Willing (4 page)

“Take Constance’s things up to my room, please.”

Constance and Roger both stared at Berty. “What?”

She took a shallow breath, reaching for her snuff box on the bar. “Do as I ask please, Roger.”

Berty gestured to the box and Roger obliged, disappearing up the stairs with Constance’s things. Constance watched him go, his shoulders rounded with the same strange quality as Berty’s cautious frame.

“Berty, I can’t take your room. Just make Josselyn -”

“It’s already done. Here. I believe this is for you.”

It’s already done? What did she mean?

Constance turned back to Berty who held out a small card. Constance took it, then held her hand out in expectation. Berty lit her cigarette, only pretending not to see for a moment. Then she sighed, dug into her skirt pockets and retrieved the envelope that held the large sum of money. She placed ten pounds into Constance’s waiting hand. Constance’s eyes went wide, then she shook her head, willing Berty blind to her surprise, put the notes in her pocket and opened her hand again. Berty groaned and handed Constance another ten pounds.

“Thank you, kindly,” Constance said, letting each word simmer with sarcasm to hide her almost giddy mood. 

Berty waved her away, and Constance turned for the stairs. She passed Roger coming back and headed down the long hallway to the last door, the most secluded and spacious of all the bedrooms. She reached the doorway, smelling Berty’s perfume from within. The bed was a four poster, covered in silks and satins. The curtains matched the bedclothes, hanging from the high ceilings, but long enough to still brush the floors when a draft came in through the high windows. Roger had lit a lamp on the bedside table, and the room glowed in red and gold. Berty might be a crass creature at times, but she had rich tastes. Constance shut the door to the bedroom and turned her attention to the card –

Until we meet again.

-
        
A

Despite the exhaustion she’d felt on the ride home, suddenly Constance was wide awake.

Chapter Three

“Damn it, girl! I need you here!”

Berty’s voice boomed in the downstairs of the tavern, rattling the loose window panes.

Sally tucked her shawl over her mouth and giggled, cruelly, her small carpet bag hefted onto her hip as she marched across the parlor.

“You’ll have to find someone else then, old Berty. I’ve a better offer.”

The argument had started sometime the day before, but Constance was kept too busy by her regulars to pay much mind. Now with the lull of early morning, the entire house was privy to Berty’s business. Sally was a shorter girl, dark blonde hair, and missing a couple teeth at the corners of her smile, but she had a round ass and a girlish giggle, and the lads enjoyed that. The lads also enjoyed Sally for a particular expertise.

“A better offer my arse! You know damn well how Coogan treats his girls. You’ll end up with your throat slit in some alley – or worse!”

Coogan was a pimp down on Dorset Street; not a friendly part of Whitechapel. He sent his girls out to work the roughest streets in London and was more than happy to rough them up from time to time when they didn’t pull their weight. Members of his gang didn’t think twice either.

Sally dropped her bag onto the floor and stared Berty down. “He pays a better percentage though, don’t he?”

“Aye, and
you
pay for it! He’ll have you out in the streets, no protection at night, no -”

“Say what you will, I’ll go where the pay is, and that’s that. Girls say they’re makin three times as much as we are pickin up fellas at the Ten Bells!”

“God damn it, Sal. Listen to bloody reason!”

But she was gone, her sandy blonde hair flying high above her head outside the window. Berty spun around from the door, her skirts swirling about her wide hips, and glared at the crowd, all gathered on the staircase and the upper landing. Her wild blue eyes darted from face to face, searching. She met Constance’s gaze for an instant, and turned, much as she had for the past month, as though unwilling to look her in the eye.

“You! Hilda.”

“Yes, Miss Berty?”

“You’ll be taking the ass work from here on.”

“What?!”

Many of the girls burst into laughter.

“But I ain’t done it half as much as Sally. And she had twice the ass I’ve got.”

Constance turned from the bustle and headed back down the hall to her room. Despite the weeks that passed since her new room assignment, Constance still hadn’t wholly moved in. She was sure any moment Berty would appear at her door, red in the face, demanding to know who the hell she thought she was sleeping in the nicest room in the place – the Madam’s room. Yet, each time Constance had tried to discuss the change in living arrangements, Berty waved her off, hardly meeting her eye for more than a second. Constance’s things were still tucked away in her bag, hidden just under the bed for quick retrieval if the need arose.

Constance sat down in front of her vanity, tucking the wisps of dark curly hair up and pinning them into place. She hadn’t the time to do it properly, given the ruckus that called from downstairs.

Constance was on her third pin when Berty barreled in through the open door.

“Foul girl. I swear to you, Connie, these girls are a bunch of mindless -”

Constance turned, startled by the company. Though she and Berty could get along rather well, the past month had been strangely terse. Yet, here she was pacing the breadth of her former bed chamber, her hips bumping into Constance’s shoulder each time she passed.

“What I wouldn’t give to have a house full ‘a girls like you.”

Constance furrowed her brow. “Like me how?”

“With a lick of sense, girl! Frank Coogan? Of all the pricks, she’s going to work for Coogan? Bastard makes all his girls do ass work! She’ll find no favor there!”

Constance turned in her chair to watch Berty pace, giving her full attention. Berty continued to fume, much of the words lost on Constance. Finally, Berty threw her hands up. “You know that prick lost
two
girls to Jack so far?!”

She stopped, staring at Constance as though she’d insulted her mother. Constance frowned at her, reaching for her hand. Berty slumped down onto the side of the bed.

“It was almost a year ago. Last time the detectives came in, they said the bastard was more than likely done, ae?”

“Aye, but the streets ain’t any safer for girls like us now, are they?”

Constance glanced around the room where she now saw her loyal clientele; red sashes and drapes, four poster bed, fabric wallpaper that wasn’t peeling at every seam. However temporary her current circumstances, she was sure there wasn’t another whore in the city of London working in better conditions. Still, even in her old room, Constance knew she had it made. The rooms were warm in the winter, not too hot in summer. There was food and drink downstairs, and the roof only leaked during long stints of rain. Berty had to turn a good number of girls looking for work away over the years, because she hadn’t the room. Any working girl in London would love to claim a room in Berty’s household. Constance had been unfortunately lucky enough to stumble into it, herself.

“She’s a big girl. She has to make her own decisions.”

“Aye, but she hasn’t the wits to make any good ones.”

Constance smiled. “One could ask whether any of us do.”

Berty shot her a sad smile, and for the first time in a month, held her gaze without trouble. She paused. “I worry about you girls, you know that, right?”

Constance nodded. “I do. I know that.”

“This ain’t an easy business to run. Always worrying for you lot, trying to catch the creeps at the door. When Lyle was here, he’d do ‘em one if they got too handsy. I’m not built for roughhousing, myself.”

“I’d say you do a wonderful job. And you keep Roger and Henry around. You’ve done a fine job.”

Constance set her jaw, fighting to keep her expression warm through mention of Lyle Grisholm – Lyle, the landlord that refused to extend Constance’s rent a week without some form of ‘payment’ – payment that involved Constance taking her first clients in the dingy corner room she kept in Mr. Grisholm’s tenements. The side of her nose twitched and Constance quickly looked away.

Berty exhaled sharply through her nose. “Ain’t lost a girl yet.”

This was no little claim, too. Whitechapel was one of the harshest places to live, even for the straight folk, and that was before the Ripper.

In the late Summer of the previous year, a working girl was found with her throat slit down on Buck’s Row, her belly torn open as well. A few weeks later, the same. Each time another girl was found, she’d been done the same, only worse. They found a girl named Mary still lying in her bed, and from what Constance heard, the alley outside her room was covered in vomit from the poor policemen that came to investigate. The Star newspaper called him Jack the Ripper, and he did his dark work on the place. Whitechapel was used to violence, but carving up whores like they were Christmas hams and leaving them in alleys to be found and ogled by the locals was new. There’d been murders before the Ripper, and there’d been murders since, but he did his deeds with a certain kind of darkness that kept many girls like Constance up at night.

Constance turned back to the mirror, twisting a curl up into the high expanse of her hair. She grabbed another pin, holding the lock in place, but Berty’s hand stopped her. Constance let Berty take the pin, slipping it into her hair with gentle fingers.

“You take care tonight, love. Alright?”

Constance smiled. “When have I ever not?”

“I mean it. Moon is getting full. Crazies always come out on the full moon.”

“I know it well.”

Constance turned her head from side to side, appraising the updo she’d managed. Despite her profession, Constance enjoyed looking like a lady, the way her mother raised her. Berty assured her it was this - and many other reasons - that made so many men seek her above the others. “A true gentleman wants a lady, even if he’s working the docks, and even if he’s paying for her,” Berty often said. Constance was happy to oblige.

The place was rowdier than usual, and Constance shot Berty a knowing smile when the second fist fight of the night broke out. ‘Full moon brings out the crazies,’ as Berty said.

Now, Constance was sitting at her vanity again, buttoning up her collar as Mr. Joe Flannery refastened his belt.

“You’re always so good to me, Connie, old girl.”

Constance smiled at Joe, a bearded layman from Devon. “You make me sound like an old mule.”

“No, no! I don’t mean it like that! Though stubborn does sound about right.” Joe flashed her a grin from deep within his russet beard and she smiled back.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Joe set a couple coins onto the vanity and smiled at her in the mirror. “A little something extra this week.”

Constance stood up from her seat and turned to him. “You needn’t do that, darling.”

He smiled. “I want to. Won a bit downstairs playing cards.”

“Don’t fib, Joseph.”

He scratched his neck, sheepishly. “Well, I still want you to have it, alright?”

Constance straightened his collar, turned to the vanity and took one of the two coins, slipping it into his jacket pocket. “Save this one for next time, then.”

She gave him a warm kiss on the cheek, his curly beard brushing her chin.

He grinned ever wider. “What was that I was sayin’ about being stubborn?”

Then he headed down the hallway and joined the rabble downstairs, glancing back at her with his hat tightly curled in his hands.

Constance repinned her hair, straightened up her rouge and lip stain, and headed back out into the fray. It was a decent crowd downstairs, many tables fully occupied. She stopped at the top of the staircase, watching the crowd. She could feel eyes on her, and she scanned the crowd to find her admirer. He was at the bar, dressed in full suit, his cap settled on the bar stool beside him – the carriage driver from the month before. Across the bar from him, Berty stood, leaning in as though having some hushed conversation. Constance scanned the crowd, searching for Alisdair, but when she didn’t find him, she took a deep breath. It wasn’t odd for a working man to take a break at the Keg and Barrel on his way through the city. Still, Constance’s stomach grew tight as she made her way down the stairs. It had been a month since she lay on a stone table before a robed circle. Still, the memory of it made her heart race every time it came to mind. What if this man wasn’t here for pleasure? He certainly had his eye on her.

“Good evening, sir. A pleasure to see you again.”

The driver took her hand and bowed his head, rising from his stool to meet her, and tucking his hat under his arm.

“I’m here on behest of his Lordship.”

Constance’s breath caught in her throat, but she nodded. “I see. Was he unable to attend, this evening?”

“He was. He is awaiting our arrival at his estate.”

Constance took a deep breath. “Oh.” She took a deep breath and steeled herself, hiding her nerves. “That will be fine - if Berty can spare the manpower this evening.”

Berty stopped dead at the mention of her name, and shot a wary look between them. “Jesus, Constance. Look around you.”

Yet, despite her tone of complaint, she turned and hollered across the bar. “Roger! Get over here, lad.”

“That is fine madam, but your bodyguard’s services will not be needed this evening.”

Constance and Berty both stopped and stared at the driver. Constance straightened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Pardon. I said the services of a bodyguard are not necessary this evening.”

Constance smiled, taking on the most prim and proper air that she could. “I do beg your forgiveness, sir, but I imagine it is I who decides whether his services are required or not.”

The driver straightened himself, coming to stand just an inch or two shorter than she. “I have been given the strictest orders that you are to come alone, madam.”

“Lovely. Then do give my kindest regards to your employer and have a safe journey home.”

It was both Berty and the driver’s turn to act startled.

“Are you quite sure, miss?” he asked.

Constance stopped, pressed her hands to her corseted belly, and straightened as she turned back to him. “I do apologize, but I can and will not, under any circumstances, leave this establishment unaccompanied.”

Constance turned back toward the stairs, giving one of the other more drunken patrons a stern look as he reached for her skirts. She felt almost relieved. Though she’d enjoyed her time with the circle physically, something about the whole experience haunted her dreams – often with a set of dark eyes at the center.

“I can offer double the wage of your previous visit.”

Berty inhaled sharply and held her breath. Though Constance didn’t know how much she’d been paid, she knew it was no small figure. Constance turned back to meet the driver.