The Lemieux Family's grand banquet had dissolved into a haze of champagne and whispered gossip, leaving behind two seismic tremors that rippled through Saint Denis's gilded, exclusive circles. First, the whispered emergence of a new dignitary: Rhodes Brown. Second, the scandalous, thrilling news of a burgeoning clothing store, its garments rumored to be so utterly beautiful, they could make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.
The first piece of news, while certainly useful to the city's entrenched rich, had limited practical application. Saint Denis, despite its grandeur, wasn't brimming with industrial titans; it was a city of old money, of land-owning gentry.
The Heidy Family, the Lemieuxs, even Bronte himself—they were all, at their core, landlords and monopolists. Only those with true ambition, the colossal capitalists like Cornwall, genuinely needed to rub shoulders with a man like Mr. Rhodes.
However, the second piece of news detonated like a fashion bomb. It spread like wildfire, igniting not only the aristocratic ladies but even sparking a flicker of interest among the city's middle-class office workers (not, mind you, the wretched souls festering in the slums, they had other concerns).
The Van der Linde girls, with their dazzling new outfits, had swanned through countless Saint Denis locales over the past few days, their novel and stunning clothes already turning heads and igniting whispers of desire.
The rumor of a new clothing store, poised for its grand opening, sent tremors of excitement through the populace. These office workers, blessed with stable lives and a bit of disposable coin, had long grown tired of the era's bulky, uninspired fashion.
The sheer novelty of Dutch's designs, particularly their uncanny ability to truly accentuate a woman's figure rather than swaddle her in voluminous fabric, was a revelation. Consequently, even before the store officially unlocked its doors, curious onlookers, their faces pressed against the glass, had begun to gather.
For the city's salaried class, the store's debut was a thrilling novelty. But for the desperate, impoverished souls of Saint Denis's slums, its opening was nothing less than a divine intervention, a desperate gasp for salvation.
Because Dutch, with the cunning of a snake charming a bird, had once again unleashed a recruitment announcement through his carefully cultivated "feminist channels."
"SAINT DENIS 'VLD' CLOTHING STORE IS RECRUITING SALES ASSOCIATES. AGE LIMIT: 12-40 YEARS OLD. SPECIFIC REQUIREMENTS: PRESENTABLE APPEARANCE, DIGNIFIED DEMEANOR.
TOTAL RECRUITMENT: TWELVE (12) PEOPLE.
SPECIFIC BENEFITS FOR THIS RECRUITMENT: TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS ($25) PER PERSON PER MONTH, INCLUDING FOOD AND LODGING."
As the feminist pamphlets, smeared with slum dirt, trumpeted the announcement the next day, the entire entrance to Dutch's clothing store transformed into a writhing, desperate mass of women. They surged forward, a frantic, howling tide, as if possessed.
If John and Charles hadn't been standing there, grim-faced, shotguns casually cradled in their arms, a full-blown homicide over a job might have broken out. These wretched women, their lives a perpetual tightrope walk over the abyss of starvation, had long ago shed any pretense of decorum. Not being selected in the last recruitment had already left them utterly shattered; some had even crumpled to the ground, fainting from sheer emotional distress.
This time, they would not be denied! A few, in a shocking display of desperation, openly offered to sell their bodies on the spot, to barter their very souls for this life-altering opportunity, this chance to yank their families from the mire of the gutter.
The dawn of industrialization had certainly ballooned the wealth of the bosses—which, Dutch often mused, was precisely why "capitalists should be hung from lampposts." But for these wretched souls scraping by at the very bottom, mere survival was a daily, brutal battle.
After what could only be described as a gladiatorial recruitment, Dutch finally, mercifully, selected his twelve lucky lambs.
"Alright, ladies," Dutch called out, his voice unnervingly calm amidst the wailing and pleading. He stood at the entrance, a benevolent king addressing his desperate subjects. "Please, don't get agitated. And for those not chosen, don't despair. We will have another recruitment. Charles, John," he gestured with a flick of his wrist, his gaze sweeping over the crumpled forms on the ground, "please carry these… overly enthusiastic… ladies to our back room to rest. And do ensure their personal safety!" Dutch didn't wait for their pleas, merely turned on his heel and vanished into the store.
Their poverty, he admitted, stirred a flicker of sympathy, but Lord, these poor people could be infuriatingly persistent. They'd latch onto your trouser leg, begging with tear-streaked faces, their hands tugging frantically. They'd bang their heads against the pavement outside your door, using their pitiful state as a battering ram to gain entry. Some would even blockade your shop, refusing to leave until you took them in. They truly had abandoned all pride for a crust of bread. While it was heartbreakingly pathetic, accepting even one meant instantly being swarmed by a horde, kowtowing and begging, or worse, deliberately inciting trouble. Indeed, if Arthur, John, and Charles hadn't been standing guard, their hands never far from their firearms, the entrance would have been a bloodbath.
The rejected women lingered outside for what felt like an eternity, a grieving choir of despair. Inside, Dutch was already scrutinizing his newly selected recruits. These chosen few were younger, mostly in their twenties, some even barely out of their teens. Compared to the hardened veterans, the seasoned, cynical women of their thirties and forties, these fresh faces were infinitely more pliable, less likely to question, and thus, wonderfully, easier to control.
At this very moment, these twelve attractive young women stood huddled like timid lambs, their eyes wide with apprehension. They darted nervous glances between John and Charles, who were now stoically carrying a few still-fainting women into the back, and Dutch, who had just approached. They feared these impeccably dressed gentlemen far more than any street ruffian. Provoke a hooligan, and you'd get a beating, maybe lose a few coins. Provoke these gentlemen, and one simply… disappeared.
They stood in a neat, anxious row, heads bowed, refusing to meet Dutch's direct, dissecting gaze, silently enduring his scrutiny. But within, a fierce, desperate joy simmered. This was it. Their single, impossible chance to shatter the chains of fate. Their clothes were threadbare, patched, their skin grimy, betraying a life lived without the luxury of clean water.
Some had no home at all, so this state of perpetual dirtiness was, sadly, perfectly normal. Arthur, after all, had been plucked from a similar state, a literal little mud roach.
Dutch's eyes swept over them, then flickered to Mary-Beth, Karen, and Jenny, who were diligently hanging clothes inside the store.
"Mary-Beth, Karen, Jenny," Dutch called out, his voice sharp and clear, "the three of you will take them to the bathhouse. Ensure they scrub off every last speck of dirt! Oh, our esteemed customers, they simply cannot tolerate such… rustic hygiene."
He wrinkled his nose slightly, a theatrical gesture of distaste. "Also, ladies, each of you will choose one of our outfits to wear. After you are scrubbed clean, you will change into our clothes. From this moment on, you must ensure your personal hygiene is impeccable. I will not tolerate any complaints about the 'poor hygiene' in our establishment!" He finished with a flourish, his eyes twinkling.
The twelve young women stared, dumbfounded. A beautiful set of clothes? On their very first day of work? They had just overheard that a single outfit cost twenty-five dollars—the same as a high-end, custom suit! And their monthly salary was also twenty-five dollars! These clothes were impossibly beautiful, garments they had never dared to dream of touching, let alone wearing.
"Okay, Dutch!" Mary-Beth, Karen, and Jenny looked up, their faces alight with understanding, ready to execute Dutch's rather specific instructions.
"Alright, girls," Karen bellowed, her voice booming, "choose the clothes you want first! Let's get washed up quickly—we've still got some special training waiting for you later!" She clapped her hands together, urging them forward.
Meanwhile, Arthur, already a man on a mission, had located Rains Fall, the stoic Indian chieftain, and his son, Flying Eagle, standing with a small group of their people outside the Saint Denis City Government office, their faces etched with a familiar, weary determination.