Ernest felt Fahn squeeze his hand.
Miss Amber continued, “It will be one more coming-out soirée. And with the money raised, we’ll be able to travel to the Royal Institute and live there until we sort this thing out. In the meantime, the Tenderloin will be open for business as usual. Mrs. Blackwell and Professor will be in charge until we return.”
“We won’t let you down, ma’am,” Mrs. Blackwell said.
“But who’s coming out?” Rose interrupted as she looked around the parlor. “We haven’t had a new girl since Jewel.”
“Don’t look at me,” Jewel said, wagging her finger and tossing her skirts and petticoats. “That ship sailed, sister. Bon voyage, boys.”
Ernest felt Fahn squeeze his hand again and sit up proudly, brushing the hair from her eyes. She licked her lips, which had been freshly reddened with carmine dye.
“When it comes to parties, we have thrown some humdingers,” Miss Amber said. Then she added a layer of drama to her voice, doing her best to re-create the circus atmosphere Madam Flora was always known for. “But this next party, this grand gala, will be a masterpiece for our jammiest bit of jam. This will be the greatest celebration for a special, one-of-a-kind coming out,” Miss Amber trumpeted. “And I can assure you, Madam Flora and I did not come to this decision lightly.”
Fahn smiled, beaming as Madam Flora nodded along.
Miss Amber adjusted her wig as she spoke. “And so, I’m happy—no, I’m more than happy, I’m downright proud to announce…”
Everyone else held a collective breath in anticipation.
“That our own Mayflower will sail her maiden voyage in three weeks!”
Ernest felt Maisie’s hand go limp. Fahn let go of Ernest’s other hand as well, slumping back into her seat, her face a mask of stunned bewilderment. Then she stood up and stormed out of the room, past a startled Mrs. Blackwell. The slamming door punctuated the silence.
All eyes immediately returned to Maisie as Miss Amber took her arm and helped her to her feet. Ernest stared helplessly into her wide pools of blue, as she blinked and looked away for a moment, attempting to hide her own shock. Then she recovered and smiled timidly, politely, as the room clapped and then cheered and congratulated her on such a gallant contribution. Jewel clapped the loudest. Ernest gaped at Madam Flora, who had stood like a statue through the announcement and now wiped a tear from her eye and clapped along, her hands in tea-length gloves.
Ernest looked at the empty spot where Fahn had been and back at Maisie. He was so relieved on behalf of one girl and furious on behalf of the other. He was also stunned by Maisie’s tacit acceptance of this news. He wanted to rescue her, to stand up and argue with Miss Amber and what was left of Madam Flora. He wanted to shake everyone in the room until they came to their senses. He wanted to condemn every man who walked through the front door. He’d seen Jewel and the others reluctantly surrender, but the Mayflower—his Maisie, this was unthinkable.
He rose to his feet, and Maisie nodded back at him. Her sad eyes seemed to be saying, It’s okay. I’m okay. She gamely went along with the charade, gently thanking the upstairs girls for their good wishes, bravely playing her part.
ANGER IS YOUR CURRENCY
(1910)
After the announcement, everyone at the Tenderloin went to neutral corners. The servants gathered in their dining room to gossip, the Gibson girls all went outside to smoke, while Professor True retired to his piano and began singing “Heaven Will Protect the Working Girl.”
Ernest listened to the Professor sing his own rendition: “A village maid was leaving home; with tears her eyes were wet. Her mother dear was standing near the spot. She says to Maisie dear, I hope you won’t forget, that I’m the only mother you’ve got…”
Ernest was worried about Maisie, who had gone upstairs with Amber and Madam Flora. He went looking for them, but heard more doors slamming, and reluctantly followed the noise. He found Fahn in her room, packing her clothing and personal belongings into a bamboo picnic basket that she must have taken from the basement pantry. She stuffed in everything but her dark domestic’s dress, her white collars, and her aprons, pausing occasionally to wipe her eyes.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Ernest,” Fahn said when she saw him standing in her doorway. “I’m done, I tell you. I QUIT!” She yelled the word as though that single syllable were a rush of air from a bellows onto hot coals, bursting everything combustible into white-hot flame. “I’m moving someplace where I’ll be properly appreciated. In fact, why don’t you come with me?”
Ernest stared back in horror and disbelief. He couldn’t comprehend how Fahn could be so enraged, all because Maisie was being turned out instead of her. Her best friend was about to be auctioned off to the highest bidder—albeit as part of a glamorous party, surrounded by wealthy men—but that didn’t change the fact that she’d be becoming…an upstairs girl. Ernest couldn’t bring himself to use the word the boys in the alley had used. That term had always been reserved for the girls who worked at other places. But when you boiled it all down, wasn’t that what Maisie was becoming? How could Fahn so desperately want that life? How could she react as though she’d missed out on the promotion of a lifetime?
“Don’t look at me that way,” Fahn snapped as though she could read his mind.
Ernest imagined his aching heart ripped from his chest and wrung through a taffy puller. He was surprised by how deeply he cared—about both girls—his care made manifest by how hurt he felt. He was losing Maisie, about to watch her sacrifice herself. Consumed into the belly of this confounding business that was like all the people he ever knew, from his mother to Mrs. Irvine, from Madam Flora to Miss Amber—joyful and awful, so free at times and yet so broken. And now Fahn was abandoning ship—simply because she couldn’t have what Maisie didn’t want.
“I can’t leave, not like this. And you shouldn’t either.” Ernest shook his head and struggled to remain calm. “Are you out of your mind? You’re only fifteen, and you actually want to sell yourself to the highest bidder? Just think about what you’re doing!”
Ernest argued, bargained, and grappled with denial as he tried to talk some sense into her. He stopped short of shouting, You stole my first kiss! You can’t leave because I’ll miss you too much. I can’t lose you and Maisie too. But he hesitated, surprised as the words rose from the center of his chest but got stuck in his gullet. And then he remembered what Maisie had once said—true love is always wasted, distorted, lost in the funhouse mirrors of the red-light district.
Ernest sat down. “Are you truly going to leave us because the upstairs girls get a few favorable nods? That’s how the world works—you’re a servant, for God’s sake, and well paid at that. I wouldn’t trade my job for all the expensive clothing and fancy dinners in the world! I’d rather be shoveling coal and peeling potatoes all day than counting ceiling tiles all night long, no matter how much they pay me.”
Mrs. Blackwell appeared in the doorway. “He’s right, you know.”
“I don’t want to be an old maid,” Fahn said, looking directly at Mrs. Blackwell. “In fact, I don’t want to be a cook or a maid at all. We live in steerage while they’re in first class. I want what they have—respect.”
“But they don’t have real respect, dear. Can’t you umble-cum-stumble anything? What they have is an illusion, crafted by Madam Flora.” Mrs. Blackwell rolled her eyes and removed her cooking bonnet. “Oh, they have such beauty, don’t they? And charm to spare, and the well-polished veneer of high society. But as a form of currency, dear, that beauty fades. You have beauty too—so much it hurts, I know. But you’re also so self-absorbed, girl, you possess so much anger, which scares the dickens out of me. If anger is your currency, then you’re one rich bitch.”
Ernest blinked.