Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “But I can do more serious pieces.” She waved a hand at her satchel. “These are fluff.”

  He lifted the lid on a wooden box inlaid with mother of pearl, extracted a Cuban cigar, snipped the end, lit it. “Yes, but necessary for the circulation numbers. And how can I expect serious reporting from you after the stunt your shoulder pet pulled yesterday? All day, I’ve fielded complaints.”

  Criminy. So much for hoping he hadn’t heard. She eased back and straightened her skirts. “An aberration. It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not, or you’ll no longer be reporting for the society column, much less any serious assignments. You’re valuable because you come from that world—you, they trust. But these antics must stop.”

  She swallowed, confidence flagging. “Yes, sir.” She wrinkled her nose at the cigar’s sweet aroma, just like Father’s.

  “Speaking of the party, do you have the write-up?”

  Adele sighed. “Yes, here it is.” She pulled the typed article on the insipid party from her leather and brass satchel.

  “That’s a good girl.” He puffed on his cigar, and blue smoke curled up, mixing with the dust motes dancing in the window’s dappled light. “That will be all.”

  She gripped the chair arms, the carved wood cutting into her palms. Good girl, my bustled bottom. She flexed her fingers.

  “I’d like a shot at Mr. Fry’s position.”

  He snorted, waved toward the door, and picked up a report.

  “I’m serious.”

  He clamped his lips around his cigar. “I know, and that’s what’s making it so hard for me not to laugh.”

  Her muscles snapped taut, and she inhaled sharply. Pompous little weasel. She pictured Loki leaping across the cluttered desk, knocking papers and inkwells to the floor, latching onto his bourbon-veined nose, wreaking havoc on his face. Maybe even a defecation or two in his precious cigar box.

  One by one, each muscle eased, and she leaned back. “What if I turned in a spectacular piece, exposing some underworld activity? Or a sordid city council tale?” A bustling town like Mobile, bursting at the seams with new workers, had to be ripe for scandal.

  He ashed his cigar and returned to the report.

  In her imagination, Loki was pulling out Mr. Tonti’s left eyeball. A nice, satisfying shthwop as it popped free. Now the other. Yes. And Loki juggling them, screeching in delight. And Mr. Tonti worked on, unfazed.

  His face turned up, complete with healthy and decidedly whole eyes. “You’re still here?” His voice was an equal mix of boredom and surprise, which galled.

  Her skin tightened all over, as if her will, her very spirit, were being constricted, and the only way to keep it flexible was to jiggle. Her feet, her legs, her fingers. Anything.

  She counted to three. Then five. “I’m serious, Mr. Tonti. I can write as well as the men, and I insist on being given this chance.”

  “You insist, do you?”

  “Yes.” She squirmed.

  “Why should I give you the position when there are plenty of capable men?”

  She shot to her feet, unbalancing Loki, who fell to the desk and scattered papers, freakishly playing out her fantasy. Not his eyeballs!

  Lest Loki do more damage, she grabbed her monkey around his armored waist and returned him to her shoulder. She straightened her spine, her chin tilted upward. “Sir. Are the pieces I’ve turned in so far of a satisfactory nature?”

  He tucked his lips into a firm line, as if aware of her thoughts’ direction and not one bit pleased. “Yes.”

  “As good as any man’s?” She bit back slapping him with the common cant of the day: You’re no Lincoln. Though typically applied to those behind the times in racial relations, she thought it apt.

  His eyebrows formed a V. Arms folding across his chest, he leaned back in his chair, which feebly squeaked. “If a man wrote such articles.”

  “What if I applied my talent to a more challenging topic?”

  “How committed to this are you? How can I be sure you’ll stay and not grow tired of this? Plus, you’ll be married some day. Frankly, I don’t have time to indulge the whims of society misses.”

  “I know what I want. I want to make a difference. Please, give me a chance, and I’ll prove it.”

  He rubbed the crease between his eyebrows. He glared at Loki and picked up the fallen papers from the highly polished pine floors. “Fine. You have two weeks. Quantity and quality, that’s what I want. Then I’ll pick the best man for the position.”

  At her best squinty glare, Mr. Tonti amended, “The best reporter for the position.”

  She bounced several times on her toes, a sudden buoyancy bubbling through her, needing escape. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

  “I already do. And I’m not responsible for any harm that befalls you.”

  Adele raised a fist in triumph, Loki mimicking. Unladylike, yes, but if the occasion didn’t call for it, she didn’t know what would.

  Mr. Tonti rolled his eyes and flapped his hands back and forth. In other words, “Skedaddle, thank you very much.”

  Adele turned away and rolled her lips. No. Not the time to get in the last word. She strode from the office, a familiar tingle running through her, lightening her steps: anticipation and excitement.

  The hunt was on.

  Adele zoomed Miss Smarty Pants toward the red light district. She hoped to gain entrance into one of the brothels and begin the new story idea she’d conceived last night. She’d read of Nelly Bly’s recent return from circumnavigating the globe for her newspaper. Miss Bly was an inspiration, to be sure. Adele had been in awe ever since she’d read about her going undercover at a lunatic asylum. The bravery. The strength that took.

  Curled up in bed, teetering between sleep and wakefulness, Adele had let her mind drift. It merged Bly’s achievements with an article she’d read in yesterday’s paper regarding a new organization of concerned ladies on the perils of sin and lewd behavior and targeted the brothels as examples of institutions that needed to be shut down.

  Adele had had to bribe one of the pressmen to get a list of establishments and their locations. A couple of rude gestures from Loki had helped the proceedings.

  Now she coasted to a stop at the first on her list, a modest Victorian home on St. Louis nestled between others of like quality, the only clue to its illicit nature its bright red front door. Adele skipped up the granite steps, the noon sun having decided to come out and play, casting leaf-shaped shadows across her path as it filtered through a nearby cabbage palm.

  She rapped what she hoped was a brisk and business-like knock on the red enamel paint.

  A young girl about her own age, answered the door. She glanced at Adele’s familial tattoos, and her eyes widened. “What have we here?”

  “Hello, I was wondering if I could speak with the establishment’s owner?”

  The girl gave a tiny shrug and opened the door wider. Adele stepped inside. Triumph pumped through her. She was inside a House of Ill Repute! What would one of their public rooms look like? Sexual congress held a fascination for her, and she had anticipated satisfying her curiosity when she married Pascal. But their relationship had soured, and she’d broken it off, and she was left...wondering.

  She bounced on her toes and stepped into the room indicated by the girl. But what struck Adele at first, almost physically, was the cloying smell. The room swam in a heavy floral scent—roses?—undercut by a musky aroma.

  Then the visual overload smacked her. Modern furniture—the wood polished to a high gleam—crowded the room, settees and lounges being the main types. Throw pillows in sensual shades of deep red and purple abounded. Lots of gilded mirrors of varying shapes and sizes. Plush rugs overlapping each other, silk curtains with beaded fringe.

  She stepped farther into the room and drank it all in. Her pulse quickened imagining the room teeming with carousers and sinful activities. She ran a hand along the wall as she walked, fingers brushing along the red-fl
ocked patterned wallpaper, sensually lush.

  A swish of skirts. Adele turned—the madam. A middle-aged woman in a scarlet morning dress swept into the room, an invisible cloud of stifling perfume entering with her. “What a signal honor. To what do I owe the pleasure of such a visit from a lady? I just had to find out.”

  Adele stepped forward and stuck out a hand. “I’m Miss de la Pointe, reporter for the Mobile Register.”

  The madam lifted a black penciled eyebrow, but shook Adele’s hand, her grip firm. “Madam Sophie.”

  An energetic rush coursed through her. People were taking her seriously as a reporter. She smiled and curtseyed.

  Madam Sophie flicked a ring-encrusted hand to a settee, and they sat. Adele pulled out a pad and pen. “Is it okay if Loki sits on your couch?”

  “As long as he doesn’t ruin it.”

  “He’ll be good, I promise.” Adele shifted and crossed her ankles, motioning for Loki to sit and behave. “Thank you for receiving me. I wanted your permission to go undercover as one of your, er, workers, for a story on the conditions they face.”

  “I run a clean establishment here. No need for stories about our condition.”

  Adele swallowed. Way to ruin it, Adele. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean in a negative way. I meant only in the sense of highlighting any discrimination they may face from their customers, or any other type of inequality, which the article could expose and engender public discussion and change for the better for your girls.”

  The madam eyed her with humor dancing in her eyes. “I appreciate your earnestness, but there isn’t any change we need effected. Besides, what about your reputation? This is a small enough town where you would be recognized. One glance at your familial tattoos...”

  By this time, several girls had filtered into the room, apparently curious about her presence.

  “I could create a disguise and cover them with makeup. I wasn’t intending to, er...”

  “Service the customers?”

  Adele shifted in her seat. “Yes.” She had to convince her. She needed a story. “What’s the harm in allowing me to be a silent presence in the public rooms for a few nights? I need this story.”

  Madam Sophie studied her, her gaze somewhat sympathetic. “The harm is there’s a chance you would be discovered, and the scandal would be great.”

  “But I’m willing to take that risk.”

  “I’m not. You wouldn’t be the only one affected. The city council members might not look with favor on an establishment that let one of its prominent daughters stay here for any length of time. No. I’m sorry, I cannot allow it.”

  It didn’t take long for Adele to say farewell and return to her vehicle outside. She didn’t remember much of the leave-taking. Now she sat on her seat, Loki in his basket with a sympathetic pout on his face.

  The tidy, well-maintained street now looked drab, lacking excitement.

  Was she cut out for this? She couldn’t even land her first story.

  Then her gaze snagged on the doughy face of the widow who lived two doors down from Father’s house. Widow Wilkins’s eyes were wide, her mouth agape. Her jaw clicked shut, her mouth twisted in you’re-a-disgrace lines, and she spun around and marched away.

  Adele felt like all of her bones had disappeared, and she sagged in her seat. Great. The news she’d visited a House of Ill Repute would be around town faster than a grasshopper dosed up on sugar cane.

  “She refused you?” Dr. de la Pointe tossed a chamois cloth onto his desk and carefully set an articulated brass foot back in its display alcove, adjusting it a fraction. The tangy smell of brass polish permeated the close air.

  Phillip shut the door of the doctor’s private study, the humiliating memory from earlier today searing through him. He stepped around the marble-top display tables highlighting various surgical breakthroughs and patents achieved by the man himself. It struck Phillip that the space seemed more dedicated to display than work.

  He gripped a leather chair’s back and leaned onto his hands, unwilling to sit if the older man remained standing. Each time he recalled the disaster on the porch, his body reenacted its initial response, although thankfully to a lesser degree each time. Now his stomach dropped only to mid-thigh.

  Dr. de la Pointe had been called away shortly before dinner hour, and only now had returned. Phillip had skipped the family meal, opting instead for a plate in his room. Sitting with them after the failed proposal, with his single ally absent, was more than he wanted to face today.

  Phillip only nodded.

  “I don’t understand. She’s a bit spirited, I grant you, but she’s usually so easygoing, and with her failed engagement not too long ago, I assumed she’d readily agree.”

  Again, the idea her father hardly knew her crossed his mind.

  “Why me?” he asked instead.

  The good doctor paused at that. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if your goal is to marry her off, aren’t there other suitable gentlemen to fill this role? Why make it a stipulation for our agreement?”

  From their correspondence, Phillip had formed a picture of a brilliant, yet affable, surgeon. One whose particular specialty could aid his sister. But now that he’d met the man in the flesh? More complicated than he’d given him credit for. He was trying to adjust the mental image he’d formed of the gentleman after several years’ correspondence. Rather than the portly fellow in his late sixties whom he’d pictured, his new partner was only in his mid-forties with a lean, wiry frame. Miss de la Pointe must take after her mother, for he could discern no physical similarity with the father apart from their dark hair.

  The older man waved a hand. “What does it matter? You’re here now. You need this operation for your sister.”

  He had him there. The surgery Charlotte needed cost more than he could earn or learn in the short term. Perhaps if he were highly successful ten years out, but his sister needed the procedure now if she were to have any chance at happiness.

  He remained quiet, however, palms sweating into the leather chair, and watched his partner pace the small office.

  Finally, the doctor stopped and said, “Fine. To be honest, I’m not convinced there are any suitable gentlemen in this town. She’s smart, independent-minded. Most men don’t appreciate these qualities in their wives. But you, sir, you seemed like someone who would.”

  Those words simultaneously pleased and panicked Phillip. Pleased to be thought open-minded, but panicked at the notion of taming such a creature. He didn’t want drama. If he married according to his own wishes, she would not be his first or fiftieth choice. Far too spirited for his tastes.

  Phillip was no fool. He knew his character, his worth. He presumed he’d make a decent, kind husband, but suffered under no illusions he was anything but a rational, logical man, which most people viewed as cold and indifferent. What had his former fiancée called him? Ah, yes, a “cold fish.”

  Melodramatic, but apt nonetheless. He wanted to be accepted as himself, not contort himself into someone else to woo.

  “Sir, I’m not sure I’m suitable.”

  “Nonsense, my boy.”

  “At least, in a different manner than you attest. You are correct. Those are qualities I appreciate. I also appreciate her honesty.” And he did. Through the humiliation earlier today, a thread of admiration surfaced for her forthrightness. With her, one would always know where one stood.

  “But,” he continued, standing and smoothing his palms across the chair’s back, “I would imagine she would be drawn to an adventurous soul.” A more diplomatic way of expressing his misgivings than saying she didn’t suit him. He adjusted his cravat pin and pulled on the bottom edge of his waistcoat.

  His employer sighed and fingered his short-cropped beard. “Perhaps. But I’d prefer you for a son-in-law.” He pivoted on his toes, the scrape of leather along wood loud in the small study. He leaned against the windowsill. “So, how do we stand with our deal then?”

  Good q
uestion, that. How much time did he have to decide? Maybe his sister fared better, and he could abandon this whole scheme?

  Chapter Five

  Wherein The Monkey Lives Up To His Namesake

  Their deal, thought Phillip, as he studied Dr. de la Pointe by the window. So sensible at the time: move to Mobile, intern with one of the top cosmetic surgeons, marry his daughter, move back to England. In exchange, his partner would perform the expensive surgery on Charlotte. A surgery that would not only gain her a normal face, but also a new, functioning eye.

  Disfigurement at such a young age from a careless splash of lye had plummeted her into bouts of dark moods. Moods from which she struggled to emerge. Worthless, she viewed herself, and no convincing on her big brother’s part could make her believe otherwise. A skin graft and a new eye, while superficial, would go far in rebuilding her self-esteem. And perhaps also, an advantage in the marriage mart when the time came.

  At his hesitation, Dr. de la Pointe said, “I must know soon if our deal still holds. Think on it, will you? Will one week be enough to decide?”

  One week? “I need more time, sir.”

  “Ten days then.”

  “But what if I decide not to court her? What of our deal then?”

  “Then our deal is off, and you will need to seek another method to aid your sister. I must look to my daughter’s well-being, and I need her off my hands.”

  “Sir?”

  “She’s an expense I hadn’t anticipated when she returned to live with us. I thought she’d be married by now.”

  And Phillip thought he was cold. At his raised brow, the doctor had the grace to blush.

  “Crudely put. I do love my daughter. I just... I find myself completely at a loss on how to raise a girl. It’s why I sent her to live with her aunt and uncle after...” His mouth closed, and his lips tightened as if afraid he’d leak emotion. His chin nudged upward. “...after her mother passed. I want what’s best for her, of course, but I have no notion what that is.”