Chapter 8 #3
She picked up her skirts and ran. Once a man did try to stop her. He grabbed her arm. “Hey, my beauty—”
Portia didn’t care if his intent were good or not. She thumped his nose and he let go of her with a curse.
She came to the alley and had to stop to catch her breath. She staggered down it and into the house, then fell into the parlor to find Mirabelle there.
The madam helped her to a chair. “You failed to find help.” It was a statement.
“Yes,” Portia gasped, sucking in breaths. “Did you tell Cuthbertson I was gone?”
“Of course not. Until the time comes for the auction, it is no business of his.”
“Thank you!”
The woman gave a wry smile. “You have little reason to thank me, but I will help you if I can. I’m sorry you failed to raise the money elsewhere.
I know for you gently bred women this is a difficult thing, but it is, in fact, no great matter.
If you wish, I can repair you afterward so that you will go to a husband intact again.
I wouldn’t recommend it, however. Better to trick your husband into thinking he’s the first.”
“No, thank you.”
Mirabelle laughed. “Ah, my dear, do you still have the courage to sneer? Don’t try to deal honestly with men. They hold all the cards. The only way to win is to cheat.”
Portia refused to answer and just concentrated on steadying her breathing.
“As you will,” said Mirabelle. “So, do you wish the whole world to know what you are doing tonight, honest one? Or would you prefer discretion?”
Portia stared at the woman. “Oh, mercy,” she murmured. “Can it be concealed?”
“Certainly. Your identity has nothing to do with your price. With a wig, a mask, and some paint, your mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“I’d like that,” said Portia humbly.
“Very well. Come with me.”
Mirabelle led the way into an adjoining bedroom and directed Portia to sit at the dressing table. Portia watched in the mirror as the madam transformed her, dressing her red hair tightly and pinning a loose, silky ebony wig on top. It reminded her horribly of Zeno’s feathery coat.
Mirabelle gave her plumpers—pads of leather to slide into her cheeks—and then blushed those round cheeks with rouge. She made her lips look fuller with a bright red cream. Then a mask was added. Just a narrow mask over her eyes, but covered with beaten gold.
“You see,” said Mirabelle. “The shimmer of the gold distracts from your eyes. No one will even know what color they are. Off with your clothes.”
Portia had begun to think of the abbess as almost a friend, now she was shocked back into reality. “What?” Her voice even sounded strange with the plumpers in her mouth.
“You’re hardly going to parade before the men in that,” said Mirabelle, indicating Portia’s plain beige dimity dress. “Anyway, something more suitable will be yet more disguise. Do you have a name you want to use?”
“You haven’t asked my real name.” With a grimace of distaste, Portia pulled out the plumpers. She’d put them back in at the last moment.
“I don’t want to know your name.”
Portia swiveled on the bench to face the woman. “You could easily find it out.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Blackmail,” said Portia coldly.
“I have my standards. Now, I hardly think you want me to announce your real name. What shall I call you?”
Portia sighed and gave the first one that came to mind. “Hippolyta.”
“The queen of the Amazons? I wouldn’t have thought you had the size for it, dear. Ariel would suit you better. I have some pretty fairy costumes. Would you not care to use one?”
Portia decided she needed the strength of a warrior name. “No, thank you.”
“As you wish.”
Mirabelle left and a few minutes later a maid came in carrying a gown and some other items. The servant was wearing a striped calico dress, an apron, and a cap.
She looked surprisingly proper. She even curtsied.
Portia decided she would feel better about all this if she were in a foul stew, surrounded by leering misshapen individuals.
She had stripped down to her shift. Now she saw the shift should go too, for the gown—if such it could be called—was an almost transparent wisp of creamy silk. In view of what she faced, this shouldn’t have mattered, and yet it did. She dismissed the maid, and was surprised when she went.
Portia contemplated the silk tunic and then, in a spurt of defiance, put it on over her shift. If Mirabelle wanted more than that, she would at least have to insist on it.
In fact, Portia decided, it didn’t look too bad.
Her cotton shift was plain white and sleeveless, and came down to her knees.
The tunic was a fraction longer. Without the shift it would have been transparent, which was doubtless the intent, but over the shift it was not indecent.
Portia had never gone about without stays, and with her legs and arms so exposed, but it could have been much worse.
There was a gilded belt to secure her garments at her waist, and a pair of delicate gold sandals. There was even jewelry of sorts—two cheap, gilt arm bands to go around her upper arms. A bow and quiver completed the costume, though neither were real.
She regarded herself in the mirror. Really, she thought wryly, if she were going to a masqued ball she might be quite proud of her costume. If, that is, she ever dared wear such an outfit in polite company.
She told herself that she’d seen outfits as daring at private balls.
This was not to be a private ball.
This was to be a public auction.
She almost panicked then, but forced herself to be practical. A little bit of skin. That’s all it was.
She looked in the mirror again and decided it was as well that Cuthbertson had agreed to take whatever she raised.
She couldn’t imagine that she would bring a high price.
Men liked a generous bosom and her endowments hardly broke the flow of the cloth over her chest. They liked lush curves and her hips were slim.
Normally her stays and hoops gave some illusion of shapeliness, but this outfit disguised nothing.
But with the long dark wig, the narrow gold mask, the bold face paint, and the unlikely costume, she did doubt that anyone would know her. Which meant that she could perhaps return home and pick up her life.
It seemed impossible. Was she to go back to Dresden Street and act as if nothing had happened? Go tomorrow to dine with Cousin Nerissa? Return to Dorset and say nothing to anyone?
She started trembling but paced the room angrily, praying that she would stop. Fear and trembling would do no good at all.
Mirabelle returned. She raised her brows slightly at the sight of the shift. “How charmingly modest. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Mirabelle’s heavy eyebrows shot up. “If Cuthbertson had known that…! But you look well enough for all your age.” Her cold eyes took in every detail.
“I would have put you at about nineteen, but with the plumpers and your figure we can go even lower.” She walked slowly around Portia.
“A nice boyish rump, too. Fourteen. We’ll claim you’re fourteen. ”
“Fourteen? That’s absurd!”
“No. Put in the plumpers and look at yourself with a stranger’s eyes.”
Portia turned to look in the mirror again and popped in the plumpers. With Mirabelle standing behind her, and having almost as much height as Bryght, and with the rounded cheeks and full lips, she did look like a pretty child It was quite eerie, as if she were not herself at all.
“But why fourteen? It’s ridiculously young.”
“That will raise your price. Some men like young girls.”
Cuthbertson had said as much, and now Portia remembered Bryght Malloren saying something about the dangers in London for pretty sixteen-year-olds.
It suddenly struck Portia that it could be Prudence standing here about to be sacrificed. She thanked God it was herself instead.
Taking out the plumpers, Portia turned to face Mirabelle, determined to be practical. “What will I raise, then?”
The madam pursed her lips thoughtfully. “At least the three hundred.”
“I can’t believe that men would pay so much.”
“It amuses them, thanks be to heaven. Where would we all be if it didn’t? And, of course, they can show their friends and enemies that a few hundred guineas means nothing to them. Make no mistake, my dear, everything in London is to do with power.”
“Power? What power is there in buying a child?”
Mirabelle’s mouth turned in a wry smile. “The power of men, that they can buy and sell us? But I buy and sell men sometimes, and sometimes women are the purchasers. Perhaps it is just that they can pay such a ridiculous amount of money for such a trivial thing. You may like to think that.”
“It does not seem trivial to me.”
Mirabelle shrugged. “As you wish. Since you are ready, come back to the parlor.” Once there, Mirabelle said, “I will have a meal sent to you.”
“I couldn’t possibly eat.”
“You may find you can, and it would be wise. You may also have some wine, or even some opiate. Not too much, though. No man will want you comatose.”
“I want nothing.”
Mirabelle shrugged and left. Portia paced. It did no good, but she couldn’t help it. She repeated to herself all the reasons why this had to be, and tried to convince herself that it was not such a great thing.
But the man, the monster, who was to invade and abuse her rose up in her mind like a creature of nightmares.
She covered her face with her hands. No matter how terrible her ravishment, it could not be worse than what Oliver faced if she failed. She must go through with it.
She was burningly aware of the door, though, the door to freedom. But it was already dark outside and dressed as she was she couldn’t possibly leave. And if she did, Oliver would be horribly maimed. She, who always fought against the odds, had come at last to a battle she could not win.
Determined to hang on to her dignity, Portia tried to read from the surprisingly wide selection of books in the room.
She picked up first one, then another, but was unable to settle to anything.
She tossed down a book about the animals of Africa.
They seemed more civilized than the animals of London.
The maid brought food, and Portia picked at it, but her throat was almost too tight to swallow. She drank some of the wine, though, and that eased her dry throat.
The door was a constant torment. Could anything be cruder than this, to have escape from horror, and not be able to use it?