by Louisa Trent
VIRGIN ENCHAINED
Louisa Trent
Copyrighted Material
VIRGIN ENCHAINED
Copyright © Louisa Trent 2019
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this e-book or portions thereof in any form.
This e-book is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters and events either result from the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual places, events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Artist: Terrence Trent
Published by Trent Publishing
TRENT PUBLISHING
Chapter One
The stage manager called through my warped dressing room door, “On in five, Miss DuPont. Shake a leg.”
I shook more than a leg during my high-kicking routines. But always, always, I did so with class. Indeed, the dancehall’s marquee out front boasted of me:
“Mademoiselle Daphne DuPont, dancer of classy French cancan routines, a lady coming to you all the way from Paris.”
A bit of an exaggeration, that. An abandoned orphan, I had no idea where I was actually born. As for Paris – never had I been there. The “City of Light” was no more than a pretty picture on a postcard to me.
My foreign accent?
Pure invention. An ear for dialect, a talent for acting, a second-hand stage wardrobe that mimicked French haute couture…all props designed to help me pull-off the charade, done for the edification of my viewing public.
Such as they were. And as much as any of them paid attention to those sorts of specifics. My all-male fan base was interested in only one thing:
My shimmy-shakes.
Nevertheless, the devil was in the details. As a perfectionist, I attended to all of them, large and small. What others considered mere trifles, I dwelled on for hours at a time. For instance:
Stage makeup.
I hated the stuff. The grainy texture. The cloying smell. The fixed look of it, like a death mask. I swore my entire face would crack if ever I smiled during a performance. Fortunately, I never did. Smile that is. And not that any of my efforts mattered a whit, anyway. The hot lights always melted the cosmetics, particularly the carmine rouge slashed across my cheekbones. Yet, here I sat, balancing atop a rickety three-legged stool in front of the cracked mirror in my dressing room, repairing my greasepaint. No easy task. I had plastered it on thicker than French buttercream frosting, layering it heavy enough to conceal the smattering of countrified freckles running riot across the bridge of my nose.
Freckles were unknown to Parisian women. In the name of authenticity, I had done my reading on the subject. Parisian women had perfect complexions. To ward off sun damage, males and females alike wore Basque berets, the style sewn of the finest wool.
To the French, everything was about quality.
I adopted that attitude in my dance numbers. Indeed, one might even go so far as to say, I emulated that same attitude in every aspect of my life. As any artiste worth their salt would, I demanded exceptional materials and craftsmanship in my performance attire. And that meant each piece, including what others might consider insignificant geegaws – buttons and bows, and so-forth.
Even in Boston’s seedy Red-light District, I had my fraudulent reputation to consider. Non, non, non! Call me a phony, but never call me anything less than a first-rate phony.
The problem was – fakery like mine did not come cheap. And penny-pinching Milton, the theatre owner, frowned on spending money on props, any kind of props, especially costly ones. Cash in, not cash out, was his motto.
Too bad about him.
Mais, oui! Costumes were an integral part of my revue numbers. Let other dancers on the roster flaunt tawdry tassels and coy peek-a-boo reveals during their acts. I simply refused. There was nothing cheap about me. Especially not the drawers I wore under my abbreviated ruffled skirts.
Wild horses could not drag their names from my lips but there were those in the company who purposefully wore split drawers – totally scandalous – while performing on stage.
Why?
High kicks.
Peeping Toms were predisposed to buy pricier, first-row seats, perhaps for the entire season, a financial investment of no small amount, due to those scandalous split drawers.
And once again – why?
Frankly, for a better view of the dancers all-around. And that all-around included body parts best left to the imagination.
While dabbing more stage makeup on my nose to cover the freckles, I clucked my tongue in annoyance.
That was not for moi. The wearing of split unmentionables was unprofessional. I, for one, refused to lower myself to such lewd tricks of the trade. Voyeurs be hanged! When I high-kicked up on stage, the audience caught a chaste glimpse of frilly petticoats, a flash of black hose and the fleeting gleam of red satin garters – my signature accessory, the one I was known for far and wide.
Well…at least in the Red-light District.
I was not saying I was better than the other dancers in the company, not precisely, but…
All right. I was saying I was better than those other girls.
Really! Little wonder cancan dancers had such bad reputations – they earned the derision. Where was their pride? Their self-respect? Their dignity?
Stuffed in their fat wage envelopes was where.
One slim pay envelope shy of certain eviction – that was me. Though I was principle dancer in the company, I earned far less than girls who showed their nether regions to dirty old men in Aisle A, seats one through 30.
Keeping it classy uppermost in my mind, I secured my bracelet at my wrist. When the jewels caught the light, the pretend precious stones were even glossier than the genuine articles. At a distance, few could tell the difference between real diamonds and paste. Certainly none of the men who ogled me would notice. Or particularly care. Their gazes were directed elsewhere.
My bosoms.
The real McCoys. Seriously. No stuffing. No padding. And, upon occasion, I showed them off. Tastefully. A discreet display of cleavage. Nothing that might have put Queen Victoria’s nose out of joint during her royal visit to the Palace of Versailles thirty or so years ago, but still quite naughty.
Also, as was the custom amongst certain European aristocrats, I confessed to sporting gold hoops beneath my bodice, and those gold hoops were attached to…yes, my nipples! And, from time-to-time I allowed the glint of those gold piercings to peep above my décolletage.
Why not? If the style suited French ladies of high-fashion it was good enough for me.
Did miserly Milton reward my efforts to increase ticket sales?
He did not. All I ever got out of my boss was more haggling over my “excessive expenditures”.
And to think, I had once aspired to dance classically, where props were provided by management. The extent of my own naiveté back then astonished me now.
Taking care not to smudge my reapplied kohl, I swiped at my suddenly burning eyes.
I suppose I should be grateful for the opportunity to dance at all here at Milton’s World Renowned Girlie Burlesque House on North Street.
True, no dignified pirouettes were included in my act but – c’est la vie! Such pretensions were financially beyond my reach. After all, to stay in this elitist business, a ballerina required an independent source of steady income. A private inheritance would do there. A rich lecher willing to pay for companionship would hardly go amiss either. The support of a wealthy patron of the arts would also suffice. Generally speaking, that last meant a married gentleman willing to support a pretty piece of fluff on the side.
Oh, Lord! And then there were the sugar
daddies currently all in vogue…
I had nothing like that. What I did have was an abundance of poor. Oh, yes, and talent. Did skill not count for anything?
I pursed my lips at my cracked reflection in the glass. As an impoverished but independent woman, I shuddered to think of the compromises any of those streams of revenue would entail…
Nothing I would put up with, and that was for fucking sure.
So no, I was not involved in classical dance. But neither had I succumbed to vulgar gyrations on stage. None of this strutting back and forth on the boards in hopes of catching wads of greenbacks between my heaving…
Ahems.
Naturally, Milton disagreed. Always on the lookout for easy money, the dancehall owner ascribed to the philosophy that a man with a certain jutting body part will do just about anything for carnal relief. Including, but not limited to, paying for a romantic back alley assignation after the show with a similarly inclined dancer.
With a wink and a nod, many a performer agreed. And Milton, of course, got his cut of the rendezvous.
Not for me to judge.
I tried to achieve a happy medium with my choices, a middle ground that would permit me to pay my boarding house rent and still eat.
Sparingly.
But always…always… regardless of the choreography, my high kicks, splits, and cartwheels were executed with refined precision. Although my black stocking-clad legs soared high, I was ever cognizant that this was not Toulouse-Lautrec’s bawdy Moulin Rouge, where anything went. This was Boston, after all, a far less sophisticated city than Paris in which to hold a cabaret. Despite Milton’s freewheeling attitude, I observed certain conventions and sensibilities that would preserve my ladylike brand…as advertized on the house marquee out front.
My nest egg suffered as a result. Few greenbacks littered the stage floor after my performances. Applause, yes. But if I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times – Milton could not take his percentage from a standing ovation.
And neither could I pay my landlady Mrs. Beatrice Tucker what I always managed to owe her at month’s end. Sneaking past her first floor apartment when the rent was overdue never worked. At eighty years of age, the bespeckled Beatrice still missed nothing. Her hearing was impeccable as well. Bugger it all.
I glanced at the small clock to my right. Oh, dear. As usual, the minutes had slipped away from me. Lest I push Milton to the point of ultimatums, I really did need to crank the diesel. Already dancing on borrowed time, I dared not arrive after Burt, the ever irascible stagehand, raised the curtain. More than a simple faux pas, that tardiness – along with my absolute refusal to take customers outside to the alley for a romantic rendezvous – would most likely toll my dismissal from the company.
I rushed for the stairs.
In my last contract, I had insisted upon a “private” dressing room. As a result of my successful negotiation, Milton had been forced to carve out a space for me from an existing basement broom closet. To this day, that win of mine remained a thorn in the owner’s side.
Tough tiddlywinks. As the dancehall’s star performer, a prime spot on the large roster that had taken me two long years and countless toe calluses to achieve, I had earned those precious spare feet between mop and furnace in which to change. The inconvenience of having to rush to make each new scene change on time was well worth it.
Spiteful Milton thought differently. Already miffed about my refusal to meet customers in the back ally after the show, he still allowed me only the standard three minutes in which to swap out costumes, no concession made for the additional travel time involved.
All that, and my finale number required the just-so positioning of iridescent peacock plumes in my jet-black hair! I would like to see him do that and come out looking elegant and sophisticated, not like a common park pigeon, feathers flying in every different direction.
Looking on the bright side – I no longer had to fight for elbow room in the communal dressing room with a chorus line of high-steppers, most of them women not above selling their bodies.
Oops! My condescension was showing. What was that again about my not judging the actions of others?
With a sigh for my lost innocence and tattered dreams…and hypocritical tendencies…I raced for…thank God…the still lowered stage curtain. Trying not to sneeze from the billowing cloud of dust activated by Burt cranking the ancient red velvet to the stage’s ceiling, I stepped out onto the boards for my closing performance.
Unfortunately, my grand finale was not my last act of the evening. I wished! With moneymaking his top priority, after each performance, Milton expected even star dancers such as myself to “mingle”.
Translation: encouraging audience members seated at small tables located well beyond the stage at the rear of the dancehall to buy watered-down liquor.
This duty was not to be confused with taking customers to the back alley. The former I did nightly, the latter I recoiled from doing at all.
The “encouraging” part of my duties came later. Now, to lose myself in the dance!
To the tune of whistles and catcalls from my fans, I purposefully jiggled out to center stage and found my cue mark on the floor.
Edison’s new electric lamps offered a wider variety of “mood” effects than ever before. The extra illumination also provided more safety for the audience seated below. However, there was a drawback: the spotlight blinded the performer out front.
No problem for me. After multiple rehearsals, I could execute my steps even in my sleep. Not seeing audience members strip me naked in their thoughts was certainly a bonus. Thank you, Mr. Edison! The blinding limelight also prevented me from viewing row-upon-row of playbills tented over fidgety laps. No doubt my fans were trying to hide something…but what?
Their hands! Always amongst the missing. What on earth were all those hidden hands up to under there?
No time to figure it out now. The conductor had just cued the orchestra in the music pit…
At their first note, I performed an unexpected pirouette, smiling to myself at the apoplexy Milton must be having backstage.
Too bad, so sad…
After swearing the band to secrecy, I had swapped out my usual musical score for a few melancholy bars from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. I still wore my regular finale costume, hair plumage included, but the dance I now performed was more graceful, more classical in nature.
And why?
Because ballet worked that way.
Cancan choreography was all about the exhibitionism of the dancer, done for the appreciation of voyeuristic fans. But ballet was about elegance and technique and training and romance. And beauty. Lord, how I missed the beauty of the ballet!
The booing and hissing started almost immediately. Assuring myself this one moment in time would justify all that followed, I obstinately continued my performance regardless…
Until the stage curtain came crashing down before me and Milton was yanking me backwards with his long bamboo cane – and none too gently either – into his office, slamming the door after us.
“Guess you no longer need this job, eh, Emma?
Uh-oh. When Milton used my real name, not my Frenchie pseudonym, I knew I was in trouble deep. I’d had my moment to shine and now it was time to pay the piper.
“I do need this job, sir. Honest. Why are you so upset? I only made a very minor alteration in my act. Really, only an adjustment. Hardly anyone noticed…”
“Did you not hear the ridicule directed at you out there?”
“I heard some confusion, yes, sir. But accepting change always takes time,” I said sweetly.
“Bullshit. This here ain’t no democracy. Here, you do as I say when I say it. After that last so-called performance of yours, I am this close to letting you go.” He held up two fat fingers to signify an inch.
Milton smoked like a chimney, and the two fat fingers waving before my face were cigar-stained.
Repulsive.
Still, I kept my expression bla
nk as I continued to talk some reason into him. “But sir…”
“But nothin’ You may have lost me reg’lars tonight with that snobby highbrow routine. And do not try to con a conman – I recognize highfalutin’ ballet steps when I see ‘em.”
“Blatantly unfair! I danced tonight, same as always.”
“Not same as always. Same as always would have left the crowd cheering and begging for more. Which, after getting them all hot and bothered, you always refuse to deliver. Your fans get no satisfaction from you. A gent leaves here with his cock all tied up in a knot. You need to rectify that situation starting tonight.”
“What are you saying, sir?”
“After that shit you just pulled, you either provide relief to your lathered-up fans or out the door you go. Hear?”
“How can I not hear with your fleshy lips within spraying distance of my face?”
Exasperation made me say it. As soon as the rude words left my mouth I knew them for the tactical mistake they were. And the polite “sir” I tacked on the end proved too late. The damage had already been done.
His face gone florid, Milton raged, “Highest offer, you march your ass out the door to the back alley with the propositioning gent in tow. And every performance, thereafter you do the same. Minimum, you finish off one fan a night or consider yourself finished here, missy.”
“Sir,” I insisted in my own defense, “I always work the crowd afterwards. You know I do! I bring in just as much money as the next girl.”
“Wrong! And you know why? Because you never go into the back alley. For that matter, you never avail yourself of the swanky couch in this here office like I have so generously offered you time and time again. Most of these girls would give their eyeteeth to make use of that leather love seat over there in the corner. Not you. You act like some fucking French queen, like that Mary Antoinetty or somethin’.
“Listen up good – you need to earn a shitload more in order for me to keep this dance company afloat. Do you think cancan tickets and watered-down drinks alone keep these theatre doors open?”
