16 June 1959
Not tonight, she'd told him once their deal was struck. No customers after hours, except by prior arrangement. Apparently despite the friendship they'd been slowly cultivating between themselves over the last few weeks Lucien did not merit special treatment; he'd have to wait his turn like everyone else.
When, then? He'd asked, adrenaline and fear making his heart race.
Tomorrow, she'd said. At 5:00, when we open. There's less chance someone will see you.
Worried about my reputation? He'd asked her wryly.
No, she'd answered, shaking her head. Mine. I've been off the market a long time, Doctor Blake. I don't want word of this to get around.
It was tomorrow, now, and just gone 3:00. Lucien had asked Mrs. Penny to reschedule all of his afternoon appointments; his hands were trembling, and his thoughts were too chaotic for him to trust himself with a patient. The police had wrapped up the McBride case, and they had no need of him, and he had a feeling he wouldn't be welcome at the police station just now, anyway. It was probably for the best; he wasn't sure that he'd be able to hold his tongue, if he found himself face-to-face with Matthew Lawson. Matthew who had warned him to be careful with Mrs. Beazley, to keep his dealings at the Lock and Key secret, to be careful only now Lucien had gone and arranged an assignation with the madam herself, at a staggering price. One hundred pounds, for an hour alone with her; he would have paid double that, if she'd asked it of him, and so he supposed he ought to be grateful for small mercies, but Matthew Lawson would not have agreed. Matthew would have called it madness, and he would have been right.
The decision had been made in haste, and Lucien knew it was a foolish one, a reckless one, but he could not bring himself to regret it. He wanted her, fiercely, wanted her hands, her lips, the slide of her hips under his hands, but it was not only her body he craved, was not only lust that had him reaching for his wallet. She'd stood in front of him the night before, beautiful, strong, passionate, and as she spoke he realized she was right. There was a piece of his heart that wanted to save her, to bring her out of the shadows, a piece of him that looked at her and lamented, thinking she was too good for the hand life had dealt her. But she'd read him like a book, and stood before him defiant, and he'd realized the error of his ways. Mrs. Beazley was quite capable of saving herself, he could see that now; it was not a cruel turn of fate that kept her in the Lock and Key, but her own choices. And if this was the life she chose, if this was the only way he could have her, he would submit to her terms.
He'd been teetering on the edge of this proposition from the moment he met her, and he knew it. Had been drifting closer and closer to the brink, wanting and yet holding himself back, tasting temptation but not reaching for it, not yet. The dance they'd shared in the empty pub was enough to tip him over the edge; she was beautiful, and warm, and soft, and the feeling of her body against him, closer to her in that moment than he had been to any woman for years, had lit a fire deep in his belly. He wanted her, but she was not a nurse or a teacher, not a woman he would have to court carefully, chastely, wooing her slowly with dinners and drinks and restraining himself for the sake of propriety. She was not his to pursue in the way another woman might have been; there was only one path to spending time with her, only one way to touch her, and she had made the ground rules very clear.
Lucien sighed and abandoned his futile attempts at reviewing patient notes, gathering up his glass of whiskey and leaving behind the surgery, making his way towards his bedroom instead. The clock was ticking, the appointed hour drawing ever closer, and anxiety had begun to bubble up somewhere deep inside him. It was not that he doubted his capabilities, exactly; he was quite sure that he could make a fine showing, when it came right down to it. What worried him, what set his hands to shaking, was the thought that this was Jean. She was not a stranger, accepting payment and closing her eyes and waiting for him to take his own pleasure. She was a woman he cared for, a woman he respected, a woman he believed was worthy of devotion, and adoration, a woman he very much wanted to like him. Whatever happened between them over the course of their hour together he wanted to satisfy her, did not want her to think less of him than she had done before.
Everything between them was about to change, he knew. He was not a fool, or a cad; this was not to be some soulless transaction. He intended to share himself with her, and take from her whatever she was willing to give, and he knew that after such an experience they would not ever look at one another the same way again. Would she care for him more, if he treated her gently? Would she smile more often, offer him conversation without need of payment, indulge him because she was enjoying herself, too? Or had he now relegated himself to the rank of customer, no different, no more important than any other man she'd had before, no longer a confidant or a friend but simply another one of them? Lucien was afraid he'd put his foot right in it, but there was no going back now; to renege on their bargain would be a blow to her pride, and it would demolish any trust or goodwill between them. And besides, he wanted her too badly to throw this chance away. He wanted her, her soft skin beneath his lips, her gentle sighs, the rocking of her hips, wanted to see her, feel her, touch her, hold her, wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, meaning every word, wanted to savor every second he could spend alone with her, far from the prying eyes of the pub. He wanted her, and soon, very soon, he would have her.
But first, he thought, a bath, and a trim for my beard, and a fresh suit. It would not do, he thought, to turn up at her door disheveled and stinking of whiskey; she deserved better from him than that, and he meant to give her the best he possibly could.
"Are you sure about this, Mrs. Beazley?" Maureen asked her for perhaps the third time that afternoon. They were sitting together in Jean's little parlor, cups of tea in their hands. It had just gone 4:00, and Jean was rapidly running out of time - not that it mattered, really. The bargain had been made, and she would see her end of it through.
"I'm sure," she answered firmly.
The upstairs of the Lock and Key was a veritable warren of bedrooms, and each girl had her own, though they shared a bathroom and a toilet. The owner's suite was Jean's domain; one bedroom, one small parlor, and a private bathroom. It was more than she'd ever had anywhere else, a space entirely her own, and it had been her home for the last ten years. She was comfortable here, in these rooms she had furnished and decorated to her own taste, and no man had ever set foot inside them. Until now.
That was what made Maureen so uneasy, Jean knew. The madam existed in a world unto herself, the ultimate authority over both her employees and her customers. She could not be had; she was untouchable, sacrosanct, and there was power in her inviolability. To change the terms of her status was to risk everything, but an offer had been made and it could not be refused. Not only because it was a great deal of money - and would be a boon to her business, would secure her future and continued prosperity quite neatly - but because she wanted it too badly. She wanted him, those strong arms, those broad shoulders, wanted to know how it would feel to let him roll her beneath him. And she wanted to know why he seemed so fixated on her, wanted to learn all she could about him, wanted to know what would happen next, should they take this step together. It was curiosity, as much as pride, that compelled her.
And so she was sitting here, discussing her plans with Maureen, waiting for him. She'd bathed and styled her hair just so; it fell soft and loose around her face, for while she had taken the time to curl it she had not bothered with pins. They'd only get in the way. She had dug through the back of her wardrobe and discovered a black satin nightdress that would suit her purposes well; it fell to just below her knee, showing off the smooth length of her pale calves, and the décolletage was lace, and sheer, accenting the curve of her breast just so. For the sake of her meeting with Maureen she had wrapped herself in her favorite pink chenille robe, and she sat in her favorite armchair, her legs tucked up underneath her, both her hands wrapped around her teacup.
"It's just that -"
"I know, Maureen. But the Doctor has made a generous offer. He'll come early, and he'll leave by the back stairs. No one has to know he was here."
"I'll know," Maureen grumbled with a haughty toss of her auburn curls. "Tell me the truth, would you have even considered it if he wasn't handsome?"
"That isn't why I agreed to this, and I think you know that."
No, Jean had not accepted him only because he was handsome. Handsome men could be dangerous, in their own way, and tended in Jean's experience to have an over-inflated sense of their own prowess in the bedroom. If he had only been handsome, she would have laughed in his face. Jean had accepted him because he was kind, and brilliant, because he was passionate, because he was possessed of a good heart. Somehow, though she had only known him such a short while, Jean knew that she would be safe in his hands. She did not know, yet, what might pass between them once he stepped into her room, did not know how things might change once they were finished, but knew he would not hurt her, and she wanted to find out just how things might go between them. She wanted to know how his hands would feel, tight against her hips, wanted to know what quiet words he might whisper in her ear. She wanted to know what it was he wanted from her, whether a tumble alone would be enough to satisfy him or if it was some greater need that drew him to her.
It was not only lust, she thought. It was not only a case of a lonesome man looking for relief; he could have had his pick of the girls, young and beautiful, and far less costly than she. But it was Jean he had pursued, single-mindedly, and he had not balked at her terms. He had met her on her own ground, and now…
Now we shall see what we shall see, she thought.
Truth be told she did feel a certain anxiety. It had been over a decade since last she'd been to bed with a man, and far longer since she'd been with a man she cared for. Things were different this time, and she knew it; he was different. What would he expect from her? Ordinarily the customers did not expect much at all; they were hungry for relief, and would purchase it according to the manner that suited them best, and they gave no thought to the women who provided it. Doctor Blake wouldn't be like that, she thought; he wasn't just looking for a warm body to hold. He wanted her, but how, and to what end?
She wanted him to be more than satisfied, by the time that they were through. She wanted him to leave her bed believing she'd been worth every penny he'd paid for her. She wanted…
She wanted to feel something, when he held her. She didn't want to watch the sand slipping through the old hourglass and count the seconds; she wanted to lose herself in a feeling only vaguely remembered, now. She wanted the sighs, the gasps, the slide of sweat-slicked skin intoxicating and not repugnant, the smell of sandalwood and not stale beer. She wanted her heart to race, wanted to feel...she wanted to feel him, and in the feeling of it she wanted to find her own heart again. Her heart, so long ignored, longed for the freedom her mind had discovered. Would he give it to her? Had he made his offer desperate to hold her, knowing it was the only way, or had he done it because he realized he could, and thought it no more than an exciting way to pass the time?
There were so many questions, and she knew she would not find her answers until he came to her, and they settled things between them at last. There was nothing for it, now, except to see their bargain through to its conclusion. And then...we'll worry about the rest when it comes, she thought.
"I can stay the whole night," Maureen said then. "You don't have to come downstairs, after. If you don't want to."
It was a kind offer. Jean had asked Maureen to keep an eye on the dining room for the hour she was occupied, had intended to journey downstairs after Doctor Blake left to take up her usual post in her corner booth, to sit with her knitting and her tea until closing time. Now that Maureen had raised the issue, however, she began to reconsider. Did she really want to do such a thing, to leave behind her bed that smelled of him and face the knowing smiles of her girls, after? To risk his having been caught out in leaving, and the customers leering at her?
"Let's see how it goes," she answered. "I might like to have an early night. And thank you," she added, reaching out to pat Maureen's knee. "For keeping an eye on things for me."
"Oh, I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Beazley." The words were said flippantly, but Jean knew them to be true, and so she only smiled, and took another sip of her tea.
