CHAPTER 25

The weather prohibited walking the streets that day. De Tourney had learned that having his girls wrapped up against the freezing winds and snow meant that they were ignored by potential clients, and not allowing them to do so meant that they often became ill. So I sat in the parlour of de Tourney's – the room I had glimpsed briefly during my first visit – working on a shawl I was crocheting for Mother as a Christmas gift. I had no idea what I was going to give Erik; it couldn't be much as that would surely raise suspicions about how I had obtained the money. There was also the issue that I didn't really know Erik. For all that he had been such a large part of my life for more than a year, he did not seem to have many hobbies besides music. He enjoyed reading, I thought, remembering the bookcase that had been stuffed full in his home beneath the Opera Populairé. It had contained volumes in at least four languages on an eclectic mix of subjects both fiction and non-fiction. His subsequent "borrowing" of my own Edgar Allen Poe collection had influenced his decision to attend the Opera House's New Year Masquerade dressed as the Red Death. A recent book could be an appropriate gift.

If I closed my eyes, it was like being amongst the ballerinas back home in Paris. I was surrounded by female voices, all chattering away like starlings in a tree. The women conversed, played games of chess or cards, touched up their hair and make-up with the aid of hand-mirrors, and someone was even reciting poetry. These women, however, could never be mistaken for a ballet troupe. Seeing a group of ballerinas was like looking at a flock of doves, with all of them more or less the same due to our lifestyle, diet and the sheer amount of physical training involved in being a professional ballerina. The women around me now were all different sizes, shapes, colours and nationalities, the mixture carefully chosen, I learned later, to appeal to de Tourney's range of clients. Belle, the closest person I had to a friend in my new profession, was herself an Amazonian woman of almost six feet in height, with wide hips, toned legs and stomach muscles, and a bust that made my own chest look flat. At the Opera Populaire, I had definitely been the most generously endowed of the ballerinas, and had always felt slightly embarrassed by it. In contrast, Gerde was only a few inches taller than me, but so thin that she was almost skeletal, her skin white as death under long, limp black hair. I had never seen food or water pass her lips, and when she spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper. She reminded me of the ghost of Snow White.

"Ladies."

I looked up from my crochet to see de Tourney entering the parlour. Behind him came a man wrapped up in a heavy coat against the bitter cold outside, and carrying a huge carpet bag. I laid aside the shawl and stood up, checking my neckline and smoothing my skirt. I knew the routine by now, and pasted a vacant but pretty smile across my face.

"Mr. Thomas Seymour is here to see you." De Tourney said, and there was a ripple of delighted welcome throughout the room; this was not Mr. Seymour's first visit. As he removed his top hat, I saw he was a light-skinned, clean-shaven man with sharp cheekbones and nose, a broad mouth, and blue eyes that sparkled with humour. His dark brown hair was curly, and he ruffled it with a gloved hand.

"Ladies," he beamed around at all of us. "What a pleasure it is to see you all again!" His American accent made the phrase seem even more boisterous.

"The pleasure is all ours," Evie, a stunning redhead, approached him with a seductive sway to her hips. "Did Nikolai enjoy your work?"

"My dear," he bent over her outstretched hand and planted a kiss on the back of it. "He salivated over you, saying you were the most ethereal and tempting Aphrodite he had ever seen. Do I take it that he has not returned to visit his muse?"

"I suspect his wife has insisted he find inspiration from another source." She pouted, but was unable to disguise the bitter tone.

"Is it Evie you will be wanting this afternoon?" De Tourney asked jovially.

"Forgive me," Seymour clasped her hand in both of hers. "I must seek something new from the collection. Show me your most recent girls."

Evie stepped back, apparently not at all bothered by the idea that she was no longer wanted, and the owner's gaze swept the room.

"Charity," he said. "Saffron and Juliet." He beckoned us forward and I stood, clasping my hands in front of me and still smiling. This was the part I hated, being assessed for my suitability as a partner as though I were a chunk of meat, although de Tourney tried to liken it to choosing a fine wine. The waiting, however brief, felt horrible.

"My dear, beautiful ladies," Seymour brought his gloved hands together with a muffled leather smacking sound. "About face, please."

It took me a second to realise what he wanted, but I imitated Charity and Juliet, and turned my back on him. I could hear Seymour making thoughtful noises and felt a prickling on the back of my neck. What was he doing?

"How long do you have her?" He asked.

"Another four hours," de Tourney replied, and Seymour made an amused sound.

"The usual rate?"

"In advance."

"Naturally."

There was the sound of money being handed over, and then de Tourney said:

"Saffron, you'll be taking care of Mr. Seymour."

I turned, still smiling as my stomach flipped over and faced my new client. I wondered how long it would be before that jolt of dread left me as the other two returned to their seats and I walked towards Seymour with swaying hips and fluttering eyelashes.

"My name is Saffron, Monsieur," I said in my most seductive voice. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"French," he observed with a raise of his dark eyebrows. "Not only a new girl, but a new French girl." He gestured for me to go through the door ahead of him as he lifted the carpet bag. "D'où êtes-vous?"

I looked at him over my shoulder in surprise as I ascended the stairs to the next floor.

"Paris," I replied. "Vous parlez très bien le français ."

It wasn't true, his accent was poor, but I could understand him. I fished the key to room 15 from my pocket and unlocked the door, ushering him inside and turning on the gas light before closing the door behind us.

"One minute," I told him in English. "I will light the fire."

I had changed the sheets and built up the fire after my previous client. Seymour set his bag on the bed and was removing his coat and gloves as I put a match to the fire, looking around the room with interest. I didn't know why; there was nothing in the room to mark it as mine. I didn't want it to feel like a home.

Beneath his coat, Seymour was dressed in a black suit with a jacket that looked more like a frock-coat, waistcoat and cravat. I might have thought he was returning from a funeral, except that he seemed so cheerful. I tried to push out of my mind the notion that this outfit, with its sombre colours, was so much like the ones that Erik wore. I made sure that the kindling had caught light and rose from my crouch.

"How can I help you today, Monsieur Seymour?" I purred, running my hand down his waistcoat. I had absolutely no idea what 'the usual rate' applied to in this case. Seymour stopped my hand as it went down towards his waist, raised it to his lips and kissed my knuckles.

"Take off your dress," he said, and I stepped back, obediently undoing the clasps of my gown. He took off the knee-length jacket, undid his cufflinks and loosened his cravat, then put the cufflinks on the nightstand. He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and looked back at me. "Now, undo the corset, but don't take it off."

He stripped off his waistcoat and unbuttoned his collar as I undid my front-lacing corset, letting it hang open. Despite the weather, I had stopped wearing a chemise underneath and decreased my petticoats from two to one, to make undressing and redressing quicker. I hesitated when he dragged one of the two armchairs away from the fireplace and into a corner of the room and gestured to the rug at the end of the bed.

"Do you want me to take off anything else?" I murmured, running my fingers provocatively over my breast.

"No," he laughed. "I don't want to have sex with you."

"You...?"

That was a new one. Had I fallen into some strange reality where prostitutes were no longer required to sleep with their clients?

"Sit down," he said. "Lean back against the bed."

I did as I was told, confused and a little nervous as he opened the large carpet bag. No man had ever used props on me before, but I gathered from the conversations I had overheard that it was not uncommon. And why didn't he want to have sex with me? What was wrong with me? I bit my left thumbnail, feeling hurt by the rejection, even though I should have been relieved. De Tourney had taken Seymour's money and wouldn't be returning it. My own eyebrows rose when he withdrew a drawing pad and a box. Seymour looked at my face and laughed.

"Heavens, child, you look astonished."

"Well I am surprised," I admitted. "No one has ever come in here with a drawing pad before."

"The girls didn't tell you about me, did they?" He crouched and extended his hand to shake mine. "Allow me to introduce myself formerly. My name is Thomas Seymour, reluctant businessman and penniless artist."

"Saffron." I shook his hand. "Former dancer. Hopefully future dancer."

"Ah, I wondered." He grinned. "You have a dancer's body."

"So, Monsieur Seymour, you are an artist, and you come here for… models?" I clarified.

"Quite so," he nodded. "Although I must admit to partaking in some of your other services as well… I am a man, after all, I have needs. But today, I must take up my pencil. You do not object to posing for me?"

"Not at all." I shook my head. "How would you like me to sit?"

"Lean back, as I said," he replied. "Have your right knee raised and tuck your left leg under. That's it." He plucked at my petticoat, altering the hang of the fabric over my knees, then did the same with the unlaced corset. "Now, clasp your hands around your knee… perfect." He sat down in the armchair. "Look into the fire, just relax with your own thoughts, and whatever you do, don't move."

Of course, the moment he said that, I felt the urge to fidget. I could feel a cramp starting in my leg and an itch under my right eye, but I kept absolutely still, watching the fire. I became very aware of everything around me, the heat of the fire against my exposed breasts in contrast to the cool bed frame behind my head, the soft scratching of Seymour's pencil against his pad, and the moans of the other workers and their clients coming through the thin walls.

"Don't tense up like that," Seymour said, his voice making me jump.

"I'm sorry."

"What is the matter with you?" He tilted his head to one side.

"Nothing." I pasted that false, sugary smile back onto my lips. "I was just thinking… bad thoughts, I'm sorry."

"What were you thinking about?"

I bit my lip and shook my head.

"Don't move," his voice was soft, but the tone was a command.

"I'm sorry." I focused back onto the fire, letting my eyes follow the movement of the flames.

"Well?" Seymour prompted. "What were you thinking about?"

"Sex." The word escaped me before I could clamp my lips closed upon it.

"And sex is bad because...?" He allowed his voice to trail off and I glanced at him, seeing his eyebrows raised in query.

"I don't understand," I said, carefully choosing my words. "Why a man would choose to have sex with a woman who was not his wife, and with whom he has no desire to produce a child."

I could feel Seymour staring at me, and my cheeks turned red. He must have been thinking on my naïveté, my foolishness. What a contrast it must be, for a girl who worked in a whorehouse. He was silent for almost a full minute before he replied.

"Saffron... dear girl, you are so young... and so... new to this profession, am I mistaken?"

"I'm not young," I tried to inject some haughtiness into my tone. "But, yes, I am new to this."

"There are many reasons why a man seeks out sex with another woman, and still more why he might pay for it. Lift your chin slightly—that's it. Perhaps his own wife is unwilling to service him or he is simply lonely and desires companionship. Perhaps he wishes to work off some frustration and energy. It comes down to pleasure in the end. Giving and receiving, feeling that rush, that tingle, that all-consuming fire of climax. Surely you can understand that?"

"Perhaps if I were a man, then I would," I admitted. "But such things are foreign to me."

"Come, now." He sounded amused. "You may be new, but you are of marriageable age. You must have experienced lust, however much the Church may tell you it is forbidden, that want for fulfilment by someone, and the satisfaction of having that lust sated."

My face was hot with embarrassment.

"I've felt desire," I told him. "And I've felt the desire of others... but this... satisfaction you speak of? Never. Perhaps it is something only men feel."

He moved abruptly, and I looked up to see him rising from his chair.

"You are jesting," he said, his brow furrowed. "You can't honestly be telling me that you have never had an orgasm. You're a prostitute, for God's sake; there must be some benefit to the world's oldest profession."

I shrugged. "It pays well."

Seymour frowned down at me, his hands on his slender hips.

"Saffron..." he shook his head, looking like he didn't know how to word what he wanted to say. "It is... unacceptable that you have never had an orgasm."

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling ashamed by my lack of experience and ability to give him what he wanted from me, whatever that was. "If you want to choose one of the other girls instead, I'm sure Monsieur de Tourney would oblige."

"Let me oblige you," Seymour leaned towards me and extended his hand. "Let me show you what it is that you are missing."

I took his hand and stood up.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Lie on the bed, and try to relax." He touched my cheek gently. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

I did as I was told, flat on my back in the familiar position that most of my clients preferred, and felt a little surprise when Seymour straddled me still clothed. He leant down, his weight on his hands on either side of me, and kissed me on the mouth, then the throat, then in the cleft between my breasts. As his hands pushed up the skirt of my petticoat around my waist, he planted a kiss at my naval. I could feel my breathing speeding up as the blood thundered through my veins, pounding in my ears. He kissed me again, further down, at my most intimate spot, and I felt a sudden spark of pleasure. Sounds that I had only ever imitated before were issuing unchecked from my throat. He was doing something with his tongue that I had never experienced before, and I couldn't the moan that left my lips as pleasure began to build. He added the use of his fingers and I felt that something close was building, something fizzing within my abdomen, I could feel my muscles clenching, my toes curling.

"Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" I couldn't stop the words as the pleasure raced through my body, more pleasure than I thought I could stand, as though I had been swamped by a tidal wave. I was struggling for breath and saw Seymour lifting his head and gazing down at me as the sensation faded.

"Did you enjoy that?" He murmured, smiling.

"How did you do that to me?" I asked breathlessly, and he laughed, and kissed my lips. I could taste myself, but the warm glow of that pleasure eclipsed the guilt that was trying to make itself felt.

"Saffron," he murmured against my mouth. "You are such a temptation. I think I must have you now, if you consent?"

"Yes," I whispered back. "Oh, God, yes..."

It was a strange, thrilling relationship. Seymour left at the end of his allotted time with me and I spent the following afternoon hoping to see him, but it was another three days before he visited de Tourney's brothel. He completed his sketch of me in the pose he had set me in, then asked me to lie on the bed on my back, as if I had fallen into an enchanted slumber.

"You can go to sleep, if you like," he said. "As long as you don't move."

The drawings he was doing, it transpired, were interpretations of scenes from fairytales. The first post was Cinderella, gazing into the ashes of the fire, wishing to attend the ball. This second was the princess from Sleeping Beauty. He had brought with him a flowing nightgown which he arranged around my body, and when I did fall asleep, he awoke me with a kiss. After he had completed his initial sketch, we made love. In those hours with Thomas Seymour, I learnt more about my body than I had ever imagined, and I found myself trying to work my new knowledge into my work with the other clients. The work was unpleasant, but did not have to be terrible; however it was him I wanted to see, him I wanted to sit with, talk with, lie with. He asked for my consent every time, and although I never refused him, I knew that had I asked him to stop, he would have done so. I wondered, in some part of my mind, if I were falling in love with him. He was so different to the only other man in my life that I felt an emotional connection with. Erik was frightening and authoritative, Thomas gentle and kind. Erik had styled himself as my guardian and I saw Thomas as my lover, as forbidden as it was. When we lay in bed together, still basking in the afterglow of pleasure, he told me about his life, his home, wife, and children. I evaded his questions and tried to give as little direct information about my own circumstances as I could, and I felt guiltier about the fact that I was lying to him, then I did about the fact that he was a married man, and that Mrs Seymour did not know that I was regularly sleeping with her husband. Thomas knew almost nothing about my life, he did not even know my real name, and I had sometimes felt that Erik knew more about me than I realised. More accurately, he knew more about the child I had been, rather than the woman I had become. The two men were worlds apart... and it was only a matter of time before those two worlds collided.

I left the brothel a few days into the January of 1895 to find that it was still snowing, as it had been all day, but that the wind had dropped and the fall had slackened. Instead of the relentless stream of fat, heavy flakes that had greeted me that morning, they were smaller, lighter, and seemed to dance in the orange gaslight. It made me think of the ballet.

The street where de Tourney's was located was quiet, but I was immediately swamped in the people and vehicles passing along the main thoroughfare it led off. People were shopping, pedestrians moving against the snow like a line of ants, industrious in their tasks. The sight of an unusually tall figure striding down the street towards me made me feel as though someone had dropped a ball of snow down my back. His head was bent, a red scarf and the wide brim of his fedora hiding his face, but it was no disguise from me.

I was not supposed to be here. As far as Erik knew, I was working at the factory, a good three blocks from here, until six thirty. The clock in the parlour had chimed six fifteen as I had pulled on the gloves that Mother had made me for Christmas, my lips still tingling from Thomas Seymour's kisses. I shrank into a doorway, trying to think of what to do and how to explain my presence here. Should I double back, down the alley and into the brothel? If Erik spotted me and realised what the building was, the freedoms I had been granted in this new American life of mine would be ended. My secret would be out, my mother disgraced, and I could not bear the thought of it. As Erik came closer to me, all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears, and all I could picture in my mind's eye was the shame that would befall me when they realised what I had been doing. With every heartbeat, Erik was advancing, and I had less than five seconds to think of a plan of action.