Victorian Dream (16 page)

Lucien rolled over and gave Beatrice a slap on the rump. Before she could wipe the sleep from her eyes, he pushed her unrigged and shivering from the bed.

“Make a cup of tea,” he ordered, “and be quick about it. Then lay out my clothes. I don’t wish to be late today.”

Naked as you please, Beatrice stood before him, her mousy hair a tangle, her doleful brown eyes returning his stare.

“You’re going to be with her again ain’t you?” she said. “She don’t want you, Lucien. She can’t show you the kind of appreciation you likes best.” As she spoke, Beatrice fondled her diddeys, and traced lazy circles around her nipples.

The brazen display of earthy delights sent a twinge of willingness to his groin. She eyed his erection, and smiled triumphantly. Trailing her hands downward to the mat of curls crowning her thighs, she smiled and stroked herself.

Lucien grabbed her around the waist and tugged her closer to the bed. She leaned over, inviting him to nip at her breasts as she reached to stroke and fondle him. The bitch did know how to please a man.

He forced her head to his loins. She knelt at his side and greedily took him, her hands kneading his chest and thighs. In unison, they groaned with carnal pleasure as she performed her art, quickly bringing him to climax. Drowsy with satisfaction, he nearly fell back to sleep. Then the day’s itinerary flashed through his mind. Furious with Beatrice for trying to control him with sex, he shoved her aside and gained his feet.

“You’re a dirty puzzle, you heartless slut,” he accused. Her eyes widened in surprise. “You’re only trying to delay me. Trying to keep me from a woman whose name you’re not worthy to speak. All you care about is getting me up your cock alley?”

He grasped her around the throat. “Don’t ever forget who is master between us,” he warned. “There are several exquisite means of curing disobedience in concubines. It would be my pleasure and your pain should we explore those techniques.”

“I’m sorry Lucien,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Make the tea,” he ordered, releasing her.

She grabbed her robe and fled to the kitchen.

A half hour later, Lucien was on his way, wishing he’d spent the morning under Trelayne’s ministrations rather than Beatrice’s. Regardless, he did love sex. Like gambling, he could never get enough.

Imagining how it would be with Trelayne, he nearly fell from his horse. Once introduced to the world of sexual delights, she would surely desire them as much as did he. Then his good mood plummeted as he remembered today’s agenda, and the inconvenience and disgust he would undoubtedly suffer.

“Blast. What a waste of a good day.”

To save riding all the way out to Royston Hall, he was to meet Trelayne’s carriage at Beningbrough Hill Road. And as it would appear unseemly for him to travel within, the original plan was for him to ride alongside. This of course was contrary to his intentions. Reaching his destination, he reined in his horse, dismounted, and watched for the old equipage the St.Christopher’s called a carriage.

Before long, the antiquated black coach loomed up over an adjacent hill. Why the St.Christophers refused to modernize their transportation was beyond him. This decorative relic bounced and rattled along with bone jarring annoyance. And it looked like something the devil himself would use to patrol the boundaries of Hell.

At least there was one bit of good luck. Jeb manned the reins, not the tenacious old watchdog Merrick.

As Jeb wrestled the four matched black geldings to a halt, Lucien unsaddled his horse.

“Good morning, sir,” the young driver called down. “Anything the matter, sir?”

Jeb’s look of worry increased as Lucien threw his tack in the boot of the carriage and tied his horse to the rear frame of the coach.

“My horse has thrown a shoe and bruised his hoof,” he explained, the lie rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. “I’ve no choice but to ride with your mistress.” He climbed aboard and shut the door. “Move along now,” he ordered, disallowing for any argument.

“Lucien.” Trelayne’s surprise was apparent as he settled in across from her. “I thought you were to ride alongside.”

He explained his horse’s condition, and although agreeing to drop the animal off at a nearby hamlet, he refused her suggestion they wait as the mount was re-shod.

“The animal has specific needs, and my preferred farrier is the only one I will allow to work on him.”

“Well we certainly must do what is best for the animal,” she conceded.

At a nearby village, they accommodated the horse in temporary lodgings, and after slipping the stable boy a few quid to declare there were no rental mounts available, they forged on.

He marveled at the interior of the coach. It was as dreary as the outside. Black-fringed curtains clung to the windows, while old-fashioned brass candle lamps and drip pans tried but failed to brighten each corner. The overall effect was completely dismal. Trelayne was the only gay spot of color. Even dressed in dark burgundy with her hair wrenched back into a chignon, she was beautiful beyond compare. He must insist she wear her hair down when they visited the Bond. On that evening every man in the room must envy him and wish for what he had attained—what he called his own.

She returned his gaze and smiled, or more precisely she beamed with anticipation and enthusiasm. No doubt picturing herself an avenging angel, prepared to swoop down upon the demons of disease, despair, and drunkenness.

“Thank you again for accompanying me, Lucien. I know today will be a glorious experience. Here is my list of addresses from Father Woolsey.” She waved a paper containing the information. “We’ve blankets, soap, candles, dried fruits, and even a few Bibles. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “it’s my understanding most of the people we shall see today can neither read nor write. That in itself is a tragedy, is it not?”

“Oh quite,” he replied, working to suppress his sarcasm. “However, I doubt the inability to read or write is the most pressing concern in their miserable existence. Dying of fever from living in the miasma of their night soil, as well as their animals’, is probably higher on their priority list.”

“Oh, Lucien, do not be distasteful and pessimistic. I’m sure the area to which we travel cannot possibly be as awful as we have been led to believe. No one could live in such conditions. Most people probably just need encouragement, and the knowledge that some of us truly care about their circumstances. Perhaps they simply need a little advice on managing and running their households.”

Familiar with the less glamorous parts of London, Lucien knew the stories were true enough. Smog, filth, and ignorance teamed unchecked there. Yet he supposed it was beyond comprehension to someone who had never witnessed the degradation existing but a few streets away from the grand cathedrals and opulent opera houses. Besides, Trelayne’s innocence was one of the qualities he loved best. She was so trusting and easily swayed by high ideals and charitable causes.

“Whatever you say, my dear. I am at your service. Although I still contend you have no business exposing yourself to the disease breeding in these neighborhoods. Your intentions, while valorous, will not protect you from pox and pestilence.”

“Should I then let my fears dictate my actions and decide for me what is right or wrong?” she defended, her cheeks colored with passion.

“No, of course not Trelayne, but common sense might serve you better than the common cause.”

“Oh, please,” she pouted, “let us not bicker. I have been looking forward to this day for nearly a month. I shan’t let you spoil it with your mulish bad attitude. Now give me a smile, and try to be more positive.”

“You know I will do anything for you darling, and I will try my best not to say
‘I told you so,’
yet I fear the occasion will be upon us shortly.”

Trelayne leaned forward and peered out the window. Lucien was content just to observe Trelayne.

“Why is it getting darker Lucien? There were no storm clouds in the sky when we departed.”

“It’s the normal atmosphere here,” he enlightened. “The foul brown cloud is created by the poisonous vapors spewing forth from the noxious trades. It blots out the sun, just as it blots out the hopes and dreams of the poor wretches living here. It’s no wonder they turn to gin and opium for solace.”

“Lucien, you are too hard on these people.”

“On the contrary. I’m being practical. One coach full of supplies will not change the reality of the situation. I say let them escape by whatever means they can obtain or afford.”

She seemed to consider this information then asked what he had meant by noxious trades.

“Dear Lord, where to start?” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Fell-mongers, tripe boilers, blood dryers, gut scrapers, tanners, glue makers…. They all reside here, from manure and tar works, to sugar refineries and fat extractors, and each trade gives forth its own distinctive by-product of choking smells. The resulting combination is the most horrible conglomeration of odors one can imagine. It’s a stench vile enough to generate pestilence.”

“But how can anyone stand to live here?” she said, her voice muffled and her expression of distaste barely concealed behind the hand now cupped over her mouth and nose.

“Trapped by circumstance and caged by misfortune, they have little choice.”

Like a roving beast, the foul smell crept closer. There were tears in Trelayne’s eyes; were they caused by the acrid smell, or sympathy? Probably both.

“Well,” she sniffled, lowering her hand, “it’s no wonder they’re so downtrodden and disinclined to dream of higher aspirations.”

Before he could respond, the coach came to an abrupt halt. Damn. Had they reached their first stop already?

“Move those bleaters and mowers,” Jeb issued orders, “and be quick about it. Me coach is sinking in this river of mud you call a street. I can’t keep stationary waitin’ for ya. We’ll soon be up to our hubs.”

The baaing of sheep and the mooing of cows issued all around as animals ran in every direction.

Jeb urged the horses back into action. They strained in their traces, but nothing happen. Then there was a sucking sound and the carriage wheels jerked loose from the mud. Without warning, the vehicle surged forward. Trelayne slid from the seat landing unceremoniously on the floor.

“I love women at my feet, dearest, but this is hardly the time or place.”

Trelayne rolled her eyes at his lame jest. “For heaven sakes, Lucien, do lend a hand.”

He reached to assist her, one hand on her upper arm, the other taking liberties with her thigh. The muscles of one long leg flexed beneath his fingers, and a rush of lusty imaginings made him wince. Oh, to see those long legs naked and spread beneath him.

Trelayne settled back against the squabs and adjusted her shawl. Preoccupied with her mission of mercy, she seemed unaware of the wayward touching

“What in heaven’s name are all these animals doing running loose in the city?” she asked, renewing their conversation.

“The same thing they do running loose in the country.” This time he just couldn’t suppress his sarcasm.

“You know what I mean,” she persisted. “I had no idea people were allowed to keep livestock in their very yards. It does little to improve the smell of things.”

“Come winter,” he said, flicking a bit of dust from his lapel, “they will probably keep the animals indoors, eating and sleeping right along side of them.”

“Mother of mercy, why?” She appeared sickened at the prospect.

“It’s the only fresh meat the poor beggars can obtain. The offerings available at the butchers being abominable in both price and condition.”

Trelayne stared out window. “This truly is a different world,” she whispered. “Even the snatches of conversation drifting by are thick with brogues and so filled with street slang, I can barely understand a sentence spoken.”

****

Trelayne’s spirits faltered. It was dark and smelly here…and noisy. As they reached one of the few cobbled streets, the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels, mixed with the sounds of the animals and mongers, created a hideous din. It was enough to give one a case of the jitters. No wonder people threw straw in front of houses when the occupant was ill. Anything to mute the noise and offer ease and quiet to the ailing party. Living in the country, lack of peace and calm had never been an issue.

Entering a mud-filled side avenue, Jeb drew the team to a halt. He scrambled down to assist her, and ended up carrying her through the muck to the front door of the first dwelling. Although grateful for his assistance, from there on out, she insisted on making her own way down the oozing street, one hovel to the next.

Dispensing the supplies as she saw fit was hard reckoning. All the families were one step away from destitution. She could easily leave all the comforts at just one house, but parceling out the items would bring a little happiness to a number of people rather than a great joy to just a one.

But the faces of the children touched her the most. Overly docile and already giving in to their lot in life, they languished in dank rooms, resignation emanating from their dull eyes. They stared at her with vacant looks, not laughing or playing or responding to her smiles and teasing. When she talked to them, they glanced around as if to see to whom she spoke.

Reaching the final house on her list, she was flooded with guilt at being so grateful for her first tour of facing poverty to be finished. The old woman inside gladly accepted the last basket of food and a handful of candles.

“These gifts are from the Altar Society of St. Alban’s,” Trelayne repeated for the final time, “and the thoughts and prayers of the congregation accompany them.”

“Thank you for your kindness, but your prayers be too late for that one.” Bent with age and grief, the old lady nodded in the direction of an adjacent room.

Although Lucien tried to stay her actions, Trelayne went to the doorway. As her eyes grew accustomed to the bleak light, she detected a young woman lying in the bed, a near-naked newborn at her breast. The girl was still as a statue, her stare unblinking. Was she even alive? The shallow rise and fall of her chest gave credence she was, but this welcome relief was short lived. The babe she held did not move nor cry, and his little arms and legs seemed unnaturally stiff, his coloring dusky, not pink.