Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(41)

“I have seen freckles on the Irish women’s faces and arms, but never so many.”

“Yes, I hear that a lot.” She suffered through Sook-Yin’s brash inspection as the girls worked, jotting down figures after each measure. “I’m not Irish.”

“I wondered why Winter had not visited me in so long, but now that I see you, I guess I understand.”

“Pardon me?”

“You are to be the new wife, yes?”

“New wife?”

“Second wife.”

Aida stared at her. “You were married to Winter?”

Sook-Yin’s eyes widened, then she laughed. Loudly. “Me? I am Ju’s woman. You do not know Ju’s business?”

“Sewing?” Aida guessed, unhopeful.

“The other business.”

Aida stared at her.

“I am a paid woman,” Sook-Yin said. “All of Ju’s women are paid.”

“Prostitutes?” Aida squeaked.

Sook-Yin held her chin high. “I am one of Ju’s honored women. These girls”—she gestured to the girls taking her measurements—“are whores. They are lower than me. They have no choices. Ju tells them to work in the factory, they work. Ju tells them to work in the bed, they work. But I have choices—I can say no, and I earn more money. Do you understand?”

“You’re a concubine.”

“Yes, you could call me that. I only choose the best men. Winter was one of my favorites.”

Aida studied Sook-Yin, seeing her in a different light. She was pretty, her figure slim. It was hard to tell her age, but she was fairly certain the woman was many years older than her. Maybe older than Winter. Aida’s stomach knotted painfully. She worried she might be sick. “Were you in love with him?”

Sook-Yin laughed. “No, but he was very kind. I always liked to make him smile. I could see he was ugly after accident, and Ju warned me that he was angry and sad, but he smiled for me. I made him forget about his wife.”

“Which wife?” Aida said carefully.

“First wife. She died. You know.” Sook-Yin used her finger to make a slash over her eye. “Accident.”

Aida tried to swallow and failed. Her mouth was dry as dust. “His parents . . .”

“Yes,” Sook-Yin said. “Mother, father, first wife. All together in automobile with Winter. All dead but him. Very sad. Last year, Winter began coming to see me. I made him forget about dead wife.”

Understanding hit Aida like a punch to the stomach. The “other” house that Bo had moved into with Winter—the house that Mrs. Beecham had brought up at the séance. The one Winter had clammed up about. It belonged to him and his dead wife.

She felt sick and confused.

“Did they have children?” Aida dared to ask.

“No children. First time I saw wife was three years ago, before accident. She was very sad. Sick and frail. Unhappy. Too serious. Not a good match for a big man like Winter. But I watched you at the dining table.” She nodded toward the front of the house. “You are much better match.”

“We aren’t a match,” Aida said weakly. “It is only a business arrangement.”

“Like me?”

“No,” Aida said angrily. “Not like you at all.”

Sook-Yin didn’t ask any more questions, and Aida was ashamed to have snapped at her. Didn’t she herself hate when people turned their nose up at her profession? What made her think that she was any better than someone like Sook-Yin?

When they finished, Sook-Yin led her back into the courtyard, where the boys were joking and talking boisterously. She glanced at Winter and felt a tumble of conflicting emotions. Anger. Pity. Hurt. Disappointment. When he lifted his face to smile at her, she turned away.

“Which silk?” Sook-Yin asked, poking her shoulder. She pointed to the bolts of fabric.

Aida couldn’t have possibly cared less. She didn’t want the gown. She just wanted to get out of that house and go back to her room at Golden Lotus, as far away from here as she could get.

“Red is pretty but would not look good with your freckles.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aida answered. Why didn’t he tell me any of this? Why? A fresh wave of anger and hurt renewed itself inside her constricted chest.

“What about yellow, like mine?” Sook-Yin gestured to her own gown.

“No,” Winter said unexpectedly behind Aida’s head, making her jump. “Use that.” He pointed to an oyster color, softer than gold, darker than cream, with a hint of gray.

“The very best silk from China,” Ju said, joining the discussion. “Magnusson has excellent taste. A peacock feather design embroidered on silk means royalty and beauty. A very good choice for you.”

Aida stared at the fabric until her sight blurred. Standing in a room with Winter’s whore, she thought. How utterly delightful. She had to get out of there, or she’d cause a scene and embarrass herself.

She glared at Winter, defiant and bitter. “I’ll take the yellow.”

FOURTEEN

AS SOON AS AIDA SLID INTO THE BACKSEAT OF WINTER’S CAR, HE rolled up the privacy window and lowered the shade.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, gee, nothing at all. What would be wrong?”