The Spoils of Sin Read online

  The precise details of the southern girl’s experience were slow to emerge. Fanny asked no direct questions, but it was clear there was a fund of knowledge to be drawn on, which Fanny herself lacked. Never once did either of them utter the word ‘prostitute’ or ‘brothel’ aloud. Eventually, part of the truth was disclosed.

  ‘I have an older cousin, by the name of Lilia Lamartine, in Charleston,’ Carola began one evening. They had walked together to a shady patch of old trees, spared the axes and bandsaws by some miracle. Birds murmured in the branches, and the air smelled of dust and sap and the faintest far tang of the ocean to the west. ‘She invited me for a visit when I was seventeen, and revealed to me how she spent her time. I discovered that she was part of a group of ladies devoted to the pleasuring of men. When I expressed alarm, she assured me it was the finest possible life, given certain provisos. I asked some blunt questions – for which we should be thankful now. I did not understand at first that she was inviting me to join them, and when I did, I ran home to my mother in horror.’

  Fanny blinked in surprise. ‘Indeed?’ she said. ‘How greatly you must have changed since then.’

  ‘That was four long years since. Not a year later, my father urged me to marry a friend of his, widowed with five beastly children. The man pawed me when we were alone, his hands all over my chest and then my behind. He was a rich plantation owner, with fifty slaves or more. He had a squint and a dirty red beard.’

  Fanny thought of her sister, who had married a man with two children and pox marks on his cheeks. Charity, to all appearances, was happy with her choice. ‘You refused?’ she suggested.

  ‘I most certainly did. But it led me to thinking. I began to understand what men want most in life. I played a few games, teasing and leading them into that madness I’m sure you know for yourself. I found myself in a position of unexpected power, simply by letting them come close for a few seconds. I put it together with the things Cousin Lilia had told me, and arrived at some solid conclusions.’

  Fanny gave a look of encouragement, well aware that there was a good deal more to the story. After all, Carola was no more a virgin than she was herself.

  ‘There was a young man betrothed to a French girl who was away in Europe for a year. He was mad with frustration. His breeches gave him away, every time I saw him. You could say I took pity on him. The truth is, he taught me more about my own body than I could ever have dreamed, or discovered for myself.’

  ‘My own experience was very much the same,’ confided Fanny. ‘It was sheer good fortune that I found Abel Tennant. He was singularly accommodating.’ She recalled a time when she might have giggled at her own words, but they no longer elicited such a reaction. Giggles were strictly reserved for flirting and fluttering in the presence of men. With another girl, such self-consciousness and embarrassment need not be simulated. Each one knew the extent of the other’s knowledge and purpose, and already – before the true business had even begun – they felt the need to conserve an increasingly elusive effervescence.

  There was another source of information that had fallen into Carola’s hands. This was a small book entitled The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk which gave a chilling account of the life young nuns were forced to lead in a Canadian nunnery. She had read it many times, scandalised by the ‘disclosures’ it contained. Priests would enter the building through a trapdoor and await the nun of their choice in her bed. Or they would commit all manner of sins with a nun during her confession. Many children had been conceived as a result, only to be strangled at birth and thrown into a lime pit in the cellar. Nuns who earned the disfavour of the priests and the mother superior were murdered. Obedience was enforced by various brutal tortures. Carola, a Catholic just as Fanny was, found the book both compelling and appalling. Neither doubted its truth for a moment. As Carola said, ‘How could such descriptions ever be invented?’

  Fanny sat down one afternoon to peruse the book in its entirety. She emerged with a mass of complex feelings, the chief one being that she and her friend would be infinitely better off than these nuns. They would not be forced by any man; there would be no secrecy or shame; no disease if it could be avoided – and emphatically no babies.

  Much of the girls’ enthusiasm for the project had been channelled into soft furnishings and discreet advertisement. Practical problems waylaid them almost every day. ‘Ought we to offer cigars?’ Carola wondered. ‘In the Carolinas, all the men smoked cigars as a way of relaxation.’

  ‘The smoke would taint the drapes,’ Fanny objected. ‘They would want more frequent laundering.’

  ‘And it would stain the ceiling,’ Carola agreed. ‘But we must keep a few for those who insist. Cigar smoke has a fragrance of its own which many associate with happy times.’ They had puzzled over how best to adorn the walls of their main room, finally selecting from shade cards in the newly-established emporium a rose-pink paint that spoke of feminine sensuality. Fanny had found a lad to apply it, laughing at the smudges on his skin at the end of the work.

  They had taken weeks to arrive at the word Boudoir to describe their establishment. In Charleston the usual word had been Parlour, which Fanny quite liked. Carola had described the way it worked, with a senior lady in charge of the working girls, alternately protecting and controlling them. Her cousin had disclosed an ambition to become just such a madam in a few years’ time. ‘She was aiming to keep half of all the money they earn,’ she told Fanny, with a shake of her head.

  ‘No madam for us,’ said Fanny firmly. ‘We’re keeping all we earn.’

  ‘And we are not calling it a parlour,’ Carola insisted. ‘It will be familiar to everyone from the east, who will bring some undesirable expectations as a result. A boudoir will appeal to their curiosity. I wager very few will understand its meaning.’

  ‘I scarcely understand it myself,’ admitted Fanny. ‘And yet you trust they will find us?’

  ‘They will,’ said Carola with confidence.

  There were difficulties inherent in the absence of a madam. Who would watch over the men waiting downstairs while the girls worked upstairs? Who would prevent them from stealing or damaging the items in the main room? Who would close the door when the line of waiting men grew too long? ‘In the stories of harems, there is always a eunuch for such tasks,’ noted Carola. ‘Perhaps we should make enquiries.’

  For the hundredth time, Fanny felt disadvantaged, not just by her friend’s knowledge, but by her boldness and wit. On the trail westwards, she had felt herself to be the boldest woman alive, with her discovery of bodily pleasures and her willingness to explore it. But here was someone who outdid her on all fronts, and occasionally she resented it. Even more unsettling was the question of which of the two was the more attractive. Carola was of middle height, with a refined jawline that Fanny suspected was quite beautiful from certain angles. It gave a squareness to her face that hinted at a stubborn nature, until she smiled. Then dimples would appear, and the bones beneath her eyes would seem to lengthen and soften. Her eyes themselves were a clear light brown, the lashes thick around them. Her abundant hair contained within it unexpected colours when she piled it onto her crown. Where the sun caught it, it suggested chestnuts and mahogany; but nearer her scalp it was darker – verging on black at times.

  Fanny’s own appearance was far less mysterious. Rounded cheeks, full lips and a long smooth neck were her best features. Her hair had a natural curl to it, which was seldom apparent unless she released it from its bonds. Her blue eyes were poorly supplied with lashes, and rather too small for her own satisfaction. All her life she had been the prettiest of the four Collins girls by some margin, inevitably coming to believe that this also applied to the wider world. Now she was beginning to understand that the truth was considerably more complicated.

  She had, at the age of sixteen, only the dimmest of understanding as to how children were conceived, and the acquisition of this knowledge was inordinately difficult. Approaching eighteen, she was better informed. The most
important fact was that such a disaster had to be avoided, steadfastly and perpetually. Abel Tennant had tried to explain, in a muddled way, and this combined with a study of her father’s cattle, her sister’s dog and another sister’s sudden marriage and motherhood had enabled a patchy theory to develop, along with ideas on how to avert nature’s efforts. The blessed discovery of Carola, who knew a thousand times more on the subject than did Fanny, came as a great relief. Ever practical, Fanny knew where her priorities lay, and this was undoubtedly Number One.

  But the great day finally arrived, and all thought of competition between them was banished by other anxieties. They had fashioned a banner, announcing ‘Grand Opening Today!’ and at five o’clock on the afternoon of July 15th, 1848, they hung it from the upstairs windows, and waited.

  Chapter Two

  Exactly where to wait had not been obvious. Feeling nervous themselves, they had neglected to make allowance for the nervousness of their potential clients. At six o’clock, with daylight rapidly fading, there were sounds of boots on the stoop, and a subdued male laugh, but nothing more. Nobody came in. Fanny and Carola had situated themselves on two separate couches in the middle of the room, with nothing to do but pick their fingernails and twirl their ringlets. ‘We should have left the door open,’ murmured Carola. ‘They’re too scared of us to walk right in when they can’t see what’s inside.’

  Fanny got up and marched to the door. Then she stepped sideways and moved the drape away from the window on the left. ‘Three of them,’ she reported softly.

  ‘Open the door, then.’

  Fanny did as advised, adopting a broad smile. ‘Come in, gentlemen. Nothing to be afraid of.’

  The challenge worked as she’d hoped, and the men shuffled in, hats in their hands. They looked around with half-smiles on their lips. One nudged another and received an irritable shove in return.

  They were all in their twenties, by Fanny’s estimation. Men employed for timber clearance, house-building, road laying. Their clothes were stained with sweat, despite showing signs of being fresh on for the occasion.

  ‘Good evening!’ Carola trilled. ‘Welcome to our boudoir. We can promise you a fine time. Now, this is Francesca and my name is Carlotta. We want nothing but your pleasure.’

  It sounded stilted, unnatural, to Fanny’s ears. The strangeness of the situation came over her in a tide of alarm and shame. What in the world was she doing? There was no trace of excited throbbing between her legs, no sense whatever that she too might experience pleasure in what was to come. She remembered words she had spoken to her sister Charity, long ago, claiming to have found a vocation in which her own desires would be fully met. Could she have been so profoundly mistaken as it now seemed?

  One of the men was staring openly at her. He was tall, fair-haired and lightly bearded. He held his hat before his crotch in a suggestive manner. It seemed there was no room for doubt in his mind as to what was on offer in this place. Carola had worried about that. ‘They could simply expect a song and a kiss and nothing more,’ she said. ‘At least to begin with.’

  The fact that there were three of them was awkward. One would have to wait alone, listening to sounds from above his head and wondering to himself about taking the place of a friend so soon after his desires had been sated. Did men worry about that sort of thing, Fanny wondered. How complicated it all seemed, as she stood there on display like a cow in the market place.

  Another man stepped forward, towards Carola. ‘Miss Carlotta,’ he said, with a little bow. ‘Do I detect the accents of a Carolina lady?’ His own tones were decidedly Southern.

  ‘You do indeed,’ she rejoined.

  He stared around the room, for the second or third time. ‘I congratulate you on this little piece of Charleston, out here in the wilds,’ he said. ‘You have worked a small miracle.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We have done our humble best.’

  He moved decisively to the couch and sat down beside her. Shorter and darker than Fanny’s admirer, he carried himself confidently. Fanny recognised the type – a younger son of a large Southern family, sent west to fend for himself in a territory with land to spare. And, no doubt, nostalgic for the comforts back home. Exactly as Carola had predicted, in fact.

  The third man was the youngest and the most hesitant. He had already missed his chance, to nobody’s surprise. With a resigned sigh he moved to the piano and sat down on its stool. ‘Do you play, sir?’ Carola asked him.

  For answer he opened the lid and began to pick out a tinkling tune on the tenor end of the keyboard. Fanny recognised a version of ‘Greensleeves’ and began to sing softly. The ice was broken. They were all friends together in a front parlour, conducting a normal social intercourse. Carola completed the picture with an offer of a glass of whiskey. ‘All part of the service,’ she smiled, ducking her chin at a notice on the wall, which announced: COMPLETE SERVICE $5.00.

  ‘Provided you just take one glass,’ added Fanny quickly. It had been another point of extended discussion, to decide exactly how much was included in this promise.

  All three men reached into the money pouch on their belts, preparatory to extracting the required fee. This readiness improved Fanny’s mood considerably. They were, after all, gentlemen, however unpolished their appearance. Even Carola’s beau was plainly working for his bread and not simply touring the west at his father’s expense.

  The drinks were dispensed, but before many sips had been taken, the atmosphere changed. The tall man had taken a seat next to Fanny, his hat on his lap and his colour high. He laid a hand on her leg, less gently than she might have liked. ‘Well then?’ he said. ‘I guess we should go up them there stairs.’ His accent was sing-song, suggesting the prairies of Ohio or Indiana. Fanny’s heart pounded. This was it, then. The first of a thousand such moments. She told herself the pounding heart was a precursor to a more sensual beat, lower down in her body. The man was clean enough. He looked healthy and in no way brutal. He would do. Besides, she realised with another painful thump in her chest, she had very little choice in the matter. From this time on, she must accede to whatever male demands might be made on her, short of actual physical damage. And even that could well turn out to be beyond her control.

  Carola’s gentleman was quick to follow. ‘Yes, indeedy,’ he said with a heartiness that was plainly artificial. He had placed his hat on a hook on the wall, and showed no signs of an uncomfortable engorgement. The piano player strummed softly and averted his eyes.

  ‘The door on the left,’ Fanny told her client. ‘I must prepare myself. Three minutes.’ She held up three fingers. ‘Remove your boots, if you please.’

  He tilted his head at her. ‘Here or upstairs?’

  The image of a pair of stockinged feet climbing the stairs was sufficiently domestic to allay a handful of anxieties. ‘Here will do,’ she told him. Then she hurried out to the crude privy in the yard, lifted her skirts and inserted one of the vinegar-soaked sponges she and Carola had left in a glass jar inside a wooden box on the floor. They had both practised a dozen times, pushing the scrap of protective material as high as they could, and then desperately struggling to remove it again. Both procedures were vitally important – the removal to be done as soon as possible after the event, the sponge washed and resoaked with the acidic fluid that would deter all damaging invasions. ‘Infection too,’ Carola had told her. ‘There’s as big a chance of the clap as there is of a brat.’ Either one would be a disaster, spelling the end of their business. A further benefit came to mind, as well. The monthly courses might necessitate some days of idleness and loss of earnings, unless somehow concealed. The sponge, Carola suggested, could work to that purpose too.

  Fanny had sighed softly to herself. The prospect of a few days’ rest each month was already of some appeal, even before the work had begun.

  She had no idea whether her visit to the privy had taken more or less than three minutes. The arbitrary time span had been a homage to her father, who would promise to attend
to whatever was demanded of him ‘in exactly three minutes’ when they had lived back in Rhode Island. Fanny’s brother Reuben had been known to time him by the mantel clock.

  A mistake, she realised too late. Thoughts of home, already aroused by the piano, were far from comfortable now. She was on the brink of becoming a loose woman - or worse. She was intending to earn her living by immoral means. The road ahead, once shining with promise, now looked stony and tawdry.

  Nonetheless, she mounted the stairs, holding up her rustling skirt and pinning on a winsome smile. The man was waiting, boots, belt and breeches already off. His impatience made it all far easier. He clasped her to him, his member urgent against the cotton of his underclothes. When he found his way through her garments, his plunging drove the sponge even deeper, until she could feel it bunched against some inner part of herself.

  He was quick, but not so quick she lacked time to think. Five or six thrusts, with his face buried against her shoulder, accompanied by unbridled groans and a final shout, and it was done. Five dollars for this, she thought, with some relief. By any standards, it had to be easy money.

  His hips worked in a spasm, to which she responded with a slight wiggle. He slid out of her, everything wet and slippery, the sheet beneath her already damp. ‘Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready again,’ he muttered.

  ‘Again?’

  ‘If you please.’

  Here was something she had not discussed with Carola. Abel Tennant had never come back a second time – they had been too afraid of discovery to linger unclothed for long. Should she make an additional charge, or simply insist that once was all there was on offer for today? Although unsure of the details, she had a suspicion that a second coupling would take considerably longer, and require more participation from her. Bewilderingly, she found her body reacting to the prospect. The speed of the act and the withdrawal had left her with a void that called out to be filled. This was another thing she and Carola had failed to confront – the degree of their own enjoyment. Fanny had understood from the first that the sensations brought intense pleasure. It had guided her initial plans for her future. But now she doubted the wisdom of taking her own satisfaction from a client. He would be so rapidly followed by others, and she could already see that it would be exhausting if she permitted herself to fully engage.