Love and Other Consolation Prizes(26)
“How was I to know?” Rose protested, wide-eyed. “He said his wedding band was from his late wife and it just wouldn’t come off.”
Mrs. Blackwell rolled her eyes. “The girls upstairs too, all of them have stories. But look at us now, the party girls and the serving girls, one big happy family.”
The pretty maids stood all in a row, like in the nursery rhyme. They laughed, teased one another, and spoke about what a nice place the Tenderloin was, that it was a lovely residence to work in, and there were so many interesting dinner parties—so many important visitors.
Ernest nodded and greeted them, though he quietly wondered about the other floweret, Maisie—Madam Flora’s Mayflower. And what about the girl who had whispered to him last night?
Mrs. Blackwell spoke up. “You should know, since no men live here—present company excluded—we’ve never had a need for footmen or even a houseman. And the Professor, bless his heart, is the closest we’ll ever have to a butler, but he comes and goes each evening. If we had a stable, I suppose you’d be a stable hand, but we don’t, so for now you’ll shine shoes, polish boots, run errands, empty cuspidors, and attend to the furnace and the fireplaces—is that clear?”
Ernest agreed and then spoke up. “Miss Amber said something about the carriage trade? Am I to polish the buggy or tend to the leathers?”
The maids tittered in unison.
Mrs. Blackwell smiled sweetly, showing off a dead tooth. She put her hand on his shoulder. “We don’t have any carriages, dear boy.”
Ernest looked confused.
“She calls this line of work the carriage trade because the horse-drawn carriages, the screaming steam locomotives, the electric trains, even the jangly motorcars now, come and go, bringing discerning gentlemen who all have business here. They come, they have a glass of cognac or some Baltimore rye or a Cuban cigar, they relax, they’re entertained, they attend to their business—and poof, they’re gone by morning. You do know what kind of house this is, don’t you?”
Ernest nodded again, though he had no clue. He’d rarely left the confines of the boarding school. Then he heard music. Not the tinkling of piano keys in the grand parlor but the distant booming of bass drums that sounded like thunder. He heard crashing cymbals and brass horns screeching out a baleful tune.
“Glory, not again,” Violet groaned. “They’re starting earlier and earlier.”
Mrs. Blackwell guzzled the last of her coffee, wiped her mouth, and hung up her apron. She stretched her back and then clapped her hands. “Well, time to get saved, young man,” she said as she raised her eyebrows. “Come along.”
Ernest followed everyone out the back door to the alley and onto the sidewalk, where he saw a banner with the Salvation Army insignia of Blood and Fire, and a brass band leading a march of smartly dressed women down the middle of Second Avenue. He squeezed to the front to get a better view of the crowd, which ranged three whole blocks, perhaps longer—a field of cotton, a crowd of white-haired matrons and grandmotherly women—perhaps one thousand strong. They carried painted signs that read END THIS VICE, FREEZE THE TOWN, and PUT AN END TO WAPPYVILLE!
Leading the parade was a tall man, a minister by the collar he wore. And at his side was Mrs. Irvine in a black robe and a long, wide suffragist suit. She noticed Ernest and called out to him, urging him to leave, but he stood frozen in place as she joined a group of singers who belted out “Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Wretched.”
As Ernest watched in awe, some marchers seemed divided, half of them praying and blessing the onlookers in the neighborhood, while the other half cursed and spat at the women on the sidewalk. Ernest looked up and down the street as shuttered windows opened and scores of women in negligees laughed and wheedled, or yelled back, heckling the protesters. Ernest’s jaw dropped as dozens of bawdy women slipped their knickers off and tossed them out their windows. Sateen bloomers and pantalets of every color cascaded down, occasionally wafting on the breeze, changing direction before delicately landing on the shoulder of a marching matron who’d recoil and cry out as though struck by burning oil or a poisoned arrow. One rotund, balloon-chested woman in particular strutted out onto her third-story balcony and unfastened her ladies’ waist—
“Don’t look, young Ernest.”
Ernest recognized her accent as he felt a pair of hands reach from behind to cover his eyes. Her warm fingers were nice against his cold cheeks.
“You’re the girl from downstairs, aren’t you?” he asked, as he heard the marchers scream in horror, which only prompted more laughter and jeers from above.
“Sorry I missed you at breakfast,” she whispered in his ear. “Mrs. Blackwell sometimes needs me to eat in the kitchen so I can keep an eye on what we’re making for lunch—to see that nothing burns or bubbles over.”
Ernest sensed the crowd boiling. “Who are all these people?”
“You’re living in the Garment District, young Ernest, but trust me, the only thing that ever gets sewn down here are oats of the most succulent and wild variety.” The girl laughed. “These crusades are organized by the Reverend Mark Matthews, along with the Mothers of Virtue, and the Rescue and Protection Society, plus a few die-hards from the Volunteers of America. They come marching down here to save our souls, plug slot machines, prevent drinking on Sundays, try and enforce all the blue laws, that kind of thing. Occasionally they drag someone off to be baptized in Lake Washington. But mostly, they just harass single ladies on the street, even the legit ones, for God’s sake, and they try and shame the police, which is nonsense if you ask me. Everyone knows that sin taxes fund half of City Hall.”