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Authors: Sharon Anne Salvato
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quite overcome with her good fortune. Poor child, I do believe she thought she'd be homeless if it weren't for that lady she met," he said grandly, feeling eloquent and competent as long as the conversation was a monologue and he needn't strain to hear the responses.
In this instance he was safe. Mrs. Pettibone had nothing to say. Her earlier fears returned. She hadn't a shred of reason, but intuition told her Callie had fallen into a regrettable situation.
Again she gave into her better nature and rose tiredly from her chair. She would not rest until she knew Callie was safe and Mrs. Peach was all she was purported to be. That was the nub of the problem. What was Mrs. Peach supposed to be? Shaking her head vigorously, she hurried Mr. Jenks from her parlor, giving him a parcel of tea cakes to keep him happy and unnoticing of the haste with which she closed him back inside his own flat.
She returned to her apartment, taking time to do something she should have done long ago. She wrote a terse note to the only people Ian had listed as family among his private papers; James and Meg Berean. Ian was dead and Callie was alone. She said nothing about Mrs. Peach, or that she suspected Callie had innocently and voluntarily placed herself in the hands of a pack of white slavers. Then Mrs. Pettibone put on
her coat and stepped out into the cold foggy night, doubting her own good sense.
Muttering to herself, she hurried down one street after another, inquiring of her acquaintances if anyone knew Mrs. Peach.
There's no one of that name that I heard of," was the most common response. Not until she was ready to give up did one woman say she knew of a Mrs. Peach. Mrs. Pettibone received the information gratefully, along with the cup of hot tea offered to warm her. Once more on her way, she went directly to the address she was given.
The house was charming; through its well-lit windows Mrs. Pettibone could see guests inside. She was certain she had been given the wrong address, but she quelled her doubts and knocked at the door.
Mrs. Peach came to the door herself. She stood haughtily in the entry, looking down at Mrs. Pettibone on the stoop. 'This is the Peach residence. There is no one here by the name of Dawson. Perhaps you should check your address more carefully before vou come 'round bothering decent people next time." The door closed firmly in Mrs. Pettibone's embarrassed face.
Mrs. Pettibone hurried away, then stopped confused and nonplussed at the street corner. A memory sparked and kindled. "Why! The insolent old tart," she breathed. The woman who had claimed not to know Callie stood in her doorway arrogantly tapping a distinctive ebony cane—just like the cane that had so impressed Callie. It was enough to send the landlady straight to the police station.
Mrs. Peach was certain she had humiliated Mrs. Pettibone sufficiently to send her home red-faced, but she was never one to take chances. She marched to the back rooms of her house, clearing them of the girls
and their men. She didn't believe in excessive greed, and what she might lose in one night's trade would be more than made up on other nights—provided she maintained her daytime image of a respectable old woman, and her nighttime image of a madam respectful of the privacy and pleasure of her clients. She closed the house promptly, paying no attention to the remarks of the disgruntled gentlemen being sent to their homes earlier and less satisfied than usual.
She then sent for the men who transported girls to other locations for her. That very night Callie would be taken to another city. It was not an unusual procedure. Most of the girls with Mrs. Peach had come from somewhere else; otherwise it was too easy for a girl to get help from home, or for parents to cause trouble. So white slavers cooperated and all benefited by sending girls across the country and sometimes out of it. Mrs. Peach daily expected a Malaysian girl, a long-awaited prize. Patiently she sat
In this instance he was safe. Mrs. Pettibone had nothing to say. Her earlier fears returned. She hadn't a shred of reason, but intuition told her Callie had fallen into a regrettable situation.
Again she gave into her better nature and rose tiredly from her chair. She would not rest until she knew Callie was safe and Mrs. Peach was all she was purported to be. That was the nub of the problem. What was Mrs. Peach supposed to be? Shaking her head vigorously, she hurried Mr. Jenks from her parlor, giving him a parcel of tea cakes to keep him happy and unnoticing of the haste with which she closed him back inside his own flat.
She returned to her apartment, taking time to do something she should have done long ago. She wrote a terse note to the only people Ian had listed as family among his private papers; James and Meg Berean. Ian was dead and Callie was alone. She said nothing about Mrs. Peach, or that she suspected Callie had innocently and voluntarily placed herself in the hands of a pack of white slavers. Then Mrs. Pettibone put on
her coat and stepped out into the cold foggy night, doubting her own good sense.
Muttering to herself, she hurried down one street after another, inquiring of her acquaintances if anyone knew Mrs. Peach.
There's no one of that name that I heard of," was the most common response. Not until she was ready to give up did one woman say she knew of a Mrs. Peach. Mrs. Pettibone received the information gratefully, along with the cup of hot tea offered to warm her. Once more on her way, she went directly to the address she was given.
The house was charming; through its well-lit windows Mrs. Pettibone could see guests inside. She was certain she had been given the wrong address, but she quelled her doubts and knocked at the door.
Mrs. Peach came to the door herself. She stood haughtily in the entry, looking down at Mrs. Pettibone on the stoop. 'This is the Peach residence. There is no one here by the name of Dawson. Perhaps you should check your address more carefully before vou come 'round bothering decent people next time." The door closed firmly in Mrs. Pettibone's embarrassed face.
Mrs. Pettibone hurried away, then stopped confused and nonplussed at the street corner. A memory sparked and kindled. "Why! The insolent old tart," she breathed. The woman who had claimed not to know Callie stood in her doorway arrogantly tapping a distinctive ebony cane—just like the cane that had so impressed Callie. It was enough to send the landlady straight to the police station.
Mrs. Peach was certain she had humiliated Mrs. Pettibone sufficiently to send her home red-faced, but she was never one to take chances. She marched to the back rooms of her house, clearing them of the girls
and their men. She didn't believe in excessive greed, and what she might lose in one night's trade would be more than made up on other nights—provided she maintained her daytime image of a respectable old woman, and her nighttime image of a madam respectful of the privacy and pleasure of her clients. She closed the house promptly, paying no attention to the remarks of the disgruntled gentlemen being sent to their homes earlier and less satisfied than usual.
She then sent for the men who transported girls to other locations for her. That very night Callie would be taken to another city. It was not an unusual procedure. Most of the girls with Mrs. Peach had come from somewhere else; otherwise it was too easy for a girl to get help from home, or for parents to cause trouble. So white slavers cooperated and all benefited by sending girls across the country and sometimes out of it. Mrs. Peach daily expected a Malaysian girl, a long-awaited prize. Patiently she sat
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