The Price of Innocence (The Legacy Series) (6 page)

“It takes a strong woman to walk around the streets of Paris hauling baskets of clean laundry to our clients and dirty ones back to the washhouse. You need muscles! The baskets weigh twenty-five to thirty-five pounds apiece.” His eyes roved over her body once more before asking her bluntly, “Do you think you can handle that?”

Suzette was unsure if she could, but desperation pushed a boldface lie from her lips. “Yes, Monsieur. I’ve carried heavy weight, though I am small. I’m sure I can handle anything.”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” he mumbled, letting the doubt eat at her until he was satisfied she had suffered his indecision long enough. If her career as a wash woman failed, there were always other possibilities for her in the future.

He examined Suzette, who looked like a little bird quivering in fear.
Pretty and petite. Just the way I like ‘em
. He imagined undressing her like a hungry wolf, and then decided to hire her just in case she came in handy for other purposes. Women would sell just about anything for food in their bellies.

“If I provide you a cot to sleep on, your hours will be from 5 a.m. until 11 p.m. each day. Your pay will be three francs per day. If I’m satisfied after a month that you are able to carry out your duties, I will raise it to three and a quarter francs per day.”

Monsieur Brouchard doubted the young woman would last a month hauling baskets through the streets of Paris. She reeked of untouched innocence, which both disgusted and enticed him at the same time. The washhouse would toughen her up for whatever lay ahead. The women currently in his employ had been there for years and were rough around the edges, most of them morally loose and alcoholics. They’d spread their legs for a decent meal. He chuckled out loud over what the petite little creature was about to endure. It was time to give her exactly what she came for.

“Since you have no experience, I can only assign you to washing sheets, tablecloths, and curtains. Unless I know you have the ability to wash blouses or shirt fronts, you’ll not be allowed to touch the clothes of my best clients.”

Suzette pleaded, “Monsieur Brouchard, I would be most indebted to you if you would let me work for your establishment.”

He liked it when people begged. “Fine then,” he answered, standing to his feet. Brouchard crushed out his cigar next to other butts in the overflowing ashtray and began giving her instructions.

“Come with me. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep, and you can start work immediately. I’ll introduce you to Flora, who will train you on what’s to be done.”

Suzette gasped. “You wish me to start now?”

“Yes,” he sneered. “Do you want the job or not?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, “but I thought I would have time to return to the charity to retrieve my belongings.”

He looked at her in astonishment. “And what might those things be? Whatever they are, you can get them another time.”

Afraid to disagree lest he change his mind, Suzette followed behind him like an obedient, frightened puppy dog. Once again, her life had turned upside down, and she hadn’t been given the opportunity to thank Sister Mary for her kindness. However, as she walked through the facility following Monsieur Brouchard, she began to wonder if she would be as thankful a week from now.

The facilities were stifling hot from the rising steam of large washing bins on the lower floor. Suzette glanced at the working women as she passed by their stations. No one was talking in front of the manager, and there were only a few individuals who raised their eyes in her direction.

The air was moist and hot and filled with odors that irritated Suzette’s nose. Tiny beads of sweat formed on her forehead as Monsieur Brouchard escorted her through the facility and up a narrow staircase to the second floor. Once upon the landing, he flung open a wooden door to a small, dark room. Inside were four cots pushed up against the wall.

“The one on your right is yours. The others are taken already. A bath chamber is down the hall on the left.”

Suzette stared at the cramped quarters and the dirty mattress on wooden slats with a wool blanket and no pillow. “Do you have much in the way of clothes, shoes, personal belongings to get?”

“No sir. I’m afraid very little is back at the charity.”

“Well, I suggest you retrieve what you do have when you can. Sometimes we have clothes that are unclaimed, and you can pick through the leftovers if you need anything. You won’t need to dress in your evening gown to get the work done here!” His condescending laugh filled the hallway. “As you can see, most women around here strip so they can handle the heat.” His lecherous behavior became obvious as he added, “And I don’t mind the show.”

He headed back and spewed out an order. “Follow me! I’ll introduce you to Flora.”

They walked downstairs, and Suzette followed him over to large piles of dirty linens that looked like mountains of white cotton. Upon closer inspection, Suzette noticed blood and other stains. The stench turned her stomach.

“This is where we sort the linens for our customers. You will serve the smaller accounts, and I have one in particular that will suit you just fine.” He noticed her scrunched-up face over the odors. “Yes, dirty laundry stinks. What did you expect, perfume?” He turned and snarled orders at Flora. “Show her what to do.” As he walked away with a smirk on his face, Suzette felt an immediate dislike for her new boss.

She looked at Flora. “Welcome to hell,” she said. “Come here, and I’ll show you what to do.”

Chapter Five

  Suzette spent her first night on a lumpy cot with a thin, wool blanket. Sleep quickly claimed her exhausted body. When she woke the next morning at 5 a.m., her back and feet ached.

“You best get up if you want to keep working here, dearie,” Flora warned. “Monsieur Bouchard will dock your pay, if you’re not at your station.”

Her work companion was at least kind, though Suzette thought her a bit abrupt in her mannerisms. She looked like she was around forty years old, but Suzette couldn’t believe it when Flora told her that she was only thirty. There was no refinement about her whatsoever. Her manner and features conveyed hardness and premature aging from years of work.

“Yes, of course,” Suzette moaned. She heard soft laughter from another woman.

“Welcome to the life of a laundress!” she laughed. “Wait until you start hauling your first basket of laundry down the street. You’ll wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Without further word, the women whose names she didn’t know, giggled and left the room. Suzette slipped on her dress over her undergarments and wandered down the hall to the bath chamber. It was occupied, so she stood in the hallway until the door opened and another woman appeared.

“You must be the new one,” she grumbled. Her face looked tired and sour. She lowered her gaze and pushed by Suzette. Everyone appeared miserable.

Suzette quickly splashed water in her face, and tried to brush the tangles from her hair. She pinned her long strands upon her head, away from her face, so it would be cooler in the heat of the washroom. Afterward, she ran downstairs to meet Flora, who she found sorting and tagging the incoming sheets.

She learned that once they sorted through the piles of dirty laundry from hospitals, clinics, and other establishments, other workers took them to the vats where they washed and dried the linens. Afterward, the sheets were returned to Flora and Suzette to fold and deliver back to the clients.

“There’s a basket of folded and clean linens over there by the wall,” she announced, pointing her finger to a white mound a few feet away. “Brouchard wants you to deliver them to the Chabanais immediately.”

“Now?” she questioned, appalled at the timing. “It’s only five in the morning. Will the client even be awake?”

Flora laughed. “Oh, yes, I’m sure someone will answer the door.”

“Chabanais? I don’t know what that is or where it’s located.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she could feel the manager’s menacing presence behind her. Suzette clamped shut her mouth. When she felt his hot breath touching the back of her neck, she turned around to face his grotesque appearance. He looked no better in the morning than he had the day before.

“It’s the brothel at 12 Rue Chabanais. You can’t miss it. There’s a sign right outside the door.”

Suzette’s eyes widened. Brouchard laughed.

“What, you’ve never been to the door of a brothel before?” He enjoyed every moment of taunting his naïve, young worker and walked off sporting a sly grin.

Flora stood up from her stooped position. “He’s the most disgusting man I’ve ever known,” she hissed, in his direction. “And you wonder why we drink alcohol in the afternoon on the job. It’s because of his asinine attitude.” She looked at Suzette and encouraged her to leave. “You better go now, or he’ll come back screaming at you wondering why you haven’t left.”

Suzette walked over to the basket filled to the brim with clean sheets and pillowcases. She bent over and attempted to lift the basket, but failed to do so her first try. Flora watched her struggle, bending her back, and then walked over to her side.

“Here . . . do it like this.” She bent her knees and grabbed the two side handles of the wicker basket. When she stood upright, she swung the load until it landed upon her right hip. “Carry it like this. Just think of it like a child on your hip, and you’ll get the hang of it. It helps defray the weight.”

After Flora lowered it back to the floor, Suzette took hold of the basket and did the same. She grimaced in discomfort. “How far is the Chabanais?”

“About two miles. Go out the door, turn to your right, and follow the street until you come to Rue Chabanais. When you reach the avenue, the brothel is on the left toward the very end of the street.”

Flora returned to her duties, picked up another dirty sheet, and tagged it for washing. Suzette let out a deep sigh and went out the door toting her first basket of laundry. The heavy load challenged her strength, but she felt relieved that she was leaving the washhouse for a while. As soon as she walked out the door, the cold morning air accosted her thin dress. She had no shawl for her shoulders.

The wicker basket gouged into her hip, and the longer she carried it, the heavier it became. The weight pressed upon her waist, and every few blocks, she needed to stop, put the basket down, and rest. If Brouchard witnessed her weakness, she knew she’d never keep the job. Why he didn’t deliver the laundry by cart was beyond her understanding, but she often saw women throughout the streets carrying large laundry baskets and sacks back and forth without a second thought. Once again, her sheltered life had turned into a painful lesson in reality.

Finally, after a long, arduous trek, her eyes fell upon a conspicuous sign above the entrance, Welcome to the Chabanais. Thinking that it must at least be six o’clock by now, she wondered if anyone would be awake. As she approached the front door, a befuddled expression came across her face. The entrance looked like a cave.

She giggled at the absurdity of the situation. There she stood, in front of a brothel, with a basket of laundry on her sore hip at six o’clock in the morning. It was the last place in the world Suzette could have imagined herself weeks ago. Thankfully, Rue Chabanais was not a main thoroughfare and traffic was light in the early morning hours.

She examined the strange wooden door before grabbing the brass knocker. Suzette gave it a few strikes, dropping it against the metal plate with a
clang
. A few moments passed with no answer, so she tapped it again, only much louder the second time. The brass knocker dropped, and suddenly a small panel in the center of the upper door slid open. Startled, she stepped back and heard a voice but saw no face.

“We don’t receive customers until seven o’clock at night. Come back then,” snapped an irritable female, slamming the opening shut.

“But I’m here with the laundry,” yelled Suzette.

The small panel opened again, and a pair of beautiful hazel eyes, with long lashes, peered at Suzette. “Laundry? Good gracious, woman, deliver it to the back door.”

“Where?”

“Down the side alley,” she spat, slamming the panel shut again.

Suzette glanced to her right and saw an alleyway. She turned the corner and proceeded to walk down the narrow, dark passage. Her nose caught the smell of urine, and a homeless drunkard lay asleep by a door with an empty bottle in his hand.

Carefully, she stepped around his snoring body and stood in front of a doorway with the name Chabanais
etched on a small metal plaque attached to the door. She rapped with her knuckles, while balancing the full laundry basket on her hip. If she didn’t put it down soon, she was sure it was going to dump on the head of the drunk that lay at her feet. Then she’d be in real trouble.

With no immediate answer, she knocked again, until the door finally flung open revealing a woman clad in a silken black robe. A cigarette dangled between her plump red lips.

“Come in,” she grumbled, in a raspy voice. Suzette entered into a back room adjacent to a kitchen area and immediately released her burden by dropping the basket at her feet with a
thud
.

“Is there anywhere in particular you want these linens?” Her eyes darted around at her surroundings, and she spotted a small hallway beyond the woman standing in front of her. Suzette’s curiosity piqued at the beautiful sight that lay beyond.

The woman took a puff on her cigarette, then took it from her lips and blew the smoke into Suzette’s face, causing her to wince and cough.

“You’re new. I can tell. Where’s the other one?”

“The other one?” Suzette responded, still trying to clear her lungs from the irritating smoke.

“Yes, the other one. An old drunk who knew exactly what to do with the basket of linens.” She gave Suzette the once over and quipped sarcastically, “It’s apparent you haven’t a clue what to do.”

Ridiculed and exasperated from the walk, Suzette snapped back. “Can you just tell me where they go?”

“Nadine, leave the girl alone.”