Chapter 5 #4
If Micha had expected to shock Madame Defleur’s daughter, he was doomed to disappointment. “He has only tried to help you,” she murmured.
“Yes, and now you’re going to help me too.”
She folded her hands primly in front of her. “Why should I do that, Michael Dashwood?”
“Because you know what will happen if you don’t. I don’t know how you landed this job, but it can’t have been through honest toil and merit. Generally, women who open their legs to all comers don’t get to run respectable households.”
“My place is held through merit, but you are correct. I did not win it honestly. I was desperate. Surely you can understand that.”
“I’ll be as understanding as you like when you do what pleases me.”
There was a long silence.
“I will not sleep with you,” she told him, in a choked voice.
“What? Fuck, no. What in God’s name made you think I’m interested in sex?”
“I’m sorry.” She seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I . . . old assumptions, I suppose. It tends to be what men wish of me.”
And of me. Though Micha did not appreciate the parallel. “Trust me, I have absolutely no desire to sleep with you. What I want is for you to bring me a bottle of laudanum. First thing tomorrow.”
“Is that truly what you want?” The wretched woman was actually looking at him with pity.
“For now.”
She perched on the far edge of his bed. Her movements were so decorous and restrained, it was hard to imagine she had once been the toast of Whitechapel. “You know, you could break this dependence.”
He glanced up sharply. “Does he know?”
“I’m not sure. He would help you, though, if you wished.”
“I don’t wish.”
“I know you dislike accepting aid, but you could use this opportunity to—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to break my dependence, as you put it. Opium’s my only pleasure. The only thing that makes this filthy fucking world bearable.”
“Oh Micha, I’m sorry for it.”
The softness of her voice, the understanding in her eyes, acted on him like salt rubbed into an open wound. “Don’t be. It’s my choice.”
“How can it be, when you no longer have the power of choosing?”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you. You’ll bring me a bottle of laudanum, and you’ll say nothing of this to His Reverence.”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “I won’t do it. I won’t deceive Mr. Mandeville, and I will certainly not be coerced.”
Micha snorted. “You’re already deceiving him. Everything you are is deception. You’re just like me, worse than me, and you’ll do as I damn well say.”
“Or what? You’ll tell him who I am? And reveal yourself as well.”
“I’ll say I used to fuck you for coppers. Men always believe other men over women. Even the supposedly decent ones.”
“You can’t prove—”
“All I need him to do is look into your references. Even if he doesn’t believe you’re a whore, he’ll know you’re a liar.”
“Are you sure,” she asked weakly, “it’s worth the risk?”
“I’m a charity case he scraped off the street. When he tosses me out like so much refuse, I’m no worse off than I was before. But you, Mrs. Clark”—he threw the name at her like an obscenity—“you have your position to consider. You have something to lose.”
She closed her eyes, tension visible in the lines that gathered at the corners. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
“I doubt that. Loss has had his way with me like anyone else.”
At last, she looked at him again. The shadows in the room danced starkly upon her face. “I have a daughter. For myself, I don’t care what happens. But I wish to give my child some chance at life beyond the gutters of Church Lane.” Her voice rose in sudden passion. “Please, don’t ruin that. Please.”
That was unexpected. As was the direct entreaty. It was strange to be pleaded with, thrilling and discomforting at once.
Isidore had begged Micha to love him once.
The scene was a vivid memory among so many tattered ones.
The glass-smooth river and the overhanging willow, the golden haze of summer and the endless blue sky.
Isidore had been brighter than the sun. Micha had trembled beneath his hands, as if his body had only newly learned how to live.
Please. There is no shame in this. He could remember the scene and the words.
Even the smell of the grass beneath them and Isidore’s skin.
But whatever it had made him feel, the power, the wonder and vulnerability of trust, had been irretrievably lost, devoured by time and pain, and everything he had since become.
“Is that why you ran away?” he asked, pushing aside the daggers of memory.
Mrs. Clark just nodded.
The rumour at the brothel was that she had found herself a rich patron. As for Madame Defleur, she had dwelled more on treachery and broken trust, and Micha had never been interested enough to ask questions. “Throw you out, did she?”
Perhaps she hoped that his questions implied some sympathy, for she gave a slightly twisted smile and said, “Oh no, my mother was delighted. Seeing the success she had made of me, she was more than happy to raise my daughter.” Her hands curled into tight fists against the bedclothes, her eyes gleaming knife-pale through the dim light.
“But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t deliver another human being—whether of my body or no—to a fate like mine. ”
“How maternal of you,” he drawled.
“Not really.” She gave an odd, graceless shrug.
“At first she was nothing but an obligation thrust upon me. It’s one thing to make a rational choice to do what you believe is right, another to commit to it emotionally.
Love does not come easily to me, I think.
I’d never known it, never felt it, never wanted it.
But, in time, she changed . . . everything for me.
And she changed me too. I was twelve, you know, when my mother sold my virginity.
” Again, her lips curved into a smile, as dark as Micha’s, but tempered by warmth, softened by hope.
“I know she will only be the child of a widowed servant, but better than the grandchild of Madame Defleur. And perhaps, by the time she has grown . . .”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Oh, but I am. I was never a devout woman, but I pray. I pray there may be a place for my daughter in a better, different, fairer world. And I will do whatever it takes to build even the tiniest fraction of that future for her. If I have to lie for the rest of my life.” Suddenly Madame Defleur’s daughter slipped from the bed, until she was kneeling on the floor, her hands spread in supplication.
“If I have to plead with you, now, tonight. Is that what you want? Do you want me to beg? Because I will. It would cost me nothing, Micha. You can have no idea how little this costs me.”
He stared down at her, hating her for how little pleasure her subjugation had brought him. Love, that faithless whore, had vanquished him again, and he felt not powerful, but sickened, worthless, and utterly alone.
“I want,” he said, “for you to stand up, shut up, and bring me a bottle of laudanum tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to do this.” God, why did she keep trying? Hadn’t she learned that Micha had no better nature left to appeal to? “He will understand, I am sure of it.”
“I don’t care what he thinks of me. I just want some fucking laudanum.”
“I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
“Like he’s a miracle you dare not believe in.”
“Right, and you look at him like you want to wrap your lips round his cock.”
“You can be safe here, Micha. I promise.”
He watched her through narrowed eyes. “Is that so? Is that fucking so? Well, how about I make you a deal? You tell him about you, and I’ll tell him about me. And then we’ll see how safe we both are.”
She climbed to her feet, her movements suddenly heavy. She paced back and forth across the room, her head bowed in thought. “I can’t. I can’t take that risk. For myself, I would. But I need to think of my daughter.”
He barked out a laugh. “So you want me to keep your little secret while I spill mine? Either you think this man is God’s gift to the world or you don’t. Get me that laudanum. You sanctimonious cunt. And don’t talk to me again, because I don’t give a fuck about you, or your fucking daughter.”
“I understand.” She left the room as silently as she had entered it.
And the next day, she brought him a bottle of laudanum.