The Molly Ch. 06

Edith shivered and forced herself to stay still, but she'd been naked for several minutes now and it wasn't especially warm in the room.

Come on, you fucking twit, go with wifey, that's the boy, go with her . . . oh for goodness sake, get a move on, I'm freezin' . . .

After a long moment, Lord Agnew left the room and pulled the door shut. Edith counted to a hundred before opening the door a crack and listening.

There was no sound from the next room. She pushed the closet door open and hopped into her clothes, her teeth chattering, pulling on her pantaloons and undershirt and breeches, slipping her boots on, buttoning up her jacket. She took the bandages that had been strapping down her chest and moistened them with a soda syphon and wiped her face with it, in case she still had any of the lady's secretions on her. Then, feeling sure she smelled of rampant carnal lust, she slipped out of the room into the drawing room.

It was empty, as she knew it was. She quickly made her way to the hall and from there asked her way to the servants' quarters, where she waited out the rest of the visit, gratefully accepting a cup of tea and a bun from the kitchen staff.

Three hours later, Lord Agnew's butler entered the kitchen and beckoned her, and she walked behind him around to the front, to greet Sargent as he left. She bowed to Lord and Lady Agnew, still keeping up the pretence that she wasn't a girl, and was grateful to get inside the carriage and sit opposite the painter.

"Well done!" he exclaimed as they rattled off. "I don't know what you did to her, but she was most compliant."

"We talked," said Edith, smiling.

"I'm sure you did more than that," he said. "I don't think I've ever painted anyone who had so obviously been recently fucked."

"I did what you asked, sir."

"And you got me a happy subject. Good work, Hester. I'm pleased with you."

"'Ave you finished, then?" she asked.

"Good god, no," he said. "That was just the first session. I'll have to come back, several times probably. I may or may not require you to come with me. Did you find the lady pleasant company?"

"She was a little bit forward," said Edith, thinking of how the lady had talked her into stripping nude, and blushing slightly, which made Sargent smile. "But otherwise very proper."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "You may or may not learn from these people how to conduct yourself in polite company. Some people would consider that a bonus. I know that you know that polite company isn't always very polite. Or companionable."

Edith glanced at him, then stared out the window, expressionless.

"So I hope you won't ever forget," he said, "that you and I . . ."

She looked at him again, curiously. He seemed to be struggling to find the words.

"You and I, Hester," he said at last, "we are . . . not from around here. Don't ever forget that. I know I'm a successful painter with a fine house and a cellar and a carriage, but that's as nothing to these people. I'm American. As far as they're concerned, that's almost as bad as . . ."

He stopped. Edith waited, feeling the smile forming on her lips.

". . . As being a tart from Whitechapel?" she said, raising her eyebrows mockingly. He flashed a dark look at her, caught himself, shook his head and laughed.

"I'm sorry. Yes. Almost as bad. It would be better for all if none of this nonsense existed, but we have to live with it. What I'm attempting in my very fumbling way to say is that, in their eyes, you and I are very much alike. It's worth bearing that in mind."

"I'll endeavour to do so, sir," she said, inclining her head politely.

"How in the hell did you get to be so well-spoken?" he asked.

"'Anging around the servants' quarters," she said. "They don't 'alf talk proper in these posh houses. Not like in yours, where they all talk French."

"Mais c'est un beu langage, n'est-ce pas?" he said.

"Oui," she said, "trés beau, mais l'utiliser toute l'heure est ridicule."

Sargent looked genuinely surprised, and applauded softly.

"Good lord," he said. "What is this polyglot abomination I've created?"

She didn't know exactly what he meant, but sensed that he was taking the piss, and she stuck her tongue out at him, smiled to show she didn't mean it, and resumed watching upper-class London go past.

He eyed her. She sat pertly opposite him, looking out the window at the unfamiliar streets of Knightsbridge.

"Is this work you think you could do again?" he said quietly.

"If it's always as easy as this . . ." she said, and glanced at him.

"I doubt that it will be. But if you have a taste for it?"

"If it means that you get paid for your pictures, so we all get paid at the end of the month," she said, "then I think I can stand to make love to a few more society ladies," and smirked.

He held out his hand again, and this time she shook it without hesitation.

* * * *

Edna stirred in Edith's arms and looked up at the young woman's face.

It was the seventh day she had spent in Edith's shack. They had done little but lie in bed and make love, with intervals devoted to fishing, foraging and preparing meals, but all the while, at Edna's urging, Edith had told more of her story.

Edna had been at first shocked to her core by the unspeakable maltreatment, the unutterable brutality, of what had been done to the girl, but Edith had recounted it with a calmness and a lack of malice that had astonished her. She had gone on to talk about her benefactor, Sargent, with real gratitude, and Edna had had to cajole her into giving her account of seducing Lady Agnew.

It was late in the morning, and they had had their fill of grits and coffee, and Edna was warm next to Edith's body, and all she wanted was to hear the next part of Edith's tale.

But Edna knew that there was a good deal that Edith was hiding from her. When Edith had told her of what the men in Mr Stephen's room had done to her, she'd talked of the beating, the horrible abuse, the wound, and she'd shown Edna the small, shiny scar on her buttock -- which Edna had kissed fervently, to the English girl's amusement.

But there were other scars on Edith's body. She herself hadn't mentioned them, but Edna had eyes, and even in the delight of lovemaking she hadn't been able to ignore them. Small slit-shaped pits in the girl's skin, clustered around the undersides of her breasts, her flanks, even in between her thighs. Chillingly, there was a faint but long and narrow scar that ran along the curve of where her throat met the underside of her jaw, a good four inches. Edna knew, and it made her heart throb with compassion, that something else had happened to Edith, something worse than anything she had recounted already.

Even if the physical evidence hadn't been there, Edith had other, less visible scars. Most nights, she slept uneasily and on three occasions she had thrashed and cried out in her sleep. One night Edna was awoken by a violent blow from Edith; she recoiled and began to protest, until she saw that Edith, for all that her eyes were open, was still asleep, reliving some old horror with murmured words, her body glistening with sweat, her red hair lank, her lean body folded into itself, clenched and trembling. Edna had held her and talked to her quietly until she had relapsed back into real sleep, and then Edna had gone on holding her, weeping softly for this sad yet cheerful young woman, who had shown her a new life and yet couldn't escape from the shadow of her previous one.

What were the words Edith had repeated, over and over again, in her waking nightmare? Edna had found them hard to understand. But they were something like 'No more', 'Not more', 'Not one more', uttered in a daze of compulsive repetition.

All that seemed a little less serious in a lazy morning in bed, but the very circumstances lent Edna the boldness to speak up.

"You've stopped," she said to Edith.

"I was just wonderin'," said Edith, "do you really want me to tell the tale of how I seduced all those London ladies? I'm afraid you'll think me of very loose virtue."

She smiled, and so did Edna.

"If you were not of very loose virtue," said Edna, "would we be lying here in sinful connubiality?"

"You have a point there," said Edith, and laughed. "All right. I'll tell you."

"Before you do," said Edna tentatively, "may I ask a question?"

"Of course," said Edith.

Edna rolled herself onto her stomach, so that she could look Edith in the face, and gathered herself.

"I'm not blind, my darling," she said quietly. "I lie with you at night and I know your sleep is troubled. I can only imagine what happened to you that would have been worse than what you've told me, such that you might still be haunted by it. But although I've no relish in hearing of any harm being done to you, I wish you would tell me. Whatever it was, surely you are far from it now? If you still cannot speak of it, I'll by no means urge you. But, Edith, I hope you'll tell me your whole story, and not omit anything out of concern from my womanly sensibilities, or any such nonsense."

Edith was silent for a long time, and Edna looked at her anxiously. The English girl stared at the ceiling of the shack, expressionless.

"Nothing you could tell me would diminish the love I feel for you," said Edna. Edith glanced at her, and just for a moment, Edna felt a hint of chill; something about Edith's pale blue eyes and expressionless stare was disturbing. And then Edith's face shifted, and she smiled slowly.

"Brave words, my love," she said absently. "Brave words."

Edith lowered her eyes, then she covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders shook.

Edna felt her heart throb with love and pity, and she took the other girl in her arms and kissed her.

"I'm sorry," Edith muttered into her hands, sniffing, and she took her hands away and wiped her eyes; Edna watched her recover herself.

Edith gave Edna a sad smile, sniffed again and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry, my darlin'," she said. "You will know all, in the course o' things. I must tell you, anyway, or else be a stranger to you. And lord knows I don't want that. But -- not now. Not yet, anyway. I must tell you my own way. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course," said Edna softly, stroking the other girl's head. It occurred to her for the first time that she was older than Edith; for all that she had lived through shame and humiliation and despair in her own life, she had never been as tried and as mistreated as Edith, who was some four or five years younger, but who had had more and worse experiences crammed into less time.

Edith kissed her, and they lay together for a while, holding each other, then Edith made to get out of bed.

"Where are you going?" said Edna.

"I need more coffee," the English girl said with a smile.

"Let me," Edna cried, and she got out and re-boiled the water, and soon they were back in bed, sipping the aromatic brew.

Edith lay with Edna's head resting on her breast, and went on with her story.