Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  matter what your papa professed, he didn't run it like one.

  "But I didn't see . . .*

  "Nor would youl You ve entertained the lightest-fingered bunch of thieves and cutthroats this house has ever seen. Why do you think your papa never let them into this part of the flat?" she snapped, then looked at Callie and felt an uncustomary softening as the girl touched the spot where a small bronze horse had stood before the mourners had cleared it away.

  "Why would they do that? They said they wanted to be near the place where Papa lived," Callie said sadly.

  "In their way, Callie. In their own way they mourn him, but you . . ." She paused. "Ian was a canny man. He knew their ways, and they respected his knowledge, but you . . . they'll only rob you. You can't do your father's business, Callie. Keep your door closed to all but the few you know well enough to trust."

  Callie promised to be careful, and she did turn many away. Three days later a woman came to the door.

  "He was so kind to me in my need," she said, "the least I can do is see to his daughter."

  Callie did not know her.

  "Won't you open the door to me, child? Not that I'd blame you. The way things are, it's not an easy matter to tell who can be trusted. I'll not be offended if you'd rather keep me standing out here in the cold hall."

  "Oh ... do come in, Mrs. . . . ?"

  "Peach. The name is Peach. Surely you've heard your dear papa mention me." Her head was angled to one side as she watched Callie search her memory.

  "I don't think so," Callie said hesitantly. "But I am forgetting my manners again. Wont you sit down, Mrs.

  Peach? I was just about to have tea." Callie hurried to the pantry, wondering what she could put on the tray to make it look less meager.

  As she came back to the sitting room, she noticed' that Mrs. Peach's hair was of a reddish tint. She wasn't nearly so old as Callie had first thought, in fact it was difficult to discern her age. She dressed like an old woman with her shapeless dress bagging loosely over her bosom. The color was drab, a dark nondescript gray. Mrs. Peach sat in the chair Callie offered, her head forward, her shoulders rounded almost to a hunch. Her skin and hair, however, did not match the rest of her. Her face was powdered, and her skin looked soft and cared for, not the skin of an old woman. And there was her hair, reddish but pale-perhaps from gray, but also possibly from many hours of brushing, washing, and tinting. As a final touch to all her contradictions of appearance, Mrs. Peach carried a handsome silver-tipped cane, which looked to be made of ebony, but probably was not. For how, Callie reasoned, could a woman who seemed so poor own a cane so obviously expensive?

  "Did you know my father well?" Callie asked, watching the pleased expression on Mrs. Peach's face broaden. Perhaps Mrs. Peach was one of those who would want to talk about Ian. Callie hoped so. No matter how sensible she tried to be, she was miserably lonely without her father.

  Mrs. Peach obliged her longer than Mrs. Pettibone ever would. Whether the stories she told of Ian were true or made up, Callie did not know.

  Mrs. Peach studied the girl as she spoke. The stories pleased the child, and that was all Mrs. Peach was interested in at the moment

  "What a nice visit this has been, Callie. We must do it again. I hope you will have tea at my little house. I

  like having young people about. It makes me feel young too." She gathered her shawl about her and picked up the impressive cane. "I must be getting home. The streets aren't safe for a lady after dark. You will come to see me soon, Callie?"

  "I'd like that."

  Mrs. Peach smiled. "You're no longer afraid of me?"

  "Oh, no!" Callie blushed. "I wouldn't have been. It's just that Mrs. Pettibone says I'm to© trusting. I promised I'd be careful."

  "One can't be too careful these terrible days. Things being what they are you can't blame a man for taking what he can get, but still it makes it hard for those of us who are honest. But you needn't worry about me. I'd not take a scrap of stale bread that was not mine for the taking."

  Callie walked downstairs with Mrs. Peach and watched from the door as the woman walked down the street. She liked Mrs. Peach. Mrs. Peach liked her father. She was a warm-hearted, motherly old woman—just what Callie longed for. She told Mrs. Pettibone about her visitor.

  "Mrs. Peach, you say? Can't say as I know the name. Said she knew your father well? Strange. ... I don't know the name at all. Well, I can't be expected to know everyone, but all the same. . . . Did you check your belongings? All in place?"

  "Nothing was stolen. She was very nice. I'm invited to tea at her house tomorrow." Callie wanted to talk more, but Mrs. Pettibone was a busy woman and not given to patience with the young. Callie went back to her flat. She disliked being alone, but this night would not be as bad as others. She had something to look forward to the next day.

  Cailie dressed carefully the next morning. She wore her best: a self-striped forest green bazeen gown with puffed and banded sleeves. She stopped momentarily before the mirror, admiring the simple fitted bodice and the straight soft line of the skirt Happy with her appearance, she confidently walked the maze of streets following Mrs. Peach's hastily spoken directions. She stopped before the house and hesitated for a moment, unsure. Mrs. Peach's home was a large one, far grander than Cailie had expected. It was just the sort of place to appeal to a girl of Callie's age who had been far more accustomed to austerity than comfort.

  Callie's fascination with the house and Mrs. Peach increased with every step she took into the interior. Mrs. Peach had a distinct fondness for soft multicolored pillows, overstuffed couches, and red velvet She also seemed to like everything in abundance.

  Mrs. Peach claimed she liked company. Cailie could take her at her word. This was a house made and decorated to make many people comfortable at one time. As it was, when Cailie entered there were several young women present. Some of them were no older than Cailie, though worldly enough to deserve the name woman, while Cailie was not.

  Taking wide-eyed note of all the pretty girls, Cailie commented on them.

  "I thought I mentioned to you that I enjoy the company of the young," Mrs. Peach replied. "Did you think I meant only to put you at ease?"

  "No, but . . ." Cailie began, puzzled by the familiarity with which the young women treated the house and each other. "I am sure I could never feel so much at home and still be a guest," Cailie said with a good deal of admiration.

  Mrs. Peach looked around her, her face growing

  soft and concerned. "These young women are my everlasting fountain of youth. They keep me feeling young, so I give them what I can. We cannot take from life without needing to return like value, can we? Hasn't your father said something of the sort to you, Callie?"

  "Many times!"

  "I was sure of it. So you understand how I feel about my young ladies. For some this is the only home there is, poor dears. I fear there are many not so fortunate as you. They have no place to go but the home I provide them." She put down her teacup and leaned forward. "That was my true purpose in coming to see you yesterday. I got to thinking that you might not have anyone to provide for you. I thought perhaps you would be needing Mrs. Peach. I'm happy to see I was wrong. And naturally I would never dream of forcing myself on anyone. Not I, not Mrs. Peach. I've made it my life's work to look after those who are unable to do it themselves. It's my charity. All of us should have a charity, is my opinion."

  Callie agreed with her, but said nothing of her own predicament. Ian had left her little, and she didn't know if his monthly allowance from his father's estate would come to her or not. There was no one to look after her. She fit all the qualifications for Mrs. Peach's charity. As Callie looked into the kindly marshmallow softness of Mrs. Peach's face, she wished with all her heart that Mrs. Peach would ask the magical question that would enable Callie to say, "I'd like to come live with you."

  Mrs. Peach did not ask it that day, nor the next time Callie came to tea. She didn't get around to it until a week later, when
Callie had given up hope. Callie met her by accident. They both stood in a whipping winter wind as Mrs. Peach asked almost shyly if she'd be

  out of place inviting Callie to join the other girls in her roomy house. "I find I have become very attached to you, child."

  Callie's tongue tripped all over itself in her eagerness to accept. Her long blond hair was.blown loose by the time she ran home. "Mrs. Pettibone! Mrs. Petti-bone, where are you? Oh! Wait till you hear! Mrs. Pettibone?"

  The entry hall had an air of emptiness that Callie would have noticed had she not been so excited. But she was excited. And she was in a hurry. If she didn't move quickly the invitation would vanish. She worried that Mrs. Peach would change her mind, or not want her after all. She longed to tell someone, to make it real. Everyone must know and be happy for her or perhaps it wouldn't come true at all.

  "Mr. Jenks! Mr. Jenks!" She raced past the other tenants' flats, stopping in front of a single open door. "Mr. Jenks! I've a new home! A new, new home and someone who wants me. Oh! Mr. Jenks, say you are happy. Isn't it wonderful?" she shouted, her face beaming with a smile that made her normally somber blue eyes sparkle with inner lights. "I've a home, Mr. Jenks!"

  Nearly deaf and feeble of leg, Mr. Jenks leaned precariously out of his door. "Good, good, child." Then he tottered back into his room, forgetting again to close his door.

  "Good-bye, Mr. Jenks," Callie shouted at his back. "I'll come by some afternoon to see you. Would you like that?"

  "Good, good, child."

  She shut his door and hurried up to her own flat to write a note telling Mrs. Pettibone of her good fortune. "I will come by tomorrow for the rest of my things. I'll tell you all about it then." She folded the

  paper neatly, took one valise, and rushed down the stairs. She slipped the note under Mrs. Pettibone's door. For one moment just before it disappeared from view, Callie felt unsure, and sad to be leaving the flat she had shared with her father. She considered waiting to ask Mrs. Pettibone's advice, but then she thought of the night. She'd be alone again and that was awful. She could imagine Mrs. Peach's kindly voice saying, "There's no sense to spending another lonely night, dear."

  Mrs. Peach was waiting at the door, and Callie ran the last few steps and fell into her arms as though it were the most natural thing she could do.

  The idea of living in a house with other girls was exciting. If they seemed to have secrets, and if they considered Callie green, well, that was an understandable attitude toward a newcomer. She sat down with them, smiling more from her inner satisfaction than any communication of friendship. Mostly she listened, impressed and mildly shocked at how often their conversations were about men. However, Mrs. Peach seemed in no way averse to the girls' talk. Frequently the conversation went so far along forbidden lines it was reduced to a quivering, unintelligible whisper punctuated with quickly drawn breaths and giggles. Losing her shyness, Callie dared to speak of her father and one or two of his friends she considered handsome. They were the only men she had ever known. In spite of the laughter that greeted her innocent comments, it was comfortable sitting there, feeling herself a part of this strange, makeshift family. A cheery fire burned on the hearth, and Mrs. Peach sat all the while like a proud brooding hen, smiling at them all. Her tapping cane made a pleasantly monotonous sound in the background.

  Following the example of the other girls, Callie

  went to her room at six o'clock to dress for dinner. She was once again shy and self-conscious when she entered the dining room. The others looked like grown women, While Callie, in spite of her efforts, looked no older than she should at fourteen.

  "Isn't she a pretty thing?" one girl said as she came in.

  "Fresh, you might say," another added.

  "Pure."

  "And all of you having a grand time making fun of her. She's going to have a hard time of it. Don't any of you remember . . ."

  "Shut up, Margot!" the first girl warned. "Let our little daisy girl enjoy herself for as long as she can." She laughed. The other girls joined in less merrily, but agreeably covered up what Margot had started and Mrs. Peach had nearly heard.

  Curious, Callie glanced from one tense face to another. Some of them looked to be girls from nice families. Others might have been found wandering London streets any night. But all of them had a worldly quality that didn't seem to fit Mrs. Peach's noble philosophies about her innocents. Callie reasoned that it took time to change Mrs. Peach's waifs from worldly creatures not accustomed to a loving home into the paragons the woman had described. And Callie admitted there was something alluring about the way Mrs. Peach's girls looked.

  "Perhaps one of you will teach me to do my hair as you do," Callie asked.

  "Perhaps we shall. Someone had better teach you a thing or two." The girl shrugged her elegant bare shoulder. The other girls tittered nervously, glancing toward Mrs. Peach. The ebony cane came down sharply. Each girl looked straight ahead; postures became perfect. Dinner continued in relative silence,

  broken onlv bv an occasional polite comment on fashion or the news of the day.

  Callie relaxed again as the tense moment passed. The small French mantel clock ended the dinner hour.

  "Boney's buttons are popping," Mrs. Peach said, eyeing the clock. "We are running late tonight. No time for the parlor at all." She came to stand by Cal-lie's chair. "Time for you to go to bed, Callie."

  "But Mrs. Peach, I've just finished supper and it's only eight o'clock. I never go to bed this early." She looked at the other girls, chagrined to see the knowing smiles appear on their faces. "I'm not a baby, Mrs. Peach," she whispered.

  "To me you are, my dear. You must remember I am really quite ancient. Why, I imagine I could look upon Bubble and Squeaky themselves and think them babies," she said with an irreverent reference to the unfortunate Charles Wynn and his brother, who loved to speak in Parliament despite high-pitched, peculiar voices.

  Callie giggled along with the others, but had lost her battle.

  "Come along, dearie," Mrs. Peach said. "To bed with you. You must suffer what ministrations I deem best for you. One thing I can definitely say is that all my girls are obedient."

  There was a murmured assent from the others.

  Callie meekly followed Mrs. Peach to her room.

  During those few minutes Mrs. Peach made up to her, agreeing with the unfairness of the early bedtime. "But you are so pale and thin, my dear! Isn't it better to retire early one or two nights than to find yourself ill for several? Of course it is! Once you've fattened up a bit and are looking healthy again, we'll reconsider this early time." She stood to the side of the room, folding Callie's clothes as they were removed.

  Her attention was entirely on Callie. It was all there, just as she had thought: the good bone structure, the well-formed limbs. Callie would be slow in coming to full maturity, but Mrs. Peach was certain this young girl would be a ravishingly beautiful woman. Now she was like a young colt, all legs and energy, but a thoroughbred colt, and that was what Mrs. Peach was best at spotting.

  She went to Callie and tied the small blue ribbon of her nightgown into a bow. Automatically she patted Callie's arm, and led her to the bed. "Sleep well, Callie. Everything will seem better in the morning. You have years before you and much to learn. Take my care for now, and trust that I have your future in mind." Mrs. Peach tucked her in tenderly and turned down the lamp at the side of her bed, then left the room. Callie was blissfully satisfied, all over her annoyance at being sent to bed early—until she heard the doorlock turn.

  Chapter 4

  Mrs. Pettibone was tired and out of sorts from a long-winded visit with her sister. She found Callie's note under the door of her flat. As soon as she read it she was certain something was wrong. But she was tired. The sheer weight of her tedious day was enough to make her see something wrong in everything. She sat down in her parlor and tried to forget all about it.

  The newspaper was filled with the details of a white slavery ring. She shuddered with
the horror of it, clucking a disapproving tongue at the times and conditions that led people to such things. And all the time Callie's note stayed ominously in the back of her mind.

  She promised herself she would look into the matter in the morning, By then Callie would return for the rest of her things. Questions could be answered then. After all there was nothing she could do tonight. She was nearly convinced of the truth of her argument when Mr. Jenks tottered into her parlor seeking his afternoon tea.

  "Well, you've missed it today, Mr. Jenks," she said,

  making up her mind that she had been put upon enough today. But the old man was as dismayed with his day as she, and he was lonely. Pathetically he tried to prolong a conversation he couldn't hear so he could stay in her company a few minutes longer. She sighed and gave in.

  "Sit down, Mr. Jenks. It'll take but a minute. I could do with a cup myself," she shouted into his good ear.

  Warmed by the companionship and the tea, Mr. Jenks remembered Callie. "She was quite overcome with her good fortune. Poor child, I do believe she thought she'd be homeless if it weren't for that lady she met," he said grandly, feeling eloquent and competent as long as the conversation was a monologue and he needn't strain to hear the responses.

  In this instance he was safe. Mrs. Pettibone had nothing to say. Her earlier fears returned. She hadn't a shred of reason, but intuition told her Callie had fallen into a regrettable situation.

  Again she gave into her better nature and rose tiredly from her chair. She would not rest until she knew Callie was safe and Mrs. Peach was all she was purported to be. That was the nub of the problem. What was Mrs. Peach supposed to be? Shaking her head vigorously, she hurried Mr. Jenks from her parlor, giving him a parcel of tea cakes to keep him happy and unnoticing of the haste with which she closed him back inside his own flat.

  She returned to her apartment, taking time to do something she should have done long ago. She wrote a terse note to the only people Ian had listed as family among his private papers; James and Meg Berean. Ian was dead and Callie was alone. She said nothing about Mrs. Peach, or that she suspected Callie had innocently and voluntarily placed herself in the hands of a pack of white slavers. Then Mrs. Pettibone put on