Diary of A Mistress
When compelled by my acquaintances to release an account of these experiences, I have always demurred on account of the potential damage which may be visited upon the persons involved by the gossip of London Society.
However, now that the whole thing is done with, I have come to put pen to paper, in the hope that the truth be known and that some things which have been said against a man's honour may now be unsaid. I shall not divulge their names here, since my intention is to silence gossip rather than create it, and for those who do not know to whom I am referring - well, I shall not reveal it.
I was born in the year of our Lord 1881, and Christened at St Anne's church in Whitechapel under my original name of Virtue Mabel Christopherson, which served me well until I re-Christened myself Mab so that my name may not be too ironic. The lore of my childhood had it that our surname, unusual in London, was owing to my paternal grandfather being of Scandinavian birth, but the details of that remained vague until my father's death in the 1890s, when I suppose all chance of certainty was taken with him to the grave. My mother, having more than a hobbyist's interest in gin, was of little consequence to me (and I to her, let me assure you) by the time that these extraordinary events began to occur.
Readers may have seen me referred to in the press by many titles and occupations, but I would like to here speak with no false modesty in calling myself a working mistress. The celebrated author Mr Thackeray has written of Miss Becky Sharp's ascension from orphan servant girl to lady of the manor, through mistress to a lord, and though I do not stretch myself to her heights, I believe that faint comparisons could be made. I have never had the pleasure of a lord, but now that half of London knows what I have had, let me tell you in plain truth how it began, that you might think the better of both of us.
In the autumn of 1902, I was in a house. This house was adorned with nothing but bedrooms, and populated by nothing but young girls and one older one; my Mistress, whose name I shall not give here for reasons which may be obvious. It was a tranquil evening, around the hour of sunset - I was seated on a chaise longue, talking with two other girls who were my particular friends, whilst we awaited clientele. I fancied at the time that I looked rather well in my ringlets and low-cut dress with a bustle and ruffled skirts, but perhaps my standards were lowered by poverty and I did not look so well as I thought. Another girl - whom I did not mention along with the others because she was not a particular friend of mine - called excitedly from the window that a gentleman was approaching our door and he looked rich. We as working girls, both loved and dreaded our clients, but there is an excitement and joviality peculiar to people working in difficult confines, which expressed itself as friendly rivalry between us to win the greatest number of gentleman per night.
We heard our mistress greet him in the hallway - his voice was too low to hear, but their conversation continued for a minute or so. This is perhaps a little unusual, as most visitors to our abode will begin with a single instruction, like "The youngest" or "A blonde". It is not unheard of for men to be particular, but I have found it is not common. When my mistress's voice travelled up the staircase bearing my name, I had the same flutter of anxiety that I had every time. However I gave a false smile to my girlfriends who clapped me silently, and I appeared on the landing.
My first impressions were unremarkable; he was not unlike any other man who might call. Then my mistress said to me, "Mab, this is Mr -." I need not say that I almost fainted with shock.
As soon as she said it, I knew it was him - all of London has seen his likeness in the press. I did not know whether he was here for the usual reason, or because of one of these peculiar stories that he pursues in his profession; and because I knew of his connection to the law, I felt a terrible fear for the first moment upon seeing him. But after that, I perceived that his eyes twinkled at me expectantly, and so I smiled my usual professional smile. I should say at first that he looked anxious rather than pleased to see me, but this is not unheard of. In fact I shall say here unequivocally that I recognised from years of experience that this was his first time in an exchange of this kind. Much has been speculated about this, his proclivity to consort with working girls, so now hear me when I say: I was his first.
I descended the stairs. For the sake of delicacy, I affected not to have heard of him. We did sometimes have gentlemen of strong influence and standing arrive at our quarters, and I had made it a rule for myself not to trouble them with the burden of their reputation: as long as they were with me, they were at a refuge from the outside world.
I smiled my best smile and tried to take him by the hand, as if to pull him longingly into one of our bedrooms, but my mistress apprehended me. I was to go with him, instead.
This did not please me greatly. You may suppose that a great deal of roughness is visited upon women in my profession, making me reluctant to leave the premises where my employer and friends can hear me scream. It was fourteen years since the Ripper walked in Whitechapel, but that was still not enough to erase his shadow from my mind. My smiles for Mr - grew more subdued, but I said I would get my shawl, and so we walked out. I felt the eyes of my friends on my back as we left.