other, her newfound delicate sensibilities were part of what defined her as a lady by the standards of Boston’s elite. They accepted her as one of their own—
almost,
but it was a good deal more than she’d ever had before.
Curling an arm around her waist, Will whispered, “We must keep our eye on our goal, Cornelia. We came here for information. We came for Colin Cook, to keep him from hanging. Nothing else matters.”
She nodded, sucked in a deep, calming breath, and looked around.
Nabby’s Inferno was housed in a building whose rooms—those on the first floor, anyway—had been mostly stripped of their walls, while retaining distinctly different ceilings and floors. In the front stood a long bar set up with kegs of beer and whiskey to serve the patrons sitting at, or slumped over, a hodgepodge of mismatched tables. A kaleidoscope of smoke-hazed mirrors, photographs, nude paintings, ribald engravings, and newspaper clippings adorned the walls. Nell breathed in a miasma of stale booze, staler sweat and cheap tobacco that made the gorge rise in her throat.
Toward the rear of the establishment was a dance floor and a stage, on which a man with lampblack hair and a faded dinner jacket leaned on a piano while crooning “The Man on the Flying Trapeze” between sips of what looked like whiskey. A few sailors were dancing with girls Nell recognized from the photographic display out front, while other customers—a diverse mix from all elements of Boston society, high and low—milled about, listening to the music or talking over it. On one corner of the stage three women in garish face paint and frothy can-can skirts sat sharing a cigarette, their black-stockinged legs nonchalantly dangling over the edge.
Catching the attention of a straw-haired waiter girl passing by with two pitchers of beer, Will asked her who they should see about renting a room. “That’d be Riley,” she said, nodding toward the bartender, a thickset fellow with a steel wool beard.
“We ain’t no boarding house,” Riley told them as he wiped out a used glass with a soiled rag and set it with the “clean” ones. “What makes you think we got rooms to let?”
“I heard you got a basement flat that just opened up,” Will said. “The guy that lived there kicked the bucket is what I heard.”
“You just want a place to live, or you got somethin’ else in mind?”
“If we just wanted a place to live,” Will said with a snide little smile, “I reckon we could find lots quieter places than this.”
Riley looked Nell up and down in a way that made her wish she’d kept herself covered up with the shawl, his gaze stilling for a long moment when it lit on her bosom. When he turned away to bellow “Flora!” to a plump bar girl, Nell gave Will an I-told-you-so look.
He just smiled and shrugged. She hiked her shawl up over her shoulders. He pulled it back down. “When in Rome, Cornelia...”
“I got to take these two to see Mother,” Riley told the bar girl. “Keep an eye on the hooch—and your nose out of it.”
“Don’t be long,” she said as she sauntered over. “It’s been a slow night for me, and my rent’s overdue. I gotta get busy.”
The bartender strode through the saloon with Nell and Will on his heels until he came to a room at the very rear, the only one whose walls were still intact. “Wait here,” he told them as he passed through the open doorway.
The room was large, dim, and choked with cigar smoke. Men, some with bar girls draped over them, sat at three round, oilcloth-covered tables playing cards. The only other furniture in the room was a writing desk facing the door, behind which, on a velvet-upholstered, barrel-back wing chair, sat the largest woman Nell had ever seen.
Her body was colossal, a half-ton of bread dough ballooning out of a sleeveless linen garment that looked suspiciously like an undershift. As a nod to modesty, she wore over it a blue-striped pinafore, its gathered yoke only
almost,
but it was a good deal more than she’d ever had before.
Curling an arm around her waist, Will whispered, “We must keep our eye on our goal, Cornelia. We came here for information. We came for Colin Cook, to keep him from hanging. Nothing else matters.”
She nodded, sucked in a deep, calming breath, and looked around.
Nabby’s Inferno was housed in a building whose rooms—those on the first floor, anyway—had been mostly stripped of their walls, while retaining distinctly different ceilings and floors. In the front stood a long bar set up with kegs of beer and whiskey to serve the patrons sitting at, or slumped over, a hodgepodge of mismatched tables. A kaleidoscope of smoke-hazed mirrors, photographs, nude paintings, ribald engravings, and newspaper clippings adorned the walls. Nell breathed in a miasma of stale booze, staler sweat and cheap tobacco that made the gorge rise in her throat.
Toward the rear of the establishment was a dance floor and a stage, on which a man with lampblack hair and a faded dinner jacket leaned on a piano while crooning “The Man on the Flying Trapeze” between sips of what looked like whiskey. A few sailors were dancing with girls Nell recognized from the photographic display out front, while other customers—a diverse mix from all elements of Boston society, high and low—milled about, listening to the music or talking over it. On one corner of the stage three women in garish face paint and frothy can-can skirts sat sharing a cigarette, their black-stockinged legs nonchalantly dangling over the edge.
Catching the attention of a straw-haired waiter girl passing by with two pitchers of beer, Will asked her who they should see about renting a room. “That’d be Riley,” she said, nodding toward the bartender, a thickset fellow with a steel wool beard.
“We ain’t no boarding house,” Riley told them as he wiped out a used glass with a soiled rag and set it with the “clean” ones. “What makes you think we got rooms to let?”
“I heard you got a basement flat that just opened up,” Will said. “The guy that lived there kicked the bucket is what I heard.”
“You just want a place to live, or you got somethin’ else in mind?”
“If we just wanted a place to live,” Will said with a snide little smile, “I reckon we could find lots quieter places than this.”
Riley looked Nell up and down in a way that made her wish she’d kept herself covered up with the shawl, his gaze stilling for a long moment when it lit on her bosom. When he turned away to bellow “Flora!” to a plump bar girl, Nell gave Will an I-told-you-so look.
He just smiled and shrugged. She hiked her shawl up over her shoulders. He pulled it back down. “When in Rome, Cornelia...”
“I got to take these two to see Mother,” Riley told the bar girl. “Keep an eye on the hooch—and your nose out of it.”
“Don’t be long,” she said as she sauntered over. “It’s been a slow night for me, and my rent’s overdue. I gotta get busy.”
The bartender strode through the saloon with Nell and Will on his heels until he came to a room at the very rear, the only one whose walls were still intact. “Wait here,” he told them as he passed through the open doorway.
The room was large, dim, and choked with cigar smoke. Men, some with bar girls draped over them, sat at three round, oilcloth-covered tables playing cards. The only other furniture in the room was a writing desk facing the door, behind which, on a velvet-upholstered, barrel-back wing chair, sat the largest woman Nell had ever seen.
Her body was colossal, a half-ton of bread dough ballooning out of a sleeveless linen garment that looked suspiciously like an undershift. As a nod to modesty, she wore over it a blue-striped pinafore, its gathered yoke only
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