Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  “A solo? You can’t mean it!”

  “Why not?” Pearlie inquired, smiling a little at Serena’s dismay.

  “I can’t. I haven’t the least claim to talent, even if I had time to think about what I should do.”

  “Neither do the other girls have talent, but they manage. All you need to do is make a loud noise to the music, smile and wink a few times, and move around on the stage enough to give the men a glimpse of what they will be trying so hard to see.”

  “I couldn’t.” Serena tried to keep her voice firm, but there was a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

  “You’ll manage.” Pearlie swung toward the door. “You will have to.”

  Serena stood staring at the costume in her hands long after Pearlie had slammed her way out of the room. She knew well enough what Pearlie intended. The woman wanted to embarrass her, and at the same time, present her as an available girl, a possible addition to the parlor-house roster. She had watched such tactics before when new girls came in off the street. She had watched as they smiled, leaning forward to shake their bosoms and allowing the men a clear view, or turned to swing their backsides, flipping up their skirts. Most tried to imitate their idea of a Parisian can-can. There had even been one girl who had gone so far as to do the high kicks in true French style, without her drawers. The miners had nearly brought the place down around her ears. The act had lasted only through the second night, however. A visit from the town sheriff, followed by a lucrative invitation from a combination dance hall and brothel called the Topic, had ended her stage career.

  With an abrupt gesture, Serena tossed the gaudy dress on the couch and watched it slither to the floor. She would not do it. She would not appear in public in such tawdry trappings, not even if she had to make her debut in corset and petticoats, like another of the more famous chanteuses along the avenue. At least such were not deliberately constructed to reveal body to all and sundry. If she had to make a fool of herself, there was no need to compound her embarrassment by doing it nearly naked.

  Her mouth in a straight line, Serena turned back into the bedroom. She had taken no more than two steps when she came to an abrupt halt. Her narrowed eyes fastened on the silk ball gown that lay across the bed. There had been a time, during a brief period of prosperity, when Serena’s mother had insisted she learn to play the piano and accompany herself as she sang. Her teacher had been Mrs. Walsh herself. Serena’s mother had enjoyed the advantages of both a French and an English governess as she was growing up. The knowledge she had acquired she had attempted to pass on to her daughter, including an appreciation of music. The two them, with much excitement and secret planning, had arranged concerts for Serena’s father. Clad in a silk dress made from one of her mother’s old gowns, with the soft ringlets of her hair caught up by a ribbon and her hands folded demurely in front of her, Serena had sang the sweet old melodies traditional to the Deep South. That had been long ago, of course. But what had pleased her father once might, with a few sophisticated touches, be acceptable to other men. It was worth the try.

  A short time later, as Serena descended the stairs in her mother’s gown, the idea of claiming the attention of the miners with soft, sweet airs seemed ludicrous. The rumble of men’s voices rolled toward her in profane waves, along with the clink of beer mugs, the slap of cards, rattle of dice, and monotonous drone of faro and roulette dealers. Above it all rose the sharp tinkle of a piano in ragtime, punctuated by the dull clang of the brass cuspidors that lined the bar as a tobacco-chewing customer found his mark. A blue fog of smoke hung in the air from cigars and hand-rolled brown-paper cigarettes. Combined with the smell of tobacco was the scent of woodsmoke from the potbellied stove that sat in the middle of the room, the sour odor of ale and beer, and the indescribably animalistic smell of unwashed men in close quarters. Those men not taking part in the gambling lolled in their chairs, laughing, swearing, ogling the bargirls that passed among them and pinching any section of their anatomies that remained too long within reach.

  Serena lifted her hand to the necklace of gold and seed pearls at her throat. How could the attention of such a boisterous crowd, in such a rude atmosphere, be caught by what she had to offer, much less be held? Nothing short of bright and brassy impudence combined with color and glitter could make them sit up and take notice.

  And if they did notice, what then? The men below expected their entertainment to be loud, fast, and titillating. If she disappointed them they might well boo her off the stage, or worse. She had heard that unsatisfactory performers at the music halls and vaudeville houses along the street were pelted with rotten eggs and overripe tomatoes and cabbages. Singing for her supper was one thing, having it thrown at her was something else again. In addition, the corset she wore, though it gave her a waistline of fashionable narrowness and increased the soft curves visible above the décolletage of her dress, also compressed her lungs so tightly she could barely draw breath, much less sing. It was partially the effect, no doubt, of hurrying to get dressed, but she was beginning to think a tight corset in the thin air of the mountains was a mistake.

  It could not be helped. Already the men in the barroom were turning to stare at her. There was nothing to do but descend.

  At the foot of the stairs she paused. Pearlie was nowhere to be seen, and she was uncertain of just what she was supposed to do. Otto Bruin, stationed nearby, pushed away from the wall and sidled toward her. He placed one enormous hand on the newel post in what he obviously considered to be a debonair pose, and gave her a wolfish grin that exposed yellowed teeth.

  “My, but ain’t you putty tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Serena replied, her tone cool as she spared no more than a glance in his direction.

  He reached out to finger the cap sleeve of her gown. Jerking his head toward Ward’s rooms above them, he said, “It’s shore gonna be nice to have you down here with us, instead of up there all by your lonesome.”

  “I’m glad you think so. For myself, I doubt it will make any difference.”

  Twitching her sleeve from his grasp, Serena stepped away from him, then struck out across the room. She made her way through the tables, taking a path which skirted the more crowded area. As she weaved in and out, avoiding a chair here and the outstretched legs of a drunken miner there, she flung a fleeting glance over her shoulder at Otto. A black scowl knifed between his small black eyes and his hands were propped on his hips as he stood staring after her. There was something so brooding and unpleasant about his stance that Serena looked quickly away again.

  As she turned back, she had to sidestep to keep from colliding with a man just pulling out a chair at one of the tables near the stage. Tall and thin, in his mid-thirties, he wore a gray-striped suit with leather patches on the elbows. There was a crooked smile on his angular face, and he carried a bottle by the neck in one hand and a glass in the other.

  “I’m sorry,” Serena said on a gasp. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing, ma’am, for standing like a statue when I sure saw you coming.”

  A faint color rose to her cheekbones at the admiration shining in his hazel eyes. Excusing herself, Serena slipped past him and hurried on.

  The stage of the Eldorado was located against the back wall between the staircase and the long, mirrored mahogany bar. Not large by any means, it was framed in red velvet draperies edged with gold fringe. The footlamps were coal-oil lanterns backed by reflectors. Between acts, a canvas curtain weighted by a boom and painted with a scene of snow-capped mountains encircled by advertisements for patent medicine and soap was rolled down. The piano sat at floor level at an angle to the stage so that Timothy could see what was going on. The pianist was a genial Welshman with a fair and true tenor voice who sang between shows and doubled as the announcer. In his early fifties, he had a broken nose, a weak eyelid that stayed half shut, and an appetite for warm beer. Mournful and boisterous by turns, he loved music and the ladies, not necessarily in that ord
er.

  “My, but you look beautiful tonight, Miss Serena,” he greeted her without missing a note of the polka he was beating out on the piano. “It’s a treat to have you down here among us, it is indeed.”

  The droop to his eyelid, almost like a wink, combined with his grin, made him look as if he were enjoying some droll joke. “Thank you, Timothy,” Serena said, summoning a smile. “I think Pearlie told you that I was suppose to sing tonight?”

  “That she did, sweetness.”

  “I have an idea of what I would like to do.”

  When he had heard her out, Timothy looked dubious. “You’re sure that’s what you want? You’re taking a mighty big chance, you know, love.”

  “Who is taking a chance?”

  The words, charmingly accented, were spoken by a woman who had strolled up behind them, placing a hand with casual familiarity on Timothy’s shoulder. It was the girl called Spanish Connie, the nearest the Eldorado had to a star for its nightly shows. Serena had watched her many times as she performed her turn upon the stage, dancing with fire and fury, or circulating with drinks about the gaming tables. She had little to do with the other girls, holding herself aloof from them. Most of the time she seemed to be involved in a running feud with them, one she extended to Pearlie herself on occasion. The costume she wore was of severe, form-fitting black velvet with a full, circular skirt that was caught up on one hip to reveal the lining, consisting of row upon row of fluted scarlet ruffles, and a shocking length of shapely leg encased in a black fishnet stocking. Her hair was parted in the middle, worn loose to float like a dark cloud upon her shoulders. Her dark eyes were surrounded by black, gleaming lashes and arching brows. The only other color about her was the flash of gold earrings in her ears and the brilliant carmine of her painted lips. Her sultry beauty and tempestuous manner made her a favorite among the miners, a factor that, with her ability to hold the attention of the crowd, made her place secure. It also allowed her to be discriminating in the men she allowed to escort her out the back door of the Eldorado, something of which she took full advantage. The abrupt and arbitrary way she made her choices was not popular, but few dared dispute it, just as few of the girls with whom she worked dared trespass upon her privileges. The reason was not hard to find. The high slit of her skirt opening as she danced exposed a sharp, jewel-handled stiletto thrust into a lace-edged black garter above her knee.

  Timothy glanced over his shoulder at the Spanish girl. “Serena here thinks she can flutter her fan, give the boys a few old ballads, and they will be satisfied.”

  The girl called Spanish Connie sent Serena a slow, considering look that began with the shiny ringlets piled on top of her head with one cascading over her shoulder and ended with the satin slippers peeping from the hem of her gown. Speaking as though Serena was not there, she said to the piano player, “You think they will not be, my friend?”

  “I have my doubts. But what’s more to the point, Pearlie left word she was to sing something lively and jump around, show what she’s got. If Serena here goes against her, there’s no telling what she might do.”

  “Bah! What does Pearlie know? She would like for me to do the same. Dress like the others, giggle and be stupid and coy like the others so she can stroll around like a peacock, the only one who is not acting silly.”

  “Peacocks who stroll around with their tails spread, Connie, my heart, are of the male persuasion.”

  “What does it matter?” the girl said, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand. “You know what I mean.”

  “I think I do, but where does that leave Serena?” Timothy had come to the end of the polka. He let his hands wander over the keys of the piano, providing easy background music.

  “I’m not sure,” Spanish Connie said, tipping her head to one side. “She looks beautiful, very pure and virginal.”

  “Like a lady,” Timothy said with a nod of agreement.

  “Exactly so, one who is unawakened. One for which a man might pay much, even all he has, to call his own. Not, you understand, just because she is pretty to look upon. It will be a thing of the mind, the true seat of desire. It will be because of the memories she will inspire.”

  “But Connie, my love, men come in here to forget, not to remember.”

  “They must be made to stop and think on the past. We will lower the lights. The stage will be dark except for, perhaps, a few candles. You will play softly with a sweetness that falls gently on the ear. Serena will move slowly into the candlelight — no, she will light the candles herself. She will spread her fan and cast down her eyes, and then she will sing — what will you sing, Serena?”

  To be included in the conversation was so unexpected that Serena stumbled over her answer. “I — I could sing ‘Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair.’ Or ‘Barbara Allen.’“

  “Yes, and you can sing slowly, most slowly and with sadness, the song that comes from your South, ‘Dixie’?”

  “Yes,” Serena said, a warm smile curving her mouth. “I could do that.”

  “But ‘Dixie’ is a march,” Timothy protested.

  Spanish Connie flicked his ear with her nails. “It is also a song of memories, and many, many of the miners come from that area that was once so rich and is now so poor.”

  “We’ll be lucky if anybody, lets her open her mouth,” Timothy snorted. “You know this ain’t what the boys will be expecting. They want to have a kick-up-their-heels good time, not have somebody remind them of their sweethearts and mothers, or a war that was lost.”

  “You are wrong, my friend. Everyone likes at times to feel a little sad. And then afterward, when I come out to clap my hands and dance the flamenco for them, to banish their woe and make them think of the delights of wickedness instead of goodness, they will be so grateful!”

  “Ah, Connie my girl, there’s a devil in you.”

  The Spanish girl smiled, shaking her hair back with a gesture that accented the exquisite lines of her throat. “I fear so, my friend, but what would you? There’s a devil in all of us.”

  “Even Serena?” Timothy said with a wink and a nod in her direction.

  “Especially Serena,” Spanish Connie said, her dark eyes wide. “Because she does not yet know he is there.”

  The other girl’s air of superiority did not sit well with Serena. Nevertheless, she could not help but be grateful for her aid. Smiling grimly, the Spanish girl whisked her back-stage, and sent for a brass candelabra and a teakwood stand to be brought from the parlor house as stage props. With sharp words and sheer presence, she held the other girls at bay, quelling both their feline curiosity and indignation at the special treatment being accorded Serena.

  From the sidelines Serena watched as the show began with a number to the tune of “The Old Gray Mare,” one that had the girls prancing about the stage pretending to be harnessed to a freight wagon, dodging the whip that one of the barmen, a man with waxed and curled mustachios, popped with gusto about their hips. The men in the audience laughed at the antics. Their guffaws rang louder still as the “team” turned on the driver and each girl brought out her own small ribbon-bedecked whip to retaliate in kind, chasing the luck-less man from the stage.

  Timothy, to slow the pace a bit, sang a medley of Irish tunes. Halfway through the last, he gave a nod to a barman, who began to lower the house lights. A mutter of protest arose from the card tables, growing louder as the last tenor note died away. Timothy gave a flourish upon the piano and began Serena’s introduction. Serena, clasping her hands together on an upsurge of panic, caught snatches of what he was saying. “Belle of the Old South, fresh from an engagement in New Orleans, the Queen City at the mouth of the Mississippi, where she bedazzled the opera crowds! The In-comparable, Serena!”

  The curtain creaked upward to show the darkened apron of the stage. Beside her, Spanish Connie struck a lucifer and lit a taper. Thrusting it into Serena’s hand, the girl gave Serena a small push.

  As she moved into view of the miners, the hubbub b
egan to die away, except for one slurred voice that kept calling, “Bring on the girlies, bring on the girlies!”

  Timothy played the introduction to the song she would sing, a soft, pensive melody in a minor key. As Serena touched the taper to the candles in the brass candelabra, the flames trembled with her uneven breathing. Glowing like tiny fires in the dark stillness of her eyes, the light cast a warm and golden glow over the lovely lines of her pale face and shoulders. It gleamed along the gold and pearls of her necklace below the black ribbon of her locket, and shimmered in the silken folds of her gown. Carefully timing her movements to the music, Serena finished her task, blew out the taper, and slowly spread the painted silk of the fan that hung from a cord at her wrist. On cue, her voice rose clear and sweet in the old love song.

  “Black, black, black is the color of my true love’s hair . . . his eyes, they are so wondrous fair—’ ”

  “What is this? What’s going on? Turn up the lights at once! Get her down from there!” It was Pearlie, making her way from the back door of the barroom, pushing through the tables, stumbling in the semidarkness. At the sound of her petulant anger, other voices joined hers, demanding light, and the girls. “Bring out the girlies—”

  Above this growing noise there were whistles and calls for quiet. Serena’s voice grew unsteady, threatening to break.

  It was at that moment that a man at one of the closer tables pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He stepped between Pearlie and the stage, effectively blocking her progress. Though he did not touch her, she stopped as though she had been jerked to a halt. The man inclined his head in a short bow.

  “I would rather you didn’t stop the show,” he said. I would like to hear her sing.”

  His words were not loud, and yet they seemed to carry. Pearlie’s reply was lost in the babble around her, but her look of stupefaction was enough. From where they stood silence began to spread, moving outward like the ripples in a pond.