“Other women?”
“Yes. Those free with their favours. Unless—”
“Frances, stop! You are not seriously considering doing that, are you?”
“Why not? Would you not like to sample a man and know what it is all about before you marry?” Frances walked along the rug, fingertip skating across the mantelshelf. “I realise being chaste is something to be expected, but it is all so…so boring! And horse riding is a valid excuse for things not being quite right down below on your wedding night.”
Pearl swallowed down the urge to laugh, even though fear at where they were possibly headed threatened to overtake her. Frances felt the same way she did. They had been brought up knowing it was not correct to do this, was not correct to do that, but something inside Pearl screamed for her to take control of her own destiny, to do what she wanted to do, consequences be damned.
“Lily it is, then,” she said, standing and walking to the window. She sat on the sill, staring at the grounds. The shrubbery that separated their driveway from the lawn was barren of leaves or flowers, all pointy branches that spoke of autumn leaving and winter coming. The vast expanse of grass that stretched to the tall bushes that bordered their property was brushed with a kiss of frost. Even the main length of gravel drive to her right, which snaked in a slightly wavy line until it reached the road, glistened with white sprinkles. The cold season had fully arrived, and long days stuck inside lay ahead until spring came once more. “How many nights will we work?” She faced Frances, who strode to the other window and perched on the sill, pressing her nose to the glass. Her breath steamed the pane, and Pearl laughed at how her friend just did not give a damn.
I want to be like her. Like the me I am inside.
“As many as you like, Lily love,” she said in a broad, affected London accent. “If you only want the one, then one is all you’ll have. But if you fancy a bit of tuppin’ seven nights a week, we’ll make a woman of the night out of you yet!”
Pearl gasped then blushed. Frances’s take on the lower classes was so real she almost believed she had not been raised by upper class people. Could Pearl speak like that? Act differently? And what if she encountered someone she should not? “What if we get recognised, Frances?”
Standing, Frances planted her hands on her hips. “It’s Violet to you, my darlin’, and we’ll be careful, don’t you worry about that. We’ll have so much paint on our faces men’ll be hard pressed to know us.”
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About the Author
Celeste Rupert lives in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains and—other than the lack of indoor plumbing—would love to live in the Old West. As time travel hasn’t yet been invented, she lives in the era through her characters.
Email: [email protected]
Celeste loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.
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