37. WHO SAYS ONLY LADIES GOSSIP?
WHO SAYS ONLY LADIES GOSSIP?
MAEVE
The moonlight slipped through the thin lace curtains, casting soft, shifting shadows over the room.
Silver spilled across the bed, across my skin, across Carl’s bare back as he lay half-asleep beside me, one of my regulars who was comfortable enough to forget this was still a transaction.
The sheets were tangled between our legs, still warm from our sweat, from the tangle of limbs and low moans that had filled the space not long ago.
My curls were a wild, fiery halo around my face and shoulders, but I didn’t care.
Usually, he either drifted off within moments, surrendering to the pull of sleep, or he slipped from the bed as soon as we were finished.
I stretched out, running my fingers through my hair.
“Wouldn’t have taken you for the lingering sort, Carl, not after the deed’s done,” I said, voice teasing.
“Usually, you’re as quick to pullin’ your trousers on as you are taking em’ off. ”
He chuckled, fingers idly twining through my hair, but there was a heaviness in his eyes that didn’t belong.
“Well, Maeve, you make it hard to leave, you know that?” He said, trying for the cheeky smile he often wore, but it didn’t quite stick.
“But truth is, I’ve got something on my mind, something .
. . strange. And it’s been bothering me all day. ”
I raised an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. “Oh? Do tell. It must be juicy if it’s keepin’ you from that fine whiskey waiting for you downstairs.”
He drew nearer, like the walls had ears, dropping his voice to a hush. “You’ve heard of the new priest, Father Frederick?”
I stilled, momentarily caught off guard. “Yes, I have been blessed enough to sit through a few of his sermons,” I responded cautiously.
Carl lowered his voice even further. “The miners are talking, and it ain’t the usual gossip. Word is, he wasn’t promoted, he was shipped out, real quiet-like, from Illinois. And there’s talk he . . . likes them young.”
I had seen the way his eyes lingered on Violet, the subtle glances that spoke louder than any confession, but only now—listening to Carl’s words—did everything click into place, the pieces fitting with a harsh, painful clarity. “Go on,” I urged.
Carl wet his lips nervously. “He’s been seen near The Oily Cat.
More than once. Slipping away before sunrise, looking .
. . rattled. One of the boys swore he saw him loitering out front, just standing there, staring at the place with this empty, desperate look.
Like he was waiting for something. Or someone. ”
A cold shiver slid down my spine. I didn’t tell him Bernadette had caught Father Frederick skulking after Violet, but I muttered loud enough for Carl to hear, “He’s a bloody predator.”
Carl nodded grimly. “I don’t believe it’s just hearsay, Maeve. I’ve seen how he watches the girls in town . . . it ain’t right.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, the pressure in my chest tightening until it felt as though my ribs might splinter beneath it.
The very thought of Father Frederick lingering somewhere near the brothel made my skin crawl.
“You think he’s really what they say?” I asked at last, my voice softer than I intended.
Carl looked at me seriously. “I think there’s more to him than meets the eye. Something dangerous.”
I sat up, the sheets slipping from my skin, nipples tightening in the cold. “Dangerous?”
“Oh, definitely.” Carl affirmed, shifting on the bed with a look of discomfort on his face. “The way he talks to the young girls, the way he watches them . . . it’s like he’s searching for something, and I don’t think it’s salvation.”
I let out a slow breath and swung my legs over the side of the bed, my toes brushing the cold floor.
The old boards groaned beneath me, the familiar creak grounding me.
“If he’s sniffing about,” I said, dragging my slip over my head, “I’ll deal with him myself.
I don’t care if he’s wearin’ white robes or fucking armor.
He so much as lays a finger on anyone in this house, I’ll take his bloody hands off at the wrists. ”
Carl studied me, something shifting behind his eyes. Respect, maybe. Or fear, hard to tell sometimes with men, as the line between the two was often thin.
“Just . . . be careful,” he cautioned. “If what they say about him is true, men like him don’t play fair. And they don’t stop ’til they’ve taken everything.”
I gave a crooked smile. “Love, I was raised by men like him. I’ve danced ‘round their fists, emptied their wallets, and left ‘em cryin’ for their mothers. He’s no different.” But even as I said it, something inside me whispered: Yes, he is.
After Carl left, I stayed in my room, pacing the narrow stretch between the bed and the window, the floorboards sighing beneath my feet.
I wanted to write it off as rumor, to tell myself that whispers had a way of twisting into monsters by the time they reached our ears, but Carl wasn’t the sort to spin lies, and never about something this dark.
Eventually, I moved to the window and parted the curtains.
Moonlight spilled across the streets, bleaching them bone-white, casting the town in a ghostly quiet.
I let my gaze wander over the cobblestones, and just as I was about to turn away, something shifted in the shadows beyond the lamplight—a flicker, a shape.
My heart stuttered in my chest, and for a breathless moment, I couldn’t tell if the cold crawling up my spine came from fear . . . or recognition.
Father Frederick. As if the act of speaking his name had summoned him, and he was close. Far too close. “He’s here.” I whispered, my voice barely audible, even to myself. My fingers curled tight around the windowsill, the wood biting into my palms as anger rose inside me. I had to tell Birdie.