Belle - Lesley Pearse [84]
The girls had said that tonight was a quiet night, and that on Saturdays it was packed out. Yet having watched the girls, seen their ready smiles, heard the peals of laughter, it obviously wasn’t as vile a job as Belle had imagined.
But she didn’t want to think about that just now. It was better to allow herself to sink into her soft feather mattress with just a thin comforter over her because it was so warm, and remember how cold it was back home.
She hoped that by now the postcard she had sent Annie and Mog in New York had reached them. Etienne hadn’t let her say where she was bound for, or what she was expected to do, just as she hadn’t said what had happened to her in Paris. But considering her mother ran a brothel, they were bound to realize the truth. All Belle could hope for was that they sensed she was happy when she’d written the postcard and that would stop some of their anxiety.
She had planned to write a proper letter home once she was settled here, but she wasn’t so sure now if that was the right thing to do. It might just make things worse; after all, her mother couldn’t afford to come here and get her, and even if she could, Martha would be bound to insist that she paid back however much she’d paid for Belle.
She wondered too about Jimmy. She so much wanted to write and tell him the whole story, but if she did, he might want to go after Kent, and then his life could be in danger.
So on reflection Belle thought maybe it might be better for everyone if she didn’t write at all. The truth would only make them fret. Yet if she was to lie and tell them she was working in a shop or as a maid, they wouldn’t believe that. After all, no one would ever abduct someone and then give them a nice, respectable life!
She fell asleep pondering on the problem.
Belle found herself wide awake the next morning at ten o’clock. It seemed odd that there was barely a sound from the street outside. The previous evening it had been even rowdier than Monmouth Street on a Saturday night.
She was dying to go out and explore, as all she’d seen of New Orleans so far was from the cab on the way from the ship. It had been quiet then too, as it was only nine in the morning, and all she saw were delivery carts, road sweepers and negro maids scrubbing doorsteps and polishing door brass. But she had been impressed by how old and attractive the city was. Etienne told her that the part they drove through from the dock was called the French Quarter, because back in 1721 the first twenty blocks were laid out by the French.
All the houses were right on the street with no front gardens, like many of the Victorian terraces back home, but these houses weren’t all the same: there were colourful Creole-style cottages with shuttered windows right next to houses of the Spanish style with dainty wrought-iron balconies on their upper floors, often with a profusion of plants and flowers growing there. Belle had glimpses of pretty little courtyards, there were squares with a central garden, and she saw many exotic-looking flowers and tall palm trees.
Etienne had gone on to explain that until 1897, New Orleans was a terrifying, lawless place, with prostitutes plying their wares or posing nearly naked in doorways all over town. With it being such a busy port, sailors of every nationality poured into town nightly to gamble, drink, find a woman and usually end up in a fight too. The death toll from stabbings and gunshot wounds was high, and countless others were found unconscious in back alleys having been beaten up and robbed.