She sighs, and deep grooves furrow her brow. “Which explains Mr. Tandenberry’s comments about your performance.”
Madam Rowena removes a folded sheet of paper from her copper bustier and hands it to me. I glance at it and my mouth drops open. A questionnaire? Clients evaluate the girls after bedding them? Sweet Lord above us. “We’re evaluated?”
“Of course. You are my property for the duration of your contract. If you perform poorly, my coffers suffer. I am a pampered woman, accustomed to the best wines, furs and jewels. If a client is dissatisfied, I need to know why so that I can remedy the situation.”
Pressing my lips together, I reluctantly peruse Mr. Tandenberry’s assessment. Among a plethora of possible choices, including seductive, bewitching, sensual and erotic, he circled lackluster, dispassionate and sullen.In the space allocated for additional comments, he provided a scathing review.
Showed not one iota of passion. This girl would be better suited for a necrophile. She lay there as though dead and pretended it should give me pleasure. Her dry cunny did not help matters. Although I will return to this establishment, I will not request Miss India’s company nor will I recommend her to my gentlemen friends.
The note crushes me and a flicker of fear rises in my breast. If I do not perform to Madam Rowena’s exacting standards, she will release me from my contract and cast me into the street, where I will have no choice but to return to Silverton Square.
This possibility must not come to pass.
“When a client is dissatisfied, I offer a refund. In order to make up for your shortcomings, you will be provided with training and then you will bed him again.”
Training? “But he does not wish to bed me again.”
“He will when I offer you for free.”
Oh. Can training teach me methods to feign arousal and fool a man into believing I am interested in his attentions? Because I have great difficulty believing Madam Rowena’s assertion that the mind and sexual organs are linked.
“With proper training, you can earn more money than any other lady who works for me.” She eyes me as a gemologist would eye an uncut diamond.
“I will try,” I say anxiously, returning the evaluation to her. Its words are etched in my memory. “I promise.”
“Since you agree to my terms, I will schedule a session with Phineas. Dress for seduction. He will be here within the hour.”
Phineas Felter? The only man who graces her bed? He will teach me how to pleasure men?
Chapter Two
I have barely finished donning my evening attire when a sharp knock at my door makes me jump. I open it and find myself looking into the pale-blue pupils of a tall, middle-aged gentleman. Madam Rowena looms behind him, her hawkish eyes trailing down my copper-reinforced corset and the sheer fabric of my skirt.
“Phineas, I would like you to meet Miss India, who is most desperately in need of your tutelage.”
The way she enunciates “desperately” fills me with a sense of trepidation.
“Pleased to meet you, India.”
He extends a hand and I shake it. His touch is warm, gentle, and best of all, reassuring. I stand aside, allowing them both to enter. As Madam Rowena looks away from me to pull another sheet of paper from her bustier, Phineas Felter gives me an affectionate smile.
“Before continuing,” Madam Rowena announces, “you must sign our confidentiality clause. Whatever transpires between you and Mr. Felter must remain between you and Mr. Felter. If you breach this clause, your contract rescinds automatically, and my coachman will promptly deposit you at Silverton Square with only the clothes on your back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say meekly, but inside I am seething. Being under someone else’s control rankles me. I wish to be free, as I was before my sponsor’s ill-timed passing.
I take the paper to my small writing desk and peruse each paragraph to ensure it truly does consist of a confidentiality agreement.
“She is reading the agreement,” says Phineas, as though I possess an unusual skill, much like a performing bear riding a velocipede around a ring.
“India is the most educated of all my ladies.”
They do not even show me the courtesy of lowering their voices. They simply speak as though I am not in the room.
“How did you obtain such a rarity?” he asks.
Obtain? “I am not merchandise. And yes, I will read the document to ensure I am not being sold into slavery to the Sultan of Sudan.”
To my astonishment, they look at each another and burst into laughter.
“I will enjoy working with this fine young lady,” Phineas says, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “She has a sharp mind.”
“Please teach her how to use it.” Madam Rowena expels a long sigh.
When I am satisfied with the document’s wording, I take my quill pen and scratch my signature at the bottom of the page. The moment I give her the paper, Madam Rowena turns to leave.
“Good luck, Phineas. Although I have full confidence in your abilities, I fear you will need it.”
After the door closes, I remain seated, letting Phineas appraise me. His eyes travel from my soft curls to my long, coltish legs and to my ankle-high boots. He carries a brown leather case, which he holds most possessively, and I wonder what it contains. Unlike Madam Rowena, his presence does not send chills of apprehension down my spine, and for that I am grateful.
“Let me introduce myself,” he begins, depositing his case on my bed. “My name is Phineas Felter. I studied at Cambridge University, where I obtained a degree in psychology with a specialty in sexology. My thesis was entitled Fantasy, Fulfillment and Fornication—How the Mind Rules the Body during Sexual Activity.I have published many articles on the subject over the past few decades.”
“I did not know it was possible to research sexual habits in university. How fascinating.” While there is a hint of sarcasm in my speech, part of me is intrigued by his field of study.
Phineas waves at the shelf of books over my writing desk. “Since you are well read, perhaps you have heard of some of my publications.”
Doubtful. But I listen politely as he provides me with a list.
“Deflowering the Delicate Damsel?”
I shake my head in amusement. My days as a delicate damsel are a faint memory.
“Carnal Contraptions and Devices for Desire—Utilizing Artificial Means to Stimulate Arousal and Orgasm?”
Another shake of my head, and I wonder what type of devices he means.
“How to Have a Happy Housewife—Maintaining Passion in the Matrimonial Bed?”
“Once again, no.”
“Loss of Libido—Causes and Cures? Or The Licentious Libertine—Why Married Men Consort with Courtesans?”
“What an impressive array of articles. I’m afraid I prefer to read fiction or history books. They nourish my imagination and my mind.” My shelves are filled with romance and adventure novels as well as accounts of historical battles and archaeological discoveries. Newspapers cover my shelves too, for I like to keep abreast of what is going on in the world, the conquest of India, impending war with France, Canada’s looming independence. “Each evening, after fulfilling the obligations of my contract, I enjoy sitting and reading. It takes me away from this prison. Carnal Pleasures is a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless.”
“I see.” He removes a pair of spectacles from his pocket. Then he pulls a fountain pen as well as a pad of paper from his mysterious leather case and begins to make copious notes.
I use this as an opportunity to examine him more closely. He is fit and attractive in a scholarly, bookish manner. His suit, a pair of straight-legged trousers with a matching jacket, is meant for a university professor. The spectacles heighten his air of intelligence. His lips are thin, yet sensual, and his eyes are a calm, dreamy shade of blue. Even though I do not know him, I feel I can trust him.
What does he look like underneath? Although he expresses no physical interest in me, I find myself speculat
ing about the hair on his chest, the firmness of his thighs, how his arms would feel if they were wrapped around me.
Where is this arousal coming from?
I have absolutely no idea. Never in my life have I encountered someone like Phineas.
He puts away his writing implements, strides toward me and places his fingers against my temples. “In my opinion, the cage exists here, entirely in your mind. It is a figment of your imagination.”
His words are harsh, but his touch is a gentle caress. Before answering, I collect my thoughts. “You are mistaken,” I correct him. “Carnal Pleasures is my prison. My contract binds me to it.”
He crosses his arms. “It seems I will need to alter your perception of your situation.”
“If only it were so simple. My problem does not exist in my mind, it—”
“Why, of course it does, my sweet. Did Madam Rowena not offer you your freedom?”
I see myself reflected in his spectacles and momentary confusion clouds my thoughts. “Y-yes,” I stammer. He is correct. Yet incorrect as well.
“You were given the opportunity for early release from your gilded cage. Why didn’t you take it?”
“Because.…” A long sigh escapes me. “My only other option is Silverton Square.”
“Is it?”
I cast down my eyes.
“Let us begin with simpler things.” He sits on the bed, rests his elbows on his thighs and steeples his fingers. “Where did you receive your education?”
“I never knew my father. My mother died during the typhus epidemic when I was twelve. I was sent to a workhouse, where my best hope for the future was to become a scullery maid or a cook’s helper. The conditions were abhorrent.” I sit at my writing desk, crossing my legs and rubbing my hands against my thighs. It is a time in my life I prefer not to revisit, much like all those months on Silverton Square. “And then a miracle happened. A wealthy woman decided to sponsor three orphans and we were sent to Pennyworth’s School for Girls as scholarship students.”
“Hmmm,” Phineas utters pensively.
My life began that day, a life of promise and possibility. Although I did not have the high social status of the girls whose wealthy families sent them to Pennyworth’s, and most of those girls looked down their elegant noses at me, the scholarship rescued me from the extreme poverty of the workhouse. “For the first time, I saw a future over the horizon instead of bleak clouds. I was learning how to become a lady, how to conduct myself in genteel society, how to carry on conversations that would hold a man’s attention.”
“This appealed to you. I see. And once you graduated from the school, what did you see for yourself?”
“Freedom. But my freedom was taken away when my sponsor died. The scholarship fund died with her and so did my hopes. I was barely seventeen.”
“Tell me in concrete terms what you planned to do after graduating.”
I pause, suddenly uncertain.
“Because scholarship students do not marry wealthy gentlemen. They do not join the ranks of high society.”
The words are rowels digging into my skin. “Had I completed my studies, I would never have heard of Silverton Square.” I pin him down with a glare.
“True. But let me be honest with you, India, perhaps brutally so. After finishing school, scholarship students become governesses or ladies-in-waiting. These occupations offer very little in terms of freedom. Even finding a gentleman of a lower class to marry you—a woman without a family or a dowry—would have been difficult, most likely impossible,” he says bluntly. “Do not misunderstand me. Compared to the workhouse and Silverton Square, finishing school was a blessing. But it did not truly offer you the freedom you dreamed of. That freedom was an illusion.”
I glower at him, wishing my stare could set him aflame. However, he speaks the truth and it slides between my ribs like a whetted blade.
“You are eighteen years old, correct?”
I nod.
“You are a grown woman. Focus on what you have now. Turn your gilded cage into an open sky where you can spread your wings and soar.”
When I speak, I sound disgruntled, irate. “So I should shut the door to my past?” Yet in my heart I recognize the necessity of doing so, of relinquishing the dream, letting it fly off into the aether. My future would never have been the glamorous one that I dreamed of, where a handsome aristocrat kneeled before me and asked for my hand in marriage.
“The past can never be regained. We live in the present, and we plan for the future. That is all we can do.”
My lips stretch into an imitation of a smile. “Do you also have a degree in philosophy, Mr. Felter?”
He chuckles. “Please, call me Phineas.”
“Phineas.” The name is as soft and serene as the blue of his eyes.
“Take a look at yourself.” He takes me by the hand and positions me before my full-length mirror. “What do you see?”
My bustier pushes my breasts into creamy, caramel-colored mounds. Beneath the long, transparent organza that constitutes my skirt, my black undergarments peek through, as do my garters. Too much rouge highlights my cheekbones and my lips are a vivid, vermillion shade. “A common whore.”
Phineas sighs. “You are stubborn, India. Do you know what I see?”
He stands behind me, both hands gripping my upper arms. His touch is firm, and it awakens a longing in me. Why? Why does he have this effect?
Because he is first and foremost a man of intellect and physical considerations are of secondary importance to him. Yes, it makes sense. He appeals to my mind, unlike other men I have encountered who are of a baser nature. How refreshing.
And titillating. Often, I shrink at a man’s touch or simply tolerate it. Seldom do I welcome it. I lean back, pressing my body against his. Phineas responds by wrapping his arms around my waist.
“I will tell you what I see. A woman with infinite potential. A woman who can reinvent herself and become whoever she wishes. Create your own identity, India. Who do you wish to be?”
He makes it sound like a simple task, as easy as donning a new gown for a masquerade ball. “Honestly, I do not know. For so long, I have thought of myself as a whore, a prostitute, a woman of ill repute.”
“Unacceptable.” His hands slide down to my hips and stop there. Most men would have gone directly to my rounded buttocks.
“Look at the beauty beneath the rouge and the prostitute’s common apparel.” He snaps one of my garters, and I start. “For example, you can use your heritage to your advantage.”
“My heritage?” What a tactful way of referring to my tainted blood. “You mean my dark-skinned father, who must have been a Gypsy?” My mother never spoke of him. Once, when I pressed her for information, a faraway look haunted her features, and she turned to hide her tears. After that, I no longer pried for information, even though I longed to know more about him, where he came from, why he left us.
“No one at Carnal Pleasures knows your true lineage, India. In fact, it seems a mystery even to you. So invent it.”
“How?”
“Perhaps your father was an Italian aristocrat who owned vineyards in Sicily and died in a mysterious shipwreck in the Mediterranean.”
Interesting. I ponder further possibilities.
“You could choose to be a hot-blooded Spaniard, the daughter of a wealthy merchant and a famed flamenco dancer.” His cheek presses against mine and he holds me closer. “The point is, India, be who you want to be. Do not let others define who you are. Play with a fantasy. You are limited only by your imagination.”
My imagination. I can spin a wild tale and become anyone I please.
There is a book that I hide in the bottom drawer of my night table, the Kama Sutra. It was a gift from the very first man who paid for my services at Carnal Pleasures. I put some effort into pleasing him, since he was different from the laborers who tried to catch my eye at Silverton Square. He was clean, articulate and accomplished, a middle-aged lieutenant commander who pil
oted airships.
Throughout our interlude, where he took me in various positions, including standing against the wall, he prattled endlessly about the Kama Sutra. He said the positions were exquisite, not vulgar, and they required a woman to be a full participant in the lovemaking process, not a limp rag doll. When we twined our bodies together in an upright position, he compared me to a vine climbing up a tree and I thought the metaphor to be most poetic. Although Indians lagged behind the British in terms of military advancements, he said, they far exceeded the British in terms of their lovemaking abilities.
“Learn from this,” he whispered in my ear as he placed the book in my hands.
After leafing through it on multiple occasions over the past several days, I find that I agree with his assertions. For Indians, the sexual act has been elevated to an art form.
I regard my image in the mirror. Phineas’ cheek is still pressed against my own and I reach up to stroke his face and run my fingers through his hair. “I am the daughter of an Indian rajah, well-mannered, sophisticated, and I rebelled against my father after meeting a dashing British lieutenant commander who initiated me to carnal pleasures by means of the Kama Sutra.” There, the dream has burst free! “I am not a prostitute. I am a courtesan, highly skilled in the pleasures of the flesh.”
Phineas breaks into an enthusiastic smile. Even his eyes appear to be a warmer shade of blue, similar to a lake on a sun-drenched August afternoon.
“I am exotic and men find me alluring.” At last, I am no longer a wanton Gypsy girl. She has been banished from my life. “I am India, originally from Rajasthan.” My name suits my new persona to perfection.
“Very good, India,” Phineas encourages, hugging me tighter. “Go on.”
“I do not succumb to men. They succumb to me. They are wealthy. They are educated. They are powerful. They are mine.” The last word is uttered with a growl of determination.
“Then be that woman.” He gives me a shake. “Be her.”
“How? I can envision her, but how do I breathe life into her?” I answer my own question. “With imagination and intellect.” And the Kama Sutra.
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