Author's Note: This is the third installment of "Little Miss Queen of Darkness," in which Judge Turpin is disappointed after the masked ball. I have decided that his first name is "Joseph" in this fic, because I wanted to be all symbolic and do a Biblical reference or whatever. The title of this chapter is taken from Clarissa by Samuel Richardson. I've read only one tenth of it—it's like 1400 pages or something—but it's pretty amazing so far. This chapter is pretty heavily influenced by Clarissa in other ways, as well as Tess of the D'Urbervilles.
Disclaimers: I don't own Sweeney Todd, Clarissa, or Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Plus I only have one clever T-shirt. Mine is a grim existence.
Warnings: Well, this takes place after the masked ball, so there are many mentions of rape. Also, there is misogyny and victim-blaming from Judge Turpin, suicidal intention from Lucy, and discussion of prostitution. This will probably be the darkest of all the chapters.
Chapter Three: An Exemplar to Her Sex
At heart, all women are whores. Lust, greed, and treachery lurk within the souls of the most virtuous of the sex. Nobody knows this better than Joseph Turpin. He's seen a parade of prostitutes, procuresses, murderesses, adulteresses, women abortionists, and female thieves pass through his courtroom. He's bedded enough women to know that the line separating innocent virgin or faithful wife from shameless wanton is, at best, ill-defined. He's read countless authors who share his opinions. These days, newspapers and novels are full of nonsense about the purity and gentleness of women, but St. Jerome, Andreas Capellanus, Boccaccio, Chaucer, and the Marquis de Sade knew better. Given the right incentive, even an exceedingly chaste and honest woman will turn to vice. When Joseph first saw Lucy Barker in the market, with her white dress and neatly arranged yellow hair and happy little family, he resolved to use her as an example to prove this principle.
Now he's standing over the disheveled, despoiled body sprawled out on his divan like a dead thing. Her skirts have been pushed halfway up her milky thighs and her pantalets are tangled around her dainty ankles. There are scratches on her lily white hands, bruises on her wrists, and a tear in one of her sleeves. Her yellow hair is spread out on the cushion, but she doesn't look like the wanton demimondaine of his imagination. Instead, she reminds him of a drowned woman with a cloud of seaweed-like hair. Her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, stare at him accusingly. For the first time, he doubts the wisdom of his scheme.
"I've hired a carriage to take you back to Fleet Street," he says to her. It wasn't his original intention to pay for her conveyance home, but he can't think of another polite way to get rid of her. She's been allowed to leave since he dismounted her hours and hours ago; he almost resents her for just lying there, not even bothering to fix her skirts. Besides, she'll be more disposed to become his mistress later if he's kind to her now. "It's waiting outside now," he adds. "I suggest that you put yourself to rights before you leave."
"I'll walk home," she says. She speaks quietly and calmly, as though they're discussing what to have for supper. He expected this sort of objection from her—women often petulantly refuse favors when they feel they've been wronged—but her tone unnerves him.
"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "It's too far, and you're in no state…"
He can't finish the sentence, because it reminds him that he's the one who put her in this unable-to-walk-home state. He wonders what, exactly, he has proved by taking her. She belongs to him now—she's been his ever since she agreed to come to his house—but she hasn't transformed into the licentious harlot he expected. She just seems defeated, broken. Perhaps that will change with time, but he has the sick feeling that he's looking at something permanent. He never expected victory to be so miserable.
"I'll walk home," she repeats, but she makes no attempt to rise or make herself decent. She only turns her gaze from his face to her arm, which hangs limply off the divan.
"You'll take the carriage," he tells her. He gets no response. Finally, he reaches to pull up her pantalets himself, but she flinches at his touch and whimpers a little, so he decides to slide them off her legs instead. He pulls them over her balmorals, wondering why he didn't even bother to remove her boots, and folds them neatly before setting them on a nearby end table. Then he fixes her skirts so they cover her ankles and helps her off the divan to her feet.
"Thank you," she says mechanically. She removes her shawl from the divan and drapes it over her shoulders, hiding the damage done to her hands, wrists, and dress. She starts to run a hand over her unkempt hair to smooth it, but seems to realize there's no help for it and lets her arm drop. Then she walks by him and picks up her pantalets. She cast her eyes about for a place to put them, looking for all the world like a blind woman, and finally tucks them under her arm. She starts walking towards the ballroom doorway and he follows her.
"I can show myself out," she says, once they're in the foyer. "Good day, Your Honor."
Before she can take two steps, he grabs her elbow. She shrieks and he has to clamp a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. Not that the servants or the few lingering guests would lift a finger to help her if they heard. Hell, Bamford would probably rush to assist him. Still, he wants her to hear him.
"Wait," he tells her. "I want to accompany you home. There are a few matters we need to discuss."
She shows no signs of screaming, so he removes his hand.
"You don't need to make things so difficult for yourself," he continues, once it's clear she's going to stay quiet. "We'll make an arrangement. I'll put you in a townhouse, somewhere far more fashionable than Fleet Street. You can have fine dresses, jewels, anything you want, if only you'll be my mistress."
She stares at him blankly for a few seconds before speaking.
"You have killed me," she says, in a hard, low voice. "Even if I didn't love Benjamin, even if I was the sort of woman to be unfaithful to my husband, even if I had ever liked you at all, I would never be your mistress. I can never associate with your friends. You've humiliated me before them too thoroughly for that. My neighbors will denounce me as a whore as soon as they hear of this, and my family will never receive me or my daughter again. You have ruined me in everybody's eyes, and that is nothing—"
"You are being unreasonable," he says, but he doesn't try to silence her. He can't seem to move at all. "There is no question of you walking home. Please, just—"
"Listen to me! Listen to me!" she screams, eyes streaming, and he closes his mouth. "You have ruined me in the eyes of the world, and that is nothing compared to what you have done to my head. I can hardly think two thoughts at a time without remembering what you did, what you all did. I want to die. Only Johanna…and what sort of life can she have now, what sort of mother can I be to her, when I am despised by everybody and can't think, can't think, oh, can't…"
Her stammered words turn into sobs. Unsure what else to do, he offers her a handkerchief from his jacket, but she slaps his hand away and wipes her eyes on her shawl. At last, her sobs subside and turn into mere whimpers. For a long time, he just stands there, watching her sniffle, and he finds himself despising her.
"If you didn't want it, why did you come to my house?" he asks coldly.
She lifts up her head and glares at him. Despite her red eyes and running nose, she puts him in mind of a queen.
"I thought you wanted to help Benjamin," she says. "I didn't know what you were then. I didn't know what you meant until it was too late."
"All women say that," he replies, but his stomach is sinking. He wonders if his rashness last night has cost him what he desired all along. After all, he's fairly sure he didn't just want to fuck a virtuous woman; he wanted her love and admiration, too. Now he's lost his chance at everything with Lucy Barker.
"Perhaps some women mean it," she says, almost mildly. "Perhaps even most do. How many women have you heard that from, Your Honor?"
There is no answer to that.
"Very well," he says, after a long moment. "You may walk home, if you please."
"Why, thank you, Your Honor," she replies. "You always treat my wishes with the utmost regard, don't you?"
There is no answer to that, either. He watches her walk out the front door, where all the neighbors will be able to see her, and goes upstairs to bed. The next time he sees her, she's begging and peddling her body in front of his house. Her face is dirty, her hair is wild, and she keeps singing wouldn't you like a little muff, dear, a little jig-jig, a little bounce around the bush, but it's not as satisfying as he thought it would be. He's starting to wonder if anything ever is.
Author's Note: I mentioned St. Jerome, Andreas Capellanus, Boccaccio, Chaucer, and the Marquis de Sade as writers Turpin admires for their "insights" on women. I don't mean to malign all of them as misogynists, though. Boccaccio and Chaucer just wrote stories about sexually voracious women, which was a big stereotype until the Victorian Era, but I wouldn't say they hated women especially.