Secrets of the Tea Room Ch 07
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Secrets Of The Tea Room Ch. 05 free porn video
Rose ran a Tea Room on the fringes of the Garden District, within a short distance to Storyville and the French Quarter. Both neighborhoods contributed to her business success.
From mid-morning to mid-afternoon, Rose would entertain the wealthy ladies of the Garden District. Her tables were always full, partly owing to the variety of coffees and teas that Rose herself made from ancient and secretly guarded recipes, partly because of the dainty sandwiches and pastries that her cook, Queen, conjured freshly each day in the kitchen.
Queen was a tall Creole woman … and like most women of her heritage, her age was a mystery. She held herself with the posture of dignity and youth, but in the depths of her eyes swam a maturity and knowledge which defied argument. Queen and Rose had been together for years. Rose knew that Queen was an invaluable asset and regarded her accordingly. Rose never spoke down to her, never gave her an order, and often asked for her advise. She also had the good sense to share generously in the profits of the Tea Room … all of which compounded Queen’s loyalty and affection.
They were a formidable team.
The Tea Room was painted and wallpapered in a soft, feminine pink. I found out later that this was a calculated design owing to the fact that pink was the color most flattering to women of all ages. The big front window that looked out over the street was partially covered with lace café curtains and although Rose had only 12 tables in the Team Room, they were adorned with tatted lace table clothes, linen napkins, fresh flowers, and heavy silver flatware. She never skimped on amenities, Rose knew that you couldn’t serve ladies of social standing on paper plates and expect conduct a lucrative enterprise. Throughout the business hours, light classical music encouraged the ladies to linger, ordering yet another cup of tea and visiting with one friend or another they had bumped into.
Rose served her guests personally. She took particular care of her appearance, dressing smartly, hair perfectly done and her hands tipped with a sophisticated French manicure. As her business grew and her patrons came more regularly they developed a trust and familiarity with Rose and subsequently took her into their conversations.
Although attractive and bright, she was not the type of woman any of them thought could be of any threat to them … she hadn’t the upbringing, schooling, social status, or money they enjoyed. She was a safe friend … and that in itself was a rare thing. The ladies so jealously guarded their standing that they made sure their friends could not rival them in their husband’s eyes. By in large, they were a very self-centered, insecure group.
As the acquaintance between her clientele and Rose grew, they would confide in her little things. From headaches to menstrual cramps … dull skin to constipation … Rose would smile, pat them on the hand, and say ‘Let me fix you a special cup of tea.’ She would disappear into the kitchen and there stood before shelves filled with glass jars of rare teas and coffee beans. Other shelves held vessels of spices from all corners of the world, easily acquired in a port city like New Orleans.
On a very special shelf were her containers of herbs. The herbs were her secret ingredient. Some were acquired through foreign freighters coming into the port, some from everyday health food shops, some were purchased in the back room of a very special voodoo shop in the French Quarter, and some Rose and Queen grew themselves. The last shelf housed a collection of sugars, various honeys, and edible flower petals.
She would study her inventory, carefully pick and measure the ingredients, blend them just so with mortar and pestle, then steep in hot water. When the brew was perfect, it would be presented to the guest in a bone china cup.
It wasn’t long before Rose’s reputation as an apothecary surpassed the primary foundations of tea and pastries. When friends and family came to enjoy the charm of the French Quarter, a trip to The Tea Room became a must. And so it was that Rose’s business grew and flourished.
As I said, I met Rose in the most improbable of circumstances. I had worked my way to New Orleans on a barge carrying grain from Davenport. I had always thought that the life of a sailor would be exciting. I had intended to sign on with a freighter heading for foreign parts when I reached New Orleans. However, the first few days on the barge quelled those ambitions almost immediately. The Irish Rovers sang a song about a young fellow going to sea that went ‘The days were hard and long with no women, wine, or song, and it wasn’t quite the fun I thought it’d be’. The work never ended, the food was substantial, but not very good. At the end of the day all there was to do was sleep in bunks 3 high with two other men as rough, sweaty, and foul as myself.
The docks of New Orleans bustled day and night, so when we arrived I decided to look about for work. I was young, randy, and my pockets were burning with the wages I had collected. It didn’t take long for the music and laughter coming out of a wharf-side tavern to distract me. I’m afraid I drank too much, laughed too loudly, and got too familiar with one of the girls sitting at the bar. The next thing I knew, two massive fellows where whirling me out of the door like some pup who had just relieved himself on the carpet.
As I was struggling to draw air back into my lungs, I looked up and there was a dark haired vision hovering above me smiling. I pulled myself up to sitting and began to beat the dirt out of my jeans, when she said, ‘I bet you made the mistake of treating a woman like a whore, when you would have gotten a lot farther by treating her like a lady.’ As she side stepped me and continued on her journey, I pulled myself up and jogged to her side. ‘I don’t understand’, I told her. ‘The girls in that place were there to hook up with a guy like me.’
‘That’, she said, ‘is irrelevant … it simply does not matter. Your first mistake was to treat a woman like a whore when you should have been treating her like a lady. The second mistake most men make is to treat a woman like a lady when you should be treating her like a whore. And the third, and worst possible mistake is getting those two occasions mixed up!’
I laughed at that as I danced around to face her, ‘What?’
‘That’s right’, she continued, ‘every woman should be a lady in the parlor and a whore in the boudoir. The trouble begins when the parameters are crossed.’ She looked me square in the eye and asked, ‘What are you doing around a New Orleans wharf? You don’t seem like the type.’
As I relayed my sad story to her, she simply listened and nodded her head. When I finished she asked, ‘What are you going to do now?’ Since I didn’t have an inkling at this point I just shrugged my shoulders. She studied my face for a while, then asked me to turn around. She surveyed my work clothes, my blistered hands, and my shaggy hair. She pursed her lips and let out a little whistle … and not an approving one, I might add.
She continued, ‘I may have a job for you, if you can clean up properly and learn to behave appropriately. It will be a sort of an apprenticeship, but once your training is complete, you’ll at the very least make a decent living … and a pleasant one at that … or you may even want to strike out on your own.’
I was intrigued and asked her what kind of business, and she told me about the Tea Room. I scoffed, I had no intention of serving up to silly women, or cleaning up after them either.
She replied, ‘Well, you can take it or leave it … it makes no difference to me. But, you should have no misconception, my Tea Room is just the first plateau in an enterprise I’ve been building for five years. If you want to join me, fine. If not, they are always hiring longshoremen on the wharf.’ And at that, she walked away without looking back. I stood for a moment and it suddenly oc
curred to me that I had nothing to loose, so I trotted up behind her and offered to carry her packages. She smiled and said, ‘Very well, perhaps there is a future for you after all. My name is Rose.’ Nothing more was said on the walk back to the Garden District.
When we reached the Tea Room, Rose unlocked the door. Once we were in, as she was closing the shades, she called for Queen. Queen came from the area of the kitchen and answered, ‘Yes, Rose.’
I didn’t realize that my gasp was audible when I first laid eyes on Queen, but both she and Rose looked at me and smiled. Before me stood one of the most perfect, beautiful women I had ever seen in my life. Her Creole coloring was as soft as taffy. She wore one of the brightly colored turbans that had been in style for women of color in New Orleans for over 100 years. She was almost as tall as I and slim. Rather than the gray or white uniforms of cooks, she wore an ankle length darsheka reminiscent of an Arab robe. On her feet were simple sandals.
‘Queen, let me introduce to you … ‘ she turned to face me and I interjected, ‘Jack’. Rose continued, ‘No. No, that won’t do at all. What is your full name?’
I’ve had always been a little embarrassed by my name, at the time I thought it odd and pretentious, but I answered her, ‘Jackson Austin Emerly.’
‘Oh, that’s perfect!’, she smiled, ‘Queen, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jackson Emerly.’ Queen smiled and offered her hand saying, ‘If Rose likes you, I suspect you may be the one … it is a pleasure to meet you.’ I extended my right hand to shake hers … but before I could ask her about the odd thing she had just said, Rose rapped me on the knuckles like an ill mannered schoolboy. ‘No’ she said. ‘From this moment forward, when a lady offers her hand, you bow slightly, never loose eye contact, slowly raise her hand and kiss it ever so gently. The only exception,’ she continued, ‘is when a lady you earnestly wish to impress offers her hand. In that case, you again bow slightly, maintain eye contact, raise her hand, but then smoothly turn over her hand and delicately kiss her palm or wrist. So endeth the lesson for today.’
She looked at Queen who was still smiling, ‘Queen, do you think you could escort Mr. Emerly to the barber and tailor this afternoon?’ Queen laughed, a low throaty laugh that made me once again startle into a gasp, ‘Of course, Rose. Then what shall I do with him?’
‘Um, I hadn’t really thought about it. I never expected to run up on an apprentice this soon. I guess while you’re attending to his grooming, I’ll make a cot for him in the pantry until further arrangements can be made.’
So, there I was, swept away by two women who seemed to take charge knowing full well what was best for me.
Queen did escort me that afternoon. I took advantage of the opportunity to ask her what she had meant by the comment she made earlier … about ‘you might be the one’. She never slowed her stride but looked sideways at me. She studied me for a few seconds then said, ‘Sometimes I can see things … feel things no one else can see or feel. Sometimes I just know …’
I was going to query her further but we had arrived at the barber’s … then on down the street to the tailor. As he took precise measurements and jotted them down, Queen instructed him, ‘You know Rose will insist on the best possible fabrics … colors should be subdued and conservative … we’ll want to use a variety of shades of blue in his shirts to bring out his eyes … of course, there will need to be several white as well. Then, let’s see, trousers in grays, blacks, and tans. Rose will insist he wear ties, so coordinate them … and let’s do something special for him. Something that will serve him uniquely as a signature piece … but what could that be?’
She looked me up and down studying my build and the way I carried myself. She was silent for a few minutes while the tailor and I just stood there becoming more uncomfortable as the time drug on … ‘I know … instead of ordinary shirts, let’s put him in French cuffs. Yes. Rose would like that … classic and elegant. Be sure to include several pairs of cuff links with the shirts. I think that will be all for now.’ She stood and headed out the door only pausing to instruct him that when everything was completed, the entire wardrobe should be delivered to The Tea Room. The tailor nodded, said goodbye to Queen and thanked her for the patronage … he didn’t acknowledge my leaving at all.
Having secured an appropriate haircut and having measurements taken for my new wardrobe, we stopped by a haberdashery to buy a few ready-made things to tide me over. Queen never once asked for my opinions, and the sales clerk never even acknowledged my presence, except to ask for waist sizes, lengths, collar sizes, and so forth. When Queen was satisfied, she instructed the clerk to charge everything to Rose and then arranged for delivery to the Tea Room later in the evening. She swept out of the haberdashery, myself following just far enough behind her to appreciate the way her hips swayed as she strolled down the sidewalk.
When we arrived at the Tea Room, she showed me to the pantry, pointed out the frig and the bathroom, told me to make myself at home, and both she and Rose would see me tomorrow.
My first few weeks there were uneventful. I did as I was told, sometimes begrudgingly, but I did what I was told nevertheless. I watched, as I was told, and I learned, as I was told. The friendship between these two women fascinated me. They were obviously like minded, smart, ambitious, hard working, and something more that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Finally Rose came to me late one afternoon after the Tea Room closed. ‘Jackson, you’ve been around long enough to prove I can trust you. You haven’t stolen … I’ve watched. And you haven’t approached any of my guests … I’ve watched that even closer. It’s time now to continue your training and apprenticeship. Gather your things. You will be living at my house for a time.’
No more explanation, she turned and left the room, fully expectant that I would follow her directions. When I went to my cot in the pantry, I saw there had been provided a large suitcase for my new clothes. So I packed, it was as simple as that. Rose called a cab, we got in and she spoke to the driver by name. I was surprised that he knew her, but I was learning to be less and less surprised by anything Rose did. She seemed to know everyone in the French Quarter, the Garden District, and many of those on the wharf.
She never gave him her address, but as they chatted he turned left and started driving out of town. Within a few minutes we were on the periphery of town, in a neighborhood which had not fully grown up yet. Large areas of land had not yet been built on and were still held in private ownership. The driver stopped at the end of the street in front of a large Victorian home. It had probably been a sprawling farm house at one time … large enough to comfortably accommodate a large family. It was painted in a pastel shade of sage green with the contrasting gingerbread work done in burgundy and white. The yard was well maintained and a plethora of multi-colored rose bushes outlined the area between the grass and the cast iron fence ornately designed in the fashion earning the name ‘New Orleans Lace’.
Rose thanked the driver as she paid him, and I couldn’t help but notice the tip was larger than the fare. He smiled and retorted, ‘Always a pleasure, Miss Rose. You just give me a call whenever you need anything.
She waved as he drove off then turned to open the gate, ‘This is my home, and it’s where you’ll be living for a while. Let me show you to your room.’ I was as impressed with the interior as I had been with the landscaping. The house was warmly and comfortably furnished and gave witness to the taste and style of the woman who had created it. She laid her purse on the hall table and motioned down a long hall running the length of the house.
As if to
give a mini-tour she began showing me the parlor, kitchen, dining room, a study that doubled as her office. Toward the back of the house, she motion to a room on the right, ‘This is your room. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here, there’s a private bath attached, and you’ll notice the sitting area with a television.’
I walked up behind her, circled her waist, and kissed her neck, whispering, ‘Where’s your room?’ She whirled and slapped me hard across the face … harder than I have ever been slapped, ‘Don’t you ever touch me again! I am, as I told you on the first day I met you, a lady, not your whore. My room is MY room. You will not enter, and you surely will not sleep there. Ours is a business relationship, and only that. If you cannot abide by those rules, then I must ask you to leave this house at once.’
Had I misread her? Why else would this lovely woman bring me to her home? Confused, stunned, and ashamed, I rubbed my cheek and then found my nerve and my voice once again. ‘I’m sorry Rose. I misunderstood.’
‘Very well’, she replied as she stiffened her spine, ‘we will talk at supper. It’s at 7:00 promptly. Please clean up and dress appropriately.’ Then she pivoted on her heel and left the room.
I began to unpack and ran this scene over again and again in my head. The more I thought about it, the more baffled I became and finally decided to just let things play out before I made a decision. I crossed to the closet to hang my assortment of tailor-made shirts, trousers, and blazers. Another consternation faced me there … already hung there were two robes … a thick plush white terry that would reach almost to the floor, and a shorter burgundy silk dressing gown. I simply stared at them for a while, shook my head, and went about my unpacking.
I crossed the room and opened the door to my bathroom. Again, impeccably decorated with a mosaic floor in Roman fashion laying gods and goddesses at my feet. Against one wall was an oversized tub, one which could accommodate my full 6′ length and on the other wall an enormous shower with etched glass doors mirroring the figures on the floor. The counter that held the sink was made from a rich dark wood with so many coats of varnish they looked more like glass. The mirror above the sink reflected back to me the view of my backside, turning I saw a dressing mirror framed in the same rich, dark, shining wood. Well, if my future was to be a houseboy/ handyman/gardener/errand boy, by God, I’d be the best housed houseboy/handyman/gardener/ errand boy in the City of New Orleans! I smiled and turned the water on in the shower.
Promptly at 7:00 …as I had been instructed … I entered the dining room, suitably dressed in one of the outfits furnished by Rose. The table was set with dinner plates for two … several pieces of silver flatware on either side, 2 wine glasses and a water goblet, the table was finished with a bouquet of fresh flowers and candles sat on either side. Rose was already seated. Again, I had the feeling I was getting mixed messages from her, but my cheek still stung from her earlier reminder not to jump to conclusions so I just took my seat and waited for what she had to say.
‘Tonight,’ she began, ‘ushers in the beginning of your next phase of training. Your apprenticeship will now take you further into the polite necessities of society and we will continue this training until they flow from you effortlessly, just as though you were born with blue blood in your veins.’
The door to the kitchen opened and a servant I had never met carried a tray with two bowls on them. She placed one on the dinner plate in front of Rose and then crossed to my side of the table where she placed the other one. ‘Agnes, this is Mr. Emerly who will be our houseguest for a while.’ Agnes dropped a short curtsey, ‘We welcome you to our home, Mr. Emerly.’ As she left, I was once again made aware that Rose was not a common woman, for once again she had drawn to herself a handsome middle-aged woman … so unlike the patrons of her Tea Room … their choice of companions were always a little chubbier, a little plainer, or a little dumber than they were.
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