A Dangerous Fortune(107)

“He made me rub it once.”

“And what was it like? Rigid, like a candle, or limp, like an earthworm? Or in between, like a sausage before it’s cooked?”

“Limp.”

“And when you rubbed it, did it stiffen?”

“No. It made him very angry and he slapped me and said I was no good. Is it my fault, Mrs. Greenbourne?”

“No, it’s not your fault, though men generally blame women. It’s a common problem and it’s called impotence.”

“What causes it?”

“Lots of different things.”

“Does it mean I can’t have a baby?”

“Not until you can make his doodle stiff.”

Emily looked as if she might cry. “I do so want a baby. I’m so lonely and unhappy but if I had a baby I could put up with everything else.”

Maisie wondered what Edward’s problem was. He certainly had not been impotent in the old days. Was there anything she could do to help Emily? She could probably find out whether Edward was impotent all the time or just with his wife. April Tilsley would know. Edward had still been a regular customer at Nellie’s brothel last time Maisie spoke to April—although that had been years ago: it was difficult for a society lady to remain close friends with London’s leading madam. “I know someone close to Edward,” she said cautiously. “She might be able to shed some light on the problem.”

Emily swallowed. “Do you mean that he has a mistress? Please tell me—I must face the facts.”

She was a determined girl, Maisie thought. She may be ignorant and naive but she’s going to get what she wants. “This woman isn’t his mistress. But if he has one she might know.”

Emily nodded. “I’d like to meet your friend.”

“I don’t know that you personally should—”

“I want to. He’s my husband, and if there’s something bad to be told I want to hear it.” Her face took on that set, stubborn look again, and she said: “I’ll do anything, you must believe me—anything. My whole life is going to be a wasteland unless I save myself.”

Maisie decided to test her resolve. “My friend’s name is April. She owns a brothel near Leicester Square. It’s two minutes from here. Are you prepared to go there with me now?”

“What’s a brothel?” said Emily.

The hansom pulled up outside Nellie’s. Maisie peeked out, scanning the street. She did not want to be seen going into a brothel by anyone she knew. However, this was the hour when most people of her class were dressing for dinner, and there were only a few poor people on the street. She and Emily got out of the cab. She had paid the driver in advance. The door to the brothel was not locked. They went inside.

Daylight was not kind to Nellie’s. At night it might have a certain seedy glamor, Maisie thought, but at the moment it looked threadbare and grubby. The velvet upholstery was faded, the tables were scarred by cigar burns and glass rings, the silk wallpaper was peeling and the erotic paintings just looked vulgar. An old woman with a pipe in her mouth was sweeping the floor. She did not appear surprised to see two society ladies in expensive dresses. When Maisie asked for April, the old woman jerked a thumb at the staircase.

They found April in an upstairs kitchen, drinking tea at the table with several other women, all in dressing gowns or housecoats: obviously it was some hours before business would begin. At first April did not recognize Maisie and they stared at each other for a long moment. Maisie found her old friend little changed: still thin, hard-faced and sharp-eyed; a little weary-looking, perhaps, from too many late nights and too much cheap champagne; but with the confident, assertive air of a successful business woman. “What can we do for you?” she said.

“Don’t you know me, April?” said Maisie; and at once April shrieked with delight and jumped up and threw her arms around her.

When they had embraced and kissed, April turned to the other women in the kitchen and said: “Girls, this is the woman who did what we all dream of. Formerly Miriam Rabinowicz, later Maisie Robinson, she is now Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne!”

The women all cheered as if Maisie were some kind of hero. She felt bashful: she had not anticipated that April would give such a frank account of her story—especially in front of Emily Pilaster—but it was too late now.

“Let’s have a gin to celebrate,” April said. They sat down and one of the women produced a bottle and some glasses and poured them drinks. Maisie had never enjoyed gin, and now that she was accustomed to the best champagne she liked it even less, but she knocked it back to be companionable. She saw Emily sip hers and grimace. Their glasses were immediately recharged.

“Well, what brings you here?” April said.

“A marital problem,” Maisie said. “My friend here has an impotent husband.”

“Bring him here, my love,” April said to Emily. “We’ll sort him out.”

“He’s already a customer, I suspect,” Maisie said.

“What’s his name?”

“Edward Pilaster.”

April was startled. “My God.” She stared hard at Emily. “So you’re Emily. You poor cow.”

“You know my name,” Emily said. She looked mortified. “That means he speaks to you about me.” She drank some more gin.