It was the woman’s cultured voice and her gracious demeanour which calmed Matilda. She still felt it would be wiser to go, for if it got about in the town that she’d been in here, people might deduce she was like the girls who worked here. But she did want to talk to Maria, and she also found the old lady quite compelling.
Perhaps the old lady realized her predicament because she touched her arm very gently.
‘You are quite safe. We are closed now. There are no men on the premises, only myself and my boarders, and most of them are still sleeping. Have some tea with me, and I’ll call Maria. I have never ever entrapped a girl to work for me yet, and I certainly would not start with you.’
She picked up a small bell and rang it. A door opened at the far side of the room and a tall, thin Negress in a maid’s uniform complete with starched apron and cap came in. ‘Ah, Dolores. Will you bring a tray of tea for my guest and myself,’ she asked, ‘and tell Maria I wish to see her.’
‘Where are you from?’ Matilda asked once she had been invited to sit down. ‘You have a very interesting accent.’
‘Russia.’ The woman smiled. ‘But I was sent to England as a young girl, and I have lived in France for many years too, so I guess my accent comes from all three. I left England over fifty years ago, but the memories of it are indelible.’
Matilda guessed that made her in her late sixties. She wished she dared ask what made her open a parlour house. ‘We haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Matilda Jennings,’ she said.
‘I’m Contessa Alexandra Petroika. I am known as “the Russian woman” by those who fear me, “the Contessa” by those who admire me, but “Miss Zandra” to my girls.’
Matilda gave a little start at this. One night at dinner Alicia had made a curiously oblique remark about ‘the Russian woman’, and Henry had quickly turned the conversation in another direction. Now she understood why.
Maria came sidling in, she looked very alarmed at seeing Matilda and moved to turn back.
‘Don’t be afraid, I haven’t come from Mrs Slocum,’ Matilda assured her, then speaking slowly and clearly, she explained. ‘I am just worried about you. I would like to know why you left your job and came here. I promise I won’t tell Mrs Slocum where you are.’
She hadn’t really studied Maria back in the house, noting a pretty face beneath her starched cap but little else. She was in reality dramatically beautiful, with golden skin, lustrous hair, and such large, expressive black eyes.
‘She bad woman,’ Maria said with a toss of her head. ‘Always slap me, work, work, work.’
Matilda sighed, she could imagine this was true. ‘And Mr Slocum?’
‘He not bad man,’ she said. ‘But I tell him geeve me five dollars each time he come to me, and he say yes Maria, but he stop geeving me money because he say he love me.’
Matilda gulped. Even taking into consideration that Maria spoke poor English, she was clearly admitting she had instigated this arrangement. The look of pique on her lovely face was chilling. Matilda looked to the Contessa, not really knowing what to ask next.
‘I think Mrs Jennings wishes to know if you are happy to work here,’ the Contessa said.
Maria’s face broke into a smile. ‘Oh yes. Good food and no hard work.’
‘Will you tell Mrs Jennings why you came here to work rather than find another job as a maid?’
Maria pulled a face. ‘I not like to clean and wash dishes. I want beeg money and pretty dress. I go now?’
The Contessa nodded and Marie left immediately without so much as a backward glance at Matilda.
The Contessa raised one eyebrow. ‘Did that satisfy you?’ she asked as she poured the tea. ‘I’m sure you must have wished to question her further, but her lack of English makes it impossible to hold a real conversation with her, or even see the real girl underneath.’
‘I saw and heard enough,’ Matilda said sadly.
The Contessa shrugged. ‘You are shocked, maybe even disappointed, to find Maria is just a mercenary little baggage. I expect you either imagined Mrs Slocum treated her as a slave, or that her husband forced his attentions on her and she was compelled to submit to keep her position, maybe both?’
‘I think Mrs Slocum was too hard on her, yet I couldn’t really believe that of her husband,’ she said.
‘I suspect the truth of the matter was that Maria took that position with the sole purpose of entrapping Henry’ the woman said with a shrug. ‘He has a cold, childless marriage, and such men are easy prey. Maria and his wife are much the same inside. Money is what they both want.’
Matilda was startled by her using the familiar term of ‘Henry’, and by her incisive view of his marriage. This woman was becoming more interesting by the moment.
She handed Matilda her tea, the dainty bone china was decorated with small green leaves, and to Matilda it was an untimely reminder of Lily. Her views of love and marriage had been so idealistic, she would have been shocked to the core to think many women didn’t share them.
‘Now Maria has come to me,’ the Contessa went on. ‘I agreed I would give her a try, but I doubt she will be here for long. I do not like that coldness in my boarders, even as beautiful as she is. But maybe she can change. She has had a very hard life.’
‘You make it sound as if you were running a school for young ladies,’ Matilda burst out. Her feelings were muddled. She didn’t know who to be angry with, Maria, Alicia or Henry, or even herself for pushing her nose into something which didn’t concern her. The Contessa was the only person she could take it out on. ‘But you are training them only as whores. You make money from them, you corrupt them.’
‘Not I,’ the Contessa said, pursing her lips. ‘The girls who come to me are not virgins. They come of their own free will, and it is usually a far better life than the one they have often come from. My parlour is select, outside that door there is a steep slope downwards to brothels which deal with the fast trade, then down again to the cribs and hog ranches. Finally the streetwalker who doesn’t even have a bed. My girls all know this, here they have a real chance to live well and save their money. I tell them all they must plan for their futures, some listen and take note, some do not. But I cannot help that.’
Matilda was even more confused now. Maria’s cold statement about Henry proved she knew exactly what she was doing. She knew too from Cissie, Flynn and Giles that many girls deliberately chose their life because it made them more money than anything else. But however many reasons she’d heard for women turning to prostitution, it still appalled her.
‘But it’s terrible that they have to sell their bodies to make a living!’ she said.
‘I agree with you,’ the Contessa said, turning in her seat to look right at Matilda. ‘At least in principle. My heart bleeds for the ones who have no choice in the matter. There are young girls ravaged by their masters and family members, many who do it from hunger, or to care for sick children, and those who have been forced, or even sold into it. I wish there was some kind of decent employment they could take up.
‘But let me put you straight, Mrs Jennings. Not all girls who become whores are sad little victims. That is a myth, put about by self-righteous, men-hating women like your Mrs Slocum. Girls come to me for a variety of reasons, and there’s surprisingly few who are really desperate. I have boarders who arrived here in California looking for adventure, just like the men. I have ones who are just plain lazy and who do not want to get a job where they have to work hard. I have ones who think they might find a husband, others who just count the money they earn, and others who just do it because they adore sex. Do you think this place would be any fun for the men who come here if all the girls were reluctant? Every night is a party here, the pianist plays, my girls dance and often sing. If it weren’t so I wouldn’t be so successful.’
‘But the men,’ Matilda protested.
The Contessa laughed. ‘You have only been here in this town for a few days, Mrs Jennings, but from what I’ve heard you have created quite a stir. Why? B
ecause you are young and pretty, and I’m told very entertaining.’
‘What have I got to do with it?’ Matilda asked. She was surprised this woman knew so much about her.
‘Because you, my dear, are exactly what most men want in a woman. I don’t mean that every man you’ve met in town is lusting after you, far from it. For most of them who have left their wives and sweethearts thousands of miles away, it is enough just to see someone like you and admire you. But there are other men who need something a little more substantial than a smile or a chat. I fill that need.’
‘But this town is full of prostitutes,’ Matilda argued. ‘You may have the “gentlemen” in here, but what about the rest?’
‘All men have the same need, whether they be gentlemen, sailors, soldiers or gold miners,’ she said with a shrug. ‘When a man has spent weeks up to his waist in icy water, his tent blown away by the wind up in the mountains, and only the dream of great riches to keep him going, he needs a break now and then. Just holding a soft, warm female body in his arms for a few hours gives him the will to go on,’
‘You make prostitution sound almost holy,’ Matilda said scornfully. ‘It’s not, it’s grubby and demeaning.’
The Contessa gave her an arch look. ‘Not always,’ she said. ‘It can be tender, funny, relaxing, stimulating, and just plain exciting. Young men often learn to become great lovers through whores and in turn take that experience home to delight their wives. A man doesn’t have to pretend to be something he isn’t with a whore. In my time I’ve heard a great many men’s secrets, and sent them away feeling cleansed. I have known men who but for the affection shown to them by whores might have ended their lives by their own hand. Is that all grubby and demeaning?’
‘No, I suppose that isn’t,’ Matilda said reluctantly. ‘But when I was in London as a girl I saw a terrible side to it, girls selling themselves on street corners just for a few shillings to buy a meal. I wish there was some way those girls could be given a chance in life, before they end up in some back alley riddled with disease.’
‘You have a kind heart’ the Contessa said, reaching out to pat her hand. ‘You truly care about people, rather than just morality. I admire that.’
Matilda thought she’d stayed long enough. She could see the woman’s point. She even rather admired her for being so honest.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a boat to catch later. I can rest easier now I know the truth about Maria and Mr Slocum, that’s all I came for.’
‘Don’t rush off unless you really must,’ the Contessa said, her small lined face alight with real interest. ‘You see, I’ve heard so much about you from my gentlemen, what you looked like, how clever you are at sums. I heard tell you are a widow, with small children. I’d love to know your whole story!’
‘You learned all that in here?’ Matilda gasped. ‘Are you saying the men I’ve been doing business with are your “gentlemen”?’
The Contessa laughed. ‘Of course, my dear. Many of my best customers are pillars of society. But just like the gold prospectors, they like a little fun too. That surprises you?’
Matilda nodded. It was hard to imagine any of the serious, rather dull men she’d sold timber to whooping it up in here at nights and talking about her to this extraordinary woman.
‘If their wives were a little warmer, less concerned with propriety, I’d have no customers.’ The woman gave a wry smirk. ‘The women they are married to are as much whores as my girls, only they trade their bodies reluctantly for being looked after. But enough of that, I don’t often get the chance to have a good chin-wag with another woman. Do tell me how you came to America and why.’
Matilda wasn’t aloof by nature and since leaving Oregon she had often felt very lonely, and wished for another woman to talk openly to. Maybe she started out telling the Contessa about herself more from politeness than anything else, but the woman was so interested, so good at drawing her out, that before long she found herself telling her the entire story, concealing nothing.
‘I expect you are shocked I’m not really a widow,’ she said somewhat shamefacedly as she finished up with arriving at Cissie’s in Oregon. She was a little bewildered by why she’d revealed so much, yet she felt better for it.
‘Not one bit,’ the older woman said with a shake of her head. ‘All I think is how very plucky you are. But I’ll give you a word of advice now for the future. Saying your husband was a doctor isn’t too smart, it could be checked. And you might just run into someone who met you back in Independence or New York.’
‘But I can’t change what I said now,’ Matilda said in alarm. ‘Well, not here in this town, too many people have heard that.’
‘Almost everyone in this town is living a lie,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Don’t you worry too much about that. But if you should come back here one day, if I were you I’d refuse to say anything more on the subject. Eventually it will be forgotten and instead you will be something of a mystery.’
Matilda smiled. ‘Like you, I suspect?’
The Contessa gave her youthful, toothless smile. ‘Yes, I’m something of a mystery. From what I can see we have a great deal in common, Mrs Jennings.’
‘Call me Matty,’ Matilda said. ‘I’m more comfortable with that, especially now you know all about me.’
‘And me with Zandra,’ she said. ‘And if you do come back again, Matty, and I really hope you will, you must call on me.’ She paused and laughed. ‘Now, don’t you go thinking I want you for one of my boarders, nothing is further from my mind. I just like you, my dear.’
Matilda impulsively reached out and took her hand. ‘I like you too,’ she said. She was glad she’d stuck her nose into Maria’s business, for she would never have met this fascinating woman otherwise. How Cissie was going to love this story!
‘You must keep in touch with me,’ Zandra said with a smile. ‘I’d love to hear about your home and children, and how your business grows. I can pass on the gossip from down here, and perhaps new gentlemen in town that might want timber.’
Matilda liked that idea very much. She took out a pen, wrote down her address and handed it over.
Zandra wrote hers down too. ‘One more word of advice,’ she said as she handed it over. ‘Use a little of that money you have made here for some new clothes. Blue is your colour, Matty, not grey and green. I believe if one surrounds oneself with the right colours, one’s path in life suddenly becomes clear.’
As Matty got up to go she felt the oddest sensation of regret. Not at speaking so openly, more that she hadn’t met this woman when she first arrived and had time to get to know her better. Everyone who had been important in her life so far she’d met by pure chance, and she had the strangest feeling that Zandra was one of those. Maybe Zandra knew it too, for she stood up, took Matilda’s two hands and drew her closer to kiss her cheeks.
‘Au revoir,’ she said softly. ‘People use that as a goodbye in France. But the literal meaning is “till we meet again”.’
Chapter Seventeen
Matilda spotted Sidney’s unmistakable red hair amongst the crowd of people on the waterfront at Portland long before the boat came close enough for her to make out his face. She was surprised he was there because she wasn’t expected to return today, but delighted because it meant she wouldn’t have to try to get a ferry ride up to Oregon City.
She waved frantically. Sidney waved back, but for such an excitable, exuberant lad his return wave seemed rather muted. She would have expected him to jump up and down and yell out a greeting too, especially if he’d come all the way here on the off-chance of a boat coming in from California.
But as she got nearer to the waterfront she sensed something was wrong. Just the way he stood, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets, spelled out despondency. She thought maybe he’d fallen out with John and Cissie, and perhaps he’d come down here hoping to catch her and tell her his side of the story before returning home.
The boat docked and Matilda was the first
of the six passengers to jump off, not even waiting for help from one of the crew. But although Sidney rushed towards her, there was no excited cry of welcome home, he just flew at her, throwing his arms around her.
‘What’s wrong, Sidney ?’ she asked. But he just held her tighter, his slender body quivering and his face buried in her shoulder.
‘John’s dead.’
She heard what he’d said, but she didn’t believe her own ears. She grabbed him forcefully by the waist and pushed him away from her so she could see his face.
He was fighting to hold back tears, but his red-rimmed eyes and ghostly white face proved he’d been crying constantly for some time.
‘Dead!’ she exclaimed, a cold chill sweeping over her, even though it was a very hot afternoon. ‘How could he die?’
‘He was crushed by a load of timber,’ he blurted out. ‘Oh Matty, it’s so terrible. I dunno if I can even tell you it all.’
Severely shaken as she was, she took his hand, and ignoring the curious stares of people watching them, led him round the side of a shed and sat him down on a packing case lying there. Sitting down beside him, she drew him close in her arms and insisted he tell her the whole story right away.
‘It were ten days ago,’ he said with a gasping sob. ‘We got back to the sawmill with a load of trees on the cart, it was about five in the afternoon and tipping down with rain. John sent me off to fetch Bill Wilder, to help us unload it. I couldn’t find Bill straightaway, and so I reckon John must have got tired of waiting and got up on the cart to start unchaining the trees. He must have slipped in the wet, fell right down on the ground, and the trees toppled down on top of him. When I got back with Bill, we saw all the timber on the ground, but we couldn’t see John anywhere. Then I saw one of his boots sticking out.’
Sidney broke down, sobbing like a child. It was some minutes before Matilda could calm him enough to get the rest of the story. They couldn’t lift the trees, they were too heavy, so they yoked up the oxen to pull them off, one by one. Finally they reached John, but he was already dead.