Some of the prospectors were open and blatant; others were leering and furtive. Margaret handled them all with quiet dignity. But one night as Mrs. Owens was preparing for bed, she heard screams coming from Margaret’s room at the back of the house. The landlady flung the door open and rushed in. One of the guests, a drunken prospector, had ripped off Margaret’s nightgown and had her pinned down on the bed.
Mrs. Owens was on him like a tiger. She picked up a flatiron and began hitting him with it. She was half the size of the prospector, but it made no difference. Filled with an overpowering rage, she knocked the prospector unconscious and dragged him into the hallway and out to the street. Then she turned and hurried back to Margaret’s room. Margaret was wiping the blood off her lips from where the man had bitten her. Her hands were trembling.
“Are you all right, Maggie?”
“Yes. I—thank you, Mrs. Owens.”
Unbidden tears sprang into Margaret’s eyes. In a town where few people even spoke to her, here was someone who had shown kindness.
Mrs. Owens studied Margaret’s swollen belly and thought, The poor dreamer. Jamie McGregor will never marry her.
The time of confinement was drawing close. Margaret tired easily now, and bending down and getting up again was an effort. Her only joy was when she felt her baby stir inside her. She and her son were completely alone in the world, and she talked to him hour after hour, telling him all the wonderful things that life had in store for him.
Late one evening, shortly after supper, a young black boy appeared at the boardinghouse and handed Margaret a sealed letter.
“I’m to wait for an answer,” the boy told her.
Margaret read the letter, then read it again, very slowly. “Yes,” she said. “The answer is yes.”
The following Friday, promptly at noon, Margaret arrived in front of Madam Agnes’s bordello. A sign on the front door read Closed. Margaret rapped tentatively on the door, ignoring the startled glances of the passers-by. She wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here. It had been a difficult decision, and she had accepted only out of a terrible loneliness. The letter had read:
Dear Miss van der Merwe:
It’s none of my business, but my girls and me have been discussing your unfortunate and unfair situation, and we think it’s a damned shame. We would like to help you and your baby. If it would not embarrass you, we would be honored to have you come to lunch. Would Friday at noon be convenient?
Respectfully yours,
Madam Agnes
P.S. We would be very discreet.
Margaret was debating whether to leave, when the door was opened by Madam Agnes.
She took Margaret’s arm and said, “Come in, dearie. Let’s get you out of this damned heat.”
She led her into the parlor, furnished with Victorian red-plush couches and chairs and tables. The room had been decorated with ribbons and streamers and—from God knows where—brightly colored balloons. Crudely lettered cardboard signs hanging from the ceiling read: WELCOME BABY…IT’S GOING TO BE A BOY…HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
In the parlor were eight of Madam Agnes’s girls, in a variety of sizes, ages and colors. They had all dressed for the occasion under Madam Agnes’s tutelage. They wore conservative afternoon gowns and no makeup. They look, Margaret thought in wonder, more respectable than most of the wives in this town.
Margaret stared at the roomful of prostitutes, not quite knowing what to do. Some of the faces were familiar. Margaret had waited on them when she worked in her father’s store. Some of the girls were young and quite beautiful. A few were older and fleshy, with obviously dyed hair. But they all had one thing in common—they cared. They were friendly and warm and kind, and they wanted to make her happy.
They hovered around Margaret self-consciously, afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. No matter what the townspeople said, they knew this was a lady, and they were aware of the difference between Margaret and themselves. They were honored that she had come to them, and they were determined not to let anything spoil this party for her.