Madam Read Free Page A

Ferdinand’s, and he gave a little shake of his head as if to gently remind her to hold it all in. She could hear his voice in her head, Aw, pretty Mary, don’t get all up in your shoulders and make a scene. It’s easier to stop now than it will be to take it back later.
    She took a deep breath, allowing her fists to unclench. With a nervous little laugh, she said, “There’s been such a mistake.” She forced a cool smile. “It’s certainly not my birthday.” She looked around the room. “Might it be anyone’s birthday tonight?”
    From the crowd, a man volunteered, pointing to his friend. “It’s his tomorrow.”
    “Perfect!” Josie shouted. “Then this is your celebration. And at midnight, I’m sure a lucky lady can figure out a way to make the celebration quite official.”
    At this, Ferdinand quickly started up “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” again, and the room confusedly resumed singing. In a shuffle of kid-leather boots, the girls awkwardly rotated the cake to face the patron, who was turning a deep red.
    Josie made her escape.

    Pulling a key ring from her boot, Josie unlocked a padlock, then turned another key in the doorknob. Hoisting open the heavy door, she quickly disappeared into her chambers, where she immediately bolted the locks behind her. Looking around, she moved through her nightly ritual: check the closet, part the heavy satin drapes to inspect the balcony, sweep up the lace bedskirts to peek underneath. There were people in this town who wanted revenge on her—or so she wholeheartedly believed—and she would take no chances. She was never sure what exactly she was looking for, but this had been her way since the birth of the Arlington on Basin Street, and she’d grown even more cautious and more rigorous now that she’d created what was arguably the most successful bordello. Her neighbors—those who should have been her sisters within the boundaries of Storyville—did not appreciate her success.
    Once satisfied that all realms were clear, Josie began undressing, attacking buttons and ribbons as if she couldn’t get out of her clothing fast enough. Off with that suffocating corset, shimmy out of those thick stockings, just leave the bloomers in a heap on the floor. She wrapped herself in a Japanese silk robe that was a long-ago gift from a well-traveled patron—during the time when she still entertained her favorites—and drew her bath.
    As the claw-foot tub filled, she dispassionately picked up a gold box wrapped with a bright blue bow that had been sitting all day atop her bureau. She knew whom the gift was from and lazily unwrapped it to find a silver picture frame, engraved in fancy script on the back side: To the woman who has everything, on her thirtieth birthday. Always Yours, Tom . She pushed the gift aside, letting the wrapping fall to the floor for the maid to pick up tomorrow.
    Except for when she was a very young child and Mama was there to dote on her, she’d always detested her birthday. By the time she was ten years old, she’d stopped reminding anyone of the day and simply let it slip by without a word. But in her own head, her own heart, she could never let it be just a day like any other. At first it held the near unbearable pain of how much she missed Mama. And when that pain eventually dulled with time, thoughts of her birthday became more like an itching under her skin, an annual reminder of how generally lonely the world could be.
    Surveying the medicine cabinet full of tinctures, drops, and glass apothecary bottles, she settled on a swig of coca wine. She felt herself begin to relax with just the anticipation of the cocaine that, true as touted, relieved fatigue of mind and body. She shed her robe and stepped into the tub, sinking under until the water was at her chin.
    She’d known no immediate blood relative who had made thirty years old. Ever since she could remember, she’d felt encumbered, as if she were decades older. But now, at thirty, the