Whore

Chapter One

1880

Hunching her shoulders, Ducia Smith quickened her stride. But no matter how fast she walked, she could not outpace the hoots and hollers.

Whore, whore, taunted the ragtag gang of ruffians who followed her. Two-bits for a rut, filthy slut.

Ducia ordinarily confined her wanderings to daylight hours. Then, folks heading in and out of town provided an element of safety during her walks. At least they did if she screeched loudly enough.

You got yourself a fine set of lungs on you there, Ducia, honey, Aunty always said. Gents respond real well to screamers.

Words to live by, she reckoned. And time and time again, those words had proven true. The minute she set to caterwauling, some gent or other would come running to her defense and drive off the bullies bedeviling her.

But darkness had fallen, and she was plumb out of luck for gents. Once the sun went down, only thugs and Aunty’s customers – one and the same usually – frequented this deserted stretch of road. Generally speaking, those sacks-of-shit were the ones doing the molesting, not the rescuing.

Tonight, she would just need to do her own rescuing.

A rickety old gate led directly to Happy Hollow, the ramshackle poorhouse where she lived with Aunty. Reach the shortcut unscathed, and she would be home free.

A toss of the dice if she made it. No telling what this no-account gang would do if they caught her. Rape her more than likely.

When the catcalls and whistles of the hecklers persisted, Ducia broke into a run, her too-long hem dragging in the dirt and tripping her up. Modesty be damned, she hiked her gown to the knees and kept plowing ahead.

Ducia had some familiarity with man/woman relations. With that said, she counted half a dozen men chasing her skirts. As a rule of thumb, Aunty never took on six customers at a time, not even for an additional fee. Would these men take turns getting on her?

Cringing at that prospect, Ducia ignored the rickety gate and jumped the post-and-rail fence. Huddled in on herself, she landed feet-first in a meadow filled with Queen Ann’s lace. Though many considered the plant a worthless weed, she dearly loved the lacy white blossoms. Resisting the temptation to pick a few, she continued her headlong dash for the poorhouse.

Whores never took time off from work. Rain or shine, Aunty left the rear window of her tiny pauper’s room open for her reg’lars to climb through. Though she was not near tall enough to pull herself over the sill, Ducia used a loose wooden slat for a toehold to boost herself up and in.

‘Course, if Aunty was entertaining a customer tonight, Ducia would dare not interrupt. Instead, she would duck under the side porch. Her attackers would not think to look for her there. Even if they did, the smell of cat piss would surely keep them from crawling in after her.

All her speculating was for not. Before Ducia ever neared the poorhouse window, the swiftest of the group, a big-jawed man, tackled her and down she went.

Resist and get a licking, he snarled.

She played possum. Seeing she had gone still, her would-be rapist eased up his hold on her a mite. That was when she bit into his thumb. Clamping down, she refused to let go, despite hitting bone and tasting copper in her mouth.

The jig was up for her when the other men caught up with the first. All she could do then was brace herself in readiness for the blows that were sure to fall.

None did. Instead a second lout, ugly and mean of countenance, pointed a knife at her throat. You, sugar, are about to get laid. Let my friend go.

Her body belonged to her and only to her, to give freely as she saw fit. To a husband. To a lover. But that damn blade gleamed in the moonlight and narrowed her choices to one.

Ducia unclamped her jaws. As her first attacker stumbled away sucking his thumb, she muttered to the knife-wielding thug, No need to cut me. I aim to do everything you say.

The bully sheathed his weapon and backed off a piece. Stand up real slow.

Why on earth would she hurry?

Good, the man grunted as soon as she straightened. You can follow instructions. Now take that rag off your back. And remember – try anything and my knife is a pull away.

As Ducia unfastened the first button under her frayed collar, she repeated one of Aunty’s oft-said phrases, Three bucks for the rut, and by bucks I mean greenbacks, not stags.

Service these animals for that pittance? Where is your business acumen, girl? Demand more.

Before she figured out exactly who had spoken, all hell broke loose. Fists pounded against flesh, grunts and curses accompanying them. At the end of the scuffle, two of her attackers lay crumbled on the ground. Dead, maybe, badly injured for a certainty. The rest of the gang took off into the night, all to a one clutching his testicles.

Her rescuer approached. The fight had hardly winded him at all. As if she had vermin, he stood far afield of her and clapped his thick black leather gloves against a callused palm.

Lord, but he was purty. Blue-eyed with a strapping build, the kind of well-put together sort Aunty would fornicate on for free. No lie, he had a powerful impact on her. She could scarcely think, she was so bedazzled, which explained why, when she did work up the gumption to open her mouth again, she said the first thing that sprang to mind. Preacher’s prick! Those varmints scared the bejesus out of me. But not near as much as the shameful thought of wearing these shoes as a corpse.

She commenced to pulling up her skirts. Will you look at these? Dilapidated leathers, with worn-down soles. Pauper’s footwear. I ain’t no pauper. Just temporarily penniless. And destitute or not, I hate ugly shoes. Someday, I mean to be well-heeled, just like Marie Antoinette.

Her rescuer tilted his bristled jaw. And what would the likes of you know of French royalty?

Heaps, she spat, trying to figure him out. His duds – black twill trousers with studded seams, a plain dark waistcoat over a white cambric shirt and no obligatory tie or outer coat – bespoke a hard-living roughneck given to swilling rotgut straight from the bottle while loose women draped themselves across his lap. However, his manner of speech and courtly bearing suggested a high-living gent used to fine brandy and even finer ladies. Which was he?

Aunty could size up a man’s bankroll at a glance. That woman never sold herself on the cheap if a customer could afford to pay more, a singular talent lacking in Ducia. To her, the measure of a man’s worth lay in his heart, not in his money belt.

Despite his outward appearance, her rescuer’s heart was pure gold.

Ducia folded her arms under her pointy bosom, I may not have a formal education, but I have me ambitions. And I read. Lots. And not just dime novels neither. History and such. Fascinatin’ stuff.

Fascinating, eh?

Yep. I said so, did I not? Summer before last, I read all I could get my hands on about Marie Antoinette.

Her rescuer’s blue eyes twinkled. Then, you will recall Marie Antoinette lost her head.

Yes, but with dignity, owin’ to the fine fettle of her shoes.

Her hero gave a ghost of a smile. Shoes aside – did those thugs harm you?

No. You never gave them the chance, mister, for which I owe you a debt of gratitude. Ducia took a step toward him and clasped a hand over her heaving breasts, both of them at the same time. Her bosom was lamentably small. Sincerely, I do.

His cutting-blue gaze landed on her chest. Goodness! He was staring at her sticky-out nipples. His heavy-lidded glance did strange things to her belly. She felt all woozy-like. Down below, she went damp, then wet. Did having flooded privates make her bad? Worse still, did it signify she would end up like Aunty someday?

Shaken up a moment before, she was near to swooning now. She talked a good game, but she was quaking like a leaf inside from her near call with rape. Dang, but she needed someone to hold her until the trembling stopped.

Him. She needed him to hold her. And she knew of only one way to accomplish that end.

The same way Aunty did. Customers always hugged on Aunty – though, usually from the rear – as they fornicated on her.

Her rescuer was not like Aunty’s customers. He was the kind she could weave dreams around. Six against one, he had taken on the ruffians who had meant to molest her. Her hero’s aim was not to harm her. He only meant to do what all men routinely did.

Namely, fornicate with anything in a skirt.

She was undoing her faded bodice, when he held up a hand. Wait! How old are you?

When customers asked over Aunty’s age, that vain woman always chiseled a decade or so off her answer. After reaching the age of forty, said Aunty, subtracting a few years only makes sense. By the same logic, adding a few years only made sense if a man was finicky about such matters as worldly experience. Though Ducia felt as old as the hills, the calendar said different.

You like ‘em young, mister?

No.

Twenty-one, this past spring, she promptly lied.

Twenty-one? A dark brow arched. Unlikely. Your hips are those of a lad’s.

You might say I am a bit small for my age.

No. I would most definitely say you are small-boned dainty, regardless of your age, which is decidedly not twenty-one.

At first, Ducia had thought only to shrink her stretch of the truth a mite. Then, she owned up to it, whole hog. Just turned eighteen.

He sighed. Regrettable.

She looked up at him from under her lashes. Huh? Got somethin’ to say, best spell it out for me plain, mister.

A female of your tender years should not be out after dark unaccompanied. What are you doing out so late, girl?

I lost track of the time.

This is outrageous. Where are your parents?

Got none.

Then who looks out for your welfare, girl?

I know where you are headin’ with this here line of questioning, mister, but the truth is, ain’t no one to blame for this mess of trouble but me. My own fault I got myself caught with my drawers down and my arse hangin’ out.

Not literally. Drawers were a luxury she could ill-afford. Under homespun brown calico, a hand-me-down from Aunty that hung loose on Ducia’ skinny frame, she wore not even a single muslin petticoat. Just skin.

The point was – Ducia knew a sight better than to tell her rescuer Aunty was feeling poorly. Again. That stale whiskey soured her breath, the foul bouquet strong enough to knock a body back a pace or two. To escape the fumes for a spell, Ducia had up and left.

Aunty lives at the state-owned poor farm, toilin’ in exchange for room and board. I stay with her. But tonight, I skedaddled out of there while she slept off the remnants of her illness. Ducia touched the new bruise on her cheek. The swelling ached something awful.

He winced. She slapped you.

Blast it all. Now she had gone and done it, gotten her rescuer riled up and landed Aunty in trouble. That was what came of truth-telling.

Ducia made amends. Ain’t nuthin’ personal. The illness makes her irritable, is all. Problem is, the walls in the room are paper-thin. If Aunty awakened befuddled again tonight and kicked up another ruckus, the noise might reach the Superintendent’s office at the end of the hall. Rules are rules, and the poorhouse’s rules specify absolutely no young’uns permitted in any of the almshouse buildin’s.

He nodded. I see.

She doubted it. But she liked looking at him, so she kept talking. Not that Aunty gives much credence to regulations and such. She routinely violates all of them and then some. Aunty is as ornery as a mule that way. Some rules, I swear, she goes against on principle. She has heaps of principles, does Aunty. Unlike Mr. Roger S. Higgin.

And who, may I ask, is he?

The Superintendent of Happy Hollow. With the exception of when that old fart puts it to Aunty, he is a damn stickler for propriety. ‘Next infraction,’ he always tells Aunty while he puts his man-poker away, ‘and off you go to a city poorhouse.’ As night follows day, Aunty always commits another transgression, and she ends up havin’ to blow Mr. Higgin’s man-part all over again, like it was a candlewick in need of extinguishin’. A good thing the Superintendent seems to enjoy it, because I have heard tell some terrible tales about those city poorhouses. Nuthin’ but over-crowded, rat-infested deathtraps, everyone says. Until I turned eighteen last week, it was either sleep under Aunty’s cot at night or go to the orphanage.

He nodded. I see.

She doubted it, so she continued jawing at him. I must take after Aunty. I never did cotton to being told what to do neither.

Familial traits tend to be passed down through the generations.

Huh?

The apple does not fall far from the tree.

Oh! My, you use lots of words to say something easy. Anyway…Aunty is no blood-kin of mine. I just call her that on account of she took care of me after Mama died fourteen years back.

I see.

She doubted it, but the sparkle in his bright blue eyes made up for their nearsightedness. Will you just hear me go on and on? And here I accused you of being wordy! I reckon I just related a mouthful. Simply put, now that I am of age, I still cannot leave Aunty alone. She needs me.

No one was perfect. Despite all the slaps and blows Aunty delivered during her bouts of illness, the woman had a good heart. Besides, Aunty had raised her. And that meant somethin’. So Ducia would be there for Aunty now.

Ducia managed. She got by. Whenever the drinking illness beset Aunty, Ducia would put her to bed and then quietly absent herself from their cramped quarters to walk the streets. Not the same way Aunty had walked the streets before her cough had developed into something worse, a chest rumble that sounded an awful lot like consumption to Ducia.

Aunty has not always been like this, mister. Things changed when we went out west to make our fortunes. Things fell apart for us there, and Aunty grew despondent, so back east again we came. Just as well, we did too. Not one gent in the whole state of California took a fancy to Aunty, leastwise not enough of a hankerin’ to stay around a spell after sticking their peckers into her.

As if he had swallowed a plug of chewing tobacco the wrong way, he coughed. And you? How did you fare out west?

Well, I picked up this drawl for one thing. I reckon I pick up most things right quick. Not my fortune, though. Not there. But I will. My ambitions are not to be trifled with. They just require a layout of capital.

She had been scrubbing floors and washing dishes since the age of ten, both out west and here, filling a whole sock with her pay. Unfortunately, Aunty had confiscated all Ducia had put aside to finance her ambitions to medicate her illness…

So what do you say, mister? Got yourself a hankerin’ for me?

Chapter Two

Yes, Quint decided, he did have a hankerin’ for her, as she so quaintly put it in that amusing western twang of hers. But that hankering would wait. Now, he was satisfied just to listen to her speak. He had not been this entertained since leaving the oil-fields of Pennsylvania.

Just eighteen and with ambitions she thought to stake with her body. Appalling.

He had no experience with such horrors. Before drilling oil, he’d had everything handed to him on a silver platter. Now, at thirty-one years of age, he had amassed a fortune independent of his family’s wealth. He could well afford to be charitable to a street urchin.

He took a stroll around her.

She was a lovely little thing. Filthy, of course, but the facial bones were there, refined and delicate, while her body was strong and lean. Trim. Her legs, especially so. Spare on curves, she would fill out. Eventually. If she stopped sharing miserly poorhouse meals with her alcoholic Aunty.

As he walked behind her, his cock sprang to attention. She was the stuff of premature ejaculations, and he would know being something of an authority on the subject. Not on the subject of getting off too soon, he mused, smiling to himself. He never did. Not even as a lad. Concentration was the key. No, what he was an authority on was the subject of naturally amorous females, a scarce commodity in his experience.

He took in her sultry plump lips, her knowing eyes. You have already been tampered with?

Broken in right proper.

And when did this take place?

When I was a young’un.

His heart clutched. A child-whore. Prostituting children was a disgusting if rampant practice among flesh peddlers, one in which he never personally indulged. He did have some standards. Only a few, but he never wavered from them.

He would not waver this time either.

He would see the reprehensible Aunty thrown in jail, then call personally on each of the swine who thought rape passed as romance. He never forgot a face, and the expenditure of money made all things possible, including ferreting out scum. After tracking them to the cesspools they inhabited, he would make sure they never harmed another woman again.

Like me so far, mister?

Her question might have been guileless. Then again, it might have been a cunning strategy to seduce him. I believe I might like you, girl. And please address me as sir, not mister.

And please address me as Ducia, not girl, the feisty little whore shot back. Out west, folks said my mama must have had uppity airs to give me such a highfalutin name. But Mama had been raised up a lady in Boston, with fine manners and gentrified speechifyin’. Which, as you can probably tell, she taught me, like not belching at the table and saying a proper please and thank you and such. I was only four when she passed, but to this day, I observe every one of Mama’s etiquette rules. And, tarnation, but there is a heapin’ shitload of them to observe. Her being a fallen woman and all, Aunty is not near as strict with me.

So I assumed, he dryly replied. He had come upon the girl on a Godforsaken stretch of road alone at this late hour. He would say the despicable pretend aunt was not strict with