A Victorian Virgin? Ch. 02

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The seduction of an unsure virgin continues in a hotel.
12.5k words
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Part 2 of the 6 part series

Updated 09/22/2022
Created 03/15/2006
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Sachs
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Ned Hawke was dressed to impress. Dark grey trousers with matching waistcoat and jacket, pressed shirt and tight tie, dark black coat and matching top hat. He looked like a dandy and a toff, and he knew it. He instinctively knew that these clothes were the prototype of Victoria's fantasy man. Rich, well-dressed but not ostentatious, clothing cut with classic lines in staid coloring. They were hardly his best, indeed, he had had this suit for three years, but they would have the desired effect. He was not going to go all out for the entrée. That would come later, at the dessert. Besides, in an area such as Spitalfields, he would not want to stand out terribly much. He feared mugging, especially whilst there was all that furor about the prostitute killer known as Leather Apron. Although during the daylight hours, he supposed he was safe.

He had chosen this hour to visit because he knew that the man of the house would not be home. He would be out at work, wherever and whatever that was. Victoria would be alone with her sister and nephew. As long as the sister was not an absolute prude, everything would run smoothly.

He had written several letters to Victoria but had received no reply. He suspected that she was ignoring him and required a more "hands on" approach. Hence, he had arrived at her sister's house. He hoped that she was home after all and had not gotten herself another nursing job. He guessed she had high standards, and would probably be looking for a job in a private clinic, or nursing an upper-crust invalid, not working in a public hospital. If times got hard, she may have to lower her expectations; that would not have occurred yet, it was just over a month since she had lost her position.

Gathering his coat about him, Ned turned around to pay the cab driver. "Stick around," he told the man, handing over extra funds. "I'll probably be about twenty minutes, and then I'll want a ride home." Home now being his parent's house, after what had happened at the clinic.

Ned descended from the hansom cab with elegance and poise. He placed his hat upon his head, turned and crossed the street to number fifty-six. The land was girded by a peeling wrought iron fence, with a rusted gate. He leant over and unlatched this, letting it whine open. He shut it behind him, causing the entire structure to rattle unnervingly. There was a rudimentary lawn and garden, transected by a cobbled path. He followed this all of about six yards to the front doorsteps. There, he met a weathered, paneled door with a rusted iron knocker. He rapped once, loudly.

"Yeah?" the woman that answered the door had greasy, colorless hair, coiled inelegantly to the back of her head. Her clothing was black and shiny with wear in places of contact.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Morpeth and her sister," Ned told the woman.

The woman leaned against the doorframe, barring his entrance. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yes," Ned said. "Mrs. Morpeth. She lives here."

"That she does. And yer are?"

"Ned Hawke. I'm a friend of her sister, Miss Buckley," Ned explained. This best had not be the sister. He would have rather she were a prude, anything but this dirty slattern, with her lank hair and worn clothes.

"Really." Maggie regarded the toff standing in front of her. Even just the hat would be worth a few meals if she pawned it. She wondered what this Buckley girl could have done to get a follower like this one. Rich and handsome, the horrid toad. Look at the way he was watching her now, as if she were some speck of dirt that had appeared on his linen napkin. Bastard. Well, they were two of a kind, him and that Buckley girl. Both of them thought they were better than they were.

"Can I come in?"

Maggie reluctantly moved to one side. "Yeah, I suppose so. They're on the next floor, door on the right." The toff pushed past her to get to the welcoming staircase visible at the end of the hallway. She stopped him with a greasy paw on the shoulder, her dirty brown eyes gleaming in hunger. "Can I take yer coat an' 'at for yer?"

Ned shook the hand away from his clothing. "I don't think so." I might not get them back, he thought. He took his hat in hand and climbed the staircase. The door on the right was in better condition than the staircase and the front door. It appeared that somebody had recently painted it white, although why was anybody's guess. This time, when he knocked, the door was answered by a much better specimen of womanhood.

She was shorter and more full-bodied than her sister, Victoria, but attractive nevertheless. Her hair was paler, more a reddish chocolate-brown than black, and curly rather than straight. Their faces were practically the same. She had the same pale skin, high cheekbones, classic nose and cleft chin. Her eyes were a similar stormy grey-blue. Her mouth was different; it was smiling, her cheeks carved with lines of happiness. Everything about this woman's appearance read warmth, cheerfulness and satisfaction. That was what made her beautiful. "Hello?" she queried him. He saw uncertainty flicker through her eyes.

"I'm Ned Hawke. I'm here to see Victoria, if she is home," Ned said.

Charlotte Morpeth regarded the man standing in her doorway. He was tall and fairly well built. His clothing was old but well cut and maintained, made from good quality fabrics. He was handsome in his own way, with a good bone structure, square jaw and classic, chiseled features. His hair was dark, with a thick cowlick in the front and long sideburns to frame his face. The same thick, dark hair was present in the eyebrows, which arched arrogantly above pale blue eyes. "Of course," she said. "Why don't you come in?" She held the door open for him to enter, smiling ever so slightly.

"You must be Victoria's sister," he said. "I can certainly see the family resemblance."

"Yes, I am," Charlotte replied. "Charlotte Morpeth, at your service. Can I take your coat and hat for you?" Before she said this, she already had his coat from about his shoulders, and the hat from his hands. She hung them on one of a series of hooks behind the door. Ned recognized the cape he had last seen Victoria wearing hanging there amongst other items of clothing.

Now Charlotte Morpeth was pushing him through to a room he took to be the kitchen. There, seated at the table, he found a boy of about six. The child was dark-haired like his mother and aunt, but his eyes were a far more intense blue. He was leaning over a discarded newspaper, a nibbed pen clutched clumsily in his right hand. Above the newspaper was another sheet of paper, this inscribed with a cursive alphabet. The boy was transcribing each letter in large script to his newspaper five times. So far, he was down to 'Pp'. An inkbottle sat slightly above and to the right, so that the boy could not knock it over. Sitting with the boy upon her lap, guiding his actions with a gentle hand, was Victoria Buckley.

When Ned entered, both student and tutor looked up. He was shook to the core by how beautiful she looked in this context. In the few hours that he had seen her before, she had appeared strained and plain; understandable considering what she had been through. Now she seemed softer somehow. Her glossy hair was pinned less severely back from her face so that dark locks ran freely down her back and over her shoulders. Her high cheekbones were flushed with warmth, which made her eyes seem less severe. She was smiling, or she had been until she saw Ned Hawke. Now her eyes shot bolts of razor-sharp ice to sever every muscle that held the easy grin upon his face.

"Dr Hawke has come by to visit you, Victoria," Charlotte said. "Oliver, why don't you come with me? There's something I want to show you."

The child obediently complied, slipping silently to the floor and following his mother. He only turned once to regard Ned with his wide-set blue eyes before Charlotte put her arm around him and lead him into the hallway.

"He's a very quiet boy," Ned remarked.

Victoria set him with a look of pure acid, the sort of causticity that would dissolve bone. "He's deaf."

"But he-"

"He lip-reads," Victoria interjected. She stabbed Oliver's discarded pen into the inkbottle, all the while following Ned Hawke's movements with mutinous eyes. A crease had formed in the skin between her eyebrows and her brow now overshadowed her icy gaze. She thrust her chin forward aggressively. "Why are you here?"

"You didn't answer my letters," Ned said.

"I've been busy," Victoria replied, flatly. Her glare dared him to contradict her.

Ned Hawke seated himself beside her at the table. He knew that it would infuriate her that he was not only unbidden to sit down but uncomfortably close also. "Have you found a new situation yet?"

"No."

"What are you going to do?" Hawke asked her. He smiled, widely and even reached across to pat her ink-stained right hand. She flinched under his grip, and then snatched her hand away.

"I don't know."

"I could ask around the doctors I know and see if there are any positions available. Even if it's just private care of invalids, that would be a start, wouldn't it?"

"I can manage on my own," Victoria said, coldly.

"It has been a month and you haven't done anything," Ned said.

Victoria's temper flared. "I've been trying to find a place. It's difficult!"

"So let me help you. I know people. I can find you jobs that aren't advertised." Ned leaned forward on his elbows so that he could look his nurse directly in the eye. She averted her gaze. "There's got to be tonnes of rich, sick people who want an experienced and well-spoken nurse to tend to them. They would never actually advertise for these employees, but their practitioner is bound to know. I am doctor and my uncle is one also. I am sure that between us we have contacts with most of the reputable practitioners in London. Let me ask around, discretely, and find somebody to employ you. These practitioners may even require an assistant. I'm bound to find you a position that pays as well as the one you had at my uncle's clinic. Just let me try, Victoria."

"Very well," Victoria replied, stiffly. "But why are you doing this?"

Those pale blue eyes bored into her face, piercing her to the soul. She felt her body grow hot with the knowledge that he was watching her. Her heart seemed to skip erratically through its normally monotonic routine. Sweat seemed to drench the skin beneath her clothing and she sensed a strange wetness between her legs. Ned Hawke laughed. "Isn't it obvious, Victoria? I like you. That's why I'm going to try to help you."

Victoria Buckley recalled standing in the dark, trying not to touch his body as she dressed him. She felt herself become even hotter at the thought of her hand brushing across his naked genitals. She had told herself that it was disgusting, but she had not stopped thinking about that moment. She was a nurse; she knew what it meant when he had been hard beneath her fingers; however, she had never found the thought attractive before. It had seemed repellent until she had actually felt that living, hot organ tremble against her skin. That did not mean that she wanted to be writhing beneath him, nor that she wanted his lips on her mouth; at least not literally, the fantasy was strangely compelling. She disgusted herself sometimes. Her thoughts were absolutely filthy and abhorrent.

His eyes were watching her still. Maybe he knew what she was thinking, she thought. She knew that he wanted something from her. That had been obvious when he held her hand down his trousers. It was dangerous to be around him. Now he said he liked her, that he would help her. He had to want something in return.

"You don't even know me. We spent an hour together six weeks ago. How can you decide that you like me just from that tiny period of time?" Victoria told him, coldly.

Ned Hawke's smile lit his face handsomely. "You meet somebody, you either like them or you don't. I like you. The fact that I know nothing about you can be easily changed. You just have to tell me things. How about over dinner, tonight?"

"I don't think so," Victoria snapped.

"Why not?"

"I hardly know you. It would not be proper," Victoria replied. She wished that he'd stop staring at her like that. She felt threatened in her own home.

"But if you came, you would get to know me."

"It still would not be proper."

"We would be in a restaurant. There would be people all around us. Do you seriously think that I would touch you inappropriately with at least thirty witnesses present?" Ned said. "Please Victoria, come out to dinner with me tonight. It'll be nothing fancy, just nice food, perhaps a little wine. Nothing inappropriate."

"I-" Victoria began.

"She'd love to," Charlotte said from the doorway. She had not been listening the entire time, but had caught a snippet of conversation as she passed the kitchen on her way down the hallway and had stopped to listen. In her opinion, Victoria needed to get out of the house and find some friends, find herself a husband. This man liked her. He was a doctor and he liked her sister.

Whilst sitting, waiting for her sister to do her hair that night, Victoria accused, "I don't know why you told him that I would go."

Charlotte spat the remaining hairpins into her hand before answering her sister. "We've been over this before, Victoria. You should be honored that Dr Hawke asked you to dinner. The man's of a good family. All you have to do is be a little affectionate and maybe he'll marry you. You'll be set for life. Isn't that what you want?"

Even her sister's language was becoming common, Victoria thought. Soon she would drop her 'h's' and take to that dreadful slang language spoken by everybody in the area. Why did she have to live here, of all places? The east end, Spitalfields, in this horrid house, with that terrible unwashed woman downstairs and those loud foreigners across the hall. Goodness gracious, her father would be turning in his grave if he knew.

"Yes," Victoria admitted. She longed to go back to the life that she and Charlotte had had before their father died. She hated having to work and she hated that her sister was forced to marry such a lowborn person as Samuel Morpeth. She herself was never going to make that mistake. She had vowed that on her sister's wedding day, oblivious to the happiness in her sister's eyes.

"Well, what is the problem then?" Charlotte queried. "The man wrote you several letters, which I saw you burn rather than read, and when you didn't reply he came and visited you. He obvious cares for you, to go to all that trouble. And he's comely enough. What disagreement do you have with him? Because he's obviously not aware of it, and neither am I."

"I do not like him," Victoria muttered.

"Why not?"

"Well, I-"

Sam Morpeth burst into the room, a wide smile upon his red face. He rushed over to his wife and gripped her about the waist. "Give's a kiss, love. I'll be back later on." Charlotte giggled as he gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek, then twirled about to face him.

Charlotte did not resist the lips that played hungrily against hers, nor the hands that roved down over her buttocks. She gave another couple of giggles then pushed her husband away. "As long as you come back to me, I don't care. And you behave yourself." She slapped his rump playfully, then turned back to her sister.

Sergeant Morpeth gave his wife a last wink and slammed the door, loudly, behind him. He could be heard in the hallway, whistling as he pulled his coat and scarf about shoulders. His keys jangled in the lock as he slammed the front door, snapped it locked and pounded off down the staircase. He was a station sergeant, on duty at nights at the moment, and sleeping during the day.

Victoria had averted her eyes in disgust at the intimacy expressed between her sister and that man. Charlotte saw it reflected in the slant of her eyebrows and petulant purse of her mouth as she watched her sister in the mirror. The sooner Victoria left, the better. She was a wonder with young Oliver, but pokerfaced around his father. No matter how hard Sam tried, Victoria only sat sullen or said some barely veiled insult. It was embarrassing. Her husband had taken Victoria in. His money paid for the food she ate and the coal that kept her warm at night. He had even given up the place in his bed for Victoria. It was almost understandable that he had taken the night shifts for the past fortnight to avoid her. Sam was a kind man, a gentle man. He could not understand why Victoria hated him so much. It pained Charlotte to see the hurt in his eyes when her sister rejected him.

Charlotte roughly pushed her sister's shoulder, not hard enough to knock her from her stool, but sufficient to give her a short, sharp shock. "Why can't you be a little nicer to Sam?"

Victoria responded in anger. "I didn't say anything!"

"Not right now perhaps, but this morning, yesterday, last week even. He tries so hard to be accommodating to you and you are only impolite in return. It is terrible behavior, and it has to stop!" Charlotte glared at her sister in the mirror.

"I aren't rude to him," Victoria snapped.

"Yes, you are. You don't look at him when you speak to him. You make the most insulting remarks. Sometimes you even ignore him. It is times like that that I am embarrassed to be your sister. All my husband wants to do is be nice to you, for my sake at least. He has allowed you to come and stay with us, even though there are not enough beds and there is barely enough food to go around-"

"That's what you get for marrying a policeman," Victoria responded. Her sister did not wait for any other icy words to precipitate from her mouth. Instead, she turned and rushed from the room, leaving Victoria sitting alone at the dressing table, a lone oil lamp flickering beside her.

Victoria hadn't meant to hurt her sister, but it was the truth. If she had not married such a common man she would not be having any of the monetary troubles she had now. She deserved better than this poky tenement with its peeling wallpaper and thin walls that barely kept out cold or noise. She had a birthright to at least one servant, a well-paid husband, more than three dresses and a house far better than this. Their father had not raised his daughters to be policeman's wives and nurses. They were born for grander conditions. Circumstance had lowered them to this level and circumstance would raise them, or at least Victoria, back to stage they had fallen from. They did not belong in this class. Life was never supposed to turn out like this.

Charlotte had accepted her lot, in Victoria's opinion, and married as well as she could. Victoria could never settle for that. She did not see the love shared between the husband and wife, only that horrid common man taking advantage of her sister. It was the contact with such people that had made Charlotte give birth to a deaf child. The child could not be blamed for his paternity, and she tried to help him as much as she could. Indeed, Victoria loved him dearly. That did not mean that she dismissed the reality that he would never amount to anything. Paternity had programmed him to be poor, just as paternity had programmed she and Charlotte for a rich life. Charlotte may have accepted what fate had thrown to her but Victoria could not. She would never lower herself to the level of these dirty, rough people.

Victoria rose to her feet and discarded the towel from about her neck. Her dress was made of plain, low-quality fabric. It was Charlotte's Sunday best, hastily altered to fit Victoria. The neckline was high, with a scalloped lace overlay. The bodice fitted tightly to show off her trim, tightly bound waist, before flaring at the hip. She turned about to admire herself over her shoulder. She cut a firm hourglass figure, and her back curved gracefully inward then out again at the point where her skirt billowed outward in a bustle. The bustle was a disappointment, nothing but a loose swathing of spare fabric across a mound made by a roll of cloth adhered to the base of Victoria's corset. It was hardly prominent, almost silly in Victoria's opinion. The fabric was a dark, purplish blue, almost black, and could double as mourning if required (although for whom, Victoria did not know. She and Charlotte were the last of the Buckleys). It was new, Charlotte had said, probably the only new dress she would get that year.

Sachs
Sachs
146 Followers