As he reluctantly stepped away from the spectacle, past Professor True, who was still playing, Ernest cast his mind over the guest list. Everyone who had sent an RSVP was accounted for. And besides, who would be showing up at this late hour?
As he opened the door he felt a wave of condescension even before he took in the sight of Mrs. Irvine, flanked by a dozen hard-nosed matrons of the Mothers of Virtue. Her scowl seemed to soften when she saw him. The other ladies were trying to pass out handbills to strangers on the street, most of whom ignored their attempts. A few of the women carried painted signs condemning Madam Flora and the Tenderloin.
“It’s a miracle!” Mrs. Irvine said as she regarded Ernest and then cast her eyes toward the gray, overcast sky, the starless night. “You’re alone! This is your chance, Ernest. We ladies have important work to do, but you can leave, get thee behind me, and when we’re done here I’ll take you back to Holy Word, away from this…this…” She spat the word at Ernest’s feet: “this nightmare.”
Ernest paused, breathless. He thought about the conversation he’d had upstairs, with Jewel. He remembered his placid, servile existence under Mrs. Irvine’s care, where he’d undoubtedly be for the next year if he were to return. He looked at the signs the women hoisted that condemned white slavery, and he remembered how easily they’d put him on the block to be raffled off. He wondered what the difference was. Then he thought about the Tenderloin, about Fahn, and Maisie, about earning real money of his own and about eventually learning to drive a motorcar. He heard the piano calling him. He’d briefly wondered why Jewel didn’t leave, and now he had to ask himself the same question.
“What are you waiting for?” Mrs. Irvine asked before Ernest could compose himself enough to speak. “I’m sorry that you ended up here, but if you care a whit for your immortal soul, you should run far and fast, and do it now. Better to live out your days as a beggar in a poorhouse than as a young lord in a house such as this.”
Ernest felt a twinge of guilt, not for being at the Tenderloin but for feeling so excited at the prospect of being a young lord. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. Irvine,” he stammered. “But I have a job to do. And, I’m sorry, you’re not on the guest list.”
Mrs. Irvine frowned and held up one of the invitations. The envelope had been opened, and she regarded the elegant piece of stationery as though it pained her just to be in its presence. He wondered how she’d come to have it in her possession. “We came to stop this abomination. And we brought help. We’re going to shut this place down eventually—mind my words, young man—and if you’re here when that happens, you’ll get smeared with the same tar brush.” She cocked her hip as though that was the end of the argument. Then she grabbed a pair of uniformed police officers by the arms as the other ladies practically pushed them up the front steps.
One of the grim-faced policemen tipped his hat at Ernest and shook his head slowly, almost imperceptibly, then turned around to address the crowd.
“Now you ladies go on and head home to your husbands. Let us take care of this ugly piece of business,” the officer said in a calm, commanding tone. “This isn’t the kind of neighborhood you ought to be in after dark. Rest assured, I’ll make certain those accountable get what they deserve.”
A police wagon motored up to the curb, and three more officers stepped out and redirected pedestrians on the sidewalk away from the area in front of the Tenderloin.
Satisfied, the women clutched one another and sang a hymn as they held their heads high, marching off into a gathering crowd of gawkers and looky-loos. Mrs. Irvine yelled back from somewhere in the street, “Remember what I said, Ernest! Remember what I said! It’s not too late to come back!”
As Ernest watched, the police officers walked past him through the door and into the parlor. The lead officer paused, then yelled, “What’s a guy gotta do to get invited to this kind of party?” The reply was a rousing cheer from the patrons inside.
Ernest walked back in as Miss Amber was handing glasses of port to each of the officers, and the Gibson girls sidled up to each man in uniform.
Madam Flora appeared next to Ernest. “It’s so good to have you with us, dear. Welcome to the sporting life.”
He watched as she placed a cup in Councilman Gill’s hand and he offered a toast to the hardest-working police department in the Northwest. Then a few of the officers were led up the grand staircase as the bidding continued.
Ernest felt an arm around his waist and knew that it was Fahn. She’d doffed her apron and kitchen bonnet but still smelled like rosemary and sage.
“I heard that lady talking to you, young Ernest,” Fahn said. “Madam Flora did too. Maybe that woman—Mrs. Irvine—is right. Maybe you should go now while you still can, before you start to enjoy your new life. We’ve all had a chance to leave this business and no one ever does. Why do you think that is?”
Ernest looked up at the crystal chandelier, the velvet wallpaper, the lacy elegance, the wealth in the room, the power—but the sensation that overwhelmed him was more than prestige and opulence. He sensed Fahn’s warmth, the comfort of her touch; he felt charmed and alive, as they stood hip to hip. It was in sharp contrast to Mrs. Irvine, who seemed dull, and cold, who found offense in everything she saw, except her own decadence. Maybe that’s why the dour old woman never seemed to smile. Ernest thought too about his immortal soul, as Mrs. Irvine had described it—the same one he’d learned about in Sunday school, where the children were taught to do good deeds unto others. And yet, those same kids had wrapped up rocks and bricks as gifts and given them to him on his last birthday. Ernest had opened them up quietly, one after another, as everyone laughed. When the teacher arrived, she merely chastised him for making a mess.
As a ward of the state, Ernest had never had a girl as a friend, let alone an actual girlfriend. At Dow’s Landing the boys all pretended that they hated the girls, and relentlessly teased anyone who acted contrary. And at Holy Word, the second-class kids were rarely allowed at dances or ice cream socials. But as Fahn leaned into him he felt at peace, unjudged. He felt free. He wasn’t sure what their relationship was becoming, but whatever the strange connection was, he was caught up in the blatant, unrepentant honesty of the Tenderloin—as naked and bare as the girls upstairs. He let himself drift away on the riptide of new emotions that came with this place on a daily basis. He felt tangled to the point of casual surrender. That’s when he thought of Mrs. Irvine’s words and knew that it was already too late.
“Five hundred dollars!” one of the men shouted.
The women cheered. The men heckled one another, boasted.
“Councilman Gill, are you going to let that kind of offer go unchallenged?” Madam Flora dared as she took the cigar from his mouth and began smoking it, blowing smoke rings across the table. “You have a reputation to uphold. I don’t think you want people thinking you’ve become some kind of teetotaling Quaker, do you?”
The councilman smiled and yelled, “Here’s to an open city, with open minds, and open wallets. Seven hundred dollars.”
“Seven hundred and fifty,” another shouted as he finished his drink and set his glass down with a sharp retort. “And open breeches!”
The drunken men roared.
“Eight hundred for this lovely girl,” an older, clean-cut businessman said. “But for a night of my sterling companionship, she should be paying me!”
The men laughed, and more drinks were poured.