a step closer. She laid her hand on Stefanie’s arm, light as a silken feather, ladylike and lascivious all at once. “I think I understand your difficulty, Mr. Thomas.”
“I really think you don’t.”
She bent her pretty head to Stefanie’s ear and spoke so softly, Stefanie almost couldn’t hear. “It is your first time, isn’t it? A little nervous, perhaps?” Her breath smelled of chocolate.
“No! No. I mean yes. I mean . . .”
Her hand slipped down Stefanie’s arm to grasp her fingers. “Come with me, Mr. Thomas. I have just the thing for you.” She spoke more loudly now, and the other clerks whooped with gentlemanly approval.
“Go on, Thomas!”
“Up you go, old man!”
“Poke her a good one, Thomas!”
Cousin Hannah tugged her out of the room. Stefanie followed, thinking perhaps this was her chance, she could make a break for it, find a back entrance. But the stairs loomed up immediately, tall and steep and carpeted in plush crimson. Cousin Hannah gripped her wrist like a manacle and yanked her upward, in a gesture quite unlike her ladylike deportment in the parlor.
Stefanie took a few stumbling steps after her and cast a glance back down to the entrance hall, and an enormous beef-armed man glared back up at her, as if to say, Don’t even think about it, ye posh fragging twit.
Stefanie gulped back a yelp of dismay and continued on in Hannah’s determined wake. Her mind invented and discarded a dozen excuses, and finally settled on disease. Nothing a prostitute dreaded more than disease, wasn’t it? Inconvenience, lost profit, disgruntled customers, that sort of thing. She would make her confession in the privacy of the room itself. Pay the woman a sovereign, or whatever the going rate was, and ask to be excused.
On the other hand, Stefanie found her natural curiosity rather awakened as Cousin Hannah, those corseted hips swaying like lifeboats, dragged her down a hallway lined with doors, all of them shut tight. A bawdy house! A genuine, honest-to-goodness bawdy house! An establishment built for the sole purpose of fornication by the hour. What were the ladies like? What were the customers like? What were the rooms like? Did everybody get down to business straightaway, or was there any sort of farcical courtship first, a few words of affection or at least attraction, a human connection of some kind before the necessary parts made the necessary contact with the inevitable result?
Did they change the sheets between customers?
And what on earth was that oblong object on the hall table?
“Wait a moment,” said Stefanie, rather breathlessly, but Hannah had already reached the room at the end of the hall and turned the knob.
“Here we are, sir. All private and lovely.”
Stefanie stumbled across the threshold and caught herself on a lamp table. She gazed around her in astonishment. A torrent of faded crimson wallpaper coated the walls, peeling at the corners and at the chipped baseboards, which had once probably been painted in white, and which were now a sooty gray. Atop a stain on the thick red rug stood a tripod table, on which a half-empty bottle of sherry perched with two smudged glasses. There was a wardrobe in the corner, for what purpose Stefanie could not possibly imagine.
And the bed. Of course, the bed.
Sized for two, made up with gray white sheets and a few thin blankets, dominating the room and made double by a large oblong mirror attached to the wall beside it. The four wooden posts rose up like pillars, nearly touching the slanted ceiling.
“Look here . . .” Stefanie lunged for the doorknob, but Hannah shut it tight and turned the key.
“Now, then,” she said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my lad. It’s the greatest pleasure in the world, isn’t it? You’ve given yourself pleasure before, haven’t you?”
“I . . . yes, well . . . you see, I . . .”
Hannah smiled beautifully. “Don’t worry. No one will ever know, will they? And
“I really think you don’t.”
She bent her pretty head to Stefanie’s ear and spoke so softly, Stefanie almost couldn’t hear. “It is your first time, isn’t it? A little nervous, perhaps?” Her breath smelled of chocolate.
“No! No. I mean yes. I mean . . .”
Her hand slipped down Stefanie’s arm to grasp her fingers. “Come with me, Mr. Thomas. I have just the thing for you.” She spoke more loudly now, and the other clerks whooped with gentlemanly approval.
“Go on, Thomas!”
“Up you go, old man!”
“Poke her a good one, Thomas!”
Cousin Hannah tugged her out of the room. Stefanie followed, thinking perhaps this was her chance, she could make a break for it, find a back entrance. But the stairs loomed up immediately, tall and steep and carpeted in plush crimson. Cousin Hannah gripped her wrist like a manacle and yanked her upward, in a gesture quite unlike her ladylike deportment in the parlor.
Stefanie took a few stumbling steps after her and cast a glance back down to the entrance hall, and an enormous beef-armed man glared back up at her, as if to say, Don’t even think about it, ye posh fragging twit.
Stefanie gulped back a yelp of dismay and continued on in Hannah’s determined wake. Her mind invented and discarded a dozen excuses, and finally settled on disease. Nothing a prostitute dreaded more than disease, wasn’t it? Inconvenience, lost profit, disgruntled customers, that sort of thing. She would make her confession in the privacy of the room itself. Pay the woman a sovereign, or whatever the going rate was, and ask to be excused.
On the other hand, Stefanie found her natural curiosity rather awakened as Cousin Hannah, those corseted hips swaying like lifeboats, dragged her down a hallway lined with doors, all of them shut tight. A bawdy house! A genuine, honest-to-goodness bawdy house! An establishment built for the sole purpose of fornication by the hour. What were the ladies like? What were the customers like? What were the rooms like? Did everybody get down to business straightaway, or was there any sort of farcical courtship first, a few words of affection or at least attraction, a human connection of some kind before the necessary parts made the necessary contact with the inevitable result?
Did they change the sheets between customers?
And what on earth was that oblong object on the hall table?
“Wait a moment,” said Stefanie, rather breathlessly, but Hannah had already reached the room at the end of the hall and turned the knob.
“Here we are, sir. All private and lovely.”
Stefanie stumbled across the threshold and caught herself on a lamp table. She gazed around her in astonishment. A torrent of faded crimson wallpaper coated the walls, peeling at the corners and at the chipped baseboards, which had once probably been painted in white, and which were now a sooty gray. Atop a stain on the thick red rug stood a tripod table, on which a half-empty bottle of sherry perched with two smudged glasses. There was a wardrobe in the corner, for what purpose Stefanie could not possibly imagine.
And the bed. Of course, the bed.
Sized for two, made up with gray white sheets and a few thin blankets, dominating the room and made double by a large oblong mirror attached to the wall beside it. The four wooden posts rose up like pillars, nearly touching the slanted ceiling.
“Look here . . .” Stefanie lunged for the doorknob, but Hannah shut it tight and turned the key.
“Now, then,” she said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my lad. It’s the greatest pleasure in the world, isn’t it? You’ve given yourself pleasure before, haven’t you?”
“I . . . yes, well . . . you see, I . . .”
Hannah smiled beautifully. “Don’t worry. No one will ever know, will they? And
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