11. City of Ruin - 1927
James McEwan paced outside the Armstrong family’s mansion on New York City’s Fifth Avenue, his old black coat and worn Oxfords at odds with the opulence around him.
The band was packing up, loading their instruments into a cherry-red Model T.
He passed the time with them while waiting for his sister Maisie to come outside, stalking the sidewalk to keep warm.
Maisie worked as one of the Armstrongs’ maids.
James had gotten her the job; he’d heard about it from Bill Armstrong, one of the fat cats at The Players, where James was a server and valet.
Tonight was one of the Armstrongs’ infamous society balls.
Maisie had worked late, and James, who’d had the day off, had come to walk her home.
The ornate wooden door to the mansion opened and Maisie emerged, pausing underneath the archway to tug on her gloves. James took a step forward to greet her. And then he froze.
He hadn’t expected her to come out the front; the help used the side entrance.
But there she stood, her head tilted, peering up at someone who stood in the doorway.
The electric light that seeped out of the mansion illuminated her smile, but something about it was unsettling.
It was coquettish, an expression he’d never seen Maisie wear before.
Behind him, one of the musicians gave an appreciative chuckle. “Who’s that Sheba?” he said. “Benny, get a load of those gams.”
James spun, glaring at them. “That’s my sister you’re talking about,” he snarled. “I’ll thank you to shut your mouth quick and in a hurry.”
James and Maisie had come to America from Aberdeen with their mother and brothers, all of whom had died of the flux on the ship.
When they landed at Ellis Island, having only each other, James had been twelve.
While his Scottish burr had softened in the six intervening years, Maisie always told him the more upset he got, the more obvious it became.
You sound like you’re growling, she’d say, imitating him.
Especially when you say anything that has the letter ‘r.’ Apparently the menace in his tone was clear enough, growl or not, because the man took a mollifying step back.
“No offense meant,” he said, gesturing at the archway where Maisie stood. “Besides, looks like she’s spoken for.”
James turned back around, about to ask him what the hell he meant by that.
But then he saw for himself. George Armstrong, Bill’s son, loomed in the doorway, polished and urbane in a herringbone suit.
The wind caught hold of Maisie’s hat, and Armstrong snagged it, placing it back on her head with a familiarity that made James’s gut churn.
The man’s fingers lingered a little too long, tracing their way down Maisie’s cheek.
James wanted to break every one of them.
The wind gusted again, and this time Maisie clapped a hand to her head, letting out a flirtatious giggle.
James had had enough. He took a step forward, opening his mouth.
But then Maisie turned, waving a cheery goodbye to Armstrong, and came down the walk.
The bastard watched her go, weaving a bit—God, he was splifficated! —before mercifully shutting the door.
Maisie came even with James and smiled up at him, flashing her dimples. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she began, just as he said, narrowing his eyes, “What in the world—”
She sighed, resigned, and set off down the sidewalk as the musicians’ car pulled away from the curb. “There you go again, growling, James. You sound like the wolves at the Central Park Zoo.”
He took hold of her shoulders, bringing her to a halt. “Dinnae be telling me what I sound like. What are you doing with that man?”
Maisie twisted free of his grip and started walking again, one hand holding tight to her hat. “That’s no but Mr. Armstrong.”
“I know who it is!” He lengthened his stride, catching up to her as she rounded the corner. “I’ve seen him and his father down at the club, often and again. What I want to know is, what is he doing, walking you out that way? And putting his hands on you?”
She gave a dismissive snort. “You make it sound like he was committing indecencies, James. The food carts were loading out the side door; it made more sense for me to use the front. I would’ve been waiting ages, otherwise.
As for Mr. Armstrong, you should be glad he walked me out.
Otherwise, my hat would be flattened in the street right this minute.
” She inclined her head at the Model T that roared by them, the man who’d appreciated Maisie’s legs giving an appreciative whistle that did nothing to improve James’s mood.
“Better your hat than your virtue,” James snapped, before he could think better of it.
At that, Maisie stopped dead. Under the gleam of the streetlight, her cheeks flamed scarlet. “How dare you? What exactly are you insinuating, James MacEwan?”
James could feel himself blushing, too, but fury championed over embarrassment, and he held her gaze.
“It’s my job to protect you, in case you’ve forgotten.
You’re innocent, Maisie. And men, especially rich ones…
they think everyone belongs to them. As a maid, you’re one step away from being George Armstrong’s property.
He thinks he can use you for his own means, and the devil take anyone who tries to tell him otherwise. ”
She stamped her foot. “I’m a girl, not a chamberpot!”
“I know you’re a girl,” James said, trying to sound patient. “And he’s a man. Have you not stopped to think what he wants from you?”
“He’s no but a year older than you!”
With great difficulty, James refrained from taking his sister by the shoulders again and shaking sense into her by main force. “That man,” he said, enunciating each word, “is up to no good. I want you to quit this job.”
Maisie’s jaw set, the way it did when she was determined to have her way.
“I’ll do no such thing. We need the money.
If George Armstrong sometimes looks at me a little longer than he ought, that’s no a crime.
Already he makes sure I have choice work to do, with none of the scrubbing and window-washing. He’s promised me more money soon.”
“George,” James said between his teeth, “is no the man of that house, and best you remember it.”
She straightened, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. “And you,” she said with equal venom, “are no the boss of me, and best you remember that.”
“I’m your brother!”
“Aye, and I’m glad of it, most of the time. But this time, you’re acting a fool.”
If one of them was acting a fool, James didn’t think it was him. Not that he was careless enough to say that to his sister, who looked one lit match short of an explosion. “I’m trying to take care of you,” he said instead. “Like I promised Mam I would.”
“And I’m telling you, I can take care of myself.”
“By trading your body for favors from that wee bastard? I won’t have it!”
Maisie snorted so hard, she sounded like one of the horses from the barn where he used to ride, back in Aberdeen.
“What exactly,” she said, each syllable dropping clear and cold into the night, “do you think I’ve been doing, other than smiling back at him when he smiles at me, or giving him an extra cube of sugar with his tea? ”
“That,” James said, holding up a finger to make his point, “is bad enough. He’ll think you’re willing, and then he’ll take advantage of you. Christ, Maisie, he doesn’t need to think you’re willing. He’s twice your size. If anything ever happened to you, I’d—”
Unable to finish the sentence, he swiped a hand across his mouth.
The thought of Armstrong forcing himself on Maisie, and her unable to resist…
it was enough to make him heave up his dinner right there on the concrete.
His heart lurched, taking up a sick, unsteady rhythm in his chest. Perhaps, he thought, it would conveniently stop, putting an end to his misery.
That would be a stroke of luck. But it wasn’t as if James had any luck to spare.
A moment later, Maisie’s small, cold fingers closed on his own.
“James,” she said, making an effort to sound conciliatory, “how is this different from all the times you used to go down into the courtyard and fight other lads for money, to win bets and such, all so we’d be able to put food on the table? ”
James had done that, to make sure they’d had enough to eat, along with working every menial job he could manage, from bootblack to bricklayer, before getting the gig at The Players.
But what bearing could that possibly have on their current situation?
Bewildered, he said, “What are you talking about?”
“Boys,” she said, all the anger draining out of her, “men. You use your bodies for gain, too. In those fistfights, your body was your currency, don’t you see? And here, with Mr. Armstrong…my body is mine. It’s just that I’m betting on myself.”
He regarded her for a long moment. The wind had brought tears to her eyes; at least, he hoped that was the case. The alternative broke his heart. “Be that as it may,” he said at last, “my sister’s body is no a currency I’m willing to trade in. You’ll quit that job.”
Maisie had refused, and when he wouldn’t give over pestering her about it, she’d stopped speaking to him entirely.
It was true he couldn’t force her to quit, unless he tied her hand and foot, and that was a length to which not even James was willing to go.
He had to find a way to make enough money that she’d see her way clear to leaving the Armstrongs’ and securing other employment, while he supported them in the interim.