‘“My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,”’ I begin, ‘“And in the heavens write your glorious name.”’
‘“When Death shall all the world subdue,”’ rejoins Edward, ‘“Our love shall live, and later life renew.”’
We look at each other and for a moment something seems to pass between us.
‘You know that one by heart?’ I blurt.
He nods.
‘I did not realise lords learned poetry,’ I mutter, to hide my surprise. His recital of my favourite verse was moving.
‘Nor I street girls,’ replies Edward, his eyebrow raised. ‘So your favourite poem is about immortal love?’
I smile a little. ‘It was. As a girl I believed in fairy tales.’
‘And what do you believe in now?’
‘Now,’ I say, returning the book to the shelf, ‘I believe in a reliable income.’
He laughs. ‘Then we are the same in that,’ he says.
There’s a pause as we regard each other and suddenly I sense the atmosphere has changed.
Our talk had become so easy, I had forgotten why I was here.
I eye the bed cautiously. Edward catches my uncertainty. He steps towards me, guiding me away from the bookcase. I am used to men groping me wherever they please. But he is the only man who has taken my hand as though I were a lady. As his fingers meet mine a strange fear runs through my body. I realise how intimidated I am by his gentlemanly poise. I am used to something quite different, and his courtesy wrong-foots me.
Edward’s hand is cool, dry. There is nothing strange about the way he leads me across the room towards the chaise longue. So why is my heart beating a little faster?
There’s a knock at the door and I freeze.
He squeezes my palm reassuringly and my heart flutters in my chest.
‘The wine,’ he says softly. ‘Come in, Sophie,’ he adds, raising his voice.
The door opens and a girl in an expensive maid’s dress enters, carrying a bottle of wine and a little dish of marzipan sweets. She looks so small and young to be dressed in such finery I fear for her. For she looks very anxious as she approaches.
Sophie seems to be walking a determined path towards Edward, taking very good care not to let her eyes stray to me at all. But at the last moment her resolve deserts her and her gaze openly roams my brazen dress and make-up, as if she is wholly unable to decide what to make of it all.
I stare back at her and she looks away.
She has a pretty little face, with mousy brown hair and blue eyes. Not good enough for Mrs Wilkes, but sweet in her own way.
‘Thank you, Sophie,’ says Edward, taking the bottle.
‘Will that be all, Your Lordship?’ Her eyes are on me again, drinking me in.
Edward smiles slightly and gives the tiniest incline of his head.
Sophie turns abruptly and swishes out, with her silk skirts swinging.
The door closes a little too loudly.
‘May I offer you wine?’ Edward asks, gesturing I sit.
I nod, feeling my way in this unusual situation. ‘I should like it very much,’ I manage.
He manoeuvres himself to a large desk, which holds two wine glasses.
I watch as he removes a corkscrew from his hanging pocket and eases the bottle open. The movements are so smooth and measured that they calm me, and as he pours wine into a glass, I feel back to my usual self.
He proffers the dish of sweets. I take one eagerly.
‘These are my favourites,’ I confess, taking a happy bite of a marzipan fruit. ‘I used to buy them every week, when I was trying to fatten my arms.’
He smiles at my confession and I feel suddenly so out of place, in Lord Hays’s parlour with my mouth full of sugar paste.
I swallow my sweet with difficulty.
‘Why do you have so many books on agriculture?’ I ask, bringing the wine to my lips.
‘I have … projects that I like to understand as fully as possible,’ he explains. ‘Family business.’
‘I did not think lords troubled themselves with business,’ I say, lowering the glass a little. ‘I thought your occupation was spending money.’
I am unsure of what to do with my hands. So I toy with the glass of wine.
‘Not all lords,’ he says. There is a sudden bitterness in his tone that brings me up short.
I change the subject to something I’m more practised at.
‘Should I take off my dress?’ I ask, setting down my wine. ‘Or would you rather I only put up my skirts?’
He frowns a little, but doesn’t answer the question.
‘How long were you at Mrs Wilkes’s for?’ he asks.
I pick up the wine glass again.
‘A little under a year.’ I begin nervously kicking my feet against his chaise longue. I do not want to talk about Mrs Wilkes.
He looks down at my feet. I follow his gaze, and still my feet.
‘Did you like it there?’ he asks.
‘Very much,’ I lie.
He gives a little laugh, as though he’s rather charmed by my blatant mistruth.
‘What brings you to London?’ I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. ‘If not to spend money?’
‘Aside from the five guineas for your company?’ he smiles. ‘Why do you think I am here?’ There is something playful in his tone.
I assess him carefully. I have had a great deal of practice judging men.
‘I think you have something to do with riding and horses,’ I say. ‘You are not pale and thin-shouldered as most lords. You look to spend time outdoors.’
Edward considers this.
‘You are right in part,’ he says after a moment. ‘But that is not my business in London. I am here to buy a ship. I mean to begin importing from the colonies.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what else to say. I know nothing of such things.
He moves to sit next to me and carefully removes the wine glass from my unresisting fingers, setting it down.
His dark eyes are on my face and I feel myself gazing up at him, unable to break away. In the candlelight of his parlour, the high contours of his face are dropped in dramatic shadows. Once again I am struck by the intensity of his eyes. There is a sadness and a sweetness about them, all bound up in one.
I wonder, dreamily, why a man who looks as he does is paying for a street girl.
His hand moves to touch my cheek.
My eyes are on his and for an instant I’m tumbling into the dark depths of his gaze. Then habit reasserts itself and my body slips into the established ritual of bedding men for money.
My hands move to slide along his thigh. His eyes slide shut as I caress higher.
I continue this teasing, counting the strokes. Then I stand.
His eyes open.
‘Might I use the screen?’ I ask, a seductive smile playing on my lips. ‘To undress myself?’ I am on familiar ground now and my earlier unease steadies.
He nods, and his eyes follow me as I walk towards the screen and then disappear behind it. Now he can no longer see me, my smile drops and my hands work rapidly to unlace my dress.
I kick off my shoes and roll up my skirt, extending a naked leg for the benefit of my audience beyond the screen. I peek out my head, while running my bare foot seductively along the edge of the screen.
Edward is watching me, his expression dark.
I lick my lips, keeping my face sultry, but working rapidly with my hidden hand to unlace my bodice and pull off my shift.
I take care to ensure my special banknote is hidden carefully among my clothes.
Then I emerge from behind the screen.
I flutter my eyelashes at him, letting him take in my nakedness unabashed.
‘You are very lovely,’ says Edward. But he makes no move to run at me, as some men do.
‘I am yours, to do as you wish with,’ I say, stepping a little nearer.
Edward nods, accepting this.
‘Did you learn your tricks with Mrs
Wilkes?’ he asks.
I move to stand over him, and seat myself on his lap.
His hands move to hold me there.
‘Some things I learned at Mrs Wilkes’s house,’ I say, planting a slow kiss on his mouth. ‘Others I learned for myself.’
I slide off his lap and twist down, so I am now kneeling between his legs. I hear him take a breath.
‘Perhaps you can decide for yourself,’ I say, ‘which of my tricks you like best.’
Chapter 8
I wake in a deep soft bed. And my first thought is that I am back in Mrs Wilkes’s house and have fallen asleep in one of the guest rooms. Then I remember. I’m in Lord Hays’s parlour. In his big bed. The thought gives me a strange thrill.
I sit up, taking in the sumptuous surroundings, the deep horsehair mattress, linen sheets and duck feather eiderdown.
I could get used to this, I think to myself, with a little smile. But since his lordship made no suggestion I stay beyond one night, it’s back to Piccadilly.
My stays are back on and loosely fastened. Having satisfied myself of the shape of my banknote, I turn my attention to other things.
I slide out of bed, wondering what to do next.
Edward went to another room in this great house to sleep. It seems sharing a bed is not an aristocratic pursuit. This is strange to me, having shared since being a baby, first with my mother, then either friends or lovers.
I pad across the large Persian rug and open the door softly. The corridor beyond is empty and silent, save the distant noises of staff a few floors down. It seems to go on for ever, with various blank doors, and it occurs to me I might even get lost in this vast place.
Then I hear Edward’s voice. It seems to be coming from one of the rooms. Not far away.
Growing bolder, I step into the corridor and follow the sound. It takes me a little onwards and then to a door that is slightly ajar.
Edward’s voice trickles in starts from the opening. He sounds to be making orders, in the same confident and courteous tones I heard him use with the servants last night.
My curiosity gets the better of me and I peek through the crack in the door.
Edward is already smartly dressed, though it can hardly be nine in the morning.
I peer more closely into the room and make out another person.
Edward is talking to a man who is clothed in spectacular opulence. The man’s high white wig is tied with green silk ribbons – in stark contrast to Edward’s natural brown hair, which is tied with a black ribbon.
The rest of the visitor is a similar riot of decadent colour: blue breeches, a red waistcoat, jewelled rings, and ruffles and lace at every opening.
I guess immediately that this is the person who loaned Edward the thoroughbred. It is just the kind of swaggering animal such a man would own.
At Mrs Wilkes’s house, we called men who dressed like this ‘peacocks’. For all their preening, we usually found them the least generous and the most trouble.
‘You are sure it is wise to meet Vanderbilt?’ this peacock-man is saying to Edward. I do not like his voice. He sounds grasping. Untrustworthy.
I tilt my head to see him better. His face is even featured enough to be called handsome. Though his eyes are small. And he is nothing to Edward’s fine features and dark glimmering eyes.
I would guess him to be the same age as Edward. Thirty, perhaps.
Edward’s head is bowed, as though in thought.
‘Better I meet Mr Vanderbilt on my own terms,’ he says, ‘than risk seeing him at the Exchange. He is a hot-headed man. I wish to buy his ship. Not to duel with him.’
‘But dinner,’ winces the man. ‘Such a coarse seafaring man would discomfort any ladies.’
Edward smiles at this. ‘Mr Vanderbilt may have been born low, but he became an admiral by his own talent. He must have learned social manners to rise through the ranks.’
There is a pause as Edward looks at the man. ‘That is something you should well understand, Fitzroy.’
The man lets out an uncomfortable little laugh.
‘With respect, Edward, my own upbringing was rather higher …’
‘Yes, of course,’ says Edward, but his voice suggests the similarity amuses him.
‘Can you easily arrange a dinner, with so little time?’ says Fitzroy, as though trying to investigate every avenue of impossibility.
‘It is already done,’ says Edward. ‘I have asked Lady Montfort. She will bring her daughter.’
Fitzroy lets out a barking kind of laugh. ‘Then you will spend your night fending away marriage proposals from her ladyship.’
Edward raises his hands slightly.
‘Do not concern yourself with that.’
Fitzroy’s mouth falls like that of a surly child. By conscious effort, he twists it back to a courtier’s smile.
‘I should also like you to extend an invitation to Lord Rivers,’ continues Edward.
‘Perhaps you had not heard,’ says Fitzroy. ‘Lord Rivers is rumoured to have a lady companion who is not his wife.’
‘I know it,’ says Edward shortly. ‘That is why I wish him to attend. Such a scandal will help keep her ladyship occupied.’
Fitzroy nods at this. ‘Very clever,’ he says with grudging approval. ‘You play this game well, Edward.’
‘Thank you.’
There is a slight pause. ‘Have you decided who might be your lady companion at this dinner?’ asks Fitzroy.
‘Not yet,’ says Edward.
‘You might consider asking my sister,’ says Fitzroy, in a wary tone. ‘Since you and she are to be married one day, it would be a fine way to introduce her—’
‘Caroline will be introduced to my society soon enough,’ says Edward bluntly, cutting him off.
Fitzroy drops his head contritely. ‘Yes, of course.’
I hear a foot on the stair, far back down the corridor, and start. It would be dreadful to be caught eavesdropping, in only my shift and bodice besides.
I turn hastily and dart back along the corridor to the parlour room. I catch a glimpse of a housekeeper’s mob cap ascending onto the landing just as I close the door behind me.
Did she see me? I wait a few moments with my breath held and then sigh out in relief.
There’s a hard knock on the door and I twist in alarm.
‘Who is within?’ demands a high female voice.
I am struck dumb. Should I answer? I have no idea how to comport myself in a lord’s townhouse. For want of a better plan, I race to recover my dress and at least attire myself decently.
‘Announce yourself!’ demands the voice, growing more menacing. The tone suggests the housekeeper suspects a burglar has got inside.
I step clumsily into my dress, dragging it up. Then I pull my laces tight enough to secure it, in a single fast movement.
I’ve mostly fastened it when the handle turns and the door opens.
A finely dressed housekeeper enters, holding a live chicken cradled in the crook of her arm. She is an older lady – I would judge her to be forty. She is trussed tightly into a grey silk dress, with French lace at the edges and around her cap.
For a long moment, we all stare at one another.
Her, the chicken and me.
My eyes soak in her fine attire. Every aspect of the housekeeper’s appearance is pin-neat, from her well-proportioned little figure to the silver buckles of her spotless shoes. Her hair has been bundled so ruthlessly under her headwear that not a single strand escapes. And though she wears the apron of a servant, it is snowy white, as though she stitched it new this morning.
The chicken, still closed tightly in the crook of her arm, clucks loudly.
I realise what a fright I must look. I still have on my make-up from last night. And the white face and overly rouged cheeks mark me out so clearly as a whore, I might as well have the word branded on my forehead.
This is matched by my half-closed dress, which barely conceals my breasts and is likely made of the che
apest fabric this household has ever entertained. For even the lowest servants, in this wealthy household, wear modest coloured silks.
We stand stock still, neither sure of what to do next.
It is the chicken that moves first. Sensing a chance for escape, it makes a squawking flap for freedom. The distracted housekeeper loses her grip and the bird drops free, landing with a bounce and scurrying for cover in a flurry of feathers.
Instinctively I dive for the escaping animal, making a chirruping cluck in the back of my throat. The bird pauses in confusion at the noise and I launch forward, securing it by the feet.
I stand, tucking the chicken into my arm, murmuring a little childhood farm song to stop it scrabbling and spoiling my dress.
‘Coo, coo, coo, Mrs Cluck Cluck Cluck,’ I croon. ‘Do not cluck, cluck, cluck, for the pot, pot, pot.’
The chicken wriggles a little and then settles more calmly against my body, with one last disgruntled cluck.
I look up to see the housekeeper staring at me in utter amazement and behind her, I realise to my absolute mortification, is Edward.
‘You did not tell me you could sing so sweetly,’ he says. His face seems to be fighting a smile.
I never blush. But I feel my face growing hot. As a girl I did all manner of embarrassing things and as a woman more still of which I have cause to be much ashamed. But somehow, nothing quite amounts to the humiliation of having Lord Hays witness my chicken song.
‘I grew up on a farm,’ I say weakly, as his dark eyes watch me holding the bird.
‘I remember.’ His voice sounds flat-calm, but his eyes say something different. As though I’ve amused him beyond all measure.
The housekeeper, who seemed to be paralysed until this point, suddenly speaks.
‘I was taking a chicken to the kitchen, when I heard footsteps,’ she says. ‘I knew you were in the far room and so I thought I should look. In case a robber had got inside.’
Her eyes are on me now, confused – an emotion I sense is rare in this neatly dressed lady.
Edward takes charge, stepping towards me.
‘You may take back your chicken, Mrs Tomkinson,’ he says, pulling the bird from my unresisting hands. His eyes light on my face, pausing for a moment.
Then he turns to Mrs Tomkinson, delivering her back the chicken, as though nothing could be more normal. She takes it expertly around the wings, her hands working to habit, her face showing that she is still trying to work out what is happening.
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 4