“You were a whore.”
“You made me a whore,” she said simply. “I was new and clean.”
The dullard must have dimly felt the truth behind that statement, for he turned away before he spoke. “You will leave this house tomorrow,” the prince said. “Ecton has cancelled the lease and the house goes up for rent on the first of the year.”
Her back straightened and her chin went up. One last plea. She had to try. “I’ve done nothing wrong, sir,” she repeated. “It’s Ecton.” She touched his sleeve. “You know me, I’m a good girl, faithful to you and our love.”
He stepped back, loosening her hand from his arm. “I know nothing of the kind. Why would I believe you over Ecton?”
“Cornet Mills sent me to him,” she said. “You never met Mr. Ecton before the end of summer. Why, you’ve known even me longer than that. Why trust him over me?”
“Because he’s a gentleman,” the prince said, with a sniff. “And you are anything but a lady. Pack your things. You can take your clothes.”
She wanted to spit, but forced herself to beg. “I have no money, nowhere to go.”
“You’ve been receiving an allowance, surely.”
“I have not,” she cried. “I never received a shilling. If there was money, it never came to me. Ecton took care of everything. Except you. You took care of me.”
Bertie’s dim eyes looked more puzzled than usual. “Whatever do you mean?”
She played her last card. “There’s a child coming. Yours, Bertie darling. Don’t put your child on the streets.”
His nostrils flared. “That’s a whore’s trick. There is no child. Ecton told me you’d try such a thing.”
She realized then what the English dog had done. Ecton, who’d paid all the bills and run the house, had been kept abreast of everything. No doubt the parlor maid had told him she’d never had her courses. He was ridding the situation of her before it became complicated. “Ecton knew. He had spies.”
Her voice rose, and she was almost ready to cry. “They’re all spies! I have no friend in this country. At least send me home, to my shame.”
Bertie shook his head, yawning, having already lost interest. “What happened to my laughing girl? This life has quite destroyed her. Be out of here by tomorrow.” He patted his pockets, taking out a cigar. Slowly, as if he hadn’t just all but killed her, he went through the motions of preparing and lighting it.
When the smoke hit her nostrils, she instantly felt a wave of nausea come over her. She turned toward the fire, retching.
“Please, I need money,” she gasped, holding her stomach.
He shrugged, washing his hands of the matter. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a single coin, then placed it on a table. “I would be happy to increase the sum but I must put it down as lost at cards or my governors would find me out,” he said. “And I have nothing more with me. Best of luck to you.”
His footsteps faded away before she sank to the floor in a cloud of expensive fabric. Her head sank into her hands. Damn the heartless English.
Through wet eyes, she stared at the dark blue silk pooled around her. Her dresses. All fine pieces, luxurious fabrics. Selling her clothes would bring her a spot of money. She’d stay in London and find work as an actress, make herself notorious. Maybe he’d come back to her. Surely even Bertie would eventually realize Ecton was the liar. He’d be caught out eventually.
Finally, she let herself cry, holding the sovereign the prince had left her. But only for a few minutes. She no longer had any faith in princes or their changeable love. The prince had been as heartless toward her as his mother had been to Ireland. She did have plans to make, and she only had a day in which to do them.
The rest of that night she spent gathering her fancy dresses. Silks and satins and dainty little slippers, slippers that wouldn’t last long in the cold of the London winter. Most of the dresses she knew she could sell without a single thought, but not the red shawl. Everything else was so grand and rich, but the silk shawl was almost too precious to let go. She also kept the thickest cloak she had, because she would be spending time walking from place to place.
Much to her chagrin, there was precious little in the way of stores open the day before New Year’s, not even in the grand city of London. But she had to sell them now because she couldn’t take the costly dresses with her. The ragpicker she found who would open the door for her was surprised to see the amount of goods she was desperate to sell, but he was willing to buy from her. She had some persuading to do, telling him that the fine dresses and shoes were hers and nothing she’d stolen. By the time she left, she’d got rid of it all though, with not nearly the money she’d thought she could get. All she had left to her name was the cloak, the wool dress, the sturdiest slippers among the ones she had, and the shawl.
By the time she got back home—no, not her home; the fancy apartments that had been where she spent time, damn Ecton—she was chilled and hungry and angry.
“You’re still here.” She heard the voice coming from the top of the staircase. A loathsome voice, an English toff voice. She lifted her chin to see Ecton, smiling triumphantly as he came down the steps. “I believe the prince gave you instructions to be out by tomorrow. By that I would think he means midnight tonight.”
She curled her lip. “And where would I be going at midnight? You’ve the heart of a snake, sir. You may call yourself a gentleman, but you are anything but.”
He laughed, tapping his cane on the floor. “Better than your kind, Irish whore. If you knew your place, you would have no problems, but since you thought yourself better than you are, your place is out on the streets.” He gestured at her with the cane. “Now get out.”
“I have three hours. I will leave on the dot of midnight, not before,” she snapped, feeling the heat of the fire as she stood in front of the fireplace.
“What does a few hours here and there matter? Get out, whore,” he said, poking at her with the cane.
Nellie grabbed the poker and moved around the embers. “I told you. Three hours,” she repeated. “Even your kind must be able to tell time. No honor, but time telling is fairly basic, surely.”
“Watch your tongue,” Ecton snarled, hitting her cloak and dress with the cane again.
That did it. She took the poker out of the fire and shoved his cane away from her. “If you watch that cane, I’ll watch my tongue,” she answered.
“Remember your place, you filthy whore,” he shouted, stumbling away. He was drunk, of course. She should have realized.
“Remember yours as the prince’s whoremonger,” she returned.
At that he raised his cane, and she raised the poker. As he tried to bring his cane down on her, she blocked him and forced him to drop the cane, leaving him without a weapon. The poker touched his coat, burning a hole in the fabric.
He noticed, surprisingly, shouting, “Look what you’ve done, filthy Irish whore!”
“For a gentleman, you don’t have many words, do you, you English snake!”
The coat kept burning. Ecton noticed that too—perhaps he wasn’t as drunk as he seemed—as he hurriedly yanked it off and stamped on the low-licking flames. “You’re trying to burn me alive, you filthy whore!”
She rolled her eyes. Staying in comfort for the last few hours was not worth the risk. “Enough. I’ll be going now, you English whoremongering snake. And if I never see you again, may you get the destiny you deserve.” With that, though she was tired and hungry, she wrapped herself in her cloak once more and left.
It was a cold, icy night, but it was better than agreeing to be Ecton’s mistress. Ecton’s whore, as he no doubt would remind her over and over again.
Nellie paused on the steps of the pretty little house of flats she had been permitted to live in and looked up at the sky. It was a cloudy night, threatening snow. Around her the other residents of London were scurrying around, headed for their homes, getting ready for the New Year, or leaving for parties where she would not be wel
come.
She had to find a room. She’d gotten soft in the short time she’d been in London. No wren no more.
She shivered.
It wasn’t easy finding a room to let this close to New Year’s Eve, but she did, and the inn wasn’t in such a terrible area. The drinkers in the pub were boisterous and convivial, but they were polite enough, confused by her Irish accent and her rich clothes. The innkeeper gave her a bed far away from the dining area and brought her a bowl of tasty stew left from over from supper and a chunk of bread. And after the door closed, Nellie had the first meal she’d had in months that she bought on her own.
She was on her own.
Sleep was hard to come by that night, arriving only in fits and starts. The good life was too easy to acclimate to. The room was clean enough, but nothing in comparison to the soft, luxurious linens that had surrounded her when Bertie had loved her. On occasion she’d hear a roar from the drunks out in the dining area, and she would wake up, startled.
She stayed there for two days, no more. She couldn’t afford more than that. The day after New Year’s Day, she stepped out into the icy streets of London and walked around. It was early yet, and few were out and about, but she knew she had work to look for. She needed to work until the baby came and made her completely unrespectable.
Chapter Three: Riches to Rags
February 1, 1861 London, England
The English didn’t like the Irish. You’d have thought she was carrying a fresh case of the Irish flu the way respectable housewives turned Nellie away when she asked for work. Eventually, after weeks of searching, she found work as a temporary barmaid, taking the place of the owner’s daughter, who was recovering from having given birth. They would only give Nellie a bed in the stables, but it was warm and comfortable enough, though it smelled terrible. At night, she rubbed her stomach and wondered if the child inside would be a boy or a girl. She had felt the first flutterings of the baby a week before and the sensations had grown to be a daily occurrence since, until today. She worked for the babe, she ate for the babe. Right now, everything she did was for the babe.
“You are so silent, wee one,” she whispered. “Sleeping, are you? Shall I sing you a lullaby?”
She crooned quietly to the babe inside her, shifting on the straw to find a comfortable place to sleep. Her back had been hurting all day, the pain increasing by the hour.
“Nellie, girl, where are you?”
The rough voice of the pub owner woke her from a tired doze some time later. She blinked and sat up, rubbing her back.
“Mr. Pelham?” she asked, pulling a candle toward her and lighting it.
“If you want to earn a few shillings, girl, there’s a man here asking for a companion for the evening. I won’t judge if you need the money. He’s in the room above the kitchen.” Pelham stepped toward her, until she could see his kind old face in the small circle of light.
Nellie blinked, her thoughts warring between a need for money and the desire to not be any more of a whore than she already had been. She stood to ask some questions about the man, but as she did so, she felt a wave of intense pain grip her belly, then she saw the dark stain in the straw, felt the thick dampness of her petticoats, smelled the coppery death of blood.
His face went pale as she swayed. “I’d best send my wife to you,” he said, turning around and hurrying away.
She sat down on the dirty straw, knowing that there was no point in pretending she could do anything but wait for the pains to go away.
It took a day, but by the time she had recovered from the worst of the bleeding, she knew she’d never feel her baby’s movements again. She’d seen similar things growing up in Dublin, and knew that the body of the babe, such as it was, would be expelled from her in due time.
She cried for a few minutes. That was all she permitted herself.
Two weeks passed, and she remained dizzy and muzzy-brained through it all. The Pelhams’ daughter returned to work and while they allowed Nellie to remain in the stables on her straw bed, they no longer had any work for her.
“I found you a position,” Mrs. Pelham said one day soon after that, coming up behind Nellie as she attempted to wash old bloodstains out of her red shawl.
The Pelhams’ daughter had admired the fine work and Nellie was contemplating giving it to her in thanks for all the family had done if she could only soak out the stains.
“A position?” she asked, brightening.
“Yes. I know you have to work. You will grow weak from the lack of food. We cannot keep you here on charity any longer.”
“You’ve done enough, for which I thank you,” Nellie agreed. If only she’d had family nearby, or Ecton had been less slimy. At least her connection to the prince had been severed forever. When she had her looks back she’d rise again and one day he would see her name on a billboard on The Strand at some fancy theater. She could do it.
“Do you want to know about the position?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nellie said, trying to concentrate. Her mind had been wandering of late.
“It’s basically the work of a tweeny. I know you are too old for that, but at least it is work, which is saying something for an Irish girl. It’s at a new hotel by Victoria Station. You’ll light the fires in the rooms and help with the cleaning. It’s respectable work.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pelham,” Nellie said dutifully. She wondered what kind of people stayed at the hotel. If they were theatrical types it might be of use to her.
“It’s perfect for you because there is a uniform. You simply don’t have the kind of clothes a working girl needs.”
She had virtually no clothing at all, and the lavender wool dress she’d worn all this time was dark with wear by now. “I’ve come down in the world.”
Mrs. Pelham shook her head, her tightly wound gray hair looking like a lamb’s curls. “I never saw any Irish dressed like you. Those slippers and that shawl. I’ve wondered who you stole them from.”
At that, Nellie grit her teeth. She wouldn’t be offering her shawl in thanks. This sanctimonious woman didn’t deserve something so pretty, even if the family had kept her barely alive these past two weeks. At least she found out before she had made the gesture.
“When do I start work?” she asked, putting it aside from her mind.
“Day after tomorrow. Go over there in the morning and you’ll be given your uniform and bed.”
Nellie nodded. The next act of her life had begun.
A week later she had learned her new position, much to her sorrow. She wasn’t sure how long she would last in a position that allowed so little sleep. While she was supposed to have five hours’ rest each night, the selfish cook often asked Nellie to bring her morning tea even earlier than duty required, robbing Nellie of precious time. And one of the girls who slept with her behind the basement kitchen snored as much as any fat old man. As a result, she found herself growing more wan, more tired, instead of recovering from losing the baby. She ate when she could, closed her eyes when she could, but she could tell it wasn’t enough.
She stumbled on the steps as she lifted the first coal bucket of the morning, severely bruising her knee. By the third bucket, she had to brace herself against the corridor walls with her hand for balance as she stepped quietly from room to room, filling the scuttles and lighting morning fires.
When she entered room 204, she smelled the most marvelous perfume. Like springtime, with an underlying layer of some heavenly, thick scent that was almost musical in its complexity. After a week of breathing dusty coal and longer of smelling horse dung in the Pelhams’ stable, the scent was as clean as driven snow.
Startled, she more dropped her bucket than set it down, the clank of the bucket ringing louder than she meant to. Luckily, this was a suite and the hotel guest was in the bedroom. Shaking her head—she had to wake up, she had to sharpen up—she arranged the kindling from the basket and laid the fire, but didn’t light it yet. Then curiosity got the better of her and she crept into
the bedroom.
The curtains were still drawn around the bed, but the scent was stronger still. She wanted to move closer, see the kind of person who smelled like that. Even better, she wanted to find the source of the scent. Was it a commercial perfume? Of course, she couldn’t afford such a thing right now, but someday she might have a distinguished protector again, or even better, be able to buy it for herself when she was a prominent actress.
Her eye began to itch as she knelt in front of the grate. She put a hand to her temple and her coal-darkened fingers came away with several limp strands of hair. She’d been losing it lately, ever since the baby had died. What she wouldn’t do for sunlight and good food, the kinds of things promised by that heavenly scent. The smell seemed so much heavier now. Her eyes closed on their own and she forced them open again. The coal seemed to undulate in her bucket as she reached her hand in. She felt so tired, so light, so far away from her cares. Her eyes closed again without her knowing it, her senses overcome by the comforting, heavenly perfume.
Nellie came to slowly. The scent seemed to surround her. She forced her eyes open and saw a sweet-faced, dark-haired woman above her, dressed in a lovely nightgown and looking concerned as she bathed her face in a moist handkerchief. “Are you all right, my dear?” the lady said, the Irish lilt in her voice the most beautiful thing Nellie had heard in months.
“Oh, ma’am, I am so sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t mean to. The perfume was so beautiful, and I wanted to see what it was, and—”
Unbidden, the tears started to fall, the way she hadn’t allowed them to since she’d left Dublin, because she had to be strong, and she couldn’t afford to lollygag. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, sobbing.
“That’s quite all right, my dear,” the woman said. She sounded like home. Now though, while she recognized the Irish in her voice, there was a hint of something else, too. “Poor thing, have you been ill? You’re as thin as an oak twig.”
At that Nellie cried harder. “I lost my babe, and my home, and everything,” she sobbed. “Oh, ma’am, I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I should get back to work.”
Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella) Page 4