The Proposition (32 page)

She wished she had a dash of her mother in her now, for, she felt sure, Helen Bollash would have thrown her head back at the suggestion of dancing in her camisole and shaking her skirt, of showing her legs. She'd have laughed sweetly, even squealed with delight, then leaped upon the tabletop. Her mother would have danced. And her father, even if he'd been sitting at the table, wouldn't have noticed—he wasn't indulgent so much as blind; Lionel Bollash was aware of his wife only insofar as she had a beautiful voice that spoke with clear, upper-class syllables. Lady Sissingly could even curse like a lord, but when she did, it came out with such soft, round sounds, with such dignity that people doubted they'd heard correctly. She couldn't have said
that.

Spontaneity and adventure.

Winnie watched. As she had watched her mother. She watched other people have an unconventionally good time, afraid to have it herself.

Finally, Nancy, with a stroke of insight, said, "Come on, love," and held out her hands, reaching down toward Winnie. "Come on. You don't have to take your blouse off. Just get up with us and dance. It's fun."

"I can't."

From behind, Mick spoke as he sat down into his chair, pulling it forward. "She can," he said. "She will. I can see her knees moving." He laughed.

She twisted, frowning around at him. "You're always watching my skirts."

He grinned, unapologetic. "I damn well am. I can't stop myself. Here," he said. He'd brought her fish and chips and a lemon shandy—lemonade and beer. More money; he shouldn't be spending it.

She sipped the shandy, her second of the night. Mick took a long draft of ale as he tipped back on the rear legs of his chair, then casually laid his arm across the back of Winnie's, wrapping his fingers around her chair back's far spindle, a possessiveness that somehow made her spine prickle with pleasure.

They watched for a while like that, eating their fish and chips, a social couple; something she had never known and was keenly aware of. She couldn't sit back in her chair all the way for being nervous she'd lean into his arm, yet she loved knowing his arm was there.

Meanwhile, the girls entertained them, dancing for all they were worth. They were good. The music thumped in Winnie's chest. Now and then, Mick rubbed his thumb against her shoulder, a little brush in musical time.

"Come on," Nancy said when she came down for the third time. "I can see you moving to it. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, but come dance with us, dearie."

Winnie was susceptible enough to the girl's coaching that she leaned forward in her chair, wanting to get up, shy, uncertain. Then Nancy grabbed her at the elbows, Mick planted his palms squarely under her bum, and Winnie was levitated up onto the tabletop.

She straightened herself, turned, and looked down. Heavens, a tabletop again! The room below her was crowded, hardly an inch between people to move. Full of faces
…
strangers
…
who suddenly applauded a lady who would play their game.
A lie-dy who 'ill ply,
a man's voice called out.

And the music pounded; the crowd stomped. Winnie stood there a moment, dumbfounded, while the other dancing feet around her made the table hop under the soles of her shoes, making the rhythm of the music shake up her legs. She could feel it.

Slowly—to please everyone, then she'd get down, she told herself—she allowed herself to be moved by all that was going on around her. When she took her first step, the men and women below her hooted good-naturedly.

"Come on, duckie! Let's see whot you're myde uv!"

Yes, her mother would have reveled in the attention, the same attention that embarrassed Winnie. She blushed. She looked for Mick.

He was just below, leaning back in his chair, precariously balanced and perfectly confident. His face smiled up at her, ready to accept anything she wanted. He'd get her down, if she asked for help.
Take me away.
He'd clap his hands in time to her movement, if she let loose and danced.

She shifted on her feet, making small, halfhearted movements, listening to an Irishman at an old English piano play a French bouffe song that had been turned into a fine East End rhythm. Her feet moved a little more earnestly. Then she raised her skirt enough to watch her own toes.

She danced—not like the others, not without restraint—but as she danced by herself sometimes at home, with demure little steps. But the music wasn't really for that, so she matched it a little better. Her steps grew daring. She made a little kick, then a small twirl, then a crossed-over step that became a kind of deep curtsy, from which to recover she had to swoop herself up; she ended with a spin.

When she found Mick's face again, he was laughing, enjoying himself: enjoying her. He liked it. And his laughter, her own movement, her own feelings as she did it, these made her feel light—not the large, sometimes cumbersome woman she was, but light on her toes; light in her mind.

She must have been interesting to watch, because after a few minutes, Nancy and Marie and the other two stepped back and the whole room began to clap. Winnie was flustered when she realized they clapped to the music for her, encouraging her to turn and move and leap. Well. All right. She did it.

She danced. She danced down the tables then back. She kicked a beer over on purpose. The splash was perfect. It went with a jangle of the piano that made the little crowd roar with approval. She danced till her dress was sticking to her, till her hair was coming down in strings. She even kicked her foot high once and showed her legs—that was a truly popular step. The men—it seemed all the men in the room—made such a fuss. More than the commotion they made for Nancy or Marie or the others.

When she looked for Mick, he winked at her, wiggled his eyebrows, then dropped his gaze again and watched her legs the way he could. She would swear that the glow on his face was from pride and possessiveness and anticipation. His. She felt like his, and it was a good feeling. And he, oh, he who was the finest man in the room; he was so hers. The tallest, handsomest, friendliest
…
warmest, earthiest…

Anticipation. Her stomach rolled over again in that way it had weeks ago now, when she'd stood on a table in a room alone with him. Then more so, when he'd pressed her to a wall. She grabbed her skirts as the music went into a cancan again, raising them to shake them to the tempo and see how high she could kick. The whole tavern roared. The other men, no doubt, thought the whole thing saucy, a devilish good time, but when she saw Mick's face, it was something else. To everyone else, it was rollicking. But to him—she could feel it—he was watching a change happen, watching her do what she could sense in her blood: ease up.

Anticipation, she thought again. His gaze followed up her body once more till their eyes held
…
and, oh, the heat in his stare. His eyes, his lovely smoky eyes—green yet not, gray yet more—they wouldn't let hers go. Their intensity promised something.

What? Oh, what? she thought. She gave him a questioning look, saying wordlessly,
Why do you stare at me like that?
Her heart felt gay all at once.

Nancy grabbed her. "Your hair is falling down." She tried to repin a piece that lay on Winnie's shoulder, then leaned to her and said, "Take off your jacket and blouse, dearie. No one cares here, and it's cooler. You have plenty on to cover yourself. Take it off or at least unfasten the collar."

Practical advice perhaps, but no, thank you.

Except, well, the collar. Yes. She let Nancy fiddle with it. Yes, it would feel good to release the high neck. Winnie tried to hold her feet still long enough for the girl to ease the hooks of the boned collar up her throat.

The fabric fell free, and Nancy quickly untied the little jabot and undid a few top buttons for good measure. Air found the moisture on Winnie's skin, cooling her. It felt wonderful.

"Come on, dearie," Nancy chided as she pulled at Winnie's coat, a little mutton-sleeved bolero that was showing dark, damp splotches. "Gawd love us," Nancy said, "but you have on more clothes than a nun on a winter's night. Here." She peeled the coat from Winnie's arms, turning her around as she did it, three hundred sixty degrees.

When Winnie faced the room again, she was oh-so-much cooler. And freer.

Nancy pinched two fingers' worth of blouse, pulling it from where it stuck to Winnie's chest. "If you get rid of this, your arms won't be so hot."

If she got rid of her blouse, she'd feel naked—despite, it was true, a camisole over a corset over a chemise corset liner over a ruffled bust-improver. She wore too much.

On her own, Winnie unbuttoned the sleeves of her blouse and rolled them back. Oh, to have air on her arms! She danced more and harder, till she had to stop from asthma. She took a break, stepping down.

Her blouse was wringing wet. She could see through it to her skin and her corset liner where its ruffles came up over her corset to show in the low V of her camisole. A fine lot of good her blouse did her.

"Are you stopping?" Mick asked. "Do you want a drink?"

"No, and yes, please!" The wheezing eased a little. All she had to do was rest, then she could go back up again. Oh, she never wanted to stop.

When he turned and pushed into the crowd, she put her own fingers to the buttons up the front. She popped them through the buttonholes, one, two, three, four…
She tapped her feet and hummed as she did it. Winnie took off her blouse and lay it over Mick's chair.

Yes, much better. And her arms weren't completely bare. The wide neck of her chemise, after all, ended in the little cap sleeves. She stretched her neck, her long neck, and put her hand to her bare throat. She felt exceptionally good, if a little tipsy. She was slightly drunk, she realized.

Not so drunk though that, as she stood there alone, she didn't know it when a man came up and flirted with her. He actually flirted with her! And she flirted back. Not because she liked him—she couldn't have remembered a single detail about him, if asked. He said his name, and she promptly forgot it. No, she flirted with him to see if she could and because, with Mick gone, she wanted to practice for when he came back. And because she was full of herself.

She wanted to crow. Goodness, she was having a good time as her mother used to. And so far it hadn't killed her. How grand! Oh, how grand it was simply to do what she felt like doing! How grand to be alive tonight!

Chapter 21

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"
C
oo,
ain't you fancy tonight," said Charlie behind the bar.

Mick smiled as he ordered another ale and shandy, trying some of his old patter with Charlie. It didn't work any better with him than it did with anyone else.

Oh, his mates were nice to him. He liked them; they liked him still. He laughed and talked to them, just as always. But when he tried to talk like them, it sounded wrong. Not for them, but for him. He didn't like his own voice when the same words came out that, a month ago, would have passed by his ear unnoticed.

A part of him must want to be a gentleman of some sort, he decided. He liked the new way he sounded; he even liked his new manners to some extent. He enjoyed bringing a sense of refinement to his life.

He might become a kind of gentleman after all. He'd spoken to Milton, asking him what other occupations the butler thought Mick might be able to do, and the butler had encouraged him with a few interesting ideas. He could work in a shop, maybe own one someday. He could go into service; at the right house with the right pay, this had the advantage of fine living arrangements. There were other things he could do, none that caught his fancy, but Mick was fairly certain he could find something to do with his new self that suited him.

It was a little daydream these days that he'd do something that suited Winnie as well. They'll go off, find a little cottage, and live together forever as man and wife. Why not? He was honest and hardworking and smart. She could do worse, and she fancied him, he was sure of it. Of course, the two of them together, really together, wasn't a practical idea, but it certainly made a good daydream.

Standing at the bar now, waiting for his drinks, Mick turned to watch the room again, to watch its endless mixture of people and find Winnie among them—at which point he found himself staring at Why-not: Winnie, with her damn blouse off, talking to a toff out slumming.

Mick had seen the man come in. It happened occasionally. An upper-class fellow wandered over from Covent Garden after an opera or such, looking for a little
…
mud. The bloke was chatting Winnie up, probably thinking her a tavern wench. Ha, he was in for a surprise.

Mick, though, got a surprise, too. Winnie answered the fellow in a friendly manner, instead of with her usual tartness, and, of course, the moment she opened her mouth and her sweet, soft voice came out—the smooth-as-cream upper-class tune in it—well, anyone could see the fellow's response from across the room. The man liked his surprise.

Mick didn't like his: Suddenly Winnie and the toff over by the dancing stage were having a fine old talk, two peas in a pod. She was laughing with the man, smiling at him, wagging her finger at something he said.

Charlie put the drinks down, a
thunk-thunk,
as Mick turned and left them behind.