Copyright © 2014 JS Taylor.
All rights reserved.
Devoted Books
35 Cambridge Road, Hove
www.devoted-ebooks.com
First Edition December 2014
The characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN 10: 1482084007
ISBN 13: 9781482084009
Printed in the United Kingdom
Joanna Taylor is a best-selling cross-category author, who has sold over 150,000 books writing as JS Taylor. She teams fiction writing with a successful and award-winning journalism career, working for The Times and the Mirror in London. Her first adult romance, Close Up and Personal, became an Amazon bestseller, and JS ranks in the top ten adult-romance writers on Amazon.
Chapter 1
I wake to a hammering on the door, and a sinking feeling.
I’m still wearing my corset, stockings and shift. Though I did at least heave off my great dress, before dropping into exhausted oblivion this morning.
I can tell by the pitch of the afternoon sunlight that I’ve overslept.
Did Kitty leave already?
My eyes flick to the floor. The money we earned last night is gone.
I sit up on the dusty double bed. We’ve decorated it to look like a four-poster, and arranged sheets and silks. But it’s still a cheap mattress. The straw filling pokes into my legs as I slide back the covers.
‘Open the door!’ calls a voice.
I wince, moving a tentative hand to my head, which is pounding from last night’s wine. Then I swing my legs over the side of the bed where Kitty usually sleeps.
We only have one room, so we share. Though in a fit of cleverness, I had a false door and doorframe nailed to the far wall. It gives the impression there is a room beyond. So male guests might imagine that Kitty and I have a chamber each.
My bare feet knock against empty wine bottles, sending them clattering, and the banging outside reaches a fever pitch.
‘Open up!’
I stand, smoothing my white linen shift, so it falls to my ankles. My stays are laced rigidly and I can feel where my ribs are bruised, from them digging in as I slept.
I move towards the door, which is now reverberating dangerously, due to the pounding fist on the other side.
No decent woman would open the door dressed as I am. But that is no concern for a girl like me. My only thought is, no one should see for free what he should pay for.
I turn the key, and the knocking falls silent as I lift the latch and open the door.
‘Yes?’ I set my face haughtily. The man on the other side is not fooled. My visitor is a heavy-set, beefy-faced kind of man. He wears the plain clothing of a debt collector.
‘Five guineas,’ he says, without preamble.
I shake my head, remembering the pile of money missing from by the bed. Thanks to Kitty, I have nothing but my wits to trade.
‘You are wanting Kitty,’ I say. ‘It is she who owes a debt, not I.’
The man frowns and brings out a dog-eared roll of paper. He unfurls it, licks his lip and scans it with a sausage finger.
‘Kitty French and Elizabeth Ward,’ he says. ‘Both runaways from Mrs Wilkes, Mayfair, London,’ he adds, stating the address as if legal fact of our guilt. ‘You think you can hide in Piccadilly?’
‘I paid my debt,’ I say evenly. ‘Before I left. I owed nothing to her house.’
‘And did you leave Mrs Wilkes stark naked?’ sneers the man. ‘You girls bite the hand that feeds. You ran away, wearing the clothes that Mrs Wilkes fitted you with. Those belong to her, and she will be paid out for them.’
He leans close enough that I can smell pipe tobacco.
‘I mean to leave here with money, or a girl for the debtors’ prison,’ he says.
I feel fear slide into my stomach.
‘I did not steal clothes,’ I say, trying to imitate the boldness that Kitty would muster. I take a step back into the room. The man moves towards me, as though fearing I might run. Though I am trapped by him in this small room.
‘I will show you,’ I say, backing towards the large trunk where we keep our dresses.
I’m gambling that Kitty is wearing her stolen silken gown today. Otherwise I’m about to give her only fine dress to a debt collector.
I open the trunk. To my relief, there is nothing but my plain cotton dress inside.
I pull it up.
‘I stitched this dress,’ I explain. ‘In secret, every morning, for a month, while I worked in Mrs Wilkes’s house. I bought the cotton myself from Cheapside, and I can sew well enough, for I was raised to make my own clothing.’
The man looks at the cheap printed cotton and then back at my face.
‘What of the rest,’ he says, after a moment. ‘The shift and the stays.’ He’s pointing at my half-dress.
‘The shift was always mine, since I came to London at seventeen,’ I say. ‘The stays have been paid for. You may ask Mrs Wilkes.’
I swallow, because this situation can still turn on me. And if Kitty is already out drinking, she won’t think to look for me in the prison. Perhaps not for days.
‘And what of Kitty’s clothing?’ he asks.
‘That is between you and her,’ I say evenly.
He steps forward and grabs my arm.
‘You will tell me where I can find her.’
‘I do not know where she is,’ I lie. ‘She has a new gallant, a lord. She is under his protection. He often takes her away for days.’
‘You share a room,’ he insists. ‘You must know where she is.’
‘I do not know,’ I say. ‘I swear it.’
It sometimes amazes me, how adept I have become at lying. It was never a skill I sought to learn. I suppose necessity is the best teacher.
His fingers dig in.
‘You are her friend,’ he says. ‘You will take me to her.’
I take a breath and go for a bluff.
‘Sir,’ I say, ‘if you bruise my arm, you do damage which must be paid for. I am in keeping with a merchant, who regards me as his own property. He will come for you and he has heavy men to make his case.’
The debt collector’s face shifts to uncertainty. But his hold remains firm. His eyes roam the room, assessing if I am wealthy enough to be telling the truth.
I hold my breath as he takes in the modest chamber that Kitty and I rent. It’s decked out best we can, to look like a high-up boudoir.
Besides the conjurer’s trick of making our plain bed look four-poster, our furnishings are meagre. What’s more, the smell of the cheap straw mattress sneaks through, so we hide bushels of lavender beneath the bedding. It’s a feint to fool aristocrats, but it won’t wash with this man. The smell hangs accusingly on the air.
I see the debt collector take in our mirror, then fix on our trunk. Kitty begged this item of furniture from an old suitor. It bears his household crest, so it looks grander than it might. For a moment I think this will swing things in my favour.
Then the debt collector’s eyes flick to the ageing casement window and down to the floor.
We no longer have a rug to disguise the dusty floorboards. Our old one was bought cheap at London Bridge and had fleas. Since there are two of us, and men do not like to share a bed, Kitty and I could not do with the flea bites from rolling on the rug.
The man’s eyes move up to the false door, assessing the illusion of a second room beyond.
The charade is convincing enough in candlelight. But it’s late afternoon, and dying sunlight streams through our little diamond
pane window.
I wait, with my breath held.
Slowly, the fingers ease away from my arm. I move my hand to the place reflexively, rubbing it.
‘You may tell Kitty,’ he says, ‘she must pay her debt. I will find her out, whether she has a suitor or not.’
‘I will tell her.’
The man tilts his head slightly. He’s still standing a great deal too close for comfort.
‘If she does not pay,’ he adds, his eyes sweeping my body, ‘I will come for you, and you will work off her debt with me.’
I swallow, keeping my face neutral. He’s regarding me in that way men do when they decide you might be useful to them.
‘And believe me,’ he adds, with a leer, ‘I will make you work hard for it.’
My expression must hold, because the light in his face dies a little, as though I didn’t react in the way he was hoping for.
He turns and spits.
‘Whores,’ he mutters as he leaves. ‘You think yourselves fine when you’re young and beautiful. But you all end up gutter-beggars in the end.’
Chapter 2
As the door closes, I realise my heart is pounding. I’m furious with Kitty. She promised me she would not steal clothes. But on the night we ran away, she arrived dressed in the finest silks, announcing she wore this or went naked.
Rose, the only other girl brave enough to run with us, had earned out her own dress long ago. She regarded Kitty’s theft with silent terror, clearly regretting her decision to join our escape. But it worked out very well for Rose, in the end. Better, at least, than for Kitty and me.
Willing my body to calm, I turn back to our little room. I have slept too long, and need to get dressed and working.
Carefully, I ease out my own fine dress from its hiding place beneath the straw mattress.
It’s linen. But I chose a deep blue colour and the best weave I could afford. From a distance, or in the dark, it could be mistaken for silk. I had it made from my first street earnings at a bargain dressmaker, who understood why it should be cut so very low at the front, and made no judgements.
I stand before our long mirror – the first tool of our trade Kitty and I bought, when we moved into this room. Before even a bed.
I set my dress down, and the skirts are so wide they stand half up on their own, spreading out like great wings. As though a ghostly girl is sunk into our bare floorboards, trying to fly her way to freedom.
I step into the confines of the dress, pulling it up and around my body, and settling into the practised restriction of it.
Mrs Wilkes gave us daily lessons in how to walk gracefully, bearing the weight of our great dresses. But though I learned the walk well enough, I have never felt easy with the heavy fabric crushing me.
I tie the back myself with the great dexterity street girls learn, from doing without maidservants. Regarding myself in the glass, I tighten the bust, pulling my breasts so just the tiniest edge of nipple is visible. This is a trick I learned from Kitty, since neither of us has the pillowy bosom of fattened ladies.
I have never quite lost my country skinniness. And since Kitty and I live hand-to-mouth, my arms and legs have become thinner, these past few months.
My special banknote, which I carry with me always, is tucked down, just out of view. Pressed against my heart. Touching it with my fingers, I make myself the same promise I have made ever since I earned it. That one day I will have my own independence.
I examine the half-moons of my breasts, then reach for my powder, sweeping blush to make my cleavage unavoidably eye-catching.
With my professional advertisement taken care of, I direct my attention to my face. Which is probably the best part of me. It was my pretty face that convinced Mrs Wilkes to take me in, when I was brought ruined and weeping to her door.
Do not think me conceited to think myself fair. Mrs Wilkes only takes girls who are very beautiful, and I was not the most pleasing of her harem.
Rose, who ran away with Kitty and me, is far more lovely than I am. And Belle was so enchanting it would make you sick. Yet she was so nice with it that you could not help but like her. Everyone loved Belle. She was the real thing, beauty and purity.
Belle was the one who warned me to keep my special banknote safe when I first came to the house. She pointed at the other gaudy, loud girls, of whom I was sick with fear at having to imitate, and told me beware.
They may dress like ladies, Belle had whispered, but many come from the gutter, and they steal as naturally as breathing. Keep anything dear to you tied in your stays.
Of all the girls I came to know, I had loved Belle the most. Mrs Wilkes sold her in secret just before we ran away and we never found out who bought her.
Besides Rose and Belle, my face was the next best in that house. Better than Kitty who looks brazenly seductive. I have been told my countenance can be almost genteel in the right context. Though I have not lost all of my country mannerisms.
In any case, I have perfectly even features, with wide-apart hazel eyes, a straight little nose and a generous mouth. My grandmother always called me her little elf, with a pixie nose and my eyes always dwelling on mischief.
My nose is a bit big for a pixie now, but it’s right for my face, and my eyes still sparkle in the right circumstances. With my wide mouth I fancy I still look a little impish. Not voluptuous like Rose, or perfect like Belle. But attractive enough to turn heads.
I also have good skin, and though it has a tendency to tan, I have not had smallpox. So I have an advantage over many fine ladies who were poxed in childhood. Especially in candlelight.
‘Take note from Elizabeth,’ Mrs Wilkes would say, as we applied make-up at our dressers. ‘She is not the most beautiful here. But men do not mind if a girl is a little brown, or does not fill a bodice. They care for a girl who looks healthy and lively, and game for the sport.’
Mrs Wilkes liked me, because, despite everything, when I settled in, I was always laughing. She said that was what rich old men liked.
I have a few other advantages. Besides my face, I am tall, which is good, and young, which is better. But my figure has not much else to recommend it. I do not put on weight easily like some girls. I cannot yet afford to feed myself up.
So I make the very most of my face, because my whole life I’ve always made best use of what I’ve got. And in this strange midnight world, which I never imagined for myself, my face is my greatest asset.
I pick up my lip paint and notice it has almost run out, again. I sigh, spreading the red pigment as meanly as I can across my lips. A hazard of having a big mouth is using a lot of lip paint.
I tug my dress tight closed and reach for my shoes, which are handmade and expensive. They’re dark blue, to match my dress, with a little heel.
I pick up my gloves from where I laid them out before the mirror.
Gloves are a habit we all learned at Mrs Wilkes’s house. She taught us to scorn the poor wretches who were not educated enough to realise a pair of gloves could double a girl’s worth.
Mine are almost worn through on two fingers and not as clean as they could be. But I don’t dare wash them, for they might fall apart entirely. Kitty and I have run out of credit with the haberdashers.
I reach for my hat, which is wide-brimmed in the shepherdess style – a fashionable prop to keep the sun from my face.
I wear the hat low, so my eyes peek out flirtatiously beneath, and arrange my hair so it seems to tumble from the brim. My head grows masses of chestnut curls, which are abundant enough that I can pass them off as an expensive wig with the right hair ornaments.
I push in my favourite pewter comb, which is decorated with little butterflies and feathers – both blue to match my dress and shoes. Then I take up my hanging purse. Since Kitty has absconded with our main earnings I have only a few small coins. Enough to buy a little cheese and bread if I get too hungry.
Assessing my reflection, I give my breasts a final heave. Then I powder my face white as I dare an
d rouge my cheeks.
My hazel eyes sparkle back in the glass, as if daring me to do something wicked.
Tonight could be the night, I tell myself, as I do every evening. Tonight could be the night when I meet the right man, and everything changes.
Chapter 3
Kitty will be in the gin shop. I can’t quite bear to see her there yet. So I walk instead to the bird market a few streets away.
Piccadilly, where we rent our room, has a good-sized pavement, which means us street girls can keep our shoes clean without paying for a sedan chair.
Our area is not as grand as Mayfair, where Mrs Wilkes keeps her famous house. But the street attracts a fair influx of younger aristocrats, looking to entertain themselves any way their money takes them.
Since it is now early evening, traders are clustering on the street to hawk their wares. Girls with baskets of fruit or shrimps on their heads mill around. Men draw carts laden with trinkets for drunk city folk.
The bird market is closing up as I arrive, and sellers are throwing cloths over the larger enclosures. Smaller cages for sale hang on clotheslines, or line the dirt floor. There are teardrop-shaped wicker cages, chaotically wrought wire creations and the occasional elaborately crafted aviary. Still more randomly fashioned holders house the birds themselves.
I walk through the narrow tracks and find out my favourite seller. He’s an old man in a patchwork of barely held together clothing. But his blue eyes are happy, as though he doesn’t notice his low surroundings.
‘Good day to you, Queenie.’ He doffs an imaginary cap, grinning.
Queenie was a nickname given to me because some drinkers at the gin shop think I act above myself. It’s usually meant as an insult. But I don’t mind it from the birdman. I think he imagines it differently.
‘Come to buy a bird?’ he asks.
I nod. His old hands are already fumbling with the catch on his large cage of birds. I watch as the raddled fingers swoop in at lightning speed and capture a starling.
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 1