Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) (43 page)

“I want her fixed up in an hour and ready for show,” Mr. Dupont told Cherie.

This caught his wife by surprise.

“An hour!” she cried.

Cherie spat a stream of French curses, to which Mr. Dupont turned away with a wave of his hand, disappearing into the darkness beyond the tattered curtain entrance.

“Where are you going to find an audience in one hour?” she called after him.

“Wherever the hell I can!” he called back.

Cherie grunted. She smelled of cigarette smoke and opium. She leaned towards Evelyn and took a loud, rasping sniff of her neck.

Perturbed, Evelyn grimaced and leaned backwards.

“Not bad,” Cherie muttered. “You bathe regularly?”

Evelyn didn’t see what bathing had to do with anything.

“Once a week,” she replied.

Cherie emitted a little chuckle.

“More than my girls,” she said. “Still, you smell like the market. I’m afraid dust and raw meat are not quite what we are looking for.”

“And just what are you looking for, Madame?”

There was that funny grin again.

“A rose.”

Cherie took Evelyn’s hand with a skeletal-like grip and led her further into the room, stopping at a dirty washbasin.

“Take off your clothes,” she instructed.

Evelyn stared at her.

“Excuse me?”

“You must bathe.”

Evelyn did not move.

“I really don’t believe that is necessary.”

Cherie sighed impatiently, emitted a curse, and turned to her bureau.

“I have one hour to make you exquisite,” she told Evelyn, a disgruntled edge to her voice. “Tell me. When was the last time you were dolled up, princess?”

Evelyn thought of the port of Chagres, the river, the stinking huts, the disappointment of the Washington Hotel. A journey made of mud, smoke, mosquitoes, and sweat.

When was the last time her fingernails were clean?

“Nearly a month now,” she admitted.

Cherie nodded. She fiddled with some things while Evelyn looked around, taking in the closet of a room. There were a few scraps of clothing hanging from a coat rack, some strips of lace, and feathered headdresses. Stuck to the walls were cutouts from newspapers, drawings of fashionable women from New York and Boston. The air was hot and dank, the walls crumbling and musty. There were cracks in the corners, where the sounds of grinding and scratching betrayed the presence of vermin.

Then there was the flash of a lit match and the Frenchwoman turned from her work at the bureau, holding out a shot glass full of milky green liquid.

“She is your refuge today,” she said in French. “She will calm you. Make you feel happy.”

Evelyn took the glass from the woman questioningly, her eyes betraying her caution.

“Absinthe,” Cherie told her. “Drink.”

            Evelyn hesitated, so Cherie hastily turned to grab the bottle.

            “You see?” she demanded, indicating that the bottle was half empty. “I drink, too.”

            Skeptical, Evelyn took a sip. The taste was bitter, yet somehow sweet. It burned like fire as it entered her belly, radiating from within and causing her face to flush red. She kept the glass in her hand and continued to sip as Cherie picked through the small selection of outfits, singing little bits of a Parisian melody. She decided on a little black corset with a skirt that was designed to fly open at the slightest movement. As she arranged the clothing on the back of a chair, she swayed her little hips and moved to the other side of the room, where she opened a ragged trunk and dug through various shoes. She found some blue heels, clucked her tongue, and addressed Evelyn once more.

“The last time I wore these, I was ten years younger and wore nothing else.” She giggled a little, but her mirth was short-lived. “Now pigeon, get out of those sun bleached rags and clean yourself up.”

The combination of wine, absinthe, and hunger was taking effect on Evelyn. She had the slightest inclination to object, but she was curious about the outfit Cherie had produced, and the shoes really were quite lovely. 

As she stepped out of her dress, Evelyn watched Cherie pour another glass. The process was suddenly fascinating, and Evelyn was transfixed as Cherie dipped a sugar cube in the spirit and set it atop a spoon over the alcohol. She struck a match, lighting the sugar aflame. The sparkling white turned amber and dripped into the absinthe, the colors swirling together.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Cherie tapped the glass.

“The spirit is made of wormwood. Very bitter without adding a little sweetness.” Cherie blew out the remaining flame and stirred the rest of the sugar into the drink. “The French like to use water, but I am different. I prefer fire.”

             She handed Evelyn the second glass.

            “You like?” she asked. Evelyn nodded. “Good. Drink up. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself in a field of flowers with the wind in your hair instead of this stinking place. You smoke?”

            Evelyn waved her hand through the air, telling her no. Her head grew heavier with each sip, so Cherie assisted her with the washing of her hair.

            After bathing, Evelyn dressed as Cherie took a small pipe-like device out of a drawer and lit it. So this was the opium Evelyn had smelled before. It was a sweet smell, almost colorful. As the smoke rose in the air she imagined it was tangible, and she stretched out her hand to touch it.

Cherie slapped her away.

            “It doesn’t take much to get you drunk, does it?” she mocked. “The Green Fairy is having her way with you.”

            Evelyn looked at her inquisitively.

            “It’s just as well,” Cherie continued. “Tonight, she will bring fortune to all of us.”

            Evelyn smiled at her and held out an empty glass.

            “Another, please.”

             Cherie blew a stream of smoke in her face, shook her head, and poured her some more.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The clouds adopted various shades of purple and forget-me-not blue as the sun sank lower and lower, soon to disappear beyond the sea. Nearby, a hen clucked with frustration as she flapped her clumsy wings, attempting to roost upon a flower box set beyond her reach. The air was permeated with the smell of her droppings, which mingled with the acrid, malodorous scent of human excrement from the nearby gutter. The street hummed with the busyness of closing day, as women and children rushed to complete their final tasks before darkness fell and drunkenness became the wandering apparition of night. It was unsafe to be about after sundown, when carelessness, deceit, despair, and all other manners of evil reveled in the shadows.

Carelessness. Deceit. Despair. These were the deathly sprites that now rested upon the shoulders of Lucius Flynn.

As he opened his eyes, he saw the tips of buildings across the street, the way their pale, cracking paint reflected the shifting color of the sky. They blurred and dipped from left to right, like a ship tossed between waves, for Lucius’ vision was subjected to the fickle dictation of alcohol as it moved like mud through his veins, poisoning his blood and distorting his mind.

The numbness had worn off. His face hurt, so he lifted a finger to feel the tender, swollen ridge that stretched from his forehead to his cheekbone. The slightest touch evoked agony both physically and emotionally, and Lucius turned his face to the gutter to vomit.

How long had he been laying here? And how did he wind up here in the first place?

Oh, yes. The three sprites.

Carelessness. The devil who tempted Lucius to drink away his wisdom, to accept the seat across from Brock Donnigan, to believe he was an immortal, untouchable god whose luck would never betray him.

But it did.

Deceit. The illusion of success, the manipulative monster who whispered that survival was in the quality of the lie, inspiring the bluff that cost Lucius the entirety of his fortune. 

Despair. The heavy, black cloak that wrapped Lucius in its cold, suffocating vice. The voice that whispered everything was over. You’ve been cursed by your father. Go home and succumb to the future you feared the most.

The afternoon’s events haunted him like glimpses from a dream. The smell of sweat in the gambling house. The burning cigar smoke. The ale that tasted so good in the beginning, then gradually lost its flavor the more he consumed. The sound of his pistol as it hit the floor. The stack of coins and papers in the center of the table, then the barrenness of the wooden surface as it was all swept into two arms that did not belong to him. That same wooden surface as it came closer and closer, until it was slamming into his face.

The way Brock looked at him. The way Brock grabbed him by the neck and tossed him into the street. (Ah, yes,
that
was how he got here.) The way Brock said Evelyn’s name.

Evelyn
.

When his stomach had nothing left to purge, Lucius lay back down. He could get up, but what was the point? Where could he go?

Not the field. The players had probably gathered there now that the day had cooled. He imagined them kicking the ball, clapping one another on the back, shouting obscenities, cursing, laughing.

Lucius couldn’t remember what it felt like to laugh.

He could not join them in their play. He could not even hold onto a hand of cards, or the handle of a gun. He would be expected to play hard, to master the ball, to win. Because that’s what Lucius did. He won. Always.

Until today.

He could not wander the streets. He would certainly get lost, or fall into the gutter. God forbid he should walk twenty paces only to become reacquainted with his vomit.

Thieves might mistake him for a rich man and try to rob him, only to discover his complete destitution. They would hate him for wasting their time, so they would probably beat him. And throw him into the gutter.

Whichever way he looked at it, he was bound to wind up in the gutter somehow. Just look how close he had come the first time.

He could not poke into an eating house, because he had no money to eat. He could not book a room in a hotel, because he had no money to sleep. Besides, there were no rooms available anyway.

Lastly, he could not,
would
not, return to camp. No sir. There was no way in hellfire he would be induced to show his face there. He didn’t know how long he had passed out, but it was certainly long enough for the rumor of his demise to reach his friends. Josephine would be utterly disappointed in him, might even refuse to look at him with those remarkable eyes. Adele had probably asked Samuel to replace Lucius as their guardian, and she would certainly prevent Lucius from ever seeing her boy again. What mother would want a louse like Lucius near her son? And as for Evelyn…

Lucius cringed, and he reasoned that the pain in his face was the reason the tears came to his eyes.

His only option was to stay right here. Watch the clouds. Wait for the moon. Perhaps someone would trip over him in the darkness of night, kick his face in, and send him into the next life. If it was heaven, he would be pleasantly surprised. And if it was hell… well, at least he could see it coming.

                                                         * * *

Mr. Dupont checked his watch, the final thing of value he possessed. It had a pure gold encasement and had belonged to his father. Before Evelyn Brennan walked into his establishment, he had planned to sell it. Now, however, he knew he would not need to.

            Part of him felt something like guilt. He supposed he wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. But because he was human, he also had to do what was necessary to survive, and that meant one of two things: sell the watch, or deceive the pretty Irish girl into becoming a harlot.

            It was a harsh reality, but she did not suspect foul play. That much was certain. For all her arrogant, refined airs, she was a most unintelligent female. It was obvious she did not esteem Mr. Dupont, but that was not because she knew his plans. It was simply because he would not treat her like the spoiled brat she was.

            Mr. Dupont was fortunate she could play the piano, for he did not know how he would have otherwise captured her. The instrument was his bait. The other girls came to him on their own, desperate for money and inept in every way except one: selling themselves. They were courtesans. Albeit, they were mustachioed ones. But all the proper functions were there.

Poor Miss Brennan, to think they were only dancers, and that Mr. Dupont was only the owner of an eating house. Did she not notice the adjacent hotel that belonged to him as well?

Only a virgin would be so ignorant.

He congratulated himself. A virgin would fetch ten times the amount of his father’s watch. He had only to polish her up a bit. Make her shine. Show her off. Get that piano onstage, along with the right combination of clothing or lack thereof, and Evelyn Brennan would become a more succulent feast for the eyes than anything Dupont could prepare in the kitchen. Then, when her audience refused to be teased any longer, the bidding would begin. And by that time, if Cherie did her job, the absinthe would have worked her magic, and Evelyn would be in such a state of perfect bliss she would not know what on earth was going on.

Mr. Dupont made his way through the dark backstage corridor and rapped on the doorframe of Cherie’s dressing room. He glanced inside, where his wife eclipsed his view of Evelyn.

Cherie instructed him to enter.

“How does she look?” he asked.

His wife cast him a glance over her shoulder.

“Are you prepared for this?”

Dupont rolled his eyes. The wench could be embarrassingly romantic.

“Don’t tease me, Cherie. Let me see her.”

The woman stepped to one side, revealing a heavily-lidded vixen. The satin black and blue attire offset her tumbling auburn tresses, which were crowned with a circlet of velvet sapphire and decorated with a bursting plume of feathers. Her skin was soft and white as porcelain, her facial features starkly enhanced by deep paints, creams, and powders. Eyelids to match her outfit, lips the color of scarlet, cheekbones accentuated with feminine rouge, and a mark of beauty drawn just above her blooming rose of a mouth. Her small bosom was elevated enticingly in a whalebone corset, her waist cinched into the shape of an hourglass.