Come clean.” Hal couldn't hide his disappointment. “What really happened?"
"You know what I heard from an old prospector once?” Astrid asked. “He told me it ain't the size of your pick that matters, it's how you swing it. That bloody Englishman sure as hell knows how to use a pick."
"Well, I'm damned,” Hal muttered.
"She don't have no reason to lie,” another miner said. “Looks like we must've figured him wrong."
"We sure did,” Hal agreed. “Send him down here, Astrid, so we can make it right with him."
"If I go up there,” Astrid said, glancing toward the stairs, “I don't know if me or him'll be back real soon or not. The last I saw of Sir George, he was raring to go at it again, but I'll take a look. Maybe he's simmered down a bit."
After watching Astrid disappear up the stairs, Monique closed the front door. As she turned, she saw Jess motioning from the door leading to the kitchen,
"What now?” she asked, joining him in the kitchen, while the miners lined up at the bar again.
Jess shook his head. “Sure been some night. I grabbed two of them Celestials trying to sneak through a back window while we be singing out in front. I just had a hunch something ain't right, so I took a look around in back. Always trust my hunches ... kept me alive so far. I sent ‘em packing. ‘Course first I had to take a couple things away from ‘em.” He nodded his head toward the chopping table where two large curve-bladed knives lay.