Florence’s schedule was the same each day. Breakfast was served at eleven in the morning. The afternoon was hers to do with what she chose. Dinner was at five in the evening, dressing and make-up an hour later. Gentlemen began arriving at eight o’clock. The night’s work ended two hours after midnight, when a light repast was served to the women.
Hortense decided that blue suited Florence best, and bought her two gowns in that colour. New women at The Abbey found themselves in demand for the sake of novelty, but Florence’s beauty and manner attracted particular attention. On most evenings, she had two engagements. After each assignation, she bathed and cleaned herself. Once a month, a doctor examined her for signs of venereal disease.
The other women in the brothel were beautiful flowers. Florence befriended two of them. Elisabetta Landi was of Italian heritage with a radiant smile and a gift for playing the piano. Margaret Ellen was slender but shapely with fiery long red hair.
“You must never swallow,” Margaret Ellen told Florence. “It will rot your teeth.”
Florence was well paid. Her room was nicer than any she had lived in before. She bought occasional gifts for herself and put money aside for the future.
Her mind went elsewhere when she was with a gentleman. She smiled against her true feelings. Faces came and went. Some generous, some handsome, some kind, many the reverse. Each engagement was a source of suffering to her as it was of pleasure to the man. Each engagement brought back memories of that night at the manor when the master had his way.
There are no good prostitutes, Florence told herself, just as there are no black roses.
Not every gentleman who visited The Abbey went upstairs. Some could not afford it, were too shy, or came simply to eat and drink in a voyeuristic social surrounding. Most presented themselves as good and prosperous men. Some gave false names or none at all. The tales they told about themselves were just as inventive as the tales told by the women.
A man came to the brothel. On the first night, he watched Florence with rapt attention. There was a moment when she sang while Elizabetta Landi played the piano. He watched her lips so closely that she was a bit afraid of him. It was as though he were kissing her as she sang. Thereafter, he brought small presents to her but never engaged her services upstairs. He was content to speak with her, eat and drink, and get to know the other gentlemen.
His name was Geoffrey Wingate. Several months after their dance began, he purchased Florence for an hour. They went to her room. She put her arms around him.
He awkwardly disengaged.
“There are things I must tell you. And then there is something I wish to ask.”
Florence waited.
“I am different from the others. That part of me is never firm.”
She said what she had been taught to say under those circumstances.
“I can pleasure you in other ways.”
“That is not what I want,” Wingate responded. “I have feelings for you. I do not wish to share you with others. I would like to take you away from this place to be my mistress. I will provide you with rooms of your own and a weekly allowance. I will treat you with respect and make few physical demands upon you.”
Florence asked for a day to consider the offer. Wingate returned the following evening and purchased another hour of her time upstairs.
She had been at The Abbey for nine months. There was doubt in her mind as to how much longer she could endure the endless stream of men. Their heavy breathing and tongues, the groping of her breasts, the violation of her most sacred parts.
Geoffrey Wingate was offering a means of escape. She accepted his proposal.
A smile crossed his lips when Florence consented. Then he handed her a small box.
“Open it,” he instructed.
Inside was a brooch fashioned in the shape of a rose. Red enamel on gold with a diamond in the center. Tiny pearls rimmed the edge of each petal. She had never seen jewelry so beautiful before.
“I will make you a lady,” Wingate promised.
Society has found it convenient to distinguish between prostitutes and mistresses. In truth, when Florence fell under the dominion of Geoffrey Wingate, she simply became a whore for one man instead of many.
Wingate fulfilled his pledge. Three rooms, nicely furnished, were rented for Florence to live in. She was given a fixed allowance and gifts from time to time. She was expected to be at home when he called and to accompany him as required to dinner, theatre, and an occasional ball. He took her on trips outside of London, but never for more than several days. He made few physical demands upon her. She preferred it that way.
It was a fine thing for Florence to walk about the city with the key to her own home in her pocket. But she was no more in control of her destiny than she had been before.
Wingate moved quickly to form her character. He bullied and ordered: how to dress, when to speak, what to say. His word was law. There was to be a positive show of deference at all times in exchange for the advancement that he had given to her. He never struck her. But when he was angry, his touch left marks on her skin.
Florence tried to please him. “What I have learned from others,” she said, “was only a prelude to what I have learned from you.”
But he turned fondness to fear and duty to dread. She had been happier living behind the dress shop. The good whore was now a good slave. At times, he saw tears steal down her cheeks. But he never knew the cause, or cared.
“I am no longer fit for the world,” Florence told herself. “Everything that purifies a woman’s breast and makes it good and true no longer stirs in mine. I am lost. I have no hope at all. My heart is dead. There is only emptiness inside.”
In one moment, everything changed.
Florence was walking alone on a sunny spring day in a part of London where merchants cater to the wealthy. Cloth from every quarter of the world was on display in shop windows. Ornately embroidered shawls from India, Chinese silks of the richest colours. And in the next window, exquisite vases and goblets, the finest bowls and plates.
Suddenly, Florence’s breath grew short. Her knees trembled. Her heart beat so loudly in her chest that she feared it would stop beating.
A man was walking toward her on the street. He did not see her. He wore the clothes of a labourer. He was handsome and strongly made with long dark hair that fell in negligent waves. There was an air of ease and a natural grace about him. Heads turned as he passed, such was his presence.
He was James Frost.
They drew closer to one another. Their eyes met. Florence was sure that James saw her. A wave of shame swept over her. She had been defiled by the master, but that was little compared to the self-loathing she felt for her time at The Abbey and with Geoffrey Wingate. James was pure. She was a soiled woman and unworthy of him. There were no good whores. The life that Florence had lived degraded her in every eye that looked upon her. And she knew that James believed that to be so because, as their eyes met, he averted his at precisely the same moment that she averted her own in shame.
James saw her. He loved her as much as life itself and had for many years. But Florence was far above him now. He could see clearly by the manner in which she was dressed and the way she carried herself that she had ascended to a different class. She was a lady and he was a common labourer, unworthy of her. So he averted his eyes, knowing that he could look no longer without crying out her name. He did not know, and never had, why Florence fled the manor. He had prayed for years only that she was well and that he had done nothing to drive her away. She had seen him now. He knew that. And she had averted her eyes. He would do nothing to sully her life as a lady. So he walked on.
Florence thought only of James that night. She resolved that, in the morning, she would return to the place where they had passed. But as the sun rose, Geoffrey Wingate came unexpectedly to her door. He wished to go to the country.
Time passed with agonizing slowness for four long days. Minutes seemed like hours. There were many forced
smiles from Florence and endless hidden tears. After what seemed to be an eternity, she and her overseer returned to London.
On the morning that followed, the face of Heaven shone bright and merciful.
James had gone each day to the street where Florence had appeared before him. If she came again, he would beg forgiveness for whatever part he had played in driving her from the manor. Even though she was now a lady, he would plead with her that he be allowed to occupy some small place in her heart.
Florence walked to where she had seen James. If only he were there, she would beg absolution for her sins and pray that, in some small way, he would take her back into his life.
There is no chasm, however deep and wide, that cannot be spanned by love.
Florence and James, with hearts pounding, once again saw each other. There was no mistaking their uncontrolled passion as they ran forward wildly into each other’s arms. He drew her bosom close to his heart and pressed his lips against hers. She wept with joy. Without a word being spoken, they knew that they loved each other as much as it was possible for a man and woman to love.
Then they talked of old times and how their lives had been. James and Christopher had left the manor and journeyed to London together. They lived now under the same roof, doing honest labour when they could find it. They had been told little about why Florence fled. There were whispers that she had stolen gold coins and disappeared into the night. James did not believe that to be true. He hoped that Florence had not run away because he had frightened her with a kiss in the meadow.
Florence looked into James’s eyes as he spoke those words, laughed, and kissed him again.
“I went away loving you. I stayed away loving you. I have loved you long and dearly. But I have fallen low. I have sold myself. I am a whore, a slut, a harlot.”
Then Florence recounted for James her deflowering at the manor, The Abbey, and Geoffrey Wingate. He listened with tears in his eyes and, when she had finished, told her, “I cry for your suffering. As much as I loved you before, I love you more now. Never have I thought of you, nor do I think of you now, as anything but sacred and pure. You have been in every thought that I have had since we parted. You have been in every hope, every dream, in the clouds, the wind, the woods, and the sea. The stones that make the greatest churches in England are no more real than the thought of you has been to me.”
At day’s end, they pledged to meet again the following morning. That night, the stars seemed brighter and closer to earth than Florence had ever seen them.
There is no documented precedent of the sun having hastened its approach in response to one’s wishes. Invariably, it rises to discharge its duty without being swayed by private considerations. Thus, morning came at its appointed time, although Florence wished it to come sooner.
James was where he had promised to be when Florence arrived for their rendezvous. Christopher was with him. Brother and sister embraced. The three were together for several hours. Then Christopher took his leave, so Florence and James could be alone.
They walked, but not on London’s streets. It was through an enchanted city, where the pavement was of air, where rough sounds were softened into gentle music, where everything was happy and there was no distance or time. Sparkling jewels and gold flashed in shopkeepers’ windows. Great trees cast a stately shade upon them. They walked lovingly together, lost to everything around them, thinking of no riches other than they now had in one another. Old love letters stored in boxes on dusty shelves might have stirred and fluttered as they passed by.
“The word that separates us shall never be said by me,” Florence pledged. “You are my greatest and only love. I would not lose you for all the riches in the world. My heart is yours.”
“If I were prosperous,” James told her, “if I had any hope of one day being able to give to you that which you deserve, I would tell you that there is one name—that of husband—you might bestow upon me. I would tell you that I would honour it as a sacred trust above all others to protect and cherish you; that if given that trust, I would regard it as so precious that the fervour of my entire life would poorly acknowledge its worth. I long to defend and guard you. My whole heart is yours. But I am poor.”
“Then let us be poor together. We will walk through country places as we did when we were young. We will wander wherever we wish to go, and sleep in fields and under trees, and never think of money. Let us rest at night and have the sun and wind upon our faces in the day and thank God that we are together. I am rich in joy and happy in every way being with you. I would rather pass my life with you and go out daily, working for our bread, than have the greatest fortune that was ever told and be without you. I want no fine clothes or jewels. I want no better home than you can give me. I only want to be with you. Let us be apart no longer. I have no hope of happiness but in you.”
It was a lovely springtime evening. In the soft stillness of the approaching twilight, all nature was calm and beautiful. They came to a church, old and gray with ivy clinging to its walls.
James looked upon Florence’s face with veneration and love, as though it were the face of an angel. Then he lowered himself to one knee.
“If you will consent to be my wife, I will love you dearly. I will go to the world’s end without fear for you. I have nothing to give to you but my love. But my life shall be devoted to you, and with my last breath I will breathe your name to God.”
“Rise up, fair prince. I want to be a better woman than I am and lead a blessed life as the wife of a good man. I will give to you openly in marriage the heart that you have so long owned.”
The sun had dropped beneath the horizon, casting fading hues over the sky that spoke of its departure. James rose from his knee, and they embraced, as they had done many times that day.
“You were born to be a lady. And now you shall be mine, my lady. When shall I come for you?”
“I am appointed to see Geoffrey tonight. I will tell him and make ready for departure. Come for me at midnight.”
James walked with Florence to her home. He knew now where to find her. They kissed once more, and he went away, promising to return at midnight.
She did not know that they would never part again.
Geoffrey Wingate arrived at Florence’s residence at the customary hour. He took his seat at the dinner table, and she took hers. The meal had been prepared in haste.
There was awkward conversation as Florence sought to gather her courage.
“There is something I must tell you,” she said at last. “I am unhappy in my circumstances.”
“I have sensed it,” Wingate told her. “I have thought about it and am amenable to a change. I wish to make you my wife.”
In the entire time they had known each other, the word “love” had never been spoken between them. It was absurd. A bridal wreath would be a garland of steel spikes upon her head.
“I have the means to keep a wife well.”
“I can never love you as you wish,” Florence answered gently. “You do not know the heart of a young woman. I have no right to expect that you should. But when I tell you what I feel, I am sure that you will understand. I have thought night and day of ways to please you. I have gone on assuming the appearance of cheerfulness when my heart was breaking. Do not seek to find in me what is not there.”
He leaned forward and stroked her hair. She recoiled at his touch.
“Have you formed another attachment?”
Florence’s face grew red.
“There is someone from my childhood. He has awakened in me a dream of love and affection that I have never known.”
“And you think that you were formed for one another like two pretty pieces on confectionery, do you?”
“My heart is set as firmly on him as ever the heart of a woman was set on a man. I have given it to him and will never take it back.”
Wingate pressed his hands upon his temples. Then he rose from his chair.
“I command you to pleasure me.”
&
nbsp; “I cannot.”
“Then I will speak to you plainly so there is no misunderstanding. Are you so foolish as to think that I have no feelings and you can simply cast me aside?”
Shame and passion raged within her. Every degradation that Florence had suffered swirled within like the dregs of a sickening cup. Throughout their knowledge of each other, her spirit had been down at Wingate’s feet. She had obeyed his rules and never set her will against his. Now love emboldened her to say things bluntly that she might otherwise have not said.
“Do you think I love you? Did you ever care for my heart or propose to yourself to win the worthless thing? There is no slave at market, no horse in a fair, so shown and offered and examined and paraded as I have been these last shameful years. I have been hawked and vended until the last grain of self-respect was all but dead within me. You saw me at auction and thought it well to buy me. But I feel no tenderness toward you. You would care nothing for it if I did. And I know well that you feel none toward me.”
He paced up and down the room several times with his hand positioned as if he were holding something, which he was not. A dark shade emerged from within him and overspread his face. Florence would long remember the look that he gave her, more like a murderer than a lover. Then his brow cleared, and he spoke gently.
“It would be better if you had only loved each other as boy and girl and left it at that. But what is done is done. Go with my blessing for the many happy hours that you have given to me and with my forgiveness for any pain you have caused. Go and have peace of mind. I wish only that you never hate me, that you think more fondly of me when you are no longer forced to wear the chain that I riveted around your neck. You leave me without blame.”
The Final Recollections of Charles Dickens Page 4
