The Final Recollections of Charles Dickens (6 page)

An entry charge entitled each gentleman to a bottle of wine. More wine and champagne could be purchased by the bottle. Exquisitely prepared food was also sold. A man could go to The Abbey, eat and drink well, do no more than look at the women, and spend a princely sum.

Boisterous behaviour and vulgarity were not tolerated. No kissing or fondling was allowed in the parlour, which encouraged gentlemen to invite women upstairs. Companionship could be bought by the hour or for an entire night. If chosen, a woman could not refuse.

Eight prostitutes lived and worked in The Abbey. Over the years, Hortense's women had earned a well-deserved reputation for beauty. They were also educated in the art of conversation, flirtatious but refined. She dressed them in gowns of silk and fine linen, in colours that differentiated one from another at a glance, and in a style that accentuated each woman's most attractive physical qualities.

Hortense had never cared much for the physical demands of the trade, which she had practiced before becoming the proprietor of her own establishment. But the business side appealed to her. Her once-voluptuous figure had expanded so that her stomach was now as noteworthy as her bust. She walked on thin legs and wore long gowns that revealed as much of her breasts as possible and concealed the rest of her. She dressed in all black or all white with a great deal of powder and rouge and wore extravagant jewelry. Each night, sitting in the parlour, she surveyed her domain with pride.

Florence had long thought of herself as a low woman because of her degradation at the manor. Since that day, she had rebuffed all interest shown toward her by men. But three years in the dress shop had left her increasingly desperate regarding her circumstances. And Hortense Webster was kind to her.

Two months past her seventeenth birthday, Florence moved into The Abbey. Her room was on the third floor, furnished with a large bed, two chairs, and a dresser. A brick wall separated it from the room next door, which kept sound within her private space.

Hortense Webster introduced her to the other women and to the brothel staff. Cooks and waiters provided food and drink to the patrons. Maids cleaned rooms and brought fresh linen after each engagement. Two young men, well built and nicely dressed, served as guards.

“Think of the Abbey as a seminary for beautiful young women,” Hortense told her.

Instruction followed.

Florence was taught how to dress and groom herself, the secret of every pin, string, and hook. She was counseled with regard to everything from proper manners to sexual technique.

She was to drink enough to entice a man to order more, but never to be drunk herself. If she was in the parlour with a man who was not ordering food or drink and she had the feeling that he would not pay for her services upstairs, she should delicately disengage while not offending him in a manner that led to unpleasantness.

Each patron was to feel that Florence was attracted to him and that he had a claim on some portion of her
affections. If a gentleman gave her a piece of jewelry, it was hers to keep. But she must be wearing it when he returned.

The Abbey was safe from police intervention. To maintain that favoured position, it was essential that gentlemen not be unlawfully taken advantage of.

Hortense also gave Florence a tutorial on the use of protection fashioned from the intestines of sheep to avoid pregnancy and disease. Gentlemen were to be safely sheathed. One unfortunate encounter could leave her unclean for life . . . and render her useless to Hortense.

The women at The Abbey were business assets. As long as they separated men from large sums of money, they were fed well, nicely clothed, and sheltered. But if gentlemen stopped paying for a woman's services, she was let go. Whether her next work was in a less elegant private establishment, a public house, or an altogether different profession was of no concern to Hortense. Women she employed left her some times to marry or become mistress to a man they met at The Abbey. That deprived her of the whore's services and also a paying customer. If women could leave when it suited their purposes, there was no reason for Hortense to keep them on when they were of diminished use.

Florence's schedule was the same each day. Breakfast was served at eleven in the morning. The afternoon was hers to do with what she chose. Dinner was at five in the evening, dressing and make-up an hour later. Gentlemen began arriving at eight o'clock. The night's work ended two hours after midnight, when a light repast was served to the women.

Hortense decided that blue suited Florence best, and bought her two gowns in that colour. New women at The Abbey found themselves in demand for the sake of novelty, but Florence's beauty and manner attracted particular attention. On most evenings, she had two engagements. After each assignation, she bathed and cleaned herself. Once a month, a doctor examined her for signs of venereal disease.

The other women in the brothel were beautiful flowers. Florence befriended two of them. Elisabetta Landi was of Italian heritage with a radiant smile and a gift for playing the piano. Margaret Ellen was slender but shapely with fiery long red hair.

“You must never swallow,” Margaret Ellen told Florence. “It will rot your teeth.”

Florence was well paid. Her room was nicer than any she had lived in before. She bought occasional gifts for herself and put money aside for the future.

Her mind went elsewhere when she was with a gentleman. She smiled against her true feelings. Faces came and went. Some generous, some handsome, some kind, many the reverse. Each engagement was a source of suffering to her as it was of pleasure to the man. Each engagement brought back memories of that night at the manor when the master had his way.

There are no good prostitutes, Florence told herself, just as there are no black roses.

Not every gentleman who visited The Abbey went upstairs. Some could not afford it, were too shy, or came simply to eat and drink in a voyeuristic social surrounding. Most presented themselves as good and prosperous men. Some gave false names or none at all.
The tales they told about themselves were just as inventive as the tales told by the women.

A man came to the brothel. On the first night, he watched Florence with rapt attention. There was a moment when she sang while Elizabetta Landi played the piano. He watched her lips so closely that she was a bit afraid of him. It was as though he were kissing her as she sang. Thereafter, he brought small presents to her but never engaged her services upstairs. He was content to speak with her, eat and drink, and get to know the other gentlemen.

His name was Geoffrey Wingate. Several months after their dance began, he purchased Florence for an hour. They went to her room. She put her arms around him.

He awkwardly disengaged.

“There are things I must tell you. And then there is something I wish to ask.”

Florence waited.

“I am different from the others. That part of me is never firm.”

She said what she had been taught to say under those circumstances.

“I can pleasure you in other ways.”

“That is not what I want,” Wingate responded. “I have feelings for you. I do not wish to share you with others. I would like to take you away from this place to be my mistress. I will provide you with rooms of your own and a weekly allowance. I will treat you with respect and make few physical demands upon you.”

Florence asked for a day to consider the offer. Wingate returned the following evening and purchased another hour of her time upstairs.

She had been at The Abbey for nine months. There was doubt in her mind as to how much longer she could endure the endless stream of men. Their heavy breathing and tongues, the groping of her breasts, the violation of her most sacred parts.

Geoffrey Wingate was offering a means of escape. She accepted his proposal.

A smile crossed his lips when Florence consented. Then he handed her a small box.

“Open it,” he instructed.

Inside was a brooch fashioned in the shape of a rose. Red enamel on gold with a diamond in the center. Tiny pearls rimmed the edge of each petal. She had never seen jewelry so beautiful before.

“I will make you a lady,” Wingate promised.

Society has found it convenient to distinguish between prostitutes and mistresses. In truth, when Florence fell under the dominion of Geoffrey Wingate, she simply became a whore for one man instead of many.

Wingate fulfilled his pledge. Three rooms, nicely furnished, were rented for Florence to live in. She was given a fixed allowance and gifts from time to time. She was expected to be at home when he called and to accompany him as required to dinner, theatre, and an occasional ball. He took her on trips outside of London, but never for more than several days. He made few physical demands upon her. She preferred it that way.

It was a fine thing for Florence to walk about the city with the key to her own home in her pocket. But she was
no more in control of her destiny than she had been before.

Wingate moved quickly to form her character. He bullied and ordered: how to dress, when to speak, what to say. His word was law. There was to be a positive show of deference at all times in exchange for the advancement that he had given to her. He never struck her. But when he was angry, his touch left marks on her skin.

Florence tried to please him. “What I have learned from others,” she said, “was only a prelude to what I have learned from you.”

But he turned fondness to fear and duty to dread. She had been happier living behind the dress shop. The good whore was now a good slave. At times, he saw tears steal down her cheeks. But he never knew the cause, or cared.

“I am no longer fit for the world,” Florence told herself. “Everything that purifies a woman's breast and makes it good and true no longer stirs in mine. I am lost. I have no hope at all. My heart is dead. There is only emptiness inside.”

In one moment, everything changed.

Florence was walking alone on a sunny spring day in a part of London where merchants cater to the wealthy. Cloth from every quarter of the world was on display in shop windows. Ornately embroidered shawls from India, Chinese silks of the richest colours. And in the next window, exquisite vases and goblets, the finest bowls and plates.

Suddenly, Florence's breath grew short. Her knees trembled. Her heart beat so loudly in her chest that she feared it would stop beating.

A man was walking toward her on the street. He did not see her. He wore the clothes of a labourer. He was handsome and strongly made with long dark hair that fell in negligent waves. There was an air of ease and a natural grace about him. Heads turned as he passed, such was his presence.

He was James Frost.

They drew closer to one another. Their eyes met. Florence was sure that James saw her. A wave of shame swept over her. She had been defiled by the master, but that was little compared to the self-loathing she felt for her time at The Abbey and with Geoffrey Wingate. James was pure. She was a soiled woman and unworthy of him. There were no good whores. The life that Florence had lived degraded her in every eye that looked upon her. And she knew that James believed that to be so because, as their eyes met, he averted his at precisely the same moment that she averted her own in shame.

James saw her. He loved her as much as life itself and had for many years. But Florence was far above him now. He could see clearly by the manner in which she was dressed and the way she carried herself that she had ascended to a different class. She was a lady and he was a common labourer, unworthy of her. So he averted his eyes, knowing that he could look no longer without crying out her name. He did not know, and never had, why Florence fled the manor. He had prayed for years only that she was well and that he had done nothing to drive her away. She had seen him now. He knew that. And she had averted her eyes. He would do nothing to sully her life as a lady. So he walked on.

Florence thought only of James that night. She resolved that, in the morning, she would return to the place where they had passed. But as the sun rose, Geoffrey Wingate came unexpectedly to her door. He wished to go to the country.

Time passed with agonizing slowness for four long days. Minutes seemed like hours. There were many forced smiles from Florence and endless hidden tears. After what seemed to be an eternity, she and her overseer returned to London.