Free The Diary of Cozette by Amanda McIntyre Page A

their pints in the air.
    With far less difficulty than I had imagined we were delayed only once or twice by a roaming hand grabbing for Betsy’s bum. At the doorway, my eyes adjusted to the heavy smoke from cigars and pipes, as my gaze traveled over the richly decorated interior.
    The tables were simple, both round and square, with four to five chairs at each. In one corner, farthest from the stage, a hot game of cards was in process. Two strikingly beautiful women stood by two gents dressed in high-society, bringing them fresh drinks, and turning their backsides for a swift pat for luck. The bar itself was an exquisite piece, running the length of one wall. It was carved of gleaming dark wood, and had a polished brass footrest that ran along the bottom the entire length. Behind the barkeep hung a large ornate glass mirror and flanking either side of that hung paintings of scantily clad women.
    A loud ruckus at the end of the room caught my attention and I pulled Betsy in for a closer look. I pushed my way through the crowd positioning us near the side of the stage, near the steps leading to the closed heavy red drapes. A single row of kerosene lanterns flickered at the edge of the stage offering a brightness to whatever was about to begin.
    We crouched in the shadows and waited, watching the animated expressions on the crowd. Most were men, of all ages and types. Some dressed very well, with neatly groomed beards and high-collared shirts. The upper-crust-looking gents sat in separate alcoves, lavishly decorated, their tables laden with champagne, sumptuous food and fine linen. In the center closer to the stage were the commoners, dressed in their tweeds and simple trousers, cigars and rolled cigarettes jutting from the corners of their mouths as they laughed and drank with their comrades.
    It was a sight I would not forget, a side of England that I didn’t know existed. The pubs I’d been in, the whores I’d known, were dirt poor, most of them homeless or jobless. Here, the money seemed to flow freely and pleasure was marketed as if it was theatrical entertainment.
    The curtain on stage parted and a short, rotund man stepped forward, squinting against the brilliant light of the stage lamps. He spread his arms wide and grinned at the crowd.
    “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to England’s finest venue for your entertainment. Tonight, we are pleased to present, all the way from the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Madame Sadie Toulusse, who will entertain us with her magnificent voice.” He bowed deep as he exited the stage and a woman stepped from the curtains to the thunderous applause of the crowd.
    I could but stare in fascination at the immediate presence she commanded from the entire room of strangers. She opened her mouth and sang, offering grand gestures with her fan made of giant purple plumes. I glanced at the crowd and found the audience was less impressed with her act than me.
    A quiet titter spread throughout the room. They began to lose interest in her performance. Small groups leaned together and whispered while glancing at the stage. Tension began to mount in the room, a living, breathing unseen force, enhanced by the free flow of wine and whiskey.
    I grabbed Betsy’s arm, just as the room began to come alive as though stirring awake. Jeers and hisses rose unceremoniously through the crowd. At the side of the stage, hidden by the curtain, the manager wrung his hands in worry. His glances darted between the unruly customers and the woman on stage, oblivious to her disenchanted audience.
    My mind churned with the idea forming with the same speed as the audience’s distaste.
    “Can you sing?” I asked, grasping her face and turning it to meet mine.
    Her eyes widened. “I don’t know, I’ve never tried,” she stammered.
    “Do you dance?”
    “What evil plan have you concocted in that brain of yours?” She glanced nervously about the room, her chin held prisoner in my fingers.
    True it was that we could leave,