“I wasn’t. The Lady …” Again he hesitated over the word. “… in question, now resides in New Orleans. It is there that we met.”
“Eugenie said she wanted to visit there because everyone spoke French.”
“Well, yes. As you say, that is the preferred language in the quarter.” For some reason, Ebbely seemed ill at ease.
“And? Did she buy your peignoirs? I was sure she would be just the type to really appreciate them.”
“Actually, she purchased three.”
“Three! You see, I was right. She is the type to lounge.”
“Undoubtedly the type.” Ebbely squirmed, cleared his throat, “Miss Jane, may I speak plainly?”
“Of course.” Jane had never seen him so unsettled.
“Your friend, Mademoiselle Eugenie, is employed …” Jane, about to speak, was stopped by his warning frown. “… as a painted lady of the evening in New Orleans’s most frequented house of pleasure.”
Rumpelstiltskin wiped his brow with his silk handkerchief.
Jane, wide-eyed, wondered if she had understood him correctly.
“A house of pleasure?”
“A brothel, dear Lady. A place of carnal pleasures where money changes hands!”
“Oh!” Though shocked, Jane’s first reaction was that Ebbely was far more uncomfortable than she. “Poor Eugenie. She had such lofty dreams coming to America. Please, Ebbely—tell me—how is she?”
Very relieved Jane hadn’t swooned dead away from such shocking news, the little man beamed.
“In excellent health. Most attractive. Quite the reigning queen of the whole establishment. All the girls so green with envy—they would like nothing better than to scratch her eyes out. That is, all except the high color ladies. Those cinnamon beauties are in a class of their own!”
“High color?”
“Octoroons. Gorgeous creatures much maligned. Degraded misfits belonging nowhere, they live with daily cruelty, so men can buy what society denies them.”
“Really.” Jane was fascinated.
“Goodness me! No, no! This is not a proper subject for a lady’s ear. Please forgive me. I simply thought you should know under what circumstances your friend now finds herself. May I suggest that you do not tell John any of this. He would most assuredly be angered by your interest and, justifiably, upset with me for my part in it.”
“Ebbely, could you give me that New Orleans address?”
“What? Certainly not! Very unseemly, not at all proper, Miss Jane!”
“Please! I promise no one will know. I won’t even tell Hannah!”
“I should hope not! If she knew I even went close to such naughtiness, she’d flay me alive!”
“Ebbely, Eugenie may need a friend. Oh, I know—I could write, then give you the letter to deliver next time you go.”
“Go? Go where?”
“To the house of pleasure.” Ebbely jumped up, nearly toppling the footstool. “Well! Really! You believe I frequent such places on a regular basis?”
“Ebbely, I only thought …”
Hands on little hips, standing his ground, Rumpelstiltskin, eyes ablaze, challenged, “I know exactly what you thought! Miss Jane, though you are a lady, still here and now, I shall give you a piece of my mind. I may be small of stature but never, ever, have I had to purchase my pleasures. Always such have been offered me as beguiling gifts to accept or refuse as I chose. Only my wares I sell—NOT my pride!” Quite overcome, Rumpelstiltskin plopped back onto the footstool.
“Please! I didn’t mean it that way! Truly! I only assumed that as painted ladies probably have to do a lot of reclining, you would go there often to supply them with your beautiful selections.”
“My, my. I must humbly beg your pardon. Don’t know what came over me. You are quite right of course. More and more, it seems that truly superb intimate apparel is being worn by women who entice and no longer by those who used to wear such loveliness simply because they found it beautiful. The world is changing—and people with it. Sad, very sad … Forgive me … Miss Jane, write your letter, and I shall deliver it!”
Hannah called from the hall. “Ninnie? Where are you? I got your Michael all dressed for going.”
“Ebbely, I have to run. John will be home and want his supper. Good-bye and thank you.”
“Dere you are!”
“Sorry, Hannah.” Jane grabbed her son, hat, coat, and sewing box and ran.
Going to the parlor, Hannah surveyed Ebbely from the doorway.
“What you doing all alone in here?”
“Thinking, dear lady, just thinking. A brief moment of respite. Now—” Straightening his waistcoat, he walked over to her, smiling. “What masterpiece of culinary perfection are you serving this devoted admirer this evening?”
“Tomorrow you got goulash, because we are making de noodles. Tonight I made, just for you, chicken and dumplings.”
“Oh, Hannah! Solace of my little heart—come, run away with me!”
“Always de kidder!” She gave him a gentle shove. “Go, wash up. Fritz come home any minute.”
Jane was so eager to get to her letter writing, as soon as John had left the next morning, she collected writing tablet, ink bottle and pen and, full of good intentions, settled herself at the kitchen table, uncorked the ink, inserted the pen tip into the holder and, suddenly found that she didn’t know how to start or what to say. Writing paper being far too expensive to waste, she decided to practice first in her copybook but, although she tried, nothing sounded right under the delicate circumstances. If she appeared to know how Eugenie was living, it would surely embarrass her and, if she pretended not to know, what would she find to say? Deciding it might be better if she took a day or two to think it through, she re-corked the ink, wiped the tip, put everything back in its place and got on with her morning duties.
Months later she would find her copybook, in it her laborious attempts and wonder why she had never written the letter, knowing that it was now too late to do so. In the old days, Teresa would have told her she had committed a sin, one of omission and, for once, Jane felt she would have agreed with her.
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