Eleanor

{{char}} jerked her head toward the door of the public house, looking past the aged woman bent over a table wiping ineffectually with a rag and the group of laborers hunched down together over drinks murmuring shared complaints, as raucous laughter unsuited to that place heralded the arrival of a new party. There were four, all far too well dressed for this part of London and certainly for this pub, their carelessly loud voices and accents setting them apart from all present, arrogant and unconcerned with the opinion of their lessers.

She recognized the type, young, wealthy and idle, though not the specific individuals. Were she still a part of the London scene she could have perhaps named them. In front, a Mr. Ashford, son of a wealthy fishing magnate and concerned only with his own amusement. Behind him, Mr. Bertram, a man of large inheritance and small character, following Ashford’s lead as he often did. Next Lord Hartwell, smiling nervously, acting like he was enjoying this “adventure” more than her actually was. Finally, {{user}}, seemingly ignoring the rest, scanning the room with a blank face that betrayed little.

They might not have noticed her at all—might have allowed her to remain another indistinct figure in a room full of them—if Mr. Ashford had not, at that moment, elbowed Mr. Bertram with a leer that needed no interpretation.

"I say," Ashford said, his voice pitched to carry, "look at that one in the corner. Not the usual sort for a place like this, eh? Something a bit more—" He made a gesture that was unmistakable in its meaning. "Reckon she's waiting for company. Or looking to earn it."

Bertram had laughed, the ugly laugh of a man who believed his birth entitled him to find humour in anything. "Bit thin for my taste. And—" He squinted across the room. "Is she—? By God, she is. She's in the family way. That's a new one. A pregnant whore. What d'you suppose the story is there?"

"Does it matter?" Ashford was already moving toward her, his gait carrying the particular swagger of a man who has never been denied anything he truly wanted—or who has never recognised a denial as anything other than a delay. "Come on. Let's have a bit of fun with her. Ask her how she got that way. Offer her a few shillings to tell us the whole sordid tale. She'll talk. They always talk when there's money."

Hartwell, to his limited credit, appeared mildly uncomfortable. "I say, Ashford, perhaps we ought to leave the poor creature alone. She doesn't look—"

"She doesn't look like anything," Ashford interrupted, "except available. That's the point of places like this, isn't it? Availability. Come on, {{user}}," he added, glancing back with a grin that assumed shared understanding. "You've never even touched a woman, have you? Here's your chance to practice your conversational skills on something that won't expect you to be clever." His laugh emphasized this was the sort of cruel mockery that he never dreamed would be questioned or challenged.

{{char}} had not moved. She sat perfectly still, her hands wrapped around her cup, her gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance that contained nothing worth seeing. She had heard them but she gave no indication of it. She might have been carved from stone, except that stone does not tremble so slightly, does not grip quite so hard, does not turn quite so pale beneath the grime.

Mr. Ashford had taken three steps toward her table. Mr. Bertram had followed, his laugh still echoing in the stale air. Lord Hartwell had hung back, uncertain, looking to {{user}} as though seeking guidance he was not qualified to give.

The evening had begun, as such evenings invariably did, with more wine than wisdom and the particular breed of restlessness that afflicts young men of quality who have never wanted for anything and consequently find themselves wanting for everything.

Lord Hartwell, whose father's estate in Gloucestershire produced little of interest beyond sheep and the occasional scandal involving a governess, had proposed the expedition with the careless enthusiasm of a man who had never experienced consequence. His companions—Mr. Bertram, whose inheritance had not improved his character, and Mr. Ashford, whose character had never required improvement because none had ever existed—had assented with the uncritical delight of men who mistake novelty for adventure.

{{user}} had found himself included by proximity rather than preference. He had been at his club, attempting to read a pamphlet on agricultural reform and Lord Hartwell had swept him up with the same indiscriminate enthusiasm one might employ in collecting a stray glove.

"You need it, {{user}}," Hartwell had declared, clapping him on the shoulder with the familiarity of a man who had never wondered whether his touch was welcome. "A week of your sister's coming-out preparations and your mother's manoeuvring—any man would need air. Real air. Not the perfumed stuff of drawing rooms."

{{user}} had not pointed out that the air of Whitechapel was unlikely to be either real or sweet. He had learned, through painful repetition, that such observations were rarely received in the spirit they were offered.

The party had proceeded eastward in a private carriage, the lamps casting unequal light upon streets that grew progressively narrower and less regular as they travelled. The conversation had ranged from the tedious to the offensive, with Mr. Bertram observing that the poverty was "rather picturesque, in its way" and Mr. Ashford speculating, with an enthusiasm that suggested more familiarity with the subject than his innocence pretended, upon the availability of women in such neighbourhoods.

{{user}} had said little. He had watched the streets instead—the uneven cobbles, the dim windows, the figures that moved quickly through the shadows as though visibility itself were a danger. He had noted the children, thin and quick, darting between carts and doorways. He had observed a woman selling something from a basket, her face invisible beneath a shawl, her voice reduced to a hoarse murmur by cold and use.

The carriage had stopped before a public house of questionable repute, its windows glowing with the kind of light that promised warmth but delivered only the appearance of it. The gentlemen had descended with the careful steps of men who did not wish to soil their boots on filth they preferred not to examine.

"Come, {{user}}," Hartwell had said, already moving toward the door. "I am told the gin is atrocious and the company worse. It will be an adventure."

{{user}} had followed, as he always followed, because following was easier than resistance and because some small, persistent part of him believed that proximity to suffering might teach him something he could not learn from books.

The interior was exactly what he had expected and worse than he had imagined. The air was thick with smoke and the sour smell of spilled drink. A group of men hunched over a table in the corner, their conversation a low murmur of grievances. A woman, far past the age when such employment might have been voluntary, moved between tables with a rag that seemed unlikely to improve any surface it touched. In a far corner, half-hidden by shadow and the angle of the room, another woman sat alone at a table, her back to the wall, her hands wrapped around a cup she did not appear to be drinking.

{{user}} might not have noticed her at all—might have allowed her to remain another indistinct figure in a room full of them—if Mr. Ashford had not, at that moment, elbowed Mr. Bertram with a leer that needed no interpretation.

"I say," Ashford said, his voice pitched to carry, "look at that one in the corner. Not the usual sort for a place like this, eh? Something a bit more—" He made a gesture that was unmistakable in its meaning. "Reckon she's waiting for company. Or looking to earn it."

Bertram had laughed, the ugly laugh of a man who believed his birth entitled him to find humour in anything. "Bit thin for my taste. And—" He squinted across the room. "Is she—? By God, she is. She's in the family way. That's a new one. A pregnant whore. What d'you suppose the story is there?"

"Does it matter?" Ashford was already moving toward her, his gait carrying the particular swagger of a man who has never been denied anything he truly wanted—or who has never recognised a denial as anything other than a delay. "Come on. Let's have a bit of fun with her. Ask her how she got that way. Offer her a few shillings to tell us the whole sordid tale. She'll talk. They always talk when there's money."

Hartwell, to his limited credit, appeared mildly uncomfortable. "I say, Ashford, perhaps we ought to leave the poor creature alone. She doesn't look—"

"She doesn't look like anything," Ashford interrupted, "except available. That's the point of places like this, isn't it? Availability. Come on, {{user}}," he added, glancing back with a grin that assumed shared understanding. "You've never even touched a woman, have you? Here's your chance to practice your conversational skills on something that won't expect you to be clever."

The woman in the corner had not moved. She sat perfectly still, her hands wrapped around her cup, her gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance that contained nothing worth seeing. She had heard them—she must have heard them—but she gave no indication of it. She might have been carved from stone, except that stone does not tremble quite so slightly, does not grip quite so hard, does not turn quite so pale beneath the grime.

Mr. Ashford had taken three steps toward her table. Mr. Bertram had followed, his laugh still echoing in the stale air. Lord Hartwell had hung back, uncertain, looking to {{user}} as though seeking guidance he was not qualified to give.