Painted Trust

by Elsa Holland

  Blackburn rolled his shoulders and his eyebrows lowered down over his eyes. It was novel to be on the moral high ground.

  The glass stopper clinked back in the crystal canister.

  “Am I correct in understanding that you are suggesting that Miss James is unsuitable to be my Painted Sister because of her desire to protect her virtue from your advances?”

  Von Schneider’s body tensed. A Collector initially paid for a work of art, The Painted Sister’s skin and agreed amounts of time, her sexual favors did not come with that purchase; and although not a necessity in any sale the purchase of a fresh Canvas held the expectation that she also had her virginity. Should the Collector offer a contract for sexual favors, as most did, her virginal state added a considerable sum to the contract.

  “Or are you telling me that you are removing the virtue of girls less confident in protecting it? Either way the collective loss of revenue to your Aunt and Uncle is more than you inherited. Or should I say gambled away.”

  “Now listen here, Blackburn. That wasn’t what I said. That certainly wasn’t what I implied,” Von Schneider’s eyes were calculating orbs scanning the room for ways to extricate himself.

  The fact that Miss James slept under the same roof as the Count, was unpalatable. And for some confounded reason, Blackburn felt her awkward attempt to kiss him on the stairwell come alive on his chin; saw again that lone tear as she swallowed her caramel.

  Blackburn slipped his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out the razor he kept for unsavory company. He slowly drew the razor out of his pocket. “Have I ever told you the story of when I was cornered in an alley down by the port? I was younger then. I keep this as a memento of walking out alive. I wrestled it off the first assailant. Do you know how hard it is to get large quantities of blood out of clothing? I didn’t mind the bruises or the stitches, but a new suit . . . that was the offence.”

  Blackburn moved the razor through his fingers, like a trickster moved coins over his knuckles.

  “It looks as if I have over-stepped.” The Count’s voice was clear despite his sudden intake of breath. “With regard to your choice of Painted Sister, I am sure Miss James will be very fine indeed. My apologies. Old boys banter, you know how it goes.”

  “Miss James, regardless of the outcome of the current negotiations, has my interest . . .”

  Von Schneider’s lips thinned, then he nodded. Blackburn reached out to pull a chrysanthemum from the blue and white vase on a side table. He nicked the stem with the razor and expertly started to peel away its outer layer. “My sources say your carriage has been down by the Thames with an odd frequency.”

  Von Schneider’s gaze stayed on the steady and unbroken curl Blackburn was making as the stem was skinned.

  “A few doxies in the carriage. We stop, play it all out in the carriage. It’s not like I can bring them back here,” the Count answered, a tumbler in each hand.

  “They also tell me you are selling up your German assets. There is speculation what assets you actually have left.”

  “My move to England and position to take over from the Hurley’s is well known.”

  Blackburn’s razor finished peeling the stem and the long curl of green dropped to the carpeted floor as he turned the stem in his fingers.

  “Do you know what’s harder to do? Taking the outer skin off when you can’t turn the stem . . . it takes some real skill to do that.”

  It was hard to tell, given the level of the light in the room and Von Schneider’s fair skin, yet it looked as if Von Schneider had paled. Then again, Blackburn wondered if he was reading something in the Count that wasn’t there.

  He folded the razor, slipped it back into his pocket, and busied himself returning the skinned stem back into the vase with the other flowers as he spoke. “Body pieces with skin missing started turning up awfully close to your return to London. Seems very convenient that you have such close access to the Painted Sisters.”

  Von Schneider’s muscles stiffened.

  Neither of them said the word skinner.

  “The implication is preposterous,” Von Schneider said.

  “Is it?”

  Von Schneider turned and handed him a tumbler, a visible shake in his hands.

  “People miss this about me, Von Schneider, yet I’m sure you are an astute judge of character. I react . . . badly, when something I have an interest in is threatened. If it is damaged, well, that would generate a somewhat grander response.”

  Von Schneider gave a single nod.

  Blackburn moved away.

  There might have been subtler ways but, if he was leaving Miss James in the house he needed to know if Von Schneider liked to do any slicing. It seemed he didn’t. But the man knew something. Just as the Hurleys did.

  “Was that entirely necessary?” Von Schneider threw the whiskey down. “I heard you were a touchy bastard but that was more than I expected.”

  He had been highly restrained.

  The Count proceeded to pour another drink, “If you don’t mind I think another is in order.”

  Blackburn left his on the side table as he left the room.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Marie was frantic and refused to tell anyone what was the cause. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her nose was red with tears, her shawl clutched tightly around her. Elspeth shooed the rest of the girls from the room.

  When Elspeth coaxed it away from her overly tight grip she saw bruises in the shape of fingers marking Marie’s upper arms.

  “What happened Marie? You can tell me.”

  “No. He said he’d have me skinned alive if I told anyone what he made me do to him. It was awful. I . . .”

  She started to cry again.

  “Is this the first time, Marie?’

  The girl shook her head.

  “Are you the only one he is doing this to?”

  She shook her head again.

  “But I think the others like him. They think that he will look after them in some way but I heard him talking. He doesn’t care about any of us.”

  She started to sob again.

  Elspeth laid her down on the bed and tucked her in then stood to leave. There was only one bully in the house. Only one person who would have contravened the rules, rules he no doubt saw as old-fashioned and unnecessary.

  “Please don’t go, Miss James.”

  Elspeth turned the gaslight down low, leaving a soft glow in the small bedroom identical to the one each of the girls had. Then she slipped behind Marie, and curled up and putting her arm around her.

  “Try to sleep.”

  “Is it true that another governess will take over your place tomorrow?”

  That hurt. She was no sooner out the door, dressed in that ridiculously frivolous outfit, than everyone, was briefed on her replacement even before she knew. There was no denying the Hurley’s focus.

  “It appears so, Marie.”

  Marie’s hand came out from under the covers and clasped hers.

  “I remember when I first came here. You were the one that held my hand and walked me up the stairs. Said it would all be alright. That I was a lucky girl to get off the street, to get an education.”

  Marie was chosen somewhat later than was usual, found singing as a flower girl. She had the voice of an angel. She was of medium build, curvaceous with a wonderfully generous bust, and with a petite bow-shaped mouth. But when she opened that little mouth she could produce a sound so beautiful it brought a tear to the eye. It had been untrained but now, six years later, she could sing the most wonderful of arias, operas and melodies. She had also been trained to sing in other languages, including Mandarin and Arabic.

  Elspeth stroked Marie’s back until her breathing was even and the only sound in the room was the hiss of the gaslight. After another half hour of lying there, she thought she could get up without disturbing her, however, when she moved Marie’s hand around hers tightened.

  “He made me . . .” it was a whisper, “he made me put it in
my mouth. He said that he wanted me to make it divine like my voice was. He said now every time he hears me sing he will know that his seed greased the pipes.” Her voice was so small. A voice which was always so clear and strong.

  Anger tightened Elspeth’s body and it took all her effort not to scream at the man who liked to use power and force to get his sexual gratification.

  Elspeth knew of passionate acts. She had learned through the tuition of the Canvases, and had read enough of the philosophers to know that there was a passion that drove you wild, made you want to do anything for and to your lover. That made you want to devour them. But that wasn’t what had happened with Marie. And the ‘he’ Marie spoke about was clearly the Hurley’s nephew.

  There was very little she could do to intervene. The Hurleys would see no harm in the man and yet it rolled off him like black oil.

  “But that’s not all, Miss James. He said that I should keep my mouth shut, that one day my skin would be worth more than my life, but that he might overlook that if I was good to him now.”

  The air seemed to freeze in her lungs as the horror of those words settled upon her.

  Someone was resurrecting the outlawed sect.

  It took an hour before she could get back to her room. The first thing Elspeth did was pen a note to Mr. Blackburn.

  Mr. Blackburn,

  Send your carriage and prepare a contract. I will accept your proposition on the condition that you ensure I have ongoing access to the Canvases.

  Respectfully

  E James

  P.S I will need a gun.

  Chapter 10

  The dress truly was the most sumptuous gown Elspeth had ever worn. The satin shone in the gas light creating silver patterns across the curves and lines of her body as she descended the stairs into the foyer. The blue-black made her skin look like cream and her ice-blond hair even lighter.

  For the first time in an unimaginably long time she felt beautiful. And if she was honest, despite her dislike of Mr. Blackburn and the situation, there was something about being wanted that she enjoyed, even if only as an asset.

  Evans stood stoically in the foyer holding her coat. She stepped off the last step and walked toward him.

  “If I may, Miss James,” Evans’s helped her into the coat which, when compared to her new gown, looked rather shabby.

  “Thank you.” They gave each other a half smile.

  Many a night she’d stood at the top of the stairs as a Canvas went out to meet a Collector, to sign a contract over a dinner. Evans always accompanied them to make sure the girls were safe until the funds were transferred to the Hurleys and then, well, then the girls were on their own. Tonight, he was here for her.

  In all the years she had watched the young Canvases swish out of the room, looking like glowing young brides; a glow that was all about being wanted, being chosen, to finally fulfill a role she’d trained and studied for, she had never entertained the possibility that she would be in their place.

  The carriage arrived at ten pm. Elspeth stepped outside, the gravel crunching under her slippers as she walked toward the shiny, top-of-the-range conveyance.

  Naturally, it was of the best quality, all the fittings were plush and new. The seats which hugged the front and back of the cabin were upholstered in a bright burgundy leather, and the small gas laps bounced warm light off the glossy paintwork.

  They sat in silence on opposite sides of the carriage. Evans was not a conversationalist and she was nervous as she thought over her decision. Blackburn’s carriage bumped and swayed over the cobbled streets, the beat of the horses’ hooves reflecting her erratic heartbeat. Pound…pound, pound. Pound…pound, pound.

  “Do you talk to the others when you accompanied them?”

  Evans looked over to her. “Sometimes.”

  She waited for him to say more.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

  “Do what?” but she knew what he was going to say.

  “Sacrifice yourself.”

  She looked out the window, her hands fiddling with the buttons of her coat. It was different for men, they always had more choices.

  “You will not be able to protect them,” Evans continued.

  Her gaze flew back to him. “You know?” Of course he did. “Why don’t you do something?”

  “Who is to say I am not?”

  Pff. “Where were you for Marie?”

  His face tightened fractionally.

  “You should step back, take the chance to leave that the Hurleys have opened for you.”

  “Have they?”

  He didn’t answer, instead sitting silently for the remainder of the journey.

  The equality, camaraderie even, that had been created through the shared experience of being in the Hurleys’ service was gone, broken by her acceptance of Blackburn’s offer. He was right, though; the Hurleys had opened the door for her, two in fact. She could walk out the back door with no pay and no job but away from all the inherent dangers that were always just under the surface in a world that didn’t follow the rules. Or she could go through the front door to Blackburn. Only this afternoon she was so clear she would never be walking out the front door and that Hell would freeze over before she made her way to Blackburn. Yet here she was.

  The carriage stopped outside a private residence.

  “Is this it?” It was an obvious question, borne of nerves.

  The house was grand, but she should have expected that: men who could afford to join the Collectors ranks, who could afford a Painted Sister, would have a great deal of wealth. From the carriage window she could see three stories of stone with a large portico supported by four round pillars. The window frames were white and set back into the stonework. All the curtains were shut. The only visible internal light came through the arched window above the large glossy white door.

  The driver stepped down and opened the door then Evans moved out to hand her down. The driver nodded toward the door and then stepped back onto the carriage, waiting for them to move away from the vehicle before he drove off.

  She looked at the door. “Perhaps the carriage should stay here while we confirm I am still expected?”

  Evans reached for the knocker and the door opened before he could make a sound.

  “Miss James.” The butler bowed excessively low, then closed the door behind them before taking the incongruent coat, one which now looked even more of an oddity in this immaculate setting. “Mr. Blackburn has asked that you come into the Library prior to supper.”

  “I’d say you were expected,” Evans said under his breath.

  “Will you be coming with me?” Elspeth couldn’t help the desperate edge to her voice.

  “I will be out here. If you need me, you need only call out.”

  Pound…pound, pound. Pound…pound, pound.

  One foot after the other, each step lifting veils of uncertainty to reveal what a serious mess she was getting into.

  She was shown into the Library.

  “Master Blackburn will join you shortly.”

  The door clicked behind the exiting butler, leaving her alone to collect herself.

  The room was carefully crafted. The usual floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with books on a variety of subjects, aiming to highlight the owner’s intelligence. Those ostentatious shelves complemented a wall of paintings in the Impressionist style, a taste not shared by many. The paintings added a sense of lightness and space in the otherwise opulent room of plush brocade and velvet-covered chairs.

  Elspeth took her time to peruse the room. She stood and looked at the paintings, then ran her hand over one chair as she passed. It was immaculate in its upholstery—no wearing down of the arm rests or at the back—as were all the other armchairs. It was as if she was the first person to enter the room, as if the room has been created and then forgotten. Except for the large desk, it screamed Blackburn; the surface worn and the items on it well used.

  The door opened and a surge of nerves jangled
through her insides.

  “Miss James.” His voice gave nothing away. “Your note was an unexpected and welcome surprise.”

  She turned.

  “Thank you for sending the carriage.”

  He inclined his head yet his expression was the usual enigmatic look.

  He indicated to the chair and she sat. His eyes swept over her but it was impossible to know if he liked his dress on her or not. Whether he thought his money well spent. She ran her hands over the material covering her lap, once, then twice. On the third sweep of her palms she saw his gaze drop down to her hands and she stilled them, then clasped them instead.

  They sat there quietly.

  Then he reached into the pocket of his evening jacket and pulled out a thick envelope, then reached in again and pulled out a fountain pen.

  He leaned over and placed them both on the table in front of her.

  “The contract. I would like you to read it. We will go into supper during which you can ask any questions before you sign it.”

  “You are very confident I will sign . . .”

  “You would not be here, Miss James, if you had not already made up your mind. I believe the details will be important to you but I think the outcome is a given. I have to admit to being intrigued as to what changed your mind so quickly.”

  “So quickly?”

  “I always get what I want.”

  That irked. She would never have come if it weren’t for Marie and the other girls, would be left very much at the mercy of the Count. That is, the Count, his friends and his devilish greed—a quality the Hurleys were oddly blind to.

  She leaned forward and picked up the envelope. The paper was of a heavy grade, the texture an indulgence under her fingers. She wanted to bring it to her nose and see if it had that bleached wood smell or if it would smell like his cologne. She broke the red seal on the back and opened the envelope. The contract was neatly typed, and duplicated.

  “I understand this is usually in triplicate?”