The Girl Underground

Prologue

The Girl Underground

Prologue

New Orleans, Louisiana, 1850

Mr. Sibley,

You asked me once if I have a story to tell. Your nightly dinners offer me much opportunity to do so, and though I humbly thank you for your generous invites, I must regretfully admit that I never have any such contributions to conversation. Of course, I have lived a life that warrants such tales, but to tell them to an audience is something I find that I cannot do.

That being said, between you and I, my tongue may find itself loosening. You inquired about certain stories, tragic tales of love lost and found. Forbidden romances and affairs deep in the crevices of night. Surprisingly, though not so given my former station, I have actually bore witness to such a tale.

I am sure you have heard of the now-late Magistrate John Quincy of Lanfore in Hertfordshire. He was a man of great wealth, and a respected member of that community. Surely, indeed, you have heard of him. His wife, Abigail, passed not long after he, leaving behind two daughters and one son of whose fates I find myself uncertain of.

Now, you may wonder where I am going with this, for what sort of story of the proportions that you desire can come from a man such as Quincy?

I must inform you, then, that the son was not Abigail's. In truth, he was born of an affair Quincy had with a servant from Dawn-Bridge, the house of the also late Mr. George Boatwright. Another wealthy man, to be sure. I was in fact a footman in that house at that time as well, and a good friend to the woman who held Quincy's affections.

This tale, however, is more than an affair. It is the reason I cannot speak it aloud in a room of respectable men. I am certain no man we converse with is free of sinful stories, but I am not the sort of man to defame a friend. You, however, seem amiable. You do your father proud.

If this is the sort of tale that you asked of me before, and you find it interesting enough to hear through from start to finish, do come pay a visit to New Orleans. Take care, as a deadly fever has taken hold in some parts of the city. Travel safe, if you so choose to come, and I will tell you the tale of the girl underground.

Until such a time, I am most humbly yours,

Brandon Dorsey

XXX

Ronald Sibley had only ever been to New Orleans a few times before this day, mostly when he was a little boy and his father came here to run his river trade business. After his passing, Ronald never had a reason to return, not until now. His wife, Clemency, regretfully could not come along, for she had to pay a visit to her sister, but Ronald suspected also that Clemency had no intentions of setting foot in New Orleans. The peace of the countryside was enough for her, and the rumors of the prevalent fever did not help in convincing her otherwise.

Despite such grim tidings, however, Ronald found New Orleans to be a fascinating city. The feel of it was something supernatural, as if he had stepped over the threshold of the world he knew and had entered into another one entirely. Though he regretted leaving his home and family to pay his old friend a visit, once entering the city, he realized that he never wanted to leave.

Scrubbing a hand through his dark brown hair, Ronald mopped away beads of sweat from his forehead and adjusted his coat, relishing the moment when he could take it off. Though the city itself was a wonder, the weather proved a compatible foe.

Brandon Dorsey's impressive home wasn't far into the city. It seemed, in fact, as though it sat on the outskirts. Even so, much could be said of the view the home had of the Mississippi River, which dominated any other beauty the city had to offer. Dorsey himself was New Money, avidly working in the river trade and making a grand sum for it. He owned a large supply of riverboats, last time Ronald had heard and, when he stepped up to Dorsey's home, it showed.