by Louisa Trent
In my thoughts I had included myself in that scenario.
Chapter Five
To keep things in their proper perspective, I did a quick review of what had brought me to this place in my life tonight:
At just fifteen, I had worked as a farmhouse baker in an extremely protected and nurturing countrified environment in upper state New York. A warm and loving French woman had served as my mentor there. Prior to then, I had grown up in an orphanage, where I had learned the hard way to go with my feelings.
This gentleman should have set off all sorts of alarms in me. He had yet to even tell me his name. Of course, I had not revealed mine either – the real one, that is. And all that was neither here nor there. Because I trusted him. Unaccountably, yes, but there it was – he had my every confidence. No rash decision, I had come away with him, a complete stranger, owing to my belief in him. Others might view my predicament and say I’d had no other prospects, that I had been cornered at the dancehall, and in my panic, threw caution to the winds and jumped at the very first port in the storm.
I would have to respectfully disagree. I had simply let my instincts guide me and here I was.
I trusted him, but one aspect of all this did worry me – no one did anything for free. Every act of kindness contained a corresponding expectation of reciprocation that would eventually come due as surely as a shopkeeper’s bill. Because his business was not on the up-and-up my reciprocation might just be of the illegal variety. Should I wait around until I got the lay of the land or race for the hills now?
To his credit, he had just defused what could have been a life threatening situation in the alley, and with total aplomb. He stood his ground with that Charley person. Gave no hint of backing down, even though there were more thugs waiting in the wings ready to pounce. Was he really as dangerous as he appeared back there with those cut-throats? And why did that possibility make me go all fluttery inside?
I squinted up into his face, lost myself to his sculpted lips. Could a bad person have such a sensuous mouth?
Silly, to refuse him out of hand, I thought dreamily. Where was the harm in listening to what the man had to say with a semi-open mind…before refusing him?
Why not? I had no place better to go tonight, no place else to be, no one to miss me if I failed to put in an appearance.
“It would be my pleasure to show you around. Shall we go inside?” he asked me with a formal bow.
Very handsomely done. This man knew a thing or two about fine manners. Still…I was no slouch in that area myself.
A stand-in for the daughter she never had, I had greatly benefitted from Madame Madeline’s maternal instincts. She had taught me everything she knew about societal rules and expectations, which turned out to be quite a lot. Politeness could be schooled in a person, and I was a prime example of its success.
Madame had cared about me. The poise about which my rescuer had spoken, the class he assumed was more than skin deep, my proper, grammatically correct way of speaking, even my straight spine in the midst of terror – all had resulted from my wishing to make her proud of me. She had also offered me insight into reading people, especially wealthy people, particularly wealthy people of the male persuasion. Bless her, she told me: “A pretty bonbon like you must be able to discern a well-bred gentleman from a smooth-talking scoundrel.”
Standing before me was no Boston Brahmin – no Delano, Cabot, Cushing, or Weld – all of whom I had once baked cinnamon rolls for inside the farmhouse kitchen of my past employ. Then again, my rescuer had never purported to be a gentleman of any ilk to me.
Did that make him an insincere rogue, though, a ‘smooth-talking scoundrel’?
I had faith he was not. And that faith was all I had to go on because things were beginning to look mighty dim.
My dance master’s rod too made for a powerful educator, and I had learned those motivational lessons just as well. Although he used a much different technique than Madame, his instructions had been every bit as successful in my learning the ballet. His stern discipline when I failed to perform up to his high standards had left me craving more of the same. Unfortunately, not all men were like my strict dance master and few women, I suspected, were as susceptible as I had been to the methods he employed.
Likewise, I was very susceptible to this man and the methods he had thus far used to me win me over. Was that susceptibility clouding my good sense?
He admitted to involvement in unnamed illegal activities. Yes, I had faith in him. But faith came from the heart. Where on earth was my head in all this?
He was such a large man. He could easily overpower me. Owing to the private setting of his walled townhouse retreat he could get away with murder.
I kept going back and forth, arguing the pros and cons in my mind. Fear was catching up with me. Despite of…or perhaps because of – this man’s outward show of gentlemanly courtesy, I hung back. Despite my trust, I was as skittish as a feral cat. Only because he remained at an impersonal distance, making no move to rush me, did I allow him to escort me back toward the walled area of his business/residence.
Looking for buried bodies I supposed, I went to tiptoes again and glanced over the wall once more.
Flowers! An abundance of many different varieties. Some blossoms were closed up under the quarter moon, some remained open. And with the light shining down on them, bouncing off the foliage like fireflies, the small space felt magical.
“A secret garden,” I cried in wonder. “I never would have guessed what the granite enclosure hid.”
I tore my gaze from the raised beds and looked to him. “Or does the wall actually serve to guard?”
“A little of both.”
Diplomatic answer thought the cynic rising in me.
“I can tell by its orderly layout that this little place is peaceful and restful. Tranquil. So unexpected to find a sanctuary located well within the boundaries of the city’s Red-light District, you know?”
“I do know. I designed the garden to reflect my need for that very sanctuary.
I shook my head against softening toward him all over again. As an orphan, I knew what abandonment felt like, rejection too, and both had toughened me up. Trust did not come easily to me. Certainly not as quickly as it had arrived here with him. And it was usually hard won.
Still, I was no pushover. I was not as easy a target for deception as I might appear.
I had uncertainties about this man in whose hands I had placed my present and future life. And for the first time ever, I resisted keeping those fears all to myself rather than chance appearing weak. Instead, in my trust for him, I spoke my fears aloud:
“In the daytime, this area is always so bustling, what with respectable people coming and going. Some of these Red-light warehouses and stores are located well within walking distance of Dock Square at the harbor, not a frightening place at all. Come nightfall, though, the neighborhood changes. Beneath seemingly legitimate facades lurks an air of decay and corruption and illegality.
“After dark, barely dressed streetwalkers strut about flaunting their wares to prospective buyers. Either that or they pose like papier mâché mannequins under street lamps. Customers looking for carnal entertainment always walk huddled in on themselves, heads down, making no eye contact as they skulk from one brothel to the next. Not even getting killed in front of them would cause them to bat an eye. That is how hardened they are.
“Then there is where I work – used to work, that is. I knew nothing about the dancehall’s other purpose when I first came to town. I was only there to dance! What I saw as an opportunity to better myself nearly destroyed me. It is as if life punishes a woman for having ambitions. I shan’t let that happen to me ever again, sir.”
“It will not happen here, I promise. I only wish to help.”
Although woebegone, I sniffed back my tears and managed a cheery, “When the sun comes out, this garden will look entirely different. Though, unlike the rest of the Red-light District, even in the dark th
is place feels safe.”
When the sun did rise, where would I be then? Would I be homeless on some doorstep, camping out there, not even a carpetbag holding my possessions beside me, only bestirring myself to scrounge around the back of taverns looking for half-eaten food in garbage cans?
At that very real prospect, a dark cloud of melancholy descended on me again. “You were right – I am a child. A stupid and silly idiot putting on airs. A nobody like me should have been happy to bake yeast breads in the country estate of a gentleman farmer. At least I had my self-respect then.”
“You will retain your self-respect here. You will have choices, I promise.”
I folded my arms defensively under my bosom. “Are you suggesting I allow you to pimp for me? Is that what this rescue of yours is all about?”
“No need to fly off the handle. I am no pimp. The very suggestion is insulting to me. And I have already told you what I am proposing. A live-in hostess is what I seek. Just to set you straight, though – some women do very well as professional pleasure providers here.”
I snorted. “Prostitutes, you mean.”
“Call it what you will. But these professionals see only wealthy and influential gentleman as clients. They operate independently, as a small business owner might. There are worse situations for a smart woman who understands her own worth in which to find herself.”
“What are talking about? Whores leave themselves open to all-manner of disease and injury. I would just as soon work below stairs as part of the kitchen staff to that.”
“You will never become self-sufficient as a servant for a wealthy estate owner. As to self-respect, I have known ladies of high birth who are as promiscuous as a queen bee. No exclusivity whatsoever, they mate one man after another, at times in the same night. And as I keep saying – that is not the position I offer you here. As my hostess, you will be self-sufficient and someday perhaps wealthy, dependent on what choices you pick.”
So he said…
Until I could reason it all out, a quick change of subject was in order. “Who tends these flowers, sir?”
“I do.”
I gasped, “I thought you only designed the beds. I never expected you would actually get your hands dirty tending them.”
“Gardening provides quiet. The first thing that struck me about you was your innate quietness. As if you were used to and had come to enjoy solitude.”
I was always reserved with strangers, yet I found myself confiding, “In the orphanage where I grew up, I carved out a quiet spot for myself at the bottom of a mahogany wardrobe located in a seldom-used receiving room. Seldom-used as no one ever came to adopt any children, especially not a scrawny thing like me. So I would settle myself where the cloaks of these nonexistent visitors looking for a child to take home were supposed to be hung and never were.
“Inside was dark and dreary, and spiders would crawl over me, but the vacant space was quiet and all my own. Privacy was difficult to find on the wards, where narrow cots were lined up, cheek-by-jowl…”
This stranger was offering me a chance. Considering where I came from, I would be mad not to take it. “Yes, sir. I accept the position you offered me.”
“Hear me out first. I have yet to make you my full proposition.”
“Quite all right. I accept it, whatever the position entails. Time for me to open my eyes to certain realities. Time for me to grow up. And besides, anyone responsible for creating this city oasis must have the soul of a poet…”
“Not exactly…”
I talked right over him. “…and poets are not usually known for burying unsuspecting women in their gardens…“
“I beg your pardon?”
“…so what have I to fear? It is not as though I am a victim of an old-time Shanghai.”
His eyebrows arched. “Which is…what?”
“A common practice outlawed for many years now. Usually it involved rambunctious orphan lads. Of course! Anyway, these orphan lads would steal money, escape to town, have a few drinks of hard spirits, and before they knew what was happening, they would find themselves bundled off on a whaling ship en route to Alaska for a two-year long ocean voyage. Despite the sailor uniforms, they were essentially, kidnapped.” I laughed. “I am the wrong gender for something like that. It only seems similar to me as we have not yet been formally introduced. Hint. Hint.”
“Right. Negligent of me. I am Matthew Simmons, Miss DuPont.” He gave a quick bow, his second since our arrival.
“Not Miss DuPont.”
“What of Daphne?”
“No, as well. No to both. I told you I was a fraud.”
“ ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Shakespeare.”
“Yes, I know who said it, sir. The expression misses the mark with me.”
I loathed my name. There must have been a hundred or so children bearing my last name at the orphanage, no relation at all to me, at least as far as I knew. Then, again, what did I know about my birth family?
I curtsied as if we were meeting one another at a fancy tea party on posh Beacon Hill…for all that I wore stage paint on my face and a cancan costume. “Here stands Emma Jones, a name as common as a daisy. Hardly Shakespearean.”
“I greatly admire daisies, Miss Jones, a much undervalued flower in the garden.”
“Not as fragrant as a rose,” I argued.
“The daisy adds beauty as well as toughness to any design. When other blossoms wilt in the summer heat, they lift their heads uncomplainingly to the sun. You strike me as sharing those qualities.”
Oh, he knew just what to say to the ladies.
Not to me, he did not. Then, I was no lady. Life had prepared me well for male malarkey.
“Leave your cares at my threshold and come inside,” he continued. “No pressure. No duress applied. I am not what you think I am. Honestly, I am only trying to offer you a practical solution to your current problem. And remember – in terms of a Shanghai – you sought me out at that dancehall, not the other way round.”
I could make him no argument there. Only today I had owned up to being too judgmental of people and their motivations, and this went to prove my earlier assessment.
Seeing my indecision, he gently steered me in the direction of what I could only assume was the building’s back door. We entered his residence/business through the basement kitchen, an environment with which I had ample experience.
After he removed his cloak from my shoulders, I immediately looked around, taking in all the expensive copper pots and pans, each one sporting a shine – the sign of a well-run kitchen. If I were to open the silverware drawer, I wagered I would find forks and knives equally well-maintained.
Here was my chance to avoid the fate that awaited me, to swap the unfamiliar for the well-tread past, and I grabbed it. “Are you quite sure of your requirements? You may indeed need additional downstairs staff, sir. I bake excellent breads and pastry. I was taught by a wonderful French pâtissiere…”
“Sorry. That is not why I have brought you here, Emma.”
His voice, deep in timbre before, sounded ominous to my ears now.
My always fertile imagination was working overtime, of course. I had no reason to suspect him of anything devious, like foul play. Yet I asked, “Those rubber boots you spoke of?”
“I thought you said you could wait on those until after my appointment?”
“Asking for evidence is always prudent.”
“The rubber boots are right where I told you they would be.” He pointed. “If you stay, you will find I run a tight ship throughout the house. And, I do not make a habit of lying. No blood stains on the boots, you will note.”
“You told me you wash them off. And there went the evidence, right down the drain.”
“But you said I had the soul of a poet.”
“Which you denied.”
He drew a hand through his gorgeous silver-streaked hair. “I dug my own grave with you.”
“Better you than me.”
>
Enough with the charm and wit – time for a showdown. The waiting was gnawing on my nerves like a squirrel with an acorn. Best to get it all out in open and then deal with it.
“What kind of establishment is this exactly, sir? You have yet to tell me.”
“I run a gambling den.”
“Oh, dear. A jilt shop?”
“No luring of the unsuspecting for the purpose of robbery. I cannot abide trickery. People come here of their own volition to drink and play Poker, Black Jack, and dice games like Craps and so forth and so on, what gents generally do at establishments like this one. You name the vice and we provide it here. We offer all card games and games of chance. Customers can even spin the roulette wheel, if they so desire, everything strictly on the up-and-up. My gambling den is not a free-for-all, where anything goes.”
I stated the obvious. “But how can that be so, when gambling is not allowed in the city of Boston?”
“While true that a backlash against the involvement of the criminal element in gaming led to the outlaw of gambling, we observe strict decorum here.”
“You are avoiding the entire point of my statement, sir. And that is this – you have no jurisdiction to maintain any sort of gambling den here in the District, strictly regulated or not, so how…?”
“The same way brothels manage. Police look the other way.”
I said smugly, “Bribes”
“Yes. Naturally. Milton’s dancehall uses the same method to stay open. The police know what goes on in his back alley. They know about the scantily clad dancers up on stage.”
I dropped my gaze. “That place is my past. I am only concerned about tonight onward.”
“Good.”
“What manner of clientele frequents your den?”
“Interestingly, Boston Opium Barons are our most loyal customers. They have money to burn. And the drug is readily available in the city.”
That last concerned me. “Is this place also an opium den, then?”
“No. We serve only hard spirits. A large quantity of the stuff. No Temperance Movement, no abstinence here. The men who are regulars at this establishment are used to the finer things in life. With that said, they demand their illicit pleasure too – presented in a classy manner.”