Her Defiant Heart (24 page)

"Good for you. I'll be sure to tell Susan you did your very best to warn me away from Miss Holland," Christian said. "I'll also tell her that your concerns are groundless. As long as Jenny Holland stays out my way she can hide here. In fact, I think that Mrs. B. would..." Christian stopped when he realized that Scott had ceased to listen to him. He followed the path of his friend's gaze and found himself turning to look out the window. The object of their discussion was standing at the end of the walk conversing with Liam O'Shea. When Jenny's hood fell back and revealed the elegant line of her profile and the sable richness of her hair, Christian wanted to flatten the copper for being
aware
of those things, too.

"Should she be outside?" he asked Scott.

"I don't see why not. The exercise will do her good."

Christian caught the shrewd glance that Scott darted in his direction. "Give it a rest, Scott," he said before he turned back to Jenny. She was laughing at something O'Shea said and looked to be hanging on the Irishman's every word. Christian tried to recall if he had ever heard her laugh. He cleared his throat. "She is going to freeze out there. O'Shea should have enough sense to send her inside."

"Jenny doesn't seem to mind. She appears to be enjoying herself. So does... what did you say his name is?"

"O'Shea," Christian said. "Liam O'Shea."

"Well, Liam O'Shea looks as if he's enjoying himself as well. Jenny could do a lot worse."

Christian made no reply. Jenny had just bid Liam good day and was walking toward the house. The wind, or perhaps something Liam O'Shea had said had put pink in her cheeks and a smile lingered on her lips. Christian had no difficulty remembering what it was like to kiss that splendid mouth. He recalled the soft, wet, deep kiss with startling clarity and felt the familiar tug of wanting her. Stepping away from the window, Christian poured a cup of tea and wished to God it was whiskey. He took a sip, swallowed, and offered the casual observation that he had not been to Amalie Chatham's parlor house in months. "I think I will arrange to spend New Year's Eve there with Maggie Bryant. You will probably not want to tell Susan that."

Chapter 7

Amalie Chatham was the owner and hostess of one of the most select parlor houses in New York City. Amalie preferred the designation of hostess to madam and parlor house to brothel. She was proud of being the owner. In deference to the power she wielded, the gentlemen who visited her establishment were more than willing to help her maintain the illusion of social respectability. The illusion pleased Amalie and her guests, and the relationship had been mutually satisfying for years.

Although Amalie's establishment was not as large or as grand in its interior design as her equally famous competitor, The Seven Sisters, Amalie made a reputation for herself by selecting her clientele as carefully as she did her girls. Choosing the men who would patronize her salons, and eventually her beds, was originally done out of necessity. Amalie did not have to fill the bedchambers in seven adjoining brownstones as The Sisters did, and she as a rule she kept only fourteen or fifteen girls. Exclusivity attracted very particular gentlemen.

Amalie's girls were in some ways a reflection of Amalie herself. Although a number of years past her prime, she was still a handsome woman. Her fine features and equally fine manners made one think she could comfortably take her place at the Astor family dining table. She cultivated gentlemen friends who held positions of responsibility and influence in government, business, and finance. She wore emeralds, ermine, and elegant gowns, and thought nothing of attending the theater and opera or driving in Central Park in her elaborately tooled carriage. Amalie liked to be seen in places where other women in her line of work would be escorted back to the street or never admitted. The police did not bother her because she knew whose pockets to line. No one doubted that the transactions were conducted with an eye for the utmost discretion. Even in Amalie's parlor house it was considered in poor taste to mention the financial side of her hospitality.

The fourteen girls who boarded in Amalie's establishment on Clinton Place did well if they affected the same graces. If they did not, they were summarily pointed in the direction of Canal Street, where a sailor could have them for fifty cents. Girls did not often leave Amalie's by that route. Although they were charged anywhere from seventy-five to one hundred dollars a week for their room and board, on a single night they could earn enough to make Amalie's rent and rules seem reasonable.

As a whole Amalie's girls were a remarkably diverse lot. It was said that if a man could not find what he wanted in her parlor house, then his tastes did not run to women. Attractive and agreeable, Amalie's boarders were careful listeners and good conversationalists. They knew the social niceties that marked the etiquette of their clientele, and in general they had at least one talent outside the bedroom that they could use to entertain downstairs. Some played the piano or harp, others sang or gave readings from the works of Jonson and Shakespeare. Amalie liked to think her girls would have been at their ease in the drawing rooms on Fifth Avenue as they were in her private salons.

Jenny Holland did not know what to expect when she arrived at Amalie Chatham's house. There was no red-tinted glass oil lamp to identify the establishment as a brothel, yet the cab driver who brought her had no difficulty finding the place. Jenny remembered the odd look the cab driver had given her when she waved him down and announced her destination. She found herself wanting to explain the circumstances that were bringing her to Amalie's infamous parlor house but had managed to hold her tongue. After all, it wasn't as if
she
were doing anything wrong. It was because of Christian Marshall that she was here.

Jenny was honest enough to concede that there were other factors that contributed to her finally using the brass knocker at Amalie's. Joe Means and his grooms were celebrating the passing of 1866 in an establishment more modestly priced than Amalie's and in a more dangerous quarter of the city. Mr. Marshall's gardener had been drinking steadily since noon and was now as potted as the plants he nurtured all the other days of the year. Mr. Morrisey, the cook's husband and jack-of-all-trades, had surprised his wife by offering to take her to Harry Hill's concert saloon. Mrs. Morrisey, secretly pleased with the opportunity for an evening out, had pretended to be scandalized and had maintained this posture right up to the moment she linked arms with her husband and walked out the door.

The consequence of so much New Year's Eve revelry was that there were no male employees left at Marshall House when Mrs. Brandywine fell. The housekeeper had gone outside to chase away a stray dog that was whining at the back door and slipped on the icy flagstones. Jenny found her some twenty minutes after the accident, her right leg bent at an odd angle and the stray dog licking her cold cheek. Carrie and Jenny made a litter to bring her inside while Mary Margaret ran twelve blocks to get Dr. Turner.

Mrs. Brandywine had regained consciousness by the time she was safely and warmly tucked in her bed, but her pain was enormous, graying her complexion and tightening her skin until even the dimple in her chin seemed to disappear. Jenny sat by the bed, holding her hand, and waited with ill-disguised impatience for Dr. Turner's arrival. She did not require a medical education to know that the housekeeper had a broken shinbone that would require setting. Instead of passing out again as Jenny hoped she might, Mrs. Brandywine kept calling for Christian.

Jenny had come to care too much for the housekeeper to let her wishes go begging. If Mrs. B. wanted Christian, then Jenny would produce him. It was no secret to the staff where he had gone this New Year's Eve. The maids pooled their resources and presented Jenny with cab fare to Amalie Chatham's parlor house.

Now Jenny's foot tapped impatiently as she waited for some response to her summons. She saw the cab driver was still watching her curiously and waved him off. Jenny had no way of knowing she was the first woman he had ever delivered to Amalie's.

Whatever Jenny had thought she might experience when she rapped on the door, it was not the curious, vaguely amused inspection of her person that took place through a grille. She stared back at the pair of dark eyes until one of them winked at her just before the grille was slammed shut. To be refused entry without being able to state her business struck Jenny as grossly inhospitable. She alternately kicked the door or beat it with her fists.

Amalie Chatham was in the blue salon when heard the banging. She ignored it as long as she thought prudent. Finally she excused herself from her guests and girls and approached John Todd, her unnamed partner in affairs of business and her frequent partner in bedroom affairs. She stepped into the foyer and inspected her hair in the gilt-framed mirror, securing a loose, flame-red tendril behind her ear. Todd moved to stand behind her, and Amalie's dark green eyes, as glittering as the emeralds she wore, flashed her annoyance. "What is going on out there, Mr. Todd? I don't want any trouble tonight of all nights."

"I understand," he said, nodding. It was critical that this evening proceeded smoothly. Tomorrow, New Year's Day, Amalie would open her doors as if she were no different than any other New York lady and graciously receive gentlemen visitors and serve refreshments from noon until midnight. It was a social tradition followed by another notorious madam, Josephine Woods, and the two hostesses, mimicking the respectability of Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Schermerhorn, competed to see who could receive the most ceremonious calls. John Todd knew that gentlemen would stay away tomorrow if there was a disturbance tonight. As a result, Josephine Woods would be certain to have more visitors, and Amalie would be a bitch for the entire year.

"It's a young lady," Todd said. The lilting strains of the harp in the red parlor could not drown out the pounding at the door.

Amalie's brows lifted. "A young lady? Do you know her?"

"No. And I did not think it prudent to inquire. I shut the grille and hoped it would be notice enough that she should leave."

"Apparently she did not understand the message or she didn't like it." She put both hands to her head and began massaging her temples. "Get me a headache powder, will you, Mr. Todd? I'll see to the young woman myself. If she's looking for employment, I'll send her to the back door. If she's looking for a particular gentleman, I'll tell her she can find him at Josephine's. That will tweak Josie's nose nicely."

John Todd gave Amalie a brief smile and headed down the hallway. Amalie walked to the door, smoothed the bodice of her cream satin gown, and slid open the panel behind the grille. She had to stand on tiptoe to clearly see her visitor, but that slight discomfort was forgotten in the wake of her initial shock. This young woman's arrival on her doorstep was perhaps the most fortuitous piece of good luck that Amalie had ever experienced. Her vision of the woman faded, replaced by all manner of possibilities and the fortune that attached itself to every one of them. Discretion and ingenuity were called for. She had been practicing both for years, and the moment when they would make all the difference was upon her.

"May I help you?" she asked.

Jenny stopped pounding and took a militant stance. "I have a message to deliver to one of your patrons," she said briskly. "I would like to do so without further delay."

"A message, you say? It is not at all the usual thing."

Jenny backed away from the door and held up her hands. "Please."

Amalie knew she had been right to hesitate. The spider did not attack without laying down her web. "Very well," she said finally. "Against my better judgment." She closed the panel and opened the door, ushering Jenny inside. "Follow me. I am Mrs. Chatham. We will discuss this in my office."

Jenny fell in step behind Amalie, reluctant but nonetheless fascinated. This was not a place she could have ever imagined finding herself, and her search for Christian gave her a proper excuse to look everywhere as Amalie guided her though the elegantly appointed salons.

Each parlor was distinguished by the predominant color. They all had velvet carpets, but one was blue, another gold, and still another red. The chairs and sofas were upholstered in matching shades of smooth satins and heavy, sumptuous brocades. Crystal chandeliers scattered prisms of light on the gilt-framed mirrors. The paintings on the wall were not vulgar as Jenny expected they might be, but reflected the tastes of someone familiar with fine art. Books and periodicals were attractively displayed on small tables among a cluster of lacquered and enameled snuffboxes trimmed in silver and gold.