She suspected the latter was far more likely.
She never looked at herself in a mirror anymore. It was too distressing.
“Ah, Miss Ritson,” called an older woman from the back. “Excellent, you are right on time.” She came more fully into view, and Margaret felt more uneasy. She was a wiry woman with hard features and harder eyes, and she doubted the woman had smiled in her entire life. One smile might break her face entirely.
Miss Ritson nodded primly and stepped around a mannequin. “Mrs. Andrews, a pleasure to see you again.” She turned and gestured to Margaret. “This is Miss Easton, whom I wrote to you about.”
Mrs. Andrews looked her over from head to toe, and somehow seemed to frown further still. “You didn’t tell me she was so poorly off, Ritson. This is going to cost you more.”
“Her parents wish for her to make a good match,” Miss Ritson explained with only enough sympathy to indicate that Margaret was pathetic. “They will pay whatever expenses necessary to make that happen.”
Mrs. Andrews snorted and circled Margaret, tapping her mouth with a bony finger. “The figure is all wrong, far too simple in dress, and nothing at all to draw the eye.”
“Exactly. I knew you could help us.”
She suddenly grabbed Margaret’s chin tightly and tilted her face from side to side, looking at her fiercely. “Bonnet off,” she ordered briskly.
Margaret fumbled with the ribbons under her chin, trying not to touch the woman gripping her. She let it fall behind her and restrained a wince as the hold on her face tightened.
Mrs. Andrews clicked her tongue and gestured for them both to follow her. “This will take some time, I trust you have nowhere to be today.”
Margaret was about to reply that she did, as she had arranged to have tea with Helen and Rosalind, but Miss Ritson overrode her quickly. “No, Mrs. Andrews, we are at your mercy.”
Mrs. Andrews grunted without emotion and pointed at a pedestal for Margaret to stand upon, which she did, restraining a sigh.
This was how all her days had gone, and she was tired of it. Mute obedience in the face of degradation and humiliation, with being forced to endure tedium and boredom, nothing to brighten her days, and absolutely no prospects for marriage.
None of the gentlemen she had met at Mrs. Ascott’s had called, and her parents had not written her about their ventures. They wrote to Miss Ritson regularly, but only told her to give her their love and affection. They’d never been regular at correspondence, even when she was at school, but this was too cruel. She had written them of her experiences, everything she could bear to, but she suspected her mail was being interfered with.
But why keep her from prospective gentlemen, if any were trying? Surely she wasn’t so bad that all of the bachelors turned their nose up at her. Why, the ones she had met with Helen and Rosalind had been very charming, and Captain Riverton seemed fair enough friends with all of them, which ought to indicate good breeding and manners. Was she really as hopeless as everybody said?
Whatever it was, there was no excuse for this. She had not sinned to such a degree in her life to deserve this punishment.
She held her arms out as Mrs. Andrews and her very plain assistant stripped her to her unmentionables and began assessing her completely, with such disparagement that she wished she were deaf. There was apparently nothing of value to find in her, and she actually wished that Aunt Ada were here so she might have something to say on the subject. At least Aunt Ada thought she had potential.
Hours ticked by as she remained there, article after article being thrust upon her, measured and pressed and prodded, feeling utterly ridiculous. She knew the time had gone by, she could see the grandfather clock in the very back and watched the hands move. It couldn’t be right, though; it was at least two days, not three hours. She was growing hungry, as her breakfasts were now miniscule, and her head was fuzzy with it.
She sputtered a little as feathers brushed by her nose and she barely avoided glaring at the assistant, whose vacant expression bode very ill for Margaret.
She glanced down at herself and wondered where in the world they expected her to go half dressed and wearing feathers. Good heavens, she looked like an underdressed Poole sister.
Rosalind and Helen would die of laughter if they saw her.
She saw Mrs. Andrews coming towards her with another bolt of fabric and pins, and nearly sighed in relief. At least she was about to be decently covered, if she had to endure feathers. For the present ensemble belonged on a woman with far less morals than she, and even then not outside of a boudoir.
Miss Ritson was nodding slowly, smiling in a way that Margaret did not appreciate one bit. She had long lost track of the conversation between her chaperone and her costumer, but she wished now that she had paid a bit more attention.
To her horror, Mrs. Andrews was looking at her and shaking her head. “No, that won’t do. Take the bodice down further.”
The assistant nodded, completely ignoring Margaret’s squawk of protest. She was quite certain the only direction the bodice needed to go was up, and very much so at that.
Mrs. Andrews frowned further still, and shook her head harder. “It’s the corset. Turn, child.”
Wincing, Margaret did so and the corset about her was removed, much to her relief, and she exhaled heavily. But the reprieve was short lived as another was wrapped about her, and it took only a few moments for Margaret to realize that this was not only a smaller set than the previous one, but that it was absolutely not going to fit.
It couldn’t.
She inhaled painfully as the laces were pulled tight, and then tighter still as she gasped. Apparently it could fit, but only if she did not breathe. Dots appeared before her eyes and certain rather crushed parts of her were going to expose themselves quite shamefully if one gave them the barest chance.
“Oh, that is perfect, Mrs. Andrews!” Miss Ritson gushed, sounding so unlike the creature Margaret lived with it was eerie.
“Not yet,” Mrs. Andrews muttered, pulling somehow further still on the laces.
Margaret whimpered breathlessly in agony, pains beginning in her lower quarters, her ribs, her lungs, and an erratic pounding in her head made her sway.
“There. Now, replace the bodice, and add more ruffles to the skirt.”
She couldn’t even protest the atrocity, considering she could barely see or breathe. She managed a brief glimpse in the mirror and squeezed her eyes shut at once. Her figure was very pronounced now, but the gown looked like the worst version of her late aunt Mathilda in every other respect. Ruffles, feathers, far too much décolletage, and not a single aspect representing her at all.
Her right foot was lifted and a too-small heeled shoe was placed upon it, and then the other. She wobbled unsteadily in the unfamiliar shoes, and she focused on breathing in short bursts to avoid pain.
“Would you mind very much rouging her cheeks and her décolletage?” Miss Ritson murmured. “We are to pay a visit to Sir Vincent Castleton and his sister after this, and I should like Miss Easton to go as she is. Sir Vincent is most interested in making her better acquaintance, and I would like her to make an impression worth remembering.”
Margaret’s eyes flew open and she turned to look at her chaperone.
Mrs. Andrews was smiling and nodding, indicating that her assistant should do that. “That will be extra.”
“As you wish.”
“I can’t…” Margaret gasped, gripping at her midsection as the assistant began rouging her. “I can’t… meet with him.”
Miss Ritson looked at her with derision. “Of course, you can. You have no other prospects.”
“He is… a horrible man!” she protested weakly. A womanizer. A profligate. Vicious. At least thirty years older than her, and the rumors about him were too terrifying to comprehend.
Mrs. Andrews and Miss Ritson shook their heads. “Rumors are cruel, Miss Easton,” Miss Ritson said with contempt. “I will be with you the entire time, and you n
eed a husband. Accept the generosity of his invitation, and you may find you remain in England after all.”
They turned to converse apart from her, but Margaret, whose hearing had grown in intensity with her breathlessness, heard the words “marriage” and “compromise” before they left her range.
She shook her head at herself and took in short rapid breaths, her mind whirling.
No. She would not be trussed up like a whore and laid before an evil man like a pagan sacrifice. She refused to let this happen. Miss Ritson did not control her as much as she wished, and she would not benefit from setting Margaret on this course.
She glanced down at the assistant, who blinked without expression, then vanished into a back room without a word.
Margaret followed her with her eyes, then glanced back towards the others, who were still deep in conversation. She looked up again towards the rear, where the back door was now free of obstacles.
She did not even pause for consideration.
She ran for it headlong, threw it open, and dashed out into the London streets.
Chapter Seven
Running when one cannot breathe is not a wise course of action.
She did not have a choice, but the thought was a valid one.
Her corset seemed to grow tighter and tighter with every step, and her feet throbbed with the heeled monstrosities upon them. She hefted the heavy skirts in hand and ran as hard and as fast as she could through the unfamiliar streets, darting down as many side streets as she could, the fear of pursuit predominant in her mind.
She could only imagine the horrors Miss Ritson would unleash upon her if she were caught.
Oh, she was an idiot, she thought as she panted down another empty, filthy street. She was running through parts of London she did not know, less than half dressed, forced into a level of indecency she did not know she could attain, pins jabbing her at almost every point, and with absolutely no plan in her head but that of fleeing.
She cried out as her ankle turned, but didn’t dare stop, somehow still running despite the throbbing.
She couldn’t catch her breath, but that did not matter so much as putting as much distance between her and that place as she could. She felt safer fleeing in this state and in this distress than she had there, suffering under their attention and being part of their plans. Anywhere was better than there.
She tottered to a halt as she tried to get her bearings, her hair tumbling from the combs. She could only breathe in gasps, and her sides and her lower quarters ached from the pressure. Her dress felt heavier than the yards of ruffles and her arms ached with the weight of it. But she had run so many streets, was so turned around, surely no one could find her.
A faint whistling sent a chill up her spine and she glanced frantically around, seeing two men at the end of a nearby alley watching her with hooded eyes and knowing smirks. One of them whistled again, somehow making the sound evil and terrifying. They stared at her, and she stared back, trembling and horrified.
Then one of them took a step in her direction.
Somehow, she found more lung capacity to gasp and ran once again, turning to continue down the road she’d come in on. Ankles were forgotten, lungs were forgotten, it did not matter that she could not feel her face or anything below her neck, that she had no idea where she was, or that she was indecent. Now it was more than poor candidates for matrimony or the mortification of her appearance and demeanor. This was fleeing for her innocence, and her life, she was certain of it.
She had eavesdropped on enough conversations throughout her life to hear whispers of wicked things in dark places, and this was always how they went.
A woman in a place she should not be in, in a state she should not be in, and without any sense at all.
She was in exactly that predicament.
Street after street passed her, and she raced as fast as she could, limping and gasping pathetically. She could hear the men behind her, and her own clacking heels on the cobblestones gave them exact direction for her. She could not take the time to stop and remove them, or they would overtake her.
They would do so shortly as it was.
Odd sensations down her cheeks and burning in her eyes told her she was crying, but that seemed impossible. She could not do anything but run and panic, and she was not going to be able to do the former for very much longer.
In a last desperate attempt to throw off her pursuers, she wrenched down an alley suddenly, ignoring the dark and foreboding sense of it. She dodged crates and sludge, running headlong for the next street beyond.
Only to find that it ended around the next corner in a dank, filthy, sooty brick wall, and more wooden crates and scattered bits of rubbish.
She whimpered and swayed into the wall beside her, gripping it with her nails.
There was nowhere else to go.
She heard the footsteps come down the alley, and turned, sinking behind the nearest crates, hoping that the light was dim enough, and the men drunk enough, to somehow spare her.
And then she waited.
“‘Ere, Precious,” one of them called out. “Come to Papa.”
The other chuckled darkly. “Give us a taste, poppet!”
Margaret bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.
Suddenly she heard shouts and scuffles, then other sounds, louder and echoing through the alley. A new voice, carrying above the others, rang out, followed by crashes and grunts, garbled exchanges, and the unmistakable sound of skin connecting with skin, as well as other things, and was that a snarl? She didn’t dare move or look, and she felt no relief in hearing it. Things could always go from bad to worse, and until she knew for certain, she wasn’t giving the newcomer any indication of her presence.
Her body shook and her limbs throbbed, her breath catching on each inhale and her vision swimming blearily before her. She was going to faint any moment, and that would not go well for her.
She reached behind her as her breath began to come faster, louder, and panic began to swell. She covered her mouth with her free hand while she desperately tried to pull the pinned fabric way and untangle the laces and knot, and only managed to mangle it and, somehow, pull even tighter.
Clamping down on a panicking whimper, she tried to use both hands to free herself, but nothing was happening except for making things much worse.
Tears sprang to her eyes again as the sounds in the alley were fading, or perhaps it was her hearing, as all she could make out now was the pounding of her heart and almost frantic pitch of her breath.
“Miss?” called the newer voice. He whistled a little and suddenly appeared in her portion of the alley. “Hey, miss, where are you?”
She ducked her head down further, which unfortunately made her dress rustle and the ridiculous ruffles added to the sound in chorus.
He shifted in her direction. “Miss? You can come on out, I won’t hurt you.”
There was something about that voice, something warm and tingly that she ought to know. But everything was tingling right now, and she herself was both hot and cold, and wouldn’t someone who wanted to trick her say exactly that?
But he didn’t sound as coarse as her pursuers.
And she had no other options.
Ankles throbbing, head swimming, lungs and ribs screaming, she crawled out from her hiding spot and looked up at the man.
It was him.
She hiccupped a distressed sound of surprise and saw the recognition in his dark eyes as he looked at her. He was a glorious sight, dirty and rumpled and scruffy as he was, and somehow more handsome for not seeing him in ages. How long, she couldn’t remember, but she could barely remember her name right now.
He shook his head as he looked at her, his expression softening. “Oh, pet. Not you.”
She knew exactly what he meant. She didn’t want to be found by him in this state, in this horrible place, with those men after her. She didn’t want to see him like this.
But she was so relieved it was him that she couldn’t d
o anything but choke out more sobs.
He came to her quickly and helped her to her feet, where she tottered for a moment on her weak angles and dratted heels, then collapsed again with a whimper of pain, grabbing at her ankles and her sides.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, crouching down and wiping her tears from her cheeks. “It’s all right, you’re safe now.”
Everything that had happened to her that day, that week, and longer, came crashing down around her, and suddenly she couldn’t stop crying. Sob after sob wracked her frame, and her corset constricted tighter and tighter around her, cutting off her air and thought, and she clutched at his arms.
“I… can’t… breathe…” she managed, gasping and panting, her fingers clenching him.
He swore under his breath, his hands flying to her waist. “Why do you do this to yourselves?”
“I didn’t!” she screeched, somehow managing to find some sort of indignation even like this. She swayed and hiccupped a wheezing breath, tearing at the barely pinned too-small bodice covering her corset. “They… made me. Get it… off!”
Dark eyes clashed with hers for an instant, and then he was nodding. “All right, pet. I will, I will, don’t panic.”
She shook her head frantically. “Already… panicking!”
She could have sworn she heard him laugh, and then there was a blade out and she shrieked a little.
“Easy,” he ordered, his tone firm but his expression gentle. “Look at me.”
She met his eyes and her breath snagged somewhere in her throat.
He held her gaze and she felt her panic begin to ebb back into only agitation.
A corner of his mouth curved up a little. “Breathe, sweetheart. If you can.”
She bit her lip and whimpered with the pain tearing at her ribs. “I can’t,” she pleaded. “Please.”
He dashed away another tear, and cupped her cheek softly. “Of course. I have to cut it, hence the blade, all right?”
The Lady and the Gent (London League, Book 1) Page 8