A Victorian Virgin? Ch. 02

That's what you get for marrying a policeman.

Her hair would do if she didn't keep touching it. Charlotte had brushed it back from her forehead, disturbing the normally severe side parting. Victoria was not sure if she liked it. Her slight widow's peak was emphasized, causing her face to appear heart-shaped, which she thought was unattractive. In reality, she was beautiful, but she did not know it. Her eyes were large and widely spaced, her cheekbones high, her lips full and chiseled.

Charlotte was seated at the table in the kitchen when Victoria entered. She did not look up. "I'm sorry," Victoria told her.

For a moment, Charlotte did not reply. Then she said, in a strange, flat-sounding voice, "Don't speak to me. You aren't sorry, you're never sorry, so don't say that you are. Why don't you go and wait in the front room, away from me."

"Charlotte-"

Charlotte bit away the sentence that had started upon Victoria's lips. "I said, 'Don't speak to me', Victoria. Go and wait in the front room." She could not trust herself to say anything more, for fear she would say something she would later regret. Victoria had never had that quality. She always spoke exactly what was in her mind. Charlotte was in no doubt that Victoria meant exactly what she had intoned.

"Please-"

"Go to the front room, Victoria," Charlotte snapped.

"Very well," Victoria replied. She stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. Her stoutly heeled boots could be heard clattering along the naked floorboards in the short steps associated with the fuse of her anger.

Charlotte continued to sit at the table, her eyes shut in pain. She would dearly love to flay Victoria with her tongue, strip her bare of her conceited morals and bring her back down to earth. Only the knowledge that this was her sister kept her tongue jailed behind her teeth. The wounds caused by Victoria's tongue on so many occasions were still bleeding. Next time, Charlotte might be forced to strike back to save herself.

Victoria seated herself haughtily in the 'front room'. It was a poor attempt at a parlor, with three shabby easy-chairs, a low table and a paned window with a view of the street. The fireplace was scrubbed clean of soot and never lit; the heat supplied by the kitchen below was usually sufficient to heat this room by night. When it wasn't, the family wore extra clothing or sat in their own kitchen. There was a photograph identical to that in Victoria's own belongings on the mantelpiece, depicting Charlotte, Sam Morpeth and their infant son. Hanging above this was a small painted portrait of their father, salvaged from the estate that they had been forced to sell. His hair was white and receding, with the same classical nose, arched eyebrows and cleft chin characteristic of his daughters.

Victoria stared at the portrait, imagining the proud man who had seemed to put his family first in every action he had made. He had lavished his daughters with everything that they could possibly want. His life had been about spectacle and pomp, a social climber trying to wheeze his way in amongst men far superior in wealth and standing to himself. Everything had been about show, from the ostentatious decoration of his home and daughters to his exuberant spending on his so-called friends. He had over-reached himself completely. Just as his life had been about exhibition, so had his death manifested show. He had gone out with a bang, literally. His life had ended, not hidden away in some back room of his house, but in the foyer of a grand hotel. What he had been trying to achieve was anybody's guess.

A northern man, a businessman, trying to intrude on the lives of the rich and influential. Trying to be something that he was not. He had failed miserably. His friends had taken his money and left. His business ventures had failed. His creditors had been breathing down his neck. He had nothing left, except the gun in his hand. He had taken two other people with him, wherever he had gone from there.

Victoria closed her eyes. Everything would be all right if Father were still alive. Charlotte would not be married to that terrible man and they would not be living in this horrid place. Victoria would not be forced to work. She had had a taste of the good life and would do almost anything to get the rest of the pie. She wasn't sure about Ned Hawke, though. What did he want from her?

Victoria sank into one of the chairs. Her hands were slumped across the fabric-enclosed arms. She ran her hand over the dark burgundy damask. It was finely woven, if a little faded and threadbare. There was one thing that could be said for Charlotte's taste. Although her furniture was old, it was always clean and as good a quality as she could afford.

It was another twenty minutes before Ned Hawke arrived. Charlotte opened the front door. She was not smiling this time, her eyes were downcast and her lips slack. Even her formerly glowing skin appeared grey. "Good evening," she said. Her voice was as drab as her manner. "I'll just fetch Victoria."

She turned away from him to knock upon a door less than three yards inside the front door. She did not even call out her sister's name. When Victoria exited a few seconds later, Charlotte did not look at her, instead averted her eyes to those of Ned Hawke. The glance was strange. He could not fathom what it meant, but it made him feel unnaturally cold and sweaty. Victoria looked about as happy as her sister did, her eyes shooting darts at his. She gathered up her cape and hat and did not even say goodbye to her sister.

"What happened to your sister?" Hawke asked as they descended the stairs.

"Nothing," Victoria snapped in reply.

*

Ned Hawke seated himself as closely as he could to the woman beside him. He knew that it made her feel uncomfortable. It was probably the only time that night when she could not possibly move away from him without endangering her life. They were bumping down the street at a fine speed now. He should have told the cabby to aim for all the cracks in the road; he seemed to be doing a damn good job as it was. Not that Ned had a clue what the state of the roads were in the East End, he was a West End man himself, only by night of course; he wouldn't be seen dead at any of the places he frequented, during the daytime.

He and Ron Selby had had some good times there over the years. Some women in those gay-houses would do anything for a few pounds... Of course, he preferred his nurses; he knew that he alone owned them, and he alone touched them. Ron occasionally shared, but he really could not be bothered with virgins. Ron liked nurses that knew what was expected of them, in every sense of the word.

This reminded Ned of the charming creature sitting beside him, stiff and as unyielding as one of those terrible corsets women chose to wear. He sidled closer, hoping at least for the warm curve of a thigh or buttock to be pressed against his leg. He felt the muscle contract under the touch of his leg, not soft and compliant, but as tight as the morals of a cloistered puritan. He wondered whether a caressing hand would be an improved assault on this jailed woman. He was met with fierce resistance and reluctantly withdrew his hand. A challenge was what you wanted, he reminded himself.

Every now and then, the glow of the gas-lamps that lit the streets highlighted Victoria's face. If lips were pursed tightly. Her eyebrows were only prevented from knitting by the fold of pale flesh mercilessly pinioned between them. When he touched her, she did not relax, instead the tension underlying each muscle group increased tenfold. There was hope yet; at least she did not openly knock his hand away.

Leave it for later, he told himself. He did not want her strung out with the nerves of a racked man now. So he shifted his body back from hers, allowing the nurse to squeeze her body from the corner she had sandwiched herself into.

"You look beautiful," he told her. She did not even bat an eyelid as far as he could see. They drove on in silence for a few minutes, before he attempted conversation again.

"Your sister," Ned began. "She seemed unhappy."

"She wasn't," Victoria snapped in reply.

Ned began to wonder whether he would have more fun extracting his own teeth without anesthetic. What a fool he was to think that he could pursue this woman outside of the hospital environment. He didn't have a clue how to win her over. He couldn't rely on 'accidental' gropes or collisions to break down her resistance. What could he do? Well, he certainly was not going to give up. He had never lost a woman yet.

Victoria leant back into her corner. She wondered where he was taking her. She did not feel so very uncomfortable now. She suspected that she could almost bear to be in the same room as him, as long as he did not try to touch her again. Uneasily, she recalled the feeling of his leg against hers, the blood boiling through her veins like the steam from a dry kettle. It had been a strange experience. Vulgar and disgusting, she told herself. To think that any man could think that he could take such liberties with an unmarried woman. She berated herself for not requesting a chaperone.

"You look very beautiful." She did too, he thought. If she would only stop frowning, she would be exquisite. He would hate to tell her, but if she carried on like that, she would be marked for life.

"Don't." Those beautiful full lips were pursed in displeasure. He ached to press them against his and remove that tension, to unwind her in his arms until she was nothing but soft, silky and pliant. He pictured her sister's lips superimposed on her face, smiling and warm. The likeness in the family was strong; Victoria could be just as beautiful, if only she relaxed.

"You are," he said.

"Don't." He could run his knuckles down that smooth, milky cheekbone and brush away the tension constricting her face. The muscles would relax under his expert touch. He could manipulate her with his lips until she gasped for air like a drowning swimmer. There was nothing more lovely than a woman who had just received her first proper kiss. She was beautiful to start with. She would be a goddess then.

Victoria watched Ned Hawke with uneasy eyes. Her skin suddenly rushed icily cold and prickled with the erection of hairs. It felt almost as if a tiny mesh of invisible wires was constricting every muscle of her body. She shivered involuntarily as the cold breath of autumn passed across her face.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Are you sure?" He moved closer to check her face, now cloaked in the shadows. He saw the fabric of her skirt shiver as she jerked her leg away from his. "Are you cold?"

"No."

"No, you're not sure or no, you're not cold?"

"I am fine," Victoria said. Now, just with the movement of his leg against hers, her blood was boiling like a smelting furnace. Her veins began to trill with an increasing pulse. Her heart desperately pumped against her sternum, as a butterfly trapped in a jar might do. She tried to force it to slow, but she could not. The knowledge of his hand slowly gliding up her thigh, made the beating stop. She felt her heart lurch in her chest, leaving the rest of her body feeling uncomfortably empty.

"Please don't," she whispered, but her voice came out in a ragged gasp. She was frightened now. His hand halted in its path, the fingertips gently circling over the fabric. The soft sensation sent waves of panic through her nerves. Heat diffused to every bodily surface, rushing like a wild torrent of water over her skin. She felt sweat slicken the skin between her legs. Her blood thumped violently through her veins in response to the gentle stimulus of her thigh. "Don't," she repeated.

Ned moved his hand back down to her knee and pressed his thigh hard against hers. "Really?" His hand rose up again, this time taking with it a wrinkle of fabric. His ankle gently brushed against the tiny inch of exposed flesh. He paused and let his fingertips swivel lightly over her thigh. He hoped that she could feel something through whatever petticoats and drawers she was wearing under the smooth fabric of her dress. His fingers arched forwards and hooked another fold of fabric, drawing up until it rested beneath his wrist. He curved his hand backwards and forwards along the outside slope of her thigh.

Victoria felt herself growing more and more sweat laden. The polished cotton of her petticoat clung to the cleft between her buttocks as warmth and desire trickled down the cavity of flesh between the legs of her drawers. She was in danger of losing herself to him. "Stop it," she told him, and herself. His hand continued to rove freely over her thigh. She brought her own hand down on his, pushing him away. "I said stop it."

"I'm sorry," Ned murmured. He felt how wet the palm that repelled his hand was and realized how close he was getting. His own loins were fired with the knowledge. Still, he thought of himself as a gentleman, so delicately removed the pressure of his hot body from hers.

They rode on in silence. It had been nearly fifty minutes by now. Suddenly, Victoria turned to him and asked. "Where are we going?"

Ned Hawke smiled, more to himself than the woman sitting beside him. "That would be telling."

Something about the way his lips curved arrogantly into the surrounding skin terrified Victoria. "Where are we going?" she repeated, trying to keep the element of fear from infecting her voice.

"For a meal," Ned said. "Relax, I'm not going to bite you."

"I did not think that you would." Something intuitively did not bode well. "Where are we going?"

"Don't worry, it's not far."

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," Victoria murmured.

"Don't fret," Ned told her. He reached across to pat her leg, but saw her face flinch in alarm. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Victoria struggled back into the corner she had wedged herself into earlier. Why had she let Charlotte persuade her to do this? "I'll ask you one more time. Where are we going, Mr. Hawke?" Her voice was as cold and as even as she could make it.

"Calm yourself, we're just going to have a meal together," Ned said.

"Where? We've been in this hansom for nearly an hour. Where are we going?"

"Somewhere nicer than Spitalfields."

"Where?" Victoria snapped. "Stop circumventing the question and tell me!"

"It's a surprise. Trust me, you'll like it."

That was the problem; Victoria did not trust him, or herself. She unfolded her arms from about her chest and rapped on the ceiling of the carriage to alert the driver. "Excuse me! Excuse me!"

"What are you doing?" Ned asked in alarm.

Victoria ignored him as the driver unlatched the trapdoor in the roof to speak with her. "Yes, love?" the man asked. His breath could be seen precipitating in bursts of white air from his mouth.

She took a deep breath as the chilled air of autumn poured slowly into the carriage through the trapdoor. Goodness, it was cold, and it was not even winter yet. "Stop the cab, I want to get out," she told the man, in the most authoritive voice she could muster.

"Don't listen to her," Ned said. "Keep driving."

Victoria flashed a look of desperation at the driver, sitting so high above them. "Please, stop the trap. I want to get out."

"Shut the hatch and drive on," Ned told the man. He turned to Victoria. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I want to go home."

"We're nearly there, don't worry," Ned said.

The hansom was slowing to a halt now. Soon she would be able to extricate herself from the corner and get out the cab. It wasn't that she disliked Hawke, indeed she was discovering she liked him too much. She didn't trust his hands or his easy grin, nor did she trust her own judgment. Being near him was becoming dangerous for her liking. Her brain was constricted by all the ideals of morality and puritanistic views on the control of emotion, but her body was not following the commands it was sent. She was terrified of the rapid beating of her heart, the heat rushing over her skin and the wetness gathering upon her limbs. She had never felt this way before, except in those disgusting moments when she let her own hands stray down her body. It was beastly and animalistic; truly frightening that she could allow these passions to flood her mind.

"All right, miss. It's safe to climb out now," the driver said.

"Where will you go?" Ned asked, frantically. "You're miles from home, you've probably not got any money on you, and even if you did it would not be enough for the trip back. I can't just leave you out on the street in the middle of London." He grappled at her wrists only to have her jerk away in distaste. "Victoria, please. It's not safe."

Victoria had not thought it through. She was, as Ned said, in the middle of London, miles from home, with no money. "I don't know," she said.

"Is my company so bad that you cannot bear to be near me?" he asked her.

The nurse watched him with weary eyes. She liked him, she truly did, but she did not trust him. Guiltily, she recalled the minutes they spent in the sweaty darkness of room twenty-one. Her brain had told her to be disgusted by what her fumbling fingers had touched, and she was, but not as much as she should have been. She knew what he was like, and she knew that should they be left alone, anything could happen.

"Miss, are you getting out or not?" the driver questioned in his coarse voice.

Victoria looked at Ned Hawke. "No," she said. "Drive on."

The cabman left them outside the building. It appeared as a narrow bricked wall wedged between two much larger and taller edifices that seemed to frown down upon it. There were three steps up to a navy-blue door with a polished brass knocker. Ned took this in hand and gently rapped. Almost immediately, a liveried man opened the door.

"Good evening, Dr. Hawke," he said. "Come in." George Thompson was a thin, lean man, with a sharp face. The lips above his pointed chin were thin; consequently, he had grown a large moustache to mask them. His hair was almost excessively oiled and combed back from his forehead. He turned to Victoria, fixing his wide-set brown eyes upon her face. "Good evening, madam." Ned nodded to him, and then slipped inside. Victoria followed him, closely.

The foyer was decorated theatrically with deep burgundy paintwork and imposing portraits of men with powdered wigs. The thick carpet bore a strange patterning of gold and red designs. When Victoria looked up, she saw that the high ceiling was patterned with a raised design of roses and coiled rope.

Another man in livery came and fetched their coats and hats, before yet another man conveyed them down a hallway to a desk with a high wooden counter. Standing behind this desk was a plump woman dressed in a sober black dress. Her curled hair was elaborately stacked above her pasty face. Her brown eyes were embedded in a pit of fat wrinkles and framed with pince-nez glasses that dripped a chain down about her neck. "Good evening, Dr. Hawke," she said, breezily. Her chubby head swiveled on its rolled neck to face Victoria. "Good evening, Miss."

"Hello," Victoria replied, uneasily.

"I've given you room thirteen. Your meal has been kept heated and will be brought to you immediately," Susannah Price said to Ned. She patted her sweating red forehead with a handkerchief before turning to a door behind the desk. "Lucy, would you please come and assist Dr Hawke."

A thin, blonde woman ventured into the room. Her maid's uniform was well pressed, the apron hanging cleanly from her narrow waist. "Certainly, mum," Lucy said. She took a key handed to her by Susannah and moved out from behind the desk. "Right this way, sir, ma'am."

They were lead to a winding staircase of polished wood. Lucy ascended first, followed by Ned and then Victoria. "What is this place?" Victoria queried as her eyes regarded the ostentatious decorations.