Threads West, an American Saga

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  First, I shall get my twenty dollars. Then, when he most certainly asks me to have breakfast with him, I shall tell him my other job interferes. I should be able to get out of here by eight. Thank God, I don’t do this full time.

  Opening her eyes, she fixed her stare above her, following the design of the ornately scrolled ceiling tile. Clenching her jaw, she fought a momentary stab of revulsion. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.

  She forced herself to look ahead to the evening at the Carriage Restaurant and Bar, which catered to successful businessmen on West 42nd Street. The wages were terrible. But the sway of her lithe, curvy hips and the fluttering of long eyelashes over her big blue eyes always generated enormous tips. It was also the perfect place to choose, study and entice the occasional customer for her secondary avocation. Without stirring her head, her eyes shifted sideways to the client of the previous evening.

  His name? She tried to remember but couldn’t. The silk sheets mounded over the portly form stirred with his last gasp of sleep apnea. He reached a meaty hand behind him, groping for her. Inga glided from the bed. Opening his eyes, he partially rolled over, catching her glance at the tub.

  “You take a bath, girl. Then we can have some more fun and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  Turning to him, Inga forced a smile, “Thank you but I have errands. I must get back to my flat and get ready for my job this evening. This is the summer traveling season. It is very busy. I shall bathe at home.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You said twenty dollars gold for the entire night.”

  Inga had begun to dress. Slipping on her under drawers, then her chemise and petticoats, she turned to him, fluttering her eyelids in feigned innocence and smiling radiantly. “So I did, and as you can see,” she said, gesturing at the window, “night has come and gone. I very much enjoyed your company. Do you have a card? I would be delighted to see you again when you are next in New York.” Her oblique praise had the intended effect.

  The man grunted, then chuckled. Sitting upright in the bed, his large belly forming creases in the sheets as they hung around his midsection, he reached over to the bed stand, took a twenty-dollar gold piece and several silver dollars from his money pouch and flipped them on the bed in Inga’s direction. He rummaged in the pocket of his pants, draped over a chair next to the bed, then held out his hand with his card, grabbing Inga’s wrist when she reached for it. She slipped deftly away, and forced a covering laugh, glancing quickly at the card. John Altimer, Chairman, First National Bank of St. Louis.

  “Thank you.” She shimmied into her blouse. The banker was watching her every sinewy move, occasionally running his tongue across his upper lips.

  “Inga,” he said slowly, “I am well acquainted with the mayor.”

  “The mayor?”

  “Yes. The new Mayor of New York, Ferdinando Wood.” There was a moment of silence. “You are far too beautiful a woman to be engaged in this line of work. You have no need to trounce yourself around ’til the wee hours at the bar, however elegant it might be.”

  Taking a moment to run her hands down the front of her thighs, she smoothed out the ripples in her pleated wool skirt. Reaching into her reticule, she extracted a silver-handled hairbrush, and walked to the mirror by the tub. She began slowly brushing the tangles from her long golden locks.

  She studied the man’s reflected figure behind her in the mirror. Why not? Without facing him, and careful to keep her voice nonchalant, she said, “I don’t see the connection.”

  Reclining down to his side, he propped his head up with one hand. “I know the mayor has an opening or two on the mansion staff. It is verywell organized. The living quarters are quite deluxe and many important people come and go.” He paused. “Far more than at the restaurant.”

  Inga continued to look at him via the mirror, her mind flashing back over the previous eight years. Her grip on the brush tightening, she recalled her shock at the age of eleven when her parents died after their fishing boat capsized in the frigid waters of the Norwegian fiord, the leer on her uncle’s face as he grabbed her arm at the funeral, and his intoxicated words, “It is just you and me now, my dear niece. Uncle will take care of you.”

  Her uncle had taken control of her parent’s cottage. It overlooked the village perched on rugged rocky walls, which descended into the deep blue waters of the fiord. She had loved that house. Her uncle sold it for a pittance and then took her to New York, where they lived in a dirty one-bedroom flat.

  Brushing her hair more slowly, her chest constricted at the memory of his unwavering gaze, which followed her every move. When she was thirteen years old, he waited for her to fall asleep one night, crept to the couch she used as her bed, and brutally took her, despite her desperate struggle and screams of pain. She had endured his vulgar touch several more times, as she waited for the right opportunity to escape with her few meager possessions. His fat, usually inebriated frame never left the apartment.

  Then she had met a much older doctor in the course of her job as a hotel maid. The physician thought her attractive, and with the rationalization that she was no longer a virgin anyway, she had traded two hours of favors with him for a healthy dose of a strong sleeping potion. “Use this sparingly,” the doctor had warned. “It is a very powerful drug. Too much could be dangerous.” Several nights later, leaving his fourth glass of bourbon half-full and unattended, her uncle stumbled to the communal water closet at the end of the hall. Inga poured the entirety of the vial into the drink. When she was certain he would not wake, she bundled her few clothes and the treasured silver-handled hairbrush she had been given by her father in a tattered blanket and stole into the city night. In a stroke of luck, she met up with some older women, Mary, Dolly and Lizbeth, whom she had met at the hotel. Their fulltime employment as ladies of the night had not bothered her. She was thankful to share their apartment.

  The bank chairman’s voice cut through her reverie. “Is there something wrong?”

  Taking a moment to compose herself, she swiveled slowly to face the banker. “I assume you will expect something in return.”

  He half-smiled. “I am in town infrequently and always on business. An occasional night when I am in New York is all I ask. At no charge, of course.”

  With her most demure air, Inga responded, “I would be honored, John, to make such an arrangement if I could obtain a position with the mayor.”

  “How do I reach you? What is your address?”

  “You can find me at the restaurant each afternoon and evening. I work seven days a week,” replied Inga, carefully putting away the brush. She began to don her coat.

  “Now, girl, give me a kiss before you go and I shall be in touch. I am seeing the mayor this afternoon. My train leaves this evening, and if I have news I shall drop by the bar.”

  With a provocative twist to her hips, Inga stepped over to the bed, kissing him with pretend passion. He reached for her but she stood up. “I must go. I very much enjoyed our time together. Please do travel safely, John.”

  Making her way through the large marble lobby, she felt the recognition in the stares of several of the hotel staff. That used to be me, staring. She held her head high, looking straight ahead. Out on the street, she walked for a block and then, leaning a shoulder against a building at a busy corner, she breathed deeply, exhaling with a half-sob. Wiping the tears from beneath her eyes with long fingertips, she squared her shoulders and stood erect. A girl has to do what a girl has to do. I need a bath.

  Inga shook off her disappointment when the banker failed to appear at the restaurant. She had received two offers from well-to-do businessmen that evening and politely declined each of them, taking comfort in this support of her view that her “second job” was simply the occasional necessary financial supplement.

  It was late, almost ten, and the restaurant was closing, though the bar would stay open for several more hours. Business was slow but Inga was in no hurry to return to the incessant gossip that always filled th
e crowded flat she shared with the three older women. She had a twenty-six-block walk. While the restaurant was located in a better area of the city, the last ten blocks of her nightly commute were through more seamy neighborhoods. Putting on her coat, she checked her bag for the location of the six-inch fishing knife she carried and knew how to use, thanks to her uncle’s tutelage. She was ready to leave when a smartly uniformed courier strode through the entrance of the bar holding an envelope in one hand.

  He looked around carefully. His eyes came to rest on Inga, and without hesitation he walked over to her. “Is your name Inga Bjorne?”

  Inga felt her eyes widen. “Bjorne. Yes, yes it is.”

  “I am to deliver a personal message to you from the Mayor of New York,” he said extending the wax-sealed envelope with a flourish. The patrons near Inga who had overheard the short conversation stopped their chatter, turning their attention to the scene. Glancing around, she took the message, shoving it into her carry bag. “Thank you,” she said.

  The courier nodded. “The courtesy of your appearance tomorrow at four in the afternoon is requested by the mayor.” The man turned smartly and left the bar. As the door shut behind him, Inga glimpsed a gleaming black carriage with the flag and seal of the City of New York on the street.

  She stood still for a moment, realizing that many eyes were still upon her. Shaking her hair defiantly, she waved one hand, “Have a wonderful evening, everyone.” Walking past the maître d,’ she squeezed his arm. “I will see you tomorrow, Jack.”

  “Have a nice night, Inga,” he said, immediately returning his attention to several customers about to pay their tab.

  Inga could feel the anticipation boiling in her chest. She walked several blocks. A few blocks further would be the end of the new oil streetlamps installed on this edge of the Manhattan area. Their light would give way to the darker shadows of street posts with candle boxes. She could not wait. Standing under a streetlight, she pulled out the envelope. Her trembling fingers carefully opened the heavy, rich, textured linen. The scroll was artistically applied with the finest of thick tip quills.

  His excellency, the honorable Mayor of New York, Ferdinando Wood, requests your presence for an interview before the mayor and Chief of Staff of Gracie Mansion concerning potential employment on the mansion staff at 4:00 p.m., the eighth of June, year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and fifty-four.

  The letter was signed with the ostentatious signature of the mayor himself above another stamped wax seal. Walking briskly, the letter still in her hands, her mind raced. Whatever will I wear?

  CHAPTER 5

  NOVEMBER 18, 1854

  REBECCA

  Three thousand miles east of the frenetic activity of New York City, across the endless expanse of rolling swells of the Atlantic, the early winter rain beat with a soft drum-like cadence on the glass of the great bay window. The drops turned to thin, streaming sheets of water, which cascaded in haphazard fashion down diamond shapes of glass. The runoff slowed and welled above the finely scrolled diagonal oak mullion, distorting the image of large brick and stone row houses that grandly lined the opposite side of the cobbled street.

  Drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, Rebecca Marx gave a petulant shake to her long, dark, almost-black hair, staring at her reflection in the window. The gentle glow of hissing gas lamps backlit and softened her wide brown eyes set perfectly above high cheekbones and slender, beautifully curved figure. Her hair flowed in slight waves over proud square shoulders above a petite waist.

  “Dreary,” she said to the image in the windowpanes. “A dreary day. How fitting for the day I have made the decision to temporarily leave London.”

  On the street below the window, a bobby, immaculately uniformed even with his oiled slicker, was making his way along the drenched cobblestones, his sodden steps splashing water in droplets that glistened in the flickering sheen of the oil flames from the streetlight boxes.

  Sighing, she spoke in a whisper to the empty space next to her reflection in the glass, “Father, you have left us in such a mess. I know you did not intend to. If only you would have listened to me. We did not need those three entire cargos of spices. Now the family honor is at stake and I am to chase halfway around the world, waste the better part of a year and consort with uncivilized peasants.”

  Feeling the familiar flush of inner anger creeping up her cheeks, she looked up at the ceiling, stomping her bare foot on the shiny walnut parquet floor. If you only knew. Whatever possessed you to invest in an asset you have never seen in a country that you have barely visited? Closing her eyes, she raised a graceful hand, pressing small, delicate fingers to her forehead and slowly rubbed the smooth skin above her eyebrows. Or did you know? Did you know, Father?

  No image of her father appeared next to hers in the window. There were no answers. All was unknown. The pout of the lips of the woman in front of her turned into a smile. We shall see if your beauty and wit are as useful across the sea as they are here in England.

  Her mother, Elizabeth, puttered into her room, clucking and mumbling to herself. “Rebecca, this will be such a long, dangerous journey. You don’t have to go, daughter. We are not so badly off.”

  Rebecca walked slowly to her mother. Wrapping her arms around her frail bent body, she gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead and stood back, keeping both hands on her mother’s trembling arms.

  “Mother, I have made my decision. It will take two months to prepare for a journey of this magnitude. I will have our solicitor make arrangements for me to sail in January.” She sighed. “Our condition is unfortunately precarious. Remember, I assisted Father for many years with the business and have overseen it since he passed. His investment in America may likely be our only salvation.”

  Should I share my extreme doubt that anything will come of this trip or the deed, map and mysterious instructions in Father’s will? Her mother’s lower lip was quivering and mist was filming in her eyes. Rebecca decided to say nothing.

  “It will be fine, Mum.” Her mother half smiled at this infrequent endearment. “We shall be back on our feet. And I won’t be gone for more than seven or eight months.” She patted her mother’s hands. “I must get some things out of Father’s study. Why don’t you go down and have Eve and Sally get supper ready?”

  Waiting until she was sure Elizabeth was downstairs, she strode out of the bedroom glancing down from the balcony overlooking a portion of the living room and the entry foyer. Through the sculpted luster of the balusters of the balcony rail, she could see her mother gesturing to their servants, a man, a woman and their daughter, now in her late teens. They were Aborigines.

  They had returned with her father from Australia sixteen years prior. Much to Mother’s horror! Rebecca remembered, smiling to herself. She had taken her father’s side against her mother’s argument that “this sort of staff was highly improper.”

  Though they barely spoke, seemed to know little English and appeared disinclined to learn, they were loyal, respectful, hard workers. Rebecca and her father never could pronounce their names. Over the years, they had simply become Adam, Eve and Sally. Sally was nineteen, just a few years younger than Rebecca was and they had developed a mostly silent bond. It was Sally who drew Rebecca’s baths, sometimes helped her dress and cleaned her bedroom. Her father had given them their freedom several years before he passed on but they had chosen to stay.

  Moving briskly down the hall, she noticed Adam’s gaze following her, a somber look on his face. Rebecca had always felt Adam had a strange prideful power, something she could not quite define. Many times over the years, Rebecca had come down the stairs without voicing her need of this or that, only to find Adam at the foot of the last step or in the kitchen, hand outstretched with the exact item she had come to gather.

  When she had commented to her father after one such incident, he had chuckled. “I have noticed it too. Coming across the Pacific from Australia, we sighted only three other ships. In each instance, Adam had
come to me hours before the watch in the crow’s nest spotted sails and pointed in the exact direction the other vessels eventually appeared. At first, I thought he was daft.”

  Rebecca continued to the end of the open-faced hallway, conscious of the slight swishing sounds her slippers and silk robe made as she walked. Grasping both brass knobs of two great six-paneled oak French doors at the end of the balcony corridor, she swung them open. She stood for a minute enjoying the nostalgia of the still present scent of her father and his pipes. Facing the enormous, intricate oak desk squarely in the center of the study, her eyes roved over the two walls of handcrafted bookshelves that were overflowing with books and manuscripts from every corner of the world, and the red ink ledgers of their business.

  Her gaze shifted to the wall that was adorned with paintings of her father, his ships and his travels. “Your life’s history,” she whispered, walking over to her favorite. Reaching up with two fingers she very gently touched the textured oil image of the well-proportioned, though not overly tall, figure who looked out to sea, one leg bent, leather boot raised and perched on the bowsprit half-wall of his favorite schooner, the sailing ship Trader. Turning from the portrait, she sat in the rich, oversized, brown leather chair that would have dwarfed most desks. Resting her elbows on the writing surface, she lowered her forehead to her palms. Father, how could you? Staring blankly at the window she recalled the sudden bewildering loss of his three-ship fleet, precipitated by the financial disaster of the three simultaneously unsalable cargoes of East India spices. That unanticipated shock had begun the precipitous decline in his health that shortly thereafter led to his death.