Madam (2 page)

1. Deubler, Mary, 1864-1914—Fiction. 2. Procuresses—Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 3. Prostitutes—Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 4. Brothels—Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 5. Red-light districts—Louisiana—New Orleans—Fiction. 6. Storyville (New Orleans, La.)—Fiction. 7. New Orleans (La.)—Fiction. I. Martin, Kellie, 1975- II. Title.

PS3612.Y5445M33 2014

813'.6—dc23 2013022372

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Version_1

C
ONTENTS

About the Authors

Praise for Madam

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Note

Letter

New Orleans, 1907

Ten Years Earlier/New Orleans, 1897

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

One Month Later/New Orleans, 1898

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Epilogue: New Orleans, 1997

Historical Note

Acknowledgments

Image Credits

A
UTHORS’
N
OTE

T
he characters and circumstances within these pages are based on real people and real events. We have incorporated actual dialogue where it was available and tried to maintain as accurate a sense of history as possible in crafting this narrative. Given that most records of Storyville were purposefully destroyed, we have utilized dramatic license to fill in the gaps.

I
come from a long line of whores.

In my nine decades on this earth I have never uttered these words, let alone seen them written, in my own hand, indelibly staring back at me. But now, as a summer storm rages strong enough to send the Pontchartrain right through my front door, I sit with a curious sense of peace and clarity. My past is more than just my own history. Although this story shames me in so many ways, it is the legacy I leave. I must embrace the very truth I spent my life denying.

I come from a long line of whores.

Call them prostitutes, call them women of ill repute, call them madams. It’s of little consequence now to try to soften how they earned their way. But they did earn their way, and in a time when even women of means and good breeding held little hope of achieving anything professionally.

Oh Saint Teresa, what an ingrate I’ve been. Everything I have, everything I am, I owe to them—to her. She’d started life as a bastard girl, not a silver dime to her name. Her family tree was but a stump. And yet, the riches she bestowed upon me: my education, my inheritance . . . this fierce, old Victorian. How the walls moan in the grip of these winds! This house, in all its faded elegance, is all I have left. How I hated that it once lived as a bordello—hot jazz, Voodoo magic, and unspeakable sin oozing from every crevice.

My aunt built this house, but I saved this house. The ghosts would come to me at night, whispering that I couldn’t let it go. While New Orleans raced to obliterate any evidence of the red-light district’s existence, I guarded this door. Overnight, City Hall purged all records of the women who lived and worked here. Even the names of the streets were changed. It took the highest judge’s signature to spare this house from the torch-wielding mob that pillaged and set aflame other bordellos. But how can I blame my beloved city? For I, too, wanted to erase this blight, this scourge on our history.

But it did exist. Storyville was real. And so were the madams. Larger than life, indeed, but flesh and blood through and through, with feelings and smarts even—they were more savvy in business than most businessmen in this town. And yet, they were still just women, devoid of equal rights and treated as vulnerable, useless creatures. These women may have laughed and drunk and frolicked more than most women, but they still ached and loved, cried and prayed, and in their darkest hours, repented.

Now, this house, my house, is all that remains as a testament to an era. If it is this storm that brings down my house, I will go with it. I only hope that this letter and these photographs will survive.

My dearest Aunt Josie, by the grace of God, please forgive me.

Anna Deubler Brady

225 Basin Street, New Orleans

August 14, 1997

New Orleans, 1907

“M
iss Arlington!”

Josie heard the eager call from a man across the parlor. But she didn’t feel inspired to turn her head.

“Miss Arlington,” the man persisted. “It is
Miss
, isn’t it?”

Ignoring him still, Josie sucked in her breath and leaned farther over the new grand piano—a Bösendorfer shipped all the way from Vienna, not that that meant anything to her, but it was supposedly the best, and she was sure that meant something to somebody here. If she had stopped to consider things, she would have presented it as a gift to the house professor of the piano, Ferdinand, but she’d long ago forgotten how to do selfless, meaningful gestures—even for a person who was meaningful to her. These days, it was only about business. And besides, Ferdinand didn’t like new pianos; he liked the one that had been weathered from his own fingers, which, to his dismay, had been promptly carted off to who knew where.

“Everybody wants you, Miss Arlington,” Ferdinand said, giving her a knowing half smile.

Josie sighed, pursing her painted lips. Her gaze locked with his. “No, Ferdinand, not everybody.”

He rolled his long fingers over the keys—the cakewalk, he called it. “As I recall, you were equally lemon-faced this very same day of last year.”

She couldn’t believe he’d remembered. It was a small act of kindness that made her heart ache, the way only Ferd seemed able. It had been some time since she’d had a twinge like this, but she knew she mustn’t go thinking about that now. This day was always punishing, and there was no need to make it worse by getting overly sentimental or—God forbid!—weepy. She shifted her stance, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, lace ribbons (shipped from Belgium, of course) dangling from her wrists and elbows.

The sudden change of her demeanor was not lost on Ferdinand. He knew how she was—the type his
grandmère
would have described as a pomegranate, all ruddy and tough on the outside, but on the inside, a sweetness that couldn’t help but bleed.

Another call trailed from across the room, this time a gruff voice slurred with drink. “We request the honor of your presence, Miss Arlington!”

“You best tend to your patrons, ma’am,” Ferdinand said softly, giving a little nod as if coaxing a child. Josie took to it, looking at him with heavy eyes. Yes, the patrons. All those men with wandering, grabby hands and sweaty palms. All those demanding eyes and stale cigar breath. And all those billfolds full of cash.

She straightened herself up, smoothing the front of her pouter pigeon gown.

“Not a thread out of place,” Ferdinand reassured.

“Of course not,” Josie replied, her voice already growing distant. “It’s the finest from Paris.”

By the time she turned from Ferdinand to face the crowded parlor, her full transformation—one she’d spent years perfecting—had occurred. Her impishness was gone. Her posture was Victorian straight, bosom thrust forward, shoulders pinned back, nose lifted, her expression both hard and sultry at the same time. She was no longer the down-on-her-luck girl Ferdinand had met way back when; she was now the legendary Madam Josie Arlington. A legend of her own making.

Josie glided across the Persian rugs, past Rococo furnishings, crystal chandeliers, sconces, and artwork chosen by the finest art dealers in New Orleans. Yet she didn’t notice any of it anymore, not that these objects had ever given her much pleasure. The acquiring of them did, in a sense, for she enjoyed the notion that she could own such fancy, expensive things. But she knew nothing of design or art, and never did she find much beauty or meaning in the pieces she was told were the best anyway. She hardly recognized what was redeeming in these pricey objects people fluttered and gasped over—other than the prestige. Prestige. That was, indeed, something that used to matter very much to her.

The crowd parted as Josie continued the length of the room. The men respectfully bowed their heads and tipped their hats. Her girls curtsied, or, if they’d been inexcusably talking amongst themselves, they scattered like roaches in daylight, knowing full well they were not allowed to converse—attention was to be showered upon the men. Besides, Josie distrusted girls whispering to each other, Lord knows they might be conspiring against her.

She approached the bar, where rows of Champagne bottles stood like soldiers; one by one, they would be plucked up, and, at midnight, the bubbly would be poured over a pyramid of crystal glasses. No one would worry about the overflow onto the rugs or splashes onto the wallpaper or the drunken spills on the velvet settees. The mess was simply the cost of doing business. Anyhow, the maids would come in the morning and scrub, and by the time the rest of the house would awaken in the midafternoon, the entire mansion would be gleaming, ready to start afresh night after night after night.

“At last, Miss Arlington!” a man in a dark tailcoat shouted as Josie reached the bar. The room swarmed about her, every man eager to be in close proximity to the madam whom some deemed famous, others infamous.

Josie launched into her little routine, batting her eyes, walking her fingers up a row of gemstone shirt studs, pinching a cheek. Placing her manicured hand atop a man’s, she coyly slid a wedding ring from a hairy finger and tucked it inside his waistcoat pocket. “Just for tonight,” she cooed in her soft, sultry drawl. With hoots and whoops, most others followed suit, twisting off their wedding bands.