by Death
Death and the Harlot
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
Copyright
To Tim
Chapter One
Soho, March 1759
There are few sights more ridiculous than a fat old man naked from the waist down.
Mr George Reed pulled off his wig and fumbled with his breeches. The most successful cloth merchant in Norwich – as he had told me more than once in the tavern – was struggling to reach his shoe buckles without grunting. His belly sagged under his vast shirt. At last, he stood triumphant and wiped a handkerchief across his brow to remove all signs of effort.
Ah, Mr Reed. Another respectable tradesman from the shires with time on his hands, money in his purse and a liking for pretty young women, who had found his way to the best bawdy house in London. In a moment, he would be clambering over me with all the excitement of a youth half his age. Unless his heart gave out first.
Nothing much was stirring below the shirt, mind. Mr Reed was going to need a helping hand. I shifted position on the bed, allowing a wisp of muslin to float away and expose a little more flesh. His eyes danced apologetically but little else twitched. I lay there, staring at a long and tedious evening.
Poor old goat, he really did want some help. I eased myself up onto an elbow and flashed him the famous Lizzie Hardwicke smile, the smile that they speak of in taverns from Marylebone to Fleet Street – so I’m told – the smile that brings them running to throw gold into my lap.
‘Well goodness me, Mr Reed, what have we here?’ I leaned forward, so that he could see even more of me, and lifted the hem of his shirt.
He straightened his back.
‘Upon my honour, I don’t think I have seen the promise of such magnificence since I entertained the Duke of Rutland.’
His eyes widened. Every word a lie, of course. I have no honour; George Reed was not magnificent and nor was he going to be – and I would never question the fidelity of any duke to his duchess. But one thing that my career has taught me is that men will hear what they want to hear from the mouth of a beautiful woman, especially when she is nearly naked.
‘The Duke of Rutland was here?’
I changed the angle of my leg, revealing the treasure for which he was paying so handsomely.
‘His grace was right here. But he wasn’t as splendid as you, Mr Reed.’
‘Really?’ He was, of course, susceptible to flattery.
‘Hush now, sir, there’s really no need for you to boast. Only bring yourself a little closer and keep me company.’
I patted the pillow next to me. Perhaps I could get this over with quickly. Polly, Emily and Lucy would be home soon with gossip to share, and Ma Farley was downstairs with a new girl. He didn’t need to be invited twice, and strutted like a bloated peacock, ready to give me the benefit of his superior physique.
A full five minutes later I rolled him off and left him to doze. I couldn’t leave the room until he was dressed – that was one of the rules of our house. There was little point dressing myself at this hour, so I left off my stays, shrugged a loose gown over my shoulders and tied it at the waist. I sat at the table to fasten up my hair with a blue ribbon. Blue was my colour; it set off my copper curls to their best advantage.
I scrutinised the girl in the mirror: nineteen years old, considered slightly built, and not yet showing the hardened face of a career on the town, I could still pass for much younger. I was respectably born, decently educated and, just six months ago, was living in the comfort of my father’s house. Now I was here; one of a small number of girls in Berwick Street, earning a living on my back. It’s strange, the way Fortune deals her hand.
Outside, the city was wallowing in darkness. The elegant streets of Soho had given up their nocturnal creatures. Girls walked slowly arm in arm with lovers more than twice their age; in windows, they lit lamps and sat in near nakedness. The night time was when the real business of London’s day took place.
I closed my ribbon box, catching sight of the scars on my hand, shining in the light of the candle.
I did not choose to become a whore. Few of us do.
George Reed snuffled and snorted in my bed, turning over to face the wall. He hadn’t been so bad after all, and splendidly quick – thank God. His handsome coat, sage green wool with gold buttons down the front edges and sleeves, was discarded on the floor. I laid it carefully over a chair. The tabby silk waistcoat, which I’d noticed earlier, was very fine; embroidered with exotic flowers. He would need to be wealthy indeed to afford such a lovely piece. Did he pick it up in Spitalfields, or had it come from Paris? This Norwich cloth merchant had a good eye as well as a heavy purse. I stroked the needlework. Perhaps I could persuade him to visit again and part him from a few more guineas.
There was a soft thud. A brown paper parcel had fallen to the floor. I picked it up, feeling the weight of it.
‘Leave that alone, girl.’ Mr Reed was awake and sitting up in bed, frowning.
‘It fell from a pocket as I was tidying your clothes.’ No one wants to be thought a thief. ‘I didn’t want the silk to crease.’ I handed him the parcel. ‘Some important papers?’
He pulled at the hem of his shirt and cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Papers.’ He was embarrassed by his nakedness.
‘You have a beautiful waistcoat, sir,’ I gestured to it. ‘Very fine embroidery. Perhaps I can assist you with it when you’ve dressed?’ I handed him his breeches and turned away. A gentleman is happy enough to be watched and applauded when he’s removing his clothes, but is generally shy when dressing.
I heard him huffing at the effort of tucking his shirt. After a minute, I held the waistcoat out, smoothing it over his shoulders and touching his neck softly once he had put it on.
‘I hope that everything was satisfactory.’
‘Yes, yes, very good,’ he said, ‘very good indeed.’ His mind was still on the parcel.
I couldn’t affor
d to lose this plump catch, however unappealing the thought of further transactions might be. I took his hand and held it flat against my breast, fluttering my breath with practised care as he squeezed.
‘I wonder whether you are in London for business or… just for pleasure?’ I might as well tease: he wouldn’t be fresh for hours. He began to slobber at my neck, thoughts moving away from his papers and back to me. I risked a small moan to encourage him.
‘Aside from the pleasure of you, it is all business. I’ve a few days left in town before I return home.’
‘Then you might like to visit me again before you leave?’
He started biting my earlobe, which I tolerated. ‘That would be most delightful.’
I pulled away, having secured the promise.
‘Lovely,’ I said. I held both of his hands firmly and gazed into his greedy eyes with as much cheeriness as I could.
‘I’m sure that you could entertain me for a little longer, while I’m here,’ he said, tugging me uncomfortably close again, ‘I have the means to pay’. He started to grope inside my gown. I really didn’t want this now, and he surely wasn’t so vain as to think he would be capable?
‘I’m not sure I’m available at this hour.’
He was a large man and quite strong and I didn’t like the way he was pulling at my body. I had to get rid of him, promise him something.
‘But we’re having a party, a masked ball, here tomorrow night, as it happens. Would you care to join us?’ As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted my rashness. The girls would kill me.
‘A masked ball?’ His eyes bulged.
‘Well, it’s really nothing special at all, just some food and wine and a few friends.’
He licked his bottom lip and a sickly smile spread over his face.
‘I’ve heard of such parties.’ That wasn’t a surprise. Mrs Farley’s parties were the talk of the town. The combination of exclusivity and notoriety was enough of an enticement.
‘I’ll come. My friends at home will be green with envy when I tell them.’
I never should have asked him. In a little over a day he would be dead because of the party and I would be running from the magistrate and the hangman. If I had known that then, I would have given him every pleasure he wished that evening, every trick in my book, and then kicked him out for good. But I did not know.
I am a whore, not a fortune-teller.
Chapter Two
The noise coming from the parlour, when George Reed left, was extraordinary. Even for a house full of young women, it was loud, and it was a good thing we had finished for the night, as such a commotion would drive away all but the bravest of customers. Sydney, our ever-present doorman, tall, sleek and exotic, was perched on a stool in the hallway with his fingers rammed into his ears. He saw me and rolled his eyes; the disapproval of a sophisticated foreigner stretched over his dark face. I pushed open the door to the dimly lit room. Curiosity has long been my curse.
A young girl sat howling; arms flung across the table in front of her, a pile of fair curls on her head glimmering in the candle light. She was around fifteen or sixteen, possibly older. It was rather difficult to tell while she sobbed so extravagantly. Where had Ma found her?
Ma Farley was sitting across the other side of the table, arms folded under her enormous bosom. Lucy, elegant, poised, but blessed with a voice like a screech owl, was shouting something at Ma – I couldn’t hear what it was. Emily, whose hatchet face had earlier been painted to perfection but now was smeared from the night’s graft, was demanding answers. Ma was yelling back, ignoring the crying, and Polly was gently trying to hug and shush the girl. No wonder Sydney had closed the parlour door behind me.
I tugged off a shoe and banged the heel on the table. The room fell into shocked silence, as they turned to gawp at me.
‘Thank you,’ I said, brandishing the shoe. ‘Now, who is our friend?’
The shoe, still in my hand, cracked down on the table again as they all began to speak at once.
‘Sydney thinks he’s gone deaf, you know. Ma, would you introduce me, please.’
Mrs Sarah Farley, Mother, or Ma to those who knew her well, stood up and straightened her soft cap, tucking a loose strand of greying hair behind an ear. Once, she had been a real beauty, but now, long past forty-five, her body was overused, overripe and overhanging. Her natural face had hardened with lines, so she filled in the cracks with powder and rouge. She pulled the young girl to her feet, not unkindly.
‘Miss Lizzie Hardwicke, this is Miss Amelia Blackwood.’
The girl was nicely mannered. As we curtseyed I saw that her face – underneath the blotched cheeks and red eyes – was extremely pretty.
‘Miss Blackwood,’ I nodded my greeting and raised an eyebrow at Ma as the girl resumed her place at the table. ‘A new companion?’
Amelia started bleating over Polly’s shoulder again, but more quietly this time. Ma sighed and sat down heavily.
‘It’s not what you think, Lizzie.’
I hoped not. Brothel keepers, bawds like Ma, had a reputation for forcing innocent young girls into a life of sin and they were rightly hated for their procuring. There were plenty of stories: unblemished lambs arriving in London from the country, flattered or tricked into bawdy houses, their virginity sold to the highest bidder. Mrs Farley was not above such devices when it came to supplementing her funds, I was sure of it, but it wasn’t her regular style. I waited for an explanation.
‘She’s been thrown out of her home,’ Ma said. ‘I found her at Charing Cross. Good job I was there; I’d just caught sight of her when Mrs Hamble and Mrs Bull came around the corner.’
Polly shivered. Miss Polly Young, our prettiest housemate, had golden hair and the sort of countenance that fell into effortless smiles, but her own career in town had been launched by Mrs Hamble, and the memory still made her lip tremble. She had been fourteen at the time.
‘What do you mean “she’s been thrown out”?’
‘Her father is an alderman. She fell in love with the local farrier’s son and he caught them kissing in the yard. Threw her out on the streets.’
‘That’s a bit harsh for a fumble,’ I said.
‘He’s got a reputation to maintain, apparently,’ said Lucy, arching an immaculate eyebrow, ‘although I’m quite sure I’ve never heard of him.’ Lucy knew many men of reputation, as she was often fond of telling us.
‘At least he gave her some money and allowed her to collect some clothes,’ said Ma. ‘Not all girls are so fortunate.’
Indeed, they are not.
‘It’s still a bit tough. She’s barely fifteen by the look of it.’
‘I’m seventeen.’ Amelia raised her head from the table. ‘And it wasn’t a fumble; Tommy and I are in love. We want to marry.’ She started to sob in great shaking coughs. ‘I’ll never see him again!’ Her head flopped down and Polly stroked her shoulders gently. Eventually she stopped sobbing.
‘So, what are we going to do with her?’ Emily asked Ma. ‘Is she staying here?’
If she was going to stay, she was going to be working.
‘I think we can leave her for a little while,’ Mrs Farley was not devoid of sympathy, even if she was running a business. ‘Let’s give her some food and a soft bed and see whether she wants to join us. It’s quite clear that her father doesn’t want her at home.’
‘What about her beau? Thomas, is it?’ Polly asked.
‘Tommy,’ came a newly muffled sob.
‘Tommy. What about this Tommy? Do we know where he is? Does he really want to marry her?’ I asked.
‘He told me he loved me,’ her little voice quivered.
Lucy’s mouth puckered at such naivety.
‘Of course he loves you,’ Polly played with the girl’s curls. ‘But if he’s not here to marry you, then that’s not much use, is it?’
The girl looked at Polly. ‘Not much use…?’
Polly spoke gently. ‘If your father has disowned you then
none of your friends or relatives will care for you. If Tommy is not going to marry you then you are alone.’ The words were beginning to register somewhere in Amelia’s mind as Polly went on. ‘You have no home, no good name and no one to protect you. London is a dangerous place for a girl on her own.’
She looked at each of us in turn, trying to make sense of what Polly had told her. We all nodded at what was obviously true. Whatever respectability she had once possessed was gone.
‘Can I stay here? Mrs Farley, you… you’ve all been very kind to me. Can I live with you?’
Eyes the colour of summer sky implored us. She was really very pretty; young and sweet, the way the rest of us were once. I could almost hear the coins jingling their way into Ma’s strong box.
‘I can work,’ she said. ‘I mean, I’m not very good, but I can do my best.’
She had no idea.
‘Do you know what we do here, Amelia?’ I asked.
‘Why, you’re milliners. That means you make hats.’ She glowed at her cleverness.
We made hats. That’s what the painted sign over the front door said. In a respectable street that was home to craftsmen and shopkeepers, we suggested that we too plied a decent trade. No one was fooled. Half of London’s prostitutes said they were milliners – well, those who operated indoors, at least. Lucy began to shake her head in disbelief.
‘You do make hats? That’s what milliners do, isn’t it?’ Amelia’s voice was high and anxious.
Poor sweet idiot. I laid a hand on her arm, catching Ma’s warning glance. ‘Well, even Lucy has been known to sew a feather onto straw once in a while.’
There was a silence.
Ma stood, took her by the shoulders and scooped her up into her welcoming bosom like a little child.
‘Come now, dear one, let’s go and find you a comfortable bed. There’s no need to make a decision about the future just yet.’
There was no decision to make, as far as I could see. If she was truly on her own, then all she could do was hope to make a living from her beauty, live decently, escape the pox and save enough money to survive into her old age.
Amelia hobbled out of the room clutching at Ma.
‘Poor little thing,’ said Polly.