“Yes. ”
Emma remained at the table long after Melisande had left, staring into her teacup. She wished she could read the leaves. She knew her past—it would be lovely to have the assurance that the future would be a calmer, safer one.
There were a thousand excuses for what she’d become, she thought coolly. A hysterical mother who’d thrown herself off the third-story roof of their ramshackle house in Plymouth. A cold, withdrawn father, obsessed with sin and salvation, whose attention took the form of beatings and ritual scrubbings. And a grandfather who touched her, who wanted to be touched, who whispered that it was her fault—she was the wicked one to lure him so, that she would burn in the flames of hell, and at the age of eleven she had believed him.
He’d died soon thereafter, and that had been her fault, as well. She’d prayed for his death. Evil creature that she was, she’d prayed that he would die and she wouldn’t have to let him put his gnarled, painful hands on her. And so he had died, because she had asked for it, and her sins had been compounded.
She had run away when she was fifteen, after her father had dragged her into her Spartan bedchamber by her hair, stripped off her clothes to expose her wicked, temptress’s body, and washed her. Washed every part of her, roughly, and then slowly, and the shame had paralyzed her, shame and fear, and she knew she had brought even her holy father to sin by her wanton form, and she’d run, before she could tempt him further.
She’d had enough money to get her as far as London, and old Mother Howard had been there to meet the stagecoach, as she so often was. A sweet, elderly figure with a comforting smile and soft hands, she’d offered her a safe place to stay while she found work in the teeming city, and Emma, who’d never known a woman’s kindness but was at least certain that her looks would elicit no demon’s temptation, had gone with her, grateful and expectant.
She always wondered at what price the old hag had sold her virginity. She only knew the bitch had chortled as someone had held her down and administered enough of the drug to keep her compliant but still awake, that the sum outstripped anything she had received in the past.
At the end of that hideous night she’d been returned to the room full of sullen girls, and she’d lay in her cot, weeping, wanting to die. Until someone sat down beside her and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.
“Crying won’t do you no good, my girl,” Mollie Biscuits had said. “I’d tell you that the worst of it is over, but that might not be true. Old Mother Howard has some clients who like to hurt a girl in order to get it up, but the good news is that even more of them like to be hurt themselves. You’ll end up with the chance to whip some of the men who want to hurt you, and there’s revenge to be had with that. ”
Emma didn’t lift her head, but her tears had stopped, and she listened.
“Many of them will only want you to pleasure them with your mouth, and that won’t take long. Some will want you for the night, but if you know a few tricks you’ll find you can tire them in less than an hour and then spend the rest of the night sleeping in a better bed than this one. Some want strange, unnatural things, and you go along with it, because you have no choice.
“But, lass, she’s old and sick. I’ve heard her coughing, late at night, and she’ll be dead before Whitsuntide. I won’t say you’ll be free then—her bully boys will try to keep you on. And for most of us, we have no place to go. We’ll stay here, and do what we know how to do
, because otherwise it’s the streets, and that’s a short ride to an ugly death.
“But you can go home again. Mother Howard will make certain there are no babies, and you can return to whatever country town you came from and forget any of this ever happened. ”
Emma had lifted her head then, and her tears had stopped. The woman sitting opposite her was large and comfortable-looking, older than the women who watched her with wary sympathy. “I can’t go home…. That would be worse. ”
Mollie Biscuits had nodded. “Then you’ll make the best of it here. We’ll help you, won’t we, girls? There are tricks of the trade, so to speak. And Mother Howard’s sister isn’t as hard a soul as the auld bitch. If she takes over we’ve got half a chance to make things better in this place. ”
Emma had sat up then, looking around her. The attic dormitory was cold and dirty, the narrow beds lined up against the two walls. The food she’d had so far was foul, there was no way to wash and the privy was disgusting. Worse, she thought she could feel bugs crawling on her skin.
“No choice, my girl,” another woman, a young redhead with an Irish accent had said. “May as well make the best of it. ”
And something had hardened inside Emma right then, a core of steel she’d never known she’d had. They were right—there was no choice. Her father had always told her she was born to tempt men; her grandfather had told her she would be a whore when she grew up. It was her fault, she’d been born that way and there was no escape.
But she could make things better. She didn’t have to live in hunger and filth. “Yes. ” Her cool, elegant voice had hit a note of determination. “We can make the best of it. ”
Mollie Biscuits had chuckled comfortably. “Well, listen to ’er ladyship talk! You’re a right proper one, aren’t you? Must be some toff’s bastard to end up like this, but we don’t worry about where any of us come from. From now on, we’re your family. I’m Mollie Biscuits, this is Agnes and Long Jane, Jenny and Agnes and Thin Polly. I’ll introduce you to the others when they wake up. We look after each other, we do. Warn each other of the bad ones. Some of the girls like some tricks better than others, and if we’re careful we can trade off. Mother Hubbard doesn’t mind, as long as the gentlemen are satisfied, and her sister will be easier to get around. And once you’re used to it, it’s not hard work. ” She let out a wheezing laugh. “At least you’re not on your feet all day. ”
Author: Anne Stuart
Mollie Biscuits hadn’t looked like she was born to tempt men. She was plump and plain and cheery. The other women didn’t look like evil sirens either, just tired young women, most of them pretty enough. Clearly they weren’t the cause of their downfall, only the victims.
But Emma had known she was different. She knew in her heart she was evil, and she belonged in this life.
But she could make it better. For herself, and for the others. And she had.
Mollie Biscuits had been right—Mother Hubbard had died soon after Easter, and her sister had taken over. It had been easy enough to start helping out. For one thing, it got her out of having to provide for as many of the gentlemen who showed up at the White Pearl. For another, as Emma had slowly gotten Mrs. Timmins, who’d never been married, to clean up the place and serve better meals, she’d been able to charge more for her stable of girls. Emma had convinced her to put the extra money into sprucing up the building, bringing in a better class of customer and correspondingly higher fees, and it had gone from there. By the time Mrs. Timmins had died Emma was nineteen years old and more than ready to take over the reins of the business. She’d dismissed all the bully boys but one, and she’d kept him on to keep the girls safe from unruly customers. She’d instituted baths and good food and most of the money going toward the girls.
She’d sold their bodies, even though they were willing and grateful for her care, and she had to pay penance, for that and for the sins her body had forced from her family. She had no doubt it was that sinfulness that had caused her mother to kill herself. She’d known what a demon she’d given birth to.
And so she’d taken to going to St. Martin’s Hospital every few days, to help out, and Mollie Biscuits would go with her. No other women ever went to the public hospital—only whores were considered suitable for such work. She’d done what she could for the sick and the dying, the soldiers home from the Afghan wars with arms and legs missing, with eyes clouded with madness from the horror they’d lived through. Most of them died, and she found she couldn’t be sorry. It was the only relief they could look forward to.
She’d done what she could to help keep the rooms clean; she helped change dressings, ignoring the foul stench of putrefaction. She’d helped when the doctors had taken off limbs, sitting on the chest of a screaming patient while others held him down. She’d cradled the dying in her arms, singing old Welsh lullabies in their ears as she’d rocked them. She’d washed the dead and she’d fed the living.
And she’d met Brandon Rohan one stormy winter day, and life hadn’t been the same.