Honeyville (33 page)

‘Yes, I heard you, Kitty. Send her in.’

She was by the fire, pretending (I assume) to read a novel. She closed it, and placed the book on the table beside her. As always I was struck by the extreme sumptuousness of the room, and of the matching sumptuousness of the woman who presided over it. The two together always brought on a faint queasiness. Phoebe, magnificent in pale green silk – with diamonds sparkling at her throat and a curl of ostrich feathers framing her black-dyed hair – was as bolt upright as ever, seated in the corner of a vast couch, which was upholstered in some sort of silver-embroidered, blue velvet damask. The walls were of paler blue satin, complementing the couch, the dress, the diamonds … The room was busy with objects: silver and ivory carved animals littered every surface: on the walls there were small paintings, mostly of naked women; on windowsills and mantelpiece, ornaments were scattered in crystal and gold, and on chairs and couches lay countless glass-tasselled velvet cushions. It was an Aladdin’s cave, a fairy queen’s throne room. And, in the midst of this opulence, Phoebe herself seemed to glow:
my name is Phoebe, Queen of Queens. Look on my preposterous trinkets, ye mighty, and despair
…

Under the circumstances, it was rather hard not to despair.

She told me to sit down, which I did, in the armchair opposite her.

‘Drink? Whiskey, isn’t it? Kitty, before you go, give Dora a glass of whiskey, would you? And on the desktop there … Bring me – do you see it, Kitty? There is an envelope. An open envelope. It has writing on the front. Big black writing. There is only one open envelope. Bring it to me. And then leave. If you please. Thank you Kitty.’

I sucked on the whiskey and tried to see what was written on the envelope, but her hand obstructed my view. She said nothing, so to break the silence, I said:

‘It’s quiet downstairs tonight.’

‘It’s quiet downstairs every night. This place is like a ghost town.’

‘It won’t last.’

‘We must hope not.’

Silence. The sound of Truman’s ragtime seeped softly from the empty ballroom below, and there was the hiss of burning coal in the grate. It was too hot in there. She fondled the letter with her short, fat, jewelled fingers and seemed to consider what to say.

‘It never does last,’ I said. ‘Don’t you remember what a lull there was after the Summer Fair, year before last? We worried the entire male population of Colorado had been struck down with a—’

‘I have good news for you,’ she interrupted. There was a glint in her eye. For a moment she looked quite merry.

‘Good news?’ I repeated. ‘Well! …
Good news
,you say
?’

I laughed, and she laughed with me.

‘I have to say,’ I said, ‘that’s not quite what I was expecting.’

‘No, I don’t suppose.’ She beamed at me. ‘The way you’ve been acting lately, Dora, you’re lucky I don’t throw you out on your ass this minute.’

I laughed, too loudly. It died among all the velvet cushions, but Phoebe continued to grin, silently.

She had tiny teeth. Lots of tiny teeth, like in the pictures of piranha fish, I thought. I shook my head to free it of the image. It wasn’t a time to be thinking about piranhas.

I said: ‘I admit, I have been a little distracted. You probably remember my friend – the sick girl in my room; you were kind enough to allow her to stay a while back. We had to hide her in the maid’s room.’

‘I certainly remember that,’ she said. She nodded, and her cheeks looked quite rosy with amusement. ‘Yes. That gave me quite a shock.’

‘Yes. I’m so sorry. You were so kind. Well, she …’ Why was I telling her this? ‘She died. In the troubles. Someone shot her out on the road to Forbes.’

‘
Really?
’ Phoebe said. ‘Why yes, of course they did! Now I recollect someone mentioning it. There was a double funeral, wasn’t there? I hear old Mr McCulloch sold up and went to Williamsburg straight after.’

‘Yes … I heard that too,’ I said, unable to hide my surprise. Was there nothing that escaped this woman’s notice? ‘That’s right, he did,’ I muttered.

She tilted her head, amused by my surprise. ‘You think I walk around this town with eyes closed?’

‘No! Certainly not. I guess I just didn’t think—’

‘Your little friend Inez was shot in the throat and delivered to Adamsson’s funeral home by our friend Mr O’Neill … Your friend, I should say. Didn’t you spend a night with him at the Toltec last fall?’

‘Last fall? No—’

She waved it aside. ‘Those dreadful Union men. Penny-pinchers, they were. Lousy customers. I couldn’t stand them.’

‘You couldn’t? I never guessed.’

‘Why would you?’ She eyed me, as if the question required an answer.

‘I don’t know,’ I muttered. She had thrown me with the mention of my night at the Toltec. Did she know, then, that I had taken payment for it? But how could she know it? If she knew I had taken payment, and had left her out of the commission, there would be hell to pay. In Phoebe’s mind it was the ultimate – the only – sin.

‘You don’t know what?’ she asked, with a little frown of confusion.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ I answered hopelessly. ‘I’m just sorry … about not being so on top of things lately. But I’m back now, full of vim! And no friends to distract me!’

‘No johns to distract you neither …’ She released a heavy sigh. ‘I simply don’t know what we’re going to do.’

‘Things will improve!’ I said again. ‘Mark my words. We’ve both been in this game long enough … it goes in cylces, don’t you think so? Sometimes it’s so darned busy, I just
long
for some peace and quiet. And sometimes it’s so darned quiet …’ She had stopped listening. She turned away from me, and looked at the fire. I took it as a signal to hush up.

Silence.

What did she want from me? When would she come to the point? Finally I said, ‘Maybe … shall I find us some playing cards?’

‘Heavens, no,’ she said, gazing at the fire. She gave a little laugh, showy and hollow. ‘I was going to tell you the good news!’

Abruptly, she tossed me the envelope. The black writing, it transpired, spelled my name.

Miss Dora Whitworth

And I recognized the writing at once. It was the same as on the parcels of erotic French novels sent to me so regularly, for so long. My heart leapt: a mix of fear and confusion, jubilation and hope.

‘From William Paxton?’ I said.

‘That’s right, Dora.’

‘But the envelope is empty …’

‘Oh! Is it? I do apologize, Dora. I thought I had left the contents inside. There was an accompanying letter from Paxton to his lawyer. I think I have that on my desk. Would you be kind enough?’

‘Of course!’ I jumped to my feet.

‘It’s just a single sheet … I think it’s the only sheet of paper on the desk. Is it? Can you see it?’

Find enclosed $2,500, to be delivered into the hand of my friend and comfort, to whom I am forever indebted, Miss Dora Whitworth, resident of 27 Plum Street, Trinidad, Colorado, either on the event of my death, or by the last day of December 1914, which ever should first occur.

‘We are in February,’ I said.

‘What’s that? Bring the letter to me, please.’

‘William died way back in April, Phoebe. And the last day of December was some time ago … Even so … Gosh, I’m certainly not complaining! This is wonderful news!’

‘I told you there was good news,’ she said. ‘Please. Bring the letter to me now. I would like to read it again.’

Two thousand five hundred dollars!
Could anyone imagine the rate my head was spinning as I tripped back across the carpet and handed the letter to her? There were, of course, a million questions. Why had the letter taken so long to reach me? And why was it ever in Phoebe’s possession? Above all of course:
where was the money?

But they were not uppermost in my mind just then. Actually, I was caught in a wave of happy emotions – warmth and gratitude and affection for William. He had not forgotten me! And of relief and excitement … I would move to Denver – no, Los Angeles – no, Chicago! I would open a music school. I would buy myself a little house, and a good piano and, in the evenings, if I was lonesome, I would sing to myself … And I would find a companion and a handful of friends, and we would grow old together, and I would never need to remember these past few years in Trinidad. It was all possible. I could start my life over again …

‘Sit down, won’t you?’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s making me jumpy, you hovering over me like a cat on heat.’ I did as I was told.

She watched me, and then took a moment, squeezing cigarette into tortoiseshell holder, and puffing on it until the tobacco caught. I waited until I thought I would burst with impatience.

‘How did the letter come to reach you first?’ I asked.

She threw me a glance as if I was stupid. Because everything reached Phoebe first, especially if money was involved. She didn’t bother to reply. Instead, she exhaled a lungful of tobacco and watched the smoke float into the room.

‘You want a smoke?’ she asked me.

‘No. Thank you … I must say this is quite a turn of events. I can hardly quite believe it! When did you receive the letter, Phoebe? May I ask that?’ I smiled what I hoped was a playful, teasing smile – it was not a smile I would have attempted ten minutes earlier. ‘How long have you been keeping this wonderful secret of mine to yourself? When did you—’

‘Oh, shut up.’

I did. She smoked. I flushed, uncertain how to proceed. Where was the money? And when would she hand it over to me? It was all that mattered. Nothing else. She could insult me if she liked – and, no doubt, insist on a cut … a hefty cut, knowing her. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. If I could get out of that room with half the money, and on civilized terms, I would consider myself the luckiest woman alive. The money would be mine; and so long as we kept our negotiations reasonable, and I sounded suitably grateful to her, I would be safe. I would be free. Moments passed. A pause in the music from downstairs. Perhaps some guests had arrived at last? Perhaps I would never again have to dance around that ballroom.

When would she speak?

‘This glass is empty,’ I said. ‘Mind if I fetch myself another one? And you?’

But her glass was still half full. She ignored me, so I trekked across the room and filled the glass in silence, liquor bottle clanging against the glass because my hands had started to shake. I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck.

‘I didn’t know you and William had formed such a close connection,’ she said at last.

‘Well – and neither did I,’ I lied. ‘It’s quite a surprise. I’m overwhelmed.’

‘It’s against the house rules. As you know.’

I laughed. Couldn’t help myself. ‘What is against the rules, Phoebe? To be left money in a man’s will?’ Her expression didn’t change, but the moment I said it I knew it was a mistake. ‘I didn’t form a close tie with William. I guess he just became attached to me without my realizing it. Because I did my work so well. It can hardly be against house rules to be good at my work?’

She waved it aside. ‘I’m gonna overlook it.’

‘Well, thank you, Phoebe.’

I tried and failed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. She shot me an untroubled look and heaved herself delicately to her feet. Phoebe wore corsets, unfashionably tight even then. It made all her movements slow and cumbersome – and no doubt contributed in large part to her perennial ill humour. I was still on my feet, returning from the drinks table. She brushed past me and sat down at her desk. It was a gilt chair, upholstered in the same silver damask as the drapes, and it looked suitably like a throne.

There followed more painstaking bending and twisting from inside her inflexible corset. I stayed where I was, holding my breath. She unhooked a small oil painting from the wall beside her chair (it was of a couple of women, both naked, one of them grotesquely fat with a parrot perched on her nipple), and revealed a safe. She affixed a pince-nez from a long golden chain around her neck, and began to fiddle with the dial.

‘Come!’ she said, beckoning me to sit. She had pulled a thick sheaf of papers from within, and an even thicker wad of dollar bills.

My dollar bills.

‘Bless him,’ I burst out, eyes fixed on the money: my ticket out of here. ‘He was a good man, wasn’t he? … I miss him. I do.’

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘There are some formalities we must see to.’

‘Yes! Yes of course.’

As I sat, she lifted her beady eyes from the cash, looked up at me over her pince-nez: ‘By the way, I have a new girl arriving at the end of the week.’

‘A new girl! Well, well!’ I laughed, giddy, in a way I never was. ‘And there we were downstairs, worrying you might be about to send one of us packing.’

‘Mary-Lou’s Parlour House went out of business last week. You probably heard. I figure once the men in this state finally wake up out of their goddamn stupor – finally pull their cocks out of their crapholes – the business has got to go somewhere, hasn’t it? I’ve taken one of her girls. Nice little thing. Rosette. French. So I’m going to need your rooms.’

‘Oh!’ It was more sudden than I’d expected. I had envisaged taking my time, making plans. To my surprise, I felt a wave of sadness. Plum Street had been home for so many years. ‘Well – all right then. I guess. What day do you want me out?’ I laughed. ‘I’m going to miss you all!’

‘Friday,’ she said.

‘Friday.’ It was only three days away.

‘Please. I’m going to lend you Carlos. He’ll help you move your things out. But you’ll need to find some place for him to take them. All right. And now, to business. We can settle our accounts here and now, and after that –’ she offered me a wide, piranha grin – ‘you, Miss Dora Whitworth, are free to go!’

I should have known. I should have guessed. That bitch sat me down beside her, and from the sheaf of papers she produced bills and more bills – for hats and ribbons and shoes and medical supplies, for bed linen and soap and bags of coal, for champagne and chocolate cakes and every single cup of breakfast coffee delivered to my bedroom since the day I’d joined the household.