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Authors: Jane Feather
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sympathetic to the idea that she would like some respite from selling her body. Maybe he would agree that she needed to concentrate on the part he would have her play and understand that the sex would be a distraction.
She was clutching at straws, Clarissa decided. But what else did she have to clutch at? She could start by trying to set her own rules. She would agree to the charade, but to nothing more intimate. If he was as anxious to have her play the part as he appeared, maybe he would be willing to agree. He hadn’t after all expressed any physical interest in her thus far.
It was worth a try. And it was comforting to have a plan at least, something that offered a glow of light in the darkness. Clarissa put more coals on the fire and went to bed, where she lay in the dark, listening to the faint sounds from the Piazza and watching the comforting flicker of the fire.
Five miles away in a house in Bethnal Green, Francis Astley coughed miserably, shivering under the thin blanket that reeked of urine and vomit. All around him he heard coughs, the moans of the very small children, the cries of the babies. Every now and again the woman, or one of her girls, would come in and pour spoons of clear liquid from the brown bottle down the throats of the little ones and the babies, and they would stop their cries and moans. Francis always hurled the spoon away. The liquid tasted foul and smelled even worse. At first they had hit him, and tried to hold his head to force the stuff down his throat, but he’d kicked and bitten and finally they’d left him alone. So he coughed and tossed on the straw mattress, and tried not to think of food. The thin porridge twice a day did nothing to assuage his appetite, and the occasional crust of bread made little difference. He couldn’t understand how he had ended up in this approximation of hell. And he couldn’t understand why Clarissa hadn’t come for him yet.
But that was only when he was feeling feverish andso miserable he couldn’t think clearly. In his lucid moments he knew perfectly well that his uncle Luke was keeping Clarissa from him, but eventually she
would
find him. This conviction buoyed him through the bad times, even if his misery was so overwhelming at those times that he couldn’t acknowledge it.
Chapter Four
It was midmorning the next day when someone knocked on the door to Clarissa’s bedchamber. It was such an unexpected sound that she jumped. Her landlady yesterday had been her first visitor since she’d taken up residence there. “Who is it? Come in.”
The door opened to reveal two young women in lacy dishabille standing on the threshold. “You should be up and dressed by now,” one of them said, shaking her head at the sight of Clarissa, still in her shift and night robe, perched on the edge of the bed.
Clarissa realized that she’d been sitting in the same place unmoving for what seemed hours. She’d awoken before dawn and managed to rekindle the embers in the grate, after which she’d sat on the bed and stared numbly into the fire. For some reason, she’d been unable to summon either the will or the energy to do more than feed the fire. All her resolution of the previous evening had vanished with the first light of dawn and getting dressed had seemed impossible.
“Probably I should be,” she returned. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why should it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” the second one said cheerfully. “But Mother Griffiths sent us up to see how you’re doing. She’s sent you up a gown. She wants you to wear it when his lordship comes.” She stepped into the room and laid a gown of sprigged muslin on the bed. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
Clarissa stared at it. “Where did it come from? I have clothes of my own; I don’t need this.”
“Well, Mother said you don’t have much in your armoire, and this’ll suit you when you meet with his lordship.” The girl grinned. “She always likes us to dress up for a
She was clutching at straws, Clarissa decided. But what else did she have to clutch at? She could start by trying to set her own rules. She would agree to the charade, but to nothing more intimate. If he was as anxious to have her play the part as he appeared, maybe he would be willing to agree. He hadn’t after all expressed any physical interest in her thus far.
It was worth a try. And it was comforting to have a plan at least, something that offered a glow of light in the darkness. Clarissa put more coals on the fire and went to bed, where she lay in the dark, listening to the faint sounds from the Piazza and watching the comforting flicker of the fire.
Five miles away in a house in Bethnal Green, Francis Astley coughed miserably, shivering under the thin blanket that reeked of urine and vomit. All around him he heard coughs, the moans of the very small children, the cries of the babies. Every now and again the woman, or one of her girls, would come in and pour spoons of clear liquid from the brown bottle down the throats of the little ones and the babies, and they would stop their cries and moans. Francis always hurled the spoon away. The liquid tasted foul and smelled even worse. At first they had hit him, and tried to hold his head to force the stuff down his throat, but he’d kicked and bitten and finally they’d left him alone. So he coughed and tossed on the straw mattress, and tried not to think of food. The thin porridge twice a day did nothing to assuage his appetite, and the occasional crust of bread made little difference. He couldn’t understand how he had ended up in this approximation of hell. And he couldn’t understand why Clarissa hadn’t come for him yet.
But that was only when he was feeling feverish andso miserable he couldn’t think clearly. In his lucid moments he knew perfectly well that his uncle Luke was keeping Clarissa from him, but eventually she
would
find him. This conviction buoyed him through the bad times, even if his misery was so overwhelming at those times that he couldn’t acknowledge it.
Chapter Four
It was midmorning the next day when someone knocked on the door to Clarissa’s bedchamber. It was such an unexpected sound that she jumped. Her landlady yesterday had been her first visitor since she’d taken up residence there. “Who is it? Come in.”
The door opened to reveal two young women in lacy dishabille standing on the threshold. “You should be up and dressed by now,” one of them said, shaking her head at the sight of Clarissa, still in her shift and night robe, perched on the edge of the bed.
Clarissa realized that she’d been sitting in the same place unmoving for what seemed hours. She’d awoken before dawn and managed to rekindle the embers in the grate, after which she’d sat on the bed and stared numbly into the fire. For some reason, she’d been unable to summon either the will or the energy to do more than feed the fire. All her resolution of the previous evening had vanished with the first light of dawn and getting dressed had seemed impossible.
“Probably I should be,” she returned. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why should it matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” the second one said cheerfully. “But Mother Griffiths sent us up to see how you’re doing. She’s sent you up a gown. She wants you to wear it when his lordship comes.” She stepped into the room and laid a gown of sprigged muslin on the bed. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
Clarissa stared at it. “Where did it come from? I have clothes of my own; I don’t need this.”
“Well, Mother said you don’t have much in your armoire, and this’ll suit you when you meet with his lordship.” The girl grinned. “She always likes us to dress up for a
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