A Little Wager

by Lucy Wild

  “Do you need to collect any of your things?” the man asked. “Before we leave?”

  “I have nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Well, there is one thing I would like, but it is not here and I doubt you could get it for me.”

  “You would be surprised what can be done for you,” he replied, pulling open the door to the station. “Good day, Constable.”

  Lizzie followed him outside, finding a carriage and two beautiful horses waiting on the street for them. The driver sat looking bored above them, staring into the distance.

  Lizzie stopped dead and turned to the man. “You’re not taking me to another brothel, are you?”

  The man turned almost purple, a coughing fit wracking him as he fought for breath for a moment. “My goodness,” he said when he was able to inhale properly again. “What on earth makes you think that?”

  “You didn’t get me out of there for the goodness of my health, did you? You want something from me, every man does.”

  “Miss Wilkinson, I have no interest in doing anything other than carrying out the instructions of my employer. I am to take you to his home, he has taken pity on you and your unfortunate situation.”

  “So he wants me, does he?”

  “You may discuss the details with him. Now, are you coming with me or not?”

  “You said you could get something for me?”

  “Perhaps, depending on what it is.”

  Lizzie climbed into the carriage, sitting on the leather seat and marvelling at how soft it felt. The man climbed in opposite her. “Ready?” he asked.

  “I will go with you if you agree to make a stop first, to collect something of mine.”

  “I shall need the address.”

  An hour later, Lizzie stepped down from the carriage outside her old home. It looked even closer to collapse, the rain having run through the broken guttering and down the walls, soaking the plaster which seemed as if the slightest touch might bring it all crashing down into the courtyard. She had waited ten minutes in the carriage whilst the man, who insisted she call him James, had been inside. The driver had not moved but she could wait no longer. Whatever was happening inside, she needed to know.

  She walked across the courtyard through the morass of mud, pushing open the door and listening hard. The wind continued to howl outside but there was no other sound, not at first. Then she heard a voice, far along the corridor. It was coming from the rent man’s room. “If you think you can threaten me, you are more of a fool than you look. I tell you, I’ve sold it. What the deuce does it matter to you anyway? Who are you?”

  “To whom did you sell the item?”

  “I’m not telling you.” A scraping sound and then a thud. “All right, all right. There’s no need for all that. Harris, on the corner’s got it. You’re wasting your time though; he’s probably already sold it.”

  “Thank you kindly, Sir.” The sound of coins rolling across a floor. “For your trouble. And to fix that tooth.”

  James appeared in the hallway a moment later. “You know a Harris?”

  Lizzie nodded, leading him outside and across the courtyard, fighting the wind to get to the shop. In the window, her blanket was hanging up, a label beside it. Ten shillings. She walked inside with James next to her. Mr. Harris stood up, looking suspiciously at them both. “Lizzie,” he said in too friendly a voice. “I heard you got thrown out.”

  “I did. Where’s my mother’s scripture?”

  “That, I hung it up in my bedroom. Thought it looked nice.”

  “I want it back.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  She looked at James and he looked back at her. “Wait in the carriage,” he said.

  Lizzie did as he asked, returning to the carriage and climbing inside, glad to be out of the wind and the rain. She had a sinking feeling this wasn’t going to end well but to her surprise within minutes, James was climbing in beside her. “Take us home,” he shouted to the driver. “Here,” he said, tossing a blanket across to Lizzie, her blanket. “I thought you might be cold.”

  “The scripture? My mother’s sewing. Did you get it?”

  “Of course I got it,” he replied, reaching into his coat and pulling out the frame. “I thought you’d want me to protect it from the rain, that’s all.”

  “But he didn’t want to sell it?”

  “Not often a man like that turns down a pound note.”

  “You paid a pound for it?”

  “I might have done. Or I might have threatened him a little.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you wanted it back and my employer told me to do whatever it takes to get you to see him.”

  “Who is your employer?”

  “Someone who wants to look after you.”

  “The last person to do that was the madam of a brothel.” She looked down at the scripture quotation, running her hands along the wooden frame, feeling the connection to her mother returning, warming her far more than the blanket wrapped round her legs. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “I would if I could but I cannot. I can only ask that you speak with my master and then make your mind up about things. I suggest you rest for now, you look exhausted.”

  “I am not tired.”

  But she was asleep five minutes later, the rocking of the carriage combining with the warmth deep inside that came from having her mother’s sewing back in her arms. Exhaustion that had sunk into her bones rose up and enveloped her in sleep that crept over her, and as she drifted off, she wondered if this were perhaps a dream. Would she wake up in the gaol cell once more, the men leering over her, the women shying away from her?

  Chapter 8

  “This cost a pound?”

  Charles looked down at the wooden frame in his hands before addressing James again. “A pound?”

  “It is what it took to buy it back for her.”

  “But why? What does it mean to her?”

  “I believe it was her mother’s.”

  “I see. But a pound?”

  “Without it, she would not come.”

  “Well, if that is true, it is a pound well spent, I suppose. Where is she now?”

  “I put her in the library, Sir.”

  “Why the library?”

  “It is the warmest room in the house, Sir.”

  “Cold, is she?” Charles asked, climbing slowly to his feet.

  “Her clothes are soaked, Sir. With your permission, I would like to give her something to change into.”

  “But what? I have no women’s clothes here.”

  “I took the liberty of purchasing an article or two on your behalf, Sir.”

  “Oh, well done, James. Well thought out. But I should meet her first. Not much point getting her into a new outfit if she’s going to run out the door as soon as I explain what we’re about to do.”

  Charles walked out of the drawing room, leaving the journal behind. New Science and Old, Volume Fourteen. The article he’d been reading contained a case study of a domineering and aggressive daughter of a Duke, the treatment she had undergone to turn her into the submissive wife of an anonymous foreign leader was described in great detail, everything from how many spankings per day to the force per blow. It had given Charles more than enough information on how to proceed with his wager, though some of the suggested punishments were too bizarre for his liking. What the benefit was in soaking with ice water three times a day, he would never understand, nor would he allow such sadism. It just seemed out and out cruelty. He was far more open minded about the use of a high chair or anti-scratch mittens to foment the right frame of mind.

  He had resolved, after much reading of a number of treatises on the subject of submission, to take each day as it came. He saw little point in being too rigid in his methodology, preferring the flexible approach which would allow him to adjust his technique depending on the reactions it evinced in Miss Wilkinson, or Little Beth as he had decided to call her.


  “Good day,” he said, pushing open the door to the library. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Elizabeth Wilkinson?”

  From across the room, a bedraggled collection of black rags moved in the nearest chair to the fire. It shook and then rose upwards and from the top emerged the head of a pale faced woman, her hair stuck to her forehead, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him. He was taken aback by the intensity of her gaze, as if he were the one being judged, not her. “I am Miss Wilkinson,” she said, not moving from the fireside. “And you are?”

  “Sir Charles Doyle,” he replied, crossing the room and holding a hand out towards her. “Delighted to meet you.”

  “Why am I here?” she asked, looking at his hand but making no effort to take it in her own. “What is it you want from me?”

  “Getting straight to the point, I like it. James, you may leave us.”

  The door to the library closed quietly behind him as he took the chair opposite hers. “Good man, James. Very loyal.”

  “Is that…?” Lizzie asked, pointing at the frame under Charles’s arm. “May I have that back?”

  “What, this?” Charles asked, looking down at the scripture quotation once again. “I quite like it. O satisfy us early with thy mercy.”

  “Could I have it back, please?”

  “Of course.” He passed it to her, watching relief wash over her face, the first hint of emotion she’d shown other than suspicion. “I believe it was your mother’s.”

  “It was.” She was looking down at it, her eyes clouding over.

  “Please, sit back down. You look half frozen.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charles settled into the armchair, observing her closely. She was a mere slip of a girl, thin, that was evident even through her clothing. Short too, no more than five foot three, perhaps less, it was hard to tell now she was hunched in her chair again. She looked tired, her shoulders sagging, her eyes fixed on the wooden frame. But there was something else about her that intrigued him, something he couldn’t put his finger on. The nearest he could work out was that there was something underneath all the misery, all the sadness that seemed to wrap around her like a blanket, something purer, more innocent. Something that made him want to find out more about her. Still, there would be time enough for that later. First of all, he had to persuade her to stay for the week.

  “What do you want from me, Sir Doyle?” she asked, looking up at him at last.

  Charles glanced away, embarrassed to have been caught staring at her. He looked back a second later, her eyes were still fixed on his. That’s not displaying power, he told himself. Remember, you have to get this thing started in the right way if you’re to have any chance of keeping your estate. “Do you like my house?” he asked, ignoring her question.

  “It is very nice.”

  “I would like you to consider it your home, for the foreseeable future at least.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to live here with me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are in the habit of sharing your home with beggars and outcasts, are you?”

  “I have never once taken anyone in before.”

  “Then why me?”

  “Because I feel sorry for you.”

  “That is all?”

  “That is all.”

  “And if I stay here, what then?”

  “Then you may do as you please as long as you abide by my rules.”

  “Which are?”

  “You will lead a life of luxury and leisure, without a care in the world.”

  “You have not answered my question. What are your rules?”

  “I will explain them momentarily, I assure you. First, I must tell you what will happen if you choose to stay. You will obey my rules for as long as I see fit, doing whatever I ask of you, whenever I ask it, without question, without argument.”

  She smiled but there was no humour to her lips, her eyes flashing angrily. “So this is a brothel then? I might have known.”

  “Miss Wilkinson, I wish you to understand one thing above all others and there is no way of mentioning it without descending to a certain coarseness I would prefer to avoid. I have no interest in you of a nature beyond that of a parent, I will nurture and care for you, mentor you, discipline and educate you but that is all. You need have no fear of a base nature. That is not why I invited you here, nor will it ever be.”

  “Why are you doing this, then?”

  “Because I took pity on you when I saw you at the club and I wish to assist you in improving your lot in life.”

  “That is the sole reason?”

  “It is.”

  “Might I be permitted time to think about your offer?”

  “What is there to think about? I offer you a life of luxury, what more could you want?”

  “Do not think me ungrateful for your offer. Nonetheless, I would be glad of a spell of time to think about it.”

  “Of course. I will have James show you round the house, give you the grand tour, as it were. Come back to me when you’ve made your mind up.”

  Picking up the bell on the table beside him, Charles gave it a shake just as the doorbell rang, the sound of the two bells mingling discordantly. James was at the door a second later. “You called, Sir?”

  “I did. Take Miss Wilkinson round the house but find out who is at the front door first. I am not taking guests today.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  “You sound angry,” Lizzie said, looking at him closely, making him again feel like he was on trial.

  “Do I?”

  “You do.”

  James appeared at the door a second later. “It is Mr. Glossop, Sir. He is most insistent on seeing you.”

  Charles sighed, rolling his eyes. “Just what I needed. Very well. You give Miss Wilkinson the tour and I shall deal with our Mr. Glossop.” He nodded to his guest. “Miss Wilkinson, I shall see you shortly.”

  He strode out towards the front door, pulling it open to find Glossop on the doorstep, shoulders hunched against the rain. “Let me in for the devil’s sake, it is bitter out here.”

  “What do you want, Glossop? Come to size up the place for new curtains?”

  “I have come to talk terms. I saw that she had arrived, how’s it going?”

  “Good God, have you spies at the gate?”

  “Not at all. I happened to be passing on a stroll with Clare and we couldn’t help but observe your man helping her out of the carriage and into the house.”

  “You happened to be passing with Clare? Oh, that’s all I need. Did she say anything?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Just marched off into the distance looking furious.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “If you like, I could have a word with her, smooth things over?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. What will you tell her, though?”

  “I’ll think of something. But come on, man. Let me in before I drown.”

  “Fine, but five minutes only, I have a lot to do in the next week and you constantly interrupting would not be regarded as sportsmanlike if this is to be a fair wager.”

  “All the more reason to arrange the particulars. Shall we do it here in the hallway?”

  “No, I suppose not. Come through to the study. And stop looking at that statue like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like it’d be the first thing to go if you did move in here.”

  “You’re not in the best of moods, are you?”

  Charles didn’t answer, walking to the study, knowing Glossop would follow. He was already settled behind the desk by the time Roderick entered, brandishing a waxed envelope. “What’s that?”

  “I took the liberty of drawing up the conditions for the wager, thought it would save time. If you’d like to run your eye over them and then sign, then it’s all above board.”

  Charles took the envelope and u
nfolded the paper within. Seeing it in black ink made it more real somehow. He had precisely seven days from midnight on the night of Lizzie’s arrival to turn her into a little girl who submitted wilfully to his every command. Fail and he lost the estate. The rest was piffling detail. What mattered was the method of judging. “What does this mean? To be decided at the close of play.”

  “It means that when the week is out, I shall set a task which my little Catherine would complete without blinking, if I hadn’t grown bored of her and sent her packing by now. If your little girl can submit in a way I decide, then the bet is won and you live to wager another day. If she fails, well, I’m sure I can find a new home for that statue, the bottom of the pond perhaps, let the fish marvel at its hideousness.”

  Charles picked up his pen, dipping it into the ink before pausing. If he signed, there was no turning back. But then, what choice did he have? It was that or hand over his estate there and then. Fight the point and he’d end up before a Magistrate, one look at the betting slip from the backgammon game and he’d have to sell it all anyway to pay his debt. Besides, she was only a pauper, what did it matter what happened to her for a week? She’d at least get a few meals inside her.

  So why was he struggling to sign? If she meant nothing to him, if she were only the means to an end, why not just sign and be done with it? Do it, man. Still his hand froze.

  “Having second thoughts, Charley Boy?” Glossop asked, smiling warmly. “Don’t think you can do it?”

  A flash of wounded pride coursed through Charles, powerful enough to scrape his signature across the paper, a spot of ink splashing onto the back of his hand. He looked at the ink, watching it soak into his skin. It made it more real somehow, as if he had not just signed the paper but also himself. He had committed to this now. He had to make her his little or lose everything.

  Chapter 9

  Although Lizzie had been awake for almost two hours, she was still suspicious that she was in the middle of a particularly vivid dream. It didn’t seem possible that a butler had just shown her round the interior of a house, no, a mansion that she was to consider her home. Nor did it seem real that she was about to take a warm bath for the first time in her life. So used to icy cold water to clean with, the steam rising from the cream coloured tub in front of her was a confusing sight. Dipping her finger in the water, she was pleasantly surprised. “Is it hot enough for your liking?” James asked from the doorway.