Thinking of Jackson and the things he used to smuggle me makes me think of my mother—the silence from the postmaster every time Jackson came calling, or so I thought. I touch the small packet of letters tucked in the pocket of my dress. I’ve been gone from Rose Hill going on three years, but it’s only been a year since the last letter I got from my momma. The packet seems too small to hold a year’s worth of correspondence. What if she gave up on me? What if she is dead?
I need answers about my momma and the fate of Rose Hill, now more than ever. That is enough of a reason to find a way out of Summerland, fine town or not.
I draw even with the brothel and find the doorway empty. There’s no door, and the room beyond is so dark that I ain’t sure there’s even anyone inside.
“Hello?” I call. “Is anyone there?”
“Come on in, sugar,” says a voice from inside, dark and smoky like whiskey. My penny hasn’t gone cold, and this seems like the place where I’m supposed to be, so I walk on in.
The room beyond the doorway comes into focus, the haze from a trio of half-dressed ladies sitting around a table smoking cigarillos and playing cards. Along the one wall is a bar, a half-dressed Negro girl perched at the end talking to a rough-looking fellow. Behind the bar, a white man, bald and shiny, leans against the polished wood counter, eagle eye on the coarse fellow and the girl.
I suspect that every kind of vice an enterprising sort could imagine can be found under this roof. And I am determined that I will not let this place cow me.
I zero in on the redhead I saw earlier and head straight to her. She sits next to an empty hearth in a big tapestried chair, the kind you’d find in a ladies’ sitting room.
“Ma’am,” I say, bobbing a curtsy. “I reckon you might be the Duchess?”
She puts down the book she holds, Gulliver’s Travels, and fans herself with a ragged peacock feather fan. Up close, it’s easy to see the layers of face paint she wears. “I am. And who might you be?”
“My name is Jane McKeene. I’m begging your pardon for disturbing your afternoon repose, ma’am, but I was directed to see you about lodgings, a bath, and the possibility of some sustenance.” The last two are my own additions. I ain’t sure what the standard protocol is, if there is one, but I might as well ask for the sun, moon, and stars while I’m at it.
The woman laughs, showing a gap in the back of her mouth where she’s lost a few of her teeth. “Look at you, with those pretty manners. Wherever did they find you?”
“At the junction of hard luck and bad times,” I answer. It’s something that my momma says.
Used to say?
Best to just not think about it.
The Duchess’s expression softens, and she hauls herself to her feet. “I reckon I’ve passed through there a few times myself. Well, follow me, I’ll show you where you can draw your bath and where you can sleep. As for food, you’ve got a couple of hours until we eat, but you’re welcome to join me and my girls if you’d like. Everyone on this side of town eats down at the meeting hall. Only the respectable folks get the luxury of preparing their own food.” There is a tone to her voice, and I wonder what it is that I’m missing.
She leads the way up a narrow set of stairs and past a room with curtains hung as partitions. The sounds of someone visiting with one of the girls filters out of the room, and I’m very careful to keep my eyes forward lest I see something I ain’t expecting.
The Duchess stops at a door at the end of the hall. The room beyond is small, with a shelf along one wall. About half the spaces are taken up with extra sets of clothing, and the Duchess points to the shelves.
“You girls stow your stuff there. You got anything worth a damn, you’re going to want to keep it with you. There’s a bunch of thieving bastards in this place.” She eyes the gown I wear greedily, and I get the sense that she’s including herself in that group. Makes no matter to me, she can have the dress. The only things I want are my lucky penny and the packet of letters secured in my pocket.
And Tom Sawyer, of course. I’ve taken a liking to the little urchin, and I’d like to see where he ends up. It seems the boy is always running afoul of a pack of shamblers in the midst of his Missouri adventures, and the boy’s derring-do reminds me of my own exploits.
I put my extra set of clothing on one of the far shelves, then follow the Duchess down a back staircase. “These are the stairs you’ll use. Don’t come down those front stairs, those are strictly for my girls and their clients. Negroes ain’t allowed to drink in the saloon, anyway—or anywhere in Summerland, strictly speaking.” She leans back and whispers, “You want whiskey, you’ll get your spirits from the kitchen entrance. Woman named Maybelle. Don’t let anyone catch you, though. They’re free with the strap around here. The preacher sees to that.”
“The preacher?” I ask. She can’t possibly mean the old man I saw just a few moments ago. He was too frail to wield anything.
The Duchess nods. “Don’t let that old man fool you, he’s got a vicious streak. The sheriff is his son, and nothing in this town happens without one of them saying so. The preacher thinks it up, but the sheriff makes it happen. Watch yourself around the two of them.”
“Good to know. Anything else of note regarding the sheriff and the preacher?”
The Duchess purses her lips
