Victorian Taboo

by Bryn Colvin

  “Yes, I do,” Amelia answered. She had never given the subject much thought before, but realizing that Caroline might be in danger had filled her with the most powerful desire to rescue her friend and punish those who had wronged her.

  “How I wish I could have inspired you in the same way. I cannot ask you to forgive me for what I have done, nor can I offer you any excuses.”

  “Good.”

  Amelia sat on the bed to lace up her boots.

  “Please believe me, I do love you, Amelia. I never meant to cause you distress.”

  “Then perhaps you should have considered this before you assisted your vile brother in raping a dear friend of mine.”

  Frederica hung her head. Hearing her actions cast in so stark a light destroyed every illusion she had built that there was no harm in what they did.

  “Let me come with you, I can show you the quickest way to the folly, we’ll see what has happened and what can be done.” She was afraid that Caroline might have suffered the same fate as the last girl Charles had tried to evoke a goddess into, but she had not shared this dark secret with her lover.

  “All right then. You had best get dressed.”

  They strode out across the lawns in the early morning light, Frederica wary and nervous, Amelia’s jaw set in a firm line and her expression one of grim determination. She had brought blankets in case Caroline had need of them. From a distance the folly looked innocent enough; a small tower with a few windows higher up and a series of doorways around the bottom. Seeing it as the site of predation and abuse, Amelia found it a gloomy and unpleasant-looking place.

  They found Alfred sat against the exterior wall, still naked and shivering. His eyes were caked with blood and it looked as though he had bitten through his bottom lip. He was murmuring incomprehensibly as they approached and showed no sign of knowing they were present. Amelia paused and eyed him critically, wondering what on earth could have wreaked such terrible havoc on him and becoming ever more afraid for Caroline. She pressed onwards, having decided that the young man could wait until her friend’s safety had been secured.

  The folly was full of the stubs of burned out candles and the floor covered in hard pools of wax. It was to the centre of the room that their attention was drawn, however, and to the grotesque spectacle being played out there. Charles was knelt in the centre of the room, his cock erect and pointing rigidly before him. His hips were grinding back and forth as though he was plunging himself into the recesses of some invisible woman. His expression was glazed and the floor in front of him was splattered with his sticky offerings. Of Caroline, there was no sign at all.

  “Where is she?” Amelia strode across the room, her tone demanding. Charles showed no sign of having heard her and continued to pound away.

  “Charles!”

  She reasoned that what had worked on the sister might also loosen the brother’s tongue and she struck him across the face as hard as she could, making her palm sting painfully from the force of her blow. He toppled over like a doll, his mouth falling open as he crumpled onto the stone floor. Frederica was at her side, trying to rouse Charles from his stupor, but to little effect. At least the blow had caused his obscene erection to shrink away into obscurity.

  “Is there any means of getting upstairs?” Amelia asked.

  “None, there is no upstairs.”

  “Then we must search the grounds, and the house. We are going to need help. I have two servants from Caroline’s household with us, you must command you own and try to get some sense out of your wretched brother.”

  “Yes Amelia.”

  “In the meantime we had best employ these blankets to hide the state these two are in and fetch help for them. I can only assume they have both indulged in too much opium.”

  “I hope you are right,” Frederica replied.

  Amelia regarded her quizzically.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I fear that they succeeded in their rite, that they have evoked a goddess into Caroline and driven themselves mad in the process.”

  “I very much doubt it,” Amelia replied.

  “Then how do you explain what has happened?” Frederica asked.

  Amelia remained silent, and the two looked at each other, fear and uncertainty at play in both their minds.

  “We had best get to work,” said Amelia. “I am not forgiving you for your part in this, but right now, I need your help and you need mine so we had best wok together.”

  Frederica was startled by how grateful this cold offer made her feel.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Listening to Gladstone all afternoon has made me amorous,” Graystone Risley guffawed to his friend Lord Edward Stanley.

  “How can the old bore do that?” Lord Stanley asked quizzically.

  “It’s all this talk about the poor women of London and how they must be saved. Saved for what, I ask you? I’ll wager our Prime Minister would either lecture them to death or he has a secret longing for these prostitutes he talks about so eloquently.”

  “I have heard it said he prowls the streets at night like some angel of mercy,” Lord Edward suggested in mock defence.

  “Just image the old man trying to convert women to the straight and narrow,” Graystone chuckled.

  “Over his knee,” Edward laughed.

  They walked across Parliament Square and down Whitehall. Graystone Risley was a tall man, in his mid thirties with sleeked back brown hair and a flowing moustache, a legacy of his time in the Indian Army. On his return to England, an inheritance from his late father made work unnecessary. He had entered politics out of boredom and was now Member of Parliament for Exeter. The last time he had been to his Devonian constituency was over a year ago.

  Lord Edward Stanley sat in the House of Lords as a hereditary peer. He might have been offered at least a junior post in the government, for no other reason than the reputation of his father, who had held many important positions in India since the country had been put under British rule and Queen Victoria declared Empress by the late and wily Prime Minister, Benjamin Disreali. Although it was widely felt that he should have been given some position, his notoriety was such that the Gladstone government preferred to keep him at arm’s length.

  “Where is Sir Jasper?” Lord Stanley asked Risley. “I don’t believe I’ve seen the man at any of our recent sittings, have you?”

  “Haven’t seen him for almost two weeks. Some rumour going about that he has found some chorus girl and is nursing her. The lass has consumption, so I hear. He was thrown out of his club for taking her in there– quite a scandal by all accounts–it is as well for him that The Albermarle were keen to keep it out of the papers or else there is no knowing where it might have led.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous, Risley,” Lord Stanley mocked the answer. “Akenfield showing altruistic traits? Next you’ll be telling me our Gracious Prig of a Queen is running a brothel in the East End of London.”

  They both fell about laughing.

  “They must have thrown him out for something else. I could well believe he might have taken a woman of ill repute to his rooms though.”

  “On which subject, Edward, my loins are winning over the hunger battle with my stomach. What say you we go down to Vauxhall Gardens and savour some delights of the South London variety?”

  Nothing needed to be further discussed. The pleasure gardens that lay on the other side of the Thames had gained a reputation for providing entertainment suited to every taste. The two men hailed a cab and sat back, with the Houses of Parliament fading behind them, and once over the bridge, the pleasures of Vauxhall awaited.

  It was a pleasant afternoon for strolling through the gardens. To the respectable, who ventured forth in the daytime, Vauxhall was a haven of veritable puritan bliss on the surface. A band played and many couples strolled arm-in-arm. Nannies walked their charges and families even picnicked. For those who wanted a different type of amusement, however, there was plenty to be found.

 
The two friends left the main paths and went deeper into the Gardens. Towards the edge, the passers by were no longer the leisured middle-class. Urchins peddled wares from foodstuffs to trinkets. Women offered instant gratification in dark corners or, for the richer clients, any aspect of pleasure, only restricted by the ability to pay. Beyond the Gardens were tenements and public houses. Many of these were infamous brothels, known throughout Europe since the beginning of the century. Even Voltaire had commented on London’s sexual predilections.

  “Want a quick one, Sir?” a woman accosted Lord Stanley. He pushed her away. They received several more offers of a similar nature before one woman appealed to Risley’s eye.

  “Hold on to your stead, Graystone,” Lord Stanley told him. “I know a brothel not a few minutes from here that I visited with Sir Jasper two months ago. I can assure you the entertainment will appeal more than these street whores.”

  The Poacher’s Pocket had no distinguishing features as a public house except that, alongside the two entrances to the saloon and public bars, there was a third door. Lord Stanley tapped on it and looked at Graystone Risley with a sly smile. After a few minutes a small flap opened and a pair of eyes stared out.

  “Oh, it’s you, my Lord.”

  The door swung open and the two gentlemen entered.

  “Please accept my most humble and sincere apologies, my Lord, if I’d have known you were coming to my unworthy establishment you wouldn’t have been kept a moment. Not a moment. In fact I’d say, without any fear of being contra banded, that the very door itself would have been left wide open when news of your approach reached my most sorry and humble ears.”

  “Thank you, Hegley, but please, do not refer to me as ‘my Lord’. I am, like this gentleman with me, purely here in a private capacity.”

  “And so it shall remain, my…Sir. I pledge you that every inch of my being will be divested to your enjoyment, and I can safely vouch that after you have left, none, not a soul, not even my own darling wife, will be aware of your visit. If it please you to follow me, gentlemen…?”

  Hegley led them along a corridor and into a large room, furnished barely, and dimly lit. Around the room sat at least fifteen women.

  “Can I humbly offer you two gentlemen a pint of the famous beer, which being in coercion with many cousins in the County of Kent, and by this fortune having first pickings from the hops of that wonderful place, I am able to proceed the finest ale in London.”

  “I think brandy would be my choice, Hegley,” Lord Stanley said.

  “And for me,” Risley added.

  “Certainly, gentlemen, and while I fetch your refurbishments, please inspect the other commodities for which the Poacher’s Pocket has become justly famous.” He spread his hands around the room to indicate the women.

  “Do you have any preference, in a manner of speaking, my…Sirs.”

  Lord Stanley sensed an impending, rambling parade of the facts about the women, and so he cut Hegley short.

  “That’s fine, Hegley. We will make the choice.”

  Hegley backed out obsequiously, with much bowing and rubbing of hands.

  “I like the look of that one over there, Edward. She looks delightfully young and a new girl to the game. What about you?”

  “The woman over there is my fancy. Last time I was here, she performed like one of those Indian cobras,” Lord Stanley laughed.

  Hegley returned with their brandy and Lord Stanley indicated the two women. Hegley called to an old woman sitting in the far corner, smoking a white clay pipe.

  “Rooms five and six for these gentlemen. Dolly and Sarah, be about your trade…and mind you two make my honoured guests very welcome; and I do mean very welcome,” he cackled as they all left the room and climbed a flight of stairs.

  Lord Stanley shut the door on room five. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the corridor wall. The groans coming from room six intrigued him. Risley seemed to have struck lucky.

  Turning the handle, he crept into the darkened room. The scene before him was utterly compelling. On the single bed, the coupling figures were silhouetted by the dim window light. A woman in full ecstasy was crouched on top of the prone body of Graystone Risley, her whole form shaking wildly as she rode up and down on his hard steed.

  She was so beautiful that her form seemed radiant, her skin aglow with sensuality and raw power. Stanley thought himself satisfied but the mere sight of this woman was enough to stir his loins afresh. He felt sweat erupt in his palms and he licked his lips hungrily, wondering how to take this prize from his colleague.

  Even through the ferocity of his mounting lust, something struck Lord Stanley: This was not the young woman his friend had hired for his sexual pleasure. This woman was older, in her middle twenties perhaps. Her body glistened with frenetic sweat as she took more demanding satisfaction than was usual with prostitutes. In his experience, they would normally only perform whatever the money paid for and often the effort was lacklustre. This one had a feral madness about her and was clearly more interested in her own satisfaction than in Risley’s. Stanley liked sexual enthusiasm in his women but it was not, he had found, the easiest commodity to acquire; decent women were seldom so inclined, indecent ones more interested in money than pleasure.

  With a final, shuddering cry, the auburn haired beauty finished with her playmate and slipped from on top of him, examining his limp cock with evident dismay.

  “Where did you find this one, Risley?” Lord Edward smirked.

  “Is that you, Edward? By heavens this is an untamed one.”

  He sat up, but still she pawed at his body.

  “Here, Graystone, you take her. I swear the woman is insatiable. I sent the other young girl packing. She didn’t know how to, or want to, please. Met this one in the corridor. All she does is mutter some rubbish and shags like she is in some hallucination.”

  “A handsome figure,” Risley chuckled.

  The woman on the bed had risen up, and she strode towards him on long, shapely legs. Her eyes burned with intensity and her gaze was irresistible. Stanley looked at her, fast becoming oblivious to all else in the room. His cock strained as though it sought her flesh. She touched him, testing his rigidity and clearly liking what she found there.

  “Strip,” she ordered him. Her voice was surprisingly cultured.

  Stanley fumbled with his clothes, his hands shaking. He was naked in no time. The woman leaned back, her arms outstretched to receive her client, muttering and panting some words that made no sense to him. The invitation was obvious enough and he took hold of the woman’s legs and raised them wide and high.

  “See if this cock will calm your desires,” he managed to say.

  “Give me your offering,” she answered.

  He sank down between her legs. Her hands were pulling him on. He sucked her hard nipples and, holding his cock, pushed it into her moist sex. Her body quivered and she called loudly, “Surrender your pleasure to the goddess of ecstasy!”

  Risley pumped his hips, bit her neck and then looked into her eyes. He came, but she continued to pull him down, forcing him to continue long after the first rush of his lust had passed.

  By the time she had done with him, he was so exhausted he could hardly stand.

  “You are of no further use to me, go.”

  No whore had ever addressed him in such a manner before, but he was too drained and sore to care. He felt as though she had sucked him dry and, although she had given him profound satisfaction, now that it was over he felt lost and disorientated. He emerged from the room in a state of shock. Risley was still in the building, nursing a drink. He looked pale and drawn.

  “That was some lay,” Stanley observed.

  “Terrifyingly good,” Risley replied, “I doubt I’ll be able to get it up again for a week.”

  “That woman was disturbingly familiar, didn’t you think? I was certain I’d seen her before, but I can’t for the life of me think where.”

  Risley sucked on his teeth, deep
in contemplation.

  “You know, I think with her hair tied up and a modest frock covering her charms, she would have looked a good deal like Mrs. Terrington–you know, Lotte’s young friend.”

  “That could be it. It wouldn’t be her of course.”

  “Mind you, you do hear rumours about middle class women doing it in brothels for their own amusement.”

  “It’s quite a thought.”

  “What Sir Jasper will do when he hears of this, is beyond comprehension. Lotte had suggested he meant to marry the woman.”

  “I shall enjoy seeing the look on his face when we tell him.”

  “Oh, yes, whether it is her or not, it’s bound to give him pause for thought.”

  “He’ll have to come down here and check.”

  * * * *

  It had been a difficult morning. A letter had arrived for Caroline, the handwriting immediately recognizable as belonging to her father. After some painful deliberation, Amelia had opened and read the missive. It was a friendly communication with no significant news or content. Caroline had always been prompt in her correspondence and any lapse would arouse suspicion. Amelia had passed a troubled hour, wondering how best to respond, and whether she should be honest or seek to obfuscate the disaster.

  Eventually, and with heavy heart, she put pen to paper and informed the gentleman that his beloved eldest daughter had been suffering with her nerves of late and had gone to the country with her dear friend, Frederica Cadwell. Amelia assured Mr. Hardcastle that she would convey his letter to Caroline’s hands herself when she left on the following week to join her, but that he should not anticipate too swift a reply. Caroline, she assured him, would no doubt be very well soon but she required a good deal of rest and tranquillity away from the hustle of London.

  Amelia was grateful that Caroline’s parents and younger sisters had no real contact with her life in London and that equally, for the wealthy society she associated with in the capital, her provincial family were little more than names. She decided it would be best to let each group believe that Caroline had gone to the other to rest. Otherwise she could do no more than hope that wild speculation, fuelled by the gossip of servants, would not undo her good efforts.