“If thee means Ian or Jamie, they would firmly abjure any such description,” Rachel said, smiling reassuringly and trying not to look away from the wide bruise that cut across Silvia’s face and made her eyes look strangely disconnected from the rest of her features. “But having known them both for some time, I do think God occasionally finds some use for them.”
79
Too Many Women
IN THE MORNING, JENNY took charge of the children so that Rachel could go with Silvia Hardman to talk to the “weighty Friends”—which was as far as a Quaker would go in attributing status to anyone—who were presently in charge of Philadelphia Yearly Meeting, and see whether some provision of housing, work, or money might be arranged for the Hardmans’ succor. Ian would have accompanied them, but both Rachel and Silvia expressed doubt that his presence would be helpful.
“I don’t plan to mention the beast that thee killed,” Rachel had said to him privately. “Thus, thy testimony is likely to cause more trouble, not less. Besides, thee has business of thy own, does thee not?”
“Not my own, no,” he said, and kissed her briefly. “But I promised Auntie Claire I’d pay a visit to a brothel on her behalf.”
She didn’t turn a single dark-brown hair.
“Don’t bring home a whore,” she advised him. “Thee already has too many women.”
Elfreth’s Alley was not bad, as alleys in a city went. Hardly a proper alley at all, Ian thought, skirting a small heap of vomit on the bricks. It was wide enough that you could drive a wagon down it, and several of the houses had polished-brass doorknobs. Mother Abbott’s did, even though this was the back door of the establishment. But naturally the back door of a whorehouse would be used as much—if not much more than—the front.
There were two young whores sitting on the back steps, wrapped in cloaks, and he wondered whether they were there as advertisement or only taking a breath of air. It was crisp out and their breaths rose in white wisps, vanishing as they talked. One of them spotted him, and they stopped.
The taller one eyed him briefly, then leaned back, one elbow on the step behind her, and let her cloak fall back from one shoulder, showing a glimpse of pink skin above her shift, and the rounded weight of her breast through it. He smiled at her.
Her face changed, and he realized that she’d just noticed his tattoos. She looked wary, but she didn’t look away.
“Good day to ye, mistress,” he said, and her eyebrows shot up at his Scottish accent. Her friend sat up straight and stared hard at him. He came to a stop in front of them, tilted back his head, and looked up. The house rose above him, three stories of solid red brick.
“A good house, is it?” he asked. The whores exchanged glances, and he saw the short one shrug slightly, relinquishing him to her taller comrade, who straightened up but left her cloak hanging carelessly open. The cold made her nipples poke out, round and hard under the thin cotton.
“Very good indeed, sir,” she said, and gave him a practiced smile. She got her feet under her, preparing to rise. “Will you come in and have a drink to take the chill off?”
“Maybe,” he said, smiling at her. “But I meant, is it a good place for you ladies?”
Their faces went blank, and they stared up at him, mouths hanging open in astonishment. The short one, with disheveled blond hair, recovered first.
“Well, it’s better nor doin’ it out of a carriage, or havin’ a pimp what sends you into drinkin’ barns and boxing rings, I’ll say that much.”
“Trixie!” The tall brown-haired lass kicked at her companion and rose to her feet, smiling at him. “I’m Meg. It’s a good, clean house, sir, and the girls are all clean. Healthy … and well fed.” She cupped a hand under her very healthy breast in illustration.
He nodded and reached into his pouch, withdrawing his purse, plump with coin.
“I’m healthy, too, lass.”
The short one tossed her head.
“That’s as may be. Everyone says Scotchmen are mean.”
Her tall friend kicked her again, harder.
“Ow!”
“Scotsmen are canny, lass, not mean,” Ian said, ignoring this byplay. “We want value for money, aye—but if it’s value we get …” He tossed the purse lightly, catching it in his palm so the money chinked.
The tall lassie came down the steps and stopped in front of him, close, her cold nipples near enough that he imagined them pressing against his bare chest and felt the hairs there prickle.
Forgive me, Rachel, he thought.
“Oh, I can promise you value, sir,” she said, smiling through the wisps of her breath. “Whatever you desire.”
He nodded amiably, looking her frankly up and down.
“What I want, lass, is a girl with a good bit of experience.”
Her face changed at that, and he saw that he’d frightened her a little. Maybe not a bad thing.
“D’ye have any girls who’ve worked in the house for … oh, say, five years at least?”
“Five years?” the short one blurted. She scrambled to her feet, and at first he thought she meant to flee, but she just wanted a closer look at him. She looked him over with as much frankness as he’d displayed with her friend, but with an air of fascination as well.
“What on earth can a whore do that takes five years to learn?” She sounded as though she truly wanted to find out, and he looked at her with more interest. She might think he was a pervert, but she was game, and he was that wee bit shocked to find it aroused him more than Meg’s nipples. He cleared his throat.
“I’d like to ken the answer to that one, too, lass,” he said, smiling at her. “But what I want just now is a girl who kent Jane Pocock.”
80
A Word for That
THE STREETS OF PHILADELPHIA were filled with food—at least they were when the British army wasn’t occupying the city. It wasn’t, at the moment, and there were pies for sale, both meat and fruit, big salt-dusted German Bretzeln carried on sticks like a ring-toss, fried fish, sugar-dusted crullers, stuffed cabbage leaves, and buckets of beer, all available within footsteps of the building where the Philadelphia Yearly Meeting of the Society of Friends conducted most of its business.
Unfortunately, most of the available food wasn’t of a style or shape that would make throwing it against a wall very satisfying. Fuming, Rachel glanced to and fro, and settled on an apple seller.
“Here,” she said, handing one of the yellow-and-pink fruits to Silvia Hardman. Silvia looked at it in surprise, then lifted it uncertainly toward her mouth.
“No,” Rachel said. “Like this!” And turning on her heel, she drew back her arm and flung the apple as hard as she could against the trunk of a massive oak tree that stood in the park where they’d gone to gather themselves. The apple exploded into bits and juice, and Rachel drew a satisfied breath.
“Imagine it is the head of Friend Sharpless,” she advised Silvia. “Or perhaps that oaf Phineas Cadwallader.”
“Oh, him, to be sure.” Silvia’s face was as flushed as the apple, and with a little umph! she hurled her fruit at the tree, but missed.