Terror.
It’s a nameless dread hovering on my lips. It’s in every ragged breath that seeps from my mouth in a silent, fervent prayer. However, there is no God here. There is no one able to hear the silent cries as they leak from my body, dissipating into the hot water surrounding me.
I claw and scratch at my skin, desperate to remove the trembling from my limbs. But it never goes away. It settles low in my gut where it takes on a life of its own, twisting and writhing deep inside, until I’m sure I’ll either pass out or upend the contents of my stomach from the intensity.
It’s not supposed to be like this. I was supposed to find a respectable place to hide out—a lady’s maid at best, a scullery maid at worst. My mind couldn’t even fathom something worse than a lowly maid meant to scrub pots and pans until their hands were cracked and bleeding.
But no.
By some sheer twist of fate, I dare not call it luck, I happened upon the one establishment a good, pure girl should never step foot into. I shouldn’t even so much as pass by, let alone dare to enter here. A brothel, a house of ill-repute, spoken about in hushed whispers but never brought out to the light of day.
Sinking lower into the water, I gather my arms about my waist, a paltry means of protection. Not that it really matters. In truth, it seems as if the women milling about have no care of who I am. They seem to ignore the obvious innocent in their midst, carrying on conversations that no lady should ever hear.
Though truth be told, I’m grateful for their prattling. It gives me an idea of just what I should say and how I should act if I’m going to stay here. Glancing back over at the pile of clothes left pitifully off to the side, the tremors start again. But this time, for a far different reason.
Closing my eyes, I dip under the hot water, allowing the warm waves to cover me, hide me. The letter that resides in the folds of my dress is the only thing I took with me when I fled. It’s that note which spells out my doom.
Not just mine, however. If it were only my life on the line, I could see fit to stand my ground, to fight the nameless threat head-on. But no. Whoever decided to threaten my life also threatened those of my mother and sister.
I have no earthly idea who it was that sent that note. The handwriting looked thick, masculine, and sinister, but gave me no clue as to the owner of the quill. In my gut, however, I worry it’s someone connected with the man I was destined to marry.
Before he swung for his crimes, Birchleigh never spoke much of his family. To my knowledge, his parents were dead, and he was the only child. No doubt his desperation to marry me, to keep to the arrangement forged before I even knew of this man, was borne from his need for an heir.
Whatever his reasons, I did not care. He seemed like a kind man; one I could be content with. However, the moment he was executed, all of that became smoke drifting about on the wind.
Life carried on until the fateful day I found the letter. It wasn’t even delivered to me by the butler. No. It was outside, perched on the tree stump, where I enjoyed my moments of solitude.
This person knew me. He or she knew my habits, and that alone was enough to terrify me. But when they threatened my sister and my mother…
It’s for their sake that I ran. It’s for them I currently find myself in this den of iniquity. It’s for them I will play the role of a soiled dove, selling my soul so that theirs remain untarnished.
I lie there at the base of the tub, holding my breath as I beg for clarity to reign over my mind. But all too soon, strong hands grasp my arms, hauling me out. Sputtering, I flail about, my heart leaping into my throat. Though they feel far more feminine, there’s that constant dread that chokes me until I’m unable to breathe. Has my assailant found me so soon?
Part of me wishes to slip back into the water, to allow it to swallow me up, drowning my problems. It would be the easiest path, the one that would allow me to drift into oblivion. That is, if my pursuer chooses to not announce just where they found me.
But there’s no guarantee they will remain silent. If I’m dead, I cannot control the narrative. It leaves my family vulnerable to scandal. At that thought, I find I can no longer stay still.
As air fills my lungs in erratic gasps, I struggle, the water splashing about. But I no longer care if I mess up the room or not. Though I thought the water would be a buffer, a way to slip free, I find the hands hold on even tighter.
Flailing about, I strike out as best as I can, fingers curled as my nails rake through the air. But it’s all for nothing. Soon, a stronger set, most definitely belonging to a large male, engulfs my wrists, holding them aloft. It’s then I realize not only am I naked, but two sets of eyes devour me hungrily.
“It is enough!” The low, feminine voice invades my mind, the barked command forcing my body to still.
An Alpha female? I've heard tales of them. However, they're so few and far between, it's as if they are a myth, spoken of in soft, reverent tones. But it’s the only explanation my brain can conjure for why the fight drains from me completely.
Until now, my father was the only one who could stop time with just a single command. His voice held some magical quality—an Alpha’s command I learned later on. No one else had ever dared to order me in such a way, but I never forgot the forced helplessness I felt in those moments.
It’s the same powerlessness that swamps my senses, threatening to overwhelm me. And in that span of time, I almost revert to that repentant girl who would do anything to garner her father’s love and respect again. Only now, he’s nowhere in sight. It’s just a stern-looking woman and a fierce man who occupies the room.
Taking in a deep breath, I force my heart to settle. No doubt they can still hear the rapid staccato as it pulses out into the room, a beacon of my terror. If I am to stay here under the mercy of this strange female Alpha, I need to show myself competent, a worker of the night.
Though I have no direct form of reference, I conjure the girls and their prattling to mind. If I can just play a farce, act the part well enough, perhaps she’ll let me stay. Besides, whoever wrote that note was certainly one of the educated Ton and not someone who would frequent a place such as this.
At least, that’s the lie I tell myself as I relax in the firm grip, pretending not to notice how the water drips down my breasts while he holds me taut. History tells me my delusions are just that. However, the comfort it gives me far surpasses any truth that threatens to turn my insides into water.
Hanging my head low, I give them a grand show of my submission. “Forgive me. I was startled.”
With a snap of the woman’s fingers, the man lets me go. As my body splashes back into the water, I long to curl into myself, to hide my body from their questing gazes. Although, based on what the others were saying, a whore wouldn’t care who saw what.
Besides, the way all of them paraded around, naked as you please, confirmed the lack of care in which they guarded their bodies. I have to be one of them. I have to act as if the sanctity of my body no longer rests in the hands of my husband… One I’ll never have after this.
But there’s no time to mourn what will or won’t be. My family is safe through my actions, and that’s all that matters. Again, I hazard a glance at my clothes, my heart clenching as I recount the secrets lying within the folds of fabric.
The woman follows my glance and snaps her fingers at the man again. Without even a word, he knows her command. It’s as if they’re in sync in some way that I cannot even understand or fathom. He takes the dress, now ripped and soiled from my nighttime excursion, and tosses it into the fire.
My heart stops for a moment as the last possession I own goes up in flames. The dress itself holds no real meaning or even tender memories, but it’s the sense of finality as embers take hold of the fabric. Everything feels real now, inescapable.
Although, as painful as it is, I cannot help but feel a modicum of relief as the dress and contents catch flame and begin disintegrating into ash. It’s as if the threat in the letter no longer holds weight now that its destruction has begun. This woman has no clue what she’s done, but in my heart, I hold a modicum of gratitude for separating me from that vile missive.
“You didn’t think I’d employ you with such meager rags, did you? That is, if I decide to keep you. You may fail me yet, and then what will you do? Tramp about London Square in just your skin? I think not. You better impress me, my dear.”
Impress her? But how? Again, that creeping sense of helplessness slithers through my body. I cannot help the panic that causes my heart to flail behind my breastbone. Surely, she hears it. The slight hint of a smile convinces me it must be true.
“While you’re under my roof, such rags will not be tolerated. You will, of course, be dressed in the finest silks, ones meant to show off your body. The patrons will expect nothing less of you. Come, step out of the tub so that I may see the body I wish to purchase. Entice me, girl, or I shall cast you back out into the elements with nary on your body except that which God has endowed you.”
Again, the terror I kept at bay by a tenuous thread comes back, infusing me with desperation. I can’t mess this up. I can’t have her toss me out. Willing myself to step out of the tub, I cast a haughty eye on the man in the room.
“Is he the one to determine if I’m fit or not?”
Lips sliding into an easy smile, the woman looks me up and down. “He is not the madame of this house. I am.”
Coldness fills my body as I stare at the formidable woman, the name from earlier flitting through my mind. “Madame Douleur? That is, Madame… Pain?” I whisper the last word, the question slipping out in a reverent breath.
“That’s right. Jeremy said you spoke French.” Her lips thin for a moment before she barks an order at me, the words foreign to my ear for a moment before my brain translates them.
Breath stills in my chest as I hold up my arms, waiting for her to dry me off. Good thing I applied myself to my studies. Granted, it’s the owner of a brothel enjoying my hard work instead of the Ton as I’m flitted about from ball to ball.
She glances at me, pausing as she holds the linens up. There’s a twinkle in her eyes, one of knowing. Could she possibly recognize me? But that’s a ridiculous notion.
Since I never had a coming out, there’s only the slightest possibility that she recognizes me. But then, perhaps I smell enough like my family? I resist the urge to slide my hand up to my throat, settling for a slight twitching before I get myself back under control.
My mother made it no secret that my father slipped away most nights, bemoaning the fact that she never bore him sons. Perhaps he found his way here. It’s no far stretch of the imagination that this madame met his acquaintance and now knows I’m from an upper-class family.
My heart pounds behind my breastbone as we stare each other down. The letter made it perfectly clear I was to tell no one who I was or why I ran. My family would suffer from any lapse of judgment or loosening of my tongue.
And so I stand there, water sluicing down my body as I wait for this Madame Pain to pass judgment. To think that she holds my future in her hands and could end me with just a word.
But she remains silent. If she does indeed recognize me, she makes no mention of it. Grateful, I nearly sag in relief. It’s by sheer will that I stand there and allow her to towel me down.
Not even my lady’s maid accosted me in such a manner. She would merely hold out the linens and help me wrap them before leaving. But Madame Douleur holds no such propriety.
Her hands skim my body as she runs the fabric over my skin. Hardly any place is left untouched. My cheeks grow warm as she pulls back, leaving me naked once more in front of them.
“Go have Jeremy fetch the crimson and gold gown. I do believe this little strumpet will look most fetching in it.” She waits for him to leave before casting her watchful eye on me once more. “If you are going to work as one of my girls, I will know everything about you. Where was your place of employment before this?”
“I-” Faltering, I look at the ground, unsure of what to say.
I have no knowledge of what happens at places such as these and certainly no locations I can conjure to mind. Wracking my brain, I dissect every word spoken between my parents, hoping to glean something that could help me.
“The Gilded Garden,” I finally blurt out, praying that perhaps my father visited there for acts other than looking at flowers.
It must be, though, for I recall in vivid detail begging Mama to let me see the gardens. At the time, her expression and sharp words made no sense to me. They pierced my heart, forcing me to sob until she held me. Tears streamed down her cheeks as well, coating the top of my head.
My younger, far more naïve self, thought she felt wretched for the tone she took with me. Now, looking upon it with the veil lifted from my eyes, she more than likely was crying because her heart was breaking. There was no way for them to be a love match if my father was about seeking the attention of ones in a brothel.
She spoke very little to me of what happened between a man and a woman, but there was no hiding the mark that marred her neck and shoulder. A mark borne of true love. And yet, somehow, this magical mark in all its dubious properties wasn’t enough to keep my father tethered at home where he belonged.
From my understanding, once a person is marked, they’re tied to the other for life. Eternity. From the moment I learned of it, girlish fantasies and notions assailed my mind, conjuring my own marriage and consequent mark. But as time went on, I saw the truth for myself.
Nothing can tie another person if it’s not their desire. As much as my mother did her best, Father always left. It dashed any remaining dreams I had for a love match. If they couldn’t make it, how could I?
Nodding, I lower my lashes. “The Gilded Garden,” I repeat, shame flooding through my body at the secret I harbor deep in my soul.
Madame Douleur’s eyes narrow into slits as she pulls back from me. Blast. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I truly don’t know anything.
“The Gilded Garden. You’re sure?” Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nod my head. “Then I must have a prize indeed if you left their employ to seek mine. Tell me, are you well versed in the art of being a pleasure slave then?”
“One of the best. Men would drop no small amounts of coin for a taste of my quim.” I keep my exterior calm, collected, but inside, I long to scream out that I know nothing.
I’m as innocent as they come. The only thing I know about men are things I gathered from the girls as they spoke openly about their conquests. In truth, however, one day is certainly not enough time to learn what is needed.
There’s something in the madame’s eyes as she looks me over, a possible knowing. But then, if she knew who I was, surely we wouldn’t play this farce. Again, I question everything as a slight smile tilts her lips.
This is a place of employment, despite how demeaning it is. More than likely, she’s more concerned about the coin than my parentage. If I were in her place, I’d want to ensure no young upstart cost me any more than they had to.
“We shall see,” she murmurs, gliding over to me. “All my girls are the best at what they do. You’ll have to work hard to keep up with them. I will allow you on for a trial basis, but mark my words, you will be no use to me if you cannot keep up with the high demands of this establishment. Now then, lie over here on this table and I will examine you.”
