The Harlot’s Pen (11 page)

“I don’t know yet, Moses.”

“She’ll never work out. Too soft, hasn’t suffered enough for this work.”

“True. But her suffering may only be ahead of her.”

Moses shook his head. “Then she can come back when life’s softened her up a bit. Gentlemen aren’t going to be pleased with a missy that thinks she’s their equal.”

“Or their better,” Kate replied, and went back to the business of entertaining her guests.

* * * *

Violetta did not run back to her inn, but she walked at a no-nonsense clip, made somewhat more difficult by the chafing of the shoes she was wearing. She had rushed to Spanish Kitty’s Resort in those shoes earlier in the day and then worn them throughout the long evening. They were designed for dancing, not for a trek of over a mile. When she finally got to the inn, she was hobbling, her feet swollen and raw. The pain kept her mind off the pool game and the consequences of that victory. There would be time enough, when the reality of the prize sunk in, to contemplate her impetuous wager.

At the desk, she requested that the old clerk send a tray to her room.

“Kitchen’s closed, ma’am,” he said. “But the saloon next door is open.”

Violetta couldn’t face the thought of entering a saloon, where it would doubtless go silent as the men watched her walk to the bar, request her food, and wait for it to be prepared. She would then be approached by denizens who thought her there for business, or if not deliberately so, then after a drink. Of course the sale of liquor was prohibited now, but the law had not yet closed the saloons.

She shook her head. Then she reached into her little bag, and taking out a coin, leaned over the desk with her most appealing look. “I couldn’t possibly go in there,” she said, opening her dark eyes wide. “But if you could, I would be most grateful. Anything they are serving, I would be happy to take.”

The elderly man rose creakingly from his rocker and took her coin. “I will have someone run the tray up to you, ma’am.”

Thanking him, she limped up the steps and gratefully shucked her shoes off the minute she was inside.
I should have asked for some hot water to be sent up a well.
Baths could be had by arrangement, and she would request one first thing tomorrow morning. For now, she leaned back on the bed and waited for her food.

This is proof of the power of money. I want food at an hour when it’s no longer offered. I give the man a coin, and he brings me food. Tomorrow, a man gives me a coin, I give him something as elemental as food, but illegal.

The image of Kate Lombard leaning over the pool table, her eyes hardened in concentration, brought her renewed terror. She thought of each ball, her heart speeding up with the memory of each shot. At some level, she had hoped to lose.

The knock on the door stopped her reverie, and she took her tray from the boy standing at her door. She gave him a nickel, and he dashed down the stairs, contented. Watching him run away reminded her of the letter she had received this morning, the letter that had briefly delayed her start to Spanish Kitty’s. She took a large bite of the roll filled with cheese and ham, and washed it down with a gulp of sweet lemonade. Suddenly famished, she finished the roll in only a few more bites, and the lemonade as well. She was relieved to see that the tray also held a large slice of pie. Soon the tray was empty.

She reached across the desk for the letter, unfolded it, and read it again.

“May 15, 1920

“Dear Violetta, I hope this letter finds you well. I have thought of you frequently since my departure from California, and hope that you have remained fervent to the cause. I always found you willing to go forth and advocate for women, for our working conditions, and for our pay. I was dismayed when I heard from Henry Lyon that your poem, which if you recall, I was not in favor of your publishing, had been published at the same time as the unfortunate Mrs. Whitney’s verdict, and that it had resulted in some ugly letters to the editor. But of course, I am sure you expected that, and I hope that you took those letters as evidence of the value of the work we are doing. If we didn’t affect people strongly, it would tell me either that our work was done—which we know isn’t true—or that we were not reaching them at all.

“You may be interested to know that an event is being organized that would be perfect for you: Alice Paul, who, as you may recall, is a force of nature, has announced that there will be a journey across the country in an automobile driven by women who will speak at various cities in a show of support for the last few states to ratify the suffrage amendment. Women’s votes will be national! The rumor that Anita Whitney will lead the drive is nonsense. She cannot leave the state, and besides, she is tarnished with her conviction regardless of what happens on appeal. She would not be the best representative of a cause for which women have fought for over fifty years!

“No, Maud Younger shall lead the delegation. She and Frances Joliffe and two Swedish girls who are ardent suffragists shall drive across the United States. But it is my prediction that Mrs. Joliffe will drop out at the last moment, as is her wont. So please, if you would write to Maud Younger, and tell her of your writing credentials—your poem publication may stand you in good stead—and tell her you will go, that would be ideal.

“Here in Washington, we are certain of the ratification of the amendment and eagerly await the final votes. The drive will be in late August, so you have ample time to prepare.

“All the best to you and Sam, I remain,

“Yours truly, Valeska Bary”

The letter had been sent to her former address, and so it was several days in arriving at the inn. A drive across America. With Maud Younger. For women’s suffrage. It was an opportunity beyond belief. She felt her breath come quickly. Yes, yes she would go. Tomorrow morning first thing she would write to Miss Bary, and to Miss Younger as well, offering her help with the great suffrage ride. By then, she mused, she would have an enormous block-busting article published by Fremont Older and would have jumped from some-time stringer and small-time poet to a renowned, influential journalist.

But for now, she poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin, again thinking of the hot bath she would have tomorrow, and washed herself as well as she could. She was too tired to even review the events of the day, and tomorrow would be just as important. A twinge of nerves jangled her as she considered the next steps in becoming part of Spanish Kitty’s household. Then the twinge was replaced by a different feeling, one she hadn’t had in a year—and she closed her eyes, a small smile on her lips. Once again, demon sex was luring her to perdition of a deep and permanent sort. And yet, at the very thought her thighs quivered slightly and her breath quickened with unfocussed desire. Tomorrow would be a very interesting day.

* * * *

At noon, Kate went to the parlor for her breakfast. Just as Samantha put a hot cup of coffee before her along with a plate of sliced pound cake, Kate’s favorite breakfast, Lily and Sharon came in with their own steaming mugs. Rose, as usual, was still asleep, and would be until just before four. She was the resident night owl, and dawn for her meant as close to sunset as she could manage.

Sharon put her cup down and stretched out on the sofa. Lily, her blond hair loose down her sides and her fair skin flushed from a cold water wash, curled up in a big easy chair, her hands wrapped around her mug, looking for all the world like a Botticelli angel. Kate sighed. Her girls, her kittens.

“So, what’s the story with Miss Strone? Or Violet? Or whatever she calls herself?” Lily asked, looking up from her comfortable position.

“Story how?” Kate replied, knowing full well what Lily meant, but having not formulated an answer for herself, she was not yet willing to put one forth for her girls.

“Is she a new girl?”

Sharon laughed and sat up. “Not possible, Kitty. She’s a town miss, a lady. She’s no cunt.”

Kate bristled slightly, but didn’t chide Sharon for her coarseness. No matter what word she used, Sharon was right.

“I wasn’t too pleased with her horning in on my time with Mr. Hearst,” Lily said. “If she wants Posie’s old regulars, fine, but she can’t be poaching on mine.”

“She couldn’t if she tried,” Sharon said. “That girl don’t know the first thing about working. She thinks she’s Miss Strone, but if she’s going to work, she ain’t Miss No One. Pretty enough, though, for a tall girl.”

“You’re prettier,” Lily said to Sharon, and Sharon stuck her tongue out at Lily. Pulling her curly, light brown hair on top of her head, she struck a pose, her blue eyes sparkling. “Mmmm, definitely prettier than that black-haired giant.”

Then they both looked over at Kate and laughed. “The other black-haired giant,” Lily clarified, bringing giggles from Sharon. “But seriously, Kitty. What is she?”

Kate sat back in her chair, wiping a pound cake crumb from her lip. Troy had wandered in and took a piece of cake from her fingertips, then curled at her feet. “That’s a damn good question. She wants a month trial. She’s never worked, and she’s a writer. And she…” Kate paused. She didn’t mind keeping secrets from the girls. The business was her business, and they knew it. But dissention was another matter, and she certainly wouldn’t tell Sharon and Lily that Violetta was going to write about the conditions of the working girls or try to influence the powerful men who were their customers. “She needs the money,” she amended.

“Not with those clothes, she don’t,” Sharon said. “Her dress costs a month’s take in the Emporium catalog. And she almost fainted from the heat yesterday. I think she’s up to something. Maybe a spy for the lawyers that brought the case against Sadie McClain and The Chicken Coop up in Sonoma that time. I was working for Mrs. Lowery’s back then, and that meddling school teacher Louise Farmer brought a lawsuit against old Mr. Belmer, the owner of the house, as a public nuisance for renting to a whore house. Shut her down right quick, they did. I’ll bet she’s a spy for that lawyer. Or for the sheriff’s office, though he comes in so regular he won’t need a spy, now will he?”

Kate smiled benignly. Sharon was her favorite, bubbly and forthright, except when Lily, looking angelic, was her favorite. And sometimes, late at night, when she couldn’t sleep, Rose was her favorite, always ready to take a nightcap with her and to read aloud from whatever Rose was reading then. No one missed Posie, and she did need a new girl.

“She’s up to something, but I don’t think it’s something bad. Let’s give her a month’s trial, shall we? Though you’re right, Sharon. She’s never been a working girl, and we’re going to have to teach her.”

Lily smiled sweetly. “That will be nice. I’ve never taught a brand new girl to work a man before, but I remember when I was taught. I had such wonderful mamas, all kindly and teacher-y. I know some girls had pretty rough starts, but I had it easy and wouldn’t mind showing her the ropes. She ain’t a virgin, is she?”

Kate shook her head. “No, and miss-ish as she is, something tells me she’s no stranger to some of the rougher stuff. And I can always tell.”

“Well, if she likes the rougher stuff, I’ve got a couple of gents I wouldn’t mind passing on to her!” Sharon said.

“I didn’t say she liked it,” Kate corrected.

“Well, I don’t either, and I inherited them from Posie. So will she take Posie’s room?”

Kate raised her eyebrows. Uncharacteristically, she had not even thought about the fact that Violetta would take one of the rooms. But of course, she would have to. The girls used their own rooms for entertaining their clients, and no girl had ever ‘lived out.’

“I guess so. Unless either of you wants Posie’s, in which case, you would get first pick.” She grinned at them. No, neither one wanted Posie’s old room, way in the back of the house, where the trees swayed in the night and the eaves creaked eerily. Posie had sworn it was haunted and had left one morning, shivering despite the heat, after swearing that the ghost of an old sea captain had chased her all night, threatening her with his hook. Sharon and Lily had laughed at her, but no one wanted her room. Whores are a superstitious lot.

“And one more thing, girls. Violetta likes to talk politics. As long as it doesn’t hurt your business, you can pass all your old bores off to her. Let them bend her ear about their commissions and their trade bills, as long as you’re still making your coin where you want it.”

“Now that’s a change,” Sharon said. “A girl who won’t have to fight a yawn while the gent gasses on about some candidate. Still, I don’t think she’ll last a week, never mind a month, even if she gets the hang of lifting her skirts.”

“Well, let’s see how a month goes,” Kate said, pleased with the way the kittens were taking the news of this strange addition to their litter. And Violetta would have all the access to the political men she craved, as long as she remembered to pleasure them, too. Lily would be a good teacher, but Kate knew she’d have to take a strong hand, too. No matter how smart or charming a girl was, in this household, she was first and foremost a whore.

* * * *

Her letters written and posted, Violetta returned to her room and surveyed her wardrobe. Yesterday had been exhilarating in retrospect, conversing with the famous William Randolph Hearst, though the reality of her research was going to be harder than she had originally expected. Miss Lombard, or Spanish Kitty, rather, was not going to let her start interviewing a client, much less lecturing one. On the other hand, playing gin rummy with the boys was a pleasant way to spend an evening.

But the prospect of actually letting those men have their way with her, and perhaps having several in one night, was terrifying. She tried to imagine Mr. Hearst removing his trousers, and the chuckle it gave her was only half nervousness. But then she thought of Gold, of the unpronounceable first name, and the image was less funny, and far more exciting. But what if he was then followed by the other fellow, whose name she had already forgotten, and she would have to lie with each of them, or, she thought suddenly, both of them.