Bound in Moonlight

by Louisa Burton

  “He carries it everywhere, even in polite company,” Jonquil said. “At a glance, it looks rather like a mushroom. But if you look closely, you can see the little bishop's eye, and then you realize it's none other than the old bald rat itself. We call it Dunhurst's dilly-whacker.”

  Violet said,“He came here last year with a whole trunk full of manacles and whips and paddles, all different kinds. The girl that got stuck with him was called Dahlia. A pretty little blonde, Finnish, I think. Poor thing barely spoke English, but she told us the bastard never even tried to bed her, all he wanted was to cause her pain. She always had tearstains on her face and whip marks all over her. She moved like an old woman—you could tell she was in constant pain.”

  Caroline said, “I thought the masters weren't allowed to hurt us.”

  “Only superficially,” said Jonquil. “That's the rule, anyway, but Dahlia claimed that Dunhurst had violated it. She went to Dr. Coates covered in bruises one morning, said he'd beaten her savagely with a black stick, which would have meant she could leave but still get the money. Dunhurst denied it, said she'd taken a tumble down some stairs and that he didn't own a black stick. His chamber was thoroughly searched, but nothing of the sort turned up. Mr. Riddell dismissed Dahlia for being disobedient and a liar. After days of abuse, she had to leave here empty-handed—and Dunhurst got to have his fun without paying.”

  Violet said, “The outlook is not entirely grim, ladies. Remember that handsome young blood from last year with the black, curly hair? And that smile?”

  “Inigo,” Jonquil said excitedly. “He's here?”

  “He's got a bloody club between his legs,” Violet told Caroline. “The girl he bought could barely walk by the time she left here, but she said it was worth it.”

  “Is his friend with him?” Jonquil asked. “The blond one with those dazzling blue eyes? They called him Elic.”

  Lili and Elle exchanged another look for some reason, this one slightly amused.

  Craning her head to see through the narrow opening, Violet said, “I don't see Elic, but Lord Cutbridge is here.”

  “Is he?” said Poppy from somewhere behind Caroline.“He was my master last year. A real gentleman, that one, but a rutting stallion in bed. I never met a man who loved bedsport as much as Cutbridge—and he always saw to my pleasure. It got to where I'd come if he just gave me that look. I wish they could all be like him.”

  “A gentleman?” scoffed Narcissa, the beautiful but appropriately named young widow of an earl.“He's a one-eyed tanner's son.”

  Elle spoke up. “I understand your Prince Regent thought enough of that tanner's son to make him baron after the Battle of Vitoria, which was where he lost that eye, no? I should hardly think there's any shame in earning one's title through heroism—quite the contrary.”

  Violet, still peering through the curtain, said, “Things really are looking up. Rexton's here.”

  Her observation was greeted with sighs and one or two carnal little growls.

  Scanning the great hall as best she could, Caroline spotted David Childe, Lord Rexton, lounging on a purple velvet settee with his long legs crossed, a snifter cupped lightly in one hand, cigar in the other. His thatch of dark, wavy hair was a bit more neatly combed than the last time she'd seen him, but his expression of languid indifference was the same. He sat all alone, his only company the lacquered writing box on the seat next to him.

  “Who is this Rexton?” asked Angelique, who was French and a novice slave, like Caroline.

  “He's a viscount,” said Violet. “And a barrister, though you'd never guess it to look at him. He's only here to handle the money and the contracts—more's the pity. I wouldn't mind being his slave.”

  “He's a cock of the game, and no denying it,”Narcissa said.“ He's also as cold-blooded a viper as ever lived.”

  “You're just saying that because he cut you loose before you were ready to go,” Jonquil said.

  “She was his lover last year, but it only lasted a few weeks,” Violet whispered to Caroline. “He's better off without her. She's got opinions on everything and everyone, and you can't shut her up once she starts airing them—a tiresome little magpie if ever there was one.”

  Angelique asked the question that had been on Caroline's mind ever since she'd met Rexton. “Why would a viscount become a barrister?”

  “No one knows,” Violet said. “He's a partner in Burnham, Childe and Upcott, but he doesn't really practice law, from what I've been told. He mostly lures rich clients to the firm—and girls like us to Grotte Cachée. Most of us English girls were recruited by him. Silver-tongued devil. He could talk a cloistered nun into putting herself on the block.”

  Rexton, you blackguard, Caroline thought as she watched him raise his snifter to his mouth. You jaded, conscienceless rakehell.

  She thought back to that night two weeks ago when he'd snagged her in his talons, preying on her anguish and her desperation—a desperation that had driven her, that afternoon, to let Bram Hugget worm his big tongue into her mouth and maul her breasts for the halfpence it would cost her to die.

  “A ha'penny to cross our fine new bridge, miss.” The bells of St. Paul's Cathedral had started chiming midnight as Caroline handed her hard-won halfpenny to the rotund little toll-man.

  “A bit late for a lady to be out and about without an escort,” he said as he tucked her toll into the big coin pocket tied like an apron over his round stomach. “Mind you keep your wits about you, crossing the bridge. They ain't got the gas lamps working yet, and it's a dark night, what with all them clouds and not much moon. Don't tarry. The way this wind's picking up, I reckon there's a storm on the way.”

  Touching the brim of his leather cap, he gestured her toward the footpath along the east side of the bridge, and the iron turnstile that served as a barrier to it, which clicked heavily as she pushed through it.

  Waterloo Bridge, a quarter-mile of flat roadway supported by nine granite arches, had been officially inaugurated that day—the second anniversary of the one-day battle for which it was named—with a military cavalcade and a procession that included the Prince Regent, the Lord Mayor, and the Dukes of York and Wellington. The bridge was bedecked with pennants for the occasion, the sun-spangled river thick with pleasure boats and barges. Spectators from all walks of life crowded onto riverbanks, terraces, and rooftops to view the ceremony. It was the most extravagant event that Caroline had ever witnessed.

  The prince's embarkation upon the royal barge was marked by volleys of artillery so concussive that Caroline, standing all too close to the twenty howitzers, had to cover her ears. Still, the detonations made her heart kick, her teeth clatter.Worse, they reminded her of Aubrey, smashed to bits by an iron ball two years ago that day.

  Huddled amid roaring strangers with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands clamped over her ears, thinking about her beloved Aubrey and her wretched existence since she'd lost him, Caroline had an epiphany. She realized, with sudden, ringing clarity, why she'd been drawn to this bridge on this day, and what she was meant to do. A strange warmth and serenity enveloped her, as if Aubrey himself were wrapping her in a blanket and whispering in her ear, “Tonight. Do it tonight, my love, and then you will be with me always.”Never had she felt so calmly resolute.

  She felt that resolve still as she made her way along the footbridge, one hand skimming the stone balustrade to help guide her in the dark, the other clutching her wind-battered bonnet. About halfway down the bridge, she stopped and gripped the balustrade with both hands, grateful that they hadn't gotten the lamps working yet, lest she be seen by the toll-men at either end. So impenetrable was the gloom that the only buildings she could make out were the majestic Somerset House near the bridge's north end, from whence she'd come, and beyond it, the dome of St. Paul's. Her gaze on that most venerable and resplendent of God's houses, she whispered, “Forgive me.”

  Caroline climbed with some difficulty atop the balustrade and stood there, her skirts snapping and billowing.
She breathed in the river's familiar murky smell, heard it slap-slap-slapping against the granite piers—but all she could see of it was a fathomless black abyss.

  Untying her bonnet, she let the wind wrest it from her hands. It soared into the night, ribbons flapping.

  A gust of wind buffeted her, almost lifting her off her feet. She waved her arms frantically to regain her footing, heart seizing in her chest.

  Poised in a wavering half-crouch with both arms extended for balance, lungs heaving, Caroline stared down into the inky oblivion of the Thames. Gone was her placid resolve, replaced by roiling terror. Would she be filled with such dread if she were truly meant to do this? Perhaps—

  Another gust toppled her forward, the timeworn soles of her slippers sliding and skittering on the railing. God, no—

  She grabbed wildly at nothing as the world careened. A wall of water, cold and hard, bashed the breath out of her.

  She thrashed as she sank, legs pumping against her waterlogged skirts, lungs swelling. Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

  She flailed her arms, straining upward, clutching at the blackness above. Please, please.

  Her lungs burned as she fought the urge to inhale. She clawed and kicked and prayed, and then something nudged her, something hard. It prodded her, poked her in the chest, the stomach.

  A gruff male voice, muffled by the water overhead, hollered, “Take it! Grab hold!”

  Caroline gripped it with both hands, finding it flat, with smooth, tapered edges—an oar. She felt along the blade until it narrowed into the throat, and this she closed both fists around.

  “Hold on,” the voice called.

  Caroline felt herself being pulled upward along with the oar. As her head breached the water, she dragged in a spasmodic breath through the hair plastered over her face, and then another, and another, coughing and sputtering. Hands tugged at her, seizing her under the arms to haul her up over the side of a small rowboat. “Easy, Jack,” a voice grunted as the boat rocked and pitched. “We flip this thing,we'll all end up in the drink.”

  They managed to drag her aboard without tipping over. She collapsed, drenched and shaking and no doubt well-bruised from her rescue, but infinitely grateful for it.

  “Thank you,” she rasped. “Oh,my God. Thank you.”

  There were two men in the boat, both bearish and humbly dressed. One set about rowing them to the north bank, while the other, the one called Jack, sat Caroline up and raked the hair off her face. “Threw yourself off our fancy new bridge, did you?”

  Caroline dropped her head in her hands and nodded.

  “Now, why would a pretty little wench like you want to be doing a thing like that?”

  She shook her head wearily.

  “Self-murder ain't the answer to a life of sin,” he said.

  She looked up.

  “You ain't the first sporting girl that's ever flung herself into the Thames when she couldn't take the life no more.” Before she could correct his assumption, he said, “You know we're going to have to take you in, don't you?”

  “Take me in?”

  “Me and Hugh are river watchmen. We seen a straw bonnet come flying off the bridge, so we headed that way and heard you scream when you jumped. There's laws against killing yourself, you know. You get caught trying to do it, you got to be dealt with.”

  “I . . . I didn't really mean to.” Caroline didn't remember screaming, but her throat felt as if it had been scoured raw. “That is, I meant to, but I changed my mind.”

  “Folks generally do, once they hit the water,” Jack said. “Where do you live?”

  “Nowhere anymore. I have no home. I have nothing.”

  “Right, then. We're going to take you to the Newcastle Street watch house, then you'll go before the magistrate in the morning.”

  Docking the boat along the embankment northeast of the bridge, the watchmen guided Caroline, wet and shivering, up a narrow flight of steps to Wellington Street. With Jack gripping one of her arms and Hugh the other, as if they thought she had enough energy left to make a break for it, they walked her along the Strand past the Somerset House, turning left on Newcastle. Her hair was a matted tangle; her sodden skirts, stretched out from the water, dragged heavily along the ground.

  Leaning against a building up ahead was the tall figure of a man tilting a flask to his mouth, a cocked hat tucked under his arm. From somewhere came a woman's breathless laughter.

  “You there!” called Jack. “You know you can't be drinking out on the street like that, I don't care what time of night it is.”

  With unhurried nonchalance, the man pushed off the wall and strolled under a streetlamp. He was perhaps thirty, with slightly mussed dark hair, well dressed but for his untied cravat and open collar.

  “Lord Rexton. Beg your pardon, your lordship,” Jack said with a little duck of his head as they approached. “Didn't realize it was you.”

  “Just waiting on my friend,” Rexton said in a deep voice woolly with drink.

  The unseen woman laughed again, saying, “Lookit that fine upstanding prick. Fill my naggie. Fill it deep.”

  “Lift your arse, Molly,” came a male voice. “Good girl,” he said with a grunt of effort. “Ah, yes.”

  Caroline and the two watchmen looked into an adjacent alleyway, quite long and narrow, which connected Newcastle to the next street over. Toward the middle, barely visible in the dim passage, could be seen a man and a woman. The frowzy redhead stood bent over with legs widespread, one hand braced on the brick wall while the other held the skirts of her bright green frock bunched at her waist. Her bodice was unfastened at the top, allowing her enormous breasts to hang free. The man, hatless but as finely attired as Rexton, stood behind her gripping her meaty rear end as his hips churned, her breasts swaying with every thrust.

  Caroline averted her gaze from the sight, only to find Lord Rexton giving her a lingering appraisal from head to toe, taking in her snarled hair and shabby, sodden frock with a vaguely amused expression. “Dredged up a little river rat, did you, boys?”He took a long swallow from his silver flask.“What did she do? Get soused and fall off a pier?”

  “Tried to drown herself,” Jack said.

  His lordship's gaze met Caroline's; the smirk faded.

  “Harder,” demanded Molly. “Fuck me deep. Squeeze my tits.”

  “She's the sixty-fourth chit to jump off a bridge this year,” Jack said, “but first one to get fished out alive.”

  “What are your plans for her?” his lordship asked the watchmen.

  “She'll spend the night in the cage,” Jack replied,“then we'll bring her before the magistrate in the morning. Seeing as she tried to do away with herself, he'll have her confined to a madhouse.”

  “What?” Caroline's trembling, which had begun to ease, renewed itself. She'd assumed that her foolhardy act would earn her a brief sentence in the house of correction—an unpleasant prospect, to be sure, but one she could have endured. Madhouses were a different matter entirely. The man in the alley started groaning in time with his quickening thrusts.

  “Aye, sir, that's the way,” praised the whore. “Deep and fast. Let's feel you spurt. Come on. Come on.”

  “Most of the lunatic paupers,” Jack continued, “he sends 'em to Bethnal Green Asylum, else White's if there ain't no room at Bethnal.”

  “No,” said Caroline, who'd heard stories about both asylums that had sickened and horrified her. “No, please. Let me go,” she pleaded, trying to wrestle out of their grip. “I . . . I'm sorry I jumped from that bridge. I won't do it again, I swear.”

  “We ain't fixing to give you the chance,” Jack said. “Come on, Hugh. Let's get this one in the cage before she starts biting and clawing. I've still got the scars from that whore we pinched last week.”

  “I didn't mean to do it,” she said desperately as they dragged her down the street, she struggling violently against their ever tightening grip.“I can't be condemned to an asylum. It's not right, not without
giving me a chance to prove my sanity. There must be some legal recourse available to people in this situation. Won't you please just—”

  “Wait,” ordered Lord Rexton as he strode toward them, stowing his flask in his coat and replacing his hat on his head. Coming to stand before Caroline, he tilted up her chin and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Sounding a bit more sober than he had a moment ago, he said, “It is a rare river rat who speaks the King's English. What is your name?”

  In a feeble voice, she said, “Caroline Keating,my lord.”

  “Are you any relation to Reginald Keating, Baron of Welbury?”

  “He is my uncle,my father's brother.”

  “And your father is . . . ?”

  “Obediah Keating, Rector of Welbury Parish. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I am disowned.”

  “Have you a husband?”

  “No, my lord.”

  He studied her face for a long moment, then released her chin and said,“Under current British law,Miss Keating, anyone who attempts suicide is automatically deemed non compos mentis—insane. You can, indeed, be confined in a madhouse for having jumped off that bridge, and the magistrate can send you there without any further legal proceedings.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Believe it or not, I am a barrister—by training, if not by inclination.”Withdrawing a kid purse from inside his coat, he said to the watchmen, “Gentlemen, I suspect Miss Keating has learned her lesson well enough to avoid any midnight dips in the future.”

  “We can't just let her walk away,” Jack said.

  “Fortunately for you, I am willing to take her off your hands.” He plucked two gleaming half sovereigns from the purse and handed them to the gaping watchmen. “For your troubles.”

  They looked at each other a moment, and then, having come to a silent consensus, they stuffed the coins in their pockets and released Caroline's arms.

  “Miss Keating,” said Rexton, “if you will come with me, I believe there is a coach stand on the Strand in front of the Somerset House.”