The Virgin's Auction

by Hart, Amelia

  “We can hope. Is there anything else I should know, Mr Tell?” She was operating on a very tight little window of sanity right now, waiting for the other two to go so she could fall apart in private.

  “I’ll come for you tomorrow night at ten, Miss. I’ll collect the money for you afterwards, use it to gather up the men you need. You just,” he flicked his fingers in a dismissive gesture as if trying to tell her it was a small matter, “stand on the block.” He cleared his throat, stood, placed his hat firmly on his head and touched the brim without meeting her eyes. “Good day, Miss.” He turned to go, but at the door he pivoted to say: “An’ Miss Spencer?

  She lifted her chin bravely, meeting his gaze when it flicked to her face. “Yes, Mr Tell?”

  “If you have a white dress, Miss, you better wear it tomorrow. It’ll go down real nice with the bidders.”

  Chapter Two

  The night was a long one; long and terribly slow. If she slept even one moment, she was unaware of the relief. Over and over she turned, churning the bed sheets into a mass. Oh, how could she be about to sell herself? It could not really be true.

  Surely they had endured enough? Surely now Father was dead and they were free of him, they deserved a chance at happiness?

  Even from the grave his hand reached out to mar their lives.

  She herself was not – oh, incredible – about to place herself on an auction block in front of a crowd of men who wanted to buy her body for a night of . . .

  She broke out in a cold sweat.

  Shuddering, she flung herself from the bed. She wrapped a robe around her clammy form and went out into the hall. The house was still and silent. On bare feet she padded towards Peter’s room. She put her hand on the door handle and turned it gently. The door swung open.

  Melissa crossed the room to look down at her brother in the dim moonlight.

  He was curled up tight, as he had always slept since he was a little baby. One hand was under his cheek, the other lay in a loose fist. With a single finger she lifted a curl back from his face. She loved him with a love that was surely as fierce as any mother’s. He had been her child to rear since he was six. Since Mama had died.

  No harm must come to him.

  When she looked at Peter there was no question in her mind she would do anything to keep him safe. She carried the certainty away with her, a hard, cold knot in her chest, heavy with the weight of everything she would force upon herself.

  But back in her room the doubts and fears surged back. Could she go through with it? Was she brave enough? And even if she did manage to sell herself, would there be enough money raised to get them out and away?

  Late into the night, in torment, she acknowledged the other part of this: as a fallen woman, she could never have a family. It was then she wept, in long, shuddering gasps. No good man would take a fallen woman to wife. No man would want such a woman to take on his name and bear his children. And she could never have children out of wedlock. It was too cruel to force the stigma of bastardy on some innocent.

  With this one act she was condemning herself to a life alone, with no family except Peter. And as time passed he would turn away from needing her, to start a family of his own.

  She had never believed she could feel passionate love for a man after growing up in the same house as Father. But she had dreamed of being first a scholar and then as she matured and grew to womanhood, a mother, and accepted that somewhere down that road lay a marriage – no matter how unpleasant – and the congress that would give her the children for which she longed. Now there would be no fat, happy babies to cuddle and care for, to call her ‘mama’ and run to her with their arms outstretched and nothing but happiness on their unclouded little faces.

  In anguish she cried the hours away, sobbing until her eyes and throat ached, the hole within her gaping and ragged with pain.

  Finally morning came. Melissa was exhausted. Her face in the looking glass was grey and tearstained, and her eyes looked dead. I am dead, she thought. That person I was, with hopes and dreams, she is dead.

  I still have Peter though, and he has me. I will get him safely away; protect him from all this. He will never know. He can stay innocent, gentle and happy. His future lies ahead of him, not so bright as that of a gentleman’s son, but a future with perhaps some prosperity, and a family of his own.

  He will never cast me out, not dear Peter. I will always have a place in his home as his spinster sister, an aunt to his children. I will . . . I will make that enough for me.

  And for now I will be whatever I need to be, to get us through this.

  She could not bear to look at her reflection for long.

  She sent Hetty off to her father’s man of business, requesting he visit her that day. She was not certain he would come, was prepared to go to his offices if Hetty returned with a refusal. But he did come. When he bustled into the library, an ugly little man with a pursed mouth and bifocals, thinning hair stretched over his balding pate, he spoke without preamble:

  “I thought I made myself clear, Miss Spencer. Until you pay your father’s outstanding bill there is no commission I am prepared to undertake. And there’s little enough I can do for you even then. There never was such a wretchedly careless man as your father. Never would he take my advice. Never-”

  “Mr Beaseley,” Melissa cut him off. She had no need to listen to him babble the same litany again. “I want you to take charge of selling the last of our household effects. Everything must go, as we will be moving into rented rooms. A shrewd man such as yourself will make perhaps several hundred pounds-”

  “Oh, one or two hundred perhaps,” he interrupted with his eyes darting about the room, taking stock of the contents. Such an awful creature he was, immediately trying to minimise her expectations Still, he would serve her ends.

  “And this will clear our account with you,” she continued as if he had not spoken. “And I do expect an itemised accounting, of course,” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking down her nose. He would think it odd if she didn’t ask for one. “The remainder you may deposit with Lloyds bank in an account in my name-”

  “Not your name, Miss Spencer. Master Spencer’s name.”

  “Yes, certainly in Master Spencer’s name,” she gritted her teeth to stay calm and polite. Toad of a man. “The proviso is that this must be started today.”

  “Today? That simply is not possible,” he said with an authoritative flip of his hand. “I have too many-”

  She lost her patience. “That is unfortunate. Never mind then. We shall find another agent to handle the sales. Good day to you Mr Beaseley.” She stood to signal she had finished with him, and immediately he became placating.

  “But for the sake of your sad loss I could – out of compassion – find time to serve you today, Miss Spencer.”

  Rather out of compassion for your own pocket, and the paid bill you see escaping from it, she thought grimly. Yet his motives were immaterial. None of these funds would be available before they left London.

  What she wanted was the comings-and-goings of a house cleared and all goods sold off, not to mention father’s businessman about the place. Every appearance must be of a great push to raise ten thousand pounds. The more bustle the better, to make the task of the watchers as complicated and wearying as possible.

  “Very kind, Mr Beaseley,” she said in a clipped tone, meaning nothing of the sort. “You may consider every single item for sale, other than the contents of my bedroom and Master Peter’s room. I shall not delay you further, as there’s much to do. Good day.” She disposed of him gladly. If she never had to talk to him again, it would be too soon.

  “Of course, Miss Spencer. I shall return within the hour. Good day.” He gathered himself up and left, examining the hallway furniture as he went, obviously already adding up numbers in his head.

  The day dragged endlessly onwards. Melissa tried to keep busy. Time and again she found herself staring blankly into the middle distance. Her mind was churn
ing through the same thoughts, desperately seeking some other solution; any sort of reprieve.

  She found nothing.

  Mr Beaseley came and went. She stayed out of the way as much as she could. He created all the stir she could have wanted, ordering his staff members around and running up and down the stairs, poking his head and the rest of himself into any room, overseeing the loading of wagons out in the street and generally being a nuisance.

  Peter emerged from his bedroom to ask what was going on. He took in her explanation about selling off furniture to pay bills with a vague frown then drifted away again. She was glad he didn’t see Beaseley in the small library, taking notes and pursing his lips as he contemplated the shelves.

  Melissa paced. Through the halls, the stairwells, the emptying rooms she walked, over and over. She couldn’t settle to any task. Her restless mind drove her body to move. She stopped at mealtimes, for appearances sake ate a few bites and pushed the rest about her plate. When Peter left the table so did she.

  Tonight. Tonight. Tonight. It was a chant in her head. She balled her hands into fists and rubbed them into her eye sockets as if to grind it out of her ears, but she could not.

  Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.

  Shadows shifted across the carpets until the carpets too were taken. The day dimmed. Night arrived. Mr Beaseley gathered up his minions and departed with a final load. He had been unexpectedly effective. The house was more than half empty.

  But then the furnishings had been scant to start with. Not much of value had survived Father’s slide into the arms of Bacchus.

  Melissa’s footsteps echoed oddly, raising little puffs of the dust disturbed by all the removals. Dust from a house inadequately tended by a single maid and herself. She would have cried about the loss of everything, freighted with so many memories of a lifetime, but there was no room for sentiment. They were just things, and she would not need them where she was going.

  She poked her head into Peter’s room, vaguely surprised to find everything here untouched, just as she had ordered. His candle burned by his bedside and he lay sprawled inelegantly across the bed, tilting his book towards the light to read.

  “Time you were asleep, love,” she chided gently.

  “Perhaps, but this is interesting. Shan’t be much longer, Lissa.”

  “Good night.” She stroked a curl back from his eye, then stooped to lay a kiss on his temple. He smiled up at her. Her heart turned over with love for him. Dear Peter. He must be kept safe, at all costs.

  She left his room with leaden feet, went back out into the silence of the still house. Hetty and Cook were already abed; or at least in their rooms.

  It was almost time.

  She walked to her bedroom. Like Peter’s everything was still in its place. She paused on the threshold, took a deep breath and entered. She was dry-eyed and numb, yet her heart was beating oh, so fast.

  With her mind carefully blank she took out her pretty white dress, with little sprigs of flowers scattered across it; stockings, plain white cotton small clothes. She laid them out on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles over and over again. Then she stood and stared at them.

  Finally she dressed herself, forcing each limb to move as it should to complete the accustomed task. It was difficult. The leaden weights of her hands refused to cooperate. When it was done she bundled her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, hardly caring that it immediately began to escape from the poorly placed pins.

  Downstairs she went, to the entrance hall. She sat on the lowest step of the staircase and waited. Each minute was an eternity.

  At last came the fateful knock on the front door. Melissa answered it. Mr Tell was there with an expression she could not interpret and a hired carriage, shabby and cheap. He touched the brim of his hat to her respectfully.

  What was there left to respect? In the eyes of the respectable world she was about to put herself beyond the pale; a fallen woman.

  “Evening, Miss,” he said gruffly. “Aherm. Best to go openly. Not give them rotters reason to think you’re trying to hide something.”

  “Yes, quite,” she replied, going down the front stairs then taking his hand so he could help her up into the carriage. He stepped in after her. Briefly the thought of propriety crossed her mind. Then it was gone. What point worrying about such things now?

  In silence they travelled, the dim carriage rocking back and forth over the uneven cobbles. It was nearly half an hour before they reached their destination.

  Deathly afraid, Melissa gathered up her skirts and her courage, and stepped out into the night.

  The auction room was the bar room. Pipe smoke swirled thickly through the air. The scent of ale was heavy, as was the reek of unwashed bodies. The fire crackled. Men’s voices were raised in cheerful conversation, with occasional shouts of laughter. Every now and again there was a feminine shriek that might have been pain or pleasure; it was hard to tell which.

  Melissa stood to one side of the door, her face shrouded by her hooded cloak, fingers clenched in the fabric, eyes wide and staring. It occurred to her to wonder which of these jovial louts might have a thousand pounds in their pocket. Might be able to afford to buy her for the night; to take her home, and use her body . . .

  Mr Tell placed a steadying hand on her back as she swayed a little. Gently he urged her forward, till they stood at the bar. After a moment the barkeeper sidled up to them.

  “Evening, Simon me lad,” he said with a gap-toothed grin. “You’re in luck. Busy night tonight, and the Nobs has shown up.” He nodded to the corner tables, where an expensively dressed but slovenly group of men were cackling over dice games.

  Then he peered at Melissa’s hooded form with a good-natured leer. “This the girl, then? Give us a look.” He put down the glass he’d been polishing and leaned forward expectantly, big, meaty hands on the bar.

  Slowly, as if he did not want to startle her, Mr Tell reached for the hood of her cloak. But Melissa could not bear a man’s hands about her in this second. She forestalled him by reaching up and pushing it back so her face was fully in the light. The barkeeper pursed his lips and whistled long and low.

  “Well I’ll be,” he uttered in reverential tones. “Ain’t that a sight. We might be breaking us some records here tonight, Simon lad,” and with one finger he reached up to flick her cheek. She flinched away and shot him an outraged glare that only made him chuckle.

  The bartender rearranged the hood around Melissa’s face, leaving it in shadow again. She steeled herself to accept the touch, to make no sign of how it bothered her. There was so much worse to come, she must school herself to calm acceptance, no matter what she felt.

  “Righto then. Let’s get onto it. No point in hanging about.” He came out from behind the bar and led the way to the far end of the room. There was a raised dais. As he stepped up three steps above the crowd Melissa realised he must be the one who played auctioneer. He held out a hand to her but she declined to grasp it, stepping up lightly on her own. Mr Tell remained standing on the lower level, looking up at them.

  “Gentlemen!” he called out, turning to face the crowded room. Heads lifted at that lusty bellow.

  Melissa concentrated on breathing, as the room swam about her. Courage now. For Peter.

  Chapter Three

  The card room was beautifully, fashionably decorated. Tonight it was warm and a little stuffy. Most of the chairs were taken by gentlemen of varying ages. The faint sounds of an Austrian waltz drifted in from the ballroom, accompanied by conversation and well-bred laughter.

  Mr James Carstairs had loosened the intricate folds of his cravat a little, and was casually reclined in his seat, toying absently with the bevelled stem of the wineglass on the table in front of him.

  “What do you say, then? Another hand?” Mr George Mayhew reached out and snagged the decanter of port, leaning over to refill James’s glass. “The luck seems to be rather in with me tonight and I’ve a fancy I’ll put your pockets to let, James.”
He gave his friend an evil grin.

  “Not for me George,” replied James, waving away both the port and the offer of a game. He was bored with cards. “Generous as you are I think I shall pass.”

  “What, no stomach for sport?”

  “Devil a bit.” He gestured in lazy good humour at the pile of notes by his friend’s elbow. “It is no such thing as sport when Lady Luck sits in your lap and all her kisses are for you. But no, it’s been a long evening.” He stood in one fluid move and strode to the window, and there brooded out at the stone buildings of London, lit up by the moonlight. “I’ve more of a mind to walk home.” He missed the countryside, the wide open spaces.

  “Walk? Walk? Thrice bedamned to you with all your prowlings. Why would you want to walk?”

  “Ah, I have been sitting still too long. My legs desire a stretch.” The season had only just started and already he was longing to escape. He was tired of stuffy rooms filled with sedate murmurs. Town was trying his patience. He needed some fresh air; or as fresh as the air ever got in the crowded and reeking City.

  “After all that prancing about? God only knows how many young misses you stood up with – I lost count – but I would not have thought your legs in any need of further stretching.” George cast a doubtful look at James’ lower half.

  James quirked an eyebrow at him, amused as always by his pretence of indolence. “You needn’t take exception to my walking, my dear fellow. I had no plans to involve you.”

  “Can’t have a delicate flower such as yourself roaming the streets unchaperoned, now can we?” asked George, hoisting himself to his feet with a long-suffering sigh.

  “Quite right. Quite right,” murmured James agreeably. “Where would you like to go, oh noble duenna?”

  George responded with a rudely flatulent sound as he left the room, James at his heels. “I am seeing you home, and no further. And then you will have the grace to lend me your carriage so I need not scamper the streets alone.”