Page 16 of Mrs. Victoria Buys A Brothel

C hapter 16

A day

After a long time, they calmed down and went back inside. Natane dried her eyes and laughed self-deprecatingly. “I haven’t cried like that since Sebastian’s death. I think I needed it.”

“It’s the same for me,” chuckled Victoria, wiping her face with a handkerchief. “I feel simultaneously wretched and rejuvenated.”

“Thank you for listening.”

“Darling, thank you for honouring me with this.”

“I wanted you to know,” whispered Natane, staring at her. Before Victoria could react, she glanced away. “It’s getting late. Let’s go to bed.”

Victoria hid her blush behind the handkerchief. Her emotions were all over the place and were not to be trusted.

They retreated to the room, where a large bed occupied most of the space. It was covered in a beautifully intricate blanket.

“Is that your mother’s work?” asked Victoria, brushing the colourful lines.

“Yeah, that’s the one she gave me for my wedding, it’s old.” She pointed at a spot awkwardly patched. “I asked her if she would ever make me another, she said only for my next marriage,” she snorted.

Victoria laughed along without really meaning it. “I’ll get my bag.”

When she returned, she was faced with Natane’s naked back. It only lasted a moment, and then the soft, dark skin was covered by a nightgown.

“Err, sorry,” said Natane when she noticed Victoria. “I thought you’d be gone longer.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry! I should have knocked.”

“I’ll fetch some fresh water,” mumbled Natane, walking past her.

Victoria waited for the door to close, and breathed out. Something wrong was happening inside her. She wanted either to cry or burst out laughing. Maybe both. She wanted… something.

“That’ll teach me to drink so much,” she muttered to herself. “Making my head all jumbled.”

She undressed methodically and put on her own nightgown, carefully not thinking about anything.

A knock. “Are you naked? I mean, can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Natane appeared with the pitcher, looking sheepish. Victoria felt guilty for ruining the easy atmosphere of the evening. “Don’t worry,” she waved it off. “I live with three prostitutes that have no shame whatsoever. We’re lucky if Siobhan bothers to cover up between clients.”

“Yeah, I can relate,” chuckled Natane, filling the basin. “I was raised by nuns, so you can imagine my shock when I joined my mother’s village. It took me a while to get used to bathe in the river.”

Victoria crushed that thought immediately. “Oh. Hum, may I borrow your mirror?”

“Sure.”

Victoria washed her face as she listened to the rhythmic sound of the brush going through Natane’s long hair. After travelling together, it had become comfortingly familiar. She watched Natane’s hands braid it in the reflection of the mirror, feeling naughty for stealing a glance.

Once they were ready for the night, Natane pointed at the lamp. “Can I turn it off?”

Victoria slid under the covers and nodded.

In the dark, she felt Natane lift the blankets and lie next to her, face to face. There was only a foot of space between them. The silence stretched.

“…Natane…” she whispered, and trailed off. She had no idea what she wanted to say.

“Let’s sleep, alright?” cut Natane with an odd voice. “We’ve got a long day, tomorrow.”

“Alright. Good night.”

“Good night, Victoria.”

Natane laid on her back and Victoria did the same. She felt strange, sleeping in a dead man’s bed. As if she was stealing his place, somehow. She did not know where the guilt came from, but there was something wrong, so wrong, clamouring inside her.

It took her a while to fall asleep, her jumbling thoughts lulled to sleep by Natane’s regular breathing.

*

She woke up engulfed in warmth. She was held, and she was safe.

She went back to sleep.

*

When Victoria awoke, the bed was empty. The remains of a happy dream stayed with her for a moment, then soon disappeared in the cold of early dawn. She borrowed a pair of slippers and tiptoed out of the room.

“Good morning,” smiled Natane, who was already dressed and making breakfast. “You can go back to sleep. I just have some chores to do.”

“No, no, I’m awake,” Victoria yawned. “I can help.”

“Are you sure you want to?” She smirked. “Have you ever sullied your hands with menial tasks, city lady?”

Victoria narrowed her drowsy eyes. “I grew up on a ranch,” she grumbled. “With horses.”

“With horses,” she repeated, amused. “Alright, if you insist. But you can’t shovel dung in your day dress. Let me find you something.”

Victoria made herself a cup of coffee while Natane dug into a wicker chest. She handed Victoria a pile of clothes.

“Thank you, my dea— Are those jeans ?” she squeaked.

“They were Sebastian’s. They should fit you if you tighten the belt.”

“I’m not wearing pants! I’m a woman!”

“Women wear pants. I’m sure you’ve seen some.”

“Some! This is… this is indecent!”

“Victoria. You’re a cancan dancer.”

“I’m a lady! I’m a… a Madam! I’m not a man!”

Natane eyed her. “Believe me, I would never mistake you for a man.”

Victoria huffed and disappeared into the room with the clothes and the coffee.

She finished her mug and tried to silence her thoughts. The shirt was acceptable, it was a man’s rough and wide plaid shirt in a faded ochre colour, well worn, scuffed at the elbows. She had to roll up the sleeves twice, but it was comfortable.

The pants were another story.

They were large enough, however, the material was coarse, rigid, and ungiving. It was difficult to put them on without her long underwear riding up. She knew men’s pants were not supposed to adhere to the skin like that, but her shape was rounder in many different places. It clung to her calves, her thighs, and worse of all, her posterior. The belt did not help things. Tucking the shirt in only made her breasts more apparent. She thought about leaving it untucked, but she was not a ruffian.

“It’s only Natane,” she whispered to herself, recognizing very well that it was a lie. Natane was never only Natane.

She went back to the table. Natane, who was serving breakfast, glanced up, blinked, and sat down, heavily, on the nearest chair.

“Breakfast.” She mumbled. “It’s ready.”

Victoria pinched her lips. “Don’t laugh, I know I look ridiculous. I’m indecent. Look at how tightly it clings to my posterior!” She turned around, twisting to see her own back.

Natane whimpered.

Victoria scowled over her shoulder. “You’re trying not to laugh.”

Natane hid her whole face in her hands and shook her head frantically. “No, I swear— I…. You look…”

“Silly.” She sat down. “Luckily for you, this smells delicious and the coffee was exquisite. You are forgiven.”

Natane took a deep breath. When she lowered her hands, her face was expressionless.

“Don’t tell the girls I wore pants, though,” said Victoria between bites of egg. “They’d want to make an act out of it. The dress and the kicking are more than enough for me, thank you very much.”

They finished breakfast in silence. Natane then handed her a pair of work boots and her own black Stetson, while she put on Sebastian’s old hat. Victoria wondered if wearing Sebastian’s clothes was enough, if wearing his hat on top of that would be too excessive.

She was abruptly reminded of the Shakespeare play she had read on the road from Salt Lake. How the protagonist, Viola, had dressed as a man, and how Lady Olivia had fallen in love with her. Him.

This, on top of the strange feeling of guilt at taking the man’s place in his bed and his clothes, was too much to contemplate so early in the day.

Victoria breathed the brisk morning air and focused on the horizon painted in golden hues.

Maintaining the farm was hard work. She wondered how Natane could do it every day, alone. Letting the animals out, feeding them, cleaning their enclosures was hard enough. She could not imagine what it was like to also tend the crops.

They worked side by side for several hours, but at one point, Victoria had to sit down on a crate, winded.

“I surrender. My apologies for being useless.”

Natane grabbed the brim of Victoria’s hat and playfully lowered it over her face. “You’ve been great. It generally takes me all morning. You can sit here while I milk Cleopatra.” She seemed to have an idea. “I know how you can help.”

She left and came back with a tiny baby goat swaddled in a blanket and placed it in Victoria’s arms. “She’s the runt of the litter, I’m trying to make her gain some weight.” She handed Victoria a bottle.

“She’s adorable. What’s her name?”

Natane eyed the other goats, unsure. “Huh, Sebastian was the one who named the animals. The parents are Coffee and Cream, if it helps.”

“Then, this one is Cookie,” declared Victoria, feeding her. “Her siblings can be Biscuit and Scone.”

Natane chuckled. “You two are so alike. At least you’re sensible. He liked ridiculous names from history. Sir Isaac Newton was one, he also named Cleopatra,” she pointed at the cow. “We’ve had a Galileo, a Julius Caesar, and an Aristotle. He hasn’t named the chickens, though, if you want to give it a try.”

She went to milk the cow. When she came back, she found Victoria standing among the hens, hands on her hips, Cookie at her feet.

“I’m afraid to tell you that I have no more sense than your husband. Meet Titania, Beatrice, Viola, and Juliette. The rooster is Oberon.”

“Are those from the Shakespeare book? I might have to read it, then. Though my eyesight is getting worse, I get headaches.”

“I could read to you if you like.”

“…I would.” Natane’s smile was very warm. Victoria had to glance away.

“So, then, what’s next?”

“Next, I’m going to teach you to fire a gun.”

*

“There,” said Natane, placing the Colt in her hand. It felt foreign, cold and dangerous.

“I’m not sure I like this.”

“You can always change your mind.”

“No, I need to learn.” If I want to travel with you again , she thought.

“Sebastian was better with it; I prefer the rifle.”

Victoria brushed her thumb over the engraved S.D. on the handle. Now she was stealing the man’s gun.

“First,” said Natane, “always keep it pointed at the ground, only raise it when you intend to shoot. Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready.” She showed her how to charge it, how to take off the safety. “Do you see that fence, over there?”

“Yes.”

“Aim at the plank between the third and fourth posts. Put your feet like this, and your upper body like, no, wait, like this.”

Natane stepped behind her and placed her hands on Victoria’s hips, moving them slightly. Victoria stopped thinking.

“Like this,” whispered Natane. She was so close. Victoria felt the warmth of her hands through the coarse jeans. This felt indecent, which was ridiculous because it wasn’t as if Natane was a man.

“…And place your arms like this,” she muttered, guiding her hands.

Victoria wanted to die.

“And shoot.”

Victoria pulled the trigger, the loud noise piercing her ears. The recoil pushed her back against Natane. She was caught in strong arms. Suddenly, it all became too much. She stepped away, brushing off the overwhelming emotions.

“That was loud,” she exhaled. “Should I check the fence?”

“Oh, Victoria. That shot landed in Canada.”

Natane chuckled, as if the ground had not shaken at all. Victoria felt sick. Everything was wrong. The cold metal in her hand, the rough pants, that rising wave of unidentifiable emotions that just grew worse every time it returned, and that horrible, guilty feeling of stealing a man’s life. She wanted to cry.

She swallowed it back down. “Once more,” she said, gritting her teeth. This time, she stood in position without help.

After reloading the gun twice, she managed to shoot the fence. Natane had her practise until the gun felt like an extension of her arm. Then, when Victoria had even grown used to the sound of the thing, Natane passed her the rifle and started the lesson over. She did not place her hands on Victoria’s hips again.

Victoria hated the rifle. It was louder and uncomfortable.

“I prefer the little one,” she said, brushing her thumb over the engraved initials. “Well, I hate it slightly less.”

Natane picked up the box of bullets. “You can keep it; I never use it.”

“But it was your husband’s! I don’t want to steal it!”

Natane frowned. “You wouldn’t be stealing, it’s a gift. He would want you to be safe.”

Victoria hummed, pressing the initials in the palm of her hand. She felt as if Sebastian Díaz was watching her from heaven, judging.

They cooked and ate a hearty meal, and sat on the porch to digest. After chatting about the shooting lessons for a while, Natane stopped mid-sentence and turned to her. “You’re a good rider. You said you grew up with horses?”

“If my father is to be believed, I could ride before I could walk.”

“Do you think you can shoot from a horse?”

Before Victoria could stop her, she was headed for the corral. Daisy and Sir Isaac Newton both came at her whistle. Victoria joined her, only to be handed a saddle. “You know how this works?”

Victoria scoffed. “I may be useless with farm work, but I know how to saddle a horse. Which one do I take?”

“Sir Isaac Newton, since you already know each other,” she said, pointing at the Appaloosa. “Daisy is a big dumbo afraid of rocks.”

They led the horses out of their enclosure. Before getting on, Natane handed her a belt with the gun in its holster.

Victoria whined. “Could we simply ride?”

“Not until you’ve done your homework,” she gently tipped Victoria’s hat over her eyes. “Come on, cowgirl, let’s ride.”

She jumped on Daisy, her movements fluid like water.

It took Victoria a moment, having ridden last in Salt Lake City, but it all easily came back to her. Once on the saddle, she felt right for the first time that day.

“Oh, how I missed this,” she sighed.

“Alright then, we can ride a little bit. Follow me!”

She ran off in a cloud of dust. Victoria followed, laughing in delight. The speed and the wind filled a hole in her soul, chasing away her doubts.

Natane did make her practise shooting, but Victoria learned quickly. They spent the rest of the afternoon riding through the plains.

Victoria had missed being happy.

They returned home, windswept and smiling, when the sun was low in the sky.

“It was nice,” said Natane, removing her boots at the door. “You can stay over again if you want.”

“Today was marvellous,” said Victoria, taking off her hat. “But we’ve got a church weekend coming and there’s much to do. If I don’t return to the brothel, Consuelo is going to fetch me herself.”

“Well, if you ever need another day or two away from them, you’re always welcome here.”

Victoria smiled back and closed the bedroom door behind her.

The strange clothes had made more sense for riding, but she was glad to be back in her old buttoned-up blouse and long skirt. She was appalled at the state of her hair, and quickly redid a proper bun.

“This is better,” she said, leaving the room. “Between the cancan dress and those atrocious pants, I’ve been feeling like a child playing dress-up.”

“I don’t think anyone could mistake you for a child either,” said Natane, her eyes shifting away. “Grab your bag, the cart’s ready.”

They rode back to Swainsburg, talking softly about nothing in particular. The town was calm in the darkening evening.

Victoria climbed down and turned back. Natane joined her, taking off her Stetson.

“This was a wonderful day,” she smiled.

“It was indeed,” grinned Victoria. “I loved it.”

They stared at each other, unwilling to break the moment, unwilling to end the day. For the smallest moment, Victoria had the impression that Natane was moving closer, but—

“Victoria!” came the shout from the brothel.

Natane stepped back, her eyes huge. Victoria blinked.

The door opened on Lisette. “You’re back! Please, I need you to settle this, Siobhan is trying to ruin the show—”

“I’m not!” came the shout from inside.

“—and Consuelo has no artistic sense at all, so you have to help me—”

Victoria was not paying attention. She could only stare at Natane’s terrified expression.

“Darling?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

Natane looked at her, then at Lisette, and glanced over her shoulder at the rest of the town. “I… I’m sorry, Victoria. It’s getting late. I need to go home.”

She climbed back on the cart.

“Natane? What’s going on?”

“Goodbye, Victoria.”

Victoria watched her go, feeling suddenly very scared.