She was. And he was right; she’d never have suspected this hidden skill of his.
“The shop faltered within three years of Employer taking over. I was making serviceable pieces, but not fine furniture. Employer had taken up with a woman who wanted a gentleman rather than a tradesman. One morning I arrived at work to find the door barred. He’d lost his business, which he’d borrowed money against to keep his expensive wife.
I was fortunate that I’d taken my box of tools home with me—as I did every night—or I would have been in a terrible situation, indeed.
With my skills and tools I went along to those men I’d been studying. I was an arrogant pup to think I was highly skilled. I’m sure you will not find that difficult to believe. The pieces of my work that I showed these men did not impress them.
I’d almost exhausted my meagre savings and was becoming frantic when I came to the man who was last on my list: a fine but cantankerous craftsman whose business had never flourished.
He immediately insulted my work and I stormed out, his criticisms ringing in my ears. It was summer and warm and I was big and strong, so I could sleep on the street. But food was another matter and I was on the verge of needing to sell tools to feed myself. So I swallowed my pride—a hearty meal indeed—and went back to the last man.
After insulting me further, he agreed to hire me to sweep his floor and do small jobs that didn’t involve me destroying expensive wood (his words).
This man I will name, because our connection is somewhat well-known: Jonah Spinnaker.
I think Jonah will require a letter all his own, so I will stop my story here.
I’ll be gone from London next week, but will write to you from exotic Scotland. It is my first visit that far north, and I’ve been warned to tread lightly around Scotsmen in their native environment. Edward.”
The following week, Nora was expecting his letter. Indeed, she made sure to be home for the post. That evening she sat down to a dinner comprised of a meat pie, fresh bread and fruit, keeping her letter until late in the evening, just to see if she could.
When the clock struck midnight, she tore it open.
Nora,
I write to you from the dreariest hotel I’ve ever had the misfortune to stay in. It is cold, draughty, and the amenities are non-existent. What I can take heart in is that I might have created a new fashion sensation: all gray clothing outfits. I can’t claim the genius for wearing gray linens that were once white and a gray suit that was once black, that honor goes to the hotel launderer.
If there is a surlier creature than a Scot confronted with a Londoner, I have yet to find it and hope I never will.
I’m here to check on three ships we’ve commissioned. Chatham, I daresay you recall him, believes we are being swindled by the shipping company we employ to transport our finished goods from Britain. When Chatham finally speaks, the rest of us tend to listen and believe him.
Well, now we are being swindled by Scottish shipbuilders. I will be here at least another week to untangle this knot,, a prospect I cannot look upon with pleasure. It is a gray city that seems even dirtier than our filthy London. Or perhaps that is a product of prejudice.
My only enjoyment in this cold, rainy, grimy city has been a rather unusual house of pleasure.”
Nora’s body, which had been well-serviced by her own hand and could not possibly be wanting, throbbed all the same.
“I hesitate to share such information with you for fear I am overstepping the fragile peace between us. At the same time, it is a subject I know interests you.”
Nora laughed. “Oh, Edward, you missed your true calling as a bawd.”
“But I’ve come up with a solution. You will notice I included a piece of paper folded and sealed on its own. If you wish to know anything about such subjects, you merely need to crack the seal. If not, you can toss it in the rubbish bin. I will leave the decision up to you.”
Nora turned the small folded and sealed packet in her fingers, her body humming. She set it aside; she would read his letter and decide about reading this extra correspondence afterward.
“In my last letter I was just embarking on my apprenticeship with Jonah. The first year is a blur of work, sleep deprivation, and daily mortification. He told me he would strip me to the core and re-build me with the correct skills, and he did. Was it painful? Yes. Did I ever think of leaving? Yes, every day, usually several times a day. But I stayed and bore up under his various diabolical abuses (no, nothing physical or damaging—at least not permanently).
At the end of the year he gave me the first minor commission that came in. He watched my progress closer than any hawk has ever watched a field. The small cabinet, I remember it well, was a test to see whether it was worth wasting his time to keep me for another year.
Suffice it to say I passed his test after much brow-beating.
The second year was marginally less miserable. It was during that year I learned my real skill: turning an unprofitable business into a profitable one.
When I wasn’t being hectored by Jonah, I studied his disastrous leger. Without going into tedious detail, I’ll tell you that he was a master carpenter but a failure at running his business.
First there was his unpleasant, unwelcoming, and uncompromising personality. You are thinking I’m a pot criticizing a kettle, I know.”
She laughed. Yes, she certainly was.
“I convinced him to hire…can you guess? Yes, my first employer, the man I’ve called Employer (I see now that may not have been the best choice of names—he was called Ben). He was out of debtor’s prison and wifeless and in need of a way to earn a living. Ben had no carpenter skills but he knew the craft and could engage with customers without insulting them.
Getting Jonah to accept Ben was difficult, so Ben agreed to work for room and board, no wages. At the end of six months, Jonah would decide whether he was worth the expense.
The orders came faster than two men could make them. We needed more hands.
Hiring more carpenters was difficult given Jonah’s standards. But Ben and I were growing used to his ways and came up with clever—some would say sneaky—solutions.
By the end of my fifth year there were seven craftsmen. That amount doubled by the end of the sixth. We’d expanded, taking all the properties for lease on our side of the street.
Ben and I persuaded Jonah to buy a building.
Soon I had no time for carpentry as I managed this suddenly exploding empire.
During my twenty-eighth year, Jonah died peacefully in his sleep. I can say with certitude, that it was the only thing he ever did peacefully.”
Nora sniffed—here she was, crying for a curmudgeonly old carpenter she’d never known. Edward might have a future writing gothic novels if he ever gave up being a titan of business.
“He had no wife, children, or family that anyone knew of. But he’d had the foresight to make a will. Except for a handsome gift of money to Ben, he left everything to me.
So, it is there I will leave you—an older Edward, on the cusp of great change. Yours, Edward.”
The other letter sat beside her like a coiled serpent prepared to strike. There was no doubt in her mind she would read it. The only question was, when?
If she read it now, it would change a schedule that had made her life—her work—and her sanity possible. Once she opened the door to fantasizing about Edward any day she wanted, she would be lost.
Besides, it just so happened that her Wednesday—her Edward Wednesday—was next week.
So, the question was, would opening it now be more of a distraction than waiting one entire week and fantasizing about its contents?
She gave a half amused, half annoyed laugh: already it was cutting up her peace.
Nora stared at the white envelope and swore she could hear Edward’s laughter.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Edward stared out the rainy window of the syndicate’s private train car, pleased to see the last of Glasgow. The disagreeme
nts had been smoothed over and construction on their ships had resumed—for the moment. If matters ground to a halt again it would be Chatham or Smith’s turn to come deal with the aggravation.
They no longer used Smith as their weapon of choice in every situation because the man would no longer let them. It was probably just as well as Edward shuddered at the number of unmarked graves Smith must have filled at their behest.
He turned away from the dreary view and winced, still sore a week after his most recent adventure. Apparently, it would be at least two months before he’d feel no twinges, and even longer before he’d want to resume his usual activities at the Birch Palace.
That was just as well. Since he’d begun writing Nora his sexual urges had begun to channel themselves in her direction and he had no interest in anyone else. Besides, the only activity in recent memory that had stimulated him even remotely toward the level of sexual satisfaction he’d always achieved with Nora—although still falling far short—had been his first evening out on the town in Glasgow.
And a big part that had come from his decision to write to her about it—a decision he’d made an hour after stepping foot into the establishment.
Edward looked down at the writing desk in front of the plush seat he occupied, his finest pen and a stack of parchment awaiting him.
Today was the day he wrote her: Sunday.
Had there been some twisted quasi-religious notion in mind to select such a day?
He snorted and opened the black leather folder that held his correspondence to Nora. He made a copy of each letter he’d written, to make sure he didn’t repeat himself. He flipped through the pages—some failed drafts—to get to the copy he wanted, the one he’d sent about his first experience at Glasgow’s only attraction.
The place was called Frau Meisen’s. On the outside it resembled every other whorehouse. But inside? Well, if Edward had ever designed and constructed such a business this would be what it looked like.
Like the town it inhabited, the inside of the Meisen’s gave one a sense of power derived from iron, coal, and machinery. It lacked the fussy furbelows that filled every whorehouse he’d ever visited. Even the Birch Palace relied on clichéd thick red and gold velvet, gilt furniture, and suffocating draperies and wall-hangings. Meisen’s was almost as cold and functional as the ironworking and shipbuilding businesses Edward had explored with Gideon Banks his first days in town.
Naturally, it had been Banks who’d discovered the place.
Banks. Edward snorted and shook his head. The elegantly built, exquisitely garbed, blond-haired, and blue-eyed man resembled an angel as much as ever—but he’d begun to resemble the fallen kind. His eyes were still sky blue, but hard. And his almost too-pretty face was scored by deep grooves from his blade-thin, aristocratic nose to his thin-lipped mouth.
Banks ran through mistresses the way other men ran through stockings—faster, probably. He always kept at least two, sometimes as many as four, setting them up in extravagant love nests which he allowed them to keep after he tired of them. And he always tired of them—after only four days on one rather infamous occasion. The amount of money he spent on kept women was staggering. But Edward, who was generally believed—quite rightly—to have given over half of his worth to an ex-wife who’d publicly flaunted her affairs and then divorced him—was in no position to pass judgement.
After spending almost two weeks with the man, Edward believed Banks was teetering on the edge and heading for a fall. If anyone knew what that looked like, it was Edward.
When he returned to London he would speak to Chatham and Smith to see what they thought they might do, if anything.
He put that aside for later and perused the letter he’d last sent her, making sure he began in the correct place.
Once he’d refreshed his memory he glanced at the other letter, the one he’d sealed, which told her about that night at Meisen’s. He wondered if she’d read it. And, if she had, had she known what was in his mind when he wrote it?
His cock stirred slightly and he winced at the pain even a small amount of arousal caused. No, he’d better not revisit that letter just now.
Nor would he tell her more—especially not about his last visit to Meisen’s. At least not until a cockstand wouldn’t bring tears to his eyes.
Nora,
I’m writing you this letter on the train back from Glasgow. I’m hoping that will be the last I’ll see of that city.
While the trip took longer than I’d hoped, we should have our small fleet of merchant ships by next summer at the latest.
The last thing I wrote is about Jonah’s death and will.
I suppose I should talk a little bit about what I did during that time that was not work-related. I had several lovers after Mrs. Squire—most were other women of my class as I could not yet afford the type of establishment I felt any attraction for. But a pattern began to form. I would enter a liaison with all the hope and vigor of any young man only to find the union flat after a certain point. I’m sure you know what I mean as we are both bent, if not actually broken, the same way.
I believe my ‘bent’ is why I’m a wealthy man. With no interest in marriage—especially not having watched Ben, who would repeat his disastrous marriage after inheriting money from Jonah—and no lover to make demands on my time I applied myself to growing the carpentry business and finding other investments for the money I now had available.
The carpentry shop would eventually become my first manufactory. I know Jonah is still spinning in his grave to see the cheap works we produce, but they are affordable for a class of people who otherwise would go without.
The next business I acquired was a small textile operation. Again, it was the victim of poor management. The owner had neglected to update machinery as a result of worker disagreements. This was a far more challenging investment, and I learned about the difficulties of operating a business with not two dozen employees, but two hundred.
It took three years to make a return on my investment. By that time, my carpentry manufactory could barely meet demands, it was time to expand. This time, I employed the power of credit to acquire more property, rather than spend my own money.
I also joined forces with another man I’d met in the process of handling labor relations at my textile factory, Mr. Smith.
Over the next decade we purchased a dozen or more failing businesses. We also began to look for areas that were either underserved or neglected. We financed railroad spurs, small canal projects, and several toll roads. Along the way we met and included first Banks, who was a wizard with machinery, engines, and such. He’d been a scholarship boy at Oxford before being tossed out for some sexual infraction, and was selling his services—mental, not physical—to various factory owners.
The last of our number, Chatham, was employed by an accounting firm we used. He came to us with proof of multiple embezzlements by his employers. After Smith recouped our money from the firm—using his special Smith-methods—Chatham joined us.
By the time Chatham joined our number, Smith and I were already wealthy men, with Banks well on his way.
I daresay that is enough dry business for anyone to have to ingest.
Life had been hectic, busy, and rewarding up until that point and I’d filled my few spare hours with willing widows or randy bar wenches. For my thirty-fourth birthday I treated myself to my first whorehouse, the Bellaire. Naturally the name and recommendation came from Banks, who should publish one of those informational guides about such places.
For the first time, I was able to purchase what I could never bring myself to ask for from any of my prior lovers.
But that, I believe, is a story for next time.
Yours, Edward
Edward laid aside the pen and stared sightlessly at the letter. There was a lot he didn’t know about Nora: like where she came from, what happened to start her down the path of whoring, when she began painting, or a thousand other things he burned to know. Late at night, when his defenses
were at the lowest, he would admit to himself that he would probably never get the chance to ask her any of those questions, and he was the only one to blame.
He folded the letter carefully, his lips pressed grimly at thought. But then, as he sealed the envelope—lighter than the last one by half—his lips curved first into a reluctant smile and then into a full-blown grin. He might not know much about her past, but he did know what her reaction would be when she received this envelope with only one letter in it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Nora threw the letter onto the bed. “Next time?” she demanded in a voice that was squeaky with disbelief.
To her profound disgust she picked up the envelope and—like a gin addict with an empty bottle—turned it upside down and shook it to check for anything she might have missed: like a second, sealed letter.
There was nothing.
Nora flopped back against the stack of pillows behind her. What a bastard.
He was, she knew, perfectly aware of what he was doing. Who knew Edward possessed such subtlety? Of course he would have assumed she would have read it already and would be panting like a dog in heat for a second one.
She glanced at her nightstand drawer, which held the letter that had tormented her for six-and-a-half days—and which she’d hoped, greedily, might have a second letter to join it when the post came with Edward’s letter.
Nora had hoped that tomorrow night, which was Edward Wednesday, she’d have two such letters to open and enjoy and gorge on.
Perhaps the letter only contains information about some new patent for a sticking plaster that will remove corns? her taunting inner voice piped up.
Ha! Whatever was in that letter was pure Edward, which meant sex.
She’d already made—rather pitiful—plans for her orgy of Edward. Instead of going to a hotel, she’d paid her housekeeper to shop for delicacies and she would lock the door and stay in the comfort of her own bed while she enjoyed the letter. And then, likely, frig herself blind.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 26
