A 19th century London courtesan agrees to a phony courtship with a navy captain and finds herself negotiating uncharted territory outside the boudoir.
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The year is eighteen-t...
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~ Thursday, Dec 31st, 1812 ~
The man stood on the corner quite deliberately staring up at the window of my second-floor boudoir as my coach delivered me home. If he hoped to view something unsavory, he was wasting his time. The drapes were only left open when the rooms were vacant. Or perhaps he was considering a position as a patron.
As the coachman urged his horse to a stop, I glanced at my fingertips. The London fog had never quite left, trapped beneath the winter air, and the day wore an overcoat of yellow and grey. My white gloves bore the evidence. But there was no getting around it. The children depended on me.
Through the window, I watched the lamplighter make his rounds on Piccadilly Street. Despite the off-putting smell, it provided a beacon for my benefactors, who occasionally arrived in a drunken state. The life of a courtesan carried many responsibilities, not the least of which involved catering to overindulgence. And on chilly, wet evenings like these, I was grateful for the lamppost's assistance.
When the coachman ushered me out of the carriage, and I had palmed a copper into his hand, I noticed the curious man had not left his post. He wore a thick, navy peacoat. Perhaps, military issue. The collar was turned up, obscuring his chin, and he hid his face beneath a wool cap.
I had not yet chosen what I might say to the man as I approached him. Then his gaze flicked downward. Upon seeing me, he turned abruptly and hurried away, affording me a fleeting glimpse of his grey eyes. While there had been no shortage of men who stood outside my home conjuring lewd thoughts about what happened behind the curtained windows, my gut told me this man had a different purpose.
Inside the foyer, Tilda greeted me with a warm smile as she removed my winter pelisse and hung it in the armoire. "How are the children at hospital? Have any of them improved?"
Given that the children were of poor health and poor means, even if they survived their illness, they would not see much improvement in their meager lives. "None have improved. But none have passed on, so there's still hope."
"Aye, Mistress. You're living proof of that."
The dear girl wasn't wrong.
"How are the party decorations coming? Our guests arrive in nary two hours."
"It's looking right festive. See for yourself." Tilda disappeared behind the kitchen door, and I walked into the sitting room to survey my staff as they busied themselves with preparations for my New Year's Eve gala.
Jasper knelt before the hearth, strategically arranging yule logs to give the effect of abundance. Clara positioned silk flowers inside exquisite vases sent to the estate by the duke. And Douglas tied a garland of baby's breath and white orchids to the mantle where the Christmas pine and boxwood had hung a few moments before. Twas a grand sight, and we had only just begun.
Despite England's bothersome war with America, the impact had not been felt by my benefactors or my household, and I planned to do everything in my power to keep it that way. Fortunately, my staff retained their wits in spite of the fortnight of holiday parties we had hosted for my friends and patrons. The ache in my womanhood persisted as a reminder. While many scorned my galas and anyone who attended them, I was certain the mockers would enjoy themselves heartily if only they gave it a go.
