Chapter 6
Six weeks of summer slipped by at Miss Jessie’s without Maggie really noticing, each day sliding by in a blur of pleasant mundanity and not too much thought.
She’d found herself enjoying her light duties far more than she’d expected to, and she realized she’d instinctively approached the experience as one she thought she’d have to endure, suffering mortification at every turn.
It was something she’d come to realize was a reflection on her own priggish sensibilities rather than any of the ladies she worked with, who were surprisingly good-humored, if a little jaded, about their own circumstances.
And Miss Jessie had been right—her parlor house was a far cry from most of the other houses of prostitution on the Coast, many of which operated like human factories rather than homes.
The neighborhood itself was a den of iniquity and Maggie soon learned what streets to avoid, both for dissolution and danger, and which were safer, with decent shops rather than nothing but dance halls, drinking saloons and opium dives.
Until coming to San Francisco, she’d never even heard of opium—a drug from the East derived from poppies that enslaved those who partook of it.
The sweet, earthy smell of it was thick outside the dens that sold it, no matter what time of day, and Maggie would have to swerve to avoid the patrons stumbling from the basement, glassy-eyed and near to insensible.
Every morning, she visited each of Miss Jessie’s girls—there were six—in their bedrooms, most of them still sprawled in bed after their last guests had been asked to leave at four in the morning.
“They need a decent night’s sleep,” Jessamine had told Maggie in her frank way, “and God knows they aren’t going to get it if there’s a man about.”
While the women blinked sleepily at Maggie from their comfortable cocoons of blankets and pillows, sometimes smiling and languidly waving a slender hand, she picked various items of discarded clothing from the ground—corsets and petticoats, camisoles and slips, and of course the gowns themselves—usually in some bright silk or satin, with more frills and flounces than Maggie knew what to do with, but were certainly appropriate for their purpose.
She took all the items to the kitchen to inspect them for rents or tears, missing buttons or loose threads—there were usually at least a few matters that needed attending to—and then spend the morning peacefully darning and sewing in the drawing room, taking a simple satisfaction in these tasks, while girls flitted in and out, lounging on the divans, sharing the boxes of fancy Ghirardelli chocolates, made right in the city, that they’d been gifted the night before as they exchanged stories that would have singed the tips of Maggie’s ears, if she hadn’t become inured to such talk, and quite quickly.
One had to, living on the Barbary Coast, where the second Maggie stepped out the door, she was accosted by all manner of lewd goings-on.
All in all, it was surprisingly pleasant, considering the nature of her surroundings.
The brothel, and the Barbary Coast, were far from salubrious, but San Francisco itself seemed like a beautiful and bustling city, tumbling over the hills all the way to the slate-blue bay, sparkling under a summer sun.
During those mornings, Jessamine would come into the drawing room sometimes, as well, kindly but also stern, admonishing one girl for gossip, or telling another to get her room in order.
In many ways, despite being only about thirty herself, she was like a mother to these girls, just as the sampler above the fireplace implied—and they were, Maggie had discovered, indeed girls.
The oldest was only twenty, the youngest, Jenny, just fourteen years old, the same age as Evie, who continued to clean up after them all with a sulky laziness that bordered on malevolence.
For reasons Maggie couldn’t understand, and which Miss Jessie did not share, the madam tolerated the maid’s slatternly behavior without much scolding at all.
As for Jenny, the youngest girl at the house, Maggie felt a deep sorrow. Without her satin gown, face paint and curled hair, she looked like she belonged barefoot on a farm, which was where she’d come from, having run away from her father’s smallholding south of the city.
“She had nowhere else to go,” Jessamine had told Maggie bluntly when she’d expressed her dismay at a near-child such as Jenny engaged in such a profession.
“Her father used her worse than any of the men here do, and at least she can kick them out before dawn.” She’d sighed, her normally pleasant expression setting in lines of weary resignation.
“I don’t suppose you approve, and I don’t either, not really, but it is what it is, and she’s better off than some, maybe even most.”
There had been a hardness in Jessamine’s face then that Maggie hadn’t seen before, and she realized that despite how kindly the madam could seem, she was a businesswoman first and foremost, and she’d seen far too many of the cruelties of this world to remain sentimental about anything—or anyone.
It was something, Maggie suspected, that was good for her to remember.
All in all, however, she was surprised at how quickly she’d settled into life at the parlor house—and not just her, but Brendan and Danny, as well.
It didn’t take Maggie long to realize that taking in her father was as much an act of charity on Jessamine’s part as caring for Evie was.
He did very little work, rarely rising before noon, occasionally mending a step or bringing in wood, and often smelling of spirits.
Mostly, he chatted with the girls, flattering and flirting with them in a harmless way that brought a light to their eyes that far too often wasn’t there.
Sometimes he’d bring out his harmonica so they could lift up their skirts and dance, just for themselves, no men to seduce or impress.
Her da would grin and wink and tell them they had the most beautiful eyes or hair or smile west of the Mississippi, and the girls would giggle and blush like the innocent maidens they most certainly weren’t.
It was, Maggie knew, what her father did best, and she supposed it was an act of kindness that Jessamine saw and approved of, for as much ardent attention as the girls got from their customers, they were clearly starved for genuine affection.
And Maggie didn’t mind it either, for when her da brought out his harmonica and played a merry tune, she was reminded of her own childhood, and how, despite the hard times, he’d so often been able to make even the gloomiest circumstances seem cheerful, with his happy-go-lucky ways.
With her father thus occupied, Brendan was able to quietly occupy himself with all the jobs her father didn’t do.
Without saying much or making any fuss, he set about repairing windows and doors or chopping wood or tidying the garden.
He was a surprisingly strong arm when one or two guests had had a little too much to drink and became, if not violent, then at least difficult.
Maggie soon saw that Jessamine appreciated the presence of a young, capable man who wasn’t afraid to—genially, of course—march a guest to the door, smiling all the while.
As for Danny… Maggie tried not to worry about her brother, but even though he’d vowed to be different in this new city, she feared he was sliding back into his usual feckless ways.
As Brendan took over the handyman responsibilities, Danny cruised the streets of the Barbary Coast, making friends where he would, running errands for pennies that, as far as Maggie could tell, he spent on beer and games of chance.
When she worked up the nerve to rebuke him, he brushed her aside. “Ah, leave off, Maggie. I’ll get a job soon enough. I’ve got the rest of my life to earn a crust.”
“Let a boy be a boy,” her father said in agreement before he played a cheerful riff on his harmonica. “Your brother’s right. Life is long and hard, and he ought to find what pleasure where he can, when he can.”
When, Maggie couldn’t help but wonder rather sourly, had life been long and hard for her father?
He seemed to skip town as soon as it became either.
And yet she found she couldn’t begrudge either her father or Danny their irresponsible ways, for at least they were staying out of worse trouble, and they brought a smile to everyone’s faces with their friendly, playful manner.
Besides, she was weary of being the responsible one, trying to keep her brother in line.
He’d said he was a man now, so she would let him be and do what he would.
And so life tumbled on, a gentle stream of days that blended into one another and it took over a month before Maggie was forced to acknowledge such days, pleasant as they were, were going precisely nowhere.
She’d gone to the drugstore down the street for some cough drops for she’d had a tickle in her throat, only to realize she didn’t have enough money to pay for them.
It was a shock, to look in her purse and see only pennies.
Slowly but surely over the last month, she realized, she’d run through her entire savings, meager as they had been, on nothing more than the small yet necessary items of life—a length of ribbon, a new pair of shoes when the soles of her old ones had finally worn out, a bar of lavender soap.
While her position at the parlor house included room and board, it did not come with a salary, something Maggie was ashamed to admit she hadn’t even bothered to consider.
It had been so oddly pleasant, to simply drift through her days without worrying or even thinking about what came next.