Crinolines And Leather Ch 01 1

The cold wind billowed about Sir Edward Manderley as he stepped over the threshold of his new home, and he gratefully slammed the door behind him, sealing the gap between him and the wild weather. He removed his hat and gloves, wordlessly handed them to the servant who appeared at his elbow like a shadow and strode into the parlour where his wife reclined in an armchair, lazily plucking chocolates from a satin lined box. She made no attempt to greet him, he noted with bitter resentment, although after three months of married life he had become accustomed to her distain.

Miss Emily Horsham had been regarded by all to be a beauty. Her wide blue eyes and slight rosebud mouth, coupled with the vast inheritance she received from her parents upon their untimely death, meant that she was the most coveted of prizes. However the girl, whose maternal uncle raised her with fairy tales of princes, found a reason to refuse even the most eligible of suitors until she met Sir Edward Manderley, who breezed into London society one Thursday evening and soon become the topic that sparkled upon everyone's lips.

An enigma without a tangible past he delighted all he spoke to with the air of mystery that hung about him like a cape. It was known that he had invested his considerable wealth in properties in the East End and that he was in search of a wife. His courtship with Emily was brief, mediated by the uncle who somewhat rushed proceedings. When the couple married after four months of wooing, both felt as though they had been cheated. Emily was reluctant to leave the dreams of her childhood behind, angered that she had been bound to a man with no lineage, whose money came from social exploitation.

For Edward the realisation of the gravity of his situation came on his wedding night, when he took his bride into his arms and carried her into their marital bedroom. As his hands grazed the pale ivory of her skin, as he lowered his lips to hers, she froze; living flesh made marble. When his fingers went to the silken ribbons that fastened her dress, she hissed; raked her long nails across his face; drew blood.

He tried his best to explain, to comfort her, telling her of the art of making love, the beauty and pleasure of the act, to no avail. She accused him of trying to make a harlot of her and barricaded him from the room. The marriage reached an impasse as he tried to make her love him, tried to cultivate a friendship from the ashes of their already ruined marriage, and she violently and vehemently refuted him.

Edward approached his wife's chair, stooping to kiss her on the cheek. He felt her tense, saw the shadow that passed across her brow as he moved away. Like a child, she rubbed her hand across her face, as though she were trying to erase the memory of his touch. He glowered but chose to ignore the slight, collapsed into the chintz sofa and plucked his cigarette case from his breast pocket. He struck a match and breathed heavily, greedily, drinking in the scent of tobacco. Emily's pale face flooded indignantly, and she stood, angrily.

'How dare you practice that vile habit around me?' she asked through gritted teeth.

He smiled, licked his lips. 'My dear, you did promise: for better or worse. And I do fear that I am proving to be much worse than you imagined.'

She drew herself up to her full height. 'I will not have you mocking me, Mr Manderley.'

He repressed a smirk. '

Mrs

Manderley, I would not dare to.' He watched with disappointment as her internal fire burnt out, and she seemed to crumple from within as she sank back into her armchair. Edward knelt beside her, took her dainty hand in his; she did not recoil and taking this to be an invite, pulled her into his arms, and breathed in the scent of her hair. She smelt of roses, of privilege, of all the things he had always wanted to possess and with her enveloped in his embrace it was possible for him to pretend that he did.

'I wish I knew how to make you happy,' he confessed, the whisper breaking over his lips like a cascade.

She turned to face him, her eyes wide and dark, whether with fear or arousal he could not distinguish. Her lips trembled as she spoke, softly: 'I do not know the first thing about you, and yet you claim to be my husband.' Fear, he acknowledged, and the thought shamed him.

Tenderly, he stroked her hair. 'Know,' he said in what he believed was a suitably sombre and sincere tone, 'that I care for you very much.' Such language, which seemed to have been lifted from one of her romantic novels, appeased her, and, sensing a victory, Edward leaned in to kiss her. Their lips met in a chaste manner and lingered for a moment, until he felt her tears, cold, streak across his cheeks.

'I would rather die,' she said honestly, emotionlessly, 'than have you touch me.'

He tore from the house, afraid to see his own reflection lit up in those wide, terrified eyes. He had seduced many women before, but had never been made to feel like a monster. Wandering the streets aimlessly, he was amazed to find that his feet somehow, subconsciously, traced their way to his club. He raised an eyebrow and suppressed a wry smile; it appeared that he was rather suited to high society. Unconsciously, he checked the calluses of his hands, as though afraid that some working class dirt still lingered there. He took a deep breath and strolled into the building, making sure to hold his head high.

Noise erupted round him, the cacophonous sound of men laughing; squabbling; shouting. The heady scent of brandy mixed in the air with the thick aroma of tobacco, intoxicating anyone who dared to breathe deeply.

A hand clapped Edward on the back, and a voice roared in his ear. 'Eddie, old chap: we wondered when we were going to see you in here again!'

Edward pivoted and found himself staring into the red, round face of Doctor Thomas Beauchamp. He extracted himself from the other man's grasp and lightly dusted his jacket. 'I have been rather occupied with business and married life.'

'Nonsense,' he wheeled Edward to a table and forced him into a seat, before beckoning a waiter to bring them drinks. 'I see no reason why I should lose my private time to my wife. A man must always have his escape, or so I've always said. The notion of spending an evening with that woman is abhorrent; what topics would we talk on: she about her knitting patterns and I about politics!' He chortled to himself. 'Would hardly be stimulating for either of us.'

Edward cast his mind back to remember Beauchamp's wife: a portly, plain woman with a pursed mouth and stubby fingers - he could hardly imagine anyone describing her as stimulating.

The waiter returned with their drinks and Edward allowed the Doctor to prattle on as he swilled his drink, stared broodily into the distance. A figure of a woman flickered in his mind's eye, scantily clad, seductive, swaying slightly and enticing him closer. He was about to rise from his seat, to reach out and attempt to touch the apparition, before he remembered his surroundings, before the crushing weight of social pressure reminded him of his place.

'Are you alright there?' Beauchamp questioned.

Edward felt his chest contract, struggled to control his breathing. 'Yes,' he stated, firmly reminding himself of his status as a gentleman, reminding himself of the pleasures he sacrificed on his quest for wealth and luxury. He forced a cordial smile. 'I fear it's getting late, and I am struggling to keep my eyes open.' He bowed his head. 'I apologise for being such terrible company, but hope to see you here soon, when I assure you my spirits shall be lifted immensely.' He walked from the room as quickly as appeared appropriate, and into the crisp, cleansing air of the outside world.

As he sauntered home, enjoying the darkness of the night, he became aware of the women that moved within the shadows, ever present, pressed against the sides of buildings as though they had merged with the landscapes. As his gaze intensified, his eyes became accustomed to the dark and he began to see for the first time. Most were shabbily dressed, in ill-fitting rags that hung from their bodies; most were emaciated, close to starvation. They swayed, drunkenly, as though their legs had long ago surrendered their duty to support their bodies. One saw him staring and approached him, her cockney voice thin and reedy, almost disappearing upon the air that carried it from her lips. Entranced, horrified, he found that he was unable to move. Her long, bony finger reached out to touch his coat sleeve and she opened her mouth to reveal a wide, black, toothless pit. Edward felt himself being drawn in, swallowed whole, at this, the endpoint of his lust. He was unable to outrun his needs; unable to seduce his own wife. Desire burnt beneath his skin, corrupting his every thought. Had the woman before him been beautiful, or even moderately attractive, he would not have hesitated.

But Edward had strove to surround himself with beauty and found himself to be too proud to abandon his aesthetic ideals. He raised his hand to brush the woman away, watched as she flinched, expecting a blow. He smirked, enjoying the power that the mere raise of his hand had, turned and stalked away, back to his home.

Only when he was alone in his study, accompanied by a roaring fire and a glass of his best whiskey, did he allow himself to succumb to the dark recesses of his past. He felt his refinement, the very culture that he had clawed, fought to obtain, slip through his fingers as he regressed.

Poised on the brink of adulthood, only eighteen years old, uncertain, uncomfortable within the confines of his own body, once more he stood at the door of Mrs Beadle's emporium, overwhelmed by the scent of flesh that seemed to spill from the windows and into the street, ripe and rotting.

As he hesitated, he received a blow to the head before his father snatched at his shirt collar and dragged him through the front door and through the hallway. He stumbled as he tried to wrench himself free from the drunken grasp, which bound him as one might a criminal. His father's voice was hot in his ear, reprimanding him; reminding him that it was his duty as a man to use women like the sluts they were. Embarrassed, he tried to smooth the creases out of his shirt, to avert his gaze from the prostitutes that lounged about the parlour in various stages of undress. He was thrust into the centre of the room, as though he was the object for sale. Suddenly arms accosted him and he found himself being appraised by Mrs Beadle. She ran her fingers along the curve of his jaw-line, felt the muscles of his arms and pursed her lips.

'Not a bad looking lad, Sammy,' she smiled, surveying his swaying father from under her lashes, 'are you sure he's yours?'

His father glowered, torn between his pride and his desire to further humiliate the memory of Edward's mother. 'Course he is,' he muttered, 'chip of the old block.'

Mrs Beadle winked at Edward. 'Of course,' she muttered, pressing her hands against his chest. She spoke in a low voice, as if they were sharing secrets. 'Is this your first time?'

Edward found himself too nervous to do anything but nod, which seemed to please the woman, whose eyes glittered at his revelation.

'Are you scared?'

The steely reserve that suddenly coloured his gaze, as though he was offended by the mere notion of fear, changed his features. Coldness, she noted, made him more attractive. With a dramatic sweep of her hand, Beadle gestured towards her girls. 'In that case; you may choose whomever you please.'

He walked about the room, surveying the stock; he discounted those who held his gaze, those he perceived to be too old, and finally settled on a slip of a woman, with large blue eyes and a shock of unkempt red hair. She was pretty without being intimidating, alluring without being sexual, and when Edward raised his hand to point her out as his, Beadle clapped; 'An excellent choice! Estella, show him to your room.'

The girl rose, took his hand and gently guided him upstairs. Her room was small, furnished in gold and red. Her bedding was threadbare and he could see patches on the walls where the red paint had flaked away, leaving the dull wood behind. As she turned to face him, Edward fought to steady his shaking hands. She reached out her dainty fingers, and began to unbutton his shirt, the coldness of her hands alien against his burning skin. He cupped his hand under her chin and tilted her head up so that he could kiss her. The delicate, slight kisses gave way to passionate, desperate movements, as Edward drank her in, drowned in the taste of her lips.

He fumbled with the fastenings of her bodice, cursing his usually meticulous fingers. She made no motion to help him, so he spun her round and deftly worked at the maze of ribbons that kept her bound. Her clothes seemed to melt away at the stroke of his touch and he carried her to the bed, lay her down. He kissed the line of her neck, the string of ruby bruises that adorned her skin. She was beautiful as she lay there, without moving, like a corpse, and he wanted to rouse her to life, to animate her.

He kissed her gently, moving his hands over her body. 'Is this okay,' he asked softly, gazing deeply into her eyes to gauge her response. As his fingers trailed down, across her stomach, lower, teasing, she nodded slightly. When they plunged into her, working her wetness slowly, building to a tempo, she moaned deliciously. He watched as the pleasure played out across her face, felt her spasm around him. Sensuality transformed her and, siren-like, she clawed at him, drawing him into her, wrapping her legs around his body. He moved inside her, entranced, overwhelmed, feeling every inch of her pleasure as he caused her to cry out repeatedly.

They fell asleep, entwined together, exhausted. Edward woke as dawn broke across the sky, tried to disentangle his aching limbs from the woman who lay in his arms. In the harsh light of day, she appeared less beautiful, as though her allure had waxed with the moon. He winced as he moved, felt the small wounds that she had carved into his back and arms reopen. He pulled his clothes on silently and, his boots clenched in his hands, he made his way down the stairs. As he crept to the front door, he felt Mrs Beadle's presence and, red faced; he turned to find her surveying him silently, leaning against the stairs with her arms folded.

'I, uh...' he stammered, crushing the supple leather of his shoes between his digits.

She smiled at him, and the tension of the scene dissipated. She indicated that she wanted him to follow her, and led him, through the decadent rooms of her brothel, to the kitchen. It was warm and homely, and when she bade him to sit, he sank into a chair, feeling as though he belonged; an emotion that had not crossed his mind since his mother left. Without asking, she poured him a cup of tea and added vast quantities of milk and sugar.

'Drink,' she commanded, taking a seat opposite him. She smoothed her dress and stared at him levelly. He ducked his head, trying to avoid her scrutiny, and took a slurp of tea, scalding his mouth. 'So,' she said crisply, 'how are you coping?'

'Fine,' Edward snapped, dismissively. The memory of his mother's departure, the fact that she had left him with his brute of a father, ran away with another man, still stung and he felt no need to discuss such a delicate matter with a common prostitute.

'Then why,' the woman, raising one eyebrow, 'did you appear at my door last night: half starved, ill dressed with a ghostly pallor; with your father claiming that you needed to be taught how to be a man?'

The boy felt his face inflame. He stood and walked around the room, touching artefacts, desperate to distract himself.

'I could ask the same about your girls,' he muttered, plucking a mass of leather and metal from the sideboard. He ran his hands over the frayed edges of the material, touching it carefully, with reverence, as one would a lover. His fingers fretted the metal studs, the broken clasps.

Beadle stood, her dress rustling about her, and crossed the room so that he could not escape her unwavering observation. She plucked the leather from his palms and fastened the cuffs around Edward's wrists. The broken clasps meant that the leather was not binding, so she kept her hands wrapped around his wrists. Edward felt his breath go shallow and he looked deeply into the face of the woman who had suddenly claimed him. In her early thirties, her face retained the attractiveness of her youth that was slightly softened by the fine lines around her eyes.

'Pleasure,' she breathed, 'is sometimes about pain, about the power that you can exercise or relinquish.' She tightened her grip on his wrists. 'Some find pleasure from submitting, giving their body to another to play with as they please, revelling in the release, the sensation, the freedom. Others delight in taking control, in possessing another's body, the pleasure that can be afforded by complete domination.' She stared into the young man's eyes, his pupils so dilated that they eclipsed the steely blue of his gaze. 'Doesn't that appeal to you?' Edward became aware of the dryness in his mouth; the itching, burning desire that festered beneath his skin, then - as suddenly as she had grabbed him - Beadle released his hands and took a step back.

She surveyed him, coldly, analytically; watching as a pink flush settled across his face. 'I'm offering you help, Eddie,' she stated, 'all I ask in return is complete honesty. I am going to ask once more, and I expect you to answer me in a satisfactory manner: what happened to cause your father's behaviour last night?'

Edward sighed, walked across the room and sat down in the chair by the fire. He looked at the handcuffs, still clutched in his perspiring palm like a talisman.

'Do you have a needle and thread?' he asked; his voice quiet, husky. Beadle raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth to admonish him before she saw the earnest, pleading look that had suddenly unfurled across his face; the white flag of defeat. Wordlessly, she crossed the room, sifted through a drawer and returned, placing the items in front of him.

As he spoke, he worked the leather, hemming the fraying edges with delicate, careful stiches. 'I hate her,' he muttered thickly, afraid of the emotion in his voice, 'I hate her for walking out; for leaving me with him.' He turned his eyes to Beadle, who was surprised by the burning passion that smouldered within the luminous orbs. 'She's a pitiful, worthless whore and I wish her many years of misery.'

'You don't mean that,' Beadle whispered, 'they're your father's words.'

He scoffed. 'My father isn't half as complimentary.'

He worked the leather around the broken clasp so that the supple fabric released the metal shards which fell to the floor with a delicate clatter. His face darkened. 'He's become obsessed with the idea that I am too much like her; that I need to be made more like a man, more like him.'

He used his thumbs to push the broken metal together, fixing it tentatively before fixing it into the leather. 'And he had decreed that I need to learn to drink and fuck and fight.'

He pulled his shirt up to reveal a line of angry, purple bruises stark against his skin. 'I'm not very good at the fighting; I'm terrible at the drinking...'

In one swift movement he stood, gently pulled Beadle out of her chair and clasped the cuffs around her wrists. With his breath hot and heavy against her ear he growled: 'I don't think I'm enough of an expert to judge the fucking.'

Mrs Beadle, who had crafted a career from manipulating men, who prided herself on maintaining a position of power in all her interactions, found herself breathless, powerless when compared to the young man that brimmed with fury before her. She teetered on the brink of temptation, anticipating the moment where her willpower would fail her and she would fall into the tumult of attraction, seduction. She reached for him, pulling at his shirt so that the fabric ripped and he collapsed into her.