Angélique went out to get supper for them that night, and brought back some roast chicken from a small restaurant nearby, carrots, potatoes, and a baguette. They shared it while they talked about their lives. Fabienne knew a great deal more about men than she did. All she knew about were the children she had just cared for, and the life she’d had growing up, which she didn’t explain in detail to Fabienne, nor who her father was.
“I’d like to get married one day,” Fabienne said innocently, sounding like any girl her age, as they finished their meal, “if anyone would have me. I’d love to have children.”
“They’re a lot of work.” Angélique smiled. “The woman I worked for had twins last time. They were very sweet.”
“That must have hurt a lot when she had them,” Fabienne said practically.
“I’m sure it did. She didn’t want any more after that.”
“Neither would I. One of the girls I worked with got pregnant last year, and she decided to keep it. She went home to her parents and left it there when she came back to work. But it’s nice when she goes home and sees it. Madame Albin doesn’t let girls go home very often, and most of them have no home anyway, or their parents won’t let them come back. The girl who had the baby told her parents she’s a dressmaker in Paris, and they believe her. I never went back to Marseilles, and I never will. I hate them,” she said, referring to her aunt and uncle. Angélique could understand why, after what her uncle had done to her.
They were both tired and went to bed early that night, and in the morning, Angélique woke up first, and lay in bed, thinking. Fabienne had opened her eyes to a whole other way of life. It sounded sordid and tawdry, but she had heard of women like that before. They were badly thought of and shunned by polite society, but she remembered hearing stories below stairs of houses where important men went, almost like clubs, where the women were shocking and unacceptable, but highly sought after privately by men. They were courtesans. It was a dark side of life she knew nothing about, but was suddenly intrigued by. And she mentioned it to Fabienne when she woke up, and they chatted over their morning café au lait and croissants from downstairs.
“Aren’t there some very fancy houses that do what Madame Albin does? I heard of it talked about in whispers. I think some very powerful men go there, to meet glamorous women away from their wives.”
“Of course,” Fabienne said knowingly, “but not like Madame Albin’s. Men like that don’t go to her. They have very elegant women, and the madams charge a huge amount of money. It’s all very secret, and very grand. I’ve heard about those houses too, but never been there.” Angélique was looking at her intently—they were like two young girls up to mischief. Angélique sat lost in thought for a minute.
“What would it take to put together a house like that?” Angélique said after a few minutes.
Fabienne laughed in answer. “A lot of money. A beautiful house, or a very nice one, beautiful clothes, gorgeous women, wonderful food and wine, probably servants. It would cost a fortune. And you’d have to make it like a secret club that everyone would want to come to, so important men feel comfortable there. You’d have to be very rich and know a lot of important people to do something like that.” She’d heard of a luxurious house like that near the Palais Royal, but had never met anyone who had worked there. It was a world away from Madame Albin’s.
“Have you ever known girls who worked in those places, not like Madame Albin’s?”
“I met one once. She said she used to work in one of the best houses in Paris, but she drank a lot, and got fat, and I think she stole money and they threw her out. She was very pretty though. And I heard about two others who went into business together, and had important clients. They made a lot of money, and retired to the South. Why?”
“What if we started a house of our own? I know it sounds crazy, but one of those really fancy ones, with a nice house, and some really beautiful girls, and important men would want to come there. Like a meeting place for those men, with girls. Do you think you could meet some girls like that?”
“I could try. I could ask around. They’re probably all in other houses, though. But if the house is nice enough, they might come, and they could bring their regular clients. But you’d need a lot of money to do it.”
“I might be able to get some, if it’s not too much. And it would have to be a safe place for the girls to work. Where they would be protected, and never treated badly, and they’d get a fair share of the money they make for the house.”
“Are you talking about a hotel or a bordel?” Fabienne teased her, but she could see a spark of excitement in Angélique’s eyes. She was thinking. It certainly wasn’t what her father had intended her to do with his money, but maybe if they did it for a few years, she could make some money, and then they’d all retire. And it would be a lot better for those women than working on the streets on their own, or in bad houses where they were exploited. She couldn’t think of what else to do now—she was never going to get a decent job, and her father’s money would buy her a home one day, but she couldn’t live on it forever. She still needed to work. And all respectable doors for good jobs were closed to her now. This seemed like a creative solution to the situation she was in, and a chance to make money to add to what her father had left her, so she wouldn’t have to be a nanny.
“I’m serious,” Angélique said. “What if we created the best bordel in Paris? One of the really luxurious ones, with the most beautiful women, where all the best men wanted to come? If I find the house, do you think you could find the girls, with good connections and important clients?”
“I could try. Do you really mean it?” Fabienne was stunned.
“I do.”
“How many girls do you want?” Fabienne was looking at her with admiration.
“How many do we need?” Angélique was learning a new business.
“Six would be good. Eight would be better. And what about you? Would you work too?” Fabienne was shocked that she’d consider it. Angélique didn’t look the type, but you never knew. Some of the most famous prostitutes in Paris looked like respectable women, and weren’t. Fabienne had heard of them. And they usually had important protectors.
Angélique shook her head at her question. “No, I wouldn’t. I would run it, and protect the women, and I’d even talk to the clients. But they can’t have me. That’s my one condition.”
“Most madams just run it, and some only have a few clients,” Fabienne said thoughtfully.
“Not even a few,” Angélique said with a look of steel in her eyes.
“All right then. It’s your house, your rules.”
“Find the girls, and not too young. They have to be interesting and experienced, and good to talk to.” Fabienne nodded—she was beginning to understand Angélique’s vision. It was far beyond anything she’d ever seen, but she liked the idea, and it was much better than going back to Madame Albin, or risking her life on the streets alone, being beaten up, and fleeing the police. “I’ll look for the house,” Angélique said. “Now you have to get well, so you can start looking for the girls.”
“Do you think you can really do it?” Fabienne asked her with a look of amazement. It sounded like a dream to her.
“I don’t know. Let’s try.” She didn’t want to squander her father’s money, she wanted it to work. “I want to have the best bordel in Paris.” And as they started to make a list of what they needed to make it happen, Angélique knew that destiny had just opened a door, and showed her a new path. It suddenly felt fated that she and Fabienne had met. Angélique looked over at her and smiled. A whole new life for both of them had just begun.
Chapter 11
Angélique began laying the groundwork for her plan that day. She took out her dresses to examine them. She wanted to look like a respectable widow when she went to search for a house to rent, and Fabienne could pose as her lady’s maid. She wasn’t going to buy a house, but rent in a good neighborhood, and not one where they would be too clo
sely observed.
She took out a dark navy silk dress with a slim waist, wide skirt, and lace collar, with a matching coat over it, which she had worn to dinner at Belgrave with her father, a deep red gown with a matching shawl and a high neck, and two simple black dresses that she had worn when she was in mourning, both of which would be serviceable in her role as genteel young widow, and her very bearing showed that she was an aristocrat, as well as the way she spoke. She had brought gloves with her, and a fan of her mother’s, and a small purse from Paris. She had what she needed to be convincing as a woman who wanted to rent a house in a proper neighborhood in Paris. And she had a very simple black wool gown she’d worn at the Fergusons’. She could add a bit of lace at the neck for Fabienne for her outfits as lady’s maid in the coming days while they set things up. All of the clothes that Angélique had were obviously of quality. But when she pulled her hats out, they looked sadly squashed after two years packed away. She held each gown up and studied it carefully. The fashions for respectable young women hadn’t changed much in two years, and she had always worn sober gowns, and not flashy ones like Eugenia Ferguson, in her case, more suited to her age and station as a duke’s daughter.
“Where did you get those clothes?” Fabienne asked as she watched her. They were the prettiest gowns she’d ever seen, in velvets and silks, with exquisite lace collars.
“I had them from before I was a nanny,” she said quietly.
“What were you? A queen?” she asked, only partly joking, and her new friend didn’t answer—she obviously had secrets of her own.
“Of course not.” She wished she had the rest of her clothes from Belgrave, but she had no way to get them. She wouldn’t dare ask Mrs. White, who would want to know what she was up to. She hadn’t written to her yet to tell her she had left the Fergusons, and wanted to find a new situation first, so she didn’t worry. And Tristan would never want to release her clothes or send her other trunks. He had probably thrown them all away by now, hoping never to lay eyes on her again.
“Can you stand up?” she asked Fabienne, whose ribs were still painful, but she did as she was told. She was a few inches taller than Angélique, but other than that their figures were similar, although Fabienne’s bust was slightly larger. Angélique held the simple black dresses up to her, and narrowed her eyes. “I can lower the hems. And with a bit of lace at the collar and cuffs, you’ll look like a very proper lady’s maid, and quite an elegant one at that.” She smiled at her.
“I’m going to be a lady’s maid?” Fabienne was shocked for a minute. That hadn’t been part of the plan.
“While we search for a house to rent. I’m a widow, you’re my lady’s maid, or my young cousin. We’ve just come from Lyon, to be near relatives here. How old do I look?”
Fabienne studied her intensely. “About fifteen,” she said honestly. She was lithe and small, and her pale blond hair somehow made her look younger than Fabienne’s dark mass of hair.
“That won’t do. Do you suppose I could look twenty-five or twenty-six?”
“Maybe with more elaborate dresses, with your bosom showing.”
“That’ll do when we’re at the house. I don’t want the clients to know I’m twenty. It’s all right for you to be young, but the clients and the girls won’t respect me if they think I am. I think I’ll be twenty-six. That’s a good age for a young widow.”
“What did your husband die of?” Fabienne grinned. She liked the part they were playing. She had never had so much fun in her life as with this enterprising young girl who had pulled her out of the gutter and nursed her at her hotel. Angélique was the angel of mercy in her life, and they were about to become two young devils together, if they followed Angélique’s plan.
“I killed him,” Angélique said matter-of-factly, and Fabienne laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, cholera, malaria, something dreadful. I’m quite heartbroken over it, or I will be when we rent the house. I’ll be a happy widow when we receive clients. But one who loved her husband deeply and won’t betray his memory, so that I’m untouchable to the clients. How does that sound?”
“Fascinating. I’m not sure if you’re crazy, or very, very smart.” Fabienne was sincere, and meant it.
“Let’s hope I’m a little bit of both,” she said seriously. “Crazy enough to do it, and smart enough to pull it off.” It was a wild stretch of the imagination. She had to acquire and set up a home, one that men would be drawn to, and run a business, selling the flesh of beautiful young women, who might be challenging to control. And she wanted it to work so that they would all make money, and could eventually go away pleased, and richer for what they’d done. She just wanted to make some money at it, to add to her father’s gift, and then retire. Fabienne said she wanted to make money and then leave Paris and get married and have children. She wanted to go back to the South, but not back home. Angélique had no idea where she’d go afterward. She had no home to go back to either, and no wish to marry, and be subjugated by a man. That seemed dangerous to her, and so many of them were dishonest. Her brothers were, and she had heard all the stories and backstairs gossip about Harry Ferguson. And Sir Bertie had wanted to have an affair with her and her employer. They all seemed like a bad lot, except her father, who had been a wonderful, honest man, and truly loved his wife.
“We’ll need new bonnets. My hats are a mess now. Something simple for you, and perhaps a big one for me to make me look older.”
“Won’t that be expensive?” Fabienne was worried.
“Probably. And we’ll need clothes for all the girls. Beautiful gowns. We don’t have to buy very expensive ones at first, but they’ll have to be elegant, for the kind of men we want as clients. You can’t all sit around in your underclothes like at Madame Albin’s. We’ll need to have a proper drawing room to entertain them like the gentlemen they are, and then you can show them the rest when you go upstairs.”
“How do you know all this?” Fabienne looked at her in fascination. Until then, Angélique had never met a prostitute in her life. Now she was ready to run a high-class brothel for the men who were the cream of Paris.
“I’m just making it up as I go along.” She grinned like a delighted child. “Do you feel well enough to go out today?” Fabienne’s face looked better, but she still had some bruises. The cut on her forehead was healing nicely, and her lips were no longer swollen. Her ribs were painful, but she could move around better, although she wouldn’t have wanted to wear a corset, and Angélique said she didn’t have to. It would make her look more like a lady’s maid not to highlight her youthful figure.
“And how old am I in this fairyland you’re inventing?” Fabienne asked her new madam. Fabienne already had great respect for Angélique, and what she’d done for her, and was intending to do. She had said several times that she would protect the girls and pay them well, which would be a strong selling point for all of them if it was true, and Fabienne believed her.
“Eighteen, I think. That sounds old enough,” Angélique said, laying their clothes out on the bed, and discarding the somber dress she had worn hoping to have interviews as a nanny. Her nanny life had just ended, possibly forever. Although if she had to, she thought she might be a governess one day. She liked the idea of teaching older children, well-born young ladies who wanted to learn. She was adept at languages, read voraciously, and had a good head for numbers, which would serve her well in her new business. She had often looked over the estate ledgers with her father and understood them.
Just from listening to her, and watching her, and seeing the clothes she had with her, Fabienne had guessed that she must have come from an aristocratic background and something had gone very wrong, but she didn’t want to pry, and thought that Angélique might tell her one day, when they knew each other better.
They dressed carefully then, after Angélique went downstairs to the laundry, to press their gowns. Angélique added a bit of lace to the neck of Fabienne’s dress, helped her arrange her hair simply, since she couldn’t rai
se her arms, and they left the hotel like two proper young ladies, hired a carriage, and went to a milliner the hotel had recommended, in the first arrondissement. When they got there, it was run by a very pretty older woman, and some of the hats were fabulous. Fabienne wanted to try them all. Angélique indulged her with one exceptionally pretty light blue one that framed her face, bought one small simple black one to go with her imaginary role as a lady’s maid, and bought three very elegant ones for herself that went with the gowns she had with her. They could share most of their clothes with a little adjustment here and there.
They had dinner at a respectable restaurant, with Fabienne’s eyes agog. She had never been in a place like it before. And with Fabienne with her, Angélique no longer looked questionable being alone.
After dinner, they went to meet with a “notaire” who handled real estate transactions, including the rental and sale of houses. Fabienne nearly choked when Angélique told him when they got there that she needed quite a lot of bedrooms, as her six children would be joining them.
“Six children?” Fabienne whispered when the notaire, who was like a lawyer, went into another room to get some files to show them. “Are we running an orphanage?” Angélique just smiled, and the man returned a moment later to describe three houses to them, all of them for rent. One of them was fearsomely expensive, and Angélique could tell he was testing the waters and how far she would go. She said demurely that it was a little out of her budget and the pension her late husband had left her. But the other two were possible. Both had handsome gardens, and one of them seemed crowded from the drawings, with all of the bedrooms crammed together. The other had a large reception room, a drawing room, a dining room, and a small parlor on the main floor. A kitchen and four maids’ rooms were in the basement, and ten bedrooms divided five to a floor on the two top floors, plus a very handsome master suite, and some additional smaller rooms in the attic. The notaire said it was in good condition, the owners had moved to Limoges, but wanted to keep the house and rent it. The husband was a wealthy factory owner, and the rental price was more or less what Angélique had hoped it would be. It was across the street from a small park, and around the corner from another. The only less attractive feature of the house, he admitted, was that it was in an alley on its own, on the fringes of an excellent neighborhood but not exactly in it, and the kind of people who wanted a house as large and fine as that wanted to be in the heart of one of the best areas, not simply on the outer reaches of it, which for Angélique’s purposes was absolutely perfect. They did not want to be surrounded by respectable households, outraged by male traffic in and out of the house, particularly if they were successful, and anyone was observing them closely. The alley and borderline location couldn’t have been better suited to them, if they had designed it themselves.
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