Victorian Taboo Page 15

  Frederica entered the room and Amelia greeted her with a weary nod.

  “Is there any news?”

  “I fear not.” Frederica sat delicately in a nearby chair.

  “I cannot help but feel we should take this to the police. They, after all, have the means to conduct a wide scale search, and we do not,” Amelia reiterated. They had argued the point on the previous night, but it remained unresolved.

  “And then? If they do find her? Where do you imagine she might be?” Freddy’s tone was cool and composed. She too was tired of stating her case. “If she was injured, we would have found her in the grounds or one of the villagers would have discovered her. We combed the area thoroughly enough with men and dogs–you could not have hidden so much as a rabbit. The two men who were with her are accounted for–she did not leave with them. Thus it is fair to assume not only that she left at her own inclination, but also that she left the area. I do not know what happened in the folly, but I do know that my brother has to be tied to his bed and sedated and that he has exhausted himself to the point of death trying to empty himself into a woman the rest of us cannot see. I also know,” she added, a note of anger creeping into her voice, “that young Alfred is utterly blind. His family are trying to hush the matter up.”

  “Where is this going?” Amelia asked.

  “Do you not see? They achieved something powerful and dangerous that night, enough to drive both men from their senses. They were trying to invoke an ancient goddess of sexuality into Caroline’s body and, although my rational mind is wary of leaping to conclusions, I must consider the possibility that they achieved this very aim.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That Caroline Terrington is now possessed by, or at least inspired by, a goddess, one dedicated to sexual pleasure. If this is so, then we can be sure that her discovery will lead to scandal and her name may be ruined for ever.”

  “In the meantime, to protect her name we risk her life? I wonder if you are more interested in protecting your brother.”

  “I won’t deny it. And I wish to protect my own name, and yours for that matter. When scandal strikes, anyone close to it is tarnished, as well you know.”

  Amelia flushed angrily at the veiled reference to her own family difficulties.

  “The Irishman seems to think he has a lead, but the rogue will not tell me a thing,” Amelia observed.

  “At least he has stayed to help. I gather from your good butler that, aside from O’Shea, only he and the maid, Sophie, remain of the original staff and that he has thus far been unable to find replacements,” Freddy replied.

  “We can hardly run a household without a cook.”

  “You could come to my house; Charles is safely in the country.”

  “If Caroline returns of her own free will, she will come here. I cannot close this house.”

  Freddy sighed, “Do you trust the remaining three servants?”

  “No more than I would any hired help. I suspect as soon as our backs were turned, the butler would empty the wine cellar, the maid would fill her pockets with the silver and the Irishman would have his grubby little hands in everything else.”

  “Then you must remain. I have a very strong feeling that she will either have returned to London or to her former home in Yorkshire. Does she have any friends there who could be relied upon to be discreet?”

  “None that I am acquainted with. She has seldom seen fit to introduce me to her friends.”

  “Amelia, if I am right, if Charles did succeed, then she will either be walking the streets or, more likely, she will have made her home in some brothel.”

  “I cannot believe Caroline would ever do such a thing.”

  “She may no longer be Caroline, she may in truth be a walking avatar of an ancient deity, one who was once worshiped by whores and honoured with rites of sexual congress.”

  Amelia closed her eyes, trying to imagine how on earth such a thing could be possible in modern nineteenth century London.

  “We can hardly go looking for her in houses of ill repute,” Amelia said carefully.

  “Both the butler and the Irishman could.”

  “But that would mean explaining matters to them.”

  “Do we have any choice?”

  Amelia shook her head woefully.

  “Unless…” Freddy began to smile. “Tell me, have you ever dressed up as a man?”

  “No!”

  “We could. We could pass ourselves off as young men. You are of a height with Charles, and I could arrange for something. We could go ourselves.”

  There was something daring and irresistible about the plan–to disguise their gender and travel the murky dens and bawdy houses of London, to see what the darker side of life truly looked like and to finally take a more active role in this otherwise ineffectual rescue attempt.

  “Let us do it.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sir Jasper Akenfield had many things on his mind. Jenny was dying. He had moved her from the rooms at his Club to the town house he occupied in Westminster. Then there was this ghastly disappearance of Mrs. Caroline Terrington to worry about. Rumours abounded. He had no idea what to believe. Furthermore there was the matter of his growing indebtedness. Most of this had been forced to the back of his mind in favour of more immediate concerns.

  As he walked briskly along the corridors of the Palace of Westminster, home to both Houses of Parliament, the Commons and the Lords, Akenfield anticipated the reason for this summons to the Chief Whip’s office. The Whips were the link between Government and their party members in Parliament–the eyes and ears and the ’fixers’.

  Sir Jasper wanted government office. He felt his time had come. The Foreign Office would be his preference. Even as a junior minister there he would have many opportunities within the British Empire to travel overseas and milk some small piece of a foreign country. Bribes were common–although not spoken about, naturally. It was possible that he could secure a lucrative post and solve his financial problems. At the very least he would be far away from his creditors for much of the time.

  Turning left along the corridor, Sir Jasper clutched the note he had been sent, asking him to attend upon the Chief Whip. The Chief Whip, he thought. It must be for the offer of a government post.

  Two policemen stood at the end and they saluted him casually as he reached Sir Gordon Frobisher’s door. Should he knock? No, that was too humble. Not his style. He walked in.

  He felt an immediate pang of disappointment. Sitting at a desk was Gareth Hazeldean, Sir Gordon’s dapper little Welsh clerk. Sir Jasper did not like him, and in truth he hated all Welshmen. He had no idea why, but he was prone to prejudice and something about the Welsh irritated him. Perhaps it was their lilting accents. So bloody ridiculous, he thought.

  Hazeldean looked up, over his glasses, put down the pen he had in his hand and sniffed. Sir Jasper thought it sounded more like a snuffle. Whatever it was, it implied subservience.

  “So, no top job,” he said, so softly that Hazeldean asked, “Do forgive me, Sir Jasper, were you talking to me?”

  “No,” Sir Jasper said firmly and with obvious contempt. He waved the note, with its headed scroll of Chief Whip.

  “What is this about, Hazeldean, I am a busy man?”

  “I have no doubt of that, Sir Jasper. We won’t keep you a moment.”

  Sir Jasper despised him even more. What did he mean by ‘We‘? Was he talking about the Welsh nation? His fellow clerks?

  “Sir Gordon is just in conference.”

  “Sir Gordon Frobisher wants to see me?”

  “Why, yes, Sir. Who else would use his headed notepaper to invite you to attend a meeting?”

  Before Sir Jasper could answer, the inner door opened, voices mumbled and Sir Gordon came out walking deferentially backwards. He was followed by an elderly gentleman with penetrating eyes, who looked at Sir Jasper, put out his hand to take Jasper’s, shook it fiercely and walked on.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Frob
isher called out after the retreating figure.

  “Mr. Gladstone - our party leader and revered Prime Minister,” Sir Gordon said patronizingly, as if he had to explain who the gentleman was. “Well, Sir Jasper, do come in.”

  They retreated into the private office. It was oak panelled and on the desk there was a mass of papers. Sir Gordon hurriedly shuffled them together, gathered the bundle in a neat stack and put them on the corner of his desk.

  “Sherry, Sir Jasper, or is it too early for you?”

  “No, that would be excellent, Sir Gordon.”

  “Well…Jasper, let’s cut the formalities, shall we? Do take a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “These are difficult times, Jasper–what with the Irish problem and all this trade protectionism spreading throughout Europe.”

  “Quite,” Sir Jasper agreed, hopeful that talk of trade meant an overseas job.

  Sir Gordon sat down, handed Akenfield a glass of sherry and sipped his own.

  “Mark my words, Jasper. We have two major problems.”

  Akenfield did not know if that was a statement or a test to see if he knew anything about foreign affairs. He decided to just nod. Frobisher continued.

  “First, here in Europe we have the German nation: Barely ten years since they were united after thrashing the French in six months in 1871. Now look at them: Powerful army and challenging our own navy.”

  “Quite,” Sir Jasper decided on agreement.

  “Then we have the Americans.”

  “Do we?”

  “Damn right we do. Give them another twenty years and that nation will be the greatest industrial force in the world.”

  “Shocking,” Sir Jasper answered, hoping that was the response expected.

  “But I haven’t brought you here today to talk about that.”

  “No?”

  Frobisher shuffled in his chair. Akenfield picked up hints this was not about foreign affairs.

  “A man’s business is his own concern, that’s what I say, Jasper. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, Gordon.”

  “But there comes a time when a chap should expect his friends to tell him things that are going on.“

  Sir Jasper knew this was not going to be about a job. He became agitated and reverted to his bluntness.

  “If you have something to say, Gordon, I’d be obliged you came out and said it.”

  “Good chap. Well said, Jasper.”

  Frobisher got up and picking up the decanter, poured more sherry.

  “I believe you know Mrs. Caroline Terrington?”

  “Yes, very well. Why? Have you news?”

  “Calm down, Sir. I can understand your distress. Her disappearance is causing deep concern.”

  Sir Jasper took the sherry down in one gulp and looked harshly at Frobisher. The Chief Whip licked his lips.

  “It’s like this, Jasper. As you’ll appreciate, the Whip’s Office gets to hear many rumours. It’s our job to know what’s going on.”

  “The facts, please, Sir Gordon,” Akenfield insisted. The false friendship was over.

  “More than one Member of Parliament has been heard to say she has been seen…you understand by servants…seen in a….”

  “Yes, Sir, seen where, dammit?”

  “In a brothel.”

  The silence descended and hung between them, almost like a visible barrier.

  “A brothel? What the devil do you mean, Sir?”

  “This is unpleasant for us both, Sir Jasper. I did not want to approach the family. Indeed I don’t know if there are any close relatives. But as you were such friends it was thought you should be told. I have written down the address on this piece of notepaper.”

  He handed a folded sheet of paper to Akenfield.

  Sir Jasper had no idea what to say. He looked at Frobisher and, deciding not to be outright rude, he said, “Thank you for the information,” and turned to walk out.

  Frobisher added, “I also heard you had a little difficulty with your club. An unfortunate incident which I am sure will not occur again.”

  Akenfield said nothing. As he strolled purposely through the outer office he felt like kicking Hazeldean. He was sure the nosey little Welshman knew.

  * * * *

  The world of below-stairs fame had been at her feet but she had cast it off. There was no remaining at Mrs. Terrington’s residence. Most of the servants had fled and found other employment and then the dreadful gossip had spread about what might be happening in the household. Some talked of black magic, others of demons and ghosts. All Louis Thompson knew was that she must get out. Many other establishments would have taken her in and welcomed her reputation as a cook. She declined many offers. It was not the scandal at the Terrington household she was fleeing. It was her repressed anger at the discovery of the sexual shenanigans going on between the butler and that slut, Sophie.

  Louis pushed her hair out of her eyes and stood looking out of the window. No, she told herself, Sophie was no slut. Louis wanted to be honest. It was Myles’ rejection of the affection she had offered…and not truly offered…and her own secret longing to take part in the passionate, uninhibited sex she had spied Myles and Sophie enjoying.

  It had proved to be a dramatic turning point in her life. This was her true nature and the shape of her innermost desire. Perhaps, all those years ago, she had repressed her sensuality. At the time she had wilfully rejected that part of her nature and covered it in a veneer of respectability. Being the cook in a reputable household was her hiding place. How she wished that as soon as the desire for Myles had infiltrated her heart, head, and loins, she had thrown respectability away and seduced the man.

  Leaning on the pane of glass in the window Louis closed her eyes and imaged the things she would–the things she should–have done with Myles. She understood that was in the past. With the money she had saved over her years in service, and much more that she had squirreled away from the household accounts, Louis Thompson had been able to purchase a little tavern along the lanes that sat on the south side of the River Thames, near to Lambeth Palace, London home to the Archbishop of Canterbury. This was far less rough than the areas in Southwark, with their clients from the docks. Lambeth had the Westminster set only a few minutes cab-ride over the bridge. Her first two weeks had been all she had hoped for.

  The tavern served fine ales and wines, and quickly earned a reputation for the excellence of its repasts. Many fine gentlemen made the journey to her establishment and their attention to her culinary skills was highly satisfying. It was not the place to bring their wives and respectable lovers, nor would it achieve formal status, but then, Louis Thompson’s other delectable menus met very different needs.

  Above the tavern was a suite of rooms, furnished tastefully. If a gentleman and his friends wanted to entertain after a hearty meal then, for a small fee, Louis would rent them the rooms. Wine and cakes would be served. If they felt, as all men did from time to time, the need to exercise their lusty appetites, Mrs. Thompson had a close network of local young women who would oblige with most favours. What these clients did was between themselves. This was not a brothel…and certainly not a whorehouse. Louis ran a place of entertainment. It was all working out very nicely and she felt considerable pride in the success of her establishment.

  Then there was the final pleasure. Louis Thompson was a handsome lady of thirty-two. Most of the local women whom she employed had vigour but little art. Now, Louis was an expert. When she detected a discerning gentleman amongst a party, she would take them aside in a very quiet manner and talk about how the true endowment of sexual satisfaction was something to savour. If they warmed to her treatise, Louis Thompson would slowly shed the decorum of a tavern owner and lead them into a lascivious dance of eroticism and lewdness.

  She turned from the window and straightened the homely coverlet on her bed. Downstairs the day had begun and the tavern was opening up. She would soon descend and organize the day’s labours. For the moment she
remembered the gracious young gentleman who only last night had come to the tavern. He was shy almost, and not with a party. Louis had watched him all evening. He was so handsome that she was determined to win him.

  “Leave that, Joe. I’ll take his drink over,” Louis said to the barman.

  She walked over to the corner cubicle her intended occupied.

  “Would you like a little company, kind Sir?”

  He gestured for her to sit opposite.

  “Did you enjoy your meal, Sir?”

  “It was excellent.”

  She watched his lips form the words but the image in her mind was of them licking at her open legs and fully relishing her moisture.

  “Is there anything else you require?” she said, at this stage keeping the question only mildly suggestive.

  He fiddled with the handle of the ale glass.

  “My friends have recommended you.”

  She let her foot find his and start a gentle game. “Is it one of the finer after dinner delights you are looking for…fresh but with enough flavour to satisfy you? Or perhaps Sir is seeking hotter dishes…and one where you will be guided through the ingredients?”

  His nod of approval demonstrated awakening recognition.

  Louis rose and walked to the stairs, then stopped and with the merest movement of her eyes, signalled for him to follow her.

  The door of the rooms closed, exiling the world beyond it. Louis looked at her handsome young prize, with his eager expression and aura of innocence. Her experience helped her to understand what he sought–something unusual that would broaden his young horizons. She wanted to be cruel and gratified. That was what he wanted–to be humbled and subdued by the sheer potency of her sexuality. As she undid her dress and stood in front of him in long knickers and a whalebone corset, she watched him strip. Containing her lust was difficult as she saw the nakedness and aroused state of his cock.

  Louis had at last come home to her profession and her enjoyment. First she would beat the young Sir, just as he wanted. Then, with him tied down, she would bestow her body upon him for his education and their mutual gratification.