Mog stiffened on his lap and began biting her lip again, and Garth realized that hadn’t come out the way he intended.
‘I meant, I can’t set a bad example to him,’ he said, and realizing that didn’t sound so good either, he felt his face turning as fiery red as his hair. ‘What I really mean is, I want to marry you, Mog. Will you be my wife?’
She laughed then, a soft little trill that sounded like water over stones. ‘I’d like nothing better, Mr Franklin,’ she said. ‘And we’d better make it soon if we don’t want to set Jimmy a bad example.’
Noah was still smiling about Mog and Garth as he walked up Tottenham Road towards his lodgings. He thought they made a perfectly matched couple, and he felt certain that Jimmy might stop fretting quite so much about Belle if they decided to marry.
But, as so often happened when he thought about Belle, his mind turned to all those other missing girls and he recalled what one of the senior policemen down at Bow Street had said to him.
‘We know it goes on, young girls lured away to France or Belgium to become prostitutes. And girls there are brought over here for the same purpose. We found two French girls at a bawdy house in Stepney we raided a few months back. They were in a sorry state, stick-thin, dirty and addicted to opium. Once we got them cleaned up and got someone in to speak to them in French we found they thought they were coming to England to be ladies’ maids. Seemed they’d both been interviewed in the same big house in Paris by the same woman, who told them they would be coming to England with her for a year. They were both broken in by “gentlemen” in a big house, where they were watched so they couldn’t escape. Then, a few months down the line, they were taken off to various other places, each worse than the one before, until they got to Stepney and we found them.’
The policeman said that in any year there were three to four hundred young women going missing, and of that number only around a hundred and fifty were ever seen again. He pointed out that many were probably with a man they’d run off with, some might have been murdered, but he thought the rest were in brothels somewhere. He pointed out that most would be beyond saving, even if they knew where they were, for drug addiction and disease would have taken their toll. Before long they would be yet another body on a mortuary slab.
‘Maybe I’d better make one more trip to Paris, and try bribing Cosette,’ Noah muttered to himself, unable to bear the image of young girls on mortuary slabs.
Chapter Twenty-two
Belle felt quite sick with fear as she walked down the stairs to leave Martha’s for good. It was two in the afternoon, a very hot, sultry day without even a whisper of a breeze.
It was only last night that Faldo came in to tell her he’d found a place for them. He paid for only a short time, just long enough to give her the address and instruct her on what she had to do, leaving her with a severe case of jitters. This hadn’t left her; she’d lain awake agonizing about whether she was doing the right thing: it seemed to her that she was putting all her trust into the hands of someone she knew very little about.
But it was too late to change her mind now, and as Faldo had asked, she was carrying only a small reticule, which held nothing more than her savings, hairbrush and a few rolled-up ribbons. She was wearing her blue dress beneath the green one she’d been given in Paris, and beneath those she had on two sets of petticoats, drawers and chemises. She felt terribly hot with so many clothes on, but she hadn’t been quite able to bring herself to leave all her belongings behind as Faldo had said she must.
Everything Martha had given her she’d left in her bedroom, and she hoped the other girls would be able to share out the few bits of jewellery and other personal things she’d left behind.
Martha came up the passage from the kitchen just as Belle got to the bottom of the stairs. ‘It’s very hot out,’ she said, looking curiously at Belle, as if noticing she looked stouter than usual. ‘The other girls are all out in the back yard drinking lemonade.’
Belle’s stomach turned over. She felt sure Martha had guessed what she was up to. ‘I fancied a walk,’ she said. ‘It’s so easy to get lazy when it’s as hot as this.’
‘Well, don’t overdo it,’ Martha said. ‘I’ve never really understood why the English always seem to want exercise.’
Martha had been making sharp little comments about the English for quite some time. Belle had the feeling she had been trying to goad her into snapping back at her. She certainly didn’t have any intention of rising to the bait now, so she smiled sweetly.
‘I expect I’ll regret it as soon as I’ve crossed the railway line,’ she said. ‘And then I’ll be right back for a sit-down in the cool and a glass of lemonade.’
Martha walked off into the parlour then, and Belle made it to the front door. She was sorry she couldn’t say goodbye to the other girls, for apart from Anna-Maria she had grown to love them all and had been grateful for their company, advice and friendship. She was going to miss them for the laughs they’d had, the lovely chats, and because their presence had helped when she’d felt scared, alone and homesick.
Belle walked quickly across the train tracks into the French Quarter, then zigzagged her way across it, looking over her shoulder now and then to make sure Martha hadn’t sent Cissie or someone else after her to spy on her.
Finally, when she was sure she wasn’t being followed, she hailed a cab to take her down Canal Street.
Belle had rarely been out of the French Quarter and the District, so she had no idea what the Mid-City area was like. The cab seemed to go a very long way along Canal Street before it turned off. But she saw the sign for North Carrollton Avenue and felt relieved, as that was the right road. Yet when the cab stopped in front of one of the many ‘Shotgun’ houses, she was shocked and disappointed.
Belle knew this style of single-storey wooden-frame house was very common all over the Southern States because they were cheap to build. At little more than twelve feet wide, with the rooms leading on from one to another without a hall, there was no wasted space, plus they caught a through draught of cool air in the summer. They were said to be called ‘Shotgun’ because with a door at the front and one at the back a shotgun could be fired clear through the house.
There was really nothing wrong with such a house; she knew millions of people would be happy to have such a home. But she’d had the idea Faldo would get them one of the pretty Creole cottages like the ones in the French Quarter, with wrought-iron balconies and fancy shutters. She hadn’t expected a shabby, poor person’s house.
There wasn’t even a front garden. All the houses in the street were raised up on brick posts with wooden steps up to the front door, the slightly overhanging roof making a small porch.
Faldo came out of the front door and down the steps just as Belle was getting out of the cab. He greeted her with a warm smile, paid the driver and then took her arm to help her up the steps.
‘I hope you didn’t run into any problems with Martha,’ he said. ‘I was worried for you.’
‘No. She did speak to me as I was leaving but I just said I was going for a walk. I thought she’d notice how fat I look. I’ve got two dresses on and I’m so hot.’ Belle laughed nervously. Relieved as she was to get away from Martha’s without any trouble, suddenly she was really scared of what lay ahead of her.
Faldo opened the wire screen door that kept out flying insects and waved her to walk in first. Her first impression was that the room was bigger than she’d expected and the high ceiling made it seem airy, but it was very sparsely furnished with just two dark red velvet armchairs and a small table by the window. The lighting was gas, and there was a fireplace, although with the weather being so hot, she couldn’t imagine New Orleans ever being cold enough to light a fire.
‘I managed to get just a few bits of essential furniture delivered this morning,’ Faldo said. ‘But I thought you’d like to choose the rest yourself.’
Belle had no idea what to say. It looked so bare and uninviting, especially after the comfort of Martha’s. She knew she was going to be living here alone most of the time and that made her shiver with fear.
‘Can I see the rest?’ she said, trying to pull herself together and be glad she’d managed the first step towards freedom.
‘Just a bedroom and kitchen,’ he said, leading her through the door into the bedroom. The bed he’d bought was a pretty brass one, and sitting on it were some new bed linen, pillows and a quilt. ‘I left it for you to make, women are so much better at such things.’
There was also a dark wood dressing table with three oval mirrors, a stool sitting before it. Belle admired it and the bed, then gave Faldo a hug because she was afraid he’d sense her true feelings about the place.
‘I know you are too young to have learned homemaking skills, honey,’ he said, his lips against her neck. ‘But I’ll help you all I can, and a clever girl like you can pick up so much from magazines and books.’
The third and last room was the kitchen. It had a gas stove, a sink, shelves on the wall with some crockery and saucepans sitting there, and a small scrubbed table with two chairs in the centre. Faldo opened a cupboard lined with some kind of metal, with a lump of ice sitting in a square dish at the bottom. ‘This is where you’ll store milk, butter and meat to keep cool,’ he explained. ‘A man will come round to sell you ice each week. You just go out to him with the dish when he rings his bell.’
Belle had seen ice being brought into Martha’s, but she didn’t expect that ordinary people could have it too, and that made her spirits rise just a little.
‘But I’m afraid the water closet is outside,’ he said, looking concerned she would be offended by this.
‘That’s fine,’ she said, though her heart sank back down again.
He filled the kettle to make some coffee for them. He’d bought a box of groceries too, and seeing a walnut cake on the top, Belle roused herself to put everything away.
‘Can you cook?’ he asked as he spooned the coffee into a pot.
‘A bit,’ Belle said. ‘I used to help Mog back home. I peeled and chopped vegetables, made jam tarts and stuff like that with her. But I never made a whole meal by myself.’
‘If you can read, you can cook,’ he said, and smiled. ‘At least, that’s what my mother used to claim. Maybe you should go to a bookshop and get a recipe book?’
‘That’s a really good plan,’ she said, wanting to sound enthusiastic and joyful, even if she didn’t feel it.
They had coffee and walnut cake, then Faldo told her he was going to give her ten dollars a week pocket money. Belle was horrified it was so little – she wouldn’t get far on that – but he didn’t notice her stricken face. ‘But I’ve opened two accounts for you,’ he went on. ‘One is at Frendlar’s grocery shop down Canal Street. The other account is at Alderson’s, it’s a store which sells everything from stockings, sewing cotton to tables and chairs. Between these two shops you’ll be able to find everything you need to make this house a home; just charge it to me. You must sign the bills as Miss Anne Talbot, and should anyone ever question you, you must say I’m your guardian. Is that all right with you?’
Belle assumed she had to have a false name in case Martha tried to find her. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t come to regret this.’
He smiled and reached out to caress her cheek. ‘There is no reason why I should, you are a delight. But I am concerned about you feeling lonely and bored. I will come as often as I can, but I know that isn’t the same as having friends or family nearby.’
‘I’ll be fine. I can read, do sewing and learn to cook,’ she said more bravely than she felt. ‘But what do I say about myself to any of the neighbours?’
Faldo frowned. ‘I think it best that you keep your distance from them,’ he said. ‘But if circumstances arise where you have to speak to them, clearly you mustn’t tell them you’ve just come from the District. You could say I’m your guardian and you came because your parents back in England died. If they are curious about why you aren’t living with my family you could say you like to be independent. But it would be safer to avoid having to say anything, that way it won’t get back to Martha that you are here.’
‘When are you going to speak to her?’ Belle asked.
‘I’m not, honey,’ he said, and seeing the surprise on her face he went on to explain. ‘She’s a tough woman, she’ll ask for an enormous sum for you, and could make mischief if I refused to pay her that much. So I shall call round one evening soon and ask for you, that way making myself look innocent of any part in your disappearance. But, as I’m sure you can understand, you mustn’t go anywhere near the District or the French Quarter.’
Belle nodded, but she felt let down that he wasn’t prepared to pay anything to free her. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t want to go there anyway,’ she said.
‘Well, shall we?’ he said, taking her hand and leading her back to the bedroom. He lifted all the bed linen off the bed and dumped it on the floor. ‘It will have to be a quick one, I’ve got a business meeting later.’
Some little time later, Belle heard the wire fly screen on the front door bang shut, and the sound of Faldo’s feet going down the steps, and she lay back on the bare mattress and began to cry.
She felt more of a whore now than she ever had at Martha’s. He had got her to take off all her clothes and then just did the act without any petting or kissing before hurrying away.
None of this was what she’d expected. She was alone in a part of town she didn’t know and which could well be dangerous. She didn’t have the luxury of a bathroom or an inside lavatory. Faldo was going to give her less money than she got at Martha’s, and if Martha ever found out her top girl was still in town she’d probably send someone round to teach her a lesson about running off.
But what made Belle feel most upset was that she’d been stupid enough to think she could have everything her way, because Faldo loved her. That was perhaps an unreasonable expectation; after all, she didn’t love him and had only turned to him in desperation. But it still hurt to think that all he wanted was a pretty girl always available for sex and somewhere to stay whenever he was in New Orleans.
He was smart too. By letting her put things on an account that made him appear very generous, but the truth was that he didn’t want to give her cash to buy food and household items because he thought she might run off with it.
She had just over a hundred dollars in savings. While that seemed a lot, she had no idea if it would even get her to New York, let alone back to England.
Belle cried for so long she didn’t notice it was growing dark outside. She had to pull herself together to put on her chemise, close the shutters and light the gas. She could smell food cooking close by, but it was very much quieter out on the street than it had been back in the District. Even if she didn’t like anything else about this gloomy little house, that was one good point.
‘You were far too hasty,’ she said aloud as she went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘You should’ve got to know him better, or checked out other men before deciding on him. But you’ve done it now, there’s no way back, so you’ve got to make the best of it.’
Within days of leaving Martha’s, Belle discovered that boredom and loneliness were her biggest enemies. She dealt with the first by cleaning, cooking, walking, reading and sewing, but she couldn’t find anything to stop the loneliness.
Almost daily she wished she were back with the other girls in Martha’s kitchen over long, leisurely breakfasts, sitting around in their nightdresses with tangled hair, everyone talking at once about the night before and shrieking with laughter as one of them described a particularly odd experience. Then there were those lazy afternoons wandering the French Quarter or lying around in the back yard chatting and sipping cold drinks. She’d even give anything to hear the front-door bell tinkling, although that meant a gentleman was coming in and suddenly they all had to turn on seductive smiles and brace themselves for what was to come.
Back in the District it was almost impossible to walk down a street without someone stopping her for a chat. Street musicians always homed in on girls, often playing a tune especially for them – she couldn’t count the times she had stopped to listen and laughed as they flirted with her. She could buy an ice cream or a slice of water melon from a stall and the stallholder would tell her a bit of gossip. The shopkeepers were all friendly and greeted her with smiles; there was no uppityness – they didn’t consider themselves superior. All over the District there was a sense of everyone being in it together, very much like it had been back in Seven Dials.