Bitter Eden (7 page)

Curious, Callie glanced from one tense face to another. Some of them looked to be girls from nice families. Others might have been found wandering London streets any night. But all of them had a worldly quality that didn't seem to fit Mrs. Peach's noble philosophies about her innocents. Callie reasoned that it took time to change Mrs. Peach's waifs from worldly creatures not accustomed to a loving home into the paragons the woman had described. And Callie admitted there was something alluring about the way Mrs. Peach's girls looked.

"Perhaps one of you will teach me to do my hair as you do," Callie asked.

"Perhaps we shall. Someone had better teach you a thing or two." The girl shrugged her elegant bare shoulder. The other girls tittered nervously, glancing toward Mrs. Peach. The ebony cane came down sharply. Each girl looked straight ahead; postures became perfect. Dinner continued in relative silence,

broken onlv bv an occasional polite comment on fashion or the news of the day.

Callie relaxed again as the tense moment passed. The small French mantel clock ended the dinner hour.

"Boney's buttons are popping," Mrs. Peach said, eyeing the clock. "We are running late tonight. No time for the parlor at all." She came to stand by Cal-lie's chair. "Time for you to go to bed, Callie."

"But Mrs. Peach, I've just finished supper and it's only eight o'clock. I never go to bed this early." She looked at the other girls, chagrined to see the knowing smiles appear on their faces. "I'm not a baby, Mrs. Peach," she whispered.

"To me you are, my dear. You must remember I am really quite ancient. Why, I imagine I could look upon Bubble and Squeaky themselves and think them babies," she said with an irreverent reference to the unfortunate Charles Wynn and his brother, who loved to speak in Parliament despite high-pitched, peculiar voices.

Callie giggled along with the others, but had lost her battle.

"Come along, dearie," Mrs. Peach said. "To bed with you. You must suffer what ministrations I deem best for you. One thing I can definitely say is that all my girls are obedient."

There was a murmured assent from the others.

Callie meekly followed Mrs. Peach to her room.

During those few minutes Mrs. Peach made up to her, agreeing with the unfairness of the early bedtime. "But you are so pale and thin, my dear! Isn't it better to retire early one or two nights than to find yourself ill for several? Of course it is! Once you've fattened up a bit and are looking healthy again, we'll reconsider this early time." She stood to the side of the room, folding Callie's clothes as they were removed.

Her attention was entirely on Callie. It was all there, just as she had thought: the good bone structure, the well-formed limbs. Callie would be slow in coming to full maturity, but Mrs. Peach was certain this young girl would be a ravishingly beautiful woman. Now she was like a young colt, all legs and energy, but a thoroughbred colt, and that was what Mrs. Peach was best at spotting.

She went to Callie and tied the small blue ribbon of her nightgown into a bow. Automatically she patted Callie's arm, and led her to the bed. "Sleep well, Callie. Everything will seem better in the morning. You have years before you and much to learn. Take my care for now, and trust that I have your future in mind." Mrs. Peach tucked her in tenderly and turned down the lamp at the side of her bed, then left the room. Callie was blissfully satisfied, all over her annoyance at being sent to bed early—until she heard the doorlock turn.

Chapter 4

Mrs. Pettibone was tired and out of sorts from a long-winded visit with her sister. She found Callie's note under the door of her flat. As soon as she read it she was certain something was wrong. But she was tired. The sheer weight of her tedious day was enough to make her see something wrong in everything. She sat down in her parlor and tried to forget all about it.

The newspaper was filled with the details of a white slavery ring. She shuddered with the horror of it, clucking a disapproving tongue at the times and conditions that led people to such things. And all the time Callie's note stayed ominously in the back of her mind.

She promised herself she would look into the matter in the morning, By then Callie would return for the rest of her things. Questions could be answered then. After all there was nothing she could do tonight. She was nearly convinced of the truth of her argument when Mr. Jenks tottered into her parlor seeking his afternoon tea.

"Well, you've missed it today, Mr. Jenks," she said,

making up her mind that she had been put upon enough today. But the old man was as dismayed with his day as she, and he was lonely. Pathetically he tried to prolong a conversation he couldn't hear so he could stay in her company a few minutes longer. She sighed and gave in.

"Sit down, Mr. Jenks. It'll take but a minute. I could do with a cup myself," she shouted into his good ear.

Warmed by the companionship and the tea, Mr. Jenks remembered Callie. "She was quite overcome with her good fortune. Poor child, I do believe she thought she'd be homeless if it weren't for that lady she met," he said grandly, feeling eloquent and competent as long as the conversation was a monologue and he needn't strain to hear the responses.

In this instance he was safe. Mrs. Pettibone had nothing to say. Her earlier fears returned. She hadn't a shred of reason, but intuition told her Callie had fallen into a regrettable situation.

Again she gave into her better nature and rose tiredly from her chair. She would not rest until she knew Callie was safe and Mrs. Peach was all she was purported to be. That was the nub of the problem. What was Mrs. Peach supposed to be? Shaking her head vigorously, she hurried Mr. Jenks from her parlor, giving him a parcel of tea cakes to keep him happy and unnoticing of the haste with which she closed him back inside his own flat.

She returned to her apartment, taking time to do something she should have done long ago. She wrote a terse note to the only people Ian had listed as family among his private papers; James and Meg Berean. Ian was dead and Callie was alone. She said nothing about Mrs. Peach, or that she suspected Callie had innocently and voluntarily placed herself in the hands of a pack of white slavers. Then Mrs. Pettibone put on

her coat and stepped out into the cold foggy night, doubting her own good sense.

Muttering to herself, she hurried down one street after another, inquiring of her acquaintances if anyone knew Mrs. Peach.

There's no one of that name that I heard of," was the most common response. Not until she was ready to give up did one woman say she knew of a Mrs. Peach. Mrs. Pettibone received the information gratefully, along with the cup of hot tea offered to warm her. Once more on her way, she went directly to the address she was given.

The house was charming; through its well-lit windows Mrs. Pettibone could see guests inside. She was certain she had been given the wrong address, but she quelled her doubts and knocked at the door.

Mrs. Peach came to the door herself. She stood haughtily in the entry, looking down at Mrs. Pettibone on the stoop. 'This is the Peach residence. There is no one here by the name of Dawson. Perhaps you should check your address more carefully before vou come 'round bothering decent people next time." The door closed firmly in Mrs. Pettibone's embarrassed face.

Mrs. Pettibone hurried away, then stopped confused and nonplussed at the street corner. A memory sparked and kindled. "Why! The insolent old tart," she breathed. The woman who had claimed not to know Callie stood in her doorway arrogantly tapping a distinctive ebony cane—just like the cane that had so impressed Callie. It was enough to send the landlady straight to the police station.

Mrs. Peach was certain she had humiliated Mrs. Pettibone sufficiently to send her home red-faced, but she was never one to take chances. She marched to the back rooms of her house, clearing them of the girls

and their men. She didn't believe in excessive greed, and what she might lose in one night's trade would be more than made up on other nights—provided she maintained her daytime image of a respectable old woman, and her nighttime image of a madam respectful of the privacy and pleasure of her clients. She closed the house promptly, paying no attention to the remarks of the disgruntled gentlemen being sent to their homes earlier and less satisfied than usual.

She then sent for the men who transported girls to other locations for her. That very night Callie would be taken to another city. It was not an unusual procedure. Most of the girls with Mrs. Peach had come from somewhere else; otherwise it was too easy for a girl to get help from home, or for parents to cause trouble. So white slavers cooperated and all benefited by sending girls across the country and sometimes out of it. Mrs. Peach daily expected a Malaysian girl, a long-awaited prize. Patiently she sat down to w r ait for the coach that would remove the problem of Callie Dawson.

Callie remained locked in the little room that had looked so welcoming when she had first arrived. In the beginning she was hurt that Mrs. Peach hadn't trusted her to stay in her room and had locked the door. As the hours passed and the sounds of girlish laughter mixed with that of men, Callie began to understand. She knew little of white slavery other than what she had read secretly in the newspapers. She collected her few scraps of knowledge, putting them together in a horrifying reality. She tried to open the door, using what she could find in the room as a substitute key. Nothing worked.

She tried something simpler. She knocked lightly on the door. It was opened to her. Shyly, she said she had

to tend to herself. A nodded assent, and Callie walked magnificently free toward the back staircase on the outside of the house. At the top of the staircase, Callie looked tentatively at the dark stairs, then back at the man standing guard near her room. She gathered up her long nightgown and ran, leaping downward into the darkness. The wooden steps were cold and clammy against her bare feet; the damp winter wind billowed inside the thin fabric of her nightgown.

"Where you think ye're goin', girlie?"

Callie stifled a frightened scream. At the bottom of the stairs stood a tall, burly man dressed as a footman. His big hand caressed her shoulder before he gripped her arm like a vise.

"Out back," Callie stammered.

"Mrs. P. makin' her girls go out back in the dead o' winter? Not likely, girlie. What I oughter do is let her think ya ran, an' keep ya fer myself. That's what I oughter do."

"Let me go. . . . Please, I'll only go 'round back. I ... I promise."

He laughed. In a quick move he ducked down and grabbed her behind her knees, his shoulder jolting into her stomach as he carried her back upstairs like a bundle of potatoes.

In the upper hall he punched the man Callie had fooled into letting her free. "Ya damned fool, she nearly bolted. Hadn't been fer me, Mrs. P'd have your arse. Go get her. She'll see to this baggage."

"Don't tell her. Please, I won't try . . ."

He threw her onto the bed and leaned over her, his broad, pockmarked face thrust into hers. "Here's where you belongs, girlie—on the mattresses. Fergit it, an' next time I'll not be worryin' how fast I gits you up here."

Callie turned her head from him. He grasped her

face, spittle glistening on his lips as he pressed his mouth against hers, forcing his tongue between her teeth. The man fumbled with the placket of his trousers. His exposed flesh burned hot against her thigh. Under his groping hands Callie squirmed, kicking and clawing at him.

A sharp crack sounded. The man bellowed in quick pain and rage, arching against Callie. He rolled over her across the bed, gaining his feet. His face was red and contorted, his hands clenched and ready to attack. His trousers sagged ludicrously around his hips.

Mrs. Peach stood steely-eyed and unintimidated, staring him into docility.

Callie jumped from the bed, seeking safety -anywhere. "Mrs. Peach! He tried . . ."

The cane whistled through the air and came down on the girl's shoulder. She screamed, her arms raised to protect her face and head. "Obedience, you little bitch! Defy Mrs. Peach! My girls are obedient!" She struck Callie's back and buttocks repeatedly with the ebony cane. Callie backed away, crying and stumbling, trying to put the chair between herself and her tormentor. The cane came down on her upper arm.

"Stop! Please! It hurts me!"

"Obedience! All my girls are obedient!"

"Don't! Please!" Callie screamed, tears choking her.

Twice more the cane whistled and struck, once on her back, once on her head. Then Mrs. Peach straightened her dress and hair and walked out of the room, taking the footman with her.

Callie huddled where she stood, stifling sobs, afraid to make a sound. She hurt And there was no escape. This was to be her new life.

She had no idea how long she had been lying on the bed crying when she heard the next disturbance. Callie tensed, pressing herself against the headboard.

Then the whole house fell silent. When she heard footsteps coming down the hall, she panicked, unable to think what to do. Her mind was filled with the vision of the cane coming furiously and painfully down on her again. She scuttled under the bed. Mrs. Peach entered, accompanied by the footman.

"Where is she?" he asked. "She couldn't have gotten out again."

With knowledge born of long experience, Mrs. Peach walked directly to the bed. She lifted the coverlet and probed with the black cane. No matter how Callie squirmed and backed away from it, the black stick found her, poking and prodding and hurting.

"Leave her where she is. We know where to find her." Once more the door closed and Callie heard the lock click into place.

An hour later the door to her room opened again. This time there was no conversation, and no nonsense. Two men she had never seen before accompanied the footman and Mrs. Peach. Without a preliminary word they lifted the entire bed from over her. One man reached down and jerked her to her feet.

"Get dressed," Mrs. Peach ordered.

Callie ran to the cupboard. She grabbed the first dress her hand touched and clutched it to her. Fearfully she looked from the three men to Mrs. Peach.