The Lost Valley

Chapter 18-1

Chapter 18

The bus trip was bittersweet. Three years ago a very different girl had waited at the same stop, caught the same rattly old bus, with the same chatty and cheerful driver. She’d sat in the very same seat at the front, with a good view of the road ahead, and excitedly told the driver about her scholarship to Campbell College. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

‘Going back to school, Miss?’ he asked, as the bus pulled away.

Back to school? ‘That’s right,’ she said, wishing it were true. ‘I’ve been home for a few days to see my mother. She hasn’t been well.’

‘That’s no good.’ He braked and honked as a pair of dogs raced across the road, chasing a terrified hen. ‘Your mum doing better now, is she?’

‘Much better, thank you.’ Emma gave wishful thinking free rein. ‘She’ll be moving to Hobart soon. Getting a place near my school so we can be together.’

‘That’s great, love,’ he said. ‘Good old mum, eh?’

It seemed miraculous to Emma that the driver believed her. Surely he could tell she was no school girl? Surely, just by looking at her, he could see her shame?

The bus dropped Emma off outside the General Post Office on the corner of Elizabeth and Macquarie Streets. She checked the time on its grand clock tower, modelled after London’s Big Ben. Almost one o’clock. She found a shop window, scrutinised her reflection and tidied her hair. In her blue cap-sleeved dress she might have been off to a tea party instead of a brothel. Emma picked up her small suitcase and sat on a bench to gather her thoughts, shivering under the cold winter sun. In different circumstances it would have been exciting to be back in Hobart. The clanging tramcars, the bustling crowds, all the pulse and vitality of Tasmania’s biggest city. Happy memories crowded in. It was all she could do not to hop a Queens Domain tram to the zoo. Or maybe Campbell College. Would Harry still be there? And Tom?

The clock chimed the hour. Emma took a deep breath and pulled the scribbled address from her pocket. First things first. Right now she needed to ring Mrs Martha Finchley of Hampton Hall and tee up a job interview.

She found a public telephone and dialled the number with trembling fingers. The receptionist put her straight through.

‘Ah, yes, Emma Starr,’ said Mrs Finchley with an English accent. ‘I’ve been expecting this call. You come highly recommended by Mr Tony Angelo, a valued client of ours.’

Emma wondered what form the recommendation had taken. Emma’s a talented girl or she’s a great lay.

‘Can you be here in half an hour?’ asked Mrs Finchley.

It was as simple as that. Emma thought back to her disheartening job search in Launceston earlier that year. Traipsing around the whole town, twice. Scoring only one interview with a lecherous shopkeeper who indecently propositioned her in the first five minutes. How shocked she’d been; how outraged. How she’d changed.

Emma looked in a shop window to check her hair. She tossed up whether or not it was worth the expense of a taxi, and decided it was. She needed to arrive looking her best, and she was flush with money, having sold Melvyn’s ring to a Launceston jeweller before she caught the bus that morning. She tried to look into the future but drew a blank. Maybe Hampton Hall was a legitimate fashion house. Maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t really matter. If she was offered a job there, she’d take it.

The taxi dropped her off at an impressive sandstone and brick mansion in Runnymede St, Battery Point. An engraved sign on the wall behind the wrought iron gate read Hampton Hall, giving no hint of the nature of the establishment.

Emma smoothed her dress and knocked on the door. A maid opened it. She wore a tailored black dress and white apron, and looked very stylish. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m here to see Mrs Finchley. She’s expecting me.’

The maid beckoned her into a wide reception lobby, with rich rugs on the floor, a grand piano in the corner and sparkling crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. ‘May I take your hat and coat?’ Oil paintings decorated the wood-panelled walls. Glossy magazines such as Vogue and C'est La Mode lay on an intricately inlaid antique table by the chesterfield sofa. The place screamed of money. ‘Wait here, please.’

The only indication that Hampton Hall might not be a high-end fashion house was the giant guard positioned at the base of the stairs. A mountain of a man. His broad coffee-coloured face cracked into a friendly smile when she looked at him.

Emma resisted the urge to inspect herself in the large gilt mirror. If her dress was wrinkled from the bus trip or her hair was mussed, it was too late to do anything about it. Instead she went over and over the story she’d practised in her head. Hands clammy with nerves. Worried that she’d be asked to give Melvyn as a reference.

When Mrs Finchley arrived, she wasn’t at all what Emma expected. For some reason she’d imagined a tall, intimidating person with hard, calculating eyes and a haughty expression. But the plump, middle-aged woman who emerged from a side room reminded Emma of her mother. Expensively dressed, certainly; that gorgeous beaded gown must have been a Chanel original. But Mrs Finchley couldn’t quite pull it off. She was too short, for one thing, barely five foot two. And her bosom was too generous, and her hips too wide for elegance.

‘Emma, my darling girl.’ Mrs Finchley wrapped her in a warm embrace, smelling comfortingly of cinnamon and talcum powder. ‘Come with me, and we’ll have a chat, shall we?’

When they passed the guard, Mrs Finchley introduced them. ‘This is Kai, Emma, from Tonga. He keeps us all safe.’

She led Emma to a lavishly furnished sitting room.

‘I believe you have a position vacant, Mrs Finchley. For a model, or—’

‘All my girls call me Martha,’ she said, as if Emma already worked there. She beamed so broadly that Emma couldn’t help but smile back. ‘You speak beautifully, Emma. An educated young woman. We love that here. Now, tell me about yourself. I know a little already. You’re seventeen, you come from Launceston, and you have a sick mother.’

Tony had been true to his word. Martha gave her an encouraging smile, one of immense sympathy; a warm invitation to confide. The dam burst and her carefully rehearsed lines were forgotten in a rush of emotion. Emma told Martha everything. About the scholarship to Campbell College and her mother’s stroke. About running out of money, and asking Jane for help, and Melvyn. About last night with Tony and how she couldn’t stay in Launceston, and her resolve to somehow secure a place for her mother in Dr Dennisdeen’s new hospital. She barely drew breath.

Martha let Emma talk, never once interrupting or trying to hurry her. At the end she patted her hand and offered a handkerchief. Emma blew her nose. ‘My, you have had a time of it, haven’t you? But you’ve done the right thing coming here, dear. I can help if you’ll let me.’

Emma sniffed a few times, and balled the hanky in her hand. The maid came in and Martha asked her to bring tea. ‘Do you know what kind of business I run, Emma?’

‘A fashion house? It looks too grand to be a … to be a brothel.’

Martha stopped her. ‘Brothel is such an ugly word. I prefer to call Hampton Hall a gentlemen’s club — one that caters to the cream of Hobart society, I might add. We hold exclusive parties and put on regular fashion shows for our clients. My girls model the latest couture gowns and lingerie from London and Paris, and the gentlemen are able to purchase the outfits for their wives and girlfriends. They are also free to request private time with the models, who split their remuneration with the house on a fifty-fifty basis.’

Emma drew in a sharp breath. There it was. Martha hesitated, looking concerned. ‘No, please go on,’ said Emma, as the maid arrived with a tea tray.

‘I was about to say that in a short time my best models can make a great deal of money. Enough to buy beautiful clothes, cars, apartments. Enough to achieve financial independence. My success is their success, Emma. Do you think you’d be interested in working for me?’

Emma tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Martha seemed to understand, and poured her a cup of sweet, milky tea. Emma took a few sips. ‘Would I … would I do well here, do you think?’

‘You’d be a favourite, Emma, a beautiful young woman such as yourself. But my gentlemen want more than a lovely face and nice figure. They can get that at many other places, and at far less expense. No, they also want a clever companion. Someone who’d be at home at the theatre or opera. Someone who speaks well and can hold a conversation. This is such an important aspect of what we offer here at Hampton Hall, that I employ tutors to teach the girls about politics and history and world affairs. Your obvious intelligence and education gives you a natural advantage.’

‘I’ll need to rent rooms, or a flat.’

Martha’s eyes twinkled with kindness and something else. Admiration. ‘You’re thinking of your mother?’

Emma nodded. ‘For her and a nurse, until she can get into that hospital.’

‘You’re a good girl, Emma, and your mother is lucky to have you. I could offer an advance if it helps, considering you already have an important client.’

‘A client?’

‘Tony Angelo. He’s half in love with you already, dear. I doubt anybody else will get a look in.’

Emma smiled with relief. Thank God for Tony. ‘Do I have the job then?’

‘Yes, my darling girl. You have the job. Would you like to choose a new name? Most of my girls do.’

Give up her name? She could see the sense in it, but it felt wrong. Her parents had given her that name. It was a link to the person she’d been before. But no, she didn’t deserve to keep it. Emma said the first name that popped into her head. ‘Constance,’ she said. ‘Constance Stone.’ The first woman to practise medicine in Australia. What a terrible irony.

‘Very well, Constance. Welcome to the family.’

Emma would begin her duties — whatever that meant exactly — in a week’s time. That would give her a chance to arrange Mum’s accommodation and organise her trip to Hobart. A taxi all the way from Launceston was extravagant, but necessary, and she could afford it. With Tony’s contribution, her own savings, Martha’s generous advance and the money from selling Melvyn’s ring, Emma had never been so rich in her life.

Martha showed Emma to her room; a large, beautifully appointed space with views of the harbour. ‘I expect my girls to live in,’ she said, ‘but for you I shall make an exception. You may stay with your mother every Sunday, and return the next morning. If Tony Angelo requires you to sometimes stay away overnight, which I have no doubt he will, make sure you let me know first. I do worry about my girls.’

First impressions counted, and Emma couldn’t help but like Martha. That opinion was echoed by the other models when they were called in to meet her. All seemed genuinely fond of the house madam.

‘We’re a family here at Hampton Hall,’ said Martha. ‘These girls will become your sisters, teachers and friends.’

‘And Martha’s our mother,’ said one girl. ‘There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.’

There was a general murmur of agreement from the assembled women. Ranging in age from about twenty to forty, they were an exceptionally beautiful and sophisticated lot – not at all how she’d imagined.

Martha seemed to read her mind. ‘My girls are not prostitutes, Constance, and neither will you be. They are paramours of wealthy, influential men. Seducing them with wit, wisdom and artistic talent, as much as with physical beauty. Diana here is a pianist of concert quality. Giselle, a gifted portrait painter. Anne has the voice of an angel, and the ear of the Premier.

You’ll have the right to refuse any gentleman’s request for companionship, and the freedom to conduct affairs as you see fit. The only house rule is – never fall in love. Never give away your power, Constance. You are to be a fabulous courtesan with the world at your feet – not one man’s needy mistress.’

Emma felt a shiver of excitement, not unlike the day when Mrs Woolhouse first interviewed her at school. She took in the sumptuous surroundings, the elegant women, the startling promise of money and s*x and sin. Hampton Hall was no Campbell College, but she’d be getting an education. If she kept her wits about her, if she maintained an open mind, life here could be a grand adventure.