Painted Trust_Edith and the Forensic Surgeon

by Elsa Holland

  “Here let me help you.”

  Edith knocked away his hands. “Stop it, I am not an invalid. I’m hurt, not broken,” she growled.

  Vaughn handed her his burgundy robe, she slipped it on and he tied it for her then moving some of the inky satin of her hair aside, kissed her grumpy face.

  Edith came back into the room and slipped back into bed, his robe encased around herself. She was still uncomfortable with his drawing her. Vaughn undressed and slipped in beside her, pulled the covers over them and tucked her against him.

  She snuggled against him and he thanked every god there might be in the world that her experiences had not given her a distaste of him, that his touch was something she could still welcome.

  “You seemed to sleep better tonight.”

  “I said not to stay awake.” She mumbled as she pressed her lips against the base of his neck then settled. Vaughn waited to hear her deep even breaths indicating sleep but they didn’t come. After a while she said in a whisper between them.

  “I don’t regret killing him.”

  Vaughn stilled, it was the first time she had mentioned what had happened.

  “I think he and I were always heading to a point where one would kill the other. Any other Painted Sister would have given in and given him what he wanted, Janice and Lila did. I didn’t. . . I couldn’t.

  “I knew when I held my ground that the consequences would be extreme. Although I hadn’t imagined the Skinner, none of us had.”

  “You did the right thing.” Vaughn kissed her hair.

  She was silent for a while and when she spoke, the words were said in a distorted sound as pain squeezed through them.

  “I let him do what he wanted. I said yes to it.”

  His arms tightened around her as her shoulders shook. “You did what you needed to do to stay alive.” He stroked her hair, made sounds of reassurance until she fell back asleep. There would be more to come but it was a start.

  Hours later, as the dawn light slipped through the crack in the curtains, there was a soft scratch at the door. Vaughn slipped out of bed.

  “Breakfast sir.” Price handed him the tray and closed the door behind him. The staff knew to give them privacy. When he’d announced they were married, Price had beamed stating that their staff turnover had finally been sorted, giving Vaughn a knowing nod as if that was the prime motivation for the nuptials.

  The smell of coffee filled the bedroom and his sleeping Valkyrie drew herself up to lean against the pillows. Vaughn poured a cup for each of them, took hers and a plate of buttered toast over to her then drew all the curtains letting the morning light in.

  “I think I’ll get up today. Maybe help Thomas.”

  Vaughn went back to the bed with his coffee and the paper.

  “Good. Thomas is ruining all the optical specimens.” Vaughn opened the paper. Edinburgh’s prominent citizen had front page coverage again. “Cox’s memorial service is tomorrow.”

  “Are you going to go?” She tugged the paper out of his hands. He let her take it and had the realisation he was going to be letting her do what she pleased for quite some time.

  “Yes, it would be best not to draw attention with my absence. He was a member of the hospital board. As one of its senior surgeon’s my attendance and condolences are expected. And while the police have not found foul play the case is not yet closed.”

  He drank his coffee, waited for her to say something but she didn’t. She read through the paper and finished her toast. By the time he finished his turn with the paper she was snuggled up against him again.

  He placed the paper on the side table and wrapped his arms around her.

  “I’ve been thinking…” Vaughn waited for her interest which came with a small pinch to his chest to continue.

  “I was offered a professorship at my university in Bern, Switzerland, you remember their degree you forged.” She pinched him hard and he barked a laugh. “They particularly liked the forensic work I had started to do. I rejected their offer, but I could say I have reconsidered if the offer is still open?”

  Her head lifted from his chest and looked up at him, not sure what he was suggesting.

  “I thought you might like to study medicine there? Get a degree of your own.”

  There was a moment of silence as his words registered and then Edith screamed in delight. His face was wrapped in her arms and tugged down towards her as she half-climbed half-crawled up his body to place kisses all over his face.

  “I take it that’s a yes,” he managed between the onslaught.

  “Yes, yes, yes.” There were a litany of yeses punctuated with more kisses. He took the opportunity to find other ways to make her call out, to remind her how her body may have been a victim to all sorts of pain and discomfort but in his care it was also the most powerful vehicle for pleasure.

  THE END . . .

  FOR NOW

  THE PAINTED HEART ~ Prequel to Painted Trust

  A WOMAN WHOSE HEART WAS AS FIERCE AS IT WAS FRAGILE….AND THE MAN WHO BOUGHT HER TO WIN IT.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1898

  A veritable wind of feminine garments billowed around the room. Pale gowns in plush fabrics of satin, silk and brocade rustled over glossy heads, then fluttered and slid over sumptuous forms. Excited chatter filled the air while pantaloons, chemises, bustle hoops and silk stockings covered every surface. Silk embroidery flashed as corsets clasped tight, and youthful breasts pressed up into subtle and alluring cleavages, like pillows of soft cake rising in a warm oven.

  The eagerness and anticipation was dizzying; even after coordinating showings for ten years there was always the worry of how it would all go. Who would he choose? What questions would he ask?

  Elspeth wove through the girls, checking on their progress.

  Grace, one of her youngest charges, “Here, let me help you.” Elspeth reached over to adjust a strap on Grace’s gown and tucked in a stray lock of hair. She placed a calming hand on Grace’s arm, then turned to look over the other girls. “Mimi, not the peach, it washes you out—we spoke about that. Swap with Annette.”

  “But Miss!” Mimi pouted under breathtaking smoky eyes.

  Elspeth let out a long breath. Patience eluded her today.

  One, two, three. She counted silently while she held Mimi’s gaze, this battle of wills a regular tournament. Four, five. The girl relented, her need to get ready greater than her desire to best ‘the bossy governess’. Mimi stomped over to Annette in a show of vexation and exchanged gowns with a huff. Well, some men wanted drama.

  A quick look around the room confirmed everything was flowing smoothly.

  Elspeth picked up a pink ribbon and threaded it through her fingers. The soft glide as she pulled it stopped as her fingers became bound; bound as she was in a life she loved and which tormented her all the same.

  Around her, each girl’s body was uniquely displayed to devastating effect. Every article of clothing, every subtle shade of fabric, every accessory tailored to showcase unblemished, luminescent body parts and beguiling innocence.

  The true purpose for their display was somewhat darker than the softly beautiful tableau they made. The girls dressed to show their most prized possession; the currency which would pay for a life of comfort in this elite and eccentric world.

  Their skin.

  The flawless canvas upon which a wealthy Collector would commission an exotic design, taking the chrysalis of a young Canvas and transforming them into one of the coveted Painted Sisters.

  A piece of living art.

  These young women, a flock of unblemished beauties, were to be sold, tattooed and displayed at their owners’ will.

  “Can you do my laces, Miss James?” Florence asked, turning her back. With practiced ease, Elspeth’s fingers worked the corset’s ribbons, hooking and threading them through eyelets.

  She’d long since found her peace with the idea of the Canvases, of the Painted Sisters, and with the girls selling their skin. The r
ole generated substantial wealth and a life of immense luxury, mingling with the world’s elite. Their desire to become a Painted Sister overrode all other ambitions and any moral uncertainties. Every girl here was thankful for the machinations of life that had brought them to this role.

  And besides, many found affection, if not love, with the men who collected them.

  A ripple ran through her. A foolish physical response that only added to her uncharacteristic ire.

  “Final checks, girls.” Elspeth scanned the room, pushing away the unwanted sensations. “Where’s Annabelle?”

  The laces bit into her palms as she tugged Florence’s corset tighter.

  “She’s coming Miss,” Florence replied, voice tight from the squeeze of whalebones.

  Elspeth tsked as irritation surged.

  Breathe.

  What was Anabelle thinking? If she wanted a Collector to choose her, she’d need every one of her girlish charms and seductive talents to counter her defiant streak. Besides, Elspeth felt sure that today would be Anabelle’s day.

  The thought should have made her happy. Instead, her chest tightened.

  She’d been foolish, a moment of weakness in the dark of night. Now embarrassment bit into her at the memory of what she’d done; at how her body hummed with an unwanted and unwarranted excitement to meet the man in person, the man her mind and body had fantasized about.

  The laces tied, Elspeth squeezed Florence’s shoulder. “All done, hurry along into your dress.”

  Ranging in age between eighteen and twenty, every one of the Canvases was educated and uniquely skilled. Their conversational abilities were excellent, their manners impeccable and every movement as smooth and elegant as a courtly dance. The legendary courtesans of old had been modeled on and outmatched by the training and qualities each girl possessed.

  Elspeth caught sight of herself and her belly twisted. That all-too-familiar twinge of disappointment shuffled its feet.

  Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined two walls, reflecting the girls like a row of ballerinas who’d swapped tutus for rouge, pliés for seductive glances. Watching themselves, they practiced postures and pouts, preparing themselves for the Collector seated a few rooms away.

  And here she stood amongst them, wearing a drab gray skirt and formless jacket over a smart white shirt that buttoned right up to her chin, her hair tucked out of sight under a modest white matron’s cap. No embellishments of lace. No flash of color. She looked dull, unremarkable and, as intended, entirely invisible amongst the young Canvases.

  When had it started to bother her?

  Since you saw the photograph.

  The unsettling photograph that hinted of things that tugged strangely at her heart, contained within the file that she’d secreted away.

  “Alright girls, line up. Spines straight, shoulders back and remember, eyes to the floor unless he asks you to step forward. No man likes to be stared down by a bevy of girls, no matter how beautiful.”

  Giggles rippled as her words had their intended effect. A showing generated a lot of tension; emotions often ran high. Now that the girls were ready, she needed to keep them calm and relaxed while they waited to be presented to a Collector.

  Annabelle flew through the door and joined the line, pink patches high on her cheeks.

  “Hair, Annabelle.”

  The girl slicked it back over her head and tucked the tendrils into her bun at the base of her neck.

  They all wore their hair the same. They all wore some shade of cream, bone or white. And they all wore a suitable shade of red lip color. And yet each one was a goddess in her own right; the flush of innocence and youth, with the hidden promise of every carnal pleasure a man could imagine.

  “I heard he’s a Duke,” Sasha whispered to Florence.

  For the Canvases, a titled Collector was the ultimate prize. It was not a hard life to be a man’s piece of living art, yet to be the possession of a man of high social standing, a man of prestige as well as wealth, held great status.

  “He’s not a Duke.” Elspeth patted Sacha’s arm; the girl was a hopeless romantic.

  The file on the Collector, Mr. Blackburn, confirmed he did not have a title. He’d climbed from nowhere and was climbing higher. He was sought out in the circles that mattered, and the most powerful of those groups was that of The Collectors.

  The Collectors were the reason for her world, for the world of her charges, the Canvases. The world of her employers, The Hurley twins.

  The Collectors were a layer of society that existed above the usual structures of power and wealth. Families whose resources, influence, and lineages went back further, deeper and darker into history than those who held the official stations of power and governance. Or, as in the case of Mr. Blackburn, ruthless self-made men who claimed their place in the world by any means necessary.

  There were benefits and drawbacks to being tied forever to a man like him. A man who made the world exactly as he wanted it.

  Elspeth had seen that determination in the strong features of his face. The high cheekbones, the aquiline nose. The firm jaw and piercing eyes. Eyes which had pierced through her as the candlelight flickered over them, making the photograph shake from the tremble in her fingers.

  The bell rang again, the final call.

  Her pulse quickened.

  Elspeth clapped her hands over the chatter.

  The girls excitedly formed a line. They knew the drill and so did she.

  Elspeth opened the door and led the girls forward.

  At the head of the line, she was a goose with her goslings as she guided them through to a large, well-lit viewing room. The room was a study in decadence, with high ceilings hosting brilliant chandeliers, flocked burgundy wall coverings and a carpet of Chinese silk. Blinding stage lights framed the viewing platform, ensuring every inch of flesh was illuminated.

  There were nine girls. A more than generous number of Canvases to choose from. There was no doubt in Elspeth’s mind that one of her charges would be selected tonight.

  The girls lined up at the front of the viewing platform, shoulders pulled back and postures perfect. Hope and excitement radiated out of every pore. A soft swell of pride ran through her chest as she looked at them.

  Tonight she’d arranged them according to hair color. Only the really artistic types focused on skin tones. Most of the Collectors looked for beauty, knowing that all the Canvases were vetted; that they would not be presented for sale if their skin was anything other than of the highest quality.

  They made a dazzling display of beauty by any standards.

  Satisfied, Elspeth stepped back. Back out of the lights’ glare to where she had a clear view of the gentleman for whom all this was organized. Enveloped in shadow, another one of those annoying twinges shuffled around as she faded out, beyond the glare of the footlights, to be as inconsequential as the large turned-wood pedestal next to her, with its burgeoning potted fern; they were supports for beauty, no more.

  After a decade, she knew her role, knew her place. She was the governess, companion, and counselor for the Canvases. It was a world far better than the one where she would be relegated to attic schoolrooms and pushing prams through Hyde Park. A fate worse than death. She may bite at the bit that kept her reined in the shadows of this exotic world, but it was better than being submerged in an invisible, mundane world. A world where people were half asleep and raised their children to become the same sleepy replicas.

  Here she was able to at least catch glimpses of a realm that pulsed with beauty and power, a place inhabited by the eccentric, the artistic and the intellectual elite.

  She fostered women to excel at their talents, supported them as they were tutored by experts in the areas of their passion. And, as a consequence, she learned as well. She knew a little to a fair amount about a broad range of endeavors, acquiring an education that was unrivaled.

  She’d helped procure cadavers for Edith, who studied anatomy and medicine. She’d escorted several Canvases to mas
ter classes with painters like Pissarro, Monet, Degas . . . a woman like her would never have been able to meet men like that, to stand in the background as her girls received their tuition and, even if only by default, receive the tuition herself? A cloak of invisibility was a small price to pay.

  Elspeth performed a final visual check on the girls, then raised her eyes to take her first look at Mr. Blackburn in the flesh.

  The self-made man.

  The man whose photographed image had made her skin heat as she tried to fall asleep last night. Who compelled her hands to slip under the covers and imagine that she was not alone.

  She raised her eyes, and looked over to where he sat, a tall, dark shape in the wingback.

  It took a moment to register that she was looking at him and not really looking at him; that her mind had gone blank.

  Her chest tightened suddenly, causing a dramatic shortness of breath. Her head was light, very light, and oddly dizzy. The nerves throughout her body blinked on and off, sending a current racing through her body. Nerves which, Edith was so fond of pointing out, were part of the autonomic systems that maintained and undertook functions free of the brain’s conscious control.

  Damn it, she didn’t need this. Every one of the last three viewings had been successful because she had intervened, had helped steer the Collector to the most suitable Canvas. The last thing she needed right now was to be beset by some kind of medical fit. She needed this viewing to run smoothly, and for that she needed all of her faculties present.

  But here she stood and her body was malfunctioning. Elspeth registered each of the sensations: shortness of breath, racing heart, over-sensitive nerves flushed skin … the symptoms registered. Edith had told her all about what happened when someone ate food that had turned.

  It took a herculean effort not to lope off to the side of the stage, to stay still where she was, as if her insides were not flurrying all over the place.