Sinful Seduction (17 page)

‘How can you bear it?' demanded Maggie. ‘All those men poking and prodding you with their filthy hands and their, their...' her voice trailed away and she shuddered.

‘Cocks?' sniggered Millie. ‘Just close yer eyes and think of England, gel. It don't last long. Anyway. Old Ma Wilkes might be a money-grabbing whoremonger, but at least she's fair. You get a cut of every piece-of-mutton yer flog.' She gave a smug smile. ‘Some of the girls spend theirs on clothes and drink, but not me. I'm putting mine past to open a little milliners.' She laughed coarsely. ‘That'll be a laugh, won't it? Selling hats to snooty ladies after selling me cunt to their fine husbands.'

She crossed her ankles and her skirt fell open again to reveal her slender legs in their black silk stockings, and Maggie gasped as she saw the dark bruises on the white flesh of her thighs where the stockings ended. ‘Course, the gentlemen who come here like it rough,' she admitted, flipping her skirt back over her legs. ‘But I just thinks of me little hat shop and it's all worthwhile.' She smiled confidently. ‘I'll be out of here in another couple of years.'

Maggie shuddered again. Of course she would - but it might be in a wooden box if she ended up with the pox or one of the ‘gentlemen' got too rough. At the thought she began to panic again. ‘I can't stay here,' she whimpered, grabbing the other girl's arm. ‘Please, Millie, you've got the key. You could let me out. Please.'

Millie shook her off with a scowl and got to her feet. ‘And risk me own neck?' she said. ‘No chance. The old bitch would skin me alive. I'll tell you sumfink for nothing. I'd rather come up against the worst bloke in London than cross Ma Wilkes.' She shook her head. ‘And if you've got any sense, you won't try to cross her either.'

She looked down at the trembling girl and her expression softened. ‘You'll survive, love. We all do. We ain't got no choice.' Picking up the tray, she unlocked the door and closed it behind her. As the key turned again, the candle beside the bed flickered out and Maggie was left alone in the darkness with her despairing thoughts. Exhaustion overtook her and she dozed fitfully, starting half-awake at the smallest sound then falling back into a pit of nightmares in which she fled endlessly down a door-lined corridor with something dreadful at her heels. As she ran the thick red carpet sucked wetly at her feet, as if it were soaked in blood, impeding her flight as the horror behind her drew inexorably closer. From behind the shuttered doors came wails and shrieks from the other lost souls trapped in this house of hell.

Gasping and sweating she sat up, suddenly aware that one of the sounds she'd heard was real. It came again and she realised it wasn't the despairing scream of a doomed soul; it was the squeak of a floorboard outside the room. A faint line of light shining through the cracks outlined the shape of the door and she could hear heavy breathing. Her first thought was that Millie had changed her mind and come to release her, her second - and infinitely less comforting one - that the creature from her nightmare had somehow escaped the bounds of her dream and was crouched outside, waiting and listening as it prepared to pounce on its hapless prey.

The door swung slowly open for the second time that night and she realised it was neither. On the threshold stood old Ma Wilkes, candle in hand, panting and wheezing as she tried to catch her breath.

‘Bleedin' stairs,' she gasped, patting her chest. ‘Ain't good for me at my time of life.' Taking a final shuddering breath, she regained control and stepped into the room. Holding the candle high she gazed down at Maggie's heaving breasts and soft smooth flesh, glowing in the candlelight. Her thin lips parted in a satisfied smile. Yes, she'd got a real bargain with this one. The gentlemen would be queuing up to sample her wares.

‘What do y-you want?' stammered Maggie, shrinking away.

‘Why, nothing my dear,' she said soothingly. ‘I merely came to welcome you to our little house.'

Maggie stared at the dreadful old harridan defiantly. ‘Well, yer should have saved yer breath to cool yer porridge then, shouldn't yer,' she said as bravely as she could. ‘Cos I ain't staying.'

‘Oh, I think you are, my dear,' Mrs Wilkes said calmly. ‘I paid good money for you, and I intend to get it back - and more. A lot, lot more.'

‘Forget it,' Maggie said defiantly. ‘I'll be out of here first thing in the morning.'

Mrs Wilkes raised an eyebrow. ‘And exactly where do you think you'd go, my dear? Hmm? Back to your happy home and your loving father?'

‘Stepfather,' muttered Maggie. She closed her eyes, remembered Bert's foul, sweaty body forcing itself on hers and shuddered. There was no way she'd ever go anywhere near that bastard again.

‘I thought not,' smiled Mrs Wilkes. ‘So where does that leave you? Go back into service?' She shook her head. ‘No sensible woman is going to employ a girl without references.' She ran her eyes over Maggie. ‘Particularly such a pretty one; not with a husband or sons in the house. That would just be asking for trouble.' She looked at Maggie with false sympathy. ‘So what are your choices?' She shrugged. ‘I suppose you could always go to the poorhouse.'

Maggie stared at her, wide-eyed in shock, the very word striking fear into her heart. The poorhouse was the last resort of the completely desperate - almost as bad as prison. In fact, they were prisons. Huge, soulless institutions that split up families and worked their inmates into the grave in return for their ‘keep'.

In the poorhouse she'd be segregated in the women's section, and as one of ‘the able-bodied' poor she'd spend her days picking oakum, or slaving her guts out in the hellhole of the laundry in exchange for a bed in a filthy dormitory and a couple of plates of gruel a day. She shuddered; she'd be gaunt and toothless in three months and dead in a couple of years.

‘I see that doesn't appeal,' smiled Mrs Wilkes. ‘Perhaps you'd prefer one of the sweatshops? Do you sew? I hear that if you work eighteen hours a day stitching shirts you can make a living.' She laughed. ‘Well almost - I believe most of the young ladies have to do a little light whoring on the side to survive.'

Her smile became vicious. ‘Which brings me to your last option. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life standing on a pavement in Piccadilly offering yourself to all comers? Having some pimp walk off with the results of your efforts or cut that pretty face if you don't make enough? Or how about when he dumps you when your looks have gone? Perhaps the thought of ending your days a pox-ridden dock-whore appeals to you?'

She leaned over and patted Maggie's hand. ‘Come, my dear, be sensible. It's not so bad here. A few years and you can retire while you're still young. Look at Millie, she's going to set up her own little hat shop - and all she has to do is open her legs. Now what do you say?'

‘I'll stay here,' said Maggie. ‘But I won't whore. I'll do anything else you want; clean, wash, lay fires, wait on table, make beds...' she tried to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘But I won't whore.'

Mrs Wilkes' lips thinned. ‘I've got Gladys for that sort of thing,' she smiled coldly. ‘What do I need you for?' She leaned closer. ‘You'll whore all right, my girl. In fact, you'll do any damned thing I tell you to.'

Suddenly at the end of her tether and without thinking, Maggie drew her head back and spat full in the old bitch's sneering face. ‘Go to hell!' she snarled. ‘I'd rather go to the damned poorhouse! I'm not staying in this place - and you can't make me!'

Apparently unruffled, Mrs Wilkes calmly wiped the spittle from her face and smiled down at Maggie. ‘Oh, yes I can,' she said softly, and Maggie recoiled from the hidden menace in her voice. ‘And as for whoring - I think tomorrow will change your mind. In fact, this time tomorrow night you'll be begging to spread your legs.' She began to laugh as she turned to go. ‘Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well, and sweet dreams.'

Maggie stared after her, the woman's mocking laughter still echoing in her ears. She swallowed anxiously, her mouth dry as she pondered the hag's words. ‘Tomorrow will change your mind'. Why? What was going to happen tomorrow?

 

 

 

When Maggie woke there was a figure looming over her. Still somewhat dazed with sleep her first terrified thought was that her stepfather had returned, and with a muffled cry of fear she lashed out at it.

‘Wassup with you?' demanded an aggrieved voice. ‘Silly little mare! Yer almost had me over.' Blinking, Maggie discovered that the threatening figure was nothing more frightening than old Gladys, clutching a tray. Her belly rumbled at the smell of food, the bread and sausage from the night before nothing more than a distant memory.

‘Sorry,' she mumbled, sitting up and wiping the sleep from her eyes.

‘I should think so, too,' sniffed Gladys, unwilling to give up her position of moral superiority. ‘Traipsing up all them stairs with yer breakfast and that's all the thanks I get. And me with me bad leg and all,' she added self-pityingly.

‘Thank you,' said Maggie. ‘It was very kind of you to think of me, and I hope it hasn't made your leg worse. Is it very sore?'

Mollified by Maggie's concern, Gladys permitted herself a smile. ‘Agony,' she announced with relish. ‘Been a martyr to it for years.' She shook her head with the expression of long-suffering, bravely borne. ‘Nothing they can do about it, though,' she sighed, ‘so I just gotta live with it.'

‘You're very brave,' said Maggie, with a sympathetic smile.

‘I don't complain,' Gladys lied smugly. ‘What's the point? You just gotta get on with it, don't yer? Here,' she added, plonking the tray down on Maggie's knees. ‘Get that down yer, gel.'

Maggie lifted the covers to reveal a plateful of eggs, bacon and the ubiquitous sausages, all swimming in stale grease.

‘Good honest English grub, that is,' said Gladys. ‘Some of the gentlemen that stays over likes that foreign muck.' She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘You know, rice and fish and boiled eggs all mixed together like a dog's dinner. Rubbish! Give me a good fry-up every time.'

She watched with approval as Maggie bolted it down ravenously. There was a steaming mug of tea on the tray and Maggie picked it up and sniffed it surreptitiously. Who knew what might have been added to it? She'd heard about white slavers who drugged girls into submission. Then she smiled ruefully at her fears; it was a bit late to start worrying now. She was locked up in a brothel already. Why should they bother?

Anyway, the tea smelt of nothing worse than slightly sour milk, so she drank it thirstily, wincing slightly at the taste. Gladys must have put half a dozen spoonfuls of sugar into it, at least.

‘That was delicious,' she lied, pushing the tray away. ‘Thank you.'

‘That's a good girl,' beamed Gladys, picking it up. She leered at Maggie and gave her a knowing wink. ‘Gotta keep yer strength up for today, doncha?' she chuckled.

Maggie stared at her in horror. For a few brief, blessed moments she'd forgotten all about Mrs Wilkes' words the previous night, but now they came back to her in a rush. The greasy food suddenly felt like a lead weight in her belly and she could feel her gorge rise. Only the thought of Gladys' reaction if she suddenly spewed her ‘good, honest English grub' all over the clean counterpane helped her control the sickness rising in her throat.

‘What do you mean?' she asked.

Gladys winked again. ‘You'll soon find out,' she grinned, but the sight of Maggie's white face clearly made her regret her cruel teasing. ‘Don't worry, gel. Relax and enjoy it,' she advised. ‘You'll get over it soon enough. Look at me. Never done me any harm, did it?' Limping exaggeratedly, she shuffled out of the room in her down-at-heel carpet slippers, locking the door carefully behind her.

Maggie stared after her with consternation as it suddenly dawned on her that Gladys wasn't just an ordinary servant. At some point in the past she must have been employed in a different capacity in this house and, impossible as it might seem now, she must have been young and pretty once too. Maggie tried to imagine the fat old woman as one of the scantily clad ‘young ladies' - and failed miserably.

She shuddered. Would that be her in twenty years' time? A drunken clapped-out old trull, kept on out of charity - if she was lucky - to dance attendance on the girls who had taken her place? A never-ending cycle of demand and supply?

Maggie's lips set. She'd rather sleep in the street and pick food from the gutter than stay here. There had to be some way out. There had to be!

Swinging her legs out of bed she padded round, naked, investigating the room. In daylight it was equally uncompromising. Apart from the chamber pot she'd almost clouted Millie with, a tiny sliver of soap and a basin and ewer filled with cold water, there was nothing she could use as a weapon. The window was so small there was no way she could wriggle through - and even if there were, it was barred. Through the dusty panes she could see an endless vista of chimneys and rooftops and, in the distance, the winding silver ribbon of the Thames. The whole of London laid spread out before her - just out of reach.