The Cockney Sparrow

by Dilly Court

  She did as he instructed. An emerald and diamond necklace and matching earrings nestled in a bed of white satin, and she stared at the jewels in amazement. He leaned over, and his breath was hot on her shoulder as he took the necklace and fastened it around her throat. He allowed his fingers to trace the contour of her breasts, exposed above the décolletage of the silk gown. ‘Perfect. Now the earrings.’

  Clemency shook her head. ‘My ears aren’t pierced. I never had any jewellery before.’

  Marceau clicked his tongue against his teeth. He reached over her shoulder and picked up a hatpin. With a swift jab he pierced one earlobe, and when she cried out with pain, he slapped her face. ‘Silence, you fool.’ He pushed the gold wire through the puncture wound. ‘Don’t let it bleed on your new gown. That cost me a fortune.’ He signalled to the maid, who rushed over to staunch the bleeding with a lace hanky. He stuck the pin through Clemency’s other earlobe, but this time she bit her lip and did not cry out. He smiled as he put the second earring in place. ‘Now you look like what you are – a courtesan worthy of a man like myself. Tonight, at the Opéra Garnier, all heads will turn to admire the latest mistress of Gaston Marceau.’

  Once again, they were in the carriage speeding through the streets of Paris. Clemency tried to find her bearings but she had no clear idea where Marceau’s opulent mansion was situated, and by the time they reached the Opéra Garnier she was none the wiser. It was a grand and beautiful building and the interior took her breath away. She was aware that all eyes were upon them as Marceau escorted her up the splendid staircase. She almost forgot her perilous situation as he led her to a gilded box with an excellent view of the huge stage. Above them, an enormous crystal chandelier lit the auditorium as brightly as the midday sun: the emeralds and diamonds in her necklace blazed with reflected light. When the orchestra struck up the overture to The Marriage of Figaro she could have cried with delight, and when Dorabella Darling came on stage as Cherubino, the coincidence seemed almost too marvellous to bear. For a few hours she drank in the splendour of her surroundings, and lost herself in the operatic performance that made the production at the Strand Theatre seem quite amateur by comparison. She put aside everything, ignoring the pain from her sore earlobes, which was made worse by the weight of the jewels in their heavy gold setting.

  During the interval, Marceau had champagne and orchids delivered to the box. He pinned the corsage on her gown. ‘I was right, Clemency. All eyes have been upon you. I have taken the little cockney sparrow and turned her into a beautiful swan.’

  She was tempted to spit in his eye, but this was neither the time, nor the place. She used all her acting skill to give him a coquettish smile, and sipped her champagne in silence. Her mind was busy formulating a plan as she saw a way of escape. If she could think of a way to get backstage, she was certain that Dorabella would be sympathetic if she heard her story. She might help her get away from Marceau, or at least to get word to Jared. He must be looking for her by now, although whether he would link Marceau’s return to his native land with her disappearance, she did not know. When the final curtain came down on the stage, she felt quite bereft. It was as though a brick wall had cut off her one link with home and safety. In desperation she turned to Marceau. ‘Could I ask you something, Gaston?’ She had never used his first name before, and she saw by his expression that it pleased him. She leaned towards him with a provocative tilt of her shoulders.

  His smile was wary. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I would dearly love to go backstage and meet the cast.’

  His dark brows met over the bridge of his bulbous nose. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I …’

  He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to her feet. ‘We’re leaving. And I warn you, Clemency. Try to escape and you will be very, very sorry.’

  His mood had not lightened during their carriage ride home. He sent Clemency up to her room while he went to his study, and for a while she thought she might be free from him that night. Her maid, whose name she had discovered was Rochelle, was helping her to undress when Marceau strode in. The girl took one look at his face and scuttled out of the room, closing the door behind her. Clemency rose from the dressing table, clutching her robe up to her throat. She met his furious scowl with a defiant lift of her chin. He struck her across the cheek with a blow that almost knocked her off her feet. ‘That is a warning to you. Don’t think you can fool me with your simpering ways.’

  Her hand flew to her face but she did not allow her gaze to waver. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I know why you wanted to go backstage. That opera woman is English. You wanted to tell her how badly you have been treated.’ He seized her by the shoulders and shook her. She did not answer and this seemed to infuriate him all the more. He ripped the emerald necklace from her throat and slipped it into his pocket. Then he tore the earrings from her earlobes, causing her to cry out with pain. ‘Bitch.’ He struck her again, and this time she collapsed onto the stool, gasping with shock. He had been drinking champagne all evening, but she caught a whiff of brandy on his breath, and she realised that he must have been drinking since their return. She had seen plenty of drunks, and she knew better than to antagonise him further. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her again, but he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. He threw her onto the satin quilt. ‘Tonight you will make up for your ingratitude.’ He began stripping off his clothes. ‘I will have obedience, Clemency. And total loyalty. Do you understand me?’

  She nodded silently and closed her eyes.

  He was gone when she awakened, and it was only then that she allowed herself to sob into the feather pillow. Her physical pain was nothing compared to the desperation in her soul. She was trapped, just like that fly in amber that she had seen so long ago. Home and family, and the man she loved more than life itself, seemed to be a world away. She was alone in a foreign land; she had been beaten, abused and used as a sexual plaything by a brute of a man. She sat up and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. She would beat him, or die in the attempt. She rang the bell for Rochelle.

  At breakfast, Marceau appeared to be in a good humour. He ate heartily and urged her to follow his example. ‘I am going away for a few days,’ he said, wiping his lips on a damask napkin. ‘I will be visiting my vineyards in Bordeaux. You will stay here and Hardiman will be at your side by day. At night he will sleep outside your door, so don’t even think about trying to make an escape. If you behave yourself, I will treat you well. If you misbehave, then you know what you will get. Do I make myself plain?’

  Clemency bowed her head, nodding. She would not allow him to see the rebellious gleam in her eyes.

  ‘Good. I see that I have taught you humility at least. Obedience will come next.’ He rose from the table and came to stand beside her, lifting her chin with his forefinger. ‘I am not a cruel man, my dear. None of my previous mistresses have had anything to complain about. When you have learned to obey me, you will not find me ungenerous. When I have tired of you, and if you have pleased me, I will send you back to England. If you displease me, I will give you to Hardiman.’

  ‘You are a brute.’ Shaking off his hand, Clemency leapt to her feet. He could kill her for all she cared; she was not going to be treated like a Billingsgate doxy. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her down, but he threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘That is part of your charm, my little virago. You have a temper to match your flaming hair, and it amuses me.’ He turned to leave her, but Clemency laid her hand on his arm.

  ‘Wait. Am I to be kept to the house in your absence?’

  He raised an eyebrow and then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘You may go out, but only if Hardiman accompanies you and never lets you out of his sight. I will leave instructions to that effect.’ He brushed her cheek with his lips. ‘Au revoir, Clemency.’

  She waited for a few minutes after he had left the room, th
en she went to the door and opened it just a crack. To her dismay she saw Hardiman leaning against the wall, picking his teeth with the point of a penknife. She closed the door and went back to the table. She would have to find a way to outwit him, but it was not going to be easy.

  It was a message from the House of Worth that gave her the opportunity to get out of the house, if only for a couple of hours. The gowns that had been designed especially for her were ready for the final fitting. Later that morning she set off in the carriage, accompanied by Hardiman. She had written a brief note to Jared, telling him where to find her, and it was tucked away in her reticule. She knew that Monsieur Charles Worth was an Englishman, and she hoped that she could find someone in the fashion house who also spoke English. All she wanted them to do was to post the letter. It might take days, or even weeks, to reach London, but at least it would give her hope.

  Hardiman sprawled on a spindly gilt chair in the salon, with his arms folded across his chest. The flustered assistant spoke to him in rapid French, emphasising her words with gestures, but he ignored her. Even though she did not understand the language, Clemency could see that she was trying to make him leave the salon, but he was sitting there like a great lump, refusing to budge.

  ‘What’s the silly cow saying?’ Hardiman growled. ‘Tell her to shut up.’

  ‘She wants you to wait outside.’ Clemency pointed to the door. ‘I have to try on the new gowns, and I can’t do it with you sitting there.’

  Hardiman grinned and licked his lips. ‘I got no complaints. I’m only doing what the guv told me to do.’

  The assistant cast her eyes upwards, gesticulating with her hands.

  ‘Please, madame,’ Clemency said in desperation. ‘Is there no one here who speaks English?’

  ‘I do.’ A voice from one of the fitting rooms stopped the assistant in mid-flow. The curtain was drawn aside. Dorabella Darling stepped into the salon with a fitter still on her knees, attempting to pin the hem of her skirt.

  ‘Miss Darling!’ Clemency could have wept for joy. She rushed over to her and clasped her hand. ‘Miss Darling, you don’t know me, but I saw you last night at the opera. You were truly magnificent.’

  Dorabella smiled. ‘Thank you. It’s always a pleasure to meet a fan. How may I help you?’

  Clemency jerked her head in Hardiman’s direction. ‘It’s a long story, but he will not leave my side and I cannot go into the fitting room with him in attendance. I don’t speak French so I can’t explain to the assistant.’

  Dorabella stared at Hardiman and then she laughed. ‘Your man has the look of a prison warder. I can see that you have a jealous lover who does not trust you, Miss er …’

  ‘Clemency Skinner, ma’am. I am a singer too; at home in London they call me La Moineau. I took your part when you left the Strand Theatre to come to Paris.’

  ‘Well, well. A fellow artiste. Leave this to me.’ Dorabella swept across the floor with the fitter crawling on her hands and knees in her wake. She came to a halt in front of Hardiman. ‘My good fellow, it would be better if you waited for the young lady outside.’

  Hardiman scowled at her, but he did not move.

  ‘Or I could summon a gendarme,’ Dorabella said pleasantly. ‘I don’t suppose your employer would be too pleased if you were arrested.’

  ‘I can’t leave her on her own,’ Hardiman mumbled, shooting an accusatory glance at Clemency.

  ‘Miss Skinner will be with me. I will keep my eye on her. Now, be a good chap and wait in the vestibule.’

  Reluctantly, Hardiman got to his feet and shambled out of the room, to the obvious delight of the assistant who clapped her hands and bustled into the adjacent fitting room, beckoning Clemency to follow her.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Clemency swayed on her feet, overcome by a rush of dizziness.

  ‘My dear, you’d better sit down. Are you unwell?’ Dorabella said something in rapid French and the assistant rushed forward to help Clemency to a seat. The fitter scrambled to her feet and disappeared through a door, returning moments later with a glass of water, which she held to Clemency’s lip.

  Dorabella sent the women away with a wave of her hand. ‘Are you feeling better now?’

  Clemency nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what is wrong?’

  ‘I’m in desperate trouble, Miss Darling.’

  ‘That sounds intriguing. I was quite bored today, until now. Tell me more.’

  In a hushed tone, explaining as briefly as possible, Clemency blurted out the whole story. When she had finished she was trembling violently. Her hands shook as she took the letter that she had written to Jared from her reticule. ‘I am a prisoner in that house. If you could just send this to my – to Mr Jared Stone in London, I would be so grateful.’

  Dorabella took the envelope and tucked it down the front of her gown. ‘I will, of course. But you must get away from that place.’

  ‘I’m guarded day and night, and I have no money. I can’t speak French.’

  ‘But you can sing?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That I can do.’

  Dorabella rose and began pacing the floor. ‘I have it. You played the part of Cherubino?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And before that you dressed as a boy and sang in the streets?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Do not interrupt. I will visit you at Maison Marceau tomorrow morning, and I will bring my understudy with me, dressed as a boy. You will exchange clothes, and she will stay behind while you walk out of the house with me. It is so simple.’

  ‘But she will be left to face Hardiman. He might kill her.’

  ‘He won’t get a chance. She is French and he is English. Whose side do you think the servants in Maison Marceau will be on? They will protect her and see that she is not harmed.’

  ‘What then? Hardiman will know for certain where to find me.’

  ‘My dear girl, there are more than seven hundred people living in the Garnier. There are dormitories for the ballet dancers and the chorus girls. It would take a team of detectives at least a month to find you in that rabbit warren. Did you know that the theatre is built over a lake and a stream? A whole army could hide in the caverns and underground passages, let alone a slip of a girl like you. No, I will not have any arguments, Clemency. My plan is excellent and I am excited about the whole thing. My ennui has dissipated like morning mist.’ Dorabella clapped her hands to summon the fitter and the assistant. She winked at Clemency. ‘I will see you tomorrow morning. Be prepared.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It had all seemed too easy. Clemency alighted from Dorabella’s private carriage outside the Opéra Garnier in broad daylight, and with no sign of their having been followed. Dorabella and her understudy had arrived just as Hardiman had gone down to the kitchens for his breakfast. The servants at the Maison Marceau had recognised the famous opera singer immediately, and had not thought to challenge her demand to see Miss Skinner in private. The exchange of costumes had taken place in the small salon adjacent to the dining room, and Clemency had left the house with Dorabella before Hardiman put in an appearance. She had worried a little about leaving Cécile to face his wrath when he discovered that he had been duped, but Dorabella had shrugged her shoulders and told her not to fret. Cécile, she said, had grown up in the dormitories of the Garnier and she was used to the backstage battles, catfights and displays of temperament. Besides which, she was a sly little thing, and was probably on her way home at this very moment, with a few valuables secreted about her person. Clemency was not to worry about Mademoiselle Cécile – she could take care of herself.

  Clemency stood, gazing up at the imposing façade of the theatre. She breathed in the fresh air and felt the warm June sunshine caress her face. She was free at last and she wanted to dance and sing, but Dorabella had her by the arm and was propelling her up the steps into the foyer. ‘We must find you something more suitable to wear,’ she said, hurrying her past th
e women who were scrubbing the floors or dusting the gilded statues on either side of the grand staircase. ‘When Cécile returns she will take you to the dormitory where you can hide until I have thought of a way to get you back to England.’

  ‘Jared will come for me. I know he will.’

  ‘Whatever happens, we must get you away from here before Monsieur Marceau returns to Paris. He is a powerful man, Clemency. We can fend off that fool Hardiman, but Gaston Marceau is another matter.’

  Dorabella led her through a maze of passages to her dressing room close to the stage. She closed the door with a sigh of relief. ‘I don’t think we were seen by anyone other than the cleaning women, and they would not suspect anything. We will wait here until Cécile returns. In the meantime, see if you can find anything there that will fit you.’ Dorabella pointed to a mound of clothes laid neatly over a chair. ‘Cécile borrowed them from the girls in the corps de ballet. She spun them some sort of story about you being a runaway from an arranged marriage. Luckily none of them speak English, so you will not have to explain yourself.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for me. And I’ll be gone as soon as I possibly can. I don’t want you to get into any trouble on my account.’

  Dorabella sat down at her make-up table and studied her reflection in the mirror as she took off her hat. ‘You must not worry about me, my dear. But I am only here for a few weeks. When the Opéra Bastille opens for the bicentenary of the revolution, the opera will transfer to that theatre, and the Garnier will be devoted to the ballet. So you see, we must get you away from here as soon as possible.’