Chapter Four
Debts
Eleanor entered the noisy kitchen where the ladies of The Ladies Grace were sitting around the rickety wooden table in the middle of the room chattering over their breakfast. She’d taken her frequent companion to bed last night; a bottle of wine.
Despite wishing for more than one bottle, it had been sufficient to drift off into a dreamless sleep.
Eleanor hated mornings. From the conversation circling the kitchen, the newly selected courtesans were letting the others know what they’d missed at court by telling them about the various lords and the dresses and jewels they coveted.
Eleanor tried not to sigh in sadness as she ladled the dry, sticky porridge from the pot over the stove, a sign that Julia had been in charge of cooking this morning.
The girl was moving quietly through her chores in the kitchen, filling the kettle and washing the dishes from those who’d risen early.
Upon discovering Julia, Eleanor had been alarmed that Madam Grace had hired such a young girl, possibly only four and ten years old.
But after having observed the girl, Eleanor was certain Julia’s sole purpose was cleaning the pleasure house.
Julia was fortunate to find employment here, especially with a madam who possessed a sense of a conscience.
Although Eleanor disliked the madam, she was surprised to discover the woman had a sense of morality.
Eleanor avoided the end of the table where Calla and Lauressa were usually huddled together, conspiratorial whispers and sharing knowing glances—their similar ages fostering a strong bond.
Instead of sitting next to the quiet Veronica, who always had her head in a book, Eleanor positioned herself on the bench next to Iris, along the back wall.
She’d found she liked the woman. Unusually so, but it was Iris’s no-nonsense attitude that came with her experience that Eleanor liked.
As far as Eleanor could guess, Iris was one of the older ladies; despite looking like she was in her mid-twenties.
That was something else the ladies didn’t disclose, and Eleanor liked this unspoken rule just fine.
The last time anyone had spoken her real name felt like a lifetime ago, a distant echo in the chambers of her memory.
She paid attention to the surrounding conversation rather than her bowl of misery, hoping it would help her eat.
Before, Eleanor wouldn’t pay much attention to anyone, her only aim was to eat quickly and leave the room as quietly as she’d entered.
This morning, however, Eleanor noticed the women were all in various states of dress or undress, a clear sign of who had recently woken up.
Iris, Mirabella, and Lucy, attired in their plain dresses and woollen shawls, worn only in the back rooms and for venturing outside, had been awake for a while.
While the rest of the women had their dressing gowns tied around their naked bodies, and some had once-brightly patterned fringed woollen shawls draped over their shoulders.
Eleanor had never seen such a diverse array of clothing on the ladies.
Some were wearing a thin cheap cotton dressing gown that’d seen better days, like her own, while others wore flamboyant patterns and colours with a few tassels thrown onto the garment for added glamour.
Eleanor was a little startled to notice that all the women had their hair pulled back, revealing their natural faces.
Some ladies had their hair simply tied up or plaited, while others had strips of cloth tied into their hair to aid or exaggerate their natural curls with a scarf covering their hair.
During the courtesans’ discussion of the lords, Eleanor learned that some younger lords were a little lacking.
As a few chuckles rippled through the room, her hand tensed reaching for the coffee pot, hearing that collective noise made them sound carefree and light-hearted.
Perhaps Eleanor disliked the mornings for what they represented: a time when all the women could gather for a meal.
They all shared a natural, easy camaraderie, almost like sisters.
A kind of companionship she’d always longed for but never experienced in a large group.
“…oh, and Lord Godefrey likes to lick your feet,” Lucy exclaimed loudly to the whole table.
“That’s fine. A bit of toe sucking can be good foreplay,” Annabella replied.
“No, not your toes. I mean your foot…like your whole foot.” Lucy put extra emphasis on highlighting it wasn’t just a toe fetish.
They let that revelation sink in, which was followed by some giggles from Calla and Lauressa, while others shifted in their seats. It was hard to determine who was reacting with revulsion or anticipation.
Their clients frequently demanded specific requests, so discussions about these requests were commonplace.
The fact that Eleanor wasn’t known for socialising didn’t mean she didn’t hear the general gossip.
However, she acknowledged she hadn’t understood how certain requests could be sexual and provide sexual satisfaction.
She found some revelations uninteresting and would redirect clients to the women that would fulfil their sexual preferences.
Eleanor experimented with other requests that intrigued her.
However, she could confidently state that she wouldn’t be adding foot licking to her list of revelations.
She mentally resolved to avoid Lord Godefrey until the Collection was finished.
“Does he wash them?” Veronica asked thoughtfully, lifting her head from her book. Of course, Veronica was one of the ladies wearing a dressing gown and a faded woollen shawl. Eleanor was certain Veronica would spend all day in bed reading if she could, and Eleanor didn’t blame her in the slightest.
“ That? That is what you think of?” Milk said, pointing his spoon at her from across the table, letting a piece of oat slowly drip back into his bowl. He had woken up early to get a thicker porridge consistency.
Milk was one of only two men at The Ladies Grace, who wasn’t a guard posted at the pleasure house’s entrance.
He may have been up early enough to have a more forgiving porridge, but he hadn’t been up long judging by his colourful dressing gown that was tied loosely around his waist and the equally colourful scarf covering his hair.
Eleanor resentfully dug her spoon into the porridge that had turned into a paste-like texture and forced herself to chew the bland, sticky substance.
“Well, the sole of your foot is tender skin, so it’d be like having the inside of your elbow licked.” Veronica mused.
As Eleanor took a large swig of the weak coffee, she watched the quiet woman from the corner of her eye.
“If you want to have your foot licked, go ahead. He’s all yours,” Lucy said, wrinkling her nose.
Veronica lifted a shoulder as she flicked a page. “There’s something stimulating about a man going to his knees for you.”
Eleanor smirked as the entire kitchen went still after that revelation. It was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for.
Cookie broke the stunned silence as he walked into the kitchen with a wide grin. “Got any eggs today?”
“How the fuck should we know?” Lucy replied with a pointed look. “ You’re the cook.”
“Yeah…cook-ie,” sniggered Calla.
Cookie rolled his eyes and sat next to Milk, helping himself to the coarse bread and stale cheese from the middle of the table.
Eleanor couldn’t remember what their client names were, but to everyone here, they were Milk and Cookie.
When she’d first arrived at The Ladies Grace, their monikers had confused her.
Eleanor had heard stranger names, but their lack of connection to appearance or manners baffled her.
They were both toned and slight, with boyish good looks.
They were also gentle and not overpowering but, when needed, defensive of the women.
Their disarming personalities fitted well with the group of women.
She later learned that Madam Grace had accredited their presence in the pleasure house as cooks, but they were so terrible at it that everyone had to take turns cooking instead.
“Heard you ladies have been selected this year for the party palace,” Cookie said, helping himself to another slice of the slightly mouldy cheese. “Anyone been promised to be a Favour yet?” he asked, scrapping off a bit of mould.
“It’s only been one night. Give the ladies time to work their—” Milk coughed, which stopped him mid word.
Eleanor kept her emotions in check, but the unfinished word hanging in the air, the one he’d abruptly stopped himself from saying, suspiciously resembled “magic.” After Milk had recovered from his coughing, he slipped back into his easy charm, “…the room. Shall we make a bet, ladies? ” he said, waggling his brown brows in a comically suggestive look.
“Leave that for the marquis, shall we flower ?” Iris quipped.
Eleanor had heard of the marquis—the entire kingdom had heard about him. His reputation was built on his clothes, gambling, and women. In that order.
“He still doesn’t have a Favour,” Calla said as breadcrumbs fell onto the table between her mouthfuls of dry bread.
That topic was also making the rounds in gossip circles.
Younger nobles at court had Favours, but the marquis didn’t.
Rumours swirled about the marquis’s popularity with women, leading some to question why he would settle down when he could have any woman he desired.
Another rumour speculated that he was making it fashionable not to have a Favour.
If that rumour was true, it’d make him massively unpopular with the king and very popular with the executioner.
“He’s rich enough to have more than one,” Jasmine said, and Eleanor thought she saw a gleam in the woman’s eye.
“I’ve heard he’s richer than the king,” Mirabella mumbled around some bread.