Love and Other Consolation Prizes(22)
As the taxi veered around a carriage, and Ernest thought about Mrs. Irvine possibly being on the wrong side of the law, he was compelled to reevaluate everything he’d ever been told, to reconsider everything he’d known.
For instance, he’d never been in a motorcar. He’d heard that they were ugly, noisy, graceless, foul-smelling contraptions. But as they passed a brigade of crossing sweepers, cleaning up road apples and swatting flies, Ernest thought otherwise. He settled into the polished leather seats, which smelled better than a saddled horse.
He had never once been near the mysterious part of Seattle that lay south of Yesler Way, a street better known as the Deadline. His teachers had talked for years about sewer rats that plagued the area, and rattlesnakes, and about the wolves that prowled the White Chapel District, waiting to sink their teeth into the good people of Seattle, which a local song had dubbed the Peerless City. Ernest had imagined lanky, sinuous creatures with sharp claws and tangles of mangy fur, but as he looked out at the avenue, all he saw were signs for dance halls and saloons. He even heard a fiddle playing a happy tune in the distance as the gaslights on the street corners flickered to life, turning the damp sidewalks a ruddy orange hue. Everything, from the brick buildings to the sidewalks to the lampposts and park benches, looked polished and new, even the brewers’ trucks that seemed to be on every corner.
Ernest looked up at Madam Florence. The woman hadn’t bothered to remove her hat, and the feathery plume swept back and forth against the canvas top of the motorcar as she turned her head. He tried to evaluate what kind of creature she must have been in Mrs. Irvine’s eyes.
She seemed to notice him staring. “First time below the line, I take it?”
Ernest nodded.
The woman smiled and pointed out the window. “It’s not hard to understand when you think about it. North of the line was settled by Arthur Denny—who didn’t drink. South of the line was all land owned by Doc Maynard, who, shall we say, ‘enjoyed his libations.’ So, young man, to the north you get City Hall, the courts, and the police station, and to the south we have booze, casinos, and all kinds of canoodling. That’s Seattle for you, the land of the haves and the why nots?”
Ernest thought her explanation made more sense than the schoolteacher’s fables.
“I’m Florence Nettleton, by the way. But you may call me Madam Flora.” She handed him the winning ticket. “I saved this one for you, a little souvenir of this auspicious day. After all, we’re both winners, aren’t we?” Then she pointed at the others with her cigarette holder. “This is Jewel in the front seat. She’s one of my newer girls. And that’s my baby sister, Margaret—my little hummingbird, but we all call her Maisie May. Say hello, sweetheart.”
“Just Maisie,” the girl answered without bothering to turn away from the nearest window. She removed her hat and wedged it between them.
Ernest hesitated for a moment. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. So much he wanted to know about his new family and about the White Chapel District—like how the neighborhood had gotten its name. As he looked around, he noticed a barber, a haberdasher, and a few tailors—he even saw casinos—but didn’t see a single church.
“You’ll be living here with me, at Washington Court.” Madam Flora pointed to a four-story brick building on the corner as the car’s brakes squealed and the tires ground to a halt. “Your old friend, Mrs. Irvine, once called this part of Seattle a bottomless cauldron of sin and hellfire. The Duwamish Indians, on the other hand, called this area the Crossing-Over Place; that’s how I like to think of this neighborhood. What do you think?”
Ernest stared up at the new building and shrugged. “Looks nice enough to me.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Madam Flora continued. “You’ll be the only boy here, so you’ll have your own room—lucky you—but you’ll be expected to work hard and earn your keep. Ask for Miss Amber, she’s my housekeeper, my managing partner. She’s in charge of all the help and a bit of a handful, but her heart is in the right place, even if her temper gets in the way once in a while. She’ll see that you’re properly taken care of. Run along now, darlings, and I’ll catch up with you in the morning. Jewel and I have an appointment with a tailor, so she can get fitted for a very special dress.”
Ernest put the ticket in his pocket and followed Maisie onto the sidewalk. He looked up at the tall building and out at the bustling avenue. The paved street was covered in gravel and streaked with mud from shiny motorcars, polished horse-drawn carriages, electric trolleys, bicyclists, the footfalls of scores of pedestrians—and all of them seemed content to share the road, dodging in and out, weaving around each other. Ernest couldn’t understand how so many people moved so quickly in so many different directions without accidentally killing one another. Maybe this was what Mrs. Irvine had been so concerned about.
“Welcome to the Tenderloin,” Maisie said. “Follow me.”
The building’s entrance was magnificent, with a glittering voltaic chandelier, the foyer accented with finely polished millwork. Maisie took him on a tour of the rooms on the ground floor, including the cloakroom, the library, something she called the teaching salon, and the smoking den. But it was the splendor of the grand parlor that took Ernest’s breath away. Never in his life had he seen a home so opulent. Everywhere he looked there were tapestries, lace-covered walls, plush French furniture in crimson and gold, marble cherubs with bows and arrows, angels, stoic busts of bearded historical figures, and risqué statues—bronze gods and plump goddesses he didn’t recognize. There were candles, oil lamps, mirrors, and sparkling decanters of wine and spirits. The floors were even and smooth, and the plaster walls and wood trim were freshly painted, unmarred by soot from kerosene lamps. When Ernest did finally catch his breath, he smelled rich perfume and scented tobacco, fresh-cut flowers, candles, and savory spices—sage and thyme—roasting in some unseen kitchen.