That was the short tale of how she ended up in the world’s oldest profession. Ten years later she was still allowing herself to be deflowered on a daily basis.
Mid-morning was Daisy’s favourite time of day. The drays had cleared the street; fresh bread had cooled and was no longer a temptation. About that time Sally would appear at her side. As often as not, Daisy would tell her to scat, but just as often she didn’t. Daisy knew the dangers better than Sally. She carried a shiv in her boot as assurance of not being interfered with—which was far more efficient than the law. The early hour also meant there was little chance that she would come across an actual customer.
But self-proclaimed decent folk passing through St. Giles were more of a danger than the denizens therein. Everyone scrambled when one of these grand carriages rumbled by, for seldom did they pause for pedestrians. Orders to their coachman, Daisy supposed. If gentlefolk found themselves in St. Giles, they were either lost, looking for bargain entertainment, or out to save souls.
“Repent, young one, repent! Do you not, it is at the cost of your immortal soul!” was often their chant.
“Piss off,” sniffed Daisy with the air of an habitué of Regent St.
Sally looked upon Daisy with eyes wide, astonished at her daring. Daisy ignored her, quite unwilling to explain herself. Truth was, whilst Daisy may have declined to fall to her knees in repentance of her sinful ways, she was still leery of refusing such holy shenanigans out of hand. Although she was raised in the church, her religion now dwelt somewhere between utter disbelief and superstition. She disliked the notion of a deity who would allow babies to starve in the streets, but was roundly afraid that if there were one that cruel, she did not want to offend Him.
It was a healthy fear.
Beyond just dead babies, she had seen firsthand what God could do. Her brothers had been unwise in their choice of vices and they had both come to a grisly end. Even Frank, God rest his soul, who was unceremoniously tossed out of the seminary on the allegation of being “overly indulgent to the whims of nature”—whatever the deuce that meant. But Frank’s good fortune did not end there. For through some fortuitous connections, he managed to obtain a place on the grounds of a rich man’s house in the most prestigious part of Mayfair. Once she heard that, rarely did a chaise and four pass by that Daisy did not look to see if she saw Frank clinging to the footboard. She did so even long after she learnt that he was dead.
Although Tommy had a mean streak and had repeatedly fallen victim to it, Frank was given life’s luck-penny. Hence, when Daisy heard tell that both had been killed dead as Dooley’s doornail by a rich man’s hand, she was not particularly astonished. However, when told the name of the man who killed them—Darcy, she believed they said—quite surprisingly, she did not cry out for retribution. Nor did she bother to inquire just what larceny her brothers were exacting that demanded the ultimate penalty. The only question that grieved her whatsoever was simply one of curiosity. She wondered just how Tommy roped Frank into it.
It was not an interest she shared with Sally. She did not burden the girl with her worries and Sally did the same, although her little family situation was fast reaching dire straits. Rain was regular in London and only Nell could count on profitable foul-weather days. Folks died come rain or come shine. Regrettably for Nell, they did not die with the frequency necessary to retain regular shelter and it was not unheard of for them to be locked out of their lodgings. Hence, as the three of them cowered in the rain beneath a scant piece of tarpaulin, Sally meditated upon her grandmother’s audacity for taking leave of a perfectly good home owing to Archie Arbuthnot. When she did, she recalled the time she had gathered enough courage to suggest to Nell that it might be safe to return to Dyott St. Nell wouldn’t hear of such nonsense.
“He might still find us, gerl.” She warned, terror flickering about her eyes. “He might still find us.”
“Donna you worry fer us, Grannum,” Sally assured her. “He’s long gone.”
But her grandmother’s countenance bore then a strangely unsettled expression, one that Sally was seeing with increasing frequency. Sally did not know if it was the drink or something far worse—something that she could not fathom. Regardless from whence it was derived, this foreboding grew ever more prevalent over the months. They never knew when Nell might fall victim to paroxysms of fear so intense that betimes led her to hide beneath the bed. Occasionally these fits were witnessed by those other than her granddaughters, which gifted Nell with the unwanted stigma of dementia—a conclusion not conducive to generating new employment. She was called less and less frequently to attend the sick, the parturient, and the dead. Indeed, all but Daisy began to avoid them like the plague. After one particularly unfruitful spell, even Daisy Mulroney began to worry for them. Therefore, despite Nell’s obvious dislike of her, Daisy proposed that they share her own rooms.
Said Daisy, “You can lay up here if yer want, it’s nothing to me.”
Even Sally could see that the exaggerated indifference with which this suggestion was made was clearly a ruse. Daisy had a heart after all. But Nell refused absolutely. So adamantly was this refusal issued, it plagued Sally’s conscience. Daisy, however, appeared not to have found offence. With a shrug of her plump shoulders, she withdrew her offer with the same indifference in which it was tendered.
“Suit yerselves,” said she.
42
To Bathe or Not to Bathe
“Pray, do you think this is a wicked indulgence, husband?” Elizabeth asked, a one-sided curl of a smile suggesting the question not truly ecclesiastical in origin.
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy sat luxuriating in a huge copper tub, their heads resting on opposing ends, their limbs overlapping mid-most. Elizabeth’s hair was pinned upon the top of her head, but the steamy air had influenced a few strands to cling to her face and neck. Mr. Darcy’s head was partially submerged, allowing his hair to float about his head like wings. He had one ankle hooked over the edge of the tub, but beneath the remnants of the ever-dissipating soapsuds his other foot was intent on making mischief where his wife sat.
“Whatever do you mean?” he asked with studied innocence.
With a little yip, she shook her head as if he had, for all intents and purposes, answered in the affirmative. She took hold of his big toe and, with some effort, pulled it above the water line. The saturated wrinkles thereon made it look more akin to a stewed prune than a human digit. It announced that their sojourn in the tub had been a lengthy one. She raised an eyebrow.
“Is it not dissolute to languish as we do?” she asked. “I certainly feel wicked.”
Mr. Darcy had gone to a great deal of bother to find a Slav coppersmith lately of Prague to fashion the enormous vessel in which they luxuriated just then. It did not improve his temper to have the morality of the entire venture questioned after he had invested half a year and seventy-five guineas to obtain it.
He sat up quite abruptly and gave a quick toss of the head, thereby flicking back his dripping forelock. An expression overspread his face that suggested he thought himself chided. Elizabeth recognised the expression. It was one increasingly familiar—but not from her husband. She witnessed it upon the countenance of her husband’s son. That occurrence usually happening when something he should not have was taken from his determined little fist. Any moment she expected her husband’s lower lip to protrude as well. She wanted to laugh, but managed to avoid that blunder. Under no circumstances would Mr. Darcy enjoy himself being an object of mirth.
“Surely no one bathes as often as do we,” Elizabeth announced (the word “together” was implied but unspoken).
“Pray, do you believe that an activity is inherently wicked because it is not commonplace?”
As he often did, he took her idle musing as a grave deliberation.
Said she, a little too testily, “I do not. I only suggest we overindulge…” (here her own toes embarked on mi
schief of their own) “…the blessing of cleanliness.”
“Pray, do you recall,” he said, catching her foot, “the first time you occasioned my bath?”
She was not given time to reply, for he clasped her ankle and gave it a tug. This time, she was alert to such business and, with a quick feint of her foot, wrested it from his grasp. She then drew her knees beneath her and threw herself atop him, sending a large amount of water sloshing over the side.
“Mmmm,” she recollected, pressing her body to his. “Indeed, I do recall it. The mortification and the reward.”
The incident that he alluded to was well within her memory, for it had occurred quite early in their marriage. On that propitious occasion, although her egress into his bath had been unpremeditated, she had been treated to favours of unrivalled eroticism by her husband (whilst in, out, and around the tub) that remained quite singular in her recollection. Therefore, when upon those occasions he brought it to mind it never ceased to inflame her cheek—and her libido. If her husband knew that and used it as a ploy of arousal, she could have saved him the bother. With nothing between her breasts and his chest but the slight surge of the warm bath water, she was quite aroused without such reminders.
Indeed, that long-past evening had prompted a proclivity between them of enjoying water-borne delights. So predominant was this leaning that Mr. Darcy had not only engaged a coppersmith for an oversized tub, he brought about the renovation of one of the smaller of Pemberley’s many rooms in which to place it. In those hours he remained steadfastly within the walls of Pemberley at Elizabeth’s request, his mind needed employment. He had drawn and redrawn plans, engaging the finest artisans to carry them out. The flooring was of a particularly high quality white marble, bearing fine blue veins throughout, and the walls were lined with blue and white Dutch tiles. He managed to keep the project a surprise from her until the waggon carrying the tub arrived.
As would be expected, the delivery of an apparatus of such magnitude drew an audience of servitors who snuck away from their duties just to witness it. It was contained in a wooden crate, one not dismantled until it was brought inside. It had been by his own design that Darcy had not personally overseen the unloading of the tub, but watched from a window above. It had fallen apparent very quickly that removing himself from the process did little to reduce the level of curiosity surrounding it. Indeed, that it was camouflaged in a box seemed to pique interest rather than the reverse.
“Smeads,” Darcy called. “See to it that those not directly involved return to their own duties.”
As Smeads had been a fixture in his family for as long as he could remember, Darcy paid little attention to him so long as the house ran smoothly. He suspected, however, that Elizabeth did not care for him. She had not said as much. Indeed, he had asked her obliquely if she was pleased with Smeads’s elevated position, but she had demurred—possibly not wanting to cause her husband additional upset. Her reservation, even unspoken, had bid Darcy to eye Smeads more keenly than he would have otherwise.
At Mr. Darcy’s order, Smeads bowed smartly and began dispersing unnecessary staff. Such a brisk response should have made Darcy happy, but it did not, although he was uncertain why. A little ruffled by the suspicion that Elizabeth’s every reservation had such an effect upon his own opinions, he dismissed the notion, happy to have his mind occupied with the work before him.
And it was very much a work in progress. He fully intended to have the room equipped with towers for hot and cold water, but for now they could only wait for the tedious business of filling the tub with buckets. Once the bearers of the buckets retreated and they had immersed themselves within, they agreed that it was worth the wait.
As if by foreordainment, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy prepared to enjoy every facet of their tub.
Wordlessly, Mrs. Darcy rose slightly from her husband allowing them both to sit. (Much like a conductor had rapped upon his podium for the orchestra’s attention and raised his baton.) For a moment they did so, only gazing into each other’s eyes. Simultaneously, she manoeuvred her ankles around and behind him and he grasped her rump, drawing her near. So near were they, she placed her hands upon either side of his face, expecting to exchange loving gazes. His gaze was loving, but it had been arrested by a dual sight other than her eyes.
“You, sir, are not looking at me,” she accused.
“I do so dislike contradicting you, but au contraire,” he whispered, his gaze not altering.
His hands, however, did make an adjustment. They had been caressing her hips, but then slid to either side of her torso, just above the waist. Pensively, he stroked her there with his thumbs.
She did not truly want to interrupt his sensual contemplation, but she could not keep from clamping her elbows against her sides. Even worse, she could not stifle a laugh.
“Lizzy...” he took almost a lecturing tone and, in his impatience, dropped his hands from her.
“I dare say, sir, this is hardly my fault. You know well I am quite ticklish.”
She attempted to compose herself, but when he once again attempted to caress her sides, she fell to more laughter. He looked upon her disapprovingly and again dropped his hands, this time in disgust.
“Please,” said she. “Please. I promise I shall keep my countenance.”
“No,” he replied. “The mood is lost. I may as well take my leave.”
He made as if he meant to stand, placing his hands on the side of the tub.
“I beg you, no,” she cajoled. “I will be solemn as the vicar on Sunday.”
With this promise, he made a melodramatic show of relenting and resettling himself. This time, however, he did not risk stroking her sides and decided to wreak mischief beneath the water line. The disturbance he rendered her was of the sort to cause her to shriek. Thereupon, it was her turn to chastise.
“Do not,” she cautioned, “Do not!”
“Be still, Lizzy,” he warned. “Goodwin might hear you.”
Endeavouring to catch hold of the hand that was the greatest danger to modesty, she did let out a small squeal. She immediately clamped both her hands over her mouth—thereby leaving herself open for more larking about beneath the suds. Upon doing so, he located other areas that were as susceptible to tickling as her sides.
“No,” she shrieked. “No!”
Lest they be taken for needing rescuing like that day of yore, she saw it was necessary to squelch this mischief by redirection. She enfolded his head in her arms, burying his face in the crevice between her breasts. Immediately his hands quit their employment and found another, more rewarding occupation by cupping her breasts. He held them there a moment, almost reverentially and allowed his lips to press against them. Whether from his touch or her exposure to the cool air, her nipples cockled. She was so taken by the tenderness of his enterprise, that she enfolded his head in her arms and ploughed finger-furrows through his hair. So lengthy was his idolatrous attention, her head rolled to the side, revelling in its grandness.
But as such applications rarely are sustained, these were followed by further, greater rewards—at her instigation.
Feeling his arousal, she begat a gentle, but insistent undulation—one undeniably successful in encouraging a specific response.
“At your command, madam,” he said still whispering.
His response was precisely what she desired. But to have her will be done, he lifted her upwards out of the water and, with a gingerly bit of positioning upon his part and small wriggle upon hers, success was met. (As he was much favoured by nature, she smiled inwardly at just how very far out of the water she was drawn in order to be engaged thusly.) Thereupon, true undulation began, and she was of a mind to wrap her arms around his neck and draw herself nearer. He, however, was of quite another mind and held her by her shoulders before him. With each surge and withdrawal, he watched her so intently she could but return his gaze in equal measure.
Their breath was becoming more ragged, but he reached out and placed his palm against her cheek.
“Lizzy, Lizzy,” said he, “when I thought you could never become more beautiful, still you gain countenance.”
There was nothing particular she wanted to say just then (if, in fact, she had the capacity to speak), but she turned her head towards his hand and took his thumb into her mouth as she reached achievement. The engagement that ensued to Mr. Darcy’s ends was not a bit evil, but definitely rambunctious—Mr. Darcy ultimately of the opinion his money had been well spent.
After a spell of quiet, Darcy pulled himself dripping from the tub and walked the length of the marble floor to where his dressing gown lay. Elizabeth rested her chin upon her folded arms upon the edge of the tub, enjoying the pleasing vantage of her husband’s naked form.
To his broad back, she said, “You take to the water so happily, should we not sample sea bathing?”
This was spoken entirely in jest. Now luxuriating in post-coital recumbence, she was as happy to bedevil him as he was to be teased. Still, she treaded lightly, his small regard for this newly fashionable activity and its attendant accoutrements of dress were not unknown to her.
“Harrumph,” said he. “I should not like to think of myself wearing a bathing costume. I should not like to think of my wife wearing one either.”
“Nor do I,” she agreed, “I quite like what I see at present.”
At that he turned and gave her a cheeky smile, one quite unlike him. She thought that perhaps she had disturbed his composure. She hoped that she had—it was only fair in that he had done the same to her with such regularity. She also knew that it was unlikely that either would have themselves winched out into the sea in a waggon wearing little more than their small clothes, but she had her reasons for betaking themselves to the seaside. Little Janie had a suspicious cough and the sea air was the surest restorative. The larger question would be whither they would go?
Darcy & Elizabeth Page 29