That night after the dinner party I lay meditating on all that I had been told.
My bedchamber was decorated with hand-painted wallpaper and the exotic flowers and twisted vines on a smoky pink background made the room feel lush.
It struck me as strange that Queenie had never once mentioned Pretty Poppet, and I couldn’t but wonder why, for it was clear that the girl was her daughter. Hope’s story, I thought, was the best. I wished that I might have as much good fortune as she, and thinking of all the delights that can be found in the flesh made me long for Mercy to come to me in my four-poster bed. There, together amid the duck-egg-green drapes, we might imagine we were landing on some far distant island. Surrounded by sleep, she would perhaps tell me her untold story.
My stuffed parrot had no option but to be wide awake. It appeared to be watching me. I wanted to ask Mercy why she had given it to me; I wanted more to hear her story, which I was convinced she was saving for me alone. At every creak and squeak I told myself she was just outside and at any second she would open the door and all would be well again. I heard the clock chime midnight and decided that I would go to her. I tiptoed along the hall and thought to enter her room through the antechamber. It never occurred to me that there might be someone else there.
The door to the bedroom being open, I saw the golden moonlight spilling over a naked nymph. Her flaming red river of curls rippled over the pillows and kneeling above her on the four-poster bed wearing only a man’s shirt was Mercy. Protruding from the shirt was the most magnificent piece of machinery, carved like the one on Plate Twelve of the dancing master’s book. I remembered it was called ‘A Virgin’s Delight’. Mercy took off her shirt and I could see that the contraption was tied prettily to her, and the sight of it brought on an ache in me. I should have turned and left, but I was tied to the spot – by curiosity? By jealousy? I know not.
Mercy caught sight of me and, despite my presence, bent over the lovely nymph, kissed her mouth, her neck, her ivory globes, and then parted the nymph’s legs, rubbing the tip of the machine on her Venus garden. When the nymph arched her back, Mercy thrust her pretty machine deep into her. In and out and in and out, and in until the nymph let out such a cry that I knew she had reached that divine moment.
Now was the nymph’s turn. She undid the ribbons, took the contraption off Mercy and, caressing her, rolled her onto her back, parted her legs, then kissed her all the way down to the mark and stayed there. Mercy turned her head from side to side before she too died away in pleasure.
I ran off, heartbroken, and cried myself to sleep.
I woke the next morning determined not to tell a soul what I had seen. I would swallow my hurt. Let my toes turn green and fall off, I wouldn’t say a word.
But the moment Mr Crease looked at me with his painted eyes he said, ‘So it’s finished.’
‘Mercy and you.’
Tears welled up and I told him everything. His face remained hard.
‘Good,’ he said, ‘I will have your undivided attention. Your instruction will start after lunch and I don’t want another tear from you.’
Hope found me near the back staircase, sobbing. She took my hand and led me to her chamber.
‘Ninny-not, what is the matter?’
And although I had made up my mind to tell no one else, for fear of my toes really turning green, I couldn’t help myself.
‘Mercy doesn’t love me any more,’ I blurted.
Hope laughed.
‘There is no humour in it,’ I said.
‘Yes, there is. Tully, you, my sweet virgin, are made to be loved and to be loved by men not women. I know that and, more important, Mercy knows it. It is only you who hasn’t realised it yet.’
‘Who was she – the woman Mercy was with?’ I asked
‘She is called Mofty. Unfortunately for her, she is married to a rake who enjoys pulling the wings off beautiful butterflies.’ Hope took my hands. ‘You have been locked away, my ninny-not, and understand little of the hypocrisy of this world and its masks. Mofty’s husband, Victor Wrattan, is a professional gambler and a notorious libertine who is renowned for beating the spirit out of his women. As handsome as they come on the outside and as black as the devil on the inside. Mofty was married to him at sixteen and has the scars to show it. Her survival is in no small part due to Mercy. But while we were at Milk Street she suffered badly.’
‘Money, or rather the lack of it. She had a handsome dowry when she married the dashing Mr Wrattan, but, of course, every penny of it went to him and she has been left with nothing but the crumbs from his table.’
‘Then how does she afford Mercy?’
‘She doesn’t, Mercy doesn’t charge her. I believe Mr Wrattan is enjoying himself elsewhere at present.’
‘What happened to Mercy’s other ladies when she was in Milk Street?’
‘They just had to wait. Queenie told everyone she had family business to attend to.’
I sighed. The thought that I had lost Mercy hurt me deeply.
‘Do you miss Mr Sitton?’ I asked.
‘Very much,’ she said.
‘Why did you want to marry him? After all, you have your independence.’
Hope smiled. ‘Tully, how long do you think my face will shine in all its glory for?’
‘For ever,’ I said. ‘Can’t you wait for him to return?’
‘I do not share your optimism. My looks will fade, alas, and with them my charms. Unless I have some security I will have little to live on apart from my reputation and I have seen too many whores end their days in the Fleet having spent a small fortune on fripperies. I don’t wish to be one of them. Come, my love, smile. A broken heart is a whore’s downfall, the ruination of many a good courtesan. I will get over mine just as you will get over yours. My advice, Tully, is in future keep your heart in a cabinet, lock it up and hide the key.’