The Whitechapel Virgin Page 13

  Cross settled back in his seat to watch London slowly begin to shut down. Not so much longer alive to the hustle and bustle of activity, shopkeepers closed their doors to their wares as public drinking houses swung open theirs.

  He shuffled his positioning, for quite throughout the day he had been uncomfortably possessed by an erection, caused only by his dark imaginings and fantasies.

  How might she look in that dress?

  He imagined the rich dark fabric setting off the paleness of her small breasts, illuminating the contours of her willowy cheeks. In response to these frustrating thoughts he had not been able to suppress the bulge in his pants, nor curtail his heady excitement.

  Even now as he sat there, he felt as if pulled along by some erotic dream. His own reverie did not prevent him from worrying that she might altogether snub him, or hide away within her gloomy quarters.

  No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t, he told himself. Not when he had gone to all this trouble to pursue her. She would be a very silly girl if she did not return his eager affections. Why, any disreputable girl in Whitechapel could not choose to be so foolish, for any girl in her position would throw her grubby knees at his feet at such a prospect.

  He laughed to himself as he recalled the moment he had looked down and discovered Catherine Bell sprawled at his feet.

  Well there it was! Fate had dealt him a fortunate hand. He laughed aloud at his own wit and the driver glanced back with a stony expression.

  In truth, the biggest part of his ego was stimulated at the thought that he would now have the slip of a girl all to himself, and with her additional entries into his diary he would pen a best-selling publication. Convinced of his own clever accomplishments he turned his head and smiled broadly at each passer-by as though they might somehow share a sense of his own calibre of brilliance.

  He felt a ripple of excitement and an aching swell of eager anticipation somewhere below his naval once the carriage came to a halt a short distance from the Boars.

  The dimly-lit gas lamps inside told him that the place was only just springing to life. The feint sound of music had begun stirring from within. He adjusted his necktie and stepped out of the carriage onto a skeletal little hound which yelped then scampered away with its tail between its legs. ‘Blasted thing,’ he cursed, and looked about him to see that there was no-one in sight except for a toothless old beggar loitering at the opposite side of the street. There was no sign of Catherine Bell and for a moment his euphoria faded a notch.

  She will come to me. Patience...

  He rested an elbow on the carriage for a few moments. The horse swished its tail restlessly in an effort to remove pesky flies and Cross moved away and took a few steps forward. At that moment the door opened and the melodic sounds within grew louder as the figure of Catherine Bell came into view.

  She held the lower fabric of the dress in her hand as she stepped down to avoid any blemish from the mucky pavement soiling it.

  Cross gasped as the full moon illuminated the attractive contours of her cheeks though her face was devoid of expression.

  He noted she had left her hair to spread loosely around her shoulders. He liked it like that. Her youthful bloom still evident, for otherwise the dress would surely have added numbers to her years and set upon her an aged appearance.

  Exquisite, just as I had imagined.

  He could not help but think she appeared almost regal as she walked, like one of better standing and good breeding. Perhaps it was because she took careful steps, holding the hem above a ground that was riddled with filth. As she approached him he could not quite gauge her countenance. Her head remained erect but her eyes were lowered and so her mood was unfathomable.

  He would wait for a timely moment when they arrived at his residence, then he would take her and unceremoniously make her bleed, and she would have no choice but to succumb to the unchallenged pleasure of submission.

  Catherine stopped before him and for the first time he noticed the slender shape of her delicate neck, and the improvement of her chest enhanced now by the pretty laced-up bodice. He thought she appeared quite breath-taking in an innocent way, and he quivered, eager to explore her.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said tipping his hat and assisting her into the carriage. Throughout the short journey very little was said and he would have expected her to ask him where they were heading, but instead she looked calmly at her lap. It must have been obvious to her, that he would take her to his home.

  ‘You look wonderful, and just as I had imagined you,’ he said most truthfully.

  She smiled and blushed. ‘I feel very spoiled Mr Cross. I really did not deserve such a lavish gift as this.’

  ‘Ah,’ he chuckled, raising a hand. ‘All ladies should be spoiled at least once in their lifetime.’

  He winked playfully and she giggled.

  He found he liked the sound of her sweet laugh and couldn’t recall hearing it before now. It reminded him of the cherry fruit pies he and his mother used to sit and eat at the weekends together, many moons ago at some shady corner of the sea pavilion in Dorset. They would quietly eat and watch squealing children paddle along the sea front, bloomers wet and sandy. For a split second a small part of him lamented at the loss of his innocent youth.

  The carriage stopped with a hard jolt. Cross exited first and helped Catherine to descend. He whispered something to the driver, tipped him a few shillings and the horse swiftly trotted away.

  The neighbour’s mangy cat was sitting on the porch chewing on some indigestible morsel. ‘Shoo’ he told it with a swift hard kick of his boot, and the cat shrieked and sprang away into the neighbouring shrubbery.

  Inside he lit the large hallway lamp and steered his companion to the bedroom. There he had prepared two sweet mint and strawberry liqueurs, a delicacy he was sure she had likely never tasted before in her life, laced, of course, with just a few drops of laudanum.

  He downed his glass in one go.

  ‘Drink it quickly,’ he ordered in a low tone, a mischievous glint in his eye as he began to remove his outer clothing. His gaze became somewhat preoccupied with the small dip between the cavity of her chest.

  ‘I was uncertain in coming,’ she replied honestly as she sipped the drink. ‘I am not accustomed in the art of entertaining, and so I apologise for my ignorance.’

  He smiled coyly at her words, for the very fact she was so unaccustomed to sex only served to entrance him more.

  And that is why I desire you young lady.

  Slowly he moved towards her, taking her hand and leading her to his bed. He could see that she was relaxed and ready for him now. With one finger he slid the shawl off her shoulder to reveal the goosebumps on her neck where soft downy hairs stood on end.

  He took the ribbon tied at her bust and slowly pulled it free to reveal her soft breasts, savouring the moment pleasurably. She lay back with eyes closed.

  He felt his head begin to throb, and looking down he unbuttoned his pants to find his own erection had begun to contract until it diminished altogether.

  The whore! Why is she doing this to me?

  He stared at her long and hard and something shifted in his countenance. Had she opened her eyes she might have noticed the passing darkness across his features which exacerbated the shapes in the room, turning every corner shadow into ugly dark monstrosities.

  He looked down at her now, wild-eyed, and with a brow dampened with sweat. He could see that the drug had taken its effect, she lay listless and still. She would not have the strength to resist him.

  His anger intensified.

  Extracting a thin length of rope from beneath the mattress he proceeded to tie her wrists, tethering her securely to the bedpost, spreading her legs wide.

  ‘Oh young Cath
erine, stay still my sweet, I promise it won’t hurt.’

  * * *

  Annie was sitting beside her window in the darkened room cradling her head in her hands. She had been suffering from a migraine as well as pain in her leg all day. Now she was highly irritated that not even the large laudanum-laced gin, which she had drunk earlier, had helped to shift it. At an hour before closing time at the tavern she had retreated to her room in the dim hope her discomfort would cease.

  Lying in a tight ball in her own bed across the room, Nellie was snoring loudly. Annie looked over at her friend begrudgingly because Nellie had been in bed either sleeping or moaning for nearly two weeks now.

  When Annie suggested she try to get back up on her feet she would moan and cry and beg her friend to let her remain there. The woman didn’t seem to want to get up or live anymore and so Annie had resorted to becoming her servant; at her beck and call day and night carting plates of food back and forth from the kitchen, and supplying her friend with gin, heavily dosed with laudanum to take the edge of her cramps and pains.

  Additionally, she had been forced to keep Madam Davenport’s suspicions about Nellie’s health at bay by reporting that she was still suffering from the fever. After so many years Madame knew what fever really was, and it wasn’t a simple cold or flu symptom, but debilitating sickness suffered on termination of a pregnancy.

  But Madame Davenport wasn’t interested in frivolous excuses, she just wanted Nellie up and working. The truth of the matter was, it looked like Nellie could get up and continue with her routine, but it seemed like she had had enough. The bleed had been long and painful this time and she told Annie that the idea of doing it all again was terrifying. Now all she wanted to do was hide away so these things never happened to her again; the pregnancies, the abortions, the constant agonising pain.

  Nellie wanted out.

  So Annie was feeling considerable pressure to provide for both of them now, and funds were scarce as it was. Plus the kind of men she used to attract just didn’t look at her anymore, so she had to work twice as hard as the younger ones to find custom, often circling the local parish up to twenty times in an evening in the hope of catching a man’s eye.

  As she looked over at her friend she felt a heavy pang of remorse. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t just let her friend die. Nellie had stood by her during the toughest times and she was the only true friend she had. But it was all beginning to taking its toll. Right up to the point where Annie was now entertaining some of Nellie’s own clients, mainly the Blacksmith from the far end of the same street whose wife had lost the use of her legs in an accident, and spent the entire day huddled by the window feeding her cats.

  Her husband wasn’t that much of a burden to service because of his declining years. Frailer now in his sixties, all he really needed was what Annie called a ‘tinkle with his winkle’ and then he’d fall asleep and she’d have half a shilling in her pocket. It wasn’t much but it helped towards costs.

  Then there was Stanley the old barber from Buck’s Row. Black teeth, a jutting stomach and face covered in old military scars, all he wanted was a cuddle and a little stroking, then he’d happily pay up his fee and be gone.

  It wasn’t that the customers tired her out so much, it was just that she had to keep up with it all, and she wasn’t getting any younger either getting closer to fifty. Still, she had to do her best and keep Nellie’s men stringing along so they didn’t go elsewhere, in case her friend ever got back on the game. Annie didn’t even want to think about her friend not being around anymore. With each unwanted pregnancy she became weaker in both spirit and health, and now her eyes were just hollow circles, vacant, holding no interest in anything or anyone around her.

  Nellie stirred awake with a deep snort. ‘Uh, Annie, you there? So thirsty.’

  Annie carried a glass of water over and helped her friend to a sip. When she returned to the window she cradled her head, willing the ache to go so that she might be able to catch a few winks before the whole routine started again in a few hours time.

  The clink and rattle of a horse’s carriage could be heard approaching in the distance. Annie looked down and spotted a vehicle turning into the street. The carriage came to a stop a few yards from the tavern, she pressed her face to the smeared glass, watching with interest.

  A tall gentleman in a long dark coat stepped down from the carriage followed by a girl in a dark dress; an expensive dress, from what Annie could tell against the dim street light. They seemed to exchange some brief communication and then the girl began to walk towards the tavern. At first, in the hazy light she could barely make out who the female was until she drew closer to the tavern.

  Catherine Bell!

  Annie forgot all about her headache as the familiar clutch of envy that had been lying dormant in her gut suddenly awoke. She could hardly believe that this impertinent young girl was now being ‘escorted’ about in a fancy carriage and wearing a fancy dress!

  How dare she? Annie raged inwardly. She’d only been at the Boars less than a few months and was already taking up the game on her own account, and, she’d somehow attracted the explicit attentions of this uppity class gent. Twice Annie had seen her slip away now and so it wouldn’t surprise her that she had been taken on as his mistress.

  She shivered with inner rage and dug her fingernails into her palms. Without wasting another moment she waited for the sound of footsteps along the hallway and once they were close enough she swung it open to boldly confront the girl.

  But what Annie saw standing before her was not the innocent orphan that had arrived at the tavern just a few months ago, but a broken, weeping mess.

  Catherine’s dress had been torn at the chest. Her right cheek was inflamed and long hair matted and tangled. What was worse was the look in her eyes which Annie recognised only too well. It was the look of a downtrodden inexperienced whore who had just learned her very first lesson in the world of servicing men.

  ‘So you’re fancy man ain’t all that fancy is he?’ she said as Catherine slid to the floor weeping into her palms.

  Annie leaned down and for a few moments did nothing as she watched the girl’s shoulders heave as she sobbed. Surprised, she felt a sudden developing pity for the wretch and laid one hand on the girls shoulder, a gesture which moments before had been unthinkable. But now that she had witnessed her like this, she couldn’t bring herself to reprimand or strike her when it seemed like some other deviant fellow had got there first. Looking at her crumpled form it took Annie back to the times when some of her clients liked a little bit of rough play and she would have to find ways to cover her bruises carefully so that Madame Davenport didn’t see them and blame her.

  ‘I told you to keep out of meddling with the men. I warned ya. Here,’ she said, offering her hand, ‘stand up and I’ll help you to your bed, then we’ll get a damp cloth and fix you up a bit.’

  Annie assisted Catherine to her bed then left her for a few moments, returning with a cold flannel which she pressed gently to her cheek.

  ‘Here you go. This’ll help bring down the swelling. Get some sleep and you’ll be right as rain tomorrow.’

  Catherine forced a weak smile. ‘Thank you. What will Madame Davenport say about this?’

  Annie looked at her long and hard.

  The girl knows nothing. She has so much to learn.

  ‘She ain’t gonna do much about it, trust me. And the authorities would never believe you either or they’d say it was your fault, especially in that dress. Best to keep out of her sight for now. But it don’t look like it was a bad attack, anyhow. You’ll live.’

  * * *

  It was late. Catherine knew that he was present inside his room from the beam of light which shone beneath the door.

  Ever since Eddie had acted so irrationally at Nancy’s l
eaving party they had barely spoken a word to each other. She had come to accept his possessive nature, but it seemed to Catherine that he had difficulty coming to terms with her choices. As though he didn’t like the fact that she wished to live her own life at the tavern and see whomever she pleased. His obstinate refusal to believe or speak to Nellie seemed proof of that.

  She recalled how he had told her that the others were merely jealous of her presence at the tavern and gaining employment there, but it seemed to Catherine that Eddie was incapable of recognising his own jealousy.

  Was he so very lonely and insecure?

  It seemed likely, having never known his mother at all and being raised amongst so many catty, bickering women who came and went all hours of the day and night. Though she could not fully comprehend the young man, she missed his genuine companionship and wanted to make sure that he was well, and perhaps gain some comfort in his presence.

  She would not speak about or confide in him about what had happened with Mr Cross. The very recollection of what she had endured in his presence still upset her deeply. She instinctively held her hand to her cheek, where Edward Cross had viciously struck her, and was wholly thankful that there was no lasting evidence of it.

  The door opened an inch.

  ‘Eddie, may I speak with you?’

  He nodded silently. His face betraying his hurt.

  ‘I just wanted to see that you are well, as we have not spoken for a while.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be alright, Catherine?’ he said tersely.

  For a moment they looked at each other. His eyes appeared hollow, indifferent to her presence. She didn’t know where to begin, or how to speak, or how she could convince him that she genuinely did care for him. If only he would listen to her now, perhaps he would see that she had never meant him any harm.

  ‘Eddie, I have come to apologise for causing you pain.’

  ‘Oh really,’ he spat, opening the door fully to launch a verbal attack. ‘I helped you to receive your position with Tilly and in gratitude you snub my affections for a wealthy customer. What do you take me for, a fool?’