The Spoils of Sin (29 page)

And yet, the very idea of permanent separation from Carola was painful. Much of the distress arose from an inability to believe that Carola was capable of looking after herself and a child. Even if she could employ servants, and pass herself off as a rich widow, she would be essentially alone. Lacking sisters, she did not have the same abilities as Fanny believed she did herself for acquiring friends amongst other women. The fact that neither of them had looked outside for companionship was purely a result of practicalities. If she wanted to, Fanny had no doubt she could find friends in plenty.

Again, her thoughts switched track. Did she really expect local girls from decent families to take up friendly relations with a whore? And those few young women who belonged to the poorer outskirts of town, who had made their way to Oregon as servants or reluctantly assisted charity cases, hangers-on with no property to call their own – would she want to associate with them? They may not judge Fanny's choice of work, but they would make very unsatisfactory companions.

Decisions, resolutions, conclusions came and went, twisting and turning, as she walked blindly along the bank of the river. She understood her own powerlessness more clearly by the time she felt hungry and weary enough to turn back. She thought of Carola's intention to acquire a horse and buggy, and found herself dreaming of the status and convenience such an asset would confer on them. It had been pleasant to journey to her parents' homestead, despite the rough roads, sitting snugly together in the vehicle they had hired. One day, perhaps not so far off, there would be turnpikes and good roads that would make travelling a simple matter.

The men were, of course, central to all her considerations. The men were her work, and without them she would be altogether idle. She might become more selective in those she took as patrons, insisting on standards of cleanliness and good behaviour. Chemeketa was a decent little town, establishing itself as a place for families, businesses, good order and universal decency. There might be gambling and drinking in the newly-erected taverns, but it very seldom led to noise or violence. Somehow – and Fanny supposed it must have to do with the early missionaries and the tone they set – this particular township was successfully maintaining an atmosphere that showed no signs of changing. There was talk of political advancement, with every prospect of attaining the position of State Capital. The town's name, some said, should be changed to something less savage. Politics was sure to be affected by the gold fields, with the increasingly urgent need for systems, laws and all kinds of management. She thought she might enjoy learning more of such matters, as she grew older. She thought, in her usual fashion, that there was surely opportunity to be had for a young woman who followed her own path and made it good. Had she not proved this to be so, already? She had sinned, and gone unpunished. Carola had performed acts of kindness on behalf of Reuben and Marybelle, and earned the most drastic and unsettling consequences.

She walked home, the dog cheerily loping a few paces ahead, having been impatient with her musings, which had slowed and even stilled her progress. Hugo was a trusting creature, but his early experiences had taught him wariness amongst strangers. He had most likely been kicked and abused in his wanderings and searches for food. There would always be people who were alarmed and therefore aggressive on account of his size. Fanny was in no doubt that the dog required her protection in equal proportions to her need of his.

Carola showed no signs of having moved all day. She reclined with her feet up on the couch, stitching something small and white. When Fanny and Hugo breezed in, breathing hard and glowing with their exposure to the elements, she gave them a look of reproach. ‘Take him out back,' she ordered. ‘His feet are filthy.'

The dog's paws were in fact entirely unsullied. Any mud he might have collected had shaken off again in the final yards of their walk. There was a stiff coir mat on the threshold, which functioned well as a foot-cleaner for man and beast. Saying nothing, Fanny escorted him through to the yard and fussily settled him in his kennel. He made no complaint, flopping down bonelessly to rest.

Provisioning herself with bread and salt beef, Fanny drifted into the main room, with nothing particular on her mind. She had arrived at no firm conclusions during her walk, other than a sense that she would fight to continue very much as she was, regardless of what Carola chose to do in future. She scrutinised her friend critically as she ate. The Southern softness was very apparent, in the flounced frock she wore, and the carefully ringletted hair. Even the way she lay so indolently conjured images of hot Carolinan idleness; slaves hurrying in and out with drinks and sweetmeats for the imperious mistress. Fanny's more austere experience protested at this way of life. Here in the new Oregon country, work was assumed to be a virtue, every man creating his homestead by the labour of his own hands. There was no slavery here. Life was pared down to the basics, by necessity. While there were plenty of specialists to manufacture equipment of every kind, it was yet assumed that many people would produce their own food, construct their own homes and stitch their own garments. There was more than a whiff of New England self-reliance in the establishment of agriculture and orchards, new roads and plain workaday homes. No place here for the great while colonnaded mansions that filled Charleston and Atlanta. As these observations formed in Fanny's mind, she realised how few Southerners had settled in Chemeketa. It did not suit them. They were better off in the warmer climes of California and Texas. Remembering her studies of the globe in her schooldays, it struck her that people generally stuck to the same latitudes as far as they could. The Collins family had moved from Ireland to the north-east of America. And from there, they had followed much the same line, moving westwards, avoiding any southern seductions along the way.

Carola and her child would leave Chemeketa. Suddenly Fanny was certain of this as a sure fact. How or when remained to be seen, but from that moment on, she began a conscious withdrawal from her friend. She hardened herself against any hurt the separation would bring her. ‘I will open the door and set out the lamp tonight,' she announced. ‘We cannot remain closed to our patrons indefinitely.'

‘Do as you wish. I shall not be available for anything other than conversation.'

‘I had expected nothing else.'

The remainder of Fanny's day was spend replenishing flower bowls, dusting and sweeping rooms downstairs and up. She washed her hair and buffed her fingernails. With the setting of the sun, she propped open their door, and ignited the lamp that they had taken to placing on the porch to guide the men in.

Barely ten minutes later, a tall man, clean-shaven and free of mud, came up the stoop. He moved quickly, without hesitation, and doffed his hat with an urgent gesture the moment he stepped into the house.

‘Mm-hmm,' murmured Carola. The sound conveyed that she recognised him and his need all too well.

Fanny smiled a welcome and offered him a drink.

‘Thank'ee, Miss, but time is short. I am spared but an hour by my friends.'

‘Come, then,' she agreed. ‘Give me a single moment, and I shall be at your service.' She trotted out to the privy, as always, while Carola directed the man to her room upstairs.

The man did his best to make his time count. His member was unusually long and hard. Fanny felt its whole length inside her, and moved instinctively to receive its load. Then she felt the vinegar-soaked sponge shift painfully, pushed deep by his energetic coupling. ‘Aah!' she breathed.

He did not react, but kept up his pumping with the same vigour. She saw no alternative but to endure till the end, biting her lip to stifle her yelps of pain. It was not his fault, she told herself. The sponge was too large, and too stiff from disuse in recent weeks. If he felt it himself, it might cause a matching discomfort, she supposed.

At last he was done, with a hearty shout of gladness.

He then remained a full fifteen minutes, talking about what had just taken place between them. He told a familiar tale of self-gratification, and the ensuing low spirits that went with it. ‘'Tis against nature,' he sighed. ‘I needed a real woman so bad it was all I could think of.' He fingered himself idly. ‘It growed,' he muttered.

Fanny made a questioning sound.

‘It growed with the abuse. Never knowed that'd happen. It impedes me inside my pants, when it's up. Can't walk or ride without it twisting and getting hurt. Darn thing. I'd be better off without it.'

Fanny thought of her friend Charlie and his truncated organ. ‘Surely not,' she said with a smile. ‘Most men would be proud of such size and power.'

‘Most women flinch away at the sight of it. They say it'd tear them inside if I were to get it in them. Were you hurt, Miss? I dare say you were.'

‘Just a little,' she admitted.

‘There – and you a working lady, seeing so much action an' all. I was hopin' you'd accommodate more easily.' He stammered to a stop, as if hearing the conversation for the first time. ‘Shouldn't be speakin' about it,' he mumbled. ‘'Tain't nice.'

Fanny had long since understood that the talk was almost as much of the service as the action. Men liked to discuss their private thoughts and urges. Some of them kept up a commentary throughout the entire procedure, using dirty words and goading themselves on with remarks on how prodigiously they were performing. She knew they'd like her to join in, but she never quite found the voice they expected.

‘Once I find myself a good vein of gold, I shall get a wife and treat her gentle,' he asserted.

‘You are heading down to California, then?'

His eyes narrowed, giving his face a shadowed look in the dim lamplight. ‘Not so far,' he said. ‘I'm with two others. One's a student of geology, and he's done some investigatin'. Says there's sure to be gold in other places, not where all the digging is now. Has a few ideas that seem worth checkin' out. Can't say no more'n that.'

‘In Oregon?' she demanded, unsure as to whether such a prospect was welcome. Stories of conditions in San Francisco gave pause to the people further north. Greed, violence, drink and hordes of foreigners painted a picture that nobody could envy.

‘Maybe,' he nodded. Then he sat up and swung himself off the bed. His hour was almost up, and he extracted her payment from a pouch tied to his belt. ‘An extra dollar for your pains,' he added, as if bestowing great largesse.

Downstairs, Carola was entertaining another man, who showed much less sign of urgency. Fanny caught the end of a long story about a sister who had no fewer than ten children, all born easily and raised to be fit and healthy. Carola rolled her eyes at Fanny, behind his back, and tilted her head towards the stairs, pleadingly. It had recently dawned on Fanny that her friend was superstitious about any such efforts to assure her that her confinement would go well. She greatly preferred the subject to go unmentioned by anyone.

The first man was despatched. The visit to the privy was prolonged by a serious difficulty in extracting the sponge from some unreachable cavity that Fanny could only envisage as dark and fleshy, with inexplicable folds and knobs. Her fingers could not reach far enough to grasp the thing, so she cautiously employed a hook on a stick, that Carola had earlier fashioned for just this purpose. She had used it herself two or three times, but Fanny had never found the need. At last it emerged, leaving her sore and panting.

With considerable reluctance she washed, soaked and replaced the sponge; then returned to her customer.

He was of middle age, with faded grey eyes and a hesitant manner. His performance was limp and brief. He apologised profusely, while Fanny thanked her stars for him. ‘Never been to such a place as this,' he confessed. ‘Family's been in the Oregon territory for a couple of years now. Thinking we might try some gold prospecting, but left it later than we ought. Never meant to get rich that way, seems like. So my brother tells me, anyways. We like the look of this place, to tell you the truth. Thinking I could start myself a small business hereabouts.'

‘What line of business?' Fanny left a warm hand on his naked chest, as a mark of her relief at his tepid attentions. This was her ideal man: diffident, inexperienced and with an almost non-existent bump of amativeness.

‘Pots,' he said and his eyes became suddenly bright. ‘China pots. Plates. All the things a family has need of. I have a facility with the clay, you see, and there are excellent deposits on the banks of the Willamette,' he finished modestly.

‘Wonderful!' Fanny approved. She dimly understood that here was a man of artistic talent, barely conscious of his bodily needs. Why, she wondered, had he even gone to the trouble of visiting the boudoir at all?

‘I know I have been slow to find my vocation. Events have conspired against me and my brother until now. But at last we have a clear vision. In five years time, the name of Reason B. Hall will be daily currency. My wares will be in every home. And, my dear, I shall deliver to you a full dinner service, free of charge, this time next year. I make you a solemn promise.'

‘And I shall offer you my own poor services, in exchange,' she said, instantly aware that he had no wish to avail himself again. ‘Or at least, a very good pot of coffee.'

‘You wonder what brings me here,' he said astutely. ‘And I wonder myself, to tell you the truth. It seemed to be something I should need. I had a wife, five-and-twenty years past. She died of a snake bite before we saw our first year out. I took it as a sign that I was not meant for the domestic life. Since then, I have known perhaps five women, and I have seen cause for much the same excuses that I have given you – every time.'

‘You were testing yourself,' said Fanny. ‘And you should not. The force that most men locate in their lower regions is instead in your hands. Go and fashion your pots, sir, and I wish you well, I really do.'