The Fire Within
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Samuel T. Clayton 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].
Edited by Katrien Blomme (www.proofpal.co.nz)
Book cover design by germancreative (www.fiverr.com)
Dedicated to my mother, Rita, without whom I simply would not be.
To determine your own fate, you first need to discover the fire within.
Samuel T. Clayton
The London Years
Chapter 1
An extraordinary cold and wet winter beset London in the year 1684. Icy winds, turning into gales at times, streamed in from the north of England and brought with them rain and snow, and misery to those who dwelled in the city. It was during one of these many icy spells that a heavily pregnant prostitute contracted an infection in her chest, seven weeks before her baby was due to arrive.
Sara Conway was a favourite among the ladies who worked at the brothel La Boutique, and her friends did everything they could to care for her during this desperate time. They took turns washing down her feverish body, dutifully feeding her the doctor’s syrups and rubbing her gums with his electuaries. But no matter how hard they tried or what they did, all was in vain, for the foetus inside the woman was sapping the last of her strength and slowly drained her desire to live. Despite her dire circumstance, Sara fought on bravely, every day and night, forcing each breath into her phlegm-filled lungs to give her unborn child a chance at life.
On a late Thursday afternoon, after the desperately ill woman had taken a turn for the worse, the brothel’s madam, Geneviève Larousse, sent for Edward Pynsent, her physician from across the river, to try one last time all that he possibly could to save her prized possession.
Sara was one of Madam’s finest whores, if not her best, and by far her most consistent earner. A naval captain, who saw more in this particular woman then any of Madam’s other harlots, had procured Sara’s exclusive service and paid for it in full every six months without fail. However, the gentleman had not been seen around the brothel lately, and with Sara still having many years left in her rump, she was not getting off this easy, as far as Madam was concerned.
Close to midnight, the doctor’s hackney coach pulled into the street that would take him to La Boutique’s gates. The clattering of hooves and iron wheels on the cobblestones echoed through the labyrinth of empty streets and dark alleys. Only the valiant or the inebriated, and sometimes both, ventured out at this time of night. Edward Pynsent was neither, so he clutched his doctor’s bag in search of comfort. He did not like travelling south of the river, never mind at this hour, but he did not have much choice in the matter. If Madam needed him, he came – no questions asked, no excuses given.
Outside the coach, the air was thick with smog that rose up from chimneys as Southwark’s people burned anything they could lay their hands on to fight off the bitter cold brought on by another bleak night. As if he did not despise this wretched place enough already, the light breeze that blew in from the northeast carried with it the smell of the sea mixed with effluent from the Thames river. The foul-smelling concoction seeped through the coach’s blinds and his herb-filled mask, and clung to his nostrils, nearly making him gag. He could not wait to get inside the brothel where the sweet perfumes of jasmine, lilac and rose would soon come to his rescue.
Southwark was not the same anymore, not to him anyway. With its various yards for timber, coal and skins, as well as granaries, breweries and other similar businesses lining the Thames riverbank, it was considered London’s industrial district. These businesses needed cheap labour, and it came courtesy of the seemingly endless number of vagrants that moved into the district. Day in and day out they arrived, adding to the woes of a borough already struggling to cope with its existing population.
The further south or west one travelled, industry made way for entertainment. Southwark provided inhabitants and visitors with more brothels, inns, public theatres and cockpits than any other district in the city. On offer were bull and bear-baiting, bowling, dog and cockfights, gambling, spirits of any kind and some of the best plays in all of London, enough merriment to cater for any wanton person’s needs, rich or poor.
But the borough was deteriorating.
Crimes like thievery and murder were on the increase. Gangs, big and small, roamed the streets all hours of the day. Wooden shacks were going up everywhere as the poorest of the poor moved in. It was only a couple of days ago while reading the newspaper at a coffee house not far from his lovely residence that the doctor had heard four young men converse about the growth of the city and the wealth it had generated. At what cost, he had thought at that time, and still did, snorting once more at their childlike ignorance. Pynsent felt the coach slow down as they approached the brothel’s gates.
Situated on the corner of Crown Court and Worcester Street, La Boutique looked like it had no business being there. Nobody knew for sure how Madam Larousse had acquired the old playhouse, the deal as secret as her past. Most believed that the previous owner had fallen on hard times and that they had built the playhouse too far away from the heart of the city. Word around town was that she bought it for less than two hundred and fifty pounds, but the transaction was shrouded in mystery, even more so when the former owner had vanished without a trace a couple of days after the conclusion of the deal. Like many others, the doctor had his own theory. Pynsent stretched his back. It had been a long day, with quite possibly an even longer night ahead.
It had taken little time for Madam to become well known throughout the district as a shrewd and redoubtable businesswoman. Rumours had also quickly spread as coffee-house gossipers speculated about her background and wealth. Some believed her to be a French courtesan who had fallen out of favour with her lovers, so she had decided to take her accumulated wealth and start a new life in England. Others painted her as a French aristocrat who had fled France’s growing fascination with the gibbet for those of noble heritage. The doctor did not care about her past. To him, it was clear that she knew what she was doing, and it was blatantly obvious that the citizens of Southwark, and beyond, had a much bigger interest in the art of the flesh than a performance on stage. Aye, he thought, Madam is a wily and wealthy woman, and a beautiful one at that.
The playhouse itself was a magnificent building with a cathedral-like structure and a splendid, brightly decorated interior. Madam had left most of the decorations intact, including the two mahogany staircases that led to the balconies upstairs, but had renovated nearly everything else. For months, carpenters and bricklayers had ripped out the viewing galleries and boxes, and replaced them with hallways which led to eighteen large bedrooms, each decorated with its unique style. At the end of the hallway on the right, they had built large private living quarters for Madam. The ceiling above the old arena had been painted with a tasteful erotic scene – nude bodies in various states of undress being very playful with each other in a lush green apple orchard – and hanging from it was a majestic Dutch crystal chandelier that Madam had imported.
Downstairs they had removed the stage and added a foyer to the main entrance. They had turned the middle part of the arena into a huge entertainment room where the doctor himself had attended some of the most lavish banquets in all of London. The renovations did not stop there; they had also built living quarters for the staff, a larg
e bathroom where the ladies of pleasure could bathe and clean themselves, an enormous kitchen, an infirmary and a private dining area which could seat twenty-six people.
Pynsent’s driver slowed the coach down further, almost to a walking speed. They were getting close now. Although he lived on the affluent side of the river, Madam’s La Boutique was a well-known establishment all over London and many of the city’s upper class like him, even nobles, as well as anyone else who could afford the lavish prices, made the journey south quite regularly. She knew exactly what it took to run a successful brothel. She indulged her ladies with fragrant French soaps, perfumes and expensive dresses, and to her upper-class customers, she offered the finest food and wine, and pampered them with promiscuous promises. Even to those who had an insatiable appetite for vulgar things, she offered erotic books and toys. And then there were the ladies, the splendid, splendid ladies, prim and proper, but sluttish behind a closed door. Madam had such a variety of forbidden fruit on offer. Some even said that nowhere else in Europe was there a finer group of whores under one roof who could fulfil your every desire with such vivacity.
Pynsent grinned. Even those who openly condemned the house of ill fame were some of her most frequent visitors and Madam spared no expense to protect the anonymity of her distinguished guests. Unlike the other houses and hovels in the street, La Boutique was enclosed by a high brick wall with a solid wooden gate at the front that was only wide enough to allow one coach through at a time. Once a customer stepped through the gate into the large courtyard, he escaped from the dirty and dilapidated surroundings, stepped away from reality into a world of endless possibilities. And not for one moment was the grandeur of La Boutique wasted on her patrons for they would come back time after time to indulge in her pleasures, and Pynsent was no exception. Regrettably, most of his visits were business-related because he was tasked with one of the most important duties at La Boutique – the upkeep of Madam’s jades – and keeping them healthy and in working condition was a near-permanent vocation for most of them did take a great flogging.
The coach jolted to a complete standstill outside the locked gates. Up top, the coachman had a good look around, squinting his eyes to see into the dark corners. Only when he was satisfied that no foul play was afoot did he get off the driver’s seat and banged on the wooden gates with his fist. It opened immediately.
While the doctor was waiting in the coach, an eerie feeling came over him like someone was watching them. He pulled the blind aside and looked through the opening, up and down the street. Unlike his district, Southwark did not have streetlamps. Besides the four lanterns hanging from the coach and another two lighting up the entrance to La Boutique, everything else was dark and quiet. From the surrounding cottages, flickering wood fires and candlelight shone through sparse glass windows and abundant cracks in wooden walls, casting ghostlike reflections that danced on opposite buildings. Now and then the sea breeze would pick up, whine through thin crevices and rattle any loose shutters, breaking the silence.
The shiver that ran down his spine mimicked the weather outside, and he pulled his coat tighter. How he hated this place at night. He would rather be at home in front of the fireplace, sipping on a warm port or relax in the warm, loving arms of a woman on the other side of that fence. However, tonight was purely business, and whenever Madam called, he had to obey for that was their arrangement. And why wouldn’t I? he thought. Not many vocations allowed you a choice of payment.
They started moving again. The coachman carefully guided the horses and coach through the gate into the courtyard. Once they came to a standstill, the man jumped off and opened the door for the doctor.
‘Wait here,’ Pynsent instructed the coachman and grabbed his bag with all of his instruments and special remedies. The coachman just smirked. He was going nowhere without a passenger.
‘You’re late. They’ve been waiting for you.’ Madam employed two Scottish twins, Giles and Miles, who served as her right-hand men. Giles was the one who had let them through the gates, and it was him now standing in front of the doctor, arms folded.
Not even a “Sir”. How dare he? Fool! The doctor despised both the dumb brutes. He would change only two things about La Boutique: get rid of these two swine and move the whole bunch to his side of the city. The two brutes were doltish brawlers, known for their ability to break people’s bones. If someone had been too rough with one of the fillies or funds were scarce, Giles and Miles would duly manhandle the poor fellow. Either one or sometimes both accompanied Madam on business trips and also ensured that no unwanted guests - from drunken sailors with no money to men of the law who were not on Madam’s books - entered through La Boutique’s gates.
‘You better take—,’ Giles continued.
The doctor ignored the doltish man and pushed past him, scurrying across the courtyard to La Boutique’s entrance. The lanterns, which lit up the staircase to the front door, were still burning brightly. He hurried up the stairs, and as he grabbed hold of the beautiful brass door knocker, the door opened. Everyone’s waiting for me. This must be serious.
It was Piper, one of the younger girls, who stood in front of Pynsent. She took one look at his face and let out a terrified shriek, her eyes fixated on the monstrosity in front of her as the blood drained from her face. The doctor, already fragile of mind, was completely taken aback by the scream and nearly lost his footing on the stairs. Then, just as he started lambasting the young girl, Pynsent realised what was wrong.
Any doctor in his plague attire was a sight to behold, especially this time of night, and being ever so cautious and far too superstitious for his own good, Pynsent wore the outfit so frequently, he sometimes forgot that he had it on. Donning a long black overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, it was the mask on his face with its birdlike beak and glass openings for his eyes that made him look every part the monster. The other twin, Miles, appeared in a flash, ready to pounce, and just managed to catch the fainting girl as she started to topple over.
‘Excuse me!’ Pynsent dropped his bag and rushed back to the coach. There he quickly took off the mask, cursing himself for his stupidity. On his way back, Giles stood at the bottom of the staircase and watched on with a smug grin as Pynsent rushed past him for a third time, leaving the doctor with no doubt that the contempt was mutual.
Madam Larousse was waiting for him in the foyer.
‘I see you made yourself more presentable.’ She regarded the short, stout man in front of her with a sense of pity. Frail grey hair peeked out from underneath the black hat. Pearls of sweat excreted from his flabby white cheeks. A fine network of veins stretched across his pale face and congregated on a blood-red nose, no doubt a result of too much claret. She also understood from the ladies that he did not have much to offer in the nether regions either. She tolerated the poor fool for he was a good doctor to her girls and always eager to please, and with no Mrs Pynsent to complicate matters, their arrangement worked well in her favour.
‘Yes, Madam,’ replied Pynsent, with a courteous tip of his hat before removing it. ‘I’m at your service.’
‘Well, you gave my girl a terrible fright. You may need to check on her later,’ said Madam, pointing to Piper, who was still lying stretched out on a sofa with two of the older girls looking after her. ‘And you could be glad it isn’t a busy night for us, or else…Come!’
As they walked to the hallway that led to the rooms at the back of the building, she quickly brought the doctor up to speed. Upon hearing the news and state of the pregnant woman, Pynsent could only shake his head and with a grim look, spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Madam, I don’t think there’s much I can do…’
‘Mr Pynsent, you do enjoy the company of my ladies, oui? I suggest you fix this…this problème. It’s simple. You fix her, and I pay you.’ Madam Larousse had a quick temper, but somehow she managed to keep her composure, only just.
Pynsent knew the signs well. When Madam started mixing her English and French, it was time to listen and
do what she said. Yet he had to make sure she understood what could happen.
‘Yes, Madam, but it is not a broken chair where a carpenter can just make a new arm or a leg.’ He pleaded his case, knowing that he would have to travel very far to sample the quality fruit that Madam had on offer, not to mention the steady income he extorted from her. ‘I can bleed her, but the baby needs its mother’s blood, and if the mother dies, it will most certainly die too.’
‘I’m no docteur, Mr Pynsent, but so far, your efforts have done nothing for her! In fact, it appears your magique potions have gotten her ill even further. No more quackery, oui?’ Pynsent gasped at the blatant insult. ‘You do what needs to be done to save my Sara. Now, as for le bébé, I do not care. It can’t make me money, but the mother can. And if there’s no money, then we all suffer. See, docteur, I told you, very simple. Now go!’ Madam snarled at him with an insignificant wave of the hand. ‘Sissy, escort Mr Pynsent to the room,’ she said, addressing the woman waiting at the entrance to the hallway.
Frances Sanderson, or Sissy, as she was known to most, was Madam’s personal maid and housekeeper. Quickly she rushed the doctor down the hallway, past the entertainment room and straight into the infirmary with no pleasantries exchanged along the way for they both knew fairly well the gravity of the matter at hand. Sissy opened the door, and he followed her right in.
The small room had a look and smell of death about it. There was no beautifully carved four-poster bed, lavish furniture, luxurious satin bed linen, lush cushions or Persian carpets like the rooms upstairs. A single bed, and a small wooden table and chair in the opposite corner, could not have made for sharper contrast.
In front of Pynsent, the frail-looking woman with the big belly was lying on top of white cotton sheets. Two lanterns were burning on a makeshift bookshelf above the bed with another two on the wooden table. Two of Sara's closest friends, Anne and Lucy, were sitting on the bed on either side of her. One was holding Sara's hand talking to her in a calm soothing voice, and the other was wiping sweat from her forehead with a damp cloth.
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