The Invisible Girl

Chapter 4

We haven't heard from Eleanor. But then again, I didn't expect we would. Still, I'm desperate for a word from him. He has promised to get her out of that mess. I know I can't talk to Mrs Harris about it, and it's killing me. Still, I secretly love the thought of having a secret. Our secret.
It is a chilly morning, and from time to time, it rains. It's no use cleaning any windows today. I have been up early, as usually.
Robertson is upstairs, waiting for me to bring him the tray with the Judge's breakfast. I grab the tray before Mrs Harris can spit into the coffee. Eggs, bacon, sausages, and - I wrinkle my nose - kedgeree. I know it has to be fresh, but still, I could never bring myself to eat fish on an empty stomach.
The tray is so heavy that I have a hard time keeping my balance.
On my way upstairs, I manage to put the red rose on it, the one I sneaked from the garden yesterday.
The behated maior domus is standing at the top of the stairs, making a point of staring at the old grandfather clock in the hall, addressing me in an irritated tone.
"There you are, I was wondering if you had dropped dead on your way upstairs!"
I murmur a half-hearted apology.
Robertson arches an eyebrow at me as he spots the rose. "What is that supposed to be?"
I shrug. "It looked like rain yesterday, so I cut the roses."
He does not make a sneery remark, but I can tell that he does not believe a word I'm saying.
I hold out the tray, expecting him to take it, but he shakes his head.
"The Master has asked for you explicitly," he informs me, his words dripping with venom.
The Master. The heat rises into my face as I begin to think about the Judge. "Oh, all right, I guess," I stumble. As I head for the stairs that lead to the upper rooms, I feel Robertson's firm grip on my arm.
"If I ever hear that you bothered or upset the Master…" he says warningly.
I avoid his eyes. "I won't," I reply quietly, but he does not appear to be happy with that statement. He is still glaring at me. It makes me angry. He has always been acting holier-than-thou, but does he really think I'm too stupid to carry a breakfast tray?
"I know exactly what you're up to," he snarls.
"I doubt that," I reply sharply.
He stares at me. He is not used to people talking back at him.
Emboldened by his confused expression, I add coldly: "Would you please let go off my arm now so I won't keep the Master waiting?"
Robertson's eyes are full of hatred. "Very well." He lets go off me so abruptly, pushing me away from him, that I almost drop the tray, but I regain my balance and practically fly upstairs.
I feel his eyes boring into my back until reach the Judge's bedroom, finally out of Robertson's sight.
Relief washes over me. Unfortunately, I don't have time to check my reflection in a mirror. Robertson will be waiting for my return, I'm sure, and I have to hurry if I want a word with the Judge. So I knock, which isn't an easy job when you're carrying a breakfast tray.
I expect him to call "Come in", loudly and clearly, but his voice is low and deep, barely a whisper, and he simply says, "Yes."
My heart skips a beat.
I open the door.
Before I can say a word, he catches me off guard, waiting for me behind the door, pulling me to him the moment I enter the room.
"The tray!" I shriek, but it's too late. The tray slips from my hands, bacon, eggs, tea, even the disgusting bowl of kedgeree, all over the carpet, the expensive China rolling over the floor. I almost trip over a broken cup. But I push the thought aside as I feel his lips on mine, his hands roaming over my back. I kiss him back with all the passion, all the hunger I have been feeling since our last meeting. My fingers twist themselves in his hair. Gods, how I've missed him! As I melt against him, the world is far away.
"What a wonderful way to start the day," he says silkily.
"Yes," I whisper, "But we don't have much time. Robertson is going to wonder where I am."
"Screw Robertson," he replies dismissively, slowly maneuvering me towards the bed.
"I'd rather not," I say with a sheepish smile that makes us both laugh.
As the laughter dies down, his eyes have a seriousness that scares me, and yet they make me drown in them at the same time.
A broad smile crosses his face. He has me exactly where he wants me.
"Let's see… what do we have for breakfast?"
He pushes me down onto the bed with gentle pressure, my legs dangling to the floor like a doll's. That's how I feel, like a toy, his toy.
"I can't," I breathe, "I have to clear up the mess, and then…"
"You won't have to do anything," he says simply. He kneels in front of the bed and pushes up my skirts to my waist.
I am torn between embarrassment at my situation and pride that I can make him desire me that much. So far, all of my encounters with the Judge have taken place in semi-darkness. Even though the sky is cloudy, daylight is streaming through the windows. There is no soft light to give my skin a golden glow. My skin is surprisingly white, every inch mercilessly exposed to his gaze. Sounds do not seem muffled by a dark blanket, like during the dusk, but I hear the shuffling of feet in the hall, the noises of carriages driving by underneath the high windows, and they are ringing in my ears. Every noise makes me jump. It amuses him. He smirks every time I shiver in the morning chill of the room, every time I give my surroundings a scared look around. All of my senses are surprisingly sharp. Even his touch seems rougher, his kisses fiercer.
There is a scary familiarity about his removing my undergarments, about the feel of his hands on my skin and the dangerous look in his eyes. Only this time, there are no night shadows to hide what I am doing. Or rather, what I let him do.
In the harsh light, I see his face more clearly. The daylight brings out his eyes, looking stormy and grey like the sky today. It emphasizes every line of his face, etching it into my memory. He is tracing my legs with his hands.
I expect the touch of his fingers to my core any moment now, I lie back on the bed to feel it more intensely, but istead, his lips brush against the sensitive skin of my thigh.
I whisper his name, my first impulse is to beg him to stop because I can hardly bear the tenderness of the gesture, but no words will come out. He is licking a trail along my thigh, moving his face towards the apex of my thighs. I am trembling. He covers my skin with kisses, soothing me, calming me down, but there is nothing he can do to prepare me for the feel of his togue flicking over my labia. I give a strangled cry, I grab the sheets and arch against him. He is sucking feverishly at my delicate skin. I feel his tongue push into me, swiping at my inner walls.
"Oh, God…"
He feels my every move, anticipates every word I whisper.
He chuckles in satisfaction when he hears my soft scream and feels my body surge against his mouth as he is bringing me to an intense climax.
When the room stops spinning around me, he finally relents and lies down beside me, breathing heavily.
He feels my adoring gaze on him, my trembling hands as I touch him.
I make no effort to prevent him from embracing me, though I experience an almost physical pain when his arms close around me and I allow myself to linger in the embrace just for a moment, enjoying the illusion before it is shattered to pieces by the reality of my situation
"You're playing a dangerous game," I whisper, close to his ear, "I don't know how long I can take this."
"You are right," he replies, his voice low. "We have to stop…"
I roll onto my side, trying to get distance between the Judge and myself, otherwise I feel I would have to fight back tears that I would not be able to explain.
"… for now," he adds.
I turn around and look at him.
He kisses me softly. I blush as I taste my own juices still on his lips. "I'll see you tonight," he adds. "I'll tell Robertson to send you up with a nightcap." He looks into my eyes, and with just a hint of mischief, he says: "Then we can… talk."

*

I realize I have not asked the Judge about Eleanor. But it is just as well. I can still ask him tonight. If I get to talk to him, that is, if he does not throw me onto the bed right away. I am shocked at myself. I shouldn't have let the situation get that far. I know perfectly well that sooner or later, he is going to want more of me, and that might as well be rather soon. Part of me is a ninety-nine per cent sure that I do not want to sleep with anyone, not even him, not here, not now. It's all too fast, and I feel like a child so often that I can't think about marrying or having children of my own. And there is the one per cent that knows that there will never be another man for me, the one per cent that wants to take whatever it can get from him. Ninety-nine per cent angel, one per cent demon. However, as long as I am not a hundred per cent sure about either side, I will wait. No matter how I can't breathe when he's around, no matter how much I long for his kisses.
Any attempt to make myself more presentable is useless. My dress still looks crumpled, and I barely had the time to fix my hair because I had to clean the carpet and pick up the dishes from the floor. With a pounding heart, I carry the empty tray downstairs. I glance at the broken cup with worry. Robertson will be furious if he sees it.
Maybe Robertson has gone away.
Yeah. Right.
As soon as I hit the stairs, I realize that he is still waiting for me, giving a frown at my slightly dishevelled look.
"It is about time," he says with indignation.
I try to walk with confidence, but with little success.
He spots the broken cup immediately. He picks up a piece with two fingers and dangles it in front of my nose. "What is that?" he inquires.
"A broken cup," I reply, stating the obvious.
"Stupid girl!" he thunders and slaps me hard.
I cry out in surprise and humiliation, touching my palm to my aching cheek.
"The price will be deducted from your wage," he says coldly.
"But Mr Robertson," I say, almost pleadingly, "That cup is worth almost my entire wage!"
"You should have thought of that before you broke it," he snaps.
"That's not fair!" I protest loudly. "Mr Robertson!"
"Will you stop yelling at me?!" he shouts.
The noise has attracted the attention of Mrs Harris. She stumbles up the stairs on her aching legs and looks from me to Robertson.
I gaze at her for support. "He's hit me again," I tell her.
"Mr Robertson!" Mrs Harris' eyes narrow.
"Look at what your clumsy ward did," he reproaches her, as if it was her fault that I broke a cup.
Mrs Harris puts her hands on her hips. "That gives you no right to hit her," she tells him challengingly, like a lioness protecting her cub.
Robertson glares at her, but he does not enter into an argument. Instead he turns towards me.
"There is no point in arguing, I will handle this as I see fit," he says and pushes past me, but I block his way.
"You don't understand! I cannot pay for this cup!" I yell at him in frustration. I would not have any money of my own left. I can't pay for it. I couldn't if I wanted to. I give part of my wage to Mrs Harris for her arthritis medication. Without my money, she won't be able to afford it and will suffer even more pain than she already endures now. And it was not even my fault that the cup is broken!
"Oh yes, you will. This conversation is terminated. Get out of my way," he says indignantly.
"NO! Ask the Judge," I say, desperate enough to mention him, "I'm sure he'll understand, he won't make me pay for the stupid cup!"
Robertson's mask slips. He glares at me with utter contempt. "The Judge won't be bothered with so trivial a matter. You pay for the cup, and that is the end of it."
"Fine." I take a deep breath and head for the stairs.
"Where do you think you're going?" Robertson asks sharply.
"I'll ask him myself," I reply.
Robertson grabs my arm and turns it on my back so forcefully I scream in pain.
In a very low voice, so low that Mrs Harris cannot hear it over my screams, he whispers: "I will teach you to know your place." Then his hand comes down on my back, hard, violent, full of hatred.
Mrs Harris cries out in surprise and despair and lunges at him, trying to pull him away from me. I feel Robertson's blows raining down on me, I feel weak, humiliated, helpless as I'm trying to protect my face from his fists. His eyes are ablaze with mad rage. I hear him command Mrs Harris to keep out of his way, I hear her desperate appeals to him, her attempts to make him see reason. I'm more afraid for her than for myself.
And then, there is another voice, icy, forbidding, thundering from above us, like an angry god's.
"What is all the racket?"
Robertson freezes in the movement, his face pale. Mrs Harris takes a few steps back. It takes me a moment to realize what is happening.
Where did he come from? How did he hear the screams? He can't have been in his bedroom any more, he had to be somewhere else.
But who cares where he has been or what he has been doing, he has come to my rescue! I feel a surge of triumph and love and longing, all at once.
The Judge looks down at everyone and finally rests his eyes on Robertson in a cold stare.
Robertson looks slightly intimidated, but it does not take him long to regain his composure. His cheeks are a hectic red. "Sir, the careless maid has damaged your property and now refuses to pay for it. If I may speak openly, Sir, I would suggest to turn her out of doors. There are a hundred young girls in London who work twice as hard and are not as insolent, lazy, and clumsy as she is."
The Judge stares at him for a long moment. "Is that your opinion?" he asks slowly.
"Yes!" Robertson cries triumphantly.
In long, slow strides, the Judge walks down the stairs to stand before the maior domus. "Well, Robertson," he growls, "I have to inform you that it was me who broke the cup." He gives me a thoughtful look. "It would appear that the maid was too discreet to disclose my own… clumsiness to the servants. Is that right?" he addresses me.
I cast my eyes down.
"But…" Robertson begins.
"Quiet," the Judge snaps. "I should think she deserves every praise for her loyalty. Don't you agree, Mrs Harris?"
Mrs Harris' eyes widen. "Y-y-es…, sir," she stumbles.
"Mr Robertson?" the Judge asks coldly.
Robertson is looking daggers at me, but he does not dare to do anything but nod briefly.
"Good. I will discuss this business no further. I have more urgent things to attend to." The Judge makes a point of walking past us swiftly, towards the door. As he passes me, however, his hand brushes mine very briefly, his index finger softly stroking my palm. I look at him and our eyes lock. I mean to say something, but he silences me, shaking his head in so subtle a motion that nobody but me notices.
My mouth is dry, and my knees are weak, the room starts spinning again and I almost faint because I realize in this tiny moment, for the first time, that this could be… love.
I love you, Judge Turpin. With all my soul.
It is only a split second before I realize that my expression has softened and my eyes are swimming, so I blink those tears away and assume a mask that is all business, but too late. Mrs Harris is staring at me, open-mouthed.
I shrug, give her a "What's the matter" kind of face, but she will not be fooled by me. She has known me since I was a baby. Maybe I can deceive Robertson and the girls, but Mrs Harris has read my expression like an open book.
She grabs my hand so hard it hurts and pulls me downstairs and into the kitchen behind her.
"Not so fast!" I complain, but she ignores me.
Mrs Harris rubs her knees for a moment, I can tell that she is in pain, but she chooses to ignore it and is trying to stand a little taller than usually.
"Just one question," she says sharply, "And I demand an honest answer."
Uh-oh. "Sure," I say, trying to make my voice sound lightly.
She grabs my chin and makes me look at her. "Are you sleeping with the Judge?"
"No, of course not," I reply in shocked surprise, freeing myself from her grip. I still blush, thinking about his hands and his mouth and the things he has done.
"Are you telling the truth?" Mrs Harris asks suspiciously.
"Would I lie to you?" I ask disbelievingly.
"I don't know," Mrs Harris says honestly.
All right. I'm offended.
"Has he made you advances?" Mrs Harris inquires, and I can't get rid of the feeling of being interrogated, accused of some kind of obscure crime.
I don't reply right away, trying to think of something to say.
"Oh, Lord!" Mrs Harris sinks down on a nearby chair.
"It's not the way you think," I protest.
"I don't believe you! You're sleeping with him!"
"I'm not!" I shout at her.
I don't believe this. Mrs Harris has been taking care of me like a mother, we've always trusted in each other, and now she thinks I'm lying to her in so important a matter?
"Oh, yes, you are, now stop insulting my intelligence by lying to my face!"
My eyes are filling with tears. I have been struggling with my feelings for the Judge all this time, I have been strong, I did not give myself to him in that cheap room at the brothel, although I wanted him more than anything in the world at that moment, I restrained myself even in his bedroom and my resolution did not falter, all because of Mrs Harris' pep talk on a woman's honour, and all I get is accusations?
"I'm not lying," I say, my voice tear-stricken, sounding very odd.
"Come on, girl, this conversation is getting frustrating now. I have seen the way you looked at him, and I have seen him touch your hand!"
"What can I do to make you believe me?" I ask, tears streaming down my face. "Why don't you trust me?"
Mrs Harris looks at me for a long moment, her eyes still suspicious. I have never lied to her. I have never betrayed her. I thought we trusted each other. Here she is, the closest thing I have to a mother, my most trusted friend and companion, looking at me as if she never knew the real me. What have I done to deserve her anger? Why can't she see I'm not lying? Why doesn't she see it in my eyes? I never thought I could feel so hurt and alone.
"All right," I say slowly, "I may have some… feelings. And he may have some… intentions."
Mrs Harris buries her head in her hands, shaking her head over and over.
"But I haven't done anything wrong," I defend myself, "And he is a gentleman! You're misjudging him!"
"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs Harris scoffs. "Let me tell you one thing, and I'll only say this once. Judge Turpin may be your hero right now because he rescued you from that prick Robertson, he may have good manners and an obscene lot of money. You may even think you're in love with him. But he is a bad man. He is depraved, corrupted, insidious and deceitful. Trust me, you don't want to see his true colours. I know things about him…"
"What things?" I cross my arms in front of my chest. "What are his true colours?" I challenge her.
She shakes her head. "You wouldn't believe me. I'm sure of that. If you did, you would run away from him screaming."
"That's so typical," I say, resignation in every word. She judges him because he recommended Eleanor to the master who got her pregnant and deserted her. Does she even know how much it vexes him? But I can't confront her. I promised. So I shake my head sadly. "Have you even heard his side of whatever story you are unwilling to tell me?"
"I don't need to," she says. "I have no interest in hearing the devil's version of his fall." She looks at me with sad eyes. "But he has seduced you already."
I shake my head in disbelief and frustration. That moment, something breaks between me and my foster mother, something that can never be fixed again. I will never forget that the only person I would have trusted with my life did not believe in me when it counted.
"I have to take down the laundry," I say stiffly, take the laundry basket and head for the court.
Mrs Harris' voice is very small when she addresses me. "Promise me."
I turn around unwillingly. I can't bear to be in the same room with her right now. "What?"
"Promise me, whatever you do, don't give in to him. Your honour is your most precious possession."
I look at her coldly. "I thought you didn't believe me."
Mrs Harris casts her eyes down. "I don't know what I believe any more," she shrugs helplessly.
I hold on to the basket so tightly that my knuckles are white. My voice sounds cool and distant. "Then I have nothing more to say to you."

*

My break with Mrs Harris is the number one topic of gossip among servants in our street by midday. I couldn't care less. I thought I wasn't all alone in the world, I always thought I had Mrs Harris, but apparently, I was mistaken. All I have is the Judge, and I'm not even sure about that. I cling to that thought all through my daily chores. I stand behind a curtain in the library to see him arrive when he gets back from court. He does not know I'm there, he doesn't look at the library window. His gaze sweeps upstairs to the room in which the young lady resides. Constantly worrying about his ward. Lucky her. At least she has someone who cares about her. Does he care that much about me?
I heave a sigh as I carry the tray of food upstairs to the young lady's room. She has excused herself from dinner, claiming she is unwell. I know her disease. The young sailor I see from time to time, in front of the house.
I knock politely, and the young lady asks me in.
She is sitting by the window again.
"Your dinner, mylady," I say.
She waves a hand dismissively. "I'm not hungry," she says.
She is getting so thin, no wonder she faints at every opportunity. "With all due respect, Ma'am, you have to eat to keep up your strength."
She sighs. "Ma'am… oh dear, I'm not sixty! How often have I told you to call me Johanna?"
"That would hardly be appropriate, Ma'am," I say evasively.
"Very well." She glances at me for a long moment. I realize there is something else she wants to say, but she is reluctant to reveal it.
"Anything else, Ma'am?" I ask.
She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"
I shrug. "Of course."
"How well do you know… my guardian?"
I swallow hard, but I keep an even face. "Not very well," I reply, and in a sense, that is true. We haven't talked a lot, have we?
"What is your opinion about him, I mean?"
"I am in no position to…" I begin.
"Do you think he is a good person, or a bad person?" she specifies.
"I think very few people know the Judge's true colours," I reply.
She nods slowly.
There is a long silence. I debate with myself whether to leave it at that and take the tray back downstairs, or to try and persuade her to eat, hoping for a tentative conversation.
"Can I ask you something else?"
I tilt my head curiously. "Go ahead."
"Assuming you heard something during the night… a strange noise, the screech of the front door, the shuffling of feet… would you get up and have a look, or would you just turn a blind eye and go back to sleep?" There is a pleading tone to her voice.
My eyes widen. The young sailor! So she is really considering to elope with him?
She looks so fragile and vulnerable.
I am reminded of my own love, of the obstacles of class and money and reputation. I am strong enough to live with them. The young lady, however, is not. I hope that she will seize the chance to get whatever little happiness life is going to offer to her.
I overstep my boundaries, squeezing her hand. "Your secret is safe with me."
She looks at me gratefully. "Thank you. If there is anything I can do for you…"
I give her a mischievous grin as my eyes linger at the dressing table and all the perfumes and cosmetics the Judge has bought for her. She never uses any of them.
She returns my smile. "Take what you like."

*

It is late in the evening. You'd think it was the end of the world. The rain is pouring down, we have closed all the windows, but the weather is still scary. It is ice-cold outside for the season. I think of Eleanor and her little girl with pneumonia. Was this how she caught it, going out in the rain? You wouldn't turn a dog out of doors in that storm.
Mrs Harris only gives me a suspicious look as she notices my painted face, my shiny hair, the scent of spring flowers on my skin.
I can tell from her expression what she's thinking.
I feel a pang in my chest, but I ignore it best I can.
Slowly, I walk upstairs with the Judge's nightcap.
Suddenly, Robertson blocks my way.
"I will take this," he says.
"But the Judge…" I begin, but he cuts me off.
"You have done enough for the Judge today, don't you think?" Robertson sneers with contempt. "I will inform the Judge that your other duties do not permit you to serve food or drink upstairs. Go back downstairs and wash your face, you look like a whore."
"But…"
He blocks my way. "Go back down," he says warningly.
I don't want to provoke him, so I resign.
However, I remain standing at the foot of the stairs until Robertson disappears. I wait with a pounding heart. How will the Judge react?
After a few minutes, Robertson reappears.
His face is ghastly white.
He ignores my questions and walks down to the kitchen. I follow at his heel.
Mrs Harris and Laura are still busy cleaning the kitchen. They look up in surprise at our sudden appearance.
Robertson opens the door and stares out in the rain bleakly.
"What's the matter, Mr Robertson?" Mrs Harris asks.
Robertson does not answer.
"Has he fired you?" I ask curiously, causing Laura to cry out my name in a shocked way.
Robertson shakes his head mutely.
The cold sweeps into the kitchen, rain starts pouring over the threshold and leaves a big puddle on the floor.
"Come back inside," Mrs Harris tells Robertson, "Close that door."
"I can't," Robertson murmurs. Only now do I see that he is clutching a key. "The Judge has given me orders to get him a casefile from the Old Bailey's."
"NOW?" Laura gasps.
"Yes, now," Robertson confirms.
We all stare out into the rain.
"You are going to take a carriage, aren't you?" Mrs Harris asks.
"The master's orders are explicit regarding to that," Robertson says. "He says a carriage will be too expensive." With a deep sigh, he adds: "I will have to walk."
We look at each other in disbelief. As much as I despise Robertson, I feel a bit sorry for him. He will be drenched the moment he goes out into the rain, he will be all wet and freezing when he gets back. He'll probably catch a very bad cold. Then again, he deserves it, doesn't he?
Robertson takes his coat and walks a few steps into the street.
Suddenly, a window above him opens.
"Mr Robertson," I hear the Judge call out to him softly. I can't see him from where I stand, but his voice alone makes my knees go weak.
"Yes, sir," Robertson replies, turning around.
His face falls as the Judge orders him: "No coat, Mr Robertson."
I stare at Robertson in disbelief. Have I heard the Judge correctly? No [i]coat[/i]?
"Sir, it's raining," Robertson protests weakly. His hair is so wet already it clings to his head.
"I am aware of that, yes," the Judge says calmly. "You may leave your coat on."
Robertson heaves a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."
"And when you get back, you may as well start packing." His tone is still neutral, as if telling his servant to polish the silver before a big dinner party.
Robertson stares at the Judge.
"It is entirely up to you, Mr Robertson."
Robertson hesitates. "I might catch my death, sir," he says, his shoulders trembling.
The Judge sounds unmoved. "Then I suggest you make your decision quickly."
I can't believe what I have just heard.
Robertson's hands are trembling. His face is as white as a sheet as he walks back to the kitchen. He pulls off his coat and hands it to Laura, wordlessly.
Then he walks out into the rain, heading for the street that leads to the Old Bailey's.
We watch him leave.
Mrs Harris closes the door, slamming it shut. "The show is over. Haven't you got work to do?" she hisses.
As she goes back to work, she gives me a warning look. "True colours," she says. That's all.
I am beginning to understand something very important about my relationship with the Judge. To love someone means to see his true colours and not run away screaming.


TBC...