The Bartered Virgin Page 2

“What? You’ll have me prancing around in nothing but my drawers if you don’t stop. Just the trousers. Now let me up.”

  Winnifred considered the offer. She could always steal into her father’s wardrobe and borrow what she needed for her latest escapade. Tip was becoming far too nosy and uncooperative since he’d been home. Better he’d burned down the entire school instead of just his professor’s prized rubber tree, as she’d overheard him confess to Kitty’s brother, “Twig” Terwilligar. It put her in an advantageous bargaining position.

  “Let me up, Winn, and I’ll tell you a secret.”

  “About you and Twig down at the beer saloons near the docks?”

  “How the devil did you know about that?”

  At last Winn relented and climbed off his back. She helped Tip to his feet and they sat by the window. Winn settled on an ottoman while her brother collapsed into a leather wing chair. She always liked Tip’s room. It smelled of forbidden things like papa’s cigars, fruit liquors and Bermuda Bay Rum. Tip tossed her an apple and grabbed one for himself. He rubbed the fruit on his sleeve then took a bite. Winn polished her apple on the pocket of her silk wrapper.

  “Do you remember David Knightsbridge, my roommate from Harvard?” he asked after a moment.

  Winn tossed her loose hair over her shoulder and nodded. “That pale-looking fellow with the crow-black hair and prissy manners?” She took a huge bite of her apple, shoved the piece in the side of her cheek and extended her arm in a sleek exaggerated motion and mimicked, “My de-yah Miss Percy, ’tis a grand pleasyah to make yore acquaintance.” She giggled so hard she nearly choked. “What a dandy milquetoast he was. I’ll bet he wears lace drawers and has never seen a lady’s bosom in his life.”

  “Winn! Where do you come up with such things? Kitty, I’ll bet.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, she was awake last week when you and Twig stumbled into their house at dawn. She heard you talk about some fast women you met from the docks. You took them to the burlesque show, bought them champagne and one of them had no corset under her shirtwaist. Or anything else for that matter. Twiggy said he paid almost all of his allowance to see her bosoms.” She jumped up and badgered Tip. “Did you see her bosoms, too? And do you have any money left from your allowance?” Winn strutted across to his wardrobe closet. “You don’t, do you? You’re broke and you need to borrow from me.” She opened the door and stood aside, waving him over with a flourish.

  “Trousers, brother dearest.”

  “Red-headed wretch! That’s blackmail. You deserve to be packed off to Knightsbriar!”

  Winn stood with her back against the closet door, speechless. “Wha—what do you mean ‘packed off’?”

  Tip slapped his forehead and cursed. “That’s what I wanted to tell you before. Father intends for you to marry him.”

  She sagged against the door and started to laugh. “Oh, Tip. What a joshing! If you want money, then ask. Don’t make up horse drop to stir me.”

  “Oh, Winn. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew. I told father David should ask one of the Morgan girls or that horsey-faced Tweedsmuir piece. They’ve got more money. But Knightsbridge has his cap set for you. Honest, I really had no idea. But don’t worry, David’s an awfully nice chap.”

  Winn’s stomach suddenly knotted. She scrutinized her brother’s face. Tip had always been a poor liar…but this time he wasn’t lying. With sickening assurance she realized the truth. Winn felt her knees buckle and slowly slid to the floor until she settled in a heap at the doorframe. Tip must have thought she was going to faint as he rushed into his water closet to retrieve some cold water from a pitcher.

  “Married?” she mumbled, clenching her fists in the folds of her dressing gown. “Me? I can’t get married.”

  Tip knelt beside her and set the water pitcher on the floor. “Are you going to faint, Winn? I brought you some water and something else. Here, drink this.” He offered her a glass of pale gold liquid. Absently, she took a sip and immediately broke into a coughing fit.

  “Blech! What is this?”

  “It’s brandy. Take another sip.” She did. This time the burning in her throat turned into a warm flow that ebbed through to her fingertips.

  “I want beer,” she mumbled.

  Tip chuckled softly. “And what would my little sister know about beer.”

  “Plenty,” she shot back. “The trousers I borrowed—”

  “Stole.”

  “Okay, I stole yours and Kitty stole Twig’s. We snuck out and took the train car all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge, then the Flatbush Express to Kings Highway down to Ocean Parkway to Coney Island.”

  “I can’t believe you got all the way down there without getting yourselves lost.” He shook his head as he listened to her adventure.

  “We rode the Ferris wheel, rented a bicycle and went into a beer parlor to listen to a Negro boy play ragtime music on a piano. We bought a nickel beer for each of us. It was so much fun!” Tip stared at her in awe. Winn smiled, aware of the effect of her words. “Nobody knew who we were. No French tutors, no piano practice, no fainting lessons. Nothing but freedom.”

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Now I understand why you and Kitty have been spending so much time together.”

  “We even saw bathers. Imagine, ladies in bathing costumes. It was positively scandalous. I wonder if Mother will let me buy one?”

  “And let you prance around half-naked like Lillian Russell? I doubt it.”

  Winn’s response was to stick her tongue out at him.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re getting married. Somebody needs to keep you out of trouble, although I don’t know how poor David will manage. I’m fetching a hack to meet him at Grand Central Depot this evening. He’s staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel and dining here tomorrow night.” He gave her a warning glower. “Maybe I should warn him off you, after all. He’s expecting a proper young lady, not some ragtag Bowery floozy.”

  Winn listened to her brother’s tirade. Most of it she dismissed between her ear and the wall. But something he said stayed with her. Perhaps this Knightsbridge fairy-fop should be warned. Maybe he wouldn’t want to marry her if he knew how much she enjoyed her furtive escapades. A tiny seed of a plan began to form in her mind. But, like all good plans, it must first be discussed with Kitty. They were best friends and had covered for each other for years. In the meantime, however, it was better not to raise Tip’s ire. He might tattle to Mother and Papa, then she’d be locked away until the day of her wedding with no chance of escape.

  “You’re right. We might have been caught. Then Mama would have the swoons for weeks and Papa would be in a temper.”

  “Think of the scandal, Winn. Papa’s firm would suffer if your reputation were called up across the boards. All his important clients, those filthy rich Astors and Morgans and such. Those men pay Papa to handle their business and Mama has to have tea with their wives. That was very selfish of you. And dangerous. You might have run afoul of some drunken wag who’d take your purse, or worse!”

  “You mean something…indecent?” She almost giggled at the delicious thrill of the mere prospect. Imagine her, prim and proper Winn, flirting outrageously with the idea of scandal. “I’m sorry, Tip. Really. I won’t do it again.”

  “Promise?”

  Winn considered Tip’s stern countenance and thought before answering. She’d have to keep her promise to her brother, behave as she always had in front of her parents—meek, ladylike, the very epitome of the Gibson Girl. It might buy her some time to foil their wedding plans.

  “All right, I promise.”

  Tip helped her to her feet. “Good. Now go back to your room and finish getting dressed. It’s nearly noon and you’re not ready to help Mother receive.”

  She nodded obediently and started to leave.

  “Winn?”

  “Hmm?” She turned and found herself facing Tip’s pleading blue eyes.

  “Just a small loan. Please.”

  Winn sighe
d. “Oh, all right. But no bosoms.”

  At precisely two o’clock that afternoon, Winn joined her mother in the main floor drawing room. She wore a simple lace shirtwaist and seven gore skirt in cream batiste, her hair properly coiffed.

  “Remember your needlework, dear. A proper young lady is never idle and your petit point reflects your delicacy.” Her mother placed a small wooden hoop on her lap. She inspected Winn’s hands and sighed. “Thank goodness that Dr. Watson’s paste Margaret mixed up took care of those freckles on your fingers.” She endlessly bemoaned the curse of Winn’s red hair and freckles, blaming the unfortunate occurrence on Papa’s ancestors.

  Then she cupped Winn’s chin in her hands. “Such porcelain skin. Such fine cheekbones. Why, even Lily Langtry would be envious! Still as beautiful as the day of your coming out last year. Too bad your fragile constitution has not seen much favor in the young men from Long Island and Boston.”

  She picked up her own lace tatting and arranged herself on a pillbox sofa. A silver tray for calling cards sat on a small box table beside her. The drawing room, like all rooms in the Percys’ Park Avenue mansion, was overcrowded with leather and rosewood furniture, and overstuffed with silk pillows, lace coverings and tapestries. Mary Percy reigned over a typical upper-class household and sat primed for another typical day.

  Mother’s “in” days were tedious affairs. Winn conceded to do her duty, knowing it would keep her mother happy, but feeling somewhat resentful at being displayed like a prize broodmare at an auction. After an hour or so, she could plead faintness and ask to be excused. She always remembered to do this in front of stately society matrons so they could see what a lady she was, and ultimately set her up as an example to their daughters. For their sons, Winn exhibited her mandatory two Chopin pieces, read sonnets in French and accepted invitations to stroll in the Percys’ magnificent back garden where, once out of her mother’s hearing, she explained her reluctance to enter into any marriage as a result of a weak heart. And please would the gentleman not speak of her condition in front of her mother as it upset the poor woman so? So far, her ploy had worked and her reputation as a dying hothouse flower remained intact. No man wanted a weak broodmare.

  “Winn dear, there’s something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about.”

  Mary didn’t look up and Winn continued to absently stitch white daisies onto her canvas, inwardly suspecting the worst. “Yes, Mama” she answered automatically.

  “Do you remember that friend of Woodrow’s from Harvard, David Knightsbridge?”

  Winn ground her back teeth together and nearly avoided pricking her middle finger. Here it comes, she thought. She felt trapped, doomed. Maybe now was a convenient time to faint for real.

  “No, I can’t say that I do,” she replied, keeping her eyes on her needlework.

  “Well, no matter. He’s coming to supper tomorrow night and I would like you to entertain him. I hope you will become better acquainted. It’s important for your father.”

  Winn dutifully nodded but failed to see how her being amiable to a stranger was important to papa.

  “What I mean to say, dear, is that I hope you have given some thought to marriage now that you are out.”

  Winn stabbed her needle into the canvas and bit her tongue. This conversation was becoming most uncomfortable. Luckily the front door bell rang. Winn breathed a sigh of relief. The first of Mother’s callers had arrived. Luckier still, it was Audrey Terwilligar with Kitty in tow.

  Sara, the Percys’ head parlor maid, announced the visitors. “Mrs. Terwilligar and Miss Catharine, Mrs. Percy.”

  Mary rose to greet her guests. The two older women kissed cheeks and Kitty curtsied demurely. She never failed to mention to Winn that Kitty had an “unfortunate” face—plain, with mousy brown hair and eyes to match. Kitty had few friends, so Mother approved of Winn spending time with her. “It may help to make her popular if she is seen with you.” If she only knew!

  “May Kitty and I take our tea in the garden?” Winn asked sweetly.

  If her mother thought about hesitating, Mrs. Terwilligar came to the rescue. “Oh, take yourselves off. I do need to get Catharine out of my hair. She’s just too taxing. Now, Mary, about the wedding…”

  Winn linked arms with Kitty and the two strode into the very back corner of the garden, followed by Josephine, Winn’s overfed white Persian cat.

  “Tell me it isn’t true!” Kitty flounced into a wrought iron chair, indignant that she’d been left out of Winn’s confidence. “You’re not getting married.”

  “Not if I can help it, Kit. I only found out from Tip this morning that Father’s had it all arranged. You’ve got to help me,” she wailed. “I can’t marry this man. I don’t know anything about him and I’ve only seen him once.” Josephine, as if sensing her mistress’s distress, rubbed up against her legs.

  “Why did your father do it?”

  “The damned money.” Winn found it soothing to curse. She’d added some new words to her vocabulary by listening in on Father’s telephone calls. She was eager to display her prowess to Kitty on their next adventure. “Father’s offered my dowry to this Lord Wolshingham and me along with it.” Suddenly the reality of her future sank in. Her father had sold her! Winn’s dowry in exchange for a title. Perhaps she shouldn’t have rejected so many suitors after all.

  “If only I could have waited. The money would have been mine free and clear when I turned twenty-one. We could have done all those things we planned, Kit. Travel to Europe, India, gone to Egypt and seen the pyramids like Nellie Bly. Now all I’ll ever see is some dank, dark castle. Oh, it’s just too awful,” she sniffed. Her world seemed on the verge of collapse. So far, her friend had offered no sound solution.

  “Where’s your…you know?” Kitty held two fingers to her lips.

  “Do you think we ought to?”

  “Mother will be chatterboxing for hours. Your wedding is a grand source of conversation around the Circle, you know.” The infamous Fifth Avenue Circle was a jealously closed clique of the New York upper classes. The Astors, Morgans and Vanderbilts were the peak of the upper echelon and carefully vetted each new subscription for membership. As a distinguished financial lawyer, Zachariah Percy’s name was put forth on a number of occasions by the bankers who held the great New York fortunes. Each year, Mother anxiously attended the Circle’s daytime social events—the teas, cotillions and luncheons—and afterward paced her bedroom for hours hoping and praying the Percy name would be added to the roster. When it finally happened, she collapsed momentarily in relief, and then immediately arranged a flurry of visits to dressmakers and jewelers to outfit her and Winn for the Circle’s evening events, which they were now entitled to attend.

  “Damn the Circle! Oh, sorry, Kit. The…you know, are in a silver box under the cupid sculpture near the fence.”

  “Dandy! Keep watch, will you.”

  Kitty hurried over to the wall and tipped up the end of the small garden sculpture. Underneath was a hollowed-out hole containing a neat package in rough toweling. She unwrapped it to expose a silver cigarette case, and quickly drew out two cigarettes and a match. Kitty handed them to Winn, who lit them while she rewrapped the package and placed it back in the statue.

  “This is much better.” Kitty sighed and drew on her smoke. “Now I can think. So this fella is a lord. Nifty catch, I’d say. But not if what I hear is true. Poor as a church mouse, homely as a pug.” She coughed slightly and tsk-tsked. “Poor Winn, a dollar princess. We’ve got to do something. You’re no Connie Vanderbilt, that’s for sure. She wanted to be the Duchess of Marlborough. Lot of good it did her, too. Lords want rich brides and lots of babies. The wives have to behave like ladies and serve tea and talk about the weather. You’d never be able to smoke, or swear, or drink beer or any of the fun things. Trust me, Winn. These English lords want old-fashioned ladies of the manor, all prim and proper.”

  Winn puffed on her own cigarette until the smoke made her dizzy, which was why she only
smoked when Kitty was around. What she said made sense, though. A plan was forming fast. What if she wasn’t prim and proper? What if she was the antithesis of all Knightsbridge expected? What if…

  Winn threw her cigarette stump to the cobblestones and stubbed it out. If Mother or Father saw the evidence they’d think Tip had been out here.

  She grabbed Kitty by the shoulders and practically dragged her across the garden. “Let’s go. I’ve got an idea but we’ll have to hurry.”

  “Where are we going? Ow, I almost burned myself. What’s going on?”

  “We’re going up to my room and we haven’t got much time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Lord David Knightsbridge is coming to supper tomorrow night, so you’ve got to help me!”

  “Winn, wait. What am I helping you with now?”

  But Winn felt too exhilarated at her hasty scheme to answer her friend’s protests. Blood raced through her veins. Excitement quickened her breath until she thought her corset would burst. Her mind spun a myriad of ideas. Her secret stash of rouge and rice powder. The bathing ladies and their indecent show of ankles. She eyed Kitty’s smoldering cigarette.

  “You and I are going to turn me into a harlot.”

  Chapter Two

  “Got any chewing gum? Never mind, I’ll leave you a piece before I go.” Kitty coached Winn on how not to entice an English suitor. “Remember to chew with your mouth open and smack it loud. Slouch when you walk. That should be easy without your corset.”

  Winn agreed. Everything was easier without the darned, damned corset. She had stripped down to her drawers and chemise. The corset was the first thing to go.

  Kitty sprawled across Winn’s bed, overseeing the transformation. “Remember the bathing girls, the ones who wore leotard tights like Anna Held? They sashayed. Swing your hips, Winn.”

  Winn tried to sashay as instructed by putting one foot in front of the other and sticking her hips out as she walked, but lost her balance and started to teeter. She overcompensated trying to right herself and wound up on the bed in her friend’s lap.