Jessie’s eyebrows rose. “Mr Botham?”
“Indeed yes, Miss, though I shouldn’t say so.” She leaned toward Jessie. “If you don’t want your bottom pinched, you have to make sure he isn’t anywhere near it.”
“Oh.” She winced. “Urghindeed. I’ve met that kind.” She nodded at Thompkins’ look of surprise. “And, yes, I’ve had my own bottom pinched a time or two.”
It was Thompkins’ turn to look astonished. “Youhave?”
Jessie nodded. “This position is a huge honour, Thompkins. But I’ve also been a governess, a maid, and a seamstress in my past.”
“Goodness me, I’d never have thought it, Miss.” She blinked.
“So I’m quite familiar with men whose behaviour gives the lie to the wordgentleman.” She grinned conspiratorially. “And if you need to escape the squeezing fingers of this Botham person, you just come here immediately. Oh, and bring any other maids with you if you want,” she chuckled. “We’ll make Berry cottage a sanctuary from pinching fingers.”
The two women laughed companionably together.
Then Thompkins rose. “Well, Miss, I have to be going. Cook and James need all of us at hand tonight, what with dinner and all, so I must run.”
“Off with you then,” Jessie waved her away. “I shall do quite well here and tell Ben he’s excused until the morning. But remember…” she pointed her finger at Thompkins, “if thatpersontries any pinching, you move away and tell James I need you.”
The maid curtseyed and gave her a grateful smile. “Thank you, Miss Jessie. Thank you so much.” And then she turned and hurried out.
Jessie followed and locked the front door, then checked the kitchen door. Knowing she was now quite secure, she returned to the little parlour, put another log on the fire and sat to enjoy her meal. There would be no visit from Piers tonight. He had to do his duty to his guests.
It was a strange evening; a time when she could think her own thoughts, enjoy the warmth of the fire on her toes and the comfort of a large armchair. She carried her own dishes to the kitchen and found satisfaction in the task of washing and drying them in her own sink. It was a luxurious indulgence to walk through the tidy rooms; her little parlour looked out over the kitchen gardens and she could see the terrace, lit by the lights within the Hall. Two men strolled, a small cloud of smoke betraying the cigars they were apparently enjoying. It looked as if Piers had taken refuge with Mr Botham outside, since they appeared to be chatting quite companionably.
As if he heard her thoughts, Piers’ glance was drawn upward to her window. She moved back, unwilling to intrude, then laughed at herself. She doubted he could see her there, and even if he could, it would only be as a silhouette against the candlelight. The cottage belonged to the Crawford estate, of course, but already she felt as if it belonged to her. She had every right to look out of her own window.
She picked up a book and opened it, sinking into the overstuffed chair by the fire, and pulling a thick blanket over her knees. But for the first hour, she cast her mind back to where she’d come from, and the experiences she’d suffered. Her earlier conversation had resurrected memories. Bad ones.
As a governess it had happened occasionally, as a maid it had happened frequently. In the sweat shop…
In all truth, she’d been ready to leave the sweat shop, since her fingers were bloody every night after twelve hours or more of plying a needle. But the pennies she earned, meagre though they were, had paid for a bed and a little food.
With that gone—she shuddered as the memories swamped her.
Yes, she had been pinched, as she told Thompkins, but she’d also been almost raped, beaten and punished in a manner that could easily have left physical scars as well as emotional ones. Being a woman could be a burden when it came to simple survival. Jessie had learned that lesson during her search for employment, a home, and any way to meet the costs of survival. Her final descent into misery had occurred only a week or so before now...
Her mind flashed back to that momentous evening.
“Why not come in, dearie? You’re cold.”
A pleasant voice and an equally pleasant smile on a well-lit doorstep had made Jessie pause in her fruitless search for lodgings, and oh the warmth of a roaring fire was so alluring. It was a clean and pretty frontage with nothing to indicate what lay within.
“I can tell you need help. How about a cup of tea?” Again the charm of a middle-aged woman, dressed nicely and smiling at Jessie, promising nothing but much-needed assistance.
“And we can talk. Perhaps I can offer what you need. A job, I reckon, and one that pays fair wages. How does that sound?”
It had sounded ideal. And as she sipped her tea and listened, Jessie began to understand what this house was. And what the woman was so cleverly proposing beneath the warmth and sweet smiles.
She would have to become a whore.
An abhorrent and unthinkable thing, but what other alternative did she have? An all-but-penniless bastard, with no family to turn to and no home. At least here she would have a bed and a madam to control the business. And regular meals. Outside…she dared not think what might await her. She’d seen women up against walls, desperate for a coin or two, pleasuring men who stank of liquor and grunted like pigs as they stuck their cocks wherever they wanted. She could not,would not, end up like those poor souls.
Reluctant, but with no other option, Jessie had finally agreed and after a welcome bath, she was given a room and a new dress that displayed her charms in a way that made her blush. A lace mask was also provided; she wasn’t sure she understood why, but then discovered several of the other women had more than a few pockmarks. The lace concealed imperfections, and also identities. She gladly put hers on.
Called downstairs to join her new sisters in what had to be an evening’s display of the brothel’s goods, she glanced through the front window—and saw a man. He caught her eye and stopped dead.
To her surprise, he’d entered the brothel and immediately asked for her.
