The Cockney Sparrow (42 page)

She lay back on the bunk and closed her eyes. Her head ached miserably and she had a terrible taste in her mouth. She was too numb with shock to feel frightened. All she could think about was Jared. He wouldn’t know where to look for her. She might never see him again. Ma would be frantic with worry. She felt herself slipping into unconsciousness.

Every time she opened her eyes, she was in a different place. The cabin gave way to a white-walled room that smelt strongly of tobacco, only not the kind that Jack smoked at home. There were people chattering in a foreign language. A woman wearing a huge white headdress that flapped like a seagull’s wings was feeling her forehead. Clemency thought dimly that she must be a nun. She tried to beg for help but no one around her seemed to understand. The nun made sympathetic noises, and held a glass to her lips. She did not want to drink, but her throat was parched and she sipped the bitter-tasting brew. The kindly face and the white wings spun into a vortex and disappeared.

When she struggled back to semi-consciousness she was once again in a horse-drawn carriage. She could not keep her eyes open: her lids were heavy and all she wanted to do was to sleep. Wheels rumbling over cobblestones – pounding hooves – Clemency had the sensation of hurtling through space.

Then all was silent and the movement had ceased. She opened her eyes, blinked, closed them and slowly opened them again, one at a time. She was lying on bed looking up at a painted ceiling. Fat little cherubs cavorted with brightly coloured birds amongst gilded flowers. She raised herself on her elbow and gazed in amazement at walls covered in silk and hung
with oil paintings. The furnishings would have graced a palace, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers. The door opened and a maidservant entered the room. She approached the bed, smiling shyly.

‘Mademoiselle.’ She plucked a diaphanous garment from the chair beside the bed, and held it up so that the material shimmered in the candlelight.

Clemency sat up slowly. She felt light-headed, and the gilded cherubs seemed to be laughing at her. She realised, with a shock, that beneath the satin sheets she was stark naked. The maid seemed to want her to get up, and she did not want to spend another moment in this grand, canopied bed. She attempted to stand, but her legs felt weak and she sat down again, shaking her head. Eventually, with the aid of sign language and a helping hand from the maid, she managed to walk into the marbled-tiled bathroom. Hot water gushed out of taps shaped like exotic fish into a huge cast-iron bath, filling the air with scented steam as the maidservant poured coloured crystals into the water. She helped Clemency to bathe, as though she were quite incapable of doing anything for herself, which in her present state was very near to the truth. Even in her weakened condition, she could not fail to be impressed by the unimaginable luxury of her new surroundings. There was
nothing like this even in the house in Finsbury Circus. The thought of home made her throat constrict, and she ducked her head beneath the water to wash away the tears that flowed freely from her eyes. She might never see home again. She was a prisoner, trapped like a canary in a golden cage. She allowed the maid to help her from the tub, and to dry her with soft fluffy towels. At any other time she would have refused, and tried to force her way out of this place, but the effect of the drugs had not completely worn off; she felt listless and malleable like an obedient child.

She put on the negligee without a murmur, and she managed to walk into the bedroom unaided. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and Clemency sat on a chair by the ornate fireplace, watching the flames lick up the chimney while the maid combed her damp hair so that it fell about her shoulders in a mass of shining curls.

She was half asleep when Marceau strode into the chamber. The maid bobbed a curtsey, and left hurriedly. He stood a little way from Clemency, eyeing her critically, as though she were a prize cow up for sale in the marketplace. ‘Stand up.’

Moving like an automaton, Clemency did as she was told. The feeling of unreality persisted: she could not believe that this was really happening. In a moment she would wake up and find that it was all a terrible dream. He walked
round her, silently and without touching her, but she could feel the heat of his body and smell that all too familiar aroma that clung to him. ‘Better than I anticipated,’ he said at last. He took her by the shoulders and spun her round to face him. ‘You do know why you are here, don’t you?’

She nodded dully. ‘You want to get your own back on Jared.’

‘That too. But I think I am going to enjoy my revenge.’ He tugged at the sash of her robe, and it fell to the floor so that she stood before him naked.

Somehow nothing seemed to matter. She suffered in silence as his eyes raked her body with a hot look of desire. She expected the worst. There was nothing she could do to stop him. Then, to her surprise, he bent down and retrieved the filmy garment. He wrapped it around her shoulders. ‘You have courage, mademoiselle. Most young women in your position would be on their knees crying and begging for mercy. But not you.’

She tied the sash around her waist, eyeing him coldly. ‘It would do no good.’

He laughed. ‘Quite right. However, we will dine first. I am a civilised man, but I am ruthless when crossed. Remember that, and we will do well together.’

‘I’m not dressed for dinner.’

‘Oh, but you are. I shall feast my eyes on you while I introduce you to French cuisine. You
English eat like pigs. When I am done with you, Mademoiselle Clemency, you will be a French-woman, through and through.’

She did not argue. She held her head high, and, moving in the unreal world that she now seemed to inhabit, she allowed him to lead her down the grand staircase, past Grecian statues holding lighted lamps, and across the entrance hall to a dining room that could have seated fifty people at dinner, and still had room for more. The vast mahogany table was groaning with silverware, and epergnes filled with flowers and fruit, but a smaller table had been laid for two in front of a blazing log fire. She knew what was to follow their meal; there was no escaping it, not tonight anyway. Marceau summoned the servants with one tug on a bell pull, and they appeared almost instantly, bringing one course after another. Clemency ate with a surprisingly good appetite; she could not remember the last time she had eaten and she was ravenous. Tomorrow she would find a way to freedom.

Marceau ate very little. He watched her eat with an appreciative gleam in his eyes, and he kept her glass filled with wine. She drank until he reached out and took the glass from her. ‘No more. I think you have had enough.’ He rose from the table. ‘Come. Tonight you start repaying your debt to me and that of your lover, Jared Stone.’

‘He is not …’

‘No? Then that is his loss. He is more of a fool than I took him for.’

Throughout the long night, she attempted to detach her mind from her body. There was nothing that she could do that would prevent him from taking her again and again. She cried inwardly, loathing every minute of it, but she was determined not to let him see how much she suffered at his hands. He could use her body for his pleasure but he could not touch her heart or her soul. They belonged to Jared, and she prayed silently that he would understand and forgive her, if she ever saw him again. But even if he understood that she had been taken by force, she knew that she was now damaged goods. Jared had been so careful to protect her virginity, and it had been taken by his worst enemy. She was a fallen woman. History had repeated itself, and she was now like Ma. Tears of pain, shame and humiliation trickled down her cheeks as she wept silently, hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking Marceau who lay by her side, snoring loudly. If she had had a knife, she would have plunged it into his wicked heart. She stared up at the ornate canopy over the bed, until at last she too fell into a sleep of sheer exhaustion.

When she awakened, she found that he had already risen. She could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom. She raised herself on
her elbow, uttering a cry of dismay as she saw Hardiman sitting in the chair by the fireplace. He turned his head to look at her, and he licked his lips at the sight of her naked breasts. ‘I hope he done you over good and proper, you young harlot. Just wait until he gets tired of you. When it’s my turn I’ll show you what it’s like to have a real man. You’re even more tasty than Edie was years ago, and that’s saying something.’

She pulled the sheet up to her chin. ‘Get out of my room.’

‘Don’t give me none of your lip, girl. I’m here on the guv’s instructions. I’m not to let you out of me sight all day. Where you goes – I goes.’

Clemency leapt out of the bed, wrapping the sheet around her. ‘Well, you’re not watching me take a bath. I’m telling you that now.’ She ran into the bathroom and locked the door.

She was as closely guarded as any prisoner in the Tower of London. During the next few days Hardiman was constantly at her side, only going off duty when Marceau finished his daily business, and demanded Clemency’s company. On the first day, he took her in his private carriage to the House of Worth in a fashionable quarter of Paris, where he ordered a complete new wardrobe, choosing each item himself. One thing that Clemency learned very quickly about him, apart from the fact that he was extremely wealthy, was that he had impeccable taste. He
knew exactly what colours suited her and what style to pick. She tried desperately to think of a way to escape, but she was trapped as much by her inability to communicate as by Hardiman acting like a guard dog.

As soon as the first garments of her new wardrobe were delivered, Marceau selected the gown that he wished her to wear that evening. He sat and watched while the maid helped her to dress. He even instructed the girl as to how to style Clemency’s hair, and which ornaments to place in her upswept curls. When her toilette was completed, he came to stand behind her, studying her reflection in the mirror. From his pocket, he took a jewel case. ‘Tonight I am going to show you off at the opera, Clemency.’ He thrust the case into her hands. ‘Open it.’

She did as he instructed. An emerald and diamond necklace and matching earrings nestled in a bed of white satin, and she stared at the jewels in amazement. He leaned over, and his breath was hot on her shoulder as he took the necklace and fastened it around her throat. He allowed his fingers to trace the contour of her breasts, exposed above the décolletage of the silk gown. ‘Perfect. Now the earrings.’

Clemency shook her head. ‘My ears aren’t pierced. I never had any jewellery before.’

Marceau clicked his tongue against his teeth. He reached over her shoulder and picked up a
hatpin. With a swift jab he pierced one earlobe, and when she cried out with pain, he slapped her face. ‘Silence, you fool.’ He pushed the gold wire through the puncture wound. ‘Don’t let it bleed on your new gown. That cost me a fortune.’ He signalled to the maid, who rushed over to staunch the bleeding with a lace hanky. He stuck the pin through Clemency’s other earlobe, but this time she bit her lip and did not cry out. He smiled as he put the second earring in place. ‘Now you look like what you are – a courtesan worthy of a man like myself. Tonight, at the Opéra Garnier, all heads will turn to admire the latest mistress of Gaston Marceau.’

Once again, they were in the carriage speeding through the streets of Paris. Clemency tried to find her bearings but she had no clear idea where Marceau’s opulent mansion was situated, and by the time they reached the Opéra Garnier she was none the wiser. It was a grand and beautiful building and the interior took her breath away. She was aware that all eyes were upon them as Marceau escorted her up the splendid staircase. She almost forgot her perilous situation as he led her to a gilded box with an excellent view of the huge stage. Above them, an enormous crystal chandelier lit the auditorium as brightly as the midday sun: the emeralds and diamonds in her necklace blazed with reflected light. When the orchestra struck up the overture to
The Marriage
of Figaro
she could have cried with delight, and when Dorabella Darling came on stage as Cherubino, the coincidence seemed almost too marvellous to bear. For a few hours she drank in the splendour of her surroundings, and lost herself in the operatic performance that made the production at the Strand Theatre seem quite amateur by comparison. She put aside everything, ignoring the pain from her sore earlobes, which was made worse by the weight of the jewels in their heavy gold setting.

During the interval, Marceau had champagne and orchids delivered to the box. He pinned the corsage on her gown. ‘I was right, Clemency. All eyes have been upon you. I have taken the little cockney sparrow and turned her into a beautiful swan.’

She was tempted to spit in his eye, but this was neither the time, nor the place. She used all her acting skill to give him a coquettish smile, and sipped her champagne in silence. Her mind was busy formulating a plan as she saw a way of escape. If she could think of a way to get backstage, she was certain that Dorabella would be sympathetic if she heard her story. She might help her get away from Marceau, or at least to get word to Jared. He must be looking for her by now, although whether he would link Marceau’s return to his native land with her disappearance, she did not know. When the final curtain came
down on the stage, she felt quite bereft. It was as though a brick wall had cut off her one link with home and safety. In desperation she turned to Marceau. ‘Could I ask you something, Gaston?’ She had never used his first name before, and she saw by his expression that it pleased him. She leaned towards him with a provocative tilt of her shoulders.

His smile was wary. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I would dearly love to go backstage and meet the cast.’

His dark brows met over the bridge of his bulbous nose. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

‘No. Of course not. I …’

He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘We’re leaving. And I warn you, Clemency. Try to escape and you will be very, very sorry.’

His mood had not lightened during their carriage ride home. He sent Clemency up to her room while he went to his study, and for a while she thought she might be free from him that night. Her maid, whose name she had discovered was Rochelle, was helping her to undress when Marceau strode in. The girl took one look at his face and scuttled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Clemency rose from the dressing table, clutching her robe up to her throat. She met his furious scowl with a defiant lift of her chin. He struck her across the cheek with a blow that almost knocked her off her feet.
‘That is a warning to you. Don’t think you can fool me with your simpering ways.’