A Little Wager

by Lucy Wild

  “I’ve the blanket you ordered,” Lizzie said, picking up the bread and biting a chunk out of it. The rest was gone in a second and she regretted it, the tiny morsel serving only to remind her how hungry she was, how much more her body needed. She draped the blanket over the counter, looking expectantly across at Harris who looked silently back at her, a frown crossing his features.

  “Ah,” he said, getting to his feet and running his hands over the patches. “I meant to talk to you about that.”

  “You meant to talk to me about what?”

  “I had Miss Lambert in earlier and she had a new one in great shape and no need for it since her Brian’s back inside.”

  “So?”

  “So I won’t be needing this one, Lizzie. Sorry about that. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle to make.”

  “But you promised me three shillings.”

  “You promised me a blanket by yesterday. What am I to do?”

  “But I couldn’t get the rags until Friday. Please, Mr. Harris, I need the money.”

  “All right,” he said, folding the blanket in half. “It’s decent enough stitching, I suppose. Tell you what, I’ll give you two shillings for it. Might be able to sell it on to someone for three. It’s not worth any more than that, anyway. What do you reckon?”

  “But I need three.”

  “But I don’t need another blanket. Take it or leave it.”

  “But it’s worth three.”

  “Go and sell it for three somewhere else then?” He went to turn away from her, looking utterly indifferent about her distress.

  “All right,” Lizzie said, surprised to hear the desperation in her voice, having done her best to keep it hidden from him. “I’ll take it.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, a smile spreading across his features. The blanket vanished behind the counter an instant later, as if it had never been there. “Here you are then.” He reached into his pocket, bringing out a handful of coins. “One shilling, sixpence, threepence, ten, eleven. I took for the bread.”

  “Of course you did,” Lizzie said, closing her fingers around the coins in case he changed his mind. She sighed. Two shillings wasn’t enough; what difference did eleven pence instead of twelve make?

  “Here,” Harris said, pushing another slice across the counter. “Call it two for a penny.”

  Lizzie crammed the coins into her pocket and left the shop without another word. She had no doubt she’d been conned but what choice did she have? She’d never have sold the blanket by the end of the day. Who had three shillings to throw around apart from Harris? She crossed back through the courtyard, the wind pushing her along, almost tearing the bread from her hand. She was glad to get back indoors. It wasn’t much of a house but at least it kept out the worst of the winter.

  It was pitch black inside, so dark she almost fell across the child who sat in the corridor outside her room. “Is that you, Sarah?” she asked, groping blindly downwards. She felt hair, thin, greasy hair. “Mother at it again?”

  She sank to her knees, huddling next to the tiny form of the girl, rough grunting sounds from the room behind her making her stomach turn. “Had anything to eat today?”

  “No,” a tiny voice replied. “Have you?”

  Lizzie sighed, tearing the bread into quarters. “Here,” she said, pressing three of the quarters into the child’s hand. “Get that down you.”

  “Thanks, Lizzie,” the little girl replied, shuffling closer to her.

  “Come here,” Lizzie said, putting an arm round Sarah. “Let’s enjoy dinner together, shall we?”

  They sat in the darkness, chewing quietly as the wind whistled along the corridor. The grunting faded away, soon replaced by loud snoring. “I can go back in now,” Sarah said, getting to her feet. “Night, Lizzie.”

  “Goodnight, Sarah,” Lizzie replied, waiting until Sarah was gone to let the tears flow silently down her cheeks. Outside the church clock struck the quarter as the flickering light of a candle began to ascend the stairs. The rent man was coming back.

  Chapter 2

  Years afterwards, Charles would often reminisce on one particular instance whenever he thought about that time, the week that changed everything for him. It didn’t stand out at the time, one more nappy change amongst many, as frustrating as the others. But for some reason this one remained in his mind for years after, a perfect imprint on his memory that he returned to again and again.

  She was laid on her back on the changing mat, looking up at him with those innocent eyes of hers, willing to do anything to please him. He would sink into the memory, a smile flickering across his lips. Nineteen years old, she was then, nineteen and so eager to please.

  Her nappy was pulled away. He looked down at her pink folds, the sight of them drawing him in, bewitching him, tempting him. He did his best to ignore the primal voice inside him, instead turning to the damp cloth that was always ready. He picked it up and ran it between her legs, using it as an excuse to lean closer, to examine her as he cleaned her, to smell her, to stare as he ran the cloth between her folds. With one hand, he spread her lips apart, rewarded with a glimpse of her slick core, the flesh darker pink, inviting him in.

  He moved the cloth upwards, letting his fingers pinch either side of her hood just enough to expose her clitoris. With the cloth between his fingers and her, he moved in little circles around her clit, glancing up to see how she reacted. Her eyes had closed. She had her thumb in her mouth and was sucking frantically at it as he continued with the movement of the cloth. He could see she was growing wetter, a glistening dampness around the entrance to her that coated her lips as he ran the cloth downwards. As he did so, he lifted her legs, balancing them on his arm, exposing her bottom to the ever moving cloth. He ran it down between her buttocks, finding the hidden entrance that lay there, circling it as he had her clit, wondering if he was going too far.

  No, he could still call it cleaning, there was no reason to think she suspected just how much he wanted her, how much he yearned to undo his trousers and release his throbbing member, push it into that wet hole that was ready for him, beckoning him into it. God, he wanted her, he wanted her so much. He wanted to thrust hard into her, watch her gasp as he took her, watch her expression change as she realised just how good it could feel to have him inside her.

  But he couldn’t do it, if he did, he would be ruined. “All done,” he said, setting down the cloth and picking up a fresh nappy. “You’re a good girl.” Yet when he first met her, he had not the slightest clue that one day any of that was going to happen.

  On the day he met Lizzie, Charles awoke in bed in time to see his manservant coming into his bedroom, carrying an enormous tray in his arms.

  “Good morning, James,” he said with a yawn, sitting up in bed and wincing as the previous night’s entertainment came back to haunt him.

  “Good morning, Sir. Breakfast is ready.”

  “I am far too hung-over for food, James,” Charles replied, waving away the tray of bacon and eggs. “Bring me the paper.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  Whilst waiting, Charles did his best to recall exactly what had happened the previous night. He remembered going to the club. That was around five. They’d gone on from there to one of those public houses Glossop was always going on about. “The authentic experience of the working class,” as he called it. What had happened in there? A fight, that was it. Glossop had attempted to buy the hat off one of them and they’d taken umbrage.

  “Isn’t my money good enough for you?” Glossop had asked and the guy had swung at him but missed, catching Charles instead. That explained the pain in his cheek. What about the bruise on his forearm? That was a mystery. They’d gone on to somewhere hazy, but by then, he had drunk far too much to remember anything.

  A bet. It came to him in a single vision. He had bet on something. What was it? Whatever it was, he’d lost, he remembered feeling bitter and kicking out at a window, running down the street when the landlord came out after him
. The whores. There were those whores who’d tempted William away from the group. Where next? It was gone. The memory was gone. Perhaps they’d be able to tell him at the club.

  “Your newspaper, Sir,” James said, unfolding it for him on the bed. “If I might open the curtains for you?”

  “Only if the sun’s not out. I don’t think I can handle the sun just yet.”

  “I believe it is raining this morning, Sir.”

  “Of course it is. It’s November. It’ll probably rain until March. Hope it’s not raining on the course.”

  “Perhaps, Sir.”

  “Ah,” Charles said with a smile, turning to the racing pages as the curtains were opened to let in the grey morning light. “Little Beth in the 3:30. I’ve a good feeling about that name. You might want to lay a few coins on yourself.”

  “Very good, Sir,” James said, gliding over to the door. “Will there be anything else? Coffee perhaps?”

  “What? Yes, coffee, God, yes. You’re a lifesaver, James, what would I do without you?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say, Sir.”

  “Oh and lay an extra place at the table tonight. I suspect Clare will be joining me for dinner. Two dead certs there, eh? Her and Little Beth.” He barked out a laugh.

  “Very good, Sir. There was a gentleman called for you this morning while you slept.”

  “Well, who was it then? Who was he?”

  “I believe it was a colleague of yours, a Mr. Roderick Glossop.”

  “Glossop, eh? What was he wanting this early?”

  “He asked me to give you his card.”

  “Hand it over then.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  Charles looked down at the card that was passed to him. A standard calling card. Turning it over, he read two things. There was a number and a word. The number had more zeroes on the end than Charles was comfortable seeing. More zeroes than anyone would be comfortable seeing. Next to the sum was the single word that made seeing the number even worse, “Due.”

  “Everything all right, Sir?” James asked as Charles felt all the colour and life drain from him. “You seem rather pale.”

  “I think I might have overdone the betting a little last night.” How could he have been so stupid? What on earth made him bet that sort of an amount? How the hell was he going to pay that off? “Go and prepare the carriage,” he snapped, folding the paper and tossing it aside. “I must go to the club at once.”

  “Of course, Sir.” James left the room, pulling the door closed after him.

  Climbing out of bed, Charles began to dress, cursing his own stupidity. He should have known better after their last little wager. He lost one of his best horses settling that debt. Never again, he’d said, sticking to that vow for less than a week.

  It had always been the same, ever since he first attended the races with his father. A single bet that he’d been allowed to place, a win that had so pleased his father, he’d received a hug for the only time he could remember. That had been enough to get him hooked. He’d been a gambling man ever since. Not that he ever bet as much as was written on the card. It was impossible. It had to be wrong. There had to be a decimal point in there somewhere. He looked at the card whilst buttoning his waistcoat. No decimal point. A joke then, in poor taste, of course, but a joke he could laugh off. There was no way he would bet that much, no matter how drunk he was. No one would bet that much.

  He had always gambled for fun, not for the money. He’d seen what happened to the Pilkington-Smyth family, the estate broken up, the son off to the colonies in disgrace. An entire line, centuries of history, all destroyed over how far a snail could travel in an hour. He’d vowed never to put himself in that position. He only bet what he could afford to lose, never more. So he couldn’t have bet that much. He just couldn’t.

  Once his boots were tied, he looked at himself in the mirror. The image of a respectable gent. The bruise on his arm was hidden by his jacket, the swelling on his face had gone down, no one would know he was the same drunken fool who’d put that window through the night before.

  With his hangover still gnawing away at him, he made his way downstairs. The front door was already open, James waiting with his gloves and hat. Once suitably attired, he passed the servants lined up on the doorstep to bid him farewell. “Good morning, Sir Doyle,” the butlers said in unison, nodding as he passed.

  “Good morning, Sir Doyle,” the maids said in turn as he walked by them. He gave each a cursory glance, his eyes stopping on one of them for a few extra seconds, looking down at the girl’s feet.

  “Over here, James,” he said, climbing into the carriage and sinking back onto the seat.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That one at the end there, what’s her name?”

  “Eleanor, Sir.”

  “Did you see the state of her shoes?”

  “No, Sir, I confess I did not.”

  “They were covered in mud.”

  “I can only apologise, Sir. I shall have a word at once.”

  “You’ll have a word indeed; the word you will have is sacked. Dock her a week’s pay and warn her that another infraction and she will be gone from my employ. Imagine I had guests here, how would they feel seeing her like that? Think how it would reflect on me.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  James shut the door and Charles settled into his seat, the carriage rolling along the drive towards the street beyond. He thought about last night as the horses took him slowly towards his club. What could he have been so certain of winning to wager such an obscene sum? Think, damn it, think. They had been in that pub; those men were playing backgammon. It came to him then. He’d wanted a go. “Haven’t played backgammon in years,” he’d said, barging the other fellow aside. It had been a shilling a game but that hadn’t been enough for him. He’d upped it to a pound, then five pounds. He’d been on a winning streak too.

  That was it. He remembered it then, twenty pounds of winnings in his pocket, Thomas looking furious with him. Then Glossop had offered him a game, brought out a new set of dice. He’d felt certain he couldn’t lose, he’d been full of beer and bravado. Then the memory faded but it had been enough for him to realise. He felt a sinking feeling inside him, like he’d swallowed a heavy lead weight that took his joy down with it. He’d bet it all.

  Could Glossop have used crooked dice? It was possible, of course it was. But even if he had, what proof was there? A ray of hope hit him then. Proof, that was it. What proof was there of the bet? He could simply deny all knowledge of it, William was off with his whore by then. Thomas was sulking over at the bar. There was only him and Glossop. It was a slim chance but what alternative was there? He just had to convince Roderick that he was too drunk to remember anything. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Glossop was pretty well gone by then anyway. In fact, he’d left after the game. Charles had been alone in the pub. He’d met that girl, the one with the smile that made his heart soar. He’d been getting on famously with her too, until he did that thing, the thing that made her leave in a hurry, presumably to wash the beer he’d so generously returned to the world from her jacket.

  Not drinking beer again, he thought as the sound of the city grew around him, his stomach turning over and his hangover spreading through his body. Look on the bright side, he thought as they turned a corner and passed by a flower seller’s stall. If Glossop is owed that much by you, then you won’t have enough funds to buy so much as a drop of beer ever again.

  Chapter 3

  Lizzie woke up shivering, her clothes soaking wet. It had been a difficult night, to say the least. The rent man had taken the two shillings and eleven pence, and only then told her it wasn’t enough and it was time for her to vacate the premises. “I’d be a laughing stock if I gave you any more leeway,” he said, closing his book and taking a menacing step towards her. “Last chance, Miss Wilkinson, I’ll give you six shillings right here and now and let you off your arrears. What do you say? It’s raining out there, you know? Cold, to
o.”

  She actually considered it. But then he opened his mouth and smiled and she got a waft of that breath of his and it was enough to make her want to retch. “Just give me a few more days,” she’d pleaded, walking backwards away from him.

  “It’d be over quick enough,” he replied, prowling towards her. “You’d soon get used it, pretty little girl like you.”

  He’d lunged at her and she’d run, making it to the hallway before him, his voice following her down the steps. “I’ll keep the scripture for the money you owe,” he’d shouted and she burst into tears before she was even outside.

  She’d gone into the nearest public house, though she hadn’t lasted long in there. She sat beside the fire, warming her frozen fingers, too hungry and cold to think any further ahead than staying by the hearth for as long as she could. She only found out a man was talking to her when he tapped her on the shoulder, she had been too busy staring at the flames to hear anything at all.

  “Bitter night,” he said, smiling down at her, sweeping his hat from his head. He was clearly already drunk. “Having a good night?”

  “Not really,” she replied. “You?”

  “I think I just lost my fortune.”

  She listened to him for long enough to establish he was a fool, having bet everything he owned on a single round of backgammon. Then he’d turned green and thrown up all over her. It summed up her day, she thought as she left him groaning an apology and headed back outside, letting the rain wash the worst of it from her. The landlord would only have thrown her out anyway once he’d found out she had no money to buy a drink.

  It was too dark for her to risk travelling far, the rookery was not a safe place for a woman to wander at night on her own. She dipped down a side street and sank into the shadows of a shop doorway, hidden enough from anyone passing that they’d have to step on her to realise she was there, unlikely as the rotten smell coming from the door suggested the building hadn’t been in use for some time.