The First Bloom of Winter, page 10
“Of course,” he said. “I hope you sister is well.” He turned to resume his original course to the kitchen when a hand on his arm made him pause.
“I know it can’t be easy for you to be here. In spite of the debt I owe Mr. Leslie, I don’t exactly approve of his business.” The frown that had darkened Richard’s face lightened into a subdued smile. “That being said, I do hope you can find something good about this place. Having friends makes even the harshest toil easier. Speaking of which, if you weren’t headed that way already, you should probably go to the kitchen. Gardenia is waiting for you there, and he was grousing earlier about how you missed lunch. He’ll just come looking for you if you don’t at least show up for tea.”
Caught up in how Richard’s smile so transformed his countenance, Holden had to force himself to cease his mawkish staring. He remembered himself long enough to make the appropriate au revoirs. He made his way to the kitchen with an air of bemusement, only returning to himself when Gardenia greeted him with his usual exuberance.
“There you are! I was wonderin’ if ye planned to sleep the entire day away.”
Holden smiled. “I thank you for your concern. I was a bit tired, so I took a nap, but I am certainly in the mood to enjoy some of Mrs. Peabody’s excellent sandwiches.” His appetite had been absent during most of his tenure at The Garden thus far, but the cook’s exquisite dishes always caused him to rally.
After filling a small plate with a scone, two cucumber and salmon sandwiches, and a berry tart, Holden went to join Gardenia, who was happily munching on what he suspected was only the latest in the multitude of his friend’s afternoon indulgence. Peony was there, as well, and he gave Holden a nod and a shy smile of welcome before turning his attention back to the large square of paper at which he stared with significant absorption.
“Peony is working on a sketch,” Gardenia chirped unnecessarily.
The charcoal from the pencil Peony held was all over his fingers and had somehow left its mark on the tip of his nose. Holden raised his eyebrows in unfeigned interest.
“What are you drawing?” he asked. “May I see?”
As expected, the artist colored at the attention. “Oh, it’s nothing much. Just a scene of the Thames looking east from Waterloo Bridge.” Though his blush never flagged, Peony angled his sketchpad so Holden could view it.
“My goodness,” Holden breathed. “That’s incredible.”
He had no need to exaggerate his praise. Though the scene was fanciful and vague, the few details Peony had depicted were captured in exquisite detail. Boats and scows dotted the river, dark specks easily identifiable as the men who toiled upon them. The spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral rose above a hazy rendering of buildings on the north bank, while London Bridge spanned the water like a sentinel guarding the city from invasion. And in the far distance, the ancient wall of the Tower brooded under the weight of its storied history.
“You are very talented, Peony,” Holden said with complete honesty. “You must have spent hours studying this scene in person to have captured its likeness so accurately.”
Peony glanced away, his expression suddenly clouded. “I suppose.”
Holden was confused at his reaction until he recalled Peony’s tale of his days spent begging along the Strand. It seemed his tactlessness knew no bounds that day. He opened his mouth to offer an apology, but Gardenia forestalled what was certain to have been an uncomfortable exercise.
“Now that he’s here, Peony, it’s the perfect time for you to start on your sketch of our dear Aster.”
Holden blinked as Gardenia grinned around his current pastry. “Oh, that’s not necessary—” he began only to be thwarted from an unexpected quarter.
“Of course,” Peony said, already turning to a blank page of his sketchpad. “I’d be happy to.”
“Well, if you insist,” Holden replied uncertainly.
Gardenia nodded. “We do! He’s done portraits of all of us.”
“Oh? Where do you keep them?” Holden asked, not remembering having previously seen any example of Peony’s work.
Peony reached for a knife, which he used to sharpen the stick of charcoal. “In my room. Mr. Leslie gave me a large cover to keep them in. You’re free to come and see them whenever you’d like.”
“We don’t want our guests seeing them,” Gardenia explained. “That’s why Peony keeps them safe for us.”
Holden wondered at the prohibition. Perhaps his fellows considered the sketches a way to keep a part of themselves pristine and separate from the sordid aspect of their duties. He obliged patiently when Peony rearranged him so he was positioned directly beneath the chandelier, ostensibly so he’d be viewable in the best possible light.
Gardenia kept up the conversation on his own for a while, prattling away about his failure and eventual successes with the meat pies Mrs. Peabody had allowed him to help her with. Holden regretted missing his friend’s culinary debut, but the sentiment caused him to recall the reason for his late morning malaise. He girded himself to voice the concern that had been nagging at him since his interview with Leslie the day following his arrival.
“If I might ask,” Holden said after Gardenia paused to take a breath and nibble on yet another scone, “Mr. Leslie mentioned something the other day that I found most perplexing. He noted that ‘innocence has its charms,’ but it’s not particularly acceptable. And then he said ‘we shall have to see to it.’ Do you know what he meant by that?”
Peony paused midstoke, his eyes going wide as his cheeks flushed brightly. Gardenia stared, his scone apparently forgotten, until Holden began to squirm under the intensity of his regard.
“Have you ever been with a man before?” Gardenia asked finally.
Holden frowned, as unhappy with the question now as he’d been when Leslie had posed it. “No,” he answered frankly. “I’ve, well, there was this chap I liked who worked for my father. We tussled about on occasion, but never to that degree, if I take your meaning correctly.”
“You do,” Gardenia replied. He gazed down at the table thoughtfully for a long moment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “It’s not so bad, really. It can even be enjoyable if you take the proper care, though it’s not especially pleasant the first time, no matter how gently the other fellow goes about it.”
Holden shivered and swallowed against the nervous lump that formed in his throat. He had a vague notion of what a tryst between men entailed, but the particulars were known only to his darkest imagination. He dared not confess that he’d thrown about the term “bugger” without having a full appreciation of its meaning.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to, um, perform as required. What if….” His voice cracked. “What if I fail? Will Mr. Leslie throw me out on the street?”
The thought had never truly occurred to him before now. If he proved useless to his new employer, where would he go? It wasn’t as though his father would welcome him back with open arms. He didn’t doubt Franklin Peters was prepared to blacklist him with every reputable place of employment in the city he might even think to seek work. And if he confessed what Leslie had forced him to do, he had no doubt the odious man would follow through on his threat to have his father thrown into debtors’ prison. Yet, he genuinely doubted his ability to fulfill his duties as Leslie’s newest whore. His stomach twisted into a knot as he fretted over the impossible conundrum. He flinched instinctively when Gardenia suddenly placed a hand over his where it was clenched fitfully atop the table, and squeezed.
“Don’t worry,” Gardenia said, his countenance exuding kindly reassurance. “Mr. Leslie would never allow you to see your first customer unprepared.”
Holden’s brow furrowed in confusion at Gardenia’s certainty. “What do you mean? How would he go about readying me for something like that?” He laughed humorlessly. “Are you saying he’s going to ruin me himself first or some such nonsense?”
He sobered instantly when Gardenia’s demeanor grew uncharacteristically somber. Desperate, he glanced at Peony, hoping to find some clue that he was merely the subject of a monstrously unfunny joke, but he received no help from that quarter. If anything, Peony’s blush had only worsened, and his gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the unfinished sketch.
Holden rose from the table fitfully, his abandoned seat clattering precariously behind him at the violence of his desertion. His desire to flee the unconscionable exposure was thwarted only by the strength of Gardenia’s grip on his hand. “You can’t be serious?” he cried, painfully aware of the choked hysteria in his tone.
“Mr. Leslie has no use for virgins,” Gardenia explained. “Ignorance in this business is nothing but a hindrance. And even for those of us who weren’t so innocent when we came here, he prefers to judge our experience firsthand before allowing us to entertain paying customers.”
Holden stared at Gardenia aghast. He was going to be violated by that horrible man? It wasn’t to be borne! “I will never allow it,” he spat.
Gardenia returned his glare steadily, his expression compassionate but firm. “You’ll have no choice. And truly, Aster, it’s really for the best that you become accustomed to your new life as quickly as possible.” He tightened his grip on Holden’s fist. “I know it all seems awfully frightening right now, but I swear, you can do this.”
Gardenia stood and rose on his toes to press his lips to Holden’s forehead in a comforting gesture that failed to reassure him in the slightest.
MOONLIGHT SPILLED through a part in the gauzy curtain to fall gently on Holden’s face as he sat curled up on his bed. Sounds of the revelry going on below filtered up past the screen concealing the living quarters from the main hall. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore them, even though he kept his door tightly shut. Every now and then, he would hear a bark of masculine laughter or an exclamation of dissolute amusement. But at least those noises were far removed. It would be imminently worse when he heard the parade of heavy, drunken footsteps clunk down the hall past his room as the others brought their customers up to their bedchambers for the night one by one. Holden hid in his room as he had for the past four nights, spared the need to make an appearance downstairs. He sat in the frigid near-darkness, fretting the inevitable cessation of his reprieve, reluctant to even light a fire in the hearth for fear of being discovered. But this night, it wasn’t merely anticipation that knotted his stomach as his approaching doom came ever closer to hand. On this occasion, his avoidance was far more personal.
Holden wasn’t certain when the boisterous clamor coming from downstairs ceased. It usually lasted until exhaustion had overcome his anxieties enough to allow him the refuge of sleep. Though he suspected the hour was very late, it seemed much too early for the guests to have departed. Many of The Garden’s patrons didn’t take their leave until the rising sun threatened to reveal their illicit undertakings. He hadn’t heard anyone come upstairs, and the divergence from the usual practice unsettled him greatly. It didn’t take much effort for him to grasp why this night was different. Hadn’t Gardenia told him as much that afternoon? Leslie meant to turn him out the very next evening, but first, his troublesome inexperience would be dealt with by the man himself. Not content to merely twist in agony, Holden’s stomach began roiling queasily, and he glanced worriedly toward the space beneath his bed, hoping the chamber pot was within easy reach.
The minutes stretched endlessly as the silence grated on his frayed nerves. Holden found himself twitching at every shadow, apprehension setting his teeth on edge until he felt ready to break under the strain. If Leslie did indeed mean to forcibly strip away his innocence, then what in the hell was he waiting for? Holden knew full well there was no escape from this fate, so he’d as soon have the whole thing over and done with. It was most inconsiderate of the bastard to keep him waiting like this. Holden’s laughter held a manic edge as he contemplated his crossness at the delay of his inexorable deflowering.
Even though he’d been expecting them, Holden started fretfully when he heard the tread of deliberate footsteps approach his door. Hugging his knees to his chest, he stared in dread as the knob slowly turned. His eyes were stretched wide in fear and despite the lack of light—he had also extinguished every candle to aid the darkness in hiding his presence—he immediately recognized the figure that filled the doorway.
“Se-Sebastian?” he voiced in a tremulous whisper.
“Good evening, young sir.”
The butler moved effortlessly about the dark room, bespeaking his long familiarity with the placement of the various pieces of furniture. He lit one candle after another until they basked the room in a warm glow. Holden noticed only after the last candle was burning that the butler held something in his arms.
“This is for you. Please take off your clothes so you may don your new attire.”
Holden immediately recognized the gorgeous blue gown he had tried on previously in Amaryllis’s room. It seemed he was to be made presentable before being thrown to the wolves. His gut lurched alarmingly, but he silently moved to obey, sliding from his bed on the side closest to the wardrobe.
“I trust you enjoyed your bath earlier this evening, young sir.”
Holden nodded. “Yes, thank you.” It had been the first he’d taken since leaving home. He should have realized then why he was being allowed such a luxury. At the time, he’d been far too busy trying to ignore the young maid tasked with bringing the water up to his room to fill the tub to ponder at its larger significance. He wondered idly whether the two strapping young men who had lugged the heavy copper bath inside and, later, had taken it away again, were personal minders for some of the other lads.
Facing away from his visitor to preserve a modicum of dignity, Holden performed the requested task mechanically, dread making his movements stiff and awkward. Fortunately the butler refrained from offering any comment on his clumsiness. Holden turned around when he was down to his drawers, but Sebastian shook his head disapprovingly.
“No, that will not do. You will need to remove those as well before I can dress you. Now, be quick about it. We haven’t got all night.”
Holden wasn’t at all surprised given Amaryllis’s admonishment to him earlier in the day. Sebastian tapped his foot in uncharacteristic exasperation, and Holden complied without attempting any protest. Heat flooded his cheeks as he bared himself to the butler’s dispassionate gaze. He stumbled gracelessly as he kicked free of the undergarment trapped around his feet. When he was down to his skin, Sebastian ordered him to turn around with a swirl of his finger. Holden met his reflection in the full-length mirror and wondered how he had come to this—standing bare-arsed naked while a dour servant helped him don a dress of silk.
The fabric slid over his naked flesh like a sinful caress, heightening his awareness of his unclothed state. Holden twitched at the sensation. Somehow it all seemed so much worse than when he’d done the same for Amaryllis. Perhaps because, while Amaryllis might have some shred of empathy for his plight, the dour butler could have no inkling how he felt. In other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the decadent feel of the slick material against his skin, but at that moment, it seemed as though a thousand ants were crawling all over him.
Sebastian proved efficient at playing lady’s maid. In moments, Holden was dressed, the chartreuse sash tied about his waist to secure the kimono with a minimum of fuss. The butler came around to stand in front of Holden, blocking his view of the mirror, and gave the garment a few inexplicable tugs. When he moved aside, Holden gasped in dismay at how the neck of the kimono now lay even with his shoulder blades, baring his shoulders in a most scandalous fashion.
“Um, pardon me, but is that right?” he asked nervously. “When Amaryllis had me try this on, he didn’t have me wear it like this.”
“That is because you were trying it on for fit. This is how you shall wear any of the kimonos you’re given from now on.” Sebastian spoke without meeting his gaze, his attention fixed firmly on his task of straightening any wrinkle not quick enough to escape his notice.
Holden groaned inwardly. There was no mistaking the effect of his appearance. The gown barely clung to his upper arms, threatening to slide downward and expose the entirety of his chest at the slightest wrong move. Or, more accurately, inviting the tug that would inevitably send it plummeting. The fact that the kimono stayed in place at all was a testament to Amaryllis’s skill with a needle and his eye for how best to entice a man to sin. Holden wore no shoes, and his foot poked through the gap at the bottom of the kimono, drawing attention to his bare leg and hinting at what other unclothed parts might be hidden beneath the heavy fall of silk. If he had seen another man dressed this way, he doubted he could have resisted the temptation to unwrap his gift with a swift tug at the chartreuse sash.
Sebastian’s fingers suddenly rifling through his hair drew Holden’s gaze away from the distressing sight of his reflection. He looked up to see the butler deftly fluffing the light brown strands. Holden had spent many hours of his adolescence lamenting his girlish hair and attempting to tame it with waxes and oil and a vigorously applied brush. But the butler’s aim appeared to be the complete opposite. When he was finished, Holden’s hair was a riot of waves. It was awful enough he was wearing clothing fit for a female courtesan. Did his hair have to perfect the image? Holden sighed, closing his eyes in pained resignation.
“That will have to suffice,” Sebastian said evenly, as though he hadn’t wiped away all remaining traces of Holden’s masculinity. “Perhaps later we will fit you out with decorative hairpins of some sort, but for now, we haven’t the time.” He turned away as Holden stared at the butler’s reflection with shock—and not a little murder—in his eyes.
Sebastian was almost at the door when he apparently realized Holden was not at his heels. “Come along, then. Don’t dawdle.”
Holden could almost thank Sebastian for his brusque manner as it had served to anger him and thus divert his attention briefly from what awaited him. But it seemed the moment was finally at hand. He frantically sought a way to stall. “Um, he is not coming here?” Holden asked, his tongue proving unable to pronounce Mr. Leslie’s name. The answer was apparent considering that the butler was even then opening the door to his room.
