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Authors: Victoria McKernan

The Devil's Paintbox (29 page)

BOOK: The Devil's Paintbox
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“Here's how it works,” Bony explained. “Those little tents there are for the high-price girls.” He nodded at a row of tents set up under the trees. “Two dollars they are, some
up to five.” He looked at them longingly. “For special treatment and so on. The regular girls are one dollar and work in the bunkhouse, in the toolshed, the barn there, wherever. So—” Bony got up. “I got some scheduling to keep here myself. You talk to Bandy—she'll take good care of you.”

“Okay thanks.”

Aiden leaned against a tree and watched the lanterns move through the trees. People turned into shadows and vanished into the night. A waning moon and high thin clouds cast soft light that seemed more suited for a fairy story. Outside each tent a little red glass lantern glowed.

He was aching by now and longing to lie down but suspected the bunkhouse would not be a place for resting just at the moment. He buttoned his jacket, wincing at the pain in his ribs. They didn't seem sore enough to be actually broken, but work was going to hurt for a while. He hadn't thought to bring his cap, but the bandage around his head helped a little against the cold. He wondered if the cook had sewn him up and hoped not, for he hadn't seen much tidy work out of the man.

Aiden sat down and leaned against a giant fir. Thinking of stitches made him think of Maddy All the Lynch men had quick tempers and ready fists, so there were wounds to be stitched at least once a month. Maddy would sing to them while she sewed. Aiden traced his finger along one of the scars above his eyebrow, so pretty and neat. He squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't sure he could push her out of his head right now in his weak state. So he pressed his hand against his bruised ribs to make them hurt instead.

“Hello?”

Aiden startled.

“Shush,” a gentle voice whispered. “It's only me, Bandy.” Skirts rustled and sweet perfume drifted over on the misty air.

“May I sit?” she asked.

“Um—yes.” Aiden desperately wiped his eyes and nose on the rough jacket sleeve.

“Things are quiet now,” she said. “All my girls are settled and I can have a bit of a rest.” He heard the cork pulled from a bottle.

“It was a nice dancing show,” he said awkwardly.

“Thank you. Did you see the contortionist?”

“I—I'm not sure I know what that is.”

“Someone who can bend her body into remarkable postures.”

Every posture he had seen from those women seemed pretty remarkable, and he didn't want to seem ignorant, so he just nodded. Confident that his tears had stopped, and that the dim light would hide any lingering evidence on his face, Aiden glanced at her. He was surprised to see she was wearing a veil. It was a fine net of dark silky material with tiny amber beads at the hem. It was very odd, for he thought women didn't wear veils except for mourning, but then he remembered the conversation from the campfire the night before.
Bandy herself s all pocky, you know.
Embarrassed, he turned his gaze away and stared straight ahead at the flickering red lanterns.

“Those tents are unusual,” he said, trying to hide his discomfort. “I've never seen the like.”

The tents were of very light canvas with no poles. A rope thrown over a tree limb held the peak and a wooden hoop near the top gave it some shape. There were pockets sewn
along the bottom edge into which stones had been put to hold the sides down.

“They're my own design,” she said. “I needed something easy to carry.” She waved at the tangle of tree limbs above. “A bit of rope, a branch, some rocks and a candle and we have a sultan's tent.”

“Do—ah, do they keep the rain out?”

“Not a downpour. They're more for privacy. And atmosphere. One needn't succumb to barbarism at every level. Would you like a drink?” Bandy handed him a bottle of whiskey.

“No thank you.”

“Go on, I'm not going to charge you—poor boy wounded for his dead sister's honor!” She laughed at the expression on his face. “Well, don't tell me you think there's one of us who hasn't heard the story and sobbed her eyes out! Good Lord, my best five-dollar girl would love you up for two bits if we weren't afraid it might kill you, the state you're in. So drink!”

He laughed at that, though it hurt his bruised face, and took the bottle. It was much smoother than the other stuff, and his stomach didn't rebel. She took another big drink from the bottle and put it down between them.

“Are you hungry?” She crinkled some paper open in her lap. “The cook in camp four is from England and makes lovely meat pies.” She offered him one.

“No thank you.” He was ravenous but could hardly take her supper.

“Please? I hate to eat alone. And they're far too rich for me anyway. I've nothing but a figure to offer and have to keep it neat.”

“All right, thank you.” Aiden took one of the little pies.
He ate half of it in one bite. It was rich with beef and potatoes, onions and gravy, the crust crispy and light. He had never tasted anything so good.

“Did you teach them all how to dance like that?”

“Oh no. But it isn't very hard to do, just a lot of kicking and spinning around. No, I only know waltzes and quadrilles, all the proper dances for a Philadelphia girl.”

“Is that where you're from?”

“Yes.”

“Did you come across in a wagon train?”

“No, by ship, and never again!” She shuddered at the memory.

“Why?”

“Why? It was awful! I was seasick the whole way.”

“I meant, why did you come? What compelled you?”

“Compelled me?” She laughed. “A new life, adventure, independence.” She took out a little ivory pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “My father was a grocer. I was the fifth daughter and never a beauty, even before this.” She waved a delicate gloved hand toward the veil. “My looks could have stood me being third, maybe even fourth, if we had a little more money or position. But a grocer's ugly number five! Well, I might have landed a nearsighted clerk, or a fat cobbler. A great hairy butcher, perhaps—at least a dull preacher, but I couldn't bear it. I'd seen sisters and cousins and friends, pretty ones too, all marry and have such dreary lives. Then there was an advertisement in the newspaper with an offer to teach school in San Francisco. They would sail us there in exchange for three years of teaching. After that I could make my own contract as I wished and marry if I wished.” She opened a tin, took out a
match and a folded bit of sandpaper, then snapped a flame. The pipe stem was long enough that she did not have to lift her veil to smoke, but the glowing tip made the amber beads sparkle.

“In Philadelphia everyone is stuck,” she went on. “Everyone has a rank in society, and you dare not think to change it. You live in a house all crowded with rugs and carved settees and needlepoint footstools and pouchy chairs and fringed lampshades and heavy draperies and yappy little dogs and stupid novels about love in England, and I wanted more from life. The offer seemed perfect to me, and it was a relief for my family, I suspect. A respectable way to be rid of me.” She took another swallow from the bottle, then handed it to Aiden, who did the same. His head was feeling much better.

“How long did you teach?” he asked.

“Not at all. I caught the smallpox on the ship, from a port in South America, most likely. My father did not believe in vaccination. He thought it went against God's divine will. So …” She shrugged. “That was how the will of God turned out for me. They said that I would frighten the children. They didn't hold me to the cost of my passage, but they gave me no employment either. So there I was, stranded across the world with no means or friends or home. I found an honest job, cutting fish in the market. Ten hours a day standing over a table of stink and your hands cold and aching. And after a week, I found out you're raped no matter what. Though, scarred as I was, it was twelve days for me.” The beads on her veil clicked softly as she blew out the smoke. “It was a gallant lad who did it. He didn't hurt me too much, did it quick and even brought me some sweets the next day. I threw them in the guts pile. But I'm a
smart girl. It didn't take me long to figure the ways of the world. Men would take what they wanted anyway so why not make them pay for it?”

“Pay for what?” Aiden asked awkwardly.

“Oh goodness—” Bandy said, after a pause. “Oh, dear boy, do you know what rape is?”

“Some kind of a beating?” he guessed, for clearly it had hurt her.

“Well, partly, I suppose,” she said. “You do know what sex is?”

“Of course. The act of marriage.” He blushed. “And— well, what your girls do here.”

“Yes. Well, if a man forces a woman to do the marriage act when she doesn't want to, that's called a rape.”

“Why would a man force her?”

“Oh dear.” She handed him the bottle. “Why is there any evil in the world?” Aiden took a drink. He certainly had no answer to that.

“But when men pay—it's all right?”

“Yes. Well, it can also happen without paying. With love, of course; so I've heard. But whether for money or love, if a girl agrees, it's all right. And with pay, then it's a business. Most say a bad business. Well, I say, fine, don't do it, then. But it's my business, and fairer than most. My girls—well, we take care of the needs of those who aren't married. We're like doctors,” she laughed. “But without the nasty medicine and bloodletting and such.”

Aiden paused a moment to let his brain sort all this out. He knew the mechanics and results of sex; any farm child did. He knew the swoony lovey bits from Jane Austen books and the wagon train girls with their flouncy tilts and candy
smiles. He knew the physical urgency from his own body and how to satisfy that for a while. He also knew there was something more—deeper, sharper, awful and grand, that some married people had. He just wasn't exactly sure how all these bits fit together.

“Is it … ?” He faltered. “I mean—you don't—mind?” “I minded starving. I minded a lifetime trapped on the docks and men taking—” Bandy caught herself with ladylike restraint. “Well, men
taking,”
she finished simply. “I met H'aiu soon after. He was working passage north on a ship, on his way to join Pu'heea, his cousin, up here.” It was the first time Aiden had heard the exotic names pronounced correctly.

“So it was he who brought you up here, then?” “No.” She lifted her veil. “It was this that brought me here!” In the faint lamplight, Aiden could see how horribly scarred she was. Her whole face was pitted and blotched. Her eyes, pulled tight by the scar tissue, looked almost Chinese. He looked away. He could see shadows moving in the Arabian Nights tents, and it was as if an avalanche of understanding came down on him.

“No normal man will have me like this,” Bandy said. “Not even in Seattle, where there are fifty men for every woman. Not to look at day after day. But out here, well—” She inhaled deeply. “Out here the light is dim and the men are desperate. Out here I can run my own show. And it's quite the show! Don't you think?” “Yes!” Aiden agreed.

“Did you see anyone you particularly liked?” “They all looked nice—” He stopped and felt a flush of embarrassment, realizing what she was really asking him.

“Here.” Bandy offered him her pipe.

“No thanks, I don't smoke.”

“You may have too many virtues to survive out here, young man.”

“It's not virtue, it's cost,” Aiden protested. “Tobacco costs, liquor costs. …”

“Whores cost. …”

“I didn't mean any disrespect.”

“You're a sweet boy, Aiden Lynch.” She gently laid her hand on the side of his face. “Does everyone pour out their life story to you upon first meeting?”

“I don't know.”

Bandy laughed and swept gracefully to her feet. “I'd do you for free, only it shouldn't be something like me your first time.”

“No—you're nice.” He got up staggering and nearly fell over. Bandy caught his arm and steadied him.

“And you're clearly too battered to live through it anyway, so go on to bed. You look like death on a platter. The bunkhouse will be quieting down soon. Go on now.” Bandy kissed him gently on the forehead. Her lips through the veil were both soft and scratchy.

ou broke his nose,” Mr. Powhee said solemnly. “And some ribs. His lost days are on your page now.”

BOOK: The Devil's Paintbox
8.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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