Sinful Seduction (14 page)

Getting up she splashed her face with cold water from the ewer, smoothed the creases from her dress and examined her reflection once more. Apart from a slight puffiness round the eyes, she'd pass muster. Straightening her shoulders, she seized the handle of her bag and, without a backward glance, marched out of the room she'd shared with Emily for the last few years.

All conversation stopped as she walked into the kitchen, and the look of pity and horror in the eyes of her former friends and workmates almost unmanned her again. She could see in their faces that they already knew her shame. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Were they going to despise and ignore her? Watch her leave without even a last kind word?

It was the sight of Thomas' sly face that stiffened her backbone. If he thought he'd reduced her to a snivelling wreck, he was wrong.

‘I expect you've heard the news,' she said, grateful that her voice sounded so normal, and it was enough to break the awkward hush.

Mrs McAllister rushed forward and enfolded her in a warm cinnamon-scented embrace. ‘My poor wee lamb,' she sobbed, emotion making her accent stronger than ever. ‘What'll ye dae noo?'

‘Not to worry,' said Maggie, patting the broad, heaving back. ‘I'll find something.' She pushed her away gently. ‘I'm not afraid of hard work.'

Mrs McAlister dabbed her eyes. ‘Well, you'll not leave here empty-handed,' she said defiantly. ‘I've packed ye a wee basket. That'll keep ye going a couple of days.' Maggie smiled. There was probably enough in the ‘wee basket' to feed a family of four for a fortnight.

Emily stepped forward. ‘Good luck, Maggie. We'll miss you,' she whispered, giving her a quick hug while little Mary bobbed her agreement in the background. Even Mr Harris managed a stiff nod before he left to go about the business of attending to the master.

Finally Maggie turned apprehensively to face Mrs Hardcastle, her heart sinking again at the grim expression on her face. She'd been the one to give Maggie her chance. Did she regret it now? Did she feel that Maggie's shame reflected on her own bad judgement?

‘I'm sorry to see you go, lass, but there's nothing I can do about it,' she said, and the relief made Maggie's head swim and chin quiver as she fought back the tears of sadness. ‘You're not the first and you'll not be the last,' she went on, and then her lips twisted. ‘Not while his lordship still has an eye for a pretty face and a neat ankle.' She snorted. ‘I'd have to be blind not to know what goes on. Hypocritical old bastard!'

She collected herself again. ‘Still, that doesn't help you, does it?' Fishing in the pocket of her black apron she produced two envelopes. ‘There's your due wages, and another month's in lieu of notice,' she said, handing over the first one, then she held out the second. ‘And this is a letter from me to say you've been a good, honest girl.' She shook her head. ‘Not that it's much good without a proper reference from her ladyship, but it'll have to do. Maybe it'll help get you a post as a maid-of-all work with the likes of someone in trade who doesn't know any better.'

‘Thank you,' said Maggie. It was better than nothing and more than she had any right to expect. She slipped them both into her reticule.

‘Now you'll have a last cup of tea before you go,' said Mrs Hardcastle. ‘Thomas, you can go and look for a hackney cab.'

It was a sad little group that sat round the table in the servant's hall for the last time. Mary and Emily punctuated sips of tea with sniffles and Maggie was hard put not to join in. She looked round at their faces. They'd been her family for the last six years and she'd probably never see them again. She forced herself to be cheerful.

‘I'll write once I get settled in a new position,' she said. ‘Let you know how I'm getting on - then when you've got my new address you can write back.' She smiled at Emily. ‘Maybe if we have the same days off we can meet up - catch up on all the gossip.'

‘Luvverly,' sniffed Emily. ‘That's what we'll do. You just see if we don't.' Both of them knew it was unlikely.

It was almost a relief when Thomas stuck his grinning head round the kitchen door.

‘Carriage for her ladyship,' he called mockingly, and Maggie reluctantly got to her feet. There was a last flurry of goodbyes and promises to keep in touch, and then she was walking up the back steps for the last time. Her single bag and Mrs McAlister's ‘wee basket' beside her in the evil-smelling cab, she leaned out of the window as it drew away and waved until the house and the little group on the steps were nothing but a memory.

Slumped in despair, she watched from the cab window as the fine houses gave way to lesser ones, then to middle class villas and finally to the crowded tenements of the poor. When they reached the entry to the warren of slums and back streets that contained Maggie's former home, the hackney drew to a halt, the horse snorting and stamping.

‘Right, out you get,' ordered the cabbie, rapping on the door. ‘But... but the housekeeper said you'd been paid to take me home,' Maggie protested.

‘Not likely,' he snorted. ‘I ain't taking me ‘orse and cab in there. We'd never get out alive! You're on yer own now, gel. And God ‘elp yer!'

Fumbling for her bag and basket, Maggie climbed out and stood watching as the cabbie disappeared round the corner as if the devil himself was after him. The last link with her new life was gone. There was no choice but to return to the old one.

Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handle of her Gladstone bag more tightly and began to trudge through the narrow lanes. She gagged as the smell hit her. The stench of poverty and desperation hung like a miasma in the air, settling on her skin and into the folds of her clothes. She had barely gone half a dozen steps before the hem of her skirt was dark with mud - or worse.

She had forgotten how bad it was. The scrawny, grey-faced children. The swaggering louts leering and catcalling from crumbling doorways. The women either exhausted and downtrodden or drunk and flaunting themselves. It was like a scene from the anteroom to hell. One little girl, her hair a tangle of matted curls, was sitting on a doorstep stroking something small and furry. At first Maggie thought it was a kitten, then she shuddered as she realised it was a dead rat.

Her appearance brought unwanted attention. The women eyed her clothes enviously and a group of children followed her like stray cats, demanding money or food or both.

‘Gerr out of it!' she snarled, turning on them, the veneer of painfully acquired politeness falling away as if it had never existed. She had no room for pity; it was survival of the fittest here. The food Mrs McAllister had given her would save her spending her meagre hoard of coins while she looked for work. They scattered, jeering, and she marched on, ignoring them.

All too soon Maggie reached her former home, even filthier than when she'd left it. She swallowed her disgust as she picked her way through the pools of ordure that filled the courtyard, holding her skirts high to avoid the scummy surface. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of seeing her mother again. Although she had sent a postal order faithfully every month, there had been no contact apart from a loving letter of thanks in return - and even those had tailed away to nothing recently.

Holding her breath, she fumbled her way down the cellar steps and stopped on the threshold of the room, her mouth twisting in distaste. Nothing had altered; the same bundles of rags; the same old rickety table. Even the pile of dirty straw in the corner looked as if it hadn't been changed since she left. But the room was empty. Where was her mother?

She laid the basket on the table and looked around for somewhere clean to put her bag. There was nowhere. Wincing she tucked it away in the least dirty corner and hung her cape on a nail on the wall. What now?

Just then the door swung open and she turned with a smile on her face. ‘Ma!' she exclaimed, but the smile was wiped away at the sight of the shambling hulk who stood there, swaying. Her stepfather.

‘Oo the ‘ell are you?' he demanded, peering at her suspiciously from narrowed eyes. In one step he crossed the floor, gripped her by the neck and shook her like a terrier shakes a rat. ‘And wot the fuck do yer think yer doing in my ‘ouse, yer thievin' little bitch?'

Choking, she broke free and stepped backwards. ‘Keep yer ‘ands to yerself,' she rasped, rubbing her throat. ‘I ain't stealing nuffink. It's me!'

He peered at her again. ‘Maggie? That's never you, is it?'

‘Course it's me,' she insisted. ‘Who did yer think it was, the Queen o' bleedin' Sheba?'

He grinned, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. ‘Little Maggie,' he crooned with drunken sentimentality. ‘Come ‘ome at last.' His bloodshot eyes crawled over her and his mood swung dangerously. ‘And all growed up as well. Turned into a proper good-looking little gel, too,' he slavered, the grin became a leer and he licked his lips. ‘Aintcha got a kiss for yer old dad then, my dear?'

‘Not on you life!' she snapped. ‘Anyway, where's me ma? Down the market?'

‘Down the cemetery,' he grinned.

‘What's she doing there?' Maggie demanded in bewilderment. Then his words sank in and she groped for the rickety chair and sat down. ‘She... she's not...' Her voice trailed away as realisation dawned, and tears of loss welled up in her eyes.

‘As a doornail,' he chuckled. ‘Gin-soaked old cow! Been gone this last four months. Took the consumption and just faded away. Nuffink but skin and bone by the time she went.'

Maggie stared at his hateful, grinning face and anger replaced grief. ‘You cold-hearted bastard!' she hissed. ‘My own ma dead and gone and you didn't even have the decency to let me know.'

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Wot? And ‘ave you stop sendin' them postal orders every month? Not on your nellie! Come in very handy that money did.' He chuckled again. ‘Bought me a fair few pints, that's fer sure.'

‘You're nothing but scum,' she said wearily. ‘You'd sell your own granny for the price of a drink. Well, you've had it now. There'll be no more money coming in. They chucked me out.' The loss of her mother coming so soon on the loss of her position suddenly hit her and she crumpled. Oblivious to everything but her grief, she laid her head on the filthy table and sobbed as if her heart would break.

It was Bert's voice that finally roused her from her storm of weeping. ‘‘Ere, get this down yer, gel,' he muttered, putting a cracked cup in front of her. She looked at the colourless liquid suspiciously. ‘Just a drop o' gin,' he went on with an ingratiating smile. ‘For the shock.'

Holding it in both shaking hands, Maggie sipped the fiery liquid, feeling the warmth trickle back into her belly. ‘That's a girl,' he grinned. ‘No need for you and me to fall out, is there? We got to stick together.' He patted her shoulder. ‘Now get the rest of it knocked back and you'll soon feel the better for it.'

Grimacing at the taste, she did as she was told. Perhaps she had misjudged him? Her head swam as a wave of giddiness washed over her and she swayed in the chair. With difficulty she raised her head, and attempted to focus on his leering face. ‘Bass'ard...' she slurred through slack lips. ‘Tha' wasn' jus' gin. Wha... what wass it?'

‘Yer ma's laudanum,' he gloated. ‘There was still some left in the bottle.' He leaned down and his foul breath hit her as he sneered into her face. ‘Not so clever now, are yer, yer little bitch?' He snorted. ‘Yer come in ‘ere with yer hoity-toity airs thinkin' yer better than everybody else. Well, yer ain't!'

Maggie drew back her head and spat straight into his grinning face, and the grin disappeared as he recoiled, her spittle running down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of a grimy hand.

‘You're goin' to regret that, me lady,' he grated, reached for her, dragged her to her feet and backhanded her across the face, but lost in her drugged haze she didn't even feel it. She tried to lift her arms and break free of his grasp, but her limbs were made of lead, each movement taking years to make. Only his iron grip prevented her collapsing on the floor.

It was as if it was all happening to someone else and she was only an unwilling onlooker. She floated above it all and watched as the unshaven brute stripped the clothes from his human puppet. Watched as he ran his dirty hands over the naked body, mouthing and slobbering at the soft breasts. Watched as he parted the slack thighs and thrust his thick fingers inside.

Even when he scooped up the unresisting body and flung it roughly onto the pile of filthy rags in the corner, she felt nothing more than a vague dreamy sympathy for the poor girl. She watched as he knelt between the pale slender legs, unbuttoning himself. Watched as he shoved his gnarled swollen cock roughly into the puppet and his hairy buttocks began to jerk and heave. The stream of vile obscenities that ran from his drooling lips as he thrust and strained was nothing more than a soothing murmur in her ears. When he finally grunted in release and withdrew his dripping prick, her eyes closed and she drifted off into darkness.

When she came to she was lying on the filthy pallet, naked, and every bone in her body ached. She groaned as she attempted to sit up, her hands going to her throbbing head. What had happened? She felt the disgusting stickiness between her thighs and her groan became a sob as it all rushed back to her. Her stepfather had taken her like a boar in rut!