Chapter One
Renault turned the brass carriage handle sideways and stepped down the steep pedal of the silver foot brace. Once his feet were on solid ground, he unfastened his suit coat and reached his hand into his vest pocket. He drew out his diamond encrusted pocket watch, holding the glittery, round, golden shell casing close to his face as he squinted in the dark to see the position of the hands. Nine o’clock exactly. Yes, that would make sense. He’d left his manor on Lake Pontchartrain at half past seven this evening. The fifteen mile carriage trip from his home to the center of the sprawling town of New Orleans usually took a full hour and a half. He slid the watch back into his pocket, relieved that he was on time for this evening’s engagement. He could almost hear his dead father’s nagging voice in his ear, “Punctuality is a sign of good breeding. A true gentleman never disrespects his party by keeping them waiting.” He liked to think of himself as just that, a true gentleman, even if his father never did.
He stepped away from his carriage and walked a short distance down narrow, dimly lit Basin street. He was thankful that he had the sidewalk all to himself. It was Saturday night and very soon, the street would be littered with men on the prowl. He’d never been fond of crowds, and the older he got, the truer that was. When he reached the spiked, bronze fence with the number 1800 imprinted in black lettering on the address plaque hanging from the fence post, he stopped. He opened the gate and slowly made his way down the center of the newly groomed courtyard, which was one of the finest he’d ever seen. The colorful field of chrysanthemums on both sides of him were arranged with conservative panache, a bonny pop of purple, orange and yellow here and there, not overly theatrical and commercialized, but just enough personality and flair to make him feel warm and welcome. Like he was visiting the home of a close friend. The lattice trellis that marked the end of the garden walkway was no less remarkable, with trim, waxy vines of deep green foliage and inserts of tiny white flowers that still bore the distinctive smell of vanilla, though summer was officially over.
After he passed under the trellis and was out of the garden, he started his climb up the short flight of well traveled cobblestone stairs. It was when he stood on the top stair, next to the weathered door with the crackling red paint that marked the entrance to the quaint, two story building, that he found himself overcome by a sudden shortness of breath. He quickly inhaled as much of the stagnant night air as he could, exhaling in long, slow puffs and then inhaling once again until his lungs were fully expanded. Perhaps he’d climbed the stairs too fast. Or he’d drunk too much wine on an empty stomach. He could use either of these pitiful excuses to explain the reason for the onset of his mysterious illness, but in his heart, he knew the truth. It was the guilt of his own depravity that was suffocating him. He stood in front of the grandest, most talked about whorehouse in all New Orleans.
Rumor had it that the Madame here was a matchmaker par excellence who always knew which girl to pair with which man, insuring a happy client who returned time after time. She was also said to be a bit of a visionary who was of the opinion that in the future prostitution in New Orleans wouldn’t just be tolerated and punished by a slap on the wrist for violating the Vagrancy Law as it was now, but on some level, it would be legalized and contained, controlled by city officials in order to placate a morally incensed public who wanted to see every whore in the city put in one spot instead of gallivanting up and down their pristine sidewalks.
No matter how prophetic the Madame at this particular location was or what course copulating for coin took in the future, Renault knew that keeping company with these lewd women was frowned upon by every member of decent society now. No one he knew would approve of him being here, not even his lascivious friend Hubert Raggart. His head began to ache as he debated whether he should stay here and feed his lust or go home and save his good name, and his soul. He was still weighing the pros and cons of which course of action to take when the door fully opened.
“Monsieur Renault?” asked the craggy voiced, silver-haired woman with the hanging jowls as she greeted him.
His decision was made for him. There wasn’t any point in leaving now that his presence no longer remained a secret. He shook his head.
“I’m Madame Cheney,” she said, with a puckered smile on her face. Her black eyeliner was thick and clumpy, caked in the corners of her sunken, gray eyes. The bright pink blush on her cheeks was layered on so heavily, it looked like a bored child had applied it, and kept reapplying it until the rouge pot was empty. The face powder she wore was too dark for her sallow complexion and clung to every dry wrinkle on her forehead. Though the ivory colored cameo brooch nestled in the cleavage of her ample bosom added a slight bit of class to her ensemble, overall, her frilly scarlet dress was too small for her frame. She reminded Renault of the stuffed sausage he’d eaten for dinner last night.
“Please come in. We’ve been expecting you.”
He knew by the taut, displeased look on her face when her gaze landed on his cheek, that he was about as far away from what she was expecting as a man could get, at least in terms of his physical appearance. Perhaps she was hoping to see a more attractive man, a man who wouldn’t present such a challenge to her celebrated reputation as a matchmaker. He should’ve mentioned the peculiarity of his appearance in his introductory letter. But it wasn’t a subject he liked to dwell on.
“May I get you something to drink?”
“That won’t be necessary Madame Cheney. As I explained in my letter, I will not be staying long,” he replied, in a tense tone.
“Yes, of course. You will take the…” she paused, as if she was trying to find the best descriptive word for what she was offering, “merchandise to your beautiful home near the lake. Let me just say that you won’t be disappointed. Our girls are not only the finest looking in town, but also the cleanest and most accommodating. That’s something you shall see for yourself.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her thin red lips, her chubby little hand now stuck squarely in front of him. “Payment is due in advance sir.”
Renault slid his hand under his open suit coat, this time drawing a bulbous, coin filled, leather drawstring pouch out of his front pants pocket. Madame Cheney might not have been impressed with his looks, but he could tell by the way that her sharp, beady eyes remained focused on his pouch that she was impressed with his wealth. He dropped the pouch into her palm.
“Thank you.” She tucked the coin in her dress pocket. “Now that we have that out of the way, tell me what it is that you like. Do you prefer dark skinned girls? Pale? Tall? Petite?”
He took a step deeper inside the room. His eyes transfixed on the double wide staircase that led up to the second floor. Like the garden outside, the staircase inside was an exemplary work of art. The flat, golden handrails that encased the shellacked oak pole shaped balusters on both sides of the staircase were simple, yet sleek and eye catching. But what really deserved an extra round of applause was the white carpeting that extended from the bottom of the staircase to the top. The fluffy, white fibers on each stair were so tall and loose that Renault felt as if he were looking at a big, beautiful cloud that had fallen from the sky to the earth. He could imagine how soft and giving it would be under his bare feet.
“It’s Greek,” Madame said out of the blue.
“Pardon me?”
“The carpeting on the staircase. It’s imported from Greece. I saw you staring at it. It’s a favorite with many of our gentlemen. It’s made from hand cut sheep’s wool. The wool is carried up to a mountain waterfall, then washed for hours in a deep vat. It’s the friction of the stream of water against the wool fibers that give the carpet it’s soft touch and shaggy look.”
“It’s exceptional.”
“Yes. You will find that everything we offer here is exceptional.”
Renault watched in silent fascination as a plump, baby faced boy made his way up the staircase, followed behind by a skeletal, bowlegged, grey haired man who was so old and rickety that it seemed like he needed to lean on the arm of his determined young female escort to stay upright. He liked to think that he had something in common with both the adolescent and the old man. The youngster was looking for his first love, the old man his last love, and Renault his only love. He recoiled slightly as the pushy Madame Cheney slid her arm through his.
“Please sir. Let me help you choose. Tell me what you like and I shall see that you are made happy. Our girls are extremely well versed in the art of, um, lovemaking.”
She placed soft emphasis on the last word. It seemed as if she knew he might be more at ease hearing a sweet, tender word to describe his salacious fornication rather than a harsh vulgar one. The fact that Madame Cheney might have guessed that he preferred to distort the truth, to make something ugly sound like it was something pretty, made him like her even less.
“You shall not find a timid one among them,” she continued. “I’ve heard from several gentlemen that any one of our girls is worth any five of Madame Gris. Though her hires come close to ours in terms of physical beauty, they bury themselves beneath the sheets once naked and lie still and silent as dead dogs during coitus. I can’t imagine being pleased by such childish behavior.”
He looked at her incredulously. It was obvious that she had no qualms about her immoral role as a flesh peddler. She talked about her girls as if they were unfeeling, mindless horses she was trying to sell rather than sentient human beings. While her dehumanizing and solicitous manner irritated him it also made him a little envious. How he wished he could be like her and shove his conscience aside. Take pleasure in his sinful behavior without feeling an ounce of guilt. “Who, may I ask, is Madame Gris?”
“Oh, forgive me. I forget this is your first time with us. Madame Gris is the proprietress of the single story, red brick Georgian kitty corner from my house here. She’s a most foul looking woman, short and squat, with a nose as big and red as that of a circus clown. Usually, she’s completely drunk by midday and I don’t, for the life of me, see how she is able to turn any profit at all.” She stared out into space as if she were lost in thought. “I suppose it’s because she caters to a very specific clientele, those who prefer only the very young. I take it you’ve never visited her establishment?” She raised a brow.
Renault turned his face away from Madame Cheney. As a matter of fact, he had visited Madame Gris’s establishment. It was years ago, but he still remembered the shy, flat chested blonde haired child in the ankle length, sequined white gown that had approached him at the door. She looked to be about eleven years old, twelve at best. When he’d realized that all the girls here were still almost babies, he’d bolted out of Madame Gris’ door quicker than he’d bolted in. He couldn’t change the world, but that didn’t mean that he had to knowingly contribute to the disgraceful exploitation of the innocent. “No. I’ve never been to that establishment.”
“Well, I say that variety is the spice of life. We have something for everyone here.” She took her eyes off him and directed her gaze to the top of the stairs. A look of disgust flashed across her face.
Curious to see what had stopped the old woman’s incessant chattering, he let his eyes follow her line of sight to the top landing. It was then that he saw the magnificent, dark haired beauty that took his breath away. She was standing tall and still at the top of the stairs. She didn’t have her tresses pinned back and off her face like all the other girls, but instead wore her mass of luxurious raven curls long and loose, wild and untamed. With the backdrop of sea blue wall behind her and the white carpeting under her feet, she looked a little like an angel floating in the sky. He could feel his pulse quicken with her slow walk forward. In his mind he’d already stripped the clinging black lace dress she wore off her back. The long gown lay softly in a seductive puddle at the foot of his bed as their naked bodies intertwined. It was when she stepped into the full light and he saw the clear outline of her face that his carnality evolved into concern. He knew that look in her eyes.
It was the same vanquished, hopeless look that he’d seen in his eyes when his gypsy jailer had smashed his face into a mirror for refusing to crawl on all fours and growl like a beast in front of the packed circus tent during his first night in captivity. He’d been in such pain, both physically and mentally, that he’d prayed for a quick death. Looking up at the beautiful stranger’s tortured face, he couldn’t help but think that she wanted the same thing now that he’d wanted then. He watched in horror as her fingers wrapped themselves around the head of the sturdy gold rail. He had a gut feeling that she wasn’t using the railing for support, but rather, as a catapult, a means of getting the best possible leverage for her long jump down.
Dangerously close to the ledge’s edge she raised her dainty foot off the solid deck of the step beneath her. The pointed toe of her pink satin slipper carelessly tread the cusp of empty air as she leaned her stiff body forward. He had to end this madness. No longer able to remain passive, he took a small but well-calculated step towards her. He was in her visible horizon now. She turned her face his way. Her dark gaze locked on his for only the briefest of moments, as if even this tiny smidgeon of intimacy were beyond her bearing. He didn’t know whether it was the persuasiveness of his stare or the power of divine intervention that jolted her free from her demonic possession, but he did know that he sighed with relief as she made her way back to the middle of the room. Her sanity and her equilibrium seemed fully restored. Though he hadn’t touched her in any way he already felt connected to her, spiritually and emotionally. She was someone who seemed to know as much about living in pain as he did. He looked at Madame Cheney and pointed to the dark haired beauty. “I want her,” he said, without reservation.
Madame Cheney looked up at the girl and then back at Renault. She frowned. “Lilah? If you don’t mind my saying so, Lilah is a bad choice. She’s beautiful and I suppose she’s somewhat intelligent, but she’s very disagreeable.” Her voice was strained. “No man has ever asked for her twice.”
It was strange that Madame Cheney had spent the whole evening bragging about how skilled and willing to please the customers her girls were and now that he had chosen one, she seemed frustrated by his choice. He didn’t understand why she wasn’t patting herself on the back, happy that she’d made the sale.
Madame Cheney shook her head from side to side. “No, sir. Lilah isn’t for you. I think I can find a better match.”
Renault watched the old woman’s dull, gray eyes roam the length of the bordello. To the bench of the unoccupied Grand piano forte to her right, to the taupe, cane back settee midway through the room, where a bearded man and his buxom brunette leisurely sipped on full glasses of red wine, to the empty ladderback bar stools lined up along the edge of the bar’s cherry colored countertop to her left, then to the high, four fold screen of the black and white room divider that marked the entrance to a private side room.
“Ah!” She pointed her gnarled finger towards the uncommonly tall Oriental girl with the black hair and sky blue almond shaped eyes who emerged from behind the screen. “How about Xin Xin? She’s our best.”
As if on cue, the Oriental girl smiled at Renault. She had a strange, lopsided smile, almost a smirk, which immediately made him uneasy.
He saw the tight, worried look on Madame Cheney’s face when he didn’t answer.
“Maybe not. Xin Xin is very skilled. But perhaps a simple, unassuming girl would better suit you.” Madame said as she looked to her right.
Renault turned his face back to Lilah. She hadn’t moved an inch. “But I want-”
“Becky!” Madame called out to the pretty blonde girl who was standing by the window, petting the feathered head of a fat yellow parakeet through the distressed, salmon colored cage bars. She snapped her fingers together. “Come here, girl.”
The curvaceous blond ran to Madame Cheney’s side like an obedient dog to it’s master.
“Have you ever seen such a pretty face Monsieur? Such beautiful green eyes and such full pink lips? And her skin, so soft and smooth. She could be any artist’s muse.” She gently caressed the pretty blonde’s cheek. “Becky was made for loving. Touch her. See for yourself,” Madame said, grabbing Renault’s hand and placing it on the open neckline of Becky’s sheer, pink blush dress.
He jerked his hand away. He wanted Lilah. Not Xin Xin. Not Becky. Not any of the other girls in the bustling bordello. He resented Madame Cheney thinking that she knew what his wants and needs were better than he did. He wasn’t weak minded and she needed to know that. “Madame, I fail to see the problem,” he barked. “If the girl I have chosen is so bad for business, then why do you keep her on?”
“It was an arrangement that was made between the-” her top and bottom lip clamped down on each other like a vise. She fixed her eyes on his. “Very well sir,” she sighed. “If it’s Lilah you want, then it’s Lilah you shall have.
Renault flashed Madame Cheney a condescending smile, gloating about having gotten his own way. But his victory smile didn’t stay on his face for long. It was replaced by a scowl when he saw the tight circle of females that had begun to gather around him. Each of them glanced at his face then turned away once he looked back at them. The familiar sound of their snickering made him wince. He was fully aware that the mask he wore on his face had become the current topic of their conversation.
He’d always tried to take comfort in the fact that his mask was the best money could buy. It was simple in design, consisting solely of an ultra thin, round, black leather patch that lay flat and flush over the apple of his left cheek. Like a well tailored layer of second skin, the leather mask covered only the area of damaged flesh that it needed to cover and no more. Though there were no ear straps, he never had to worry about it falling off because it was held securely in place by Spirit Gum, a newly marketed, long lasting, easy to remove adhesive which was a favorite among many modern stage actors. It was light years better than the bulky, inflexible piece of iron that his mother had made him wear for the entirety of his childhood, that had covered almost the whole left side of his face and looked more like an instrument of torture that belonged in the scold’s bridle collection than it did on a child’s face. He buttoned up his suit coat. He was ready to leave. “Well Madame?”
Madame Cheney looked up at Lilah. Wiggling her index finger in the air, she motioned for her to come down the stairs.
Lilah stayed where she was, seemingly ignoring Madame Cheney’s command.
“Jorge,” Madame Cheney shouted to the gargantuan man lurking by the entrance door.
Renault’s nostrils burned as the sweaty, ogre faced giant with crater sized pockmarks on his chin and forehead stepped closer. In a room full of perfectly coifed and perfumed gentlemen he looked completely out of place. Like a wild boar in a field of gazelles. Maybe that was the point. Perhaps it was Madame’s subtle way of giving every man here fair warning, letting them know that if they should decide to supersede her authority and bypass her rules, whatever those rules might be, they’d have to answer to this hulking, almost subhuman looking brute. After seeing Jorge, even if Renault had been inclined to get rowdy, he would’ve thought twice. The rumors were true. Madame was a savvy businesswoman.
“Ma’am?”
“Go fetch Lilah. If she doesn’t want to come, remind her of her responsibilities.”
It wasn’t what Madame Cheney said that made the hair on the back of Renault’s neck stand up. It was the mean and hateful way that she said it. It sounded dictatorial and menacing, almost like a veiled threat.
“Yes, ma’am.” In no time at all, Jorge stood directly by Lilah’s side. He bent over her still body and whispered in her ear, the words he muttered prompting her to cast a hateful glance in Madame Cheney’s direction.
Renault’s eyes followed Lilah as she slowly descended the long flight of stairs. When she was at the bottom, she turned and walked his way. Once she was close, he straightened his shoulders and his back, hoping to draw her attention from his ugly face to his tight, muscular chest. He needn’t have bothered with the posturing for she walked right past him without looking at any part of him at all. She jerked her red shawl off the hook by the front door. He felt agitated at her slight, but he also felt somewhat consoled. This was the first time that his garish, magnetic mask had failed to suck someone into its orb, the first time it didn’t receive the attention that it demanded. Maybe Renault’s mask wasn’t all that important to Lilah. The cold, clammy feel of Madame Cheney’s hand in his disrupted his train of thought.
“It was very nice to meet you,” she said.
“Yes.” He replied, momentarily turning his gaze away from Lilah and onto Madame Cheney. “It was-” His strong voice was drowned out by the sharp slam of the heavy front door and the disappearance of his date.
“Ah.” Madame Cheney glanced at the door then back at Renault. “That’s our darling Lilah,” she said facetiously. “She likes to make an exit. But don’t worry. She’ll be waiting for you outside.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Good. You know Monsieur, there are some gentleman that would be bothered by such a spirited girl. But I see that you aren’t one of them. Perhaps you’ve made the right decision by picking Lilah after all,” she said smugly.
It would’ve been more honest if she would’ve called him an idiot to his face and skipped the patronizing speech. He was positive that she no more believed that Lilah was the right choice now then she had when he’d first picked her. Judging from Lilah’s brusque behavior so far, he couldn’t help but feel that Madame might be right, though both his pride and his dislike of Madame wouldn’t let him admit it. “Goodnight,” he said stiffly, turning away from Madame Cheney.
“Goodnight, sir.”
As the bordello door closed behind him, he shifted his full attention to Lilah. She may have been disagreeable, but she was also young and helpless. He saw her standing on the street corner, alone, the fringe of her shawl whipping around in the breeze of the chilly night air. She was easy prey to the vagrants that he knew lurked close by. His step quickened. “Get hold of yourself Renault,” he mumbled, as he slowed his pace and fought the need to protect her building up inside of him. The last time he’d let his misguided feelings of male chivalry tug at his heart strings, he was lured into a gangway by the teary-eyed whore Carol Anne and robbed at knifepoint by her and her male cohort.
Maybe Lilah was planning to do the same thing now. Her display of vulnerability at the top of the stairs might’ve been meant to render him off guard, soften him up for the kill. He walked towards her, warily looking first to his right then to the patch of dark space to his left. Good. There was no movement in the shadows. He waved to his coachman, William, parked under the lamppost by the side of the road, to bring the closed top carriage around. Once the carriage drew to a stop, William jumped down, preparing to help Renault’s guest up the steep, carriage stairs. “That won’t be necessary,” Renault said, halting him in his tracks. ‘I can help her.”
“As you wish sir,” William replied, slightly confused.
Renault had never offered to help anyone in or out of the carriage before. He felt flushed. He hoped William could not guess the reason for his uncharacteristic behavior, which was the rather desperate need to touch Lilah, even if only her hand. “Come,” he said, extending his trembling hand to her.
She didn’t take his hand, but instead gave him an icy look. She grabbed the edge of the carriage door, trying to balance herself as she clumsily moved up the carriage steps on her own. He climbed into the carriage after her and slammed the door shut. He had no doubt that the reason she had refused his gentlemanly gesture was to make him feel like a low down cur, to remind him that he was anything but a gentleman. And at the moment that was exactly how he felt.
