She would be a virgin, innocent and apprehensive. He would do things to her that would bewilder and disgust her. She might resist, which would make it even better. In the end a wife had to give in to her husband's sexual demands, regardless of how bizarre or distasteful they might be, for she had no one to complain to. Once again he pictured her tied to the bed, only this time she was writhing, either in pain or desire or both....
The show came to an end. As they left the theatre Micky looked out for the Bodwins. They met on the pavement, as the Pilasters were waiting for their carriage and Albert Bodwin was hailing a hansom. Micky gave Mrs. Bodwin a winning smile and said: "May I do myself the honor of calling on you tomorrow afternoon?"
She was obviously startled. "The honor would be all mine, Senor Miranda."
"You're too kind." He shook hands with Rachel, looked her in the eye, and said: "Until tomorrow, then."
"I look forward to it," she said.
Augusta's carriage arrived and Micky opened the door. "What do you think of her?" he murmured.
"Her eyes are too close together," Augusta said as she climbed in. She settled in her seat then spoke to him through the open door. "Other than that, she looks like me." She slammed the door and the carriage drove off.
An hour later Micky and Edward were eating supper in a private room at Nellie's. Apart from the table, the room contained a sofa, a wardrobe, a washstand and a big bed. April Tilsley had redecorated the whole place, and this room had fashionable William Morris fabrics and a set of framed drawings of people performing sexual acts with a variety of fruits and vegetables. But it was in the nature of the business that people got drunk and misbehaved, and already the wallpaper was torn, the curtains stained and the carpet ripped. However, low candlelight hid the tawdriness of the room as well as taking years off the ages of the women.
The men were being waited on by two of their favorite girls, Muriel and Lily, who were wearing red silk shoes and huge, elaborate hats but were otherwise naked. From outside the room came the sounds of raucous singing and some kind of heated quarrel, but in here it was peaceful, with the crackling of the coal fire and the murmured words of the two girls as they served supper. The atmosphere relaxed Micky, and he began to feel less anxious about the railroad loan. He had a plan, at least. He could only try it out. He looked across the table at Edward. Theirs had been a fruitful friendship, he mused. There were times when he felt almost fond of Edward. Edward's dependency was tiresome, but it was what gave Micky power over him. He had helped Edward, Edward had helped him, and together they had enjoyed all the vices of the most sophisticated city in the world.
When they finished eating Micky poured another glass of wine and said: "I'm going to marry Rachel Bodwin."
Muriel and Lily giggled.
Edward stared at him for a long moment then said: "I don't believe it."
Micky shrugged. "Believe what you wish. It's true, all the same."
"Do you really mean it?"
"Yes."
"You swine!"
Micky stared at his friend in surprise. "What? Why shouldn't I marry?"
Edward stood up and leaned over the table aggressively. "You're a damned swine, Miranda, and that's all there is to say."
Micky had not anticipated such a reaction. "What the devil has got into you?" he said. "Aren't you going to marry Emily Maple?"
"Who told you that?"
"Your mother."
"Well, I'm not marrying anyone."
"Why not? You're twenty-nine years old. So am I. It's time for a man to equip himself with the semblance of a respectable household."
"To the devil with a respectable household!" Edward roared, and he overturned the table. Micky sprang back as crockery smashed and wine spilled. The two naked women cringed away fearfully.
"Calm down!" Micky cried.
"After all these years!" Edward raged. "After all I've done for you!"
Micky was baffled by Edward's fury. He had to calm the man down. A scene like this could prejudice him against marriage, and that was the opposite of what Micky wanted. "It's not a disaster," he said in a reasonable tone. "It's not going to make any difference to us."
"It's bound to!"
"No, it's not. We'll still come here."
Edward looked suspicious. In a quieter voice he said: "Will we?"
"Yes. And we'll still go to the club. That's what clubs are for. Men go to clubs to get away from their wives."
"I suppose they do."
The door opened and April swept in. "What's the noise about?" she said. "Edward, have you been breaking my china?"
"I'm sorry, April. I'll pay for it."
Micky said to April: "I was just explaining to Edward that he can still come here after he's married."
"Good God, I should hope so," April said. "If no married men came here I'd have to close the place." She turned toward the doorway and called out: "Sid! Fetch a broom."
Edward was calming down rapidly, to Micky's relief. Micky said: "When we're first married, we should probably spend a few evenings at home, and give the occasional dinner party. But after a while we'll go right back to normal."
Edward frowned. "Don't wives mind that?"
Micky shrugged. "Who cares whether they mind? What can a wife do?"
"If she's discontented I suppose she can bother her husband."
Micky realized that Edward was taking his mother as a typical wife. Fortunately few women were as strong-willed or as clever as Augusta. "The trick is not to be too good to them," Micky said, speaking from observation of married cronies at the Cowes Club. "If you're good to a wife she'll want you to stay with her. Treat her roughly and she'll be only too glad to see you go off to your club in the evening and leave her in peace."
Muriel put her arms around Edward's neck. "It'll be just the same when you're married, Edward, I promise," she said. "I'll suck your cock while you watch Micky fuck Lily, just the way you like."
"Will you?" he said with a foolish grin.
"Course I will."
"So nothing will change, really," he said, looking at Micky.
"Oh, yes," said Micky. "One thing will change. You'll be a partner in the bank."
CHAPTER TWO
APRIL
1
THE MUSIC HALL was as hot as a Turkish bath. The air smelled of beer, shellfish and unwashed people. Onstage a young woman dressed in elaborate rags stood in front of a painted backdrop of a pub. She was holding a doll, to represent a newborn baby, and singing about how she had been seduced and abandoned. The audience, sitting on benches at long trestle-tables, linked arms and joined in the chorus:
And all it took was a little drop of gin!
Hugh sang at the top of his voice. He was feeling good. He had eaten a pint of winkles and drunk several glasses of warm, malty beer, and he was pressed up against Nora Dempster, a pleasant person to be squashed by. She had a soft, plump body and a beguiling smile, and she had probably saved his life.
After his visit to Kingsbridge Manor he had fallen into the pit of a black depression. Seeing Maisie had raised old ghosts, and since she rejected him again the ghosts had haunted him without respite.
He had been able to live through the daytime, for at work there were challenges and problems to take his mind off his grief: he was busy organizing the joint enterprise with Madler and Bell, which the Pilasters partners had finally approved. And he was soon to become a partner himself, something he had dreamed of. But in the evenings he had no enthusiasm for anything. He was invited to a great many parties, balls and dinners, for he was a member of the Marlborough Set by virtue of his friendship with Solly, and he often went, but if Maisie was not there he was bored and if she was he was miserable. So most evenings he sat in his rooms thinking about her, or walked the streets hoping against all likelihood to bump into her.
It was on the street that he had met Nora. He had gone to Peter Robinson's in Oxford Street--a shop that had once been a linen draper's but was now called a "department stor
e"--to get a present for his sister Dotty: he planned to take the train to Folkestone immediately afterwards. But he was so miserable that he did not know how he was going to face his family, and a kind of paralysis of choice made him incapable of selecting a gift. He came out empty-handed as it was getting dark, and Nora literally bumped into him. She stumbled and he caught her in his arms.
He would never forget how it had felt to hold her. Even though she was wrapped up, her body was soft and yielding, and she smelled warm and scented. For a moment the cold, dark London street vanished and he was in a closed world of sudden delight. Then she dropped her purchase, a pottery vase, and it smashed on the pavement. She gave a cry of dismay and looked as if she might burst into tears. Hugh naturally insisted on buying a replacement.
She was a year or two younger than he, twenty-four or twenty-five. She had a pretty round face with sandy-blond curls poking out from a bonnet, and her clothes were cheap but pleasing: a pink wool dress embroidered with flowers and worn over a bustle, and a tight-fitting French-navy velvet jacket trimmed with rabbit fur. She spoke with a broad cockney drawl.
While they were buying the replacement vase he told her, by way of conversation, that he could not decide what to give his sister. Nora suggested a colorful umbrella, and then she insisted on helping him choose it.
Finally he took her home in a hansom. She told him she lived with her father, a traveling salesman of patent medicines. Her mother was dead. The neighborhood where she lived was rather less respectable than he had guessed, poor working class rather than middle class.
He assumed he would never see her again, and all day Sunday at Folkestone he brooded about Maisie as always. On Monday at the bank he got a note from Nora, thanking him for his kindness: her handwriting was small, neat and girlish, he noticed before screwing the note up into a ball and dropping it into the wastepaper basket.
Next day he stepped out of the bank at midday, on his way to a coffeehouse for a plate of lamb cutlets, and saw her walking along the street toward him. At first he did not recognize her, but simply thought what a nice face she had; then she smiled at him and he remembered. He doffed his hat and she stopped to talk. She worked as an assistant to a corset maker, she told him with a blush, and she was on her way back to the shop after visiting a client. A sudden impulse made him ask her to go dancing with him that night.
She said she would like to go but she did not have a respectable hat, so he took her to a milliner's shop and bought her one, and that settled the matter.
Much of their romance was conducted while shopping. She had never owned much and she took unashamed delight in Hugh's affluence. For his part he enjoyed buying her gloves, shoes, a coat, bracelets, and anything else she wanted. His sister, with all the wisdom of her twelve years, had announced that Nora only liked him for his money. He had laughed and said: "But who would love me for my looks?"
Maisie did not disappear from his mind--indeed, he still thought of her every day--but the memories no longer plunged him into despair. He had something to look forward to now, his next rendezvous with Nora. In a few weeks she gave him back his joie de vivre.
On one of their shopping expeditions they met Maisie in a furrier's store in Bond Street. Feeling rather bashful, Hugh introduced the two women. Nora was bowled over to meet Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne. Maisie invited them to tea at the Piccadilly house. That evening Hugh saw Maisie again at a ball, and to his surprise Maisie was quite ungracious about Nora. "I'm sony, but I don't like her," Maisie had said. "She strikes me as a hard-hearted grasping woman and I don't believe she loves you one bit. For God's sake don't marry her."
Hugh had been hurt and offended. Maisie was just jealous, he decided. Anyway, he was not thinking of marriage.
When the music-hall show came to an end they went outside into a fog, thick and swirling and tasting of soot. They wrapped scarves around their necks and over their mouths and set off for Nora's home in Camden Town.
It was like being underwater. All sound was muffled, and people and things loomed out of the fog suddenly, without warning: a whore soliciting beneath a gaslight, a drunk staggering out of a pub, a policeman on patrol, a crossing sweeper, a lamp-lit carriage creeping along the road, a damp dog in the gutter and a glint-eyed cat down an alley. Hugh and Nora held hands and stopped every now and again in the thickest darkness to pull down their scarves and kiss. Nora's lips were soft and responsive, and she let him slip his hand inside her coat and caress her breasts. The fog made everything hushed and secret and romantic.
He usually left her at the corner of her street but tonight, because of the fog, he walked her to the door. He wanted to kiss her again there, but he was afraid her father might open the door and see them. However, Nora surprised him by saying: "Would you like to come in?"
He had never been inside her house. "What will your papa think?" he said.
"He's gone to Huddersfield," she said, and she opened the door.
Hugh's heart beat faster as he stepped inside. He did not know what was going to happen next but it was sure to be exciting. He helped Nora out of her cloak, and his eyes rested longingly on the curves beneath her sky-blue gown.
The house was tiny, smaller even than his mother's house in Folkestone. The staircase took up most of the narrow hall. There were two doors off the hall, leading presumably to a front parlor and a back kitchen. Upstairs there must be two bedrooms. There would be a tin bath in the kitchen and a privy in the backyard.
Hugh hung his hat and coat on a stand. A dog was barking in the kitchen, and Nora opened the door to release a small black Scottish terrier with a blue ribbon around its neck. It greeted her enthusiastically then circled Hugh warily. "Blackie protects me when Pa's away," Nora said, and Hugh registered the double meaning.
He followed Nora into the parlor. The furniture was old and worn, but Nora had brightened the room with things they had bought together: gay cushions, a colorful rug and a painting of Balmoral Castle. She lit a candle and drew the curtains.
Hugh stood in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do with himself, until she put him out of his misery by saying: "See if you can get the fire going." There were a few embers in the hearth, and Hugh put on kindling and blew the fire back to life with a small bellows.
When he was done he turned around to see her sitting on the sofa with her hat off and her hair let down. She patted the cushion beside her and he sat down obediently. Blackie glared jealously at him, and he wondered how soon he could get the dog out of the room.
They held hands and looked into the fire. Hugh felt at peace. He could not imagine wanting to do anything else for the rest of his life. After a while he kissed her again. Tentatively he touched her breast. It was firm, and filled his hand. He squeezed it gently, and she sighed heavily. Hugh had not felt this good for years, but he wanted more. He kissed her harder, still touching her breasts.
By degrees she leaned back until Hugh was half lying on her. They both began to breathe hard. He was sure she must be able to feel his prick pressing against her plump thigh. In the back of his mind the voice of conscience told him he was taking advantage of a young girl in her father's absence, but it was a faint voice and could not prevail against the desire that welled up inside him like a volcano.
He longed to touch her most intimate places. He put his hand between her legs. She stiffened immediately, and the dog barked, sensing the tension. Hugh pulled away a little and said: "Let's put the dog outside."
Nora looked troubled. "Perhaps we should stop."
Hugh could not bear the thought of stopping. However, the word "perhaps" encouraged him. "I can't stop now," he said. "Put the dog out."
"But ... we're not even engaged, or anything."
"We could get engaged," he said without thinking. She went slightly pale. "Do you mean it?"
He asked himself the same question. From the start he had thought of this as a dalliance, not a serious courtship; yet only a few moments ago he had been thinking how much he would like to sp
end the rest of his life holding hands with Nora in front of a fire. Did he really want to marry her? He realized that he did, in fact there was nothing he would like better. There would be trouble, of course. The family would say he was marrying beneath him. They could go to the devil. He was twenty-six years old, he earned a thousand pounds a year, and he was about to be made a partner in one of the most prestigious banks in the world: he could marry who the hell he liked. His mother would be troubled but supportive: she would worry, but she would be glad to see her son happy. And the rest of them could say what they pleased. They had never done anything for him.
He looked at Nora, pink and pretty and lovable, lying back on the old sofa with her hair around her bare shoulders. He wanted her badly, now, quickly. He had been alone too long. Maisie was thoroughly settled with Solly: she would never be his. It was time he had someone warm and soft to share his bed and his life. Why not Nora?
He snapped his fingers at the dog. "Come here, Blackie." It approached him warily. He stroked its head then grabbed the ribbon around its neck. "Come and guard the hall," he said, and he put the dog outside and closed the door. It barked twice and subsided into silence.
He sat beside Nora and took her hand. She looked wary. He said: "Nora, will you marry me?"
She flushed red. "Yes, I will."
He kissed her. She opened her mouth and kissed him back passionately. He touched her knee. She took his hand and guided it beneath the skirts of her dress, up between her legs to the fork of her thighs. Through the flannelette of her underwear he could feel the rough hair and soft flesh of her mound. Her lips tracked across his cheek to his ear, and she whispered: "Hugh, darling, make me yours, tonight, now."
"I will," he said hoarsely. "I will."
2
THE DUCHESS OF TENBIGH'S COSTUME BALL was the first great event of the 1879 London season. Everyone was talking about it weeks in advance. Fortunes were spent on fancy dress, and people would go to any length to get an invitation.
Augusta and Joseph Pilaster were not invited. That was hardly surprising: they did not belong in the very highest echelon of London society. But Augusta wanted to go, and she made up her mind she would be there.