Prima Donna Read online

  ALSO BY MEGAN CHANCE

  The Spiritualist

  An Inconvenient Wife

  Susannah Morrow

  In memory of Alvin Posner,

  whose cheer and enthusiasm never wavered.

  And to his wife, Nita, and daughter, Amy,

  who, with Alvin, have added so much joy and love to my life

  (along with rejuvenating my competitive spirit!).

  This one’s for you.

  Faust

  Et que peux-tu pour moi?

  (Well, what can you do for me?)

  Méphistophélès

  Tout! Mais dis-moi d’abord Ce que tu veux.

  (Everything! But first, tell me What it is you want.)

  —FAUST, Charles Gounod; libretto by Jules Barbier and Michel Carré; act I, scene 2

  Marguerite

  J’écoute! Et je comprends cette voix solitaire

  Qui chante dans mon coeur!

  (I listen and I understand this solitary voice

  Which sings inside my heart!)

  —FAUST, Charles Gounod; libretto by Jules Barbier and Michel Carré; act III, scene 8

  PROLOGUE

  New York City—August 1877

  Behind me, I heard his gurgling, choking breath, the sound of him drowning on his own blood, and then, suddenly, it stopped altogether.

  I didn’t dare turn to look. I heard footsteps in the hallway outside the door, and in a panic I lifted my hands from the water in the basin, dark red now, more blood than water, and grabbed the towel, pressing it hard against my face to stop the bleeding, despite the pain that brought tears to my eyes. In the armoire there was a dark blue wool among the ball gowns of silk and lace. I had to put the towel aside to put it on, and the blood dripped relentlessly into my eyes. My hands shook so hard it took forever to make the buttons go through the hoops. I shoved my stockingless feet into boots and left them unbuttoned and looked wildly about, trying to think. Money—I would need money—but there was none, only my jewels. I grabbed what was on my dressing table, shoving necklaces and rings and brooches into my pockets, and then I yanked on my cloak, pulling up the hood to hide my loose and tangled hair, and pressed the towel again to my face and went to the door, nearly tripping over his bare feet—such lovely feet, so well shaped for a man. The sight of them startled me anew. I forced myself to look away.

  Beyond the door, the hallway was silent. I stepped out, trying to make no noise. There was the elevator, but I didn’t dare take it, not looking like this. Instead I took the stairs, the back ones for the servants. My boot heels clattered on the wood; the stairs were narrow and dim, and I was shaking so badly now that I wasn’t certain I could make it to the bottom. I heard footsteps below me, and I drew into a darkened corner and turned my head away to hide my face. A steward hurried up the first flight and paused when he saw me. “Miss?” he asked, and I motioned roughly for him to go on, muttering something—I hardly knew what—and he hesitated, trying to peer into the dark. He could not have seen anything, and he was in a rush; he didn’t delay.

  I waited until he had gone by, and then I raced down, as if speed alone would keep me from discovery. The kitchen, swirling with movement, was on one side of a narrow hall half obstacled with carts and laundry bags meant for the washroom on the other side. Maids dodged about carrying glasses and linens; there was no way to avoid them. I hesitated and then I moved quickly and with purpose to the back door.

  No one stopped me; most simply moved out of my way as if I were part of the dance of their hurry, and then I was outside in the dark alley, past the garbage, running, my unbuttoned boots nearly slipping off with every step. I dodged the street-lamps and kept close to the shadows, where no one could see me clearly, if they saw me at all. The only sound I heard was my own breath, and with it came the echo of his, the images that flashed before my eyes as if they were happening anew: his hands on my hips, holding me helpless … my scream as he’d cut me … the knife in my hand, the spurting blood….

  I did not realize where I’d been going until I was already there. Until I’d gone blocks and blocks, until my side hurt and my whole face was a throbbing stinging ache. Past the dead-end warrens and the tenement buildings, until I stood in an alley littered with fish bones and trash piles pulsing with rats, potholed with shallow pools of emptied spittoons and chamber pots and the dregs of emptied kegs. The night was warm and the stink stung my nostrils along with the nauseating smell of my own blood.

  I was before the propped-open back door of a beer hall. I heard the music from within, a polka orchestra, and the clanking of pans from the kitchen, shouted orders: “Two fish!” “Get the spatzel down!” “Kartoffeles! Hurry now!”

  I had not stepped foot in the place for years. But I had nowhere else to go. I eased through the back door into the storage room. The shadows of stacked kegs filled the near darkness. The kitchen was beyond, men rushing about, their movements staccato and strange in the haze of greasy steam. The air was loud with the hiss of frying fish, the clank of plates, the thump of Herr Meyer’s wooden leg as he moved efficiently about, shouting instructions.

  They were too busy to notice me, and I was in darkness besides. I had played hide-and-seek among the kegs since I was very small, and now I found my way easily through them to the hallway that opened into the beer hall at one end, to stairs at the other.

  The music was louder there, as was the talk. The heavy press of smoke and the smell of sweat and beer made me dizzy. I pressed the towel to my face, and blood seeped from it, dripping down my hand to my wrist. I waited until the hall was clear and dashed out—up the peeling and scarred blue-painted stairs, not slowing until they turned and I was out of sight to anyone below. Then I paused, waiting for a shout of discovery. There was none, thank God, but now I began to feel sick and uncertain. The door of the apartment at the top was closed, and I did not know who would open it. I did not know what my reception would be.

  I knocked. Very quietly at first, and then, when I heard nothing, more loudly. I heard footsteps, rapid and light, and then the door cracked open. I saw a blue eye, dark hair, pale skin, a hand reaching around that was red and chapped from hard work—such a strange contrast on one so pretty.

  “Willa.” I breathed.

  She frowned and glanced behind her. “Gott im himmel. What are you doing here?”

  I threw back the hood. “I’ve had a bit of trouble—”

  Her eyes grew round with horror. “Lieber Gott.” Her voice was a whisper. “Bitte Gott, rette uns.”

  In my dismay I pressed the towel harder. I felt again the dripping blood and I saw her gaze dart to it in fear. “Please … if I could come in…. There was … an accident—”

  “Mama?” The voice came from behind her. A child’s voice. A plump face peeked around her skirts, and then those blue eyes too widened in horror and fear. The child shrieked and burst into tears.

  “Ssshhh, ssshhh, liebling,” Willa said. She bent to take him into her arms and glared at me. She whispered something to him and closed the door and I heard her steps moving beyond, the muffled sound of her voice, and I was helpless with despair.

  Then the door opened again. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her, looking at me with a gaze so venomous I stepped back. “Where is he?” she demanded.

  The tears welled so in my eyes that they blurred my vision. I could only shake my head.

  “How dare you come here! How dare you bring trouble upon this house! Did you even stop to think what would happen to us?”

  “I didn’t know where else to go—”

  “What? You mean your patrons and your Four Hundred have abandoned you?” The sneer in her voice was painful to hear. “They can bear the police better than we can, and you know it. This kind of troubl
e would ruin us. Papa’s old now. This would destroy him.”

  “Willa, please—”

  “You made your choice—did you think you could so easily take it back?”

  “Please. I have nowhere else.”

  “Go to your Mrs. Astor,” she said cruelly. She opened the door, stepping back inside. “Now get out of here before someone sees you.”

  I took a step toward her, reaching into my pocket, pulling out a necklace, pink diamonds. “Please, Willa. I can pay you—”

  She recoiled as if I repulsed her. “I don’t want your money. You ignore us when you like and now that you’re in trouble you bring it here. Look at you! You’re covered in blood! I have a child now. I can’t help you. None of us can. For God’s sake, think of us.”

  She slammed the door shut. I heard the turn of the key in the lock, and then the muffled cry of a child.

  I had no memory beyond that. Not of going downstairs and past the kitchen, not of the alley outside. Suddenly I was in some dark tangle of buildings and corners somewhere, and I had no idea where and no idea of where next to go. I was bleeding and in pain and I needed to hide and to escape, but how to do that now was impossible. How had it never occurred to me before now that I had no friends? That I had nothing? My mind was muddy and confused and I saw things I knew rationally could not be before me. His face. The broken teapot. The knife, still greasy with capon fat …

  It was very late now. The performance would be over. They would find him soon. They would come looking for me.

  Despite the warmth of the night, my hand was frozen where it clutched the towel to my cheek. I crawled into the corner behind an old barrel and pulled my cloak more closely about me. I shook with cold all the night through. I did not sleep.

  CHAPTER 1

  Seattle, Washington Territory—February 1878

  The little restaurant was nearly full. I slipped inside, letting the heat from the bodies and the kitchen warm me while my sodden skirts dripped into a puddle on the floor.

  There was one table in the corner, and I went to it as quickly as I could, trying to ignore the men I passed, trying to hide my fear. I sat down, chilled all over again by the wet fabric of my dress beneath me and the steady trickle down my collar from my soaking hat. As miserable as it was, at least I was out of the rain. My hands were numb with cold as I shoved my portmanteau beneath my chair, glanced at the chalkboard menu on the wall, and felt the eye of every man in the place on me.

  Warily, with the habit born of months, I checked their interest—anything undue, any recognition. There was none of that, but another kind of interest instead, and the shipboy’s words came back to me. “Best not to go beyond Mill Street after dark, ma’am. Them’s the Lava Beds. The only women there are … well, it ain’t no place for a lady anytime.” I should have known what it would be like. I did know. But what other choice had I? This was the end of the world; there was no place else to run. Twice already I’d nearly been discovered; women like me did not own jewels of the sort I’d carried, and Pinkerton agents and cunning reporters seemingly never slept. But now those jewels were gone, all sold, and where else could I go where no one would expect me to be or try to find me? Where no one would recognize me or care enough about a lone woman with a terrible scar to ask questions?

  An Indian with long black hair that shone oily in the gaslight approached. He wore a flannel shirt and denim trousers, along with an apron that had once been white but now was grayed and stained and filthy. He smelled of rotting fish. When I looked up at him, he spoke to me in that strange Chinook jargon I’d heard from the peddler women and about the streets and on the steamer, a mix of Indian and English words it seemed everyone here spoke but me. “Klatawa. Halo mesachie klooshman.”

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly, then I sighed. “Chowder, please.”

  He glared at me.

  Clumsily, I opened my purse and pulled out my last twenty-five cents with fingers that could barely hold the coins. “I have money. I can pay.”

  “Halo mesachie klooshman.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s sayin’ the owner don’t serve whores.” A man appeared over the Indian’s shoulder. He had curling dark hair and a ruddy face, and I could tell by his watery eyes and his slight sway that he was very drunk.

  “Tell him I just want a bowl of chowder. Then I’ll go. Please. I’m so hungry. Tell him I can pay.”

  The man spoke to the Indian in that same language, and the Indian shook his head violently, gesturing to the door. He yelled “Go!”

  The restaurant had grown silent; every man in the place had paused to watch. A few rose, as if they meant to help—not me, but the Indian. I grabbed the handle of my portmanteau and left, tripping over my skirts in my haste, pushing by the men who crowded around me to block the door.

  I ran back into the dark rain, flattening myself against a rough wall, sliding down until I sat on the narrow, slippery boardwalk fronting the building, and people stumbled over me and cursed. I closed my eyes and buried my head in my arms until my fear quieted.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder, heavy—too heavy, as if it needed my support. When I looked up I saw the man who had translated for me in the restaurant. Curly dark hair, a missing canine tooth that made his face look lopsided.

  “Hey, girlie.”

  His hand tightened on my shoulder. I could only stare at him.

  He slurred, “Looks like you could use some warmin’ up. I got a room near here. I been lookin’ all night for someone to fuck. I guess you’d do as well as any.”

  I glanced away, toward the deep mud of the street and the streetlight, haloing now before my blurring eyes, and the rain pouring down like a gray curtain beyond it, where the men moved within like spirits. Then I turned back to him. He fell against the wall, squinting, as if he couldn’t quite pin down where I was, and I felt a surge of revulsion and, close on its heels, acceptance. Who was I to disdain it now? How small the price was really, for warmth and someplace out of the rain. Well, why not? It’s no different than what you’ve done before.

  I didn’t let myself think beyond that. I didn’t want to think. “Yes,” I said, and then, desperately, “it’ll cost you … two dollars—and a bowl of chowder.”

  He smiled. “All right then. All right, girlie. Let’s go. I got a room at Gray’s.”

  He helped me to my feet, and once I was up he began to tug me after him. I said, “The chowder first.”

  For a moment he looked mutinous. Then he nodded and staggered back into the restaurant, leaving me to wait. He came out with a steaming bowl and a spoon and a drink he kept for himself. I lifted my veil, dodging a quick glance at him, but there registered no recognition on his face. He’d barely handed me the bowl before I dove into it where I stood, shoving the chowder into my mouth so quickly that it burned my tongue. I barely tasted it, which was probably a good thing, as the clam smell was strong and a layer of fat pooled on top, and there was something mushy and stringy and unpleasant in it.

  My drunk waited impatiently for me to finish, lodging his shoulder against the doorway and slinging back his drink. When I was done, he grabbed the bowl from my hand and threw it into the street, where it broke into pieces that men trod into the mud. He took my arm and jerked me into his side, wrapping his arm around me as much to keep himself upright as anything.

  The boardwalk ended abruptly, and we went into the street, which was mobbed with horses and men, dogs and whores, nightmarish and strange as they moved through the gasping flicker of streetlamps, falling again into darkness that moved and shifted with the rain so that few things could be seen and what could didn’t seem quite real.

  He slipped in the mud, half taking me down with him. When we righted ourselves, he took out a flask, which he uncorked and drank from before he offered it to me, and I didn’t refuse it. The whiskey inside was sour tasting and rotgut, but I took a huge sip and managed to keep from choking.

  Then we turned the corner, and he said, “The
re ‘tis!” and I looked past his swaying, pointing finger to a narrow building built up on pilings, like so many of the others in this godforsaken town. I saw movement in the shadows beneath—rats or thieves or murderers or men too drunk to know where the street was. Men sat upon the sagging boardwalk before it, lolling against the door, which was crooked and barely shut. My drunk staggered up the ramp, pulling me after him, and kicked at a man blocking the way, who fell over without a protest.

  He pushed on the door. It didn’t budge. He pushed at it again, and then with a great squeaking creak it opened, and we stumbled into the dark and dirty foyer of the worst hotel I’d ever seen—if that truly was what it was.

  There was no desk, just a table with a sign written in a spidery hand: $1.00 A NIGHT SINGLE ROOM, 50¢ TO SHARE, and a man with a straggly gray beard snoring in a chair beside it. He didn’t even look up as my companion led me to warped stairs that creaked badly as we climbed. The railing shook and rocked as if it might not hold our weight. At the top was a hall lit only by a sputtering oil lamp that cast more shadows than it relieved, and the man gripped me hard, saying, “I ain’t gonna pass out, girlie, doan choo worry,” as if just speaking it would make it true. I hardly cared. I hardly cared about anything now.

  I was bearing most of his weight, the wall bearing the rest as we nearly fell down the hall. He counted the doors with exaggerated precision, and when we reached four, he said, “This ‘un.”

  The room was dark, with a tiny window that let in whatever light could be had from the streetlamps below. It was almost too small for the two of us, and the narrow bed took up all the space. The smell was indescribable: a mix of stale beer and whiskey and mildew and sweat, along with the stink of piss and filthy blankets.

  “Here we are,” he said, falling with a grunt onto the bed, which protested loudly at his weight and nearly sank to the floor. He angled himself up on one elbow and grinned drunkenly at me and waggled his fingers. “Come on now, I’m ready for ya.”