by Vlad Kahany
THE TENDER DAYS OF MAY
VLAD KAHANY
The Tender Days of May
Copyright © 2020 Vlad Kahany
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or events is entirely coincidental.
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The Tender Days of May
Part 1
The Scent of May
CHAPTER 1
“Why leave so early, love?” Eliza finally got off the bed and threw a translucent white gown over her naked body. It barely covered her front, exposed half of her back, and ended just barely below the intimate parts. Another design by the clever seamstress of the Belle House, it wasn’t meant to hide the body, instead—to make men want to expose it again.
Lord Raymond Ashbee had already dressed and was fixing his tie.
Eliza sashayed lazily towards him, shifting her black curly hair over to one shoulder, and stopped in front of him, displaying herself.
Ah! She was a graceful and slender dark-haired beauty, one of the best in the Belle House and the entire Piccadilly Street. The finest features and the best skills in the bedroom, they said. She was a good match for Lord Ashbee, a known hedonist, a ruthless businessman, and “the most detrimental individual to the young minds of London society,” as described by Lady Agatha Wells.
The room smelled of sweat and pleasure, for Lord Ashbee and Eliza had just concluded one of their usual escapades.
“I have a business meeting, sweets,” Lord Ashbee flashed one of his signature smiles. He felt exhausted and bored, his curiosity running its course. When that happened, a woman was good enough only to fulfill his physical needs.
Eliza looked at him dreamily, cocking her head to the side. It’s been several months since their acquaintance, and Lord Ashbee didn’t seem as enthusiastic anymore. It worried her. Not just because of the money and gifts with which he showered her. She had become quite attached to him. Some said “in love,” which she dismissed as “nonsense,” yet, was bitter when Lord Ashbee skipped their planned evenings.
What was not to love? Lord Ashbee had the worst reputation among the elite. The brightest mind in London. He was successful in business ventures and had enough money to sponsor the entire staff of the Belle House for life. And—that part always delighted Eliza—was an exquisite lover.
Ah!
Men could be such a bore in bed!
Even the best intellectuals more often than not lacked any originality in the pleasure department.
But not Lord Ashbee!
Tall, broad-chested, wide-shouldered, he looked gorgeous when naked.
More than anything—and Eliza valued that in men—he didn’t give a damn about others’ opinions or his reputation. A rebel, a devil, and an angel of love in one. For Eliza, it was a win-win. It flattered her that out of many women, she was the one to capture his attention. For now, at least. She thought she was smarter than everyone and hoped to rope Lord Ashbee into a more serious relationship. Or at least a contract that would let her retire from her profession for some time.
“I am your business meeting, love. And the meeting is not over,” she started unbuttoning the shirt that he had just fixed.
He narrowed his eyes on her, slid his hand around her neck, and fisted her hair, yanking her face up closer.
“Such an insatiable creature,” he whispered with a smile, and his mouth crashed into her greedy lips. His other hand slid under her negligee and up around her waist, exposing her buttocks.
Eliza’s body arched in pleasure. She moaned, and her hands traveled down his body, trying to seduce him again, for the third time this afternoon. But he picked her up and, still kissing, carried her with him to the door.
“I will be back,” he said, smiling as he set her down on the floor and pulled away.
“Traitor,” she hissed with a smile, pulling him back and sliding her hand down to the bump in his trousers. “Oh,”—she cocked an eyebrow, her hand massaging his hardness—“I don’t think he wants to leave.”
Lord Ashbee chuckled.
“You are not a good listener, are you?” he said.
His fingers left her waist and slid to the split between her buttocks, down to the junction of her thighs, and applied the pressure. Eliza squealed in delight as he picked her up again, pushing his fingers even further in, tore open the door, and they burst into the hallway, giggling and panting.
There was a meek yelp, a sudden quick commotion. A figure jumped from out of their way, and they both turned their faces to look at whoever was caught by their loud activities.
A young woman stared at them in shock. She swept a glance at Eliza’s back, at the negligee gathered up at the waist, at the bare buttocks and Lord Ashbee’s hand on them, and blushed. Eliza answered with a condescending glance and turned back to Lord Ashbee with a giggle. But the young woman kept staring, as if frozen, her lips parted in shock. She raised her eyes at Lord Ashbee, who stared at her with curiosity, and their eyes locked. Hers flashed with anxiety as if she was recognized.
She seemed to be around twenty, thin and delicate, her brown hair tightened neatly at the back of her head. Just during the few seconds that Lord Ashbee saw her face, he noticed the exceptional features, the full lips, and the eyes… When she looked at him, he felt the intensity of the frightened gaze and its strange depth. It was because of those eyes, perhaps, that he thought that the girl was of exquisite beauty.
Realizing she still stood there, the young woman whipped around and flitted like a bird down the hallway.
Eliza kept kissing Lord Ashbee’s neck as he watched the girl disappear around the corner.
“Is this a new arrival?” he asked, intrigued, not paying attention to Eliza. “Who is she?” he repeated, gently pulling Eliza’s head by the hair to get her insisting lips away from him.
“Ah, who cares,” Eliza exhaled, trying to slide her hand down into Lord Ashbee’s trousers. “All you need is me, love.”
Her hand was almost at the intended destination when Lord Ashbee caught it and pulled it out.
“Is she a new lady?” he insisted, trying to be polite in fighting away Eliza’s body.
God! She could be quite a leech sometimes, he thought, suddenly annoyed.
“A maid more likely. What do you care?” she murmured. One of the straps was off her shoulder, tugging down the gown and exposing her one breast. Her hands were groping Lord Ashbee again, now going for the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Sweets! Enough!” He grabbed her wrists and a little too forcefully pushed her away. He was irritated, why—he didn’t know, but wanted to get out of the place. “I will see you soon,” he said, already walking towards the staircase buttoning up his shirt and fixing his clothes.
Eliza put one hand on her hip and leaned against the wall.
“Fine!” she shouted into his back. “Don’t come back! So better for Sir Reignham!”
He was already at the bottom of the stairs, and Eliza stood glaring with a pout of discontent at the empty spot where he had just been.
Lord Ashbee walked out of the Belle House into the cool evening of London spring. He stood for a minute, looking around a
s if deciding whether to take a carriage or to walk. The air was fresh and smelled of spring blossoms, so he made up his mind to take a stroll which he liked so much after the long, pleasurable afternoons in the Belle House, and started in the direction of Covent Garden.
His thoughts returned to the mystery girl in the hallway.
A maid?
Can’t be. Too clean, too graceful. He only saw her for a brief moment, but her features did not betray the class. No, not a maid. But the house dress she wore was too simple for the upper class and too modest for a lady of the house of pleasure.
Neither a Lady, nor a courtesan, nor a maid.
What, then?
Lord Ashbee was puzzled. He should ask Salome. If the girl, indeed, was a new lady, he would be more than interested, despite Eliza’s protest and jealous fits. If the girl was a maid… Well, a maid like that would be of interest to him too.
He smiled.
Interesting. Very interesting.
Everyone who knew Lord Ahsbee knew that curiosity was the primary driving mechanism in his life—be it business or pleasure. He was good at both. Right now, the young woman in the hallway got his attention.
Lord Ashbee was curious.
CHAPTER 2
London of the 1820s was a city of the very rich and the extremely poor. Every sin found its way into its quarters and corners. The streets abounded with crimes of all kinds, beauties of all sorts, vices of all shades, obscenities of a full scale. The beauty and ugliness intertwined into a complex creature that spiderwebbed throughout its streets.
The East End was a collection of slums, the center of poverty, filth, despair, but also the greatest hope, for it was the poorest that lived in hope. Bluegate Fields, Old Nicole, St. Giles, Whitechapel were among the worst, the places of the most atrocious crimes, the hubs for the black market and the contraband. It was where bodies and souls were traded and sold to the more well-off Londoners and the visitors alike, as well as to the Devil himself, for this is where, they believed, he took up the headquarters.
The West End was, well, what one would generally say a lovely European city where all classes of society coexisted in one place—worked, found entertainment and all sorts of pleasures.
Ah! Pleasure! It was the magic word. The grand city was known to be driven by desire and sex. If Paris was the city of Love, London was the city of Lust.
The Belle House was located in the West End, the center of London, not far from Piccadilly Street, and Piccadilly was the quarter of pleasure. The district was full of women of all shapes and sizes, beautiful and ugly, cheap and pricey, poor and well-off. They would flock the streets like moths in the hunt for the new lovers or anyone who would pay for the services. The price was determined by desperation, and the women cruised the theaters, coffee shops, taverns, gambling houses—in and out like regular service delivery.
The Belle House held a particular reputation in the district. In fact, in the whole of London. There were many reasons—the classiness and the style of its ladies, the exquisite services they provided, the most elegant clientele that was the best of London. Depending on who you asked, some would spit in the direction of the Belle House. Some would giggle and grin lustfully. Some would tell you that very important political decisions were made in its chambers. To be exact, in its beds, between the sheets, or on top of them, wrapped in the gowns of finest silk or stripped naked, bent over the tables and desks, sometimes accompanied by whips and blindfolds, over a glass of brandy or gin, or in the smoke of the finest cigars. No matter the theme, style, or technique, the House Belle was the embodiment of pleasure. Its hostess—the finest in her profession, the wizard of lust, the professor of psychology, the cleverest diplomat, and the most cunning fox of this part of the city.
The women of the Belle House—the prostitutes, the courtesans, the whores, the sluts, the mistresses, the lovers, the harlots, the fallen women, many names were used—were called “the ladies of the House.” Not to confuse with “Ladies,” which was an honorable title of the English elite. In public, they were Misses, in the House—ladies, for their roles with men inside the walls of the establishment and every so often outside were not that different from the women of the upper class. If anything, more entertaining and pleasurable.
Regardless of the different views of the outsiders, the Belle House was the envy for most of them. The ladies were exquisitely dressed, well taken care of, well-versed in the manner of the world, cultured and educated, kept the best company, mostly male, and had an excellent reputation among them. Madam Salome Sharke intended to keep it that way because she was the owner of the Belle House on Piccadilly Street.
—————
“I hope everything is to your satisfaction,” Mrs. Sharke said, studying the young woman in front of her. Just then, loud laughter and a lustful moan echoed through the hallway. Mrs. Sharke smirked. “At least, what one could expect in your circumstances,” she added with a flick of an eyebrow.
May, the young woman that sat quietly in the chair in front of her, lowered her eyes and nodded. She entered into her nineteenth year, was thin and graceful, with beautiful luscious brown hair and refined features.
“I am not going to sugarcoat your situation. As much as I know about it, that is,” Mrs. Sharke continued talking, sipping brandy.
At noon! The young woman thought with shock.
“—but I will give you a quick rundown on how things work around here and what the Belle House is.”
She did just that, explaining to May the rules of the brothel and what she could expect to see and to hear, although she wasn’t to be any part of it. Throughout the entire conversation, Mrs. Sharke kept glancing at the young lady who was quite a beauty. That, Mrs. Sharke thought with a certain bitterness, was not very helpful, taking into consideration the nature of the business in the establishment. While usually, she praised the looks, in this particular situation, it could lead to complications. Mrs. Sharke prayed to God, and she was not a religious person, that the ordeal would pass smoothly and without any trouble.
—————
May.
Her name was May.
For now.
Fate could not play a more cruel joke than this, the young woman thought as she stood by the second-floor window overlooking the back street of the building. Laypeople went in and out, maids busied about, cleaning and yelling at the kids that frolicked in the dirt. Occasionally, she heard the delighted squeals and lustful grunts from down the hallways of the House. It made her cringe in disgust.
The Belle House!
Of all places, how could life bring her to a brothel, however fine, but still the embodiment of things that she despised?
May opened the window, wishing that the sounds of the street could somehow drown all that was going on in the chambers of this building.
She was used to nature. Back home, when it was still home, this would be the highest vantage point that would show the gardens and the fields and the hills on the horizon, the beautiful view that she had taken for granted her entire life. Many things were taken for granted until they were gone, she learned at a young age. Her parents, for one. And now—her home, her life as she knew it, her possible freedom and independence. Now she was here, looking out the window which didn’t have much of a view. All she could see were the buildings, a couple of back alleys so clustered that the only nature signs were the sky and the flowers in the pots in the building across the street. She got to admire those flowers, the only cheerful thing in her life these days. Every morning when she opened the window, the world greeted her with a mixture of noise, screams, dust, and all kinds of smells, most of them not so pleasant. And the flowers—the only thing that brought a smile to her lips.
May always wanted to come to London. Just never expected that it would be in such a way—in the darkness of the night, accompanied by the whispers and the hushed voices of her chaperons. On the way to her sanctuary, and the idea of refuge in a brothel made her stomach turn, she still hoped that
they would stop, and someone would say it was all over, and they would turn around. Instead, they arrived at the door, were greeted by Salome Sharke, and May was shown to her room.
The room was at the back of the building, on the second floor, the furthest away from the grand staircase but the closest to the servant stairs. It was clean and simple—a bed, a writing bureau, two chairs, a small coffee table, a wash-stand, a wardrobe, and a trunk. Pictures of naked goddesses decorated the walls, and there were pamphlets and books on the desk. Only when she leafed through them on the first night, restless, nervous, unable to sleep, alone for the first time in her life, did she see the explicit illustrations of scandalous manner and gasped in shock realizing their nature. She cried, then realized it was useless. She paced around the room, wanting to break out and run free. Then realized that the reason she was here was that her brother and Edward Baillie thought this was the best option for now, until they sorted out the bad deal, the death-threats, until there was no more danger to her life, until they could claim their money and life back.
“It won’t take long,” her brother consoled her. “Maybe, a month, maybe, six. But it’s for your own sake.”
“The best way to hide is in plain view,” Lord Edward Baillie said with a chuckle. “I have connections there. Trust me, no one will look for you in a place like that,” he added with a cunning smile, and May thought that Edward enjoyed seeing the panic in her eyes at the knowledge of where her confinement will be.
But he was a powerful man who always looked out for them.
And right now, she was no one.
She was May.
And May was a willing prisoner at the Belle House, the finest brothel on Piccadilly.
Now she stood by the open window, looking down, watching the senior maid, Martha, give orders to other maids who washed something and moved the buckets around with soft clacking noises. Several children played about, oblivious to the hardships of life, shouted and laughed in delight, their little shoes thumping the dirt. One of them, the golden-haired girl of around seven, was Martha’s daughter. She looked up at the window straight at May as if she knew she would see her there, and waved. May smiled but didn’t respond. What were the chances that the little angel downstairs would one day become one of those women that sold themselves for money?
