The Captain's Courtesan. Lucy Ashford
rather suspected they did and was prepared to argue the point; Sal stood heavily on her toe.
As it happened, Rosalie was now quite happy to let her long hair hang free. It meant she could hide behind it. And heavens above, looking at this garment they’d given her to wear, she’d need to.
When she’d first seen her dress, laid across Mrs Barnard’s plump arm, it had looked perfectly respectable. She was Athena, the goddess of wisdom, after all, so a long white-muslin tunic girdled with a turquoise cord seemed appropriately demure. ‘The turquoise will match your eyes, my dear!’ had simpered Mrs B.
Up until now, Rosalie had never really considered that she had much of a figure to hide. She was twenty-one years old, of medium height, and rather too thin; her legs, she considered, were too long and her bosom decidedly undistinguished compared to the voluptuous figures that were on display around her. Besides, she’d always made a point of dressing to deter any roving male eye. She’d never in her life up till now worn her hair loose and tumbling to her shoulders, had never worn a gown remotely like this one. Demure? That was before she got it on. It was sheer, it was clinging … For heaven’s sake! How could she go out on stage like this?
She’d done her very best to adjust the ridiculously low neckline by quickly threading a turquoise ribbon through the scalloped lace that edged the yoke and pulling it together into a bow just above the curve of her breasts. But Sal, who was busy powdering her own extremely well-displayed plump bosom, turned to her, powder puff in hand. ‘Ma Barnard will never let you get away with that cover-up, darlin’. Not in a thousand years.’
Rosalie protested. ‘I’ve no intention of going out there half-naked!’
‘What did you expect, in Dr Barnard’s Temple of Beauty? Gawd, dearie, I wish I had your looks. Your face and figure, that gorgeous hair of yours—’
‘My figure? My hair?’ echoed Rosalie.
Sal sighed. ‘Own up, now. You ain’t done nothing like this before, ever, have you?’
‘Well, no. Not exactly …’
‘Not on the run, are you, from the law, or some cross husband?’
‘No! Not at all, Sal! And anyway, I don’t suppose that any of them will be paying much attention to me. Will they?’
‘New girl at Dr B.’s Temple of Beauty? Course they’ll be lookin’ at you!’ Sal drew closer. ‘And after the show—did Mrs B. explain? There’s a bit of music in what they call the Inner Temple on the next floor up, and it’s there that the gents pay to come to dance with us.’
‘Just dancing?’ Rosalie enquired rather faintly. She had already discovered that this place was like a rabbit warren, with five floors of rooms and various twisting staircases.
Sal winked. ‘Just dancin’ to start with. Then—who knows?—you might end up with a nice rich lord to milk for a while, if you just shut yer eyes through all the grunting and heaving. But watch out, gal. If they promise love, they’re lying through their teeth.’
Rosalie nodded, her heart sinking. She knew that. But so many didn’t.
Rosalie, I’m in London. I’m in trouble. Please help me. That was all that was in Linette’s pitiful letter last October. Nothing else—no address, no other clue—except that Rosalie knew Linette had always wanted to be an actress.
Now emotion squeezed at Rosalie’s throat like a necklet of iron when she thought what had become of that dream, and a touch of fear also; Linette had been only two years younger than Rosalie, and though Linette’s blonde locks were more luxuriant and her figure more shapely, the sisters did bear a resemblance. At the interview yesterday, Rosalie had worried that Dr Barnard might spot it.
But his gaze had been one of cursory approval. ‘Oh, they come and they go, our girls!’ he’d said airily, when she asked him why he had vacancies. ‘A world of opportunities awaits them, after all!’
Opportunities. Anger, as well as despair, surged through her. Then the door flew open and Danny, the lad who helped backstage, burst in. ‘Three minutes to go, lay-dees!’ He looked straight at Rosalie and winked.
‘Dirty little rascal,’ said Sal amiably. ‘Always hopes he’ll catch us with nothing on. Here—have some rouge.’
‘No thanks.’ Rosalie turned to face her. ‘Sal, how long have you worked here?’
‘Feels like a lifetime, but I’ve been here all of six months! What with Mrs B.’s sharp tongue and her hubby docking our pay at any excuse, no one sticks it more than a year.’ Sal was piling on more rouge. ‘Why are you workin’ here, gal? Standin’ about on stage in next to nothing isn’t what you was brought up to, anyone can see that! You’re clever, you speak like a lady. You could have bin a governess or something, surely!’
‘I have a child to care for,’ Rosalie answered simply. ‘Governesses with children don’t get hired.’
Sal looked at her quickly. ‘How old’s your little one?’
‘Two. She’s just two years old.’
‘Ah, bless! She’s lucky, then, havin’ you to watch over her,’ said Sal wistfully. ‘Me, I was put on the streets by my ma when I was ten. To think I’m playin’ Hebe, the virgin goddess—Lord knows I can hardly remember bein’ a virgin meself. But I’ve learnt lessons. I know the ways of the so-called gentry like the back of my hand. And remember, the best way to make life comfortable for yourself and your little ‘un is to open your legs to a rich man—but get his money first, you hear me?’
‘Ladies!’ shrieked the boy Danny, flinging the door wide open. ‘Ready to go on stage!’
‘Here we go.’ Sal grinned.
Here we go indeed, echoed Rosalie silently.
But not before Mrs Patty Barnard, inspecting every goddess as they filed through the door, ripped open the bow securing the neckline of Rosalie’s bodice and tugged it down to show the curve of her breasts. ‘Told you before, Athena. Think you’re in a damned nunnery?’
Rosalie pressed her lips firmly together, but a faint flush of defiance rose in her cheeks.
With the curtains still closed, all the girls hurried to take up position on stage. Charlotte was carefully seating herself on a damask-covered throne and preening her dyed golden locks, while the others clustered around. Now Rosalie could hear Dr Barnard standing in front of the stage and announcing to the gathered audience, ‘For your delectation, my honoured friends! A scene of exquisite and ennobling artistry—the Greek goddesses!’
Rosalie had kept as far to the back as she could. Oh, she wondered, the breath hitching in her throat, what had she let herself in for?
The heavy curtains were gliding back.
There must be nigh-on a hundred men out there.
She felt rather sick. For Linette, her beloved sister. She would see this through, for Linette—and for Linette’s child, Katy.
Chapter Three
‘Dear Rosalie, why on earth are you asking me about such a place?’ had been her friend Helen’s startled response when Rosalie mentioned the Temple of Beauty two days ago. They were in Helen’s printing shop, and all around them were heaps of freshly printed broadsheets. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ Helen went on, ‘that Temple is nothing but a glorified brothel!’
‘Bwothel,’ little Katy had lisped. ‘Bwothel.’
Quickly Helen turned to the two children, who were drawing stick men on some scraps of paper. ‘Toby, darling, take Katy to the kitchen and get her a glass of milk, will you?’