Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE part 1

“Enjoying the peep-show, my lovely?” 

The man’s large-boned and hairy hand shot out and clutched Molly on the right shoulder. All but quitting her skin, she turned in openmouthed astonishment, screwing up her eyes so that she might make out what words his lips formed. The artificial illuminations had burnt low and were in need of replenishment. 

It was an Englishman who assailed her. With little difficulty she defined the gist of his opening sentence. “Aren’t you going to say anything my girl, or is it the tongue you can't comprehend? Well, I can alter that, for I’ve a tongue which is very able and nimble and also something else, which might prickle some expression out of you yet! See here, I have a fine inscriber!” 

Without further ado, he was brandishing a fast inflating phallus and waving it before Molly’s mortified gaze. “Give him a stroke, my sweetling, that should make him stand to attention, then perhaps we can copy yonder couple’s antics! Or, give me a kiss first, for then you can feel how strong my tongue is!” 

With that he had placed his long apelike arms about her, pulling her towards him, all the while rubbing himself hard against her. She could feel the tautening of his tool as he rumbled against her flimsily-clad form. As she struggled to get away from her assailant, the fabric over her left breast ripped and parted, thereby exposing the dark circumference of her nipple. 

This seemed to incense the man even more, so that he was trying in the next instance to throw her down upon the pebbled pathway. She bit him with venomous feeling deep into his shoulder, and with a shocked “Ouch!” he loosened his grasp on her. She grabbed her chance and with greased lightning upon her slippered heels looped from under his left armpit, faster than any messenger of the gods, back into the house. 

Not bothering about the polite propensity of her actions, she pushed and elbowed her way through the assembly, hell bent on reaching - unmolested - her attic chamber – and some sensible apparel. Whatever might have befallen the hapless young Miss Cottrell, she no longer cared about overmuch. She had seen enough, experienced enough, for her to know that she must quit the house, and soon! With her heart hammering madly inside her chest, she reached her attic quarters. Hastily, she threw a cloak over the torn dress, throwing her belongings into the bag, panting with her exertions and fears. There was time for cunning stealth to be employed, now that she realised she should be able to get free of the place; she closed the door gently to behind her.

Although she could hear no sound, there might very well be those on this floor who might get curious about a door’s suddenly being slammed shut. Cautiously, she peeped over the bannisters. Her free hand moved to her mouth, her eyes flared with shock. 

That halo of golden hair seemed familiar; that thrust of magnificently-proportioned breasts was unmistakeable. There, on the landing below her, was none other than Charity Cottrell herself.  There was something peculiar in her stance, with her body slightly leaning to one side, and here was a person come to assist her. The dark figure of Madame d’Esprit ushered forth from the shadows, easing the unsteady young woman’s arm about her waist. 

As though by some fading precognitive sense, Charity’s head tilted upwards for a few seconds, as though she were seeking salvation from the darkness over her head. Molly drew back. Charity had her face painted white, so that it seemed to be chalk-like in the flickering fragility of the candle-light. Madame was waving and gesturing with her free hand, obviously intent on procuring the attentions of a lackey. 

Could Molly be so heartless as to ignore the blank, pleading look exhibited in that moronic-staring upward glance for help? She doubted it and jumping soundlessly up and down on the spot, prayed that for a second or so Charity should be left unattended. 

Molly’s wish was granted. The flunkey was too slow in performing her duties, and with wide-mouthed oaths Madame d’Esprit had hurried from sight. Gone, Molly hoped, as she crouched upon the stair, for some time. Charity was lolling against a wall, the hallucinatory brilliance of her unbedecked hair making a hazy crown which haloed her face. 

On tip-toe Molly approached the sloping figure and as noiselessly, she touched her lightly on the shoulder. Charity’s eyes were as dense as peonies in winter time, there was no hint of recognition in her demeanour. As best she could, Molly indicated her fealty, so that it might - if the young woman was at all capable - become some tender straw that she could hold on to. For a split second it looked as though there might be the dawn of recognition in Charity’s expression. With a nervous tic, she had averted her gaze to Molly’s speechless lips. Hearing a noise, Charity turned her head slowly but with that slow motion in her gesture which implies a curious timidity and fear.  

Taking her cue, Molly relinquished her slender hold on the girl and crouched back up the stairs, two at a time. She was all but shaking with impatience: where were her brother and His Lordship? If they were on the premises now, then something tangible could be done to help Charity Cottrell.  

She paused, deeply shadowed and watched as Madame d’Esprit flounced her way back to where Charity still leaned in the velvet darkness. Madame carried between her lean hands a red-haired wig. Moving the reclining girl slightly further along the passage-way, she positioned her in front of a mirror. The dim gleam of the shining dust which the wig had been liberally sprinkled with made it seem that the hair-piece was aflame with minute fireflies. Madame d’Esprit placed the wig in position, covering the natural beauty of Charity’s own spun-gold aura of hair. 

The hair-piece completed Charity's costume, so that she appeared a dully glowing vermillion flame, a portrait in crimsoned chiaroscuro, the heavy stuff of the wig making denser the shadows over her forehead, highlighting the hollows which her cheekbones made in the sides of her face.

Snapping her fingers as Molly observed, she beckoned a servant forward. Taking a brush and dipping into a pot of paint, Madame completed her handiwork by crimsoning Charity’s slightly open mouth. She replaced this and, picking up a tiny bottle, snapped a hinge so that the bottle top opened. This she thrust beneath Charity's nostrils. It acted like a charm. Animated beyond her drugged senses, Charity studied deeply her reflection in the mirror; smiling somewhat idiotically, she fingered the wig, the near-transparent clothing, the necklet of rubies which tumbled over her bosom, the cascade of firesmitten crystals which chandeliered from her ear-lobes. As though to add the finishing touch, Natalie d’Esprit stuck a heart-shaped velvet patch upon her right cheek and upon the left swell of her gigantic breasts. So was the marionette ready to perform yet again for that manipulator — Madame — who pulled so deftly and adroitly upon the strings. Madame moved the lowly-chuckling girl before her and, acting like the Queen of Sheba with her most precious bartering piece, she swayed off haughtily down the corridor and to the staircase. Agog with curiosity, Molly trailed them. She watched the dramatic moves Madame demonstrated and saw Charity perform the same gestures. Had she been able to hear, Molly would have realised that the first part of this night’s performance was to commence, for the revellers gathered in the chamber below had been hushed into silence. Charity and Madame were moving towards a draped balcony now, the curtain covering their figures, on either side of them were banked scarlet blossoms and red candles. Slowly the curtains began to rise and – like a Philistinic conqueror who has sacked one of the most arcane treasure strongholds in the civilised world, Madame regally and triumphantly began to raise Charity’s gloved left hand in her own. 

Seizing her chance, Molly darted down the emptied, darkened staircase. She must get below, upon the floor, the better to try to ascertain what was being enacted.