Page 1 of Mrs. Victoria Buys A Brothel

C hapter 1

Salt Lake City

There was an address hidden in the paprika.

“Your husband doesn’t like spicy food,” Martha had said, folding the tiny piece of paper. “He won’t find it here.”

Martha had been replaced with a new cook a month after that. It was more expensive to hire white help and there was nothing in the world that Earl Stanton loved more than to flaunt his money.

Three years had passed since that moment. Victoria had not touched the paprika. She wondered if the address was still there, waiting.

She could leave the dark dining room and check, or she could go upstairs and get into bed next to her drunk husband.

Her arm hurt.

Maybe this time it was really broken, she thought, pressing it against her chest, biting her lip. Maybe this time, there would not be enough makeup to cover the bruises.

There was an address waiting for her, hidden in the jar of paprika. On the other hand, there was a scratch on the wooden table, under her fingers.

It was the smallest mark, made by an angry toddler with a fork. Henry had grown, as trapped as she was, and as soon as he could, had left and never looked back. Earl had erased every vestige of their son, to the point where Victoria sometimes doubted her own sanity. This scratch was real, though. She traced it, again and again.

Maybe he will write , she told herself. Maybe tomorrow, there will be a letter waiting for me. Maybe tomorrow , she had told herself for the last fifteen years.

Maybe tomorrow Earl will kill me , she thought.

The empty dining room offered no answer.

She needed to change. She was still in her evening gown—the expensive beige satin stained with blood. Small droplets, right there on the cuff, where she had made the mistake of touching her face. She should know better by now. Earl would be angry. She pictured going upstairs and undoing her hair, unlacing her corset, removing her stockings. She thought about silently sliding into bed alongside a snoring monster and staying alert until morning, fearing the mood he would wake up in. She dreaded the next time he would have a bad day.

Oh Henry, my darling boy, she prayed. Forgive me.

Slowly, Victoria rose to her feet, gathering her arm close to her chest. Her delicate satin shoes made no sound on the thick carpet. Her entire left side hurt from falling wrong; the bones of her corset had twisted and dug into her ribs, making each breath difficult.

There were no windows in the kitchen and Victoria had no idea where the lamps and matches were stored. She felt her way in the darkness and located the last cabinet. “Salt and pepper at the front,” she muttered to herself, sniffing the small glass jars, “chili, cumin and paprika at the back.”

Opening the jar one-handed took several attempts, and when the lid finally gave, half the contents fell on her. To her horror, she coughed twice before getting a hold of herself.

“Mrs.Stanton?” came a voice from the hallway.

She turned around, biting off a shriek.

A man was standing in the doorway, his silhouette ominous against the moonlight coming from the dining room.

“Thomas,” she said, trying to find her composure in front of their old butler. “You startled me.”

“I heard noises,” he said. “What are you doing in the dark? Let me light the lamp.”

“No, it’s alright. Please, don’t trouble yourself,” she muttered, watching him open the closest drawer.

Victoria had mere moments. She dug her fingers deep inside the jar of spice, and felt it. A tiny piece of paper folded in two. The relief was so strong she almost burst into tears. But the old butler was already reaching for the matches, so she swiftly hid the address in a small pocket of her skirt.

Thomas lit the lamp and took a good look at her.

Victoria knew she must have been a sight, with her hair disheveled and her pale dress covered in red spice. She felt the bruise on her cheek, and the slight bleeding. Earl wore heavy rings.

If Victoria had thought for a moment that she would find help in her elderly servant, she was quickly proven wrong. “You should go to bed, Mrs.Stanton. Your husband would be most displeased if he were to wake up now.”

Despite herself, she scoffed, furious for hoping. Thomas had never raised a hand to her, but he had not stopped Earl from doing it, either. Over all these years, he had not acknowledged the shouts and the bruises on Victoria’s skin. Thomas was loyal, through and through, to the man who paid him.

“I wanted tea,” she whispered.

He hesitated. “I would be glad to make you a cup, Mrs.Stanton, while you get ready for bed.”

“Yes, in a minute. I need to fetch something, first.”

She walked past him and went to the parlour, straight to the china cabinet.

“Mrs.Stanton, is this really the right time for the good porcelain?”

“I want my mother’s tea set,” she answered, curtly. “Surely you would allow me this simple comfort?”

She took out the delicate teapot and stared him down. He was older and weaker than she was, but he could shout at any moment and wake Earl.

He sighed. “Please, let me carry this. You are injured.”

So he was not completely blind, she thought furiously. “No,” she tried to keep her anger in. “I’d rather do this myself. This is a family heirloom, after all. If you want to help, go put water to boil.”

He nodded, and left. She waited until she heard him step back into the kitchen, and burst into action.

In the teapot was a ring of keys. One for the front door, one for the outer gates. They joined the address in her pocket.

She forced herself to walk slowly, and reached the cellar door at the back of the house. She descended in the dark, finding the uneven steps with the tip of her shoe. There were many things stored under the manor, among them Earl’s illegal supply of alcohol, Henry’s things, and most of Victoria’s possessions.

She made her way through the crates and chests and found a clothes rack. She could not see the dresses, but she recognized them by touch. All of them beautiful and expensive, gifts from Earl to better showcase his money.

The one she sought was all the way to the back, a monster of white satin and lace, heavy and cumbersome. She did not have the time to remove the bustle and the petticoats; she had to grab the entire thing and throw it over her shoulder.

She climbed back out and stopped to listen. She could not hear Thomas.

She thought about the rest of her hiding spots through the house. There was a travelling bag with the bare essentials in the piano seat, a roll of money in her second makeup pouch. There were so many things she wanted to get, like Henry’s portrait, her father’s bible, or her mother’s lace gloves.

Thomas walked out of the kitchen, his silhouette a dark obstacle at the other end of the hallway. He was blocking her way to both the stairs and the front door. She could have yelled in frustration.

“Mrs.Stanton, what are you doing?”

“Remember your station, Thomas,” she snapped.

“Should I fetch Mr. Stanton, to warn him that his wife is acting erratically again?”

She grimaced at the insult, both in pain and fury. He was old and frail, she would easily overpower him. He could not physically stop her from leaving. He would not.

She strode towards him with more anger than courage, ready to bowl him over if she needed to.

Decorum made him step aside at the last moment. He watched her unlock the front door.

“Mrs.Stanton! I will have to wake your husband and he will be very upset!”

The door opened, and she walked out without hesitation. The air was fresh in the small garden between the tall brick walls. She reached the iron outer gate, unlatched it, and slammed it back behind her.

She was out.

A yell came from the house, and her insides froze. Earl was awake.

She ran on delicate heels, crushed by the weight of her wedding dress. It was nearing dawn, and the streets of Salt Lake City were empty. On either side of the cobbled avenue, the shadows of expensive estates slept behind their forbidding walls. A couple of streets away, the Temple loomed over the rich neighbourhood.

“VICTORIA!”

She could not go faster in these heels, and the skirt of her evening gown kept tripping her. He would catch up in a matter of strides.

Then, at the next corner, a carriage appeared.

“Please, stop!” she called, out of breath. She threw herself in front of the horses.

“What the hell?”

“Please, help me. I can pay you; I have gold!”

The driver stared at her, dumbfounded, and looked up the street. Her husband, still drunk, was approaching too fast.

“Alright, get in.”

He grabbed her bad arm to pull her up. She screamed in pain and landed at the back in a jumble of petticoats.

“Ride,” she cried. “I beg you, ride!”

He snapped the reins and the horses leapt into a run.

Victoria sat up and looked behind her. She watched her husband get smaller and smaller. They turned a corner and he disappeared from her view.

She caught her breath, holding her arm against herself. The streets passed by, empty and unforgiving. The rich manors became well-to-do houses, and eventually, storefronts. The driver stopped.

“That’s it, I’m not going any further. Pay me and get out.”

Nodding, she groped around the wedding dress and found a solid weight in the seam of a skirt. She ripped the stitching open with her teeth, and out fell a heavy gold necklace.

He grabbed it, impressed. “At that price, I can drive you anywhere.”

He could also run back to Earl and bargain for more. “I can walk. Thank you for your help.”

She disembarked and strode away, as fast as her small heels allowed on the uneven dirt ground. The morning workers stared at her and the enormous dress she carried. She ignored them, and at the first intersection, she turned in a silent street and hid in an alleyway.

There, in the growing dawn, she pulled the slip of paper from her pocket. Her hands smelling strongly of paprika, she read:

27 Hooper Street.