Читать книгу Cinders to Satin - Fern Michaels - Страница 12

Chapter Six

Callie pulled her shawl closer about the shoulders of her brown woolen dress, careful not to disturb the hand-crocheted lace collar that had been a gift from Peggy. The dainty white cotton lace contrasted sharply with her wind-pink cheeks and the delicate paleness of her throat. It was her best dress, although it was now a bit short and swung just above the ankles of her high-topped, black-buttoned shoes.

She had risen very early that morning to have access to the privy where she washed herself all over, including her hair which now tumbled in thick chestnut curls about her head. Her shoes, a bit run-down at the heels, were wiped and polished with spit the night before. Everything she owned was rolled and packed into two pokes which were secured with laces from an ancient pair of Thomas’s shoes. She had to look her best, as Peggy had instructed, when she met cousin Owen for the first time. Only Mum couldn’t know that soaking in a tub for three days couldn’t remove the Tompkinsville stink that soiled not only the body but the soul as well.

Yesterday afternoon they had found the bodies of Beth and Paddy, snagged on rocks and tree stumps nearly half a mile from the pier where she had taken that final leap. It amazed Callie that hardly any thought was given to the living here in Tompkinsville but huge efforts were made to find a dead woman and child and bring them back for proper burial. Even in death, Beth could not escape Tompkinsville. The current in the river had carried her downstream but never across to the city of New York.

The last time Callie had seen Patrick was at the funeral. Patrick, thinking clearly for the moment, had instructed Callie not to utter a word that Beth’s plunge had not been purely accidental. Callie understood. Beth had died an unholy death by committing suicide and would not be allowed to rest in sanctified ground. The unbidden thought that Beth had also committed murder by taking little Paddy with her left Callie breathless and shaken. No one would understand that Beth had been out of her mind with grief and disappointment. Patrick was right. The less said the better. Everyone believed that Beth had had an unfortunate accident; no woman intent on suicide would take her unborn child and her young son with her.

On the flat of land behind the hospital, long deep trenches were dug in the soft and porous soapstone. Here the reek of death was all around, filling the air, even in the cold of November. The dead were buried in trenches nine feet deep, and the rustic coffins were placed in three tiers. The ground was dug out by pick, and broken pieces were scattered to cover the graves. The rain penetrated through the strewn rocks and thin earth, and the stink rose. Here, in an unmarked place, Beth and Paddy were laid. Patrick had stood woodenly at the grave site, head bowed, eyes dry, but in them an expression of grief and defeat that had never been there even during the hardest of times. Callie grieved for Beth and Paddy, placing on the lonely grave a bouquet of thistle and bittersweet she had picked in the bramble hedges along the road to the cemetery. But when the prayers were over, she looked at Patrick and realized, somewhat to her shame, that he would now have a chance to fulfill his dream. It was a gift from Beth, given with her heart. And the cost was her life.

Callie sat on a crate, poke baggage at her feet, riding the ferry across Upper Bay to the city. The November wind lashed at her cheeks on this sunless, dismal day as she looked back at Staten Island and the hospital facilities that stood high on the hill. She raised her eyes to heaven. “I pray it’ll be the last I ever see of that place,” she said softly. Then she turned to look at the nearing shoreline of the island of Manhattan. And even as I live and work here, she told herself with resolve, I’ll never look across the water again! Callie did not seem to be alone in her thinking. As she looked about at the other passengers, not a single head was turned back towards Tompkinsville; all eyes were searching the city before them, looking to the future, determined to forget the past.

The open ferry slid soundlessly into its berth. The engine belched steam, and its whistle blew with an asthmatic groan to herald its arrival at the South Street port. Falling into step with the other passengers, Callie walked the cobbled slope into the busy terminal. Hustled and jostled, she found a relatively quiet corner against a window looking out onto the streets of New York. Byrch Kenyon had told her the truth; the street was not paved in gold nor did anyone here seem especially prosperous. New York City seemed to hold the same ragged masses as did Dublin. Long lines of travelers and peddlers waited to be taken across on the returning ferry to Tompkinsville. Vendors selling hot chestnuts and peculiar twists of bread plied their wares. Men pushed wooden-wheeled carts filled with rags or vegetables; others sold apples at three cents apiece. That was something she’d have to learn, American dollars and cents. She’d had a taste of it during the quarantine, and it seemed simple enough. Patrick had shown her a silvered coin and told her it was called a nickel. Callie had decided it was her favorite. Still, all manner of money was acceptable to these Americans. The lead-colored shilling she had saved from Uncle Jack’s generosity, the copper penny, and the little round ha’penny were all safely stowed away in a little drawstring pouch pinned to her chemise.

Callie huddled into her corner, waiting for the appearance of cousin Owen. Most of her fellow passengers from the ferry had left the terminal, having been met by family or friends or wandered into the city on their own. Porters, or runners, as Callie had heard them called, wrestled with crates and baggage, checking names against tags and extending their hands for gratuities reluctantly given. As she waited, apprehension was churning in Callie’s breast. She had no way of knowing who, among these men loitering about the terminal, might be Peggy’s cousin. For that matter, he had no way of knowing her either. Colleen had sent him a description of herself as he had asked, stating her height and weight and bright auburn hair. But where Callie was diminutive, Colleen was tall and buxom; where Colleen was bright-haired and freckled, Callie felt as brown and dim as a backyard wren. Also, there was the difference in their ages: Colleen was almost nineteen and already a woman; Callie was just sixteen but looked even younger. Would Cousin Owen be terribly disappointed?

A small man, wearing what Callie could only think of as a horse blanket tailored into a jacket and trousers, was staring at her across the nearly empty terminal. She could feel his eyes boring into her even though she looked away. Was this the way Americans dressed? Bright tweeds and boxy plaids, walking sticks and jaunty caps? A shiny stickpin was prominently displayed in the fold of his cravat. A diamond? Glass? Whatever, it was big enough to choke the horse who’d lost the blanket. As she had feared, the flamboyantly attired man approached her, a lopsided grin breaking across his narrow face. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but you wouldn’t be Colleen O’Brien, would you?”

It was clear to Callie that the man truly hoped she wasn’t. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said importantly, “Owen Gallagher, Miss. I was awaiting the arrival of my cousin from Dublin, Colleen O’Brien.”

She searched for her voice, knowing how disappointed he would be when she told him. “I’m Callie James, your cousin Peg’s oldest girl. Colleen couldn’t come because she’s getting married. She gave me the ticket you sent, instead.” There, it was out. Let him make of it what he would. If he didn’t want her, couldn’t help her, then let him send her back, and pray God he did.

Owen Gallagher tipped his cap back, revealing a high forehead and thin, tight blond curls. Hands on hips, he looked up and down the length of her, his features tightening, with disapproval. Callie spoke up. “I’m young and I’m strong, and I can give a good day’s work!” She realized that if Peggy and the family were to survive, she must make her way here in America.

Owen Gallagher continued to look her up and down. He was thinking he had bought himself a pig in a poke. What good was this child to him? Thirteen, if she was a day, and her hair was an abomination. Men like to run their fingers through a woman’s hair. True, her hair was thick and glossy and tumbled around her head in wicked little curls, but she’d been shorn like a sheep in springtime. For sure, this little lamb wouldn’t get him a return on his investment of a ticket from Ireland. She looked as though a good wind would blow her over, and he didn’t like the sound of the cough she tried to hide. On the other hand, she was the picture of an Irish lass: fair skin, pink cheeks, clear blue eyes fringed with long black lashes, and a pert little nose that pointed straight up to heaven. There were men who had appetites for the very young—the younger and smaller the more they paid. No, all wasn’t lost, Gallagher told himself, suddenly pleased. Especially considering that this little one had no one to depend upon but himself. She’d be putty in his hands. The older, more independent Colleen might have taken it into her head that she didn’t need nor want cousin Owen’s protection.

Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, he walked around Callie, appraising her carefully. She squirmed beneath his inspection. She didn’t like cousin Owen; he was as slick as a greased pig at the fair.

“How old are ya? How much do you weigh?”

“What’s it to you, sir?” The title of respect was said with sarcasm. “You paid for my ticket and here I am.” No, she didn’t like cousin Owen, and though there were no snakes in Ireland, she’d seen pictures of them in the Bible, their black reptilian eyes staring out from the page, the soul behind them hidden from view. Owen Gallagher had such eyes.

“A sharp tongue won’t serve you here, girlie. Be nice and polite,” he admonished, a hard edge in his voice raising the hackles on the back of Callie’s neck.

Something in Callie shrank from this man who was supposed to be her protector. As she had since she was a wee child, to save herself the shame and embarrassment of showing weakness, Callie stared at him levelly, pursing her full lips and tilting her chin upwards, steeling herself, holding back her fear.

“Feisty little thing, ain’t cha?” Gallagher sneered. “Don’t be getting hoity-toity with me, Miss. The way I sees it, you owe me the price of a ticket from Ireland to New York. You cheated me by showin’ up instead of Colleen, and the law won’t look too kindly on that, I can tell you.” He leaned so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath. “And don’t be thinkin’ I won’t go to the law just because you’re family. A deal’s a deal, and the honest business man is treated fairly here in America.” His words had the impact he intended. She shrank back against the wall; he could hear her breathing, sharp and erratic, but damn it all, she still had that look of defiance about her. Instinct told him this piece of fluff was going to make trouble. He should just forget the loss of her fare from Ireland and let her go her own way. After all, what was a few pounds to a man who always had the jingle of a coin in his pocket and still more hidden under the floorboards in his basement flat? But studying her more closely, he recognized a good deal of potential in this girl. She was young and small, and if he was any judge, her hips would be slim as a boy’s and her chest not much more developed. She would be a good one to add to his stable, allowing him to cater to some men’s specialized preferences.

Owen backed off a step or two, giving Callie breathing room. “Since you’re here, you can come along with me. But don’t forget, I won’t put up with any shenanigans.” It was a threat; it was a promise.

“I’m a hard worker; I’ll give a good day’s work for a day’s pay. I can read and write and do numbers—”

“Oh! A real educated Miss, I see. Well, you won’t get nowhere unless you know when to keep your mouth shut. What I have in mind for you don’t require no readin’ nor writin’. You might say I won’t mind you layin’ down on the job!” This struck Owen as hilariously funny, and he broke into raucous laughter. “All right, Miss James, is it? Get your things and come along. Is this all you have in the way of baggage?” He smiled at her. The attempt at friendliness was almost an obscenity, and Callie bristled.

“My trunks and hat boxes, not to mention the royal jewels, will be arriving on the Cunard line!” she drawled insolently. “Of course this is all I have. If I had more, do you think I’d be dependent on your good will?”

Quicker than a striking snake, cousin Owen had her by the arm, squeezing it unmercifully. “I told you to watch that sharp tongue of yours,” he warned, his soft, lilting tone in direct contrast to the threat in his eyes and the force on her arm. “Men . . . people don’t like to hear a young girl being fresh. I take back what I said about you being educated. You’re smart, all right, alley smart. Now pick up your things and come along.”

His release on her arm was as sudden as his grip, leaving her shaken and afraid, aware of his potential for violence and making her feel more alone than ever. She might be young and inexperienced, but she was no fool. Cousin Owen was not going to use her fairly. Callie raised her eyes heavenward. “Good Lord, what have You gotten me into? It’s clear my interests aren’t at the top of Your list.”

“Did you say somethin’?” Owen asked over his shoulder.

“I talk to myself sometimes,” Callie answered.

Owen rolled his eyes. A cuckoo in the bargain. He led the way out of the terminal into the harsh November wind. Callie, burdened by her blanket pokes, followed close behind. As he walked, Owen swung his brass-handled walking stick, moving along at a jaunty pace. The trousers of his suit were tight-fitting and strapped beneath the boots—hugging his bowed legs which probably were the reason for his unusual toe-out gait—as though he were squashing bugs under his heels.

They walked several blocks along the cobbled streets. Buildings and tenement houses rose up from the sidewalks to an astonishing four or five stories, their red brick facades decorated by slate lintels over the windows and doorways. Every house, it seemed, was fronted by a porch, or stoop as they called it in Dublin, and all were attached to one another just like the row houses back home. Home, Callie thought. This was home now.

Shops and eating houses and taverns spilled their sounds and smells onto the street; delivery carts and beer wagons clattered over the cobbles, their horses slat-ribbed and plodding. She heard the sounds of her own Ireland in the brogue and lilt of voices, and there were other sounds too: the harsh, guttural tones of Germans, the melodious language of black men and women, and even, to her surprise, a small yellow man dressed in black with a round hat perched on his head and a long black pigtail hanging down his back. He turned to look at her, his flat features breaking into a smile, his slanted eyes dancing with amusement.

“What kind of man is that?” Callie asked, tugging at Owen’s sleeve.

“Him? He’s a Chinee. You’ll see people from all over the world here. Eyetalians, Germans, Portugee, but thank yer stars it’s mostly the fine folk of Ireland you’ll find yourself with. Course, there’s them what calls themselves Americans. They was born here and think they don’t stink because of it!” Owen spit down on the sidewalk. “Those are the kind to stay away from, take my advice. They don’t think much of the Irish, and I’m pleased to say the Irish don’t think much of them. Think they’re better than the rest of us.” Owen loved it when he could display his worldliness and thought of himself as a man about town.

“Where are we going?” Callie ventured to ask, lugging her pokes and shifting them from one arm to the other. She could feel her stomach rumble. She’d not even had a cup of tea this morning and couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a piece of bread.

“It’s not far. Just uptowns a ways. We’ll take the trolley at the next corner.”

He saw her struggling with her belongings but didn’t offer to help. She’d lugged them all the way from Dublin, she could lug them a ways farther. “See them tracks set in the street?” he pointed. “Those is trolley tracks. Makes for a nice, easy ride over the cobbles. Hurry up now, don’t fall behind. I’ve got business to take care of.”

Callie quickened her pace, almost falling into step beside him but not quite. “There are no streets paved with gold . . . are there?”

“Now don’t you be tellin’ me you believed that fairy tale. Tis a land of opportunity, but only for those who work at it. And me, cousin deary, I work at it.”

“What kind of work? What’ll I be doing here? I need money to send my mum back in Dublin. You know what’s going on there, don’t you? Sometimes there’s hardly enough for the little one’s supper.”

“Now ain’t that a shame!” Owen sneered. “Listen, girlie, I don’t care what’s happening in Ireland or anywhere else for that matter. Owen Gallagher only concerns himself with himself and his own pockets. If you want to take everything you’ve got and throw it away, that’s your business, not mine. I said you were smart; it won’t take long before you think of yourself first and leave the rest to the devil.”

“Why did you bring me over here?” Callie demanded, her voice a hiss. “We all thought you were trying to help out some. I came to work, to send money to the family—”

“Listen,” Owen said nastily, “I didn’t bring you over here. T’was Colleen I sent for. I could tell from her letters that she’s an enterprising young lady and wanted more than anythin’ to get herself away from Ireland. She seemed to know what life was all about. You said she’s gettin’ married. No doubt she’s already got a cake in the oven, right?”

Callie looked at him quizzically. Then it dawned on her. “Yes, Colleen’s going to have a baby. . .”

“That’s what I said, right? She knows what life’s all about. Trouble is, she didn’t know enough. Now, my girls know how to take care of themselves, they do. Or out they go! I don’t keep no charity cases, and when a girl can’t work, she’s got no place with me. Just you remember that.” This was all wrong. She should be grateful. Instead he found himself with a hellcat. There would be no fooling this one for long. He thought of the handsome prices she could earn for him, and he had recently lost Trisha because of a botched-up abortion. An empty bed in his house brought no revenue, and he was eager to fill it.

A horse-drawn conveyance pulled up the street at a clip. The car was open-sided with benches all in a row, some of them facing outward to the street. Cousin Owen instructed Callie to get aboard while he dug in his pocket for two coins, which he dropped into a little change box held out by the conductor. Callie sank down on the hard, painted seat, tucking her pokes alongside her.

“Don’t get too comfortable, it’s not that far.”

“Then why didn’t we walk?”

“Owen Gallagher never walks when he can ride.”

Callie hung out over the side, looking up at buildings and down at the people passing by. A group of children tossed a ball back and forth, and she heard their shouts and calls at play. The sound was somehow comforting.

“We get off here,” Owen told her. “Come along and don’t leave anything behind.”

“Hardly, when this is all I own in the world,” Callie muttered. She was liking her situation and Cousin Owen less and less by the moment. She didn’t like the way he tugged at her arm and practically pushed her off the high step of the trolley. When her feet touched the street, she dropped her pokes and stood facing him, hands on hips. “I’m not moving another step unless you tell me where you’re taking me and what I’ll be doing when I get there!”

“Just shut that mouth of yours and quit attracting attention. I’m known in this town and I have a reputation to consider, and I don’t want you spoiling it for me. Now keep quiet and talk when I tell you.” He picked up her pokes and was pushing them into her arms.

“Why?” Callie demanded bluntly, dropping her pokes for the second time. “I want to know now!”

A brat! A big mouth! He certainly didn’t need this skinny piece of baggage. “You’ll be livin’ in that fine house across the street there. You’ll be with other girls, and they’ll tell you what t’do. They like it!” he said defensively.

“And exactly what do you get out of all this? You said you were a business man and only concerned with your own pockets. You tell me now, or I don’t go one step further.”

Owen glanced around in desperation. His quick eye caught a glimpse of a blue uniform down on the next corner. He didn’t need the police poking into his business; he paid enough in graft as it was. And what if one of his rivals saw one of his girls giving him trouble? “You’ll just do what the girls tell you, and I get a piece of your wages. Er . . . for room and board and, of course, my protection.”

Callie didn’t miss the desperate look in Owen’s eyes as he looked up and down the street, and she was becoming more suspicious by the minute. “What kind of house do you have? Is it anything like that whorehouse at the end of Bayard Street back in Dublin?” She purposely made her voice loud.

Owen was sweating under his collar, keeping a quick eye on the policeman strolling up the street, swinging his billy club. “Now where would a little thing like you ever learn about whorehouses? For shame!” Then an idea hit him, one that had worked before with reluctant employees. “Turn around, cousin, look to the end of the street to that blue uniform swaggering up the block. D’ya know who that is? Well, I’ll tell ya. T’is the law, a copper, a blue jacket, a policeman. Understand? I don’t plan on standing out here freezing. Either you come with me now or I’ll turn you over to him. Remember how fine things were over to Tompkinsville? He knows a right fine place for girls the likes of you who don’t want to work. A place that’ll make Tompkinsville seem like paradise. Then how’ll you send money to your mum?”

Owen saw doubt creep into Callie’s eyes. He’d scared her just the way he had scared all the rest when they’d given him trouble. But there was something behind her rebellious blue stare that made him think she’d cut his heart out if given the chance. This one was going to give him headaches, he knew it.

Without a word, Callie picked up her pokes and followed Owen across the thoroughfare to 16 Cortlandt Street, a four-story tenement. She climbed the nine steps of the front stoop and waited while he jingled the assortment of keys on his ring and unlocked the front door. Perhaps she was wrong. Owen Gallagher must be a well-to-do businessman if he possessed the keys to the front door! To the entire house! In Dublin, six or seven families might live in a house much smaller than this. Inside the house, Callie was assailed by the stench of cooked cabbage and dirt. The hallway was dark and narrow, the stairs leading to the floors above worn and rickety and much in need of repair. The floor needed a good sweeping and scrubbing, and there was a lingering odor of old cigar smoke and something that reminded her of urine.

She was ushered into a room at the front, which Owen called a parlor. It was meagerly furnished with a dilapidated sofa, a chair, and several small tables. Callie sniffed and sneezed from its close atmosphere and the balls of dust that hid in the corners.

“You wait here and I’ll be right back,” Owen grumbled. “Now sit!”

Owen returned to the front hall and ran up the flight of dark, narrow stairs to the next floor. He rapped smartly on one of the six panel doors that led off the center hall. “Go ’way!” came a muffled complaint.

“Madge, get your tail out of that bed and come to the door. We’ve got a problem.”

A frowzy woman of questionable age with ponderous breasts struggled up from her sagging mattress. She loved her bed and spent every spare minute in it. It was a joke that once Madge got a man in the bellied-out hollow of that mattress he’d yell for mercy. She pushed back long kinky hair from her face to which the ravages of last night’s lip rouge and powder still clung. She opened the door, leaning against the jamb, looking out at Owen. “Why is it ‘we’ have a problem when you get yourself into a mess and ‘I’ have a problem when the money doesn’t come in fast enough?”

“Never mind, never mind.” Owen pushed his way into the heavily curtained room that did not allow even a glimmer of light from the window. “Fer God’s sake, why do ya keep this room so dark?”

“‘Cause I like it that way! Now what’s your problem? O’Shaughnessy refuse to deliver the liquor till you’ve paid your bill?”

“Nah! I’ve got a cousin downstairs—”

“A cousin now, is it? Well, don’t ever count me as one of your family, you snake.” Madge scratched her rump; the narrow gray straps of her chemise fell off her fleshy shoulder. “You said yesterday you’d be bringing in a girl to replace Trisha, rest her soul. I said it before and I say it again, that business with Trisha was your fault, Gallagher. If you’d been a little more careful and a bit more generous, she could’ve had the job done at the usual place instead of with the butcher you set her to.”

“That’s water under the bridge.” Owen scowled, pulling open one of the drapes, wishing he hadn’t when he turned to face Madge again. All traces of prettiness were lost to the aging harlot, lost to sin and liquor. But she ran a decent house and kept the girls in line and paid off the law and anyone else who nosed around more than was good for them. Madge was all right. “Fer Jesus sake, put some clothes on!”

Madge took the order as a compliment. “Why, Owen sweet, I didn’t think anything could rouse you. Whatever you say,” she said, pulling on a beribboned scarlet wrapper over her chemise.

“The problem is,” Owen asserted, “she’s just over from Ireland, and they cut her hair out to Tompkinsville. Almost as short as my own, blast their souls. She looks more a lad than me own brother. She can’t be more than thirteen, and she’s so little and skinny the wind would blow her over. On top of that, she’s a tongue that would make the devil himself wish for sainthood. That’s the straight of it, and I don’t know what to do with her.”

“Send her back. I don’t want no part of a kid. If you’re smart, you won’t have nothin’ to do with her either. I’m in this business for money, not to wet-nurse some kid.”

“You ain’t too smart, are ye, Madge? This kid ain’t got nobody here in America but me. Only me. Who’s she gonna run to? Besides, you know yourself, there’s those men who have a taste for little girls. She’d even be appealing to them what have a hankering for boys. There’s money in her, Madge, I can smell it. And since this is my house and my business, I don’t want no lip from you. You’ll do as I say.”

Madge arched her thin, pencilled brows. “And who says so, Mr. Gallagher? There’s plenty of pimps who’d want me to run their houses for them and keep the girls in line, and don’t you forget it!”

Owen knew this to be true and tried a different tack. “Ain’t you ever had the urge to be a mother? She’ll steal your heart, this one will. Be nice to her, Madge, take her under your wing and teach her the business.”

“Steal my heart? What heart? And if she’s kin to you, that’s not all she’ll be stealing. If you’ve got any more bright ideas, save them. You’re a slick weasel, is what you are, Owen Gallagher. Why I put up with the likes of you is more than I know.”

Owen dreaded the look he saw on Madge’s face. Looks like that always emptied his purse. Later he would worry about dealing with Madge; right now he had a little investment down in the parlor that, if handled the right way, would make him a rich man. “I have business up on Broadway that needs my attention,” he said, “so I’ll leave the girl up to you. Her name is Callie. Don’t let her mouth worry you none.”

“How hard can it be to deal with a kid?” Madge snorted, missing the way Owen’s eyes rolled. “Go on and see to your business, and I’ll handle things here. But I’m warning you, Gallagher, I’ll try her for two days, that’s all. I’ve got better things to do with my time. After that, if she doesn’t work out, you get her out of here and off my hands. Agreed?”

Owen Gallagher would have agreed to selling his soul at that moment. He nodded briskly and slid through the open doorway like the snake he was.

Madge sighed lustily. She did everything lustily. She wondered if she should take the time for a quick wash and decided against it. She’d better see to the kid. She’d try a bit of the mothering Gallagher suggested.

Callie had just completed her ninth circle of the small parlor and was becoming impatient. Where was Owen? All manner of doubts were creeping into her head when she looked up and saw a woman dressed in the most magnificent wrapper she’d ever seen. She was conscious of the buxom shelf of breasts and then of the darkest, dancingest eyes smiling down at her. She couldn’t help herself, and she reached out to touch the gaudy dressing gown. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured with awe. “Some day I’d like to send my mum one just like it.”

Madge eyed Callie suspiciously but found no hint of mockery in her face. Her youth and innocence almost brought tears to Madge’s eyes. Oh, no you don’t, Madge Collins, she scolded herself, there’s no such thing as a whore with a heart of gold and you know it! She looked down into Callie’s sweet face and saw the clear blue eyes fringed with thick black lashes. The kid’s gonna be a beauty, her experienced eye told her. “A gentleman friend brought me this from Paris. That’s Paris, France,” she clarified. “Once it had feathers up here, but they all molted like the bird they came from.”

“Even without the feathers, it’s beautiful! My mum would look like a stage actress in that. I know it must have cost a fortune, and your gentleman friend must have thought very highly of you to bring it all the way from France. I know I’ll never see Paris, France.”

“Don’t say never,” Madge said. “I used to say things like ‘never’ and ‘ever’ and ‘forever’ and look at me. I got me this dressing gown fit for a queen and who’d ’ve thought it? Not me, I’ll tell ya! Say, you look hungry and so’m I. When’s the last time you had something to eat?”

“Yesterday. I didn’t even have time for tea this morning, thank you, Mrs. . . .”

“Collins. But you call me Madge, you hear? A little thing like you needs to eat regular. Come with me.” Madge ushered Callie down the dark hallway to the kitchen. “Let’s have some bacon, potatoes, and eggs. How’s that sound? Do you like buttermilk? I think there’s some in the window box, and it should be nice and cold, considering the weather we’ve had recently. I’ve got some fresh bread, and we can have some of that wild strawberry jam I made last summer,” she said proudly. “Why’nt you get the buttermilk? It’s right outside that window.”

Callie lifted the grimy window to fetch the milk out of the little window box. The aroma of frying bacon and potatoes was ambrosia to her senses, and the sizzle of the eggs frying in the fat was music to her ears. When Madge put her plate down in front of her, Callie felt light-headed just looking at it. “I’m almost afraid to eat it. It’s been so long I’m afraid I’ll get sick.”

“Eat slow and chew it well and your stomach won’t object.” Jesus, now where had she heard that? Madge wondered with a start. She sounded like her own mother. The feeling was nice. “After we eat, you’re gonna have a bubble bath. Did you ever have a bubble bath?”

“Ma’am, my mum kept us real clean. I got a bath once or twice a week, whenever we could afford the peat for the fire to heat water. Lately its been cold water for all of us. We were poor,” she said quietly.

“Kid, I’ve been poor myself. I know what it’s all about. You sit there and eat while I heat some water. I’m gonna scrub you down myself and wash your hair. What happened to it, anyways?”

“They cut it off because they said I had lice.”

Madge held her fork poised in mid-air. “Do you?” She hated vermin of any kind.

“No. They just said that so they could cut my hair and sell it to wigmakers. It was a. . .” She searched for the right word. “Scam.”

“Now where would a kid like you hear a word like that?”

“A kid like me had it done to her. I have eyes and ears, and that’s what I heard them say it was. But I don’t have lice and never did. You can look in my hair if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you, I believe you,” Madge declined the offer. “I hate cooties, hate ’em more than anything. Only thing to do for them is to wash your hair with kerosene and that burns like hell.” Madge studied her young guest and felt her heart swell as Callie popped a potato into her mouth. How young she was, and how alone, with no one but that pimp Owen to thank for her living. Madge sighed heavily.

“Mrs. Collins . . . Madge. What will you do with me after the bath? What kind of work will I do here?”

“I have to give it some thought. But you can believe one thing and it ain’t two. I’ll do what’s best for you. I promise you that. Here, have another slice of bread and more jam. Put some meat on those bones.” Madge herself reached for the jam jar and spread it thickly on the bread.

“Do you work for my cousin Owen?”

“In a manner of speaking. I think it’d be more truthful to say we’re sort of partners.”

“What do you do?”

“I guess you could say I deal in services. Yeah, I sell my services.”

“Does that mean you’re a lady of the evening?” Callie asked quietly.

Madge suppressed a chuckle. Owen was right. This kid was no dummy. “Of the evening and the morning and afternoon. Whatever, whenever.”

“And my cousin thinks I’m going to learn the trade from you. Is that why he brought me here?”

“No, kid, no. He brought you here because he had nowhere else to take you. You’re so young. The other girls . . . well, the other girls are older. Twenty, and even as old as twenty-five. Good girls, all of them, they do what they’re told and don’t make trouble. That’s how we all make out.”

Callie worked on her plate of eggs and drained her glass of buttermilk dry. “You just sit there, give your stomach a rest. The water isn’t hot enough yet for your bath. You’ll have to do some fancy soaking, and we’ve got to air out those clothes of yours. And wash your drawers and things. Maybe we’ve got some things around here that’ll fit you.”

“What will you do with me?”

“The Lord only knows. Just trust me, kid. Can you do that?”

“How many girls work here?”

“You’re the nosey one, ain’t you. There’s nine girls, including me and a woman who works in the kitchen. None of us are much at cooking and cleaning.”

“You are, Madge. That was the best plate of eggs I ever ate!”

The compliment endeared Callie to Madge forever. “Come along now,” she instructed, “you can help me carry the tub in here, and we’ll put it in front of the stove where it’s warm. You fill it, and I’ll get some towels and clean clothes for you. Where’s your baggage?”

“In the parlor. I don’t have anything much, and everything smells just the same as I do.” Callie’s back stiffened against the shame of it. She knew she sounded defensive, but she couldn’t help it. “I am what I am,” she told Madge. “Take me or leave me, it’s your choice.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. We’ll get along just fine. You do what I say and we won’t have any problems.”

“Is that the same thing as saying, ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll tell you what it is’?”

Madge roared with laughter. Callie noticed she didn’t answer, though.

By the time the final rinse water was carted off and Callie was wrapped in a large towel, the house began to take on life. The cook arrived and was busy getting dinner ready for “her girls.” The gentlemen would start arriving when darkness fell. Madge wrapped a smaller towel around Callie’s head and headed her in the direction of the stairs, but first she stopped in the front parlor to introduce Callie to what she called her constituents. It was hard to guess their ages with all the makeup the women had on their faces. None of them seemed as old as Madge, but neither were any of them as young as Callie. Seasoned was what Madge called them. Callie made a note to figure all of that out later.

“Listen, ladies, I have an announcement to make. I won’t be working this evening.” If Madge had dropped a bomb, she couldn’t have gotten a better reaction. It was obvious that Madge never took time off. The second bomb dropped when she announced that she had to make a dress for Callie.

“But you don’t know how to sew,” Shirley said in a squeaky voice. Shirley pretended to be seventeen, but everyone knew she’d never see twenty-seven again.

“I know, but I’m going to do the best I can. The kid has nothing to wear,” Madge said.

“Where are you going to get the material? You had Bessie make you a dress out of that yellow silk a month ago,” said a young woman named Dorothy. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that length of blue wool that Mr. Warner gave me.”

“It never crossed my mind,” Madge said.

“And what about button holes? I’m the only one who knows how to make button holes,” Sara said haughtily. “If you go trying to make button holes, you’ll botch up the whole dress.”

“I know, but I’m going to try. We can’t have this kid going around looking like a ricky-ticky immigrant.”

“I could give you that yard of lace Mr. Johns gave me last year,” a plump woman named Elsie offered.

“Never! For shame. I know how you treasure that lace,” Madge responded.

“Tell me you aren’t going to ask for my muslin!” said a tall, overly made up woman who had the same kind of cough as Paddy.

“Bite your tongue, Fanny Mae. I’d never ask for your muslin. If the kid has to go without a petticoat, why should you care?”

“Does she have bloomers?” a tiny girl named Hester demanded.

“I don’t know. Callie, do you have bloomers?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You see! You see, this tyke has nothing.”

“Mr. Owen Gallagher is going to be throwing a fancy fit if we close down tonight,” Sara giggled.

“Who cares?” Bessie laughed. “Come on, girls, let’s get this waif started. No disrespect, Madge, but you just sit and watch.”

“Girls, you are too generous. Too generous. Aren’t they generous, Callie?”

“Very generous,” Callie said, enjoying the way Madge had set up her little scam. Women, Callie decided, could do just about anything they set their minds to.

Madge gave the cook the night off and told her to lock all the doors. “Hang a sign on the front door saying we’re closed . . . for repairs.” The girls doubled over laughing. Madge joined in and almost fell off the parlor sofa.

“Now, you girls go get your sewing things, and I’ll just sit here and try to figure out a way for Mr. Owen Gallagher to be paying us recompense for the night off. Be prepared to rebel if the going gets sticky. That man is a weasel, and we all know it!”

The women in Madge’s employ were impressed with the boss’s sudden display of concern for young Callie. Theirs was a world devoid of children, for the most part, and the generous feeling quickly spread among them. For the night, at least, they would all be honorary mothers, and they could forget the tawdrier side of their lives. In Callie, they had a common goal, not to mention a rare night off with pay.

“Rosey,” Madge directed the cook, “get a couple of pitchers of beer before you leave. And on your way home have O’Shaughnessy bring over a keg. We’ll use those fancy beer mugs we save for our best customers.” She garnered appreciation and smiles from the other women. “I’m certain Mr. Gallagher would want us to enjoy only the best.” There was more than one way to skin a cat; you just had to know which way to yank the hide.

It was a night to remember as far as Callie was concerned. They all laughed and sang and told jokes that she didn’t quite understand, but she laughed anyway. It was so long since she had laughed and had been around happy people. It was good to feel like a child again—without responsibility, with someone looking out for her for a change. By midnight she was the proud possessor of a new light-blue wool dress, two petticoats, and three pairs of bloomers, all exquisitely hand-stitched. Her other clothing had been aired and washed and ironed, and her shoes were polished to a respectable shine.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the keg of beer was nearly empty, Madge hit upon the solution to Callie’s dilemma. “Now we’re all agreed this is no life for the kid. And we all know how those female societies keep banging on our door and demanding this house and others like it be shut down by the blue jackets. They want to save us from this life of sin, they say, so who better to save little Callie here? Fine upstanding women of the community, they call themselves. Pains in the ass, I calls them. But they just may be the answer to our kid’s problem.”

Fanny lifted her head from her sewing. She was putting a patch on a tear in Callie’s old dress. “A nasty patch is better than a pretty hole, my mother always said,” she repeated several times as she worked, receiving praise from the others on the fine quality of her handiwork. Now she questioned Madge, “And how do you suppose we’ll get our kid over to them? Just walk up, bang on their door, and leave Callie on their doorstep?”

Madge took another swallow of frothy beer. “Nah! That’s too risky, too much chance of our kindhearted Mr. Gallagher finding out. No, what we’ve got to do is arrange to have Callie kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped!” the gasps filled the room.

“Right, kidnapped. I heard there was a place over to five corners that didn’t pay protection to the blue jackets, and those fancy ladies just marched in and had the girls taken away. That’s the closest thing to kidnapping I ever heard. So, what I’m thinkin’ is we’ll get in touch with that Magdalene Female Society, the ones who have a place out on Bleecker Street. Callie’ll be safe there, and that weasel Gallagher will never find her. Even if he does, he’ll have some tall explaining to do.” Madge was toasted by clinking beer mugs and pronounced the smartest woman in New York.

Callie listened and frowned. Everything was still so uncertain. Where would she find work? When would she be able to send money home to Peggy? And who or what was this Magdalene Female Society anyway?

Callie slept in Madge’s hammock-shaped bed, warm against her protector’s fleshy body. By noon the next day everyone was enjoying Madge’s famous fried eggs, done to a turn in hot bacon fat and sizzled with brown lace around the edges. From her place by the stove, Madge lectured importantly.

“Now, ladies, if we want this kidnapping to come off on schedule, we have to plan it. As you all know, Bessie took herself off to Bleecker Street this morning posing as a do-gooder from the swell end of town. She described Callie and told them she’d be outside just after three o’clock this afternoon. Now, Callie, put on all the bloomers, the two petticoats, and your new dress. Anything else you’ll want to take, put in your poke, and I’ll see it gets sent on to you later, but you’ll have enough to keep you meantime. And since you took such a fancy to my wrapper, I’ll be sending it on to your mum if you give me the address. I’ll have it washed and ironed first, of course,” Madge added hastily.

Callie was wide-eyed and astonished. “You’d do that for me?” she asked with awe as she tried to picture Peggy’s face when she opened the parcel.

Madge shrugged. “I never did like the man who gave it to me. I just took it to be polite. In this business you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” She turned back to her frying eggs before the glisten of tears in her dark eyes could be noticed.

Promptly at three o’clock Callie rushed around kissing and hugging everyone who’d made it possible for her to leave. She lingered with Madge, a shyness suddenly coming over her. She didn’t quite know what to say to this woman who had taken charge of her for so short a time. “If I didn’t already have a mother, I know I’d want one just like you. I won’t forget what you did for me, Madge. I hope you don’t get into trouble with Owen.”

Madge hugged the girl close. “Let’s just pretend I was standin’ in for your mum for a day or so. Go along with you now. You know where we are in case you need us. You’ll be safe with those fancy ladies looking after you.”

“Fancy or not, they can’t be as good as you, Madge!”

“We’ll be watching out the windows, Callie. Everything will work out, you’ll see. Remember to take the broom out of the kitchen, so’s it looks like you were sent out to sweep the stoop.”

Callie tried to concentrate on sweeping the debris and cigar butts from the steps. She felt heavy and lopsided wearing three pairs of bloomers, two petticoats, and the warm woolen stockings Bessie had given her. The comb and brush and few coins Madge had pressed on her at the last minute were safely tucked away in a reticule worn about her waist under the new blue dress. Callie worked her way down the steps, forcing herself to keep from looking up and down the street for the people who were to come and kidnap her. She was nearing the bottom step when two men and a woman approached and asked her name.

“Callie James,” she told the woman, looking into a square, plain face that was topped by a black hat worn at a tilt over the brow and festooned with quivering feathers.

“Don’t make a scene and come along quietly,” the woman told her. “We mean you no harm. We’ve come to save you from a life of sin and the reward of hell. You’re a Christian, we take it?”

Callie nodded her head, reminding herself not to look back toward the house to see if anyone was watching from the windows.

“It matters little if you’ve already fallen from God’s grace,” the woman told her. “We cast no stones. We want to save your soul, Callie James. Do you love the Lord? Do you believe in His Word?” she held up a black book, pushing it under Callie’s nose, letting her recognize the Bible.

Callie nodded. Yes, she’d been taught to love the Lord. Yes, Peggy had taught her to believe His Word.

“Then come along, Callie James, to save your life and your soul.”

Callie fell into step between the two men. She prayed this was the right thing to do. Madge said it was, so it must be.

Behind the heavy drapes of 16 Cortlandt Street, Madge and her girls clung together watching Callie being escorted away. They clung to one another, wiping at their eyes, until Madge blew her nose lustily and said they would break out Owen’s last bottle of corn whiskey.

“Fanny, I want you to take my red wrapper to the Chinee on the corner and have him clean it. I have to make arrangements to post it off tomorrow. A promise is a promise. All right, ladies, we have things to do, and we’ve got to get our stories straight for Gallagher, so let’s get to it.”

The women settled themselves in the parlor and listened to Madge. “We all know the best lie is the one closest to the truth. Here’s what we’ll say. Two hoodlums broke in here last night just before opening. We’ll say they looked like part of that gang from over in Hoboken that Gallagher’s so afraid of. Anyways, they broke in and stole Gallagher’s corn whiskey and beer and had their way with each of us. First they hung out the sign that said the house was closed for repairs, only they had me print it ’cause they can’t write. Then we say they took Callie off with them because they liked little girls, and they said they’d kill anyone who tried to get her back.”

When Owen Gallagher heard Madge’s story, he shook his head, his face whitening in fear of the Hoboken gang that was pushing its way into the neighborhood. His fear squelched any sympathy or regret over losing Callie. He didn’t even squawk when Madge demanded “a night’s pay for all we went through when we could’ve been killed!”

“If you weren’t so cheap, you’d pay for some protection around here, Gallagher. My girls and me won’t work another night until you get us some bodyguards!”

It seemed to Madge that Owen couldn’t peel off the bills fast enough before making tracks down the street.