A Muse to Live For

by Katherine Wyvern

  “From the beginning then… I was born near Dublin. Little place called Howth. My mother’s village. My father… well, he was some man or other I suppose. Mother used to say he was a sailor and that I looked like him. I don’t know. When I was really small, in Liverpool, because we had moved to Liverpool by then, to Mother’s aunt, I used to go and look at the ships for hours, waiting for a man like me. Never met one.”

  How could you? I think. There is no one like you. No one.

  “Well, Mother died before I was ten. She was sick for a long time. But my aunt said there was no money for a doctor, and apparently there was precious little money for food, too. I think Mother died of hunger and cold and misery, and I was left with this aunt … Have you ever seen a cock fight?”

  “Eh?” The non sequitur takes me totally by surprise.

  “A cock fight. These skinny birds, two foot tall, prancing about, stepping high, puffing themselves up, all with these pale, dead, evil eyes, staring. My aunt was like that. Pure pint-sized evil. Well, anyway. She took in jobs from tailors. Fixing this and that, darning, fitting to size, cutting up, cutting down, taking in, letting out, you name it, we did it… all kind o’ jobs. Suits, gowns, plain dresses. I learnt sewing before I learnt my letters. Which I didn’t mostly, because Aunt said that if you have time to write you have time to sew, and reading is a waste of good eyes. Anyway, by the time I was sixteen or seventeen I could run up a dress or a suit from scratch and do all manners of fancy jobs, because I was clever with a needle and a sewing machine, and I thought, fuck it all, pardon me the language, but I am not staying here, and I filched her purse one night and ran. And don’t say I should be ashamed of it, because she owed me something for all the slaving I done in that house, and for starving my mother to her grave. And so I came to London, and found work, sewing, first for one shop, then another, and doing odd jobs in between… And long story short, this is the funny part, I really much preferred to do women’s clothes. I really loved those. Well, the good ones at least. Which is funny because I didn’t … fancy … women. At all. And I started … from time to time … when I was alone in this shop, after hours, finishing a job or other, they had this big, big mirror … I started wearing the things I sewed. Just to try on, for a minute, very quick. I thought, at the beginning, I was doing it for the dress, you know to see if it moved right. But in fact, I did for me. I don’t know what got into me, I just wanted to see … and, and I can’t explain…”

  I know what you saw. My angel. I know, I think, and hold him tighter.

  “It came to the point that I stayed later and later, just so I could put on some fancy gown and a feathered hat, and see myself for one second in that big mirror. And, and, I made myself a dress, from scraps. My own dress, my size, the way I liked it. And I brought it home, to this tiny room I had and kept it there, to wear it by myself. Quite a sight I must have been, too,” he laughs, quietly, “No butt, no tits, no hair, and a flouncy pink dress with lace at the sleeves. Oh, God. Well, whatever. But what happened is, that one night I was in the shop trying on this blue silk gown … and the owner came in. Forgot something, could not sleep. I don’t know. I thought I was done for, a dead man, hanged and drawn and quartered, but the strangest thing happened. He … he fancied me. He … well, you can imagine what he did. Can you?” He looks up at me questioning, uncertain, and I nod, although to be wholly honest I am not sure. “He was not … unkind. He did it nicely enough, all things considered. But then he gave me what was due of my wages and a crown for my trouble and then he sacked me. There and then. Said I was a danger to his morals. Religious sort of chap, you see. But at least he paid me before giving me the boot. So here I was, alone in London, with not five pounds to my name, and a rent to pay, and I thought, I thought, please, please don’t think bad of me, but I thought that if I could make a crown in five minutes work that way, that saved a mort of pain and grief sewing my hands to pieces and my eyes blind fourteen hours a day in a sweatshop, you see? And I had my dress. And that’s how I ended up doing … what I do. Don’t think badly of me. It was nothing to me. I didn’t know what it’s like to do it—to do it—to do it … for love.”

  He shifts in my arms restlessly then, as if something is trying to escape out of him.

  “And that’s how I met His Excellency the honorable Lord Christopher fucking Stanbury.”

  “Lord who?”

  “You wouldn’t know him; he’s not much in the papers or anything. But he’s rich. And a member of parliament to boot, House of Lords, of course. Very old family with some great old pile somewhere in Hertfordshire or some such, but he lives in town year ‘round. Easier to pick up pretty boys down here. Oh, yes, and I was too damn pretty for my own good by the time he picked me up. Had grown out my hair by then, and learnt to wear a good corset, and a bustle, and how to wiggle my padded butt just so, and how to paint my lips and how to do up my eyes … and I had learned other things too, oh, all manner of things … oh, I was a proper little tart, and he loved me.”

  He gives such a bitter laugh at that that I cringe. And then he’s quiet, for a long time, stricken. “And?” I ask finally.

  ****

  Gabriel

  How do I explain this, to Nathaniel, sweet Nathaniel, who calls me his angel? Oh God, strike me dead now.

  “And he took me off the street, and … I became … well, his mistress. He kept me.” I cannot look at him as I say this. I can’t look at him. I can’t bear to look at him and see disgust in his eyes, maybe. “It is handy, you know,” I add quickly, desperately, “For those who like a boy in their bed but don’t choose to have the world know it, to have a boy who knows how to pass as a woman. A mistress you can pass off, if you are rich enough, but a boy, well… So he courted me, all chivalrous, night after night. He came all the way to the East End, whoring, and sought me out, when I was just the youngest, silliest hooker on the street, and I fell for it like a plum, like the stupid daft simpleton I am, because I fancied living in a big house, with servants bringing me breakfast, and wearing pretty gowns I didn’t have to sew myself, and drinking champagne everyday…”

  Finally, I shut up. I still can’t look at him.

  He doesn’t answer. A silence drags on, that is more awful than anything I have ever heard. He takes my face in his hands finally and makes me look up. How quaint it is, that now he’s the one searching my eyes, while I can’t bear to meet his.

  “You became his mistress. And then what happened?”

  He says that, as cool as a cucumber, like a mistress is a kind of pastry cook. I wonder if he knows what a mistress is, or a kept woman. Or a kept man. I wonder if knows anything at all—he’s so damn unworldly.

  I finally look at him. He doesn’t look disgusted.

  He is just very earnest, like the filthiest bit of my life is the most absorbing story he’s ever heard.

  I have this feeling once more, that he would paint my soul if he could, that he would undress it, and sit it in good light, and study it for a day or two, and then paint a fucking portrait of it.

  It’s unsettling, disturbing. No, it’s downright terrifying. Except that it is of course also the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me.

  “And then … and then I found that I didn’t like it after all, that he…” I swallow. “There were things he fancied, that—were not good for me. But when I said I would not—I would not have these things done to me, that I could not bear it…” I trail off. I cannot—I cannot say this, I cannot go there, and think of those things, and that day, the day I said I would not take it anymore, and I was turned over to Browdie to be broken like a young horse.

  Nathaniel is quiet. He’s still holding my face, with warm, warm palms, gently, like a man cradling a hurt bird in his hands, careful not to let it go, not to let if fall or flutter, but careful also not to smother it.

  “And then?” he prompts.

  And then I was beaten to within an inch of my life. I will not say this, however.

  “And then nothi
ng. Then, he chucked me out, with nothing. Not as much as a crown for my trouble,” I say it all in a great gush of tumbling words. “He had my head shaved, like a lunatic, and he chucked me out. And I had to—I had to—I had to fend for myself, with what skills I had.”

  I give a bitter bark of laughter at that. My great skills. I know how to sew a dress and how to wear it, I know how to tease, and I can give a mean blowjob. But I don’t want to talk of those appalling first weeks that I spent in the slums of Whitechapel trying to get my life under control again with nothing, nothing, not as much as a penny, a needle or a change of small-clothes, until by degrees I fucked, wanked, and sucked my way up to my quiet garret in Mrs. Gride’s house.

  This, too, I will never tell Nathaniel, because I know it would give him a wound that will never heal.

  “But the thing is—the thing is—the thing is, he never left me alone. They never left me alone. Him and his man. Browdie. Robert Browdie. This man he has who does the dirty work for him. He made me stop coming to see you, to sit for you. He made me. He made me. I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.”

  “But, but why would he do such a thing, why would he stop you from working for me? Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you come to me?”

  I laugh again, so bitterly that I may gag. Poor, kind, innocent Nathaniel.

  “He does these things because he can. He doesn’t need a logical reason. Great lords and Members of Parliament don’t need logic, Nathaniel. He doesn’t want me t—to improve my lot, you know? He said, when he chucked me out, that I am nothing but a cheap whore, and I’d stay a whore forever. He didn’t love me, you may be sure of that, but I belonged to him and he’s never going to let me go. He doesn’t want me back or anything. He just likes to keep me low, because he can, and because I angered him. And I couldn’t tell you because … because he hurt me, again and again, I know what he can do, and he would hurt you too, if—if I came to you for help.”

  Nathaniel is silent for a while.

  “A bully,” he says finally. “Another fucking bully. Shit, but the world is covered three times deep with them.”

  His voice and his face both are harsh, like he just swallowed a pint of vinegar. His mouth is a tight, hard line. The profanities, coming out of his lips, are so extraordinary that I am startled, as if I never heard such words before.

  “He hurt you, you say,” he adds, with that harsh look again.

  “Yes. Don’t ask. Don’t ask!”

  “Him? Or this man he has? This Browdie?”

  He’s holding my shoulders now, still with that gentle, firm grasp, and gazing at the dim skylight, still thoughtful, but then he turns to stare right at me.

  “Nathaniel, listen to me. Don’t you go thinking that you can fix this, that you can save me. Stanbury is one of the most powerful men in London, in England. He will squash you like a fly. And Browdie … he’s a brute. He’s a brute.” I can hardly keep my voice steady as I say this, and I see his warm, brown eyes harden, like sharp-edged flints. “Nathaniel,” I say, quickly, quickly, before he conceives some hare-brained plain for rescue or revenge. “Believe, me, please, there is nothing, absolutely nothing you can do. You must go away, you must go away and forget me, forget I ever existed. For your good and for mine. Please, Nathaniel, please. Don’t even think of it. You must, for me, or he will—he will destroy me, and then you. You must forget about it, about me, about all of this. It was … the most beautiful night of my life, and sitting for you was … I wish I could do that forever. It was the best thing I ever did. But now it’s over, it’s over, and you must go away, and forget me.”

  “No. No, I won’t, never. I can’t. We’ll find a way. I will never, never lose you again. Never. He will never hurt you again.”

  “Oh, Nathaniel.” I let out a breath of pure desperation, and deflating, I sink back against him. I didn’t mean to, but I have no strength to fight this, to fight him. How can I make him understand?

  “We will stop him. There must be a way. They should both be hanged for this.”

  “Yes, they should,” I say, muffled, against his chest. “But they won’t. They have the right friends. Me…” I am on the point of saying that I have no friends at all, but that would be a lie, obviously. “Nathaniel. They will never be punished. Stanbury will pull all the right strings, and who do you think they will believe, a great Lord, or me, the man-whore from Liverpool? They will put me in jail, and do you know what they do in prison to—to men like me?”

  He sighs, and puts his arms around me and holds me, very close, rocking softly, and I find that I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him to forget about me. I didn’t know anyone so gentle, so loving existed in the world, and now that I found him, or rather now that he has gone to all the trouble of finding me, I want him to hold me in his arms like this forever. The thought of going back on the streets every night, to blow a perfect stranger, let him grope my cock, or watch as I pleasure myself in a lonely alley (oh, such pleasure), the thought of doing that after this, after this night, it is unbearable, and I know that if he leaves me, if he heeds my warning and leaves me, I will kill myself.

  I won’t be starving myself this time. I’ll do it quick and final. There are ways to do it, that don’t hurt, they say, well, almost not at all. I just wish that I could die right now, here, in peace, in his arms. Just finish, like the last scene of a play, with no struggle, no indignity, no pain. The end.

  Because he must leave me. He must leave me, or be ruined. What can a harmless, poor, bookish, slightly crazy painter do against the likes of Browdie, and Stanbury? Shake a paintbrush at them? I’d laugh if I were not so close to weeping again.

  Either way, I am finished. This is the end, the end of me, my last day on earth.

  ****

  Nathaniel

  I hold him for a long time. He just told me to go away, and forget him, and yet he is here, in my arms, so slim and so frail that I fear I may break him in half, so beautiful that I know he can break my heart to pieces. After telling his tale he seems exhausted, like a man who took one last desperate shot and now has got nothing left. One last shot at pushing me away, one last shot at saving me.

  He has sunk into my lap, finally, and I caress his head like one caresses a dozing cat. He looks almost asleep, he’s so undone. He is so bony and so pale that my heart gives a twinge of anguish.

  Was he always this thin?

  Was Gabrielle always so skinny, under her clothes? Was that willowy, lean-limbed grace I admired so much always so close to being the death of her?

  “Come now,” I say. My voice is thick with grief, but I do my best to strike for a cheerful, resolute tone. “We will find a way out of this muddle. A clever, cunning way. Now let’s go find food. You are starved. You are dying of sheer misery. You can’t fix nothing on an empty stomach. Let’s put a solid meal into you, chicken soup, and a good pie, made with real butter, and a pint of porter. Porter is the thing for you, my love. Then we’ll think of something. We’ll think of something, you’ll see.”

  I slip out of bed, letting him slide off my lap, and find my clothes where they lie neatly folded on top of the chest of drawers. He must have picked them up and folded them while I was still sleeping, the dear boy. It feels odd to get back into my drawers, and trousers and shirt and boots, after the entrancing nakedness I just enjoyed, skin to skin with Gabriel. It was so natural, so perfect. It was the way we were meant to be. He doesn’t move while I dress, and finally I bend to kiss his brow, and his eyelids, and his soft, lush lips, those lips that will be the death of me, the sweetest death there ever was. He doesn’t stir, except for his mouth, which opens to the kiss like a slow evening-flower.

  “I never want to leave this room. I want to stay like this forever,” he whispers dreamily, after the kiss, weaving his fingers in mine.

  “Me too,” I say, with a secret thought that I’d have to strip the paper from the walls first, or be driven melancholy mad by it. But I know what he means. Still, we can’t. “Please
, Gabriel, let’s go and eat,” I whisper, caressing his shoulders, kneading what little flesh there is to knead.

  He stares at me for a long, long moment, and finally sits up. He seems dazed, like he’s coming back from a trance, but he shakes his head a little in the grey light, and nods. He stands, sways for a moment, looks around the room, picks up the corset and drops it, picks up the stockings, and drops those, too. He picks up the wig, a small enameled box, a brush, and finally shakes his head dejectedly.

  “It’s too complicated, right now. I can’t. I am sorry.” He drops everything again, and pulls some clothes from the narrow wardrobe, a dark grey suit, and a shirt, none of them new, but smart, a cravat, boots, a hat. He doesn’t seem to own a coat. He wears the shirt and suit quickly, his back to me, shuddering a little as if they were something cold and dead that he doesn’t like to touch. He ties his cravat with precise, nimble fingers, though, better than I ever did, and gives his boots a lick with an oiled rag before putting them on.

  I realize, from his swift, efficient, practiced gestures that he dresses like this every day, that he is still as much a man as a woman, although perhaps he doesn’t like it as much.

  It’s downright bizarre.

  Naked, there is such a purity to him that he could be anything, male, or female, or neither, or both. An angel before the fall. Or the fabled child of Hermes and Aphrodite, half male, half female, and wholly divine.

  In a city suit, he’s distinctly male, and rather dapper, too, but it sits oddly on him. He’s ill at ease, and it shows.

  It is so strange, that my head swims. I never imagined him out on the streets like this. I always thought of him as a woman … just a slightly odd sort of woman, perhaps.

  As a man, he looks terribly young and appallingly thin, and for the first time I wonder how old he actually is. Twenty, twenty-two, maybe? I put my own coat on his shoulders, and then pull him to me. I must hold him close, keep him safe. I have never felt anything so strongly in my life. I must keep him safe or forfeit my soul.