She Be Damned

by M. J. Tjia

  As she replaces the other dress Amah calls out, “Yes, but at least you can be sure that tomorrow all those same ladies will run out and command their cheap little dressmakers to copy your gown.”

  I half-smile at myself in the mirror, my cheek dimpling. “Yes, that is some consolation,” I say. I step into my crinoline and petticoats with Amah’s assistance. Together we pull on the gown, which is gratifyingly heavy. I adjust the bodice so that it is low enough for the fullness of my bosom to swell. I arrange a black, lace mantilla shawl around my shoulders. Its scalloped edge swells over the back of my gown, although my straitened, tiny waist can be seen through the sheer lace.

  Amah tidies my hair again and then kneels on the floor to help me step into my delicate shoes. She rests back on her haunches. “There. You’re ready. You look beautiful.” Her voice holds satisfaction, but her smile is tight.

  I sway against Lord Hatterleigh as his carriage hurtles through the London streets. The carriage is as well-sprung as money can buy and is upholstered in dark leather and plush, maroon velvet. He hands me a crystal goblet of cognac. “Drink up,” he says, as he throws his own cognac back. The glass clinks against the decanter when he pushes it back into its small cabinet. I sip the pungent liquor and settle my other hand on his thigh, which he covers with his own large one.

  Lord Hatterleigh is the heir to an earldom, and owns fine estates in both Ireland and near York, although it cannot be denied he has more the look of one of his gardeners than that of an earl. He hasn’t got a fluted, aristocratic nose, and his complexion isn’t so fair that canals of blue veins are visible. He’s a thick-set man, without being too fat, with dark hair and a meaty face. He has fine, smiling eyes though, which are brimmed with dark lashes.

  “What have you been doing with yourself, my dear, while I have been rusticating?” he asks.

  I place my head on his shoulder, careful to not mess up my hair. “I have been waiting for you, Giles, of course.”

  He lets out a shout of laughter and slaps my thigh so smartly that, had it not been amply covered with layers of fabric, would have stung. “You jade. Now, tell me the truth.”

  I pinch his arm and grin. “I’ve been working for Sir Thomas again.”

  “That rogue. What has he mixed you up in this time? You haven’t managed to sneak into the Prussian embassy again, have you? There’ll be hell to pay, love, if you’re found out.”

  “Nothing so glamorous. I’ve been hunting for a girl in Waterloo.”

  Hatterleigh pats my hand. “Be careful of the hoi polloi down there, Heloise. Don’t want to pick up one of their fevers.”

  The carriage pauses in front of a terraced house in a small lane off Tottenham Court Road. A middle-aged lady, wearing a blue dress which is tightly buttoned to her neck, its only embellishment being a lace collar, strides towards the carriage and climbs in after waving away the groomsman’s helping hand.

  “Good evening, Mrs Forrest,” I say.

  “Good evening, Heloise.” Mrs Forrest takes the cognac Lord Hatterleigh offers her and finishes it in three determined sips as the carriage pulls forward.

  Mrs Forrest’s, wiry ginger hair is pulled into a neat chignon under a lace head covering and above her bulbous, pink nose she wears large glasses which accentuate the creases on her pinched face. She’s a distant cousin of Lord Hatterleigh’s and he pays her well to exude her air of conventionality when she chaperones us on public outings.

  The carriage halts by the imposing entrance to the Covent Garden Opera House. A throng of people are gathered in front of the theatre but it’s not so hectic because it’s out of season. We press forward with the assistance of the theatre manager and make our way through the outer columns into the foyer. My heart thrums a little faster once we’re amongst the other opera patrons who chatter loudly under the bright and glittering light thrown from the chandeliers. The gentlemen are neat in their tailcoats and silk top hats, while the ladies display astounding tastes in flounces, silks and hairpieces. We make slow progress up the curving, carpeted staircase to our box so that Hatterleigh can greet his friends along the way. I know several people myself, of course, whom I greet with a grin and a quick word. Many others pretend to ignore my presence when they’re not actually staring at me.

  A man, leering so that his yellow teeth flash all the way to his pallid gums, breathes “Paon de Nuit,” as I pass. I have to turn my head away from his foul breath and attention, but when a handsome, young woman hisses, “There she is. The Peacock of the Night,” to her plump, overly-frilled companion, I give those witches a serene smile and a quick curtsy of acknowledgement. They look affronted and hide behind their fans.

  “I don’t know why everyone insists on calling you a peacock, Heloise,” complains Mrs Forrest. “A peacock is a male bird, after all. Although, to be sure, a pea hen is a drab, brown creature, more along my lines, really. The Pea Hen of Soho. Ha!”

  I smile as we take our seats in Hatterleigh’s box. The orchestra strikes the first thrilling notes. The box is on the second tier which has an excellent view of the stage and as the lights dim to accentuate its splendour, I have to marvel at the magnificence of the newly restored theatre. All is fresh and sparkling; there are no faded, moth eaten curtains and no persistent stench from the water-closets. It’s a far cry from some of the theatres in which I’ve performed.

  I enjoy the first act, amused at Faust’s self-important transportations. I can just imagine Amah’s eyes cast to the ceiling in disdain at the man’s conceit and my own lips lift in agreement. I’ve known many men who would be as easily corruptible as Faust. It then occurs to me that maybe I’m a bit like Faust. It’s a sobering thought I decide not to dwell upon.

  During the interval Hatterleigh and I leave the box for the narrow corridor. He goes in search of refreshments while I relish the relief to be had from standing upright. Those damned corsets stick into my ribcage something rotten. Several gentlemen pass me on similar missions to that of Hatterleigh, and a few boxes down two ladies stroll arm in arm along the corridor.

  I’m about to enter our box again when Dr Blain marches up and glowers down at me. His face is flushed and his usually neat, brown hair is as dishevelled as I’ve ever seen it.

  “Dr Blain. I didn’t realise you were at the opera too.”

  “Mrs Chancey,” he says, grinding on the word ‘Mrs’. “If that is your real name.”

  I glance towards the other women in the corridor, but they have turned to perambulate in the opposite direction. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Dr Blain,” I answer, smiling politely.

  “I am here tonight with my aunt, I’ll have you know, Mrs…” Blain stops, apparently unable or unwilling to repeat my surname.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. And my aunt knows more of society than I do, Mrs…”

  “Please, just call me Heloise if the name Chancey is sticking in your throat,” I reply, exasperated.

  “I would prefer not to refer to you at all. My aunt has told me all about you.”

  “Ah. Is she an acquaintance of mine?” I ask, lightly, mischief stirring my blood. “You must bring her here so that I can greet her.”

  He glares at me. “My aunt is a good woman. It distresses her to be in the same theatre with you, let alone in the same room.”

  I can no longer keep up a friendly façade and the smile vanishes from my face. “Indeed. Then how can she know so much of me, sir?”

  “You are infamous, madam.”

  I’m silent for a few moments as I try to dampen the anger rising in my chest. I can feel that Liverpool street-girl close to the surface, the one who can scream blistering insults until her throat feels scalded. “What is your point, sir?”

  Blain runs his hand through his hair. “What of Eleanor? What is to become of her?”

  I feign a look of surprise. “What concern is that of yours, sir? You washed your hands of her mighty quickly earlier today.”

  “Yes, yes, I did.” The skin around his li
ps is white. “And it almost kills me to do it. I cannot marry a woman who is already with child to another man, but it is almost worse to think of her residing with a woman such as yourself. I would prefer her dead.”

  “Stop your hysterics, sir,” I say through clenched teeth. The ladies further down the corridor now watch us over their fluttering fans. “I can assure you, Eleanor is much better off with me than lying dead in a doss-house somewhere, no matter how noble you think that end might be.”

  Blain takes a step closer and thrusts his face close to mine. I don’t back away.

  “Madam, just because you are well known at the opera, live in a fancy house and own expensive steeds does not mean you are anything better than the harlots on the streets of Waterloo,” he chokes out, his eyes bloodshot with the exertion.

  “I am a woman of independent means, sir, and she will be just fine in my care.”

  “You are a prostitute.”

  “I am a courtesan.” I feel foolish as soon as I say it. My hand clenches into a fist and I’m sorely tempted to clout him on the cheek.

  “Who is this, Heloise?” asks Hatterleigh.

  Blain and I were so absorbed in each other we hadn’t noticed his approach. I take a deep breath and straighten my fingers in their soft, white gloves.

  “Nobody,” I answer, smiling stiffly up at Hatterleigh. “Nobody at all. I believe he is lost.”

  Hatterleigh opens the door to our box and says, just loudly enough, “I did advise you to stop mixing with the hoi polloi, my dear.”

  Faust falls to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer while he watches despairingly as Marguerite is lifted into the heavens of the theatre. The grand curtains close upon the scene and the audience applaud, some men standing to cheer.

  Although sympathy for Marguerite’s plight swells in my chest with each rising note, so that I too hold my breath through the final moments of the opera, it doesn’t take long for common sense to steady my heartbeat. I gather up my mantilla and wonder how Marguerite had killed her infant. Smothered with a pillow? Quickly with a knife? She would’ve been better off using the blade on Faust than begging for God’s forgiveness.

  Mrs Forrest also stands. Her glasses are fogged over and she sniffs hard.

  “Wonderful opera, Giles. Very French, but wonderful, none-the-less,” she says to her cousin. “Where are you young people off to now?”

  Hatterleigh looks to me. “Motts?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “It’s become a bit boring, don’t you think? Let’s try somewhere new.”

  “Why don’t we try that dance hall old Trickett was telling me about?” he says, as he guides us down the stairs to the foyer. “It’s quite smart, apparently. A mix of all the right people and those who are a little more audacious. You’ll enjoy it, my dear, having grown accustomed to the riff-raff of Waterloo.”

  The Clipstone Street Hop is tucked behind a timber yard in Fitzroy Square. A cool wind has picked up between the tall buildings on the street, whisking my hair into my face as we walk briskly from Hatterleigh’s carriage to the small assembly room. We join a noisy crowd of revellers gathered around the entrance to a squat building. Progress is slow as those desiring entrance to the Hop, which is situated in the loft, have to reach it by ladder. The spectacle of gentlemen either shoving the ladies in their cumbersome skirts up the ladder, or needing to duck out of the way of those same undulating appendages, only adds to the merriment.

  Finally, we manage to squeeze into the club. Despite its humble entrance, the Clipstone Street Hop is flash and aristocratic. The lighting from the gas lamps, being warm and low, casts a flattering glow on the complexions of those out carousing so late in the evening. The carpets are dark, and the surrounding furnishings are made of well-polished timber and marble. A long bar runs across one side of the room behind which glittering glass bottles full of whiskeys and wines line the wall, and on the other side of the room a violinist and harpist play upon a stage next to a small dance floor. Amongst the crowd we recognise many of our friends from the opera who canoodle with fair ladybirds and sleek lotharios.

  I gulp down several glasses of champagne in quick succession and dance the quadrille with a number of my admirers and, although I maintain a cheerful front, my irritation with Dr Blain and my own reaction to his words still gnaws at my spirits. The champagne only heightens rather than dispels this mood, until a headache hammers at the back of my head leaving me feeling giddy, as I weave back and forth amongst the other dancers. Blain’s a pompous arse. Mooning about over Eleanor, like she’s a tragic figure in a play, while blathering on about the difficulties of poor, fallen women. Thinking he’s as good as a mortal god, like all the other doctors I’ve ever met. What the hell did he know about my life?

  I make my way unsteadily through the crowd until I reach Hatterleigh. “I’m not feeling too well,” I shout in his ear, over the din of the music. “I think I’d like to return home.”

  He looks surprised. His eyes are bleary and his nose has turned red. “That’s not like you, Heloise.” He drains the last of his whisky. “Not to worry. I’ll take you straight home.”

  The night’s turned nippy and, once Bundle lets us in, Hatterleigh settles in front of the fire in the drawing room with a fresh tumbler of scotch in his hands. I still feel a little light-headed from the champagne and find Amah waiting in my bedroom. She helps me shed my petticoats and the stiff crinoline. Even without the hoop, the skirts of my gown remain full and heavy, and I sway from the room, tripping over its hem. I poke out my tongue at Amah, who tuts and shakes her head.

  Returning to the drawing room I sit by Hatterleigh, who lifts his glass to the portrait where I’m dressed as a Javanese girl.

  “I’ve always liked that painting,” he says. “I can imagine you as my little native girl.”

  I grin as I pour myself a scotch. “Would you like me to wear that costume one day?” I curl my legs up against him and stroke the corner of his mouth with my thumb.

  Amusement lightens his heavy features. “That would be a bit of fun. I could unravel you slowly, like a sweetmeat from a wrapper.” He brushes a tendril of hair from my neck.

  I swallow my drink and press up against him. “I could be your exotic lover.” I lean in and nuzzle in the crook of his neck. I pepper soft kisses across his throat until his body becomes pliant. He tastes of sweat and the sharpness of cologne and, when I flicker my tongue into his ear, I can smell the musky scent of his hair oil.

  He slides his hands beneath my petticoats, along my thigh, and when I close my eyes, I can still feel the remnants of the headache click away irritatingly. His hands are large and strong, but his skin is smooth, unlike Bill’s. I feel a pang of pleasure when I recall Bill’s body against mine, and I keep my eyes shut to stay absorbed in the moment. Hatterleigh grasps me firmly by the hips and pulls me to him so that I straddle his lap. I bring my face close to his, gently bite his bottom lip, drawing it into my mouth. I squeeze his full cheeks and rub my thumb across the stubble around his mouth. I’m so bloody fond of this man, this man who takes such good care of me. But I don’t love him. I know better than that.

  For where would love have gotten a girl like me? I would’ve had to settle for a dismal life in some back alley or country village. Maybe long hours in a dark room, stitching others’ breeches, or worse, sewing ball gowns for other women who were more happily provided for. Working every day, while my intended toiled equally long hours until we could afford to marry. And look where love has gotten poor Eleanor.

  I can’t help it, my thoughts turn to Blain again. I tense at the memory of his obnoxious words. Arrogant bastard. I unbutton Hatterleigh’s shirt and, pushing back the fabric, kiss his chest. Entwining my arms around his neck I kiss him on the mouth, my tongue teasing his. I close my eyes again and picture the tall doctor dangling by the neck at the end of a piece of rope. How I’d enjoy it if he were found guilty for the murders of those poor doxies, but somehow I can’t believe it of him.

  I help Hatterle
igh shrug his trousers down and kneel between his knees. He groans as I run my tongue firmly along the ridge of his cock and then I settle into tickling a pattern with the tip of my tongue. This I continue for a few moments until taking him fully into my mouth. I count the seconds in my mind, easing into the rhythm, one-buttercup, two-buttercup, three-buttercup, four-butter... Usually I allow for five minutes or so, or until the muscles around my mouth ache, but I find myself hoping that the police discover the evidence they need that will prove Henry is the Waterloo monster after all. I really hope that the horrible deaths will stop with his arrest. And what’s old Silvestre doing, meanwhile? I almost feel sorry for the old cow, but I’m relieved it’ll all be over soon.

  I’ve lost count, but Hatterleigh pulls me into his lap again and enters me beneath the canopy of my brocade skirts. My head falls back and for a few moments my eyes follow the scrolled patterns in the pressed ceiling. I will myself to relax and enjoy the waves of motion as I would normally, but I can’t. I rock against his thrusts and, just as he reaches climax, I remember Dr Mordaunt’s diary. Has Bill investigated Mordaunt any further? He’s another man I’d like to see hanging from a rope. I slump against Hatterleigh and bury my face in his neck.

  “Is something the matter, Heloise?” He holds me lightly by the nape of the neck and kisses me on the chin.

  I climb from his lap and reach for the crystal whisky decanter again – anything to numb the thoughts that drum away in my head. I lean against his arm and take a sip of the amber spirit. “I still have that headache.” Finishing the whisky, I allow the glass to roll from my fingers onto the carpet.

  Hatterleigh stands, pulling his trousers up. “Let’s get you to bed then, my love.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hatterleigh’s left by the time Amah pulls the curtains apart to wake me in the morning. She flicks on the gas lighting because the day is gloomy, and heavy rain streams down the window’s glass. I bury my face into the pillows and groan. My headache’s shifted, now stabbing at the area behind my eye sockets, and my mouth is sour and dry.