Dancing in Red (a Wear Black novella)

SHE
HAS BIGGER DREAMS THAN THE CURRAGH

Nellie
Clifton isn’t going to spend her life as a “wren,” one of the prostitutes
serving the soldiers on the desolate plains of the Curragh outside Kildare,
Ireland.

THE
PRINCE OF WALES IS HER ESCAPE PLAN

Nellie
is going to make something of herself, and to do so, she has a plan: she is
going to be the mistress of Queen Victoria's son, Prince Albert—but if he is a
mistake, she needs another escape plan.

HER
LIFE IS GOING TO CHANGE IN WAYS SHE COULD NEVER HAVE EXPECTED

Nellie
Clifton:  Well on her way to becoming a legend, instead of just a footnote in
history.

DANCING IN RED

By Eilis Flynn

and

Heather Hiestand

DANCING
IN RED

By
Eilis Flynn & Heather Hiestand

Amazon
Edition

Copyright
2013 Eilis Flynn & Heather Hiestand

ASIN:
 

Cover art by David
Hiestand

No portion of
this book may be used without the author’s written permission, except for
excerpts used in reviews of this story.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to our
long-suffering families

Amazon Edition

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away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase
an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.

Table
of Contents

Chapter
One: The Prettiest Wren

Chapter
Two: The Perfect Mistress

Chapter
Three: Riches to Rags

About
The Authors

More
Stories

Coming
Up Next

July 27, 1861 Kildare, Ireland

“It is rather ironic. He has all the
money in the world. Everyone wants to meet him, yet, despite the charm, he’s
the most inexperienced lad you’ll ever meet.” The next sentence out of the
soldier’s mouth disappeared as he pulled his stool closer to the table.

Look at me!
Nellie Clifton
wanted to shout to the subaltern. If there was a new soldier with wealth and
charm, she wanted to meet him. She hadn’t come to the Curragh intending to
settle in for the rest of her life. Most of the girls here lasted less than a
decade. The smarter ones came just for the summer, leaving before the snows
covered the plain. That way, the experience felt like more of a lark and less
like work.

“I can’t imagine how Her Majesty thinks
he’s going to be able to command a battalion by August. Why, I couldn’t do it,”
said another subaltern, who looked a couple of years younger than the first one
who’d spoken. This lad hadn’t even tried to grow a mustache. “Could you,
Mills?”

At the lad’s words, Nellie discarded her
intention of displaying herself to the rest of the room. Higher-ranking officers
were dotted around the tables near the empty fireplace in the pub’s main room,
but these youngling’s aristocratic drawls had her attention piqued.

“He’s the Prince of Wales, not an
ordinary man,” said Mills. He lifted his arm and waved a hand at Mairead,
demanding another round.

It seemed all the action in the room
slowed as Nellie heard that comment. Sure, she’d heard rumors that the prince
had been at the Curragh since last month, but no one had seen him. They said he
was kept busy with dinners and study. He never came out to the pubs, shops, or
the wrens’ nests bordering the camp. She made her move as the barmaid arrived
with a fresh pitcher, swinging her hips under her thin cotton gown. If she
could land a prince as her protector, perhaps she could earn enough to keep her
young sister Dulsine from this life. Her parents, back in Dublin, had been
making noises that they couldn’t afford to keep the girl in school anymore.

Mairead, one front tooth missing and
with a slight limp, gave Nellie a dirty look for not rushing in, and grabbed
the empty pitcher, leaving a nimbus of slopped ale, before walking toward her
next patron. He’d just spilled his ale entirely. The girl was too religious to
offer her favors to soldiers, but wasn’t Christian enough to wish well to the
girls who made different decisions. But Nellie hadn’t wanted to reach for the
pitcher and then walk away with it. She wanted a chat.

She pulled a vial of Irish Patent
Cleaner from her apron pocket and let one drop fall on the subalterns’ table, then
gave it a swipe with her rag. The substance dissolved the ale, leaving a
vaguely lemonish scent in the air for a moment before it vanished as quickly as
the puddle. The influenza that was running through other parts of Britain had
supposedly started in Ireland, and she wasn’t going to let any of these young
soldiers get sick. She had a living to earn, and using the various concoctions
and gadgets that were getting so much notoriety for their effectiveness would
make sure that the pub kept its reputation for cleanliness.

Nellie, after all, had plans. She didn’t
want to be a barmaid any more than she wanted to be a wren. Well, you did what
you had to. “Hello, boys,” she said in her naturally low-pitched voice. She let
her thick curly black hair slide down one arm, provocatively.

“And who might you be?” the younger
subaltern said, with an unfocused grin.

She noted his voice had started to slur
ever so slightly. Cocking her hip, she folded her arms under her breasts,
plumping them up. “Nellie. I’m an actress.”

“Shakespeare, I assume,” said the older
one, still sober. He smirked knowingly.

She forced a light laugh and half
turned, allowing her starched petticoat to bell out gracefully. “There weren’t
any good roles for me in Dublin this summer, so I thought I would see what was
going on here. I do love officers.”

“We haven’t any use for women of talent
here, just those of easy virtue.” The subaltern waggled his eyebrows.

The younger man giggled and drank down
half his mug. Making her decision, Nellie boldly dropped into the lap of the
older one and lifted his mug to her lips.

“I’m not going to go with any common
man,” she said. “I’m better than that.”

“You are, are you? I think you’re a
wren, just like any of them.”

She forced her expression to remain
alluring. “You’d be wrong. I know things.”

“You do?” he laughed.

“I have a specialty,” she murmured,
tilting the mug to his face and helping him to drink down a healthy swig of the
beer.

He nuzzled her neck but she batted him
away. He frowned. “What’s your specialty, lass? We can go out back after I’ve
finished the pitcher. I have a few coins in my pocket. More than you’re used
to.”

“No,” she said, feigning offense. “I
specialize in…initiations.” She would have to this time, as she was a virgin
herself.

The subaltern narrowed his eyes, then
drank down his glass, and slammed it on the table.

The younger subaltern unsteadily poured
out the rest of the pitcher, overflowing both glasses. He stood to hand over
the glass, making a lewd gesture as he did so. “We don’t need any initiations
around here. Fully ini-init-sexed here.”

Dear God in Heaven
. She gave him a
disapproving stare, one that always kept her younger siblings in line. Though
he was likely older than her just-turned-nineteen, he stopped gyrating and
seated himself again.

“I hope you don’t think I’m in need of
that sort of help,” said Mills, shifting underneath her weight. She felt him
harden slightly under her bottom.

She grabbed the glass from him after
he’d finished half of it and took a healthy gulp herself. “No, but it sounds
like you have a friend who does. I’ll be happy to help you out. Prices
reasonable.” She held out her palm.

“Nothing of the sort, not without a
sample.” He leaned toward her, his mustache tickling her cheek.

She tapped his cheek, laughing lightly.
How did the others do this day after day? “I don’t give anything away for free.
I don’t need to.” Big talk. Thankfully, the beer kept her empty stomach from
rumbling.

“She’s pretty enough,” said the younger
one, his bleary eyes assessing her. She assessed right back, making sure her
smile was friendly. From what she’d heard, some of these boys were just as
likely to hit her as bed her if they were offended. “Be a lark to sneak her
into Bertie’s bed, see what he does with her.”

Mills sniffed her neck. “Smells clean.
Don’t want you passing anything unsavory to our future king.”

“I’m cleaner than you!” she said
indignantly. That was for sure, since she made sure she had a bath as often as
she could, but from a single whiff of this bunch, she could tell that wasn’t
the case for them. “I’ve just come down from Dublin. I told you that.”

“I don’t know if I’m drunk enough to
risk the general’s wrath,” the other man said, belching and coughing. He wiped
his nose. “You going to make this worth the risk?”

She stared at him. Men had all the
power. What risk was he taking?
She
risked disease, pregnancy, the ire
of the Catholic Church. Her only weapon was charm.

And she knew how to use it. She ran her
fingertips down his arm. “You know the prince is going to like me, my lad,” she
said with a wink, glancing at the men around the table. “After I blow his mind
with pleasure, I’m sure you’ll find him grateful.”

Two more subalterns joined them around
the table, fresh from adventuring into another pub. They discussed their
favorite wren loudly, making Nellie’s cheeks pink with embarrassment. Hard to
believe these were the apple of the nation, that was for sure. Another pitcher
was ordered and she was given a share.

In for a penny, in for a pound. If
nothing else, she couldn’t trust any of these drunken hoity toits to be clean
after a night of pub-hopping. They had money, they had connections, they had
breeding. They just had no common sense, no manners, and they couldn’t keep
their parts in their pants. And it wasn’t just the English soldiers, because
the Irish lads she’d met had pretty much the same problems. Idjits all.

“I am someone not to be forgotten,” she
said with a demure smile, widening her eyes just a little to emphasize her
words. Their attention had been wandering away from the matter of her work, and
more important, her price. “Fit for a…king, even.”

There, she’d said it. She smiled a
little more, making sure her dimples were visible. Men loved those.

“Bertie’s due for a break,” Mills said,
tilting his head and trying to judge the time. But then he’d been drinking so
long that he had probably lost track. She said nothing, of course.

“He needs one, that’s for sure,” the
youngest of them muttered.

That did it for the drunken louts.
“Bertie’s due for a break!” the drunkest subaltern repeated, shouting at the
top of his lungs, slapping his hand down. Then, having had quite enough, his
head dropped straight onto the table and smacked the wood smartly. Before
anyone had the chance to even worry about his health, however, he started to
snore, and so thereafter the others went back to their conversation. The heart
of the English nobility.

“I think—when he goes to eat. And when
he comes back, he’ll find her in his bed,” Mills, the only one among them still
able to think, suggested. He glanced at Nellie, who made a point of not looking
at him, instead casting her eyes downward and keeping a slight smile on her
face. She was getting bored of their dithering, but she wanted this chance. She
needed it for herself, for Dulsine, for her younger siblings. So she fluttered
her eyelashes and looked to the side and forced herself to wait, dreaming of
what a prince could do for her. A house, servants, a carriage, pretty dresses
to dance in, even.

“Yes!” the subaltern still awake said.
He tried to drink his beer and when he realized his mug was empty, he slumped
back in his chair.

The only one awake before too long was
Mills, and he seemed to be remarkably sober. Nellie suspected he played the
drunkard more often than he truly drank. “So what do you think?” he finally
asked, a glint in his eye. “Ready now? You’re going to be introduced to a great
man, the son of the queen.”

She smiled for the last time and
straightened her back, making sure her assets were there to be admired. “I am
indeed,” she said. “And I am worth every shilling.” She named her price and was
pleased to see Mills didn’t object too much.

In the end, Nellie and the man came to
terms, so when he crossed her palm with coin, she accepted it and her new
career was launched. She would have felt sorry for it, but she knew what she
needed to do. Her future, and her sister’s, could be made this night. The man
roused one of his friends for accompaniment, and the three of them headed
toward Prince Albert’s quarters to change her life, the older, sober man
virtually carrying the dead-drunk subaltern as Nellie walked beside them. She
felt as though she were being escorted to her execution, and there was some
truth to that. Comfort lay in having the men walk with her, since there were
rumors of odd-looking creatures that had been seen on the roads at dusk and at
night. Almost human, or maybe not. No reports of injury or death, but…odd
creatures.

In any case, she was deemed clean
enough, so she let down her hair and stripped naked as the man and his sozzled
companion watched and leered. She crawled into the prince’s bed, to rest with linens
softer and more sumptuous than she had ever felt. If only for that the pact
might have been worth it, but it didn’t much matter by then.

The warmth and ease and her hunger was
enough to send her into a doze, so she didn’t hear the men leave. Later, her
eyes fluttered open when she heard men’s voices, becoming louder and louder
until she heard the door open.

It was time. She shook her head to clear
her senses, she shaped her hair so it was less flat from sleep, and so, leaning
on an elbow and facing the entry, she smiled in welcome. “Good evening, my
prince,” she said as the slight young man with fluffy, pale hair came forward,
his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Your fellow soldiers thought it was time you
had a break from your studies. Don’t you agree?”

With that she twitched her shoulder so
that the coverlet fell, revealing her breast. He came forward quickly, so he
certainly had to agree.

A dry August had turned the roads to
dust and the plains to a golden hue. Around the camps, the wrens fluttered in
their nests, the branches creaking and cracking without rain to keep them
moist. Nellie found dirt everywhere she looked in the hut she shared with
Moira. The floor would not stay packed down in this unusual heat. They wetted
it down with creek water twice a day and sprayed it with Irish Patented Dusting
Fluid, but still the hems of their few good dresses, hung at the highest point
of the wall, were stained soil brown. She had funds with which to clean them as
she had squirreled away some of the coins the prince had given her, burying
them in a handkerchief under two willow trees that had grown across each other
in the shape of a cross, but she had to live on the rest. If the subalterns
didn’t come for her soon she’d have to find a lesser protector, now that she’d
left her position as a barmaid in order to be available for the prince. Another
protector wouldn’t do. No one else would have those soft sheets, those melting,
newborn calves’ eyes, his inborn nobility, or his higher life purpose.