Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER ELEVEN part 2

Charity hurried towards the spot where Lord Seyton Clover had indicated she would find a waiting sedan-chair. But in what name had he booked it? A tic of panic irked below her right eye. She would use none other than his own! Fortune appeared to be with her, and she was ushered into the chair’s cool depths, nestling against the cold leather of the buttoned and padded upholstery. 

Reaching forward, she tugged the curtain too. She felt drained of all emotion but strangely elated at the same time. Had she pleased His Lordship? Had she been a success? How she longed to hear his words praising her! She closed her eyes, happy with the gentle undulations that the carriers made. Soon she would be back in Orchard Street and in her own little home! Although she did not realise it consciously, Charity was more than a mite perturbed about Lord Seyton Clover's absence and she wrung her hands as they rested in her lap periodically. This was perhaps the only physical sign she made of her insecurity, for she was all but drained owing to the performance she had recently rendered. 

Had she been more alert, she would have realised that the sedan chair and its bearers were taking an inordinate amount of time conveying her homeward. But she was relaxing; drowsy. They drew further and further from the town and its tumult, revellers' cries, cat-calls, whistles and bawdy hustlings. The air was gentler, the atmosphere quieter. Charity was fast asleep. The hurrying rhythms of the men trotting, the swirl of a river, only served to lullabye even deeper her exhausted sleep. Charity was lost in a somnambulistic oblivion! 

With a jolt! - and she all but catapulted against the opposite side of the chair this same said chair was bumped to the ground: rough voices soiled her solemn quietudes. She could hear men’s voices arguing, the sound of a body hitting the cobbles, lights bobbing furiously up and down about the windows. Now assuredly apprehensive, she wondered if she should chance her luck and make a bolt for it? ’Twas certain that some villainy was set loose upon them! Too late! The gate of the conveyance was swung back and a lantern flew haphazardly close to her face. 

“Out me lady!” The man’s voice was not one to be argued with. Charity grasped the bag and stepped onto the cobbles, blinking. She glanced about her, for there were no houses in sight. She had no inkling where she might be. A knocker of panic beat in her chest. The two carriers, where were they? Gone were the two fellows who had picked her up as fare: now the shafts of the chair stood empty. 

Ah, but only for a few seconds. A decidedly villainous pair of men clambered between the wooden shafts. Charity made to open her mouth. The sedan was hoisted off the ground with ease, ribald laughter split the air, the two men reversed the chair. Soon they had disappeared around the murky corner of this abandoned street. 

Charity was numb – too shocked to do anything other than stare in blank amazement and disbelief. What in heaven’s name was going on? The man who had confronted her still stood afore her, but now he had placed a restraining hand upon her arm. She started as she heard the heavy wheels of a chaise approach. The men who had hauled her from the sedan now pinched her arm even tighter and harder. 

“Right you are, me lady: into the coach.” Charity flashed him a hard look, “I am not ‘Me Lady’ sirrah!” “Rather be termed ‘Whore’ then me dear. ’Tis all the same to me; only get in and quick!”

Before she had the presence of mind to scream for help, a hairy, thick hand was pressed across her half-gaping mouth. The coach was open and waiting for her. She was heaved in unceremoniously, the valise thrown in after her. Charity groped about on the floor of the now moving vehicle, trying to get her bearings. At length and with a pronounced effort, she located a seat and pulled herself up into it. She was panting with fatigue, fear and breathlessness. She could see by the glow from a bowl held in a hand that she was not alone in the carriage. A man’s refined but loud intonations, with a burr of a regional accent, greeted her. 

“Good evening Miss Cottrell. It is Miss Charity Cottrell is it not? Also known to theatre-goers as ‘Mam’selle Hélène de Noir’?” 

The man drew upon his long-stemmed pipe and expelled a sharp, pungent draught of smoke in Charity’s direction. She all but retched. Her companion threw up a window and hailed the driver. 

“Stop here a minute my man. I want to examine the goods to see we have not acquired a fraud!”

The coach drew to a stop. “Hand us a lantern man. I cannot see like a cat in the dark!” 

A lantern was thrust into the dim interior of the damply-smelling vehicle. The pipe-smoker took it and placed it a few inches from Charity’s face. She stared straight ahead and soon began to dispel the notion that she was any foreign girl. The man wasn’t having any of her pranks however – and with a flick, he had pushed his finger along the pancaked paleness of her lips. 

“Oh no? So you are not Hélène de Noir and you are used to wearing so unusual a concoction 'pon your lips, and,” he reached towards her brow, scarping off some sparkling spangles, “nor upon your brow. Well, well: if you ask me, these are strange cosmetics for a simple lady to adorn herself with! Mais non, mam’selle?” 

Aghast, Charity drew back: he was smiling, not in a pleasant way, but as a tormentor might smile.

“Perhaps your bag, Miss Cottrell; perhaps that contains just some handkerchief.” 

Before she could stop him, he had the bag opened and had pulled it apart before her eyes. He drew out - whistling - the flimsy veils and scarves which she had worn earlier that evening. Snapping the bag closed, he rested his hands upon it and looked hard at her. 

“Do not worry sweet Miss. No harm shall come to you, not if you are a good girl! You should be flattered. A most prestigious nobleman has paid especial interest in you and we are now, dear lady, en route to meet him for a very private rendezvous right this very night.” 

The man relaxed, still holding the valise. He started to laugh lowly at the stance and expression adopted by one Miss Charity Cottrell, some time - long ago - of Richmond in the county of Surrey. He had earlier placed the lantern from a crude hook in the coach’s interior. Now, without further preamble, he re-held it in one hand, making to expose Charity’s body with the other. 

He dropped the valise so that it went crashing, empty-mouthed, to the floor of the coach. With a menacing look and a free right hand, he started to fondle her breasts. 

“I shall want not so much as a squeak out of you, d’you hear? Otherwise you’ll have the mark of this lantern upon those luscious and gigantic fruits.” 

Although he had been explicitly instructed not to man-handle the young woman too keenly, he wondered if this precluded that she give him a helping hand. Indicating what he wanted, he placed the lantern back on a hook and placed Charity’s hand on his cock. 

She felt it stiffen and thicken under her touch. 

“No, don’t worry dear Miss Cottrell. I shan’t touch you! All I am suggesting is that you touch me. Alright?” Still chuckling he shouted to the driver to resume his task. Charity bent to her work, a novice who was keenly frightened into learning this night’s instructions as acutely and quickly as she could. The man reached inside his pocket for a flask of brandy. On thundered the coach. On worked Charity.