Page 30 of Unseen

REBECCA FROM STEPNEY

T he messenger arrived at the door the next morning, not long after I had taken my breakfast and readied myself for the day. Even before Mary had handed me the envelope, I knew what the message was. An emergency messenger sent on horseback? What else could it be?

Mary looked as though that for all the world she wanted to protect me, but I gave her a smile and held out my hand.

“Give it to me, Mary. It is alright.”

“Madam, I want you to know that I meant what I said.” She placed the envelope in my waiting hand. “I will stay with you, no matter what.”

“Thank you, Mary. You may leave now.”

She bobbed a quick curtsey and hurried out the door, casting one last glance at me before closing it.

The letter burned in my hand. For I instantly recognised my aunt’s handwriting. It did not surprise me at all that she had used this method, not a telegram. For all she had to say, she certainly did not want anyone else seeing, and it would certainly not fit into one telegram .

I let out a long breath, before slicing the envelope open with an ivory-handled opener. The writing was scrawled, written in haste, but undeniably Adelaide’s hand. I was surprised to see that the letter was, in fact, not long at all.

My dear niece,

I do not know what you mean by this. I have no idea how I am to tell your father.

I trust you realise what an outrage this is.

I shall be in London by Friday.

Expect me then.

Your aunt,

Adelaide

That was that, then.

I folded the letter back up and replaced it in its envelope. What else was there to say? My aunt was surely on the coach to London at that very moment, doubtless unable to wait for the train.

I gazed out the window at the bright sunshine. Dark clouds bloomed on the horizon, threatening a storm, or perhaps snow. The morning had been frosty, and the grass still sparkled with it under the gentle sunlight.

As I placed the letter on the table and retrieved my tea, a dull ache between my legs made me wince.

Had Azriel intended on showing me he could be gentle, he had not done so the night before. After our interlude in the afternoon, he had visited me again, a visit I expected, it being our wedding night. His ferocity had almost frightened me.

Worse still, it had thrilled me.

To have my head torn about my hair, to be choked with both hands while he pounded himself into me, to find bite marks about my nipples in the cold light of day - I was horrified with myself.

But I had found myself enjoying it, begging for more, asking him to do it harder, fantasising about taking control, riding him.

I wanted to see his face as he unravelled, for the little fold between his brows and the way his mouth fell open as he pumped his release inside me, had me, even now, feeling unbearable heat coursing through my body.

This only steeled my resolve to do what I had promised myself. I gulped down the remainder of my tea, which had now gone cold, and called for Mary.

Within half an hour, we were in a carriage, on our way to Stepney.

“Madam, where are we going?” Mary eyed our surroundings warily. “Only, I do not think Mr Caine would approve of his wife being seen all the way down here.”

“Mary, I do not think it matters where I am seen.” I tucked my hands into the mink muff, shrugging my shoulders to bring the collar of my coat up around my neck. “And in any case, Mr Caine finds himself in this part of town often enough.”

Mary looked at me with open alarm, but said nothing, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat.

The dark clouds on the horizon began to close in, and thunder rumbled loudly as the carriage came to a halt outside a dimly lit building that almost resembled a tavern. Thick burgundy drapes hung in the window, obscuring any view within.

The driver had known where I wished to go, and his surprise at my request had been quickly replaced by a professional demeanour and a pulled down hat. I supposed not only my husband frequented this establishment, and that did perhaps ensure a bargained silence.

“Madam, I really do not think we should be here,” Mary whispered, looking left and right out the carriage window. “I mean-”

“It will be alright, Mary. I shan’t be long.” I let the driver help me down onto the slippery cobbled street, and picked my way the few feet across the way to the door of the brothel.

Madame Lillian’s Parlour and Salon, the faded sign read. I pushed open the door, which gave way with a loud creaking of hinges, and stepped inside.

The place smelled strongly of lavender and chamomile.

There was a carpet underfoot that had certainly once been plush, but now showed a decided trail of wear down the hallway that ran to the left of a high oakwood counter.

Lamps flickered on the walls, and behind the counter sat a pretty woman with a round face, in a dress the same shade of red as her rosy cheeks.

Her lips were rouged and her hair was curled, and she looked me up and down with thinly veiled surprise as I walked towards her.

“Hello miss,” she said, rising to her feet. “And what is it I might be helping you with on this lovely day?”

Her sentence was punctuated with a crash of thunder but the smile did not waver from her face.

“I am here to see Rebecca.”

The pretty woman frowned, and looked down at an open ledger on the counter in front of her. “Oh no love, you must have gotten the wrong name. Rebecca don’t do the ladies, it’s Ruth and Bessie you’ll be wanting.”

I cleared my throat, trying not to show my absolute horror that a woman should enter an establishment such as this for the same purpose as a man. A thought quickly replaced by wonderment, because surely having a woman for a partner must be lovely.

The pretty woman was looking askance at me, and I cleared my throat again.

“No, no, it is not that kind of visit. Only-” I was interrupted by a loud squeal of joy and a rhythmic thumping upon the floor above us.

The pretty woman laughed and her eyes flashed to the ceiling. “Sorry love, he’s always loud, he is.”

“Quite. Ummm…” I exhaled quickly. “I wanted to see Rebecca, because well, you see… My husband has seen her.”

The smile dropped from the pretty woman’s face instantly. “Now now, love, I don’t want no trouble in this place.”

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant.” I stammered, feeling more and more ridiculous as the seconds ticked by, and whoever was above us reached the crescendo of his visit with the lucky lady of this establishment. “I - you see, I wanted to ask her for… advice.”

A howl of satisfaction came from above, and the pretty blonde’s face settled back into the friendly smile she had shown me upon my arrival.

“I see, love. I understand.” She walked to the edge of the counter and pointed down the hallway. “Third door on the left, love. She’s not with anyone right now, just tell her Joan sent you in.”

“Thank you.”

I hurried down the hallway, pausing at the third door and checking four, five, six times that I had counted correctly and was, in fact, at the third door, and not about to burst in on some unsuspecting couple. With a deep breath, I pushed down the handle, tapping on the door with my knuckles.

“Hello?” I called softly, peering into the room.

“Who’s that then?” The voice was pleasant, almost lyrical, with a sweet cockney accent.

I opened the door all the way and stepped in.

Rebecca was wearing an extravagant ivory lace corset underneath a floaty robe.

A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and she eyed me curiously as I closed the door to her room.

She lit the cigarette with a match and puffed out a delicate veil of smoke from between her rouged lips.

“Sorry, love, you got the wrong room, it’s Bessie and Ruth that do the ladies.”

“Yes, I know, ummm, I mean, Joan sent me to you.”

Rebecca rolled her eyes and sucked on her cigarette again. “That bleeding girl ain’t got nothing between those ears of hers. JOAN!”

I jumped at her exclamation, dropping my muff and kicking it away as I attempted to retrieve it.

“No, no, I mean, I’m meant to be here. I’m not here for that, I…

wanted to talk to you.” I straightened up, stammering, and feeling all the world for a complete fool.

I was in a dusty room in a brothel in Stepney, and yet I was completely intimidated.

I could scarce look at Rebecca, for she seemed so regal, so worldly, compared to me, that it almost frightened me.

I clutched the muff in my hands, and looked into Rebecca’s face.

“I simply want to talk. Really. I asked to see you.”

“Talk, you say?” She grunted out a laugh and tapped the cigarette into an ashtray on her dressing table. “And what would a fine lady like you wanna talk to someone like me about then? You’re not looking for a job, are ya?”

“I-I am Azriel Caine’s wife.”

Her brows drew together, and she put a hand on her hip, gesturing at me with the cigarette. “Come to tell me to stay away from your man, have ya? Well, you got no worries there, hasn’t seen me since his old man kicked the bucket.”

“No I- please, may we sit?” I glanced over at the worn red velvet armchairs at the foot of the bed. “I am not here to cause you any trouble. And I am more than happy to pay you for your time.”

She narrowed her eyes at me as she inhaled again, then shrugged before draping herself elegantly over one of the armchairs. “Alright then, I got time.”

“Thank you.” I perched on the chair opposite her, and cleared my throat, still so exceedingly nervous under her gaze.

She was pretty, very pretty, even if her face did show a life that had not always been kind to her.

Her eyes were a lovely shade of brown, large and lined with thick lashes.

Her skin was smooth and even, and her fingers were long and elegant, like she should have been a piano player.

She crossed one long, slim leg over the other, revealing a trail of bruises down her left thigh.