A Courtesan's Life
The daylight was fading into the early evening hours. The dun blanket of night tucked in the city of London with as much care as any mother might her child. If one looked close enough, in the hustle and bustle of the early evening hours, one might notice a womanly shadow jumping down from the steps of a hackney coach. The woman paid the driver, then he sped away, off to the next well-pocketed passenger. The woman paused for a moment, dusting off her dress with one hand, and squinting at the scrap of paper in the other.
Yes, this would have to be his lodgings, she surmised, looking doubtfully at the building. She hoped in the early evening hours to catch the erstwhile English professor before he left his abode. This was going to be, she knew, more discomfiting than it might had he not been who he was. Why she had even to tell him of this new position--this new hope--she could never say. But surely he would not mind? After all, neither party had made any promises the one to the other. Sure, various fanciful notions had been tossed back and forth, but was that not that common in such things?
She bowed her head a moment, then took brisk, confident steps to the tenement. It would be nothing to him, and indeed it was less than nothing to her. What she had done with him--well, it was little more than passing fancy, and so must pass. Besides, new fortune awaited.
The interior of John Abbott's home made for a sanctuary of sorts. Each wall held up paintings or shelves. Books and journals lined the flat surfaces of those. His furnishings crowded the space, more a nest for the vampire's fleeting interests than a proper apartment. Necessities, such as a shaving stand, were crowded between superfluous items, like a globe and a wooden lectern. When the sun slipped behind his building, it became quite dark, but he kept his curtains open so he could view the street below and any passersby. If a coach stopped outside, John often went to see who was coming or going, provided he wasn't absorbed in a task.
When he heard a woman's shoes on the cobblestone, he put down a book and went to the window. The oily light turned Marguerite's hair the orange of embers. "This is unexpected." John ran fingers through his hair and searched the apartment for anything untoward, aside from dust. He crumpled an undershirt and stowed it in the bin of clothes needing a wash. He shoved a pair of shoes under the settee.
Marguerite hurried briskly up the stairs. She stole one final glance at the bit of paper in her gloved hands. Yes, the numbers were identical. They quite matched. With an air of gravity, the actress took grasp of the knocker and made three, staccato thumps against the door itself.
She was quite unlike herself tonight. Her posture was stiff, echoing the solemn demeanor with which she approached the door and the situation. There was nothing etched upon her countenance of madness or mirth, both of which were so much a part of her nature that she seemed but a shell without them. Instead she was stolid and grave as a governess. She could hear sounds from within, and every second seemed quite an eternity. Things would be quite better once this business had passed.
Were he pressed for honesty, John would admit he took his time answering. The courtesan had left him waiting for greater lengths of time than the moment he stole to straighten his home. Entire hours passed while she completed her toilet. When at last he opened the door in his shirtsleeves, he leaned against the frame, casual now that the mess had been handled. "Marguerite, what a surprise!" He smiled and folded his arms across his chest. A look of bemusement warmed his features. "Have you come to offer an apology? I believe I am owed one. After all, you did strand me in that dreadful house." He noticed the tension of her shoulders, but figured it for another of Madame Larousse's characters. Perhaps she would be a stern headmistress tonight.
"That was not, indeed, the purpose of my visit this evening, Mr. Abbott," she replied quite formally. "I do apologize for any inconvenience which I may have given you on the day in question. If you would be so kind, may I come in? I certainly do not wish to intrude, but what I've to say I would do well not to say to outside your home, among the rabble, of all places."
Madame Larousse felt something odd catch within her chest, as though she were having apoplexy or the like. A strange thing, this, as she had never had ailments since her change. She brushed it aside. No need to think of such a thing as a signature of finer feelings.
"By all means, please." He stepped back to allow her entrance to the foyer, the floor of which was covered in a decorative rug in maroons and golds. The cramped nature of the space wasn't visible until one emerged in the sitting room. It was not dirty, but there was little freedom for walking about. John retrieved a glass of wine, partly drunk, and put his back to a wall. "Not as rich as what you're accustomed to," he said, "But it suits my purposes."
Inwardly, his thoughts ran a different course. A personal visit from Marguerite, and she looks the part of a brave mouse, both timid and determined. He held out little hope for pleasant news, whatever it might be. Worry over the French lover, or the priest she'd been convinced wanted to stake her? An impending departure from London, brought about by her stage career? Another rooster in the henhouse?
"Would you like a drink?" He held up his glass.
"Oh no, I thank you," she replied, her hand waving a dismissive gesture. She took a seat on a rather low chair, and gave the room a passing glance. Truly it was very disorderly and might even give one the impression of walls slowly closing in on one in the manner of Mr. Poe. However, there was something charming about it nonetheless, in a novel way. Marguerite clasped her hands on her lap in modest fashion, though in all truth she just wanted something upon which to grasp. She decided it would be best to say what she had to say now, rather than torment herself with the prolonging of the action.
"I feel I must be frank with you, Mr. Abbott," she said abruptly, gaze fixed firmly upon the floor. "You know well what is my profession. I never tried to deny it to you. In short, Mr. Abbott, I have finally made the acquaintance of one who wishes to be my protector. He has offered to pay for my continued maintenance in my house, and to provide me with a financial security for which, in a few months, I shall be sorely wanting. Being like most gentlemen of his sort, he will expect from me certain promises, which I must oblige. In short, Mr. Abbott, the liaisons betwixt you and I must needs cease."
There. She had said it. Surely he would understand the rationality of her argument and would let her go with equanimity and that perhaps a sense of auld lang syne, or something equally sentimental and ridiculous. And in all honesty, had she been different, had fortune favored her differently, she would never have dreamed of mentioning such things as might get in the way of such curious felicity as that which had been hers in the arms of John--Mr. Abbott, that is. But her particular point of contention lay in the horror that her state of near finamour with John Abbott be exposed and he be found out to be the peculiar creature that he was. She would gladly pay for her own offenses, but she would not have him pay for them as well.
"I see." John retained his post by the wall, though he turned and put his shoulder against it. Such a lady she seemed on the chair, her figure wrapped by a modest gown, her hair coiffed. But he knew of another Marguerite, didn't he? Quite passionate and unfettered. At times, near lunacy. The courtesan was a treat for a man like John, whose imagination required a woman of spirit. He looked into his wine glass. "I assume this is a practical arrangement for you, Madame, and nothing to do with budding affection towards me. Certainly, such a fearless creature as yourself wouldn't flee from sentimentality. It would be foolish."
The glass wasn't done, but he poured himself more. The liquid sloshed noisily, the bottle neck 'tink'ing on the glass in his irritation. "Does he know who you are, Marguerite?" John was careful with words, 'who' instead of 'what'. Vampires were not as cold and heartless as an end table. He put down the bottle and drank a few swallows.
"No, he does not. Nor will he know until I have made my decision in regards to him--which will be some months from now at least. But there is forever a danger, mind you. And I must keep it to myself." She nearly mumbled those last words, then sat up quite straight, looking him in the eye. "Truth be told, though I have no affection for the gentleman in question and will likely as not murder him in the end as has always been my way, I am in want of security--and that he can give me whilst he lives. If whatever keeps me on this earth is willing, I will likely live another hundred or so years. I will not live them in poverty." Her voice now rose, faltering.
"And what can you give me, Mr. Abbott? A small tenement and some fancy of love?" She laughed her scorn, though the laugh was completely mirthless. "No, it will not do for one such as I. You know me. I am as inconstant as the wind. I will hurt you and many times over. It is my very nature. Let us part." She rose from her chair, stilling the trembling of her hands by clutching at the sides of her skirts.
John's nose unleashed a derisive snort. It was an issue of class, then. He was declared unfit for a suitor before ever being offered an opportunity to try his hand at it. Besides, it wasn't as if she were an ordinary woman, destined to birth a brood of hungry children. They were the walking dead! Did she think they would starve?
He set the glass down hard. A crack ran up its side. "So I am a poor professor," he said, sweeping his arm. His other hand came to rest at his hip. "But you are a lie, Marguerite. You paint yourself as a woman of adventure and of great passion, but it's a performance. The very moment you leave the stage, you sell yourself to the highest bidder! You... you obligate yourself to a man you do not care for, who will bore you to tears and leave you utterly unsatisfied, at best! At the very worst, he'll tie you to the bedposts and leave you to burn under the weight of a cross."
John's frustration was a strange thing to watch. He was animated in his pacing and the exaggerated movements of his arm, but no storm clouds crossed his face. It was more akin to confusion. Marguerite was a mathematics problem he could not solve. "It is perhaps the most ordinary thing you could do," he concluded.
"You go too far, Mr. Abbott," the courtesan replied in a deadly quiet, the blood rushing to her cheeks in obvious anger. She planted herself in front of him, effectively blocking his pacing. "I did not mention to you that disgusting incident that you might fling it in my face. And besides, who did you think I was when first you confronted me? I'm frivolous. I want fine clothes, fine jewelery, expensive houses, excellent horses, all the worldly comforts. I'd have a palace if I could but bind the heart of a member of the Royal Family. I will not settle for the mundane existence of so many women of this day. And besides, you knew it in that alley--did you not? Whoring is in my very blood."
Marguerite laughed lightly, forcing the tingle of bells which came so naturally to her after decades of artifice. In truth, however, it was sickening to hear herself laugh in such a hollow fashion. It was true that she wanted the earthly comforts, but truer still that she feared more than this a dreadful poverty from which there could be no escape. Instead, she resorted to lies yet again.
"La!" she exclaimed in the manner of the coquette. "You could not really have thought that I of all people had developed the finer feelings for you! True, you are an interesting study, and quite amiable in other areas of exercise, but even such novelties lose their charm after a while in their company, no?"
He let her block his path and made no move to touch her. With arms crossed, he bowed a bit, until his nose hovered within centimeters of hers. "I have seen differently, Madame Larousse." Whether a result of egocentrism or an intuitive understanding of their relationship, John believed none of her declarations. Anxiety hung thick in the air. The redhead could have sent a letter to declare herself finished with him and refused to admit him to her home. Personal visits were not the way of fickle women, and he had known some.
He straightened. "You have come to turn me loose, that much is clear. I hope I am not bold to presume there's no satisfactory way I can respond. If I let you leave without argument, you will doubtless convince yourself I care nothing for you, yet you laugh if I try to salvage our affair." John began to move away, then doubled back to point at her. "If it helps you to declare me a poor wretch whose charms are at their end, go ahead. Make a neat lie and spread it far. I care not for reputation. But have the decency to admit your cowardice to me."
Marguerite was still for some moments, her eyes wide. She had backed away half a pace when he brought his face so near her own. Her own face blanched; all of the color which had been the physiological reaction of her anger receded as quickly as it came. Her mouth was quite dry. Quickly, she turned away, realizing the absurdity of it all. She ought to have callously sent him a letter intimating she wanted sorely to be rid of him. Perhaps then he would have left her alone. But she had to see it come to its most likely conclusion. She looked into empty space, gathering her thoughts.
"You would like to have the truth, then? Will it appease you if I give to you the truth?" she asked in an even tone, without emotion. "You are young yet, in spite of all your learning and cunning. It is, you see, a very dangerous existence that one such as yourself or myself leads. I would rather spare you from some of the dangers by ceasing to associate with you. Though I find fulfillment in my career as an actress, there will forever be a Duc d'Enfrit, someone who gleans and understands from certain clues the truth of the matter. Such a person would most assuredly find in addition to myself anyone with whom I have had connections. Your very existence would be in danger. I would not place that burden on you out of selfish love. I had wished to spare you this, hoping you would accept without qualm my reasoning for leaving you."
Perhaps stage fame added visibility, and thus some increased opportunity for discovery, but try as he might, John found her logic flawed. He grabbed at the back of his head, tugging on the black curls. "It is not so removed from the danger I face by remaining in London, the very city of my former profession and my death. I am a man who does not age! Who goes out at night and drinks of mortal throats. It is all a danger, and one I mind little. You may wish to preserve your existence for a hundred more years, but I would not think it a great hardship were mine to end."
John circled, searching the familiar objects of his residence for inspiration. His eyes caught a collection of poems by Barrett-Browning. He pulled it from the shelf. Marguerite's letter was pressed between its pages. He opened the fragile paper, read the contents once, and offered it to her, along with other papers, on which were written small sonnets about her figure, her hair, the experience of suckling at her throat. It pained him to let such trinkets go, but John thought it better to shed the remnants of their courtship than linger over them, which his obsessive personality would do.
"Have your patron," he said. "I do not comprehend why that means we must end, as you've been careful to hide any trace of my existence, and you haven't the capacity to feel guilt for betraying a besotted benefactor. Guilt requires respect for him, and you have none. But I will not beg." John wondered about his ability to hold to that statement, but he knew such piteous behavior would do nothing to raise Marguerite's opinion of him.
In trembling fingers she took the various papers, quite and truly stricken by what she had done. She had meant to save him, in her own little way, but now it seemed she had done little more than merit his disdain. She sank to her knees before him, in the manner of a supplicant. Had she the need to breathe, she would have fainted. Instead, her little fingers played with the papers in her hand, folding and unfolding them, though she couldn't bear to read the contents. She had some idea of their tenor.
"This is too much," she rasped hoarsely. "I had hoped for anger, for nonchalance, but not this. Please, hate me, abhor me--but this, this is too cruel. I only ever think of you. You do not understand. I must accept this responsibility, I must! I am far too old to chase happiness anymore. It wearies me, especially after that incident of which you were so kind to remind me. You are--were--my happiness. But I cannot...." Of a sudden, Marguerite became very tired, and let the papers drop to the floor. She put her head in her hands, curling up upon herself.
What was he to do, John asked himself, go to his knees before her? Give comfort to the woman who would stamp out his affections? Members of the fairer sex were such strange creatures, first wounding men and then crying in sorrow over having done it! They broke hearts and demanded forgiveness in the same breath. He crouched before the object of his adoration, but sought only to share a look, rather than touch her.
"What is the purpose of prolonging your existence if you do not pursue happiness?" John shook his head, his expression confounded. "It is monotony, Marguerite!" he hissed. "An endless progression of empty days. All that we, the damned, may hope for are simple joys that lessen the burden of immortality, yet you spit upon them and continue your charade." He took note of her face. He wore no jacket and had no handkerchief tucked inside to mop up her tears, if she should cry. "It is a wretched actress, indeed, who settles for such an uninspired role."
He pointed across the parlor, his eyes on the door. "When you leave tonight, my love for you will continue." Softening his regard a bit, John took her chin between thumb and forefinger. "I'll have no hatred... Only regret over lost opportunity, and sympathy for the weak will that leads you to submit when you ought to defy."
"What would you have me do, pray?" Marguerite asked softly. Her eyes were dry. She had neither the desire nor the will to cry. But she felt keenly the poignard which she herself had used to pierce her very own breast. "I could reject the proposition made by Lord Rotterdam, in spite of the fact that he is a very influential figure at court and in politics. But what then? What would I do? I would have you, yes, but my salary--if one calls it that--as an actress is rather paltry." She was talking more to herself, trying to find a line of reasoning which would support the continuance of their affair. She was too weak-willed indeed!
Neatly and carefully, she folded and stacked the papers which he had given her, now offering them back to him in silence. Were there possibly other ways? Had she been daft enough in her old habits to not see them? Her brow furrowed in deep thought, her frown quite serious, though not as sorrowful as it had been but a minute ago.
The papers went ignored. Incredulous over these latest details, John laughed and rubbed his fingers across his mouth. After a moment, he said, "You speak of risk, and yet you seek romance with a politician! If he were to learn of our kind, what then, Marguerite? It is not a risk to you, alone, but to our species." Placing palms upon his knees, the vampire stood. He felt suddenly quite tired. John looked around for his drink. The cracked wine glass had stained the shelf burgundy as it leaked its contents. He took up the bottle instead.
"You, like other women blessed with beauty, have choices," he said. "You may have a pauper's love and, with it, a poverty of fine things. Or you may have an aristocrat and hope that, given time, passion grows as plentiful as your dresses." John swigged from the neck like a common drunk, uncaring what she thought of him. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Though, if you'll allow it, I'll make a prediction, Marguerite. Should you decide the latter is in your best interests, there will come a night when the hunger is too much, and you'll find yourself at my door. I will not be a gentleman who puts you in a coach and sends you home."
Marguerite, too, rose and picked up the papers, collecting the book as well. She slipped them back between the pages and returned the book to the shelf. Silently, she dusted off her skirt, then walked over to the window. She pulled back the curtain a bit. It had grown quite dark, yet she could still see some people out in the street, finishing a day's work, or beginning it. A young man came to light the lamps. Another flirted with a young lady in the company of a friend. A coach waited. It was all so mundane--a stark contrast to what had just passed.
"I am too selfish," she admitted finally. His last words had sent the proverbial shiver down her spine. There was something of a dark, threat-like quality to those words. Perhaps she had read too much Byron and had misinterpreted them. Nonetheless, it sent the blood to her cheeks in a way quite unlike that which had been aroused by anger those minutes ago. She closed the curtain, turning back to her host. With careful hands, she pried the bottle from his fingers and took hold of it, taking an overly generous swig from it.
"It has been too long..." she whispered, her eyes trained on his face, not daring to finish those words lest he say something sharp in response. She paused a long moment before continuing. "I will refuse His Lordship. I had not thought of it this way. And indeed you may wonder altogether why it has taken me so long to find patronage. You have seen the number of swine who accost me daily." She began pacing back and forth now, as he had done previously. "You have some strange effect on me. Try as I might to break myself from the enchantment, it always returns to me. I had thought then that I was merely biding my time. Indeed, I would have myself believe that I could only settle for the most renowned and monied of Europe. But tonight, yes, tonight I realize that I had prolonged what had seemed to me to be the inevitable because I am so very drawn to you. I could not bear the thought of being in another's arms...Oh, heavens, why am I saying these things? But you already know me to be mad."
"Do the truly mad know that they are?" John waited for the ramblings of her feet to bring her close. Taking her forearm, he halted her and drank from the wine bottle where she held it. He observed her and wet his lips. "I wonder if you are as mad as you think, or if it allows you to behave however the moment sways you." He steadied himself with that dilemma, rather than examining what she claimed. It was too early to know if she would double back, as changeable as her mind was, and he did not wish to be awash in relief only to have the rug pulled from underneath him a second time. He asked himself if he ought to regret costing her an opportunity for the wealth and stability she craved, when he could offer her little but the company of a kindred. But John was selfish, too.
"It is not such a terrible fate, being drawn to a person." He looked at the ceiling. "You think it a weakness, but I've made a veritable hobby of it. You are by far the most compelling of subjects... Perhaps because you resist so strongly what others long to find."
"Madness or caprice, I cannot say," she said slowly, stifling something of a whimper at the touch of his hand, the first, really, since she had appeared at his door. "I have known hours of great grief. Should you...should you choose to have me...as a dear friend...you will find me quite difficult. I do not wish to be your patient, but I cannot help myself. You have to some extent changed me. I find that I have softened, that I cannot kill so easily as once I did, that I have greater mercy. And yet I do not fault myself in this, as I may have done. Please, will you forgive me my grievous errors?"
They were perhaps the most sincere words which she had spoken the entire night. She had no desire to tell him of her great spans of pure madness, of the waves of mental anguish and spells of unwonted euphoria which had assailed her in the past and continued to do so. No, she would save such things for later, assuming he would indeed allow her a later. She looked down at the bottle in her hand and started to swirl the dregs. Little more then one final gulp remained.
He angled his head. The hand on her arm rose to Marguerite's cheek, instead, and he touched its round softness with the knuckle of his forefinger. "You've had me since the first. You captured my imagination and my heart." The bottle was an impediment and, suddenly impatient, he took it out of her fingers to set it on top of a bookcase. John brought her closer by the shoulders. "It is true, I may come to regret this if you cast me off at every turn, but I will never grow angry. How could I, when I know what sort of woman you are?" At her shoulders, his thumbs rubbed against the fabric of her apparel, as if he could not keep his hands still. "And I will never dismiss you outright, as you asked me to before, because my feelings are too strong to pretend you are nothing to me. I am not an actor." He took her fully into his arms and kissed her hairline. "You cannot know how low my heart sank to see you so cold."
Marguerite's eyes began finally to water, filling with tears which she had held back that night. Rather than sob wantonly, she chose to rest her head gently on his chest to hide them, though they dampened his shirt. Arching her feet up a bit, she nuzzled her face into his neck. It had been so very long since last she had felt him in this way. Gently, she kissed him there, and did no more. It would be offensive of her to draw from him at such a moment, and though physiologically she was tempted, she would not allow herself. She merely returned to her feet and wiped a hand across her eyes, a rather vulgar, if somewhat childish gesture.
"I have missed nothing so much as your company," she admitted, her voice creaking a bit from holding back sobs. "Not even my home country. When was it last we spoke in that dreadful house? I confess I cannot remember the date because to me it feels much like years. I will try my best not to hurt you. My habits are of many years' practice, and so I hope you will have mercy on me when I err in those ways. I-I want to love you properly." She felt herself blushing like a young miss again, and leaned upwards, to press her lips against his own.
Her lips were sweet and warm because of the blood that rushed to her face. As John kissed them, he marveled over how Marguerite quenched a thirst that not even a victim's vein could. Often, she kept him at arm's length, but she gave him someone for whom to reach, and that was a great satisfaction. He kissed the crest of her cheek and her shuttered eyelid. His fingers played at her hair. "I will do my best to be worthy of your companionship."
It would take significant accomplishments to do so, beyond paying mind to his appearance. He would require a steady income beyond the paltry sums brought in by tutoring. It was possible that he could return to his professorship, or pursue another profession suitable to his particular skills. If John would ask an open heart of Marguerite, the least he could do was strive to provide for her creature comforts.
"This is madness," breathed Marguerite. "Surely such happiness was not meant for one such as I. You have made me quite a girl again, though it has been truly an embarrassing number of years since I could call myself one." She endeavored for tonight, anyway, to put the future away. She did not want to think of it, or what it entailed. One of such a hardened sensuality, she was surprised to find that she found more comfort in John's very presence than in his meandering caresses. Reaching up again, she brought her lips to his ear.
"May I stay with you tonight?" she whispered. There was nothing of the coquetry which had come so natural to her. Indeed, she was even shy in whispering thus to him. That he had accepted her even after her harsh words amazed her. With any other man, she would have been kicked pre-emptively out onto the street. But John was a different creature altogether.
"Of course." Despite the temptation she presented, John did not intend to press the advantage and seek physical pleasure this night. It wasn't that he was riddled with guilt over the idea. Far from it! Rather, doing so was tantamount to stamping her as his property on the heels of such a conversation. He wished for Marguerite to have ownership of her own fate and willingly give part of it to him. "Come, we'll put you to bed. I've a new book. Would you like to read from it?"
"Would you read it to me, John?" she asked. "I still do not read English very well." She placed her little hand in his own, letting it encase her fingers and palm. She lifted his hand to her breast and pressed it there. Her gaze was distant, as though she had been looking into a time quite apart from the present. "Perhaps tonight we can pretend we are human."