Part 3 (1/2)
”I have no intention of being swallowed up. I need only secure some introductions and I shall do fine.” All along it had been my hope to simply place myself in the path of high-society men in Chicago's finest establishments, but of late I had begun to fear that this would be neither easy nor straightforward. And now Mr. Montcrief was confronting me with just the sort of circuitous route I'd begun to consider, though with the utmost apprehension and ambivalence.
”Yes, that is the dream of many a young lady. Though you, I suspect, have more talents than most.”
”Can you advise me, Mr. Montcrief?”
He flattened his right hand over his chest, showing off a thick-banded gold ring with a square-cut diamond. ”That depends on your aspirations.”
”I intend to meet businessmen, society men. And I do not mean to take up residence in the Levee District.”
”In all honesty, Miss Davidson, the surest route to meeting such men is through Carrie Watson. And her business, I can a.s.sure you, is a far cry from the grog shops, strumpets, and hoodlums of the Levee District.”
”I do take offense now, sir, at what you are proposing.”
”Come, now. I mean not to offend, but to flatter. You are the sort of young lady that a respectable gentleman might exalt in plucking from Carrie Watson's-shall we say?-influence.”
”And how am I to know you speak honestly? Perhaps you stand to benefit by luring me to this place.”
”You are clever, Miss Davidson. So clever I'll not toy with you. Being the house's piano professor, I, too, have a reputation to uphold. Each young lady I have introduced to Miss Watson has been to her liking, as I believe you would be. It would be reward enough for me to a.s.sist you.”
Reward enough? I imagined some more venal reward figured in as well. ”How do you know I would meet with her approval? Especially in these old clothes?”
”Because I can see beyond your rumpled dress. You are not just clever, but shockingly beautiful. You, my dear, are what we Chicagoans call a stunner: those eyes as soft and tawny as a fawn's; that sublime hourgla.s.s figure; and your lovely, slender hands. All you need to put the polish on your beauty is some of Miss Watson's primping and pampering.”
He glanced at my crossed hands. I withdrew them, unsure of whether to be offended or flattered, and studied his expression.
He brushed his fingertips together and shot me an impish grin. ”Because you possess poise and worldliness beyond your years. Because you could enchant any man.” He c.o.c.ked his head, as attentive as a suitor. ”And because I believe we understand each other.”
I won't lie-I had considered what it might be like to live the life of a courtesan. But not seriously. Not until now: not until I'd been forced to go without dinner for days at a time; not until I had been threatened with removal from my meager room; not until Robby wrote panicked letters declaring he wanted to fetch me. Still, I did not wish to become ensnared at such a place for any extended period; I had plans for a different kind of life. I braced my spine against the chair. ”This is not what I imagined when I set out to make my way in Chicago. I would rather secure some well-paying job.”
”The best you'd find is work in a factory at four dollars a week. Or maybe as a clerk at eight or nine-barely enough to subsist on in this city. Miss Watson pays her girls well. She includes generous meals, clean quarters, and a handsome dress-budget.”
”And if some gentleman did not rescue me from this place, I'd become a prisoner there.”
”Miss Watson does not keep any girl who wishes to leave. She is on the best of terms with the chief of police, for he knows she is respectable and honorable in her dealings.” He raised his coffee cup to his lips and gazed at me over the rim. ”But you really should have more confidence in yourself.”
”You portray it as the most pleasant way to pa.s.s the time and earn a living, which I doubt very much it is.” Still, part of me wanted to imagine Carrie Watson's as a luxurious abode frequented by Chicago's wealthiest men, wanted to believe I could be schooled there in the art of allurement, wanted to think Miss Watson would outfit me in stylish gowns.
”Miss Watson admits only the most refined clientele and does not overtax her girls. You could do much, much worse than work at a house that gushes each night with laughter and gaiety. It's all in one's att.i.tude, my dear.”
”And what, exactly, is the proper att.i.tude?”
”Possessing the secret knowledge that a beautiful young woman is like an exotic fruit-many a respectable man will want to pluck her from the tree.”
My mouth had turned cotton-dry. I sipped some water. Was he right? I had bargained on using my charms and wiles to meet Chicago's society men, but the closest I'd come to any man of influence was Mr. Montcrief himself, who had obviously found his own profitable niche at Miss Watson's.
He reached inside his vest, pulled out a black leather billfold, leafed through a dozen-plus bills, and extracted a ten-dollar note, which he slipped onto the tray with our dinner bill. Tucking his billfold away, he said, ”And I should hate to worry about you accepting dinners from strange gentlemen.”
I could guess his game: showing off his money; pretending it was nothing to him if I declined his offer; and firing off some vaguely frightening insinuation that forced me to act now or forever regret my reticence. Chances were good he stood to gain by introducing me to Miss Watson.
I thoughtfully touched a finger to my lips, studied the table, and turned doleful eyes on him. ”If you would be kind enough to buy me a new dress and new shoes, Mr. Montcrief, I believe I would make a more favorable impression on Miss Watson.”
SURPRISING ENCOUNTERS.
CHICAGO-AUGUST-OCTOBER 1887.
Three days later, I donned the dress and shoes Mr. Montcrief had purchased for me-a fine enough outfit for meeting Miss Watson, but, alas, unlikely by itself to secure me entry into Chicago's high society. Promptly at one o'clock on a muggy August day, I walked up to a s.h.i.+pshape three-story brick at 441 South Clark Street. I strolled past the building, sized it up, and circled back. White shutters dressed up its windows, with those on the sunny side closed against the day's blazing sun. Gauzy curtains hung inside the visible windows, flowing diagonally to clasps at the corners, as if pairs of ballerinas stood there, posed and inviting. A bra.s.s plate with ”Miss Carrie Watson” engraved in curled script graced the door, and above it a solid bra.s.s knocker stood ready. I gripped its smooth surface and brought it down once on the metal plate.
A Negro maid with a dusting rag in hand answered the door and ushered me through the entranceway, past a covered birdcage, and down a hallway paneled with deep-stained wood. I peeked into the rooms off the hallway and spied parlors with flocked floral wallpaper, French plate mirrors, and Oriental rugs. The day's heat had not yet overtaken the home's dim interior, and the odors of baking bread and stale cigarette smoke mingled in the hallway. We pa.s.sed by a curved stairwell with a carved wood rail and came up to the doorway of a small room-small compared with the parlors I had glimpsed, but ample enough s.p.a.ce for a dainty desk with curvaceous legs, three upholstered chairs, and a bookcase lined with glossy leather-bound volumes.
”Miss Watson will be down directly,” said the maid, leading me into the room. She departed, brus.h.i.+ng her rag over the top of the wainscoting and leaving the door open behind her. The room, being situated more or less in the center of the house, had no windows, but lamps with incandescent bulbs lit up the desk and room corners. Varnished paneling ran around the bottom half of the room, and celery-green wallpaper decorated with ivory fleurs-de-lis covered the walls.
Footsteps tapped down the stairs, beating out deliberate, even steps. I arranged myself into an erect posture and faced the door.
Carrie Watson appeared in the doorway-there was no doubt in my mind it was she-a stately woman of about five eight attired in a white gown with pink lace adorning the arms and bodice front. She wore her chocolate-brown hair swept up and trussed in diamond-studded clips. As her eyes met mine she smiled-a ready, automatic smile that lit up her broad, flat brow, high cheeks, and firm, narrow lips. She was younger than I imagined, probably a bit under forty, and as dignified in her carriage as any high-society dame.
”Ah, Miss Davidson. You are even more beautiful than Mr. Montcrief conveyed. And what a comely dress.” She held out her hand.
”Pleased to meet you, Miss Watson.” I shook her hand, and just as I noticed the firmness of her grip, its hold evaporated.
”Come, let me show you around. There'll be time to talk later.” She led the way down the hallway. ”I'm the home's second owner. Fortunately, it was spared in the Great Fire. Here, this is our main parlor.”
Miss Watson and the previous owner had obviously spared no expense on design and decor. There were five parlors on the main level, the largest roomy enough to accommodate a piano and a small audience. Oriental rugs of burgundy and rich blues covered the parquet floors, paintings of pastoral scenes and women in flowing gowns decorated the walls, and upholstered chairs and sofas, some with curved wood ribbing, furnished the rooms. A plent.i.tude of bra.s.s and gla.s.s-dome lamps graced the tables of the parlors and dining room.
The oversized kitchen, at the rear of the main floor, contained two bloated cast-iron stoves, an army of pots and pans hanging from ceiling hooks, and three rows of tables with benches. ”This is where the girls take their noon meal,” Miss Watson explained.
We descended to the bas.e.m.e.nt, which held a bowling alley and billiards room. In the billiards room we pa.s.sed the Negro maid bent over one of the room's bra.s.s spittoons. She emptied slimy brown globs into a waste bucket and rinsed the spittoon with clean water, all the time ignoring our presence. The scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. ”These rooms,” I said, ”obviously enjoy plenty of company.”
”Ah, yes,” said Miss Watson with a sweep of her hand, ”we offer our guests every opportunity for leisure and recreation.”
We ascended the front stairs to the higher levels. No fewer than twenty-two bedrooms, eight water closets, three rooms with four slope-backed bathing tubs each, and Miss Watson's own suite of luxurious rooms occupied the second and third floors. As we wove our way through these living quarters, two girls bounded down the hall toward us, both wearing light, summery dresses and carrying hats that matched the wheat and sky-blue colors of their dresses. Very nice outfits indeed, I mused, imagining what colors I might choose for a few new day dresses.
Miss Watson introduced us.
Rose, a tall, shapely girl, clutched my hand as if we were long-lost friends. ”Coming to live with us, Miss Davidson?”
”I may,” I replied, glancing at Miss Watson to show proper deference.
”That'd be nice,” said Sadie, who had the reddest head of hair I'd ever seen. ”It's always fun having a new girl.”
”Well, we've got shopping to do,” Rose said. ”Pleased to meet you.”
The twosome trailed off, arm in arm, chattering like sisters on a holiday.
Miss Watson ushered me into the parlor of her suite of rooms. ”Please, make yourself comfortable. Nancy will bring the tea directly.”