She smiled at the memory. Hard to believe that she’d found happiness with a footloose, disgraced deserter. Nevertheless he had placed her at the center of his world, and in doing so had established himself as the center of hers. In his bed she had driven Dewley and his demons ever deeper into the hazy distance, and come to cherish not only Bret’s body and sex, but a marvelous appetite and delight in her own.
“You are a miracle worker, Bret Anderson,” she told herself, placing a hand on her abdomen just at the thought.
The clatter of wheels and a horse clopping on frozen ground caused her to look up as a phaeton pulled into the yard. The woman in the seat was hidden in a bearhide coat. A woolen bonnet was tight on her head, and a buffalo robe lay over her lap. All were dusted with snow. She set the brake and stepped down, pausing only long enough to deliver a sweet to the horse before she tied it to the hitch.
Sarah opened the door and greeted her. “You must be Aggie. Bret said you wished to call today. I’m sorry, but he didn’t give your full name.”
“Aggie’s fine, Mrs. Anderson.” The woman stamped off her shoes, puffing a cold breath into the gray day. In the yard occasional flakes of snow still drifted down.
“Do come in, and don’t mind your shoes. It’s just snow.”
“Oh, my, Mrs. Anderson, it’s cold out there.” She slipped out of the bear coat as she entered. Then she removed her bonnet, careful to shake the snow off at the door. Both coat and bonnet she deposited on the floor before stepping over to the stove and extending her hands.
She looked to be in her late twenties, with curly red hair, and a delicately formed, heart-shaped face. Her complexion was pale, her skin creamy, and her petite mouth bore faint traces of rouge. She closed her green eyes and sighed in relief, as though in worship of the stove. She shifted, and her bright red day dress rustled.
And such a dress! Sarah admired the high-necked collar and ruffles. Below the jacket bodice, a trained overskirt fell in folds from her bustle.
Sarah conscientiously fingered her light blue wool skirt and realized she must look drab in comparison.
What a fool I am. She’d practically swooned when Bret presented it to her, it being the finest dress she’d owned since Paw took her to Little Rock.
Aggie turned, lifting a knowing eyebrow. “I been around women long enough to know what you’re thinking. Stop it, Mrs. Anderson. A dress doesn’t make a woman. Why, me? I’d kill to have your looks. Bret calls you his angel. Not sure I wouldn’t kill to have a man worship me that way, either.”
Flustered, Sarah asked, “Could I get you a cup of tea? Perhaps a hot roll?” She pointed to the water steaming on the stove next to the Dutch oven “The coffee’s cold, but I could boil up some fresh.”
“Tea’s fine. Long as it’s hot.”
Sarah took down the tin from the cupboard and shook leaves into the cup before she poured hot water over it and handed it to Aggie. “Have a seat. I take it this isn’t a social call.”
Aggie chuckled in wry amusement. “Got two things on my mind, Mrs. Anderson. First, thank you for agreeing to see me. It ain’t always considered proper. And even then, it would be back-door admittance only.”
“We don’t have a back door.” Sarah shrugged. “And I’ve been down pretty far myself. A lot of the women I worked beside doing laundry kept their children fed by entertaining men on the side.”
Aggie studied her through thoughtful green eyes as she held the tea before her. “In this world a woman either marries, lives on starvation wages when, and if, the men allow, or she sells her sex. Ain’t hardly ever a way around it.” She sipped at the tea, level green eyes on Sarah. “Me, I come to talk business.”
“And what would that be?”
“Two things. One, I’d like your permission to let Mr. Anderson move his game to my parlor house one night a week.” She lifted a lace-gloved hand. “And no, he’s never set foot in my place. I would give you my word that neither I, nor any of my girls, will so much as bat an eye at him, let alone offer any other temptation. I’ll make sure the professor enforces that when I’m not around.”
“Professor?” Sarah couldn’t help but think of Butler and his books.
“It’s what we call the man who plays the piano, oversees the action, and ensures that our guests keep the rules and behave themselves.” Aggie spread her hands wide. “I just want Bret’s game on Saturday nights, ma’am. I’m guessing his take would more than compensate for my cut given the kind of money most of my clients toss around. And when he closes the table, I give you my word I’m sending him right home to you.”
Sarah considered. “How much do you think his game is worth?”
“I reckon a thousand a night,” she said without batting an eye. “And that’s after my percentage.”
Sarah frowned down into her tea. “Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I thought men were there to…” She struggled for words.
“Oh, they’re right keen to dip their sticks,” Aggie told her with an amused smile. “But a parlor house is different than a dollar-a-whirl brothel. What I provide is a refuge where a certain class of men can congregate, listen to chamber music, drink the finest spirits imported from the east and Europe, read a volume from my library, discuss business over a perfectly cooked meal, and bed a beautiful woman who isn’t going to milk their pricks and shout ‘Next!’ In return, I receive ample compensation.”
“But why do you need Bret?”
“Mrs. Anderson, Pat O’Reilly,
