Parlor Games A Novel

SURPRISING ENCOUNTERS



CHICAGO—AUGUST-OCTOBER 1887



Three days later, I donned the dress and shoes Mr. Montcrief had purchased for me—a fine enough outfit for meeting Miss Watson, but, alas, unlikely by itself to secure me entry into Chicago’s high society. Promptly at one o’clock on a muggy August day, I walked up to a shipshape three-story brick at 441 South Clark Street. I strolled past the building, sized it up, and circled back. White shutters dressed up its windows, with those on the sunny side closed against the day’s blazing sun. Gauzy curtains hung inside the visible windows, flowing diagonally to clasps at the corners, as if pairs of ballerinas stood there, posed and inviting. A brass plate with “Miss Carrie Watson” engraved in curled script graced the door, and above it a solid brass knocker stood ready. I gripped its smooth surface and brought it down once on the metal plate.

A Negro maid with a dusting rag in hand answered the door and ushered me through the entranceway, past a covered birdcage, and down a hallway paneled with deep-stained wood. I peeked into the rooms off the hallway and spied parlors with flocked floral wallpaper, French plate mirrors, and Oriental rugs. The day’s heat had not yet overtaken the home’s dim interior, and the odors of baking bread and stale cigarette smoke mingled in the hallway. We passed by a curved stairwell with a carved wood rail and came up to the doorway of a small room—small compared with the parlors I had glimpsed, but ample enough space for a dainty desk with curvaceous legs, three upholstered chairs, and a bookcase lined with glossy leather-bound volumes.

“Miss Watson will be down directly,” said the maid, leading me into the room. She departed, brushing her rag over the top of the wainscoting and leaving the door open behind her. The room, being situated more or less in the center of the house, had no windows, but lamps with incandescent bulbs lit up the desk and room corners. Varnished paneling ran around the bottom half of the room, and celery-green wallpaper decorated with ivory fleurs-de-lis covered the walls.

Footsteps tapped down the stairs, beating out deliberate, even steps. I arranged myself into an erect posture and faced the door.

Carrie Watson appeared in the doorway—there was no doubt in my mind it was she—a stately woman of about five eight attired in a white gown with pink lace adorning the arms and bodice front. She wore her chocolate-brown hair swept up and trussed in diamond-studded clips. As her eyes met mine she smiled—a ready, automatic smile that lit up her broad, flat brow, high cheeks, and firm, narrow lips. She was younger than I imagined, probably a bit under forty, and as dignified in her carriage as any high-society dame.

“Ah, Miss Davidson. You are even more beautiful than Mr. Montcrief conveyed. And what a comely dress.” She held out her hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Watson.” I shook her hand, and just as I noticed the firmness of her grip, its hold evaporated.

“Come, let me show you around. There’ll be time to talk later.” She led the way down the hallway. “I’m the home’s second owner. Fortunately, it was spared in the Great Fire. Here, this is our main parlor.”

Miss Watson and the previous owner had obviously spared no expense on design and décor. There were five parlors on the main level, the largest roomy enough to accommodate a piano and a small audience. Oriental rugs of burgundy and rich blues covered the parquet floors, paintings of pastoral scenes and women in flowing gowns decorated the walls, and upholstered chairs and sofas, some with curved wood ribbing, furnished the rooms. A plentitude of brass and glass-dome lamps graced the tables of the parlors and dining room.

The oversized kitchen, at the rear of the main floor, contained two bloated cast-iron stoves, an army of pots and pans hanging from ceiling hooks, and three rows of tables with benches. “This is where the girls take their noon meal,” Miss Watson explained.

We descended to the basement, which held a bowling alley and billiards room. In the billiards room we passed the Negro maid bent over one of the room’s brass spittoons. She emptied slimy brown globs into a waste bucket and rinsed the spittoon with clean water, all the time ignoring our presence. The scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. “These rooms,” I said, “obviously enjoy plenty of company.”

“Ah, yes,” said Miss Watson with a sweep of her hand, “we offer our guests every opportunity for leisure and recreation.”

We ascended the front stairs to the higher levels. No fewer than twenty-two bedrooms, eight water closets, three rooms with four slope-backed bathing tubs each, and Miss Watson’s own suite of luxurious rooms occupied the second and third floors. As we wove our way through these living quarters, two girls bounded down the hall toward us, both wearing light, summery dresses and carrying hats that matched the wheat and sky-blue colors of their dresses. Very nice outfits indeed, I mused, imagining what colors I might choose for a few new day dresses.

Miss Watson introduced us.

Rose, a tall, shapely girl, clutched my hand as if we were long-lost friends. “Coming to live with us, Miss Davidson?”

“I may,” I replied, glancing at Miss Watson to show proper deference.

“That’d be nice,” said Sadie, who had the reddest head of hair I’d ever seen. “It’s always fun having a new girl.”

“Well, we’ve got shopping to do,” Rose said. “Pleased to meet you.”

The twosome trailed off, arm in arm, chattering like sisters on a holiday.

Miss Watson ushered me into the parlor of her suite of rooms. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Nancy will bring the tea directly.”

“It’s a beautiful home,” I said, seating myself on a red-and-gold wing-armed chair opposite the one Miss Watson settled in. Taking in the elaborately carved coffee and side tables, I wondered: Did the girls’ rooms also contain such fine furnishings? “And lovingly tended.”

Miss Watson’s firm lips softened to a smile. “The maids do tend it well. But I’m the one who sees to the girls. And the business.” She picked up a bell from the low table between us and rang it.

“Now,” she said, “I understand you are new to Chicago.”

“Yes, I just arrived in June, from a little town in Upper Michigan.” Still, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Whatever will I tell Maman if I take up residence here? That I’ve landed in a respectable boardinghouse for ladies employed in downtown department stores?

“And what did you do there?”

“I graduated from high school and left—as quickly as I could.”

Miss Watson’s face, a soft triangle, was powdered well enough to obscure the shallow wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Ah, so small-town life did not agree with you?”

“No, and now that I’ve seen Chicago, I’m afraid I’m completely spoiled.”

Another maid, this one plump and red-complexioned, marched in with a tray and slid it onto the long, narrow table between us.

The maid served our tea, and Miss Watson dismissed her. “Please close the door behind you, Nancy.”

Miss Watson picked up her cup and held it poised in midair. “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you some personal questions.”

“Oh, no, I expected you would want to.”

“Are you a virgin?”

“No.” I wanted a sip of tea but feared my hands might be trembling. I clasped them tightly together.

“And how many men have you had relations with?”

“Only one, though I chose him because I believed he could teach me well.” I surprised even myself with this. It sounded as if I’d planned to seek an interview with the madam of a sporting house all along.

She replaced her teacup. “And do you believe you learned well?”

I held her gaze. “If this man’s relish was any indication, I should say I came out top of my class.”

She tossed her head back and chortled. “Ah, Miss Davidson, I believe you, I truly do. A few months here and I trust you’ll master seduction of all sorts.”

I reached for my cup and sipped, smiling at Miss Watson.

“Well, then, I invite you to join our household. Provided you are willing to submit to the house rules.”

I didn’t yet know if I wanted to join her business, though something urged me on. After all, I had devised no other plan than that which had already failed. So all I could do at this point was keep up the game. “I’d be delighted to join the household. And I would expect you to have rules.”

She shifted the cross of her legs and rubbed her palms together. “I bring in a doctor every month to examine all the girls. He checks for health and provides guidance on precautions. You would need to visit his office before you could start work.”

“I understand,” I said.

“This business is my livelihood, and the girls depend on me for theirs. That means the reputation of the business must be foremost in everyone’s mind. I do not tolerate any thieving or trickery. My customers come here for good company and the pleasures of sex, and I want them to trust that that is all they’ll get.”

I nodded deeply.

“I manage all the customer fees, and I expect you to welcome any gentleman who requests your company. You are not to collect any money, nor should you ever bring it up with a customer, though you may accept tips if they are offered. I am not interested in girls who are looking for a husband. I am not a matchmaker. I only want girls who understand that this is a business and that, as such, it depends on their conducting themselves as professionals. Do we understand each other, Miss Davidson?”

“Very well, Miss Watson,” I said, wondering how to reconcile these conditions with Mr. Montcrief’s assertion that I could easily find a gentleman to pluck me from the place. “I imagine, then, that you have girls who have been with the business for some time?”

“Oh, yes. Rose, for one, has been with me six years now. You can count on her to help you get settled.” She reached for the teapot. “May I pour for you?”

I lifted my cup and saucer, extending it toward her. “Yes, please.”

She poured herself a half cup but did not take it up. “As for terms, you will receive twenty dollars a week. No rent is deducted. It and all meals are provided. Each month I will also credit five dollars toward your dress account. You may incur a debt in this account, but it may never exceed your weekly pay. Is this satisfactory?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The pay was better than I had imagined it might be. I replaced my teacup and smoothed my hands over my skirt. “I am in need of a few new dresses at present.”

She perched on the edge of her seat. “I will give you the address of our dressmaker and send word that you’ll be around. You may be fitted for one dress, which can be delivered a week after you take residence.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

She rose. “Now let me show you your room.”



Dear reader, I did not take lightly the decision to join Carrie Watson’s household, but my circumstances afforded little choice. I had depleted my funds, and I sorely wanted to help my family. Maman’s dressmaking income was unpredictable, and her unfortunate habit of living beyond her means often taxed the household budget. Although Paul’s lumber-mill job was steady, his responsibility to Maman kept him from considering marriage, not that he’d yet found a suitable bride in Menominee. I also worried about my brother Gene, only ten years old and already suffering taunts from the snobbish sons of Menominee’s society set. So I naturally wanted to ease the financial strain on my family, and Lord knows I couldn’t do that on a factory worker’s or clerk’s earnings. At the time, Carrie Watson’s appeared the only viable option.

As for a reliable paycheck, I wasn’t disappointed. I couldn’t have imagined a busier residence, nor have I since encountered a more enterprising operation. Miss Watson employed three maids, two cooks, an elderly Negro carriage man, and, of course, Mr. Montcrief, the piano professor. Being new to the household, I was relegated to a small bedroom on the second floor, just up the rear stairs from the kitchen. Try as I might, I rarely managed any sound sleep in the morning hours, what with the clanging of pots and shouts of industry sounding from the kitchen, to say nothing of the heavy-footed delivery men clomping in and out with crates of eggs, gallons of milk, beef and pork cuts, and all manner of vegetables and fruit.

When I finally opened my bedroom door for the day’s noon meal, smells of coffee, bacon, pancakes, and fried eggs beckoned me to the kitchen, where we girls gathered for breakfast, visited, and planned our day. Over breakfast and throughout the afternoon, the place teemed with the chatter and rowdiness of a henhouse under rooster raid, banishing the last of my fears that life in such a place was akin to imprisonment. After our bountiful breakfast, we were at our leisure: to read or relax in our rooms or visit in the parlor; to run errands to the dressmaker or apothecary; or to stroll Lake Park. As evening approached, the scents of castile soap permeated the upper floor, where the younger girls giggled away in their baths and the older ones scoffed at their silliness and took advantage of the time to luxuriate and perhaps read in the tub until their time ran out.

Come six o’clock, the maid removed the cover from the birdcage in the entranceway and the resident parrot called out, “Miss Watson’s, come in, gentlemen.” The parlor slowly filled with our visitors, and the ensemble of piano, violin, and cello performed chamber trios. Dinner was served in the dining room at seven, and we girls dined with the men who came around for an always sumptuous feast. Into the evening, conversation and chuckles enlivened the parlors and bedrooms, and perfume mixed with cigarette and cigar smoke throughout the hallways and up the stairwells.

Many might consider work of this sort demeaning. But I would say it afforded an excellent education. Miss Watson entertained only the most refined clientele, though they sometimes parked their refinement at the bedroom door. House rules precluded me from turning away any guest, but I quickly learned to sort the ill-behaved brutes from the genuine gentlemen and to encourage steady visits from the latter. In two months’ time I had cultivated several loyal regulars, including an assistant to the mayor, an artist who only managed sporadic visits, and Mr. Hall, a generous-tipping but cantankerous professor of law who had obviously tired of the company of Rose, quite possibly because she was beginning to show her thirty-two years.

And, after all, men are not terribly difficult to manage. They are rather like puppies: Roll them on their back and convince them you’re master and you’ve tamed them. Of course, there are those who charge ahead, as gluttonous as children gobbling candy. The trick with that sort, if you can first get their attention, is to get the candy in hand and stretch it out like taffy. Ah, yes, aren’t a hundred nibbles and groans more pleasurable than one greedy gulp?

Since I no longer needed to worry about shelter and livelihood, I put my energies toward a more traditional education. My own hard-earned money, as well as Robby’s allowance, enabled me to enroll in two additional classes. In Business Law I learned about contracts, bailment, promissory notes, negotiable papers, partnerships, and corporations. And I absolutely adored my French class. French is such a beautiful language, the language of my own ancestors.

Early afternoons were my favorite time at Carrie Watson’s. With October bringing cooler days to the city, I often strolled along Michigan Avenue or took in the breezy waterfront at Lake Park. But mostly, determined as I was to make myself worthy company for cultured gentlemen, I settled in the parlor with a newspaper, textbook, or novel. (I especially enjoyed Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, and William Dean Howells.) And, when he wasn’t playing at the Boston Store, I listened to Mr. Montcrief at the piano. I barely knew Beethoven from Baedeker when I first arrived in Chicago, but Claude’s music enchanted me. “What was that piece?” I would ask each time he dropped his hands to his lap. Being the solicitous-uncle type and perhaps appreciating my interest in music, Claude took me under his wing, which had the most unexpected outcome. But I will get to that later.

During August and September, Robby had written regularly. But as of mid-October, I hadn’t heard from him in nearly two weeks, which I found encouraging. Perhaps he had met some new girl and given up his pursuit of me. And now, having attained a modicum of financial independence, I decided the proper thing to do was break off the engagement.

After composing a note to Robby announcing the sad news, I hastened to the post office to mail it, along with a letter and some money for Maman. A blustery October wind funneled down the streets, buffeting my hat and skirts. I tucked the letters into my purse and gripped my hat brim, steadying it against the chilly gusts. Thank goodness, I’d earned enough money to afford a new wool cloak, which cozily clasped my torso. I burst through the door of the post office, took two steps inside, and spotted Robby, his eyes popped so wide you’d think he’d seen a ghost—when it was merely me, his supposedly large-with-child fiancée, looking about as pregnant as a bean pole.