CHAPTER ONE #2
“You'll call me Mrs. Feather, like the other girls. No special treatment for you.”
“Of course, Mrs. Feather.” Darcie found her voice at last. She had heard of Mrs. Feather's house—there were few in Whitechapel who had not.
But when she had realized that the address she sought, taken from the faded and ratty old letter that was her final link to the past, was actually Mrs. Feather's house, she had been shocked beyond words.
Darcie stared at the woman before her. Hard and bitter, she bore the marks of a sad and savage life.
Could this cold creature really be Abigail?
Pretty Abigail who used to sing Darcie to sleep and hold her in the night when the bad dreams came?
A heaviness burdened Darcie's heart as she realized that this shell was all that remained of her sister.
Mrs. Feather caught Darcie's chin between her thumb and forefinger, regarding her shrewdly through eyes that glittered like chips of ice. She stared without speaking for a long moment.
Darcie returned the perusal with a sidelong glance, noticing that Mrs. Feather looked old and worn, when in truth she was barely thirty.
The bright color painted on her lips could not disguise the furrows that bracketed her mouth.
The powder and rouge that colored her skin did little to hide the deep grooves that marked her brow, the brittle cast to her features, or the sallow complexion.
Saddened, Darcie lowered her gaze, unwilling to acknowledge this woman who was but a caricature of the sister she remembered.
She immediately realized her mistake. In looking away she had changed nothing, for she was yet confronted by the reality of her sister's life.
Her gown was tight and low, her full breasts pushed up to the point that they nearly spilled over the top of her bodice, and the scent of her perfume swirled around Darcie in a sickening cloud.
Suddenly, Mrs. Feather snatched at the battered folio that Darcie clutched under one arm. “What's this, then? You're not still scratching out pictures?”
Darcie's fingers curled protectively around the edges of the tattered leather case, resisting Mrs. Feather's attempts to take it from her.
“Yes. I still sketch, though it has been some time since I could buy any supplies to draw with. These pictures are old. Treasures. Memories.” Darcie couldn't suppress a sad smile. “I have one of you.”
“Not one of me,” Mrs. Feather said in a flat voice. “What you have is a picture of a girl who died a long time ago.”
Darcie made no reply. There was nothing to say to that.
“How old are you now?” The question was sharp, impatient.
“Twenty, come June.”
“Well, you look younger,” Mrs. Feather said, her eyes narrowing as she peered at Darcie's face.
“I remember you being younger.” With an impatient click of her tongue, she turned Darcie toward the large gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall.
“Look at yourself and tell me if you think I have much to work with.
Eyes as sorrowful as a whipped puppy. And that hair.
I don't know what to make of it. And you're as skinny as a post. Men like a woman who's soft and curved.”
Darcie stared at her reflection. She did look a sight.
Her brown eyes were huge in her face, made all the more so by her hollow cheeks and pale skin.
The ill weather had done a thorough job of drenching her, and the mahogany hair that had once been soft and pretty was plastered to her skull, hanging in uneven clumps over her shoulders.
The severe, uninterrupted black of her apparel did little to enhance her appearance.
In all, she looked like a walking corpse, though a corpse likely boasted more color in its cheeks.
“It doesn't matter how I look,” she said.
“I don't care. I only want—” She broke off as a man stepped into the entry hall, his passage followed by raucous laughter that belched from the front parlor as he departed.
From the corner of her eye, Darcie caught the swirl of garishly colored gowns, the images of rouged lips and kohl-rimmed eyes.
Women of the night, she thought as the door closed, cutting off the scene.
Her attention returned to the man as he moved behind Mrs. Feather, one hand curving around her waist and the other sliding over the bare skin of her shoulder until his fingers rested just inside her gown, lying casually on the plump fullness of her breast. Darcie swallowed, staring at this violation of her sister's person, unable to look away. This was how men would treat her.
He was of medium height, sharp featured and dark, the cut of his superfine coat accentuating his stocky build. Some might think him handsome, but the way he touched Mrs. Feather made Darcie's stomach roll with nerves. She took a step back, wishing she were anywhere but here.
Mrs. Feather cast Darcie a hard glance, then turned from her, her lips curving in a practiced smile as she moved.
“Lord Albright, how lovely to have you grace us with your presence this night. All is arranged exactly as you desire. The red room, as you requested.”
“Is this the girl?” he asked, his voice cold. Darcie shifted her gaze to the floor. “Looks like Haymarket ware. She's not as pretty as I wanted, or as young. And she looks completely lacking in spirit. You know I like a bit of excitement.”
“This girl, my lord? She's just a maid. I have a lovely treat waiting for you upstairs.”
He grunted, pulling his hand from Mrs. Feather's breast. Abruptly, he stepped toward Darcie, brushing his fingertips over her bodice.
With a cry she shrank from his touch, banging her arm sharply against the marble-topped table at her side.
Lord Albright's eyes lit with a glow that made Darcie cringe from him.
Mrs. Feather moved smoothly between them, linking one arm with practiced ease through Lord Albright's and reaching behind at the same time to deliver a sharp pinch to Darcie's forearm with the other.
“Come, my lord,” she purred. “We wouldn't want the tempting dish I've arranged to get cold, would we?”
Lord Albright bared his teeth. “I shall enjoy sampling her, warm or cold.”
Revulsion rose in Darcie's throat.
As she guided Lord Albright toward the staircase, Mrs. Feather glanced back over her shoulder.
“Stay there.” She mouthed the words soundlessly at Darcie, her lips moving with exaggeration.
Sagging against the wall, Darcie tried to force her racing heart to slow. She felt sick. Lord, it wouldn't do for her to toss up here on the shiny polished floor of the front hall. No danger of that, really. There was nothing inside of her to throw up.
The dull ache in her abdomen turned momentarily sharp, doubling her over with the sheer intensity of the pain.
She was reminded of exactly how desperate her straits were.
The subtle torment was always there of late, gnawing relentlessly at her empty insides, reminding her that a full belly was a dream of the past. The minutes and hours would creep by, and just when she thought she could bear it, the agony of ever present hunger tore at her with a pain that gnashed its evil teeth, lacerating her stomach, taunting her with her own desperation.
The sound of boisterous laughter filtered from the front parlor.
Raising her head, Darcie forced herself to look about, to take in the reality of the choice she had made.
Mrs. Feather's House. The name was so innocuous, so unassuming, but Darcie was hard pressed to imagine anything worse than this place.
No mere house, it was a den of debauchery.
Mrs. Feather catered to the best of society, providing them with the means to indulge in their darkest, vilest desires.
A high-pitched scream echoed from above, and then another.
The hallway spun before Darcie's eyes. She couldn't remember when she'd eaten last. Last night.
No, the night before that. She'd snatched a potato that fell from a bushel at Spitalfields and devoured it raw.
Nowhere to sleep. Nothing to eat. For weeks she'd banged on every door, pleaded for gainful employment at any job.
Laundry maid. Step girl. There was nothing to be had.
She was faced with a terrible choice. Sell herself on the street—what had Lord Albright called her?
Haymarket ware—the lowest girl who sold herself in a doorway, a back alley, the darkened corner of a pub.
Or she could sell herself to her sister.
Or she could die.
She'd thought of the poorhouse, but she had no illusions there. It was simply a longer and slower death.
Darcie pressed her balled fist into her belly. Her gaze strayed past the black-and-gold-papered walls of the front hallway, to the staircase that led to the upper floor, then flicked rapidly to the doorway that led to the parlor that Lord Albright had exited earlier.
Slowly, she began to back away. Her hip bumped against something, and she glanced down to find the knob of the front door pressing against her. The smooth cold surface of it beckoned.
Her fist closed around the brass knob, and she whirled, twisting the handle and flinging the door open. The darkness and the fresh smell of rain greeted her. Coming here had been a dreadful mistake. She couldn't do this. Whatever had made her think she could?
She took a deep breath, preparing to flee, when a hand clamped over her arm, the fingers biting into the sore place where she had banged it earlier. With a gasp Darcie turned and faced Mrs. Feather. Her heart plummeted. Too late to run.
“Here, take this.” Mrs. Feather pressed something into Darcie’s palm. “But don't come back. You have no place here, and there's no more for you where this came from.”
Looking down in amazement, Darcie stared at her sister’s gift. A shilling. A fortune to a girl who was starving.
Her gaze collided with the madam's, and for a single beautiful shimmering moment, she saw her sister, Abigail, looking at her from behind Mrs. Feather's hard, cold mask.