The Invisible Girl

Chapter 5

Author's note: there is no authentic evidence or reliable source to prove that the droit de seigneur custom referred to in this chapter ever really existed in the Middle Ages. It might just be a myth. Same goes for the G-spot – but how is a 19th-century Victorian housemaid supposed to know?

I hear the ticking of the clock. No one in the kitchen has said anything since Robertson was sent to the Old Bailey's, which isn't exactly just around the corner. It will be a while before he gets back. I don't like him, but I'm still worried. Walking to the Old Bailey's in this weather can't be good. The Judge has rung the bell to summon a servant twice. I am strangely calm and resolved as I take the tray with a glass of port and slowly walk upstairs. Mrs Harris' pleading voice during this morning's conversation is still ringing in my ears. Promise me, whatever you do, don't give in to him. It pains me that we are no longer talking to each other. But I am still reasonably sure that she is misjudging our master. I still tremble at his cruelty of sending Robertson out into the cold and the rain, but a small, wicked part of me thinks that he is only getting what he deserved. Still, I am going to talk to the Judge. Miserable old fool that Robertson is, I don't want him to lose his job. Times is hard in London these days.
The heavy carpet swallows my steps as I approach the Judge's rooms. Outside, the storm is still raging, and every bout of thunder startles me. The storm is very close now.
"It is about time," his voice greets me through the closed door before I can raise a hand to knock. I open the door and close it behind me.
The Judge is standing by the window, gazing out into the darkness, watching the rain pour down into the street. His frock coat is draped over the armrests of the chair. The top buttons of his shirt are undone, the cravat is only tied loosely around his neck. The dim embers of the fire cast an orange glow on his skin. I am standing in the ghostly shadow his tall form casts on the wall. I give him a shy little smile.
"Your port, sir," I say quietly.
"Thank you," he replies.
"I wanted to thank you," I begin, "For what you did this morning. No one has ever done that for me, you know."
He looks at me expectantly. "Are you hurt?"
I shake my head. "Just a couple of bruises. But…" I hesitate. "About Robertson. I know it's none of my business, but… I think sending him to the Old Bailey's now without a coat was sort of a harsh punishment, wasn't it?" I shrug helplessly. "I mean… as far as I'm concerned, that was punishment enough. Please don't fire him."
"You never cease to amaze me," the Judge says gently. "The bastard would have beaten you into a bloody pulp, and still you speak to me on his behalf."
I shrug. "I try to see the good in people."
He slowly walks up to me and pulls me close to him, cupping my cheek with his hand. "And what do you see in me, my pet?"
I draw in a sharp breath. "You are my employer, I am in no position to express any thoughts about you," I say evasively. Being that close to him makes it hard to form a coherent thought anyway.
"True," he says, while his fingers slowly move to the nape of my neck where my dress is buttoned. "But there must be something you see in my. Something you feel when I touch you." He kisses my forehead. "When I kiss you." His lips brush mine.
I close my eyes in almost physical pain. "When you touch me…" I say, the words coming out more ragged than I had intended. "…I long for you so badly I almost forget to breathe." I stare at him wide-eyed, like a frightened rabbit stares at the snake. I have overstepped my boundaries, yet again. I should not have told him. "Forgive me, sir," I whisper and cast my eyes down. "I had no right to…"
He chuckles softly into my hair. "I did ask you, after all," he says. His fingers unbutton the back of my dress. I feel his hands on my waist, untying the knot that keeps my starched apron together. Effortlessly, he slides it over my head and arms. He is stroking the bare skin of my back, tracing his fingers down my spine until I gasp.
"Your port," I remind him.
Judge Turpin is looking at me with a bemused expression. "Actually, the port is for you," he confesses.
I swallow hard. "For me?"
"I was hoping it would help you… relax," he says with a smile. "In case you would like to keep me company tonight."
A jolt runs through me at his words. He has stopped playfully trying to seduce me. I will have to make the decision tonight. I feel overwhelmed. Thoughts are racing through my head. Oh God, if I give in to a moment of weakness tonight, it can never be undone, and if I don't, I will ask myself for the rest of my life what would have become of me if I had stayed. "Please," I whimper, meaning, 'Please, don't ask me to'.
My agitation is not lost on him. He takes the crystal port glass from its silver tray and presses it into my hand. "I'm in no rush, my sweet. Sit down. Have a glass of port. I'll be back in a minute, all right?"
He gives me an ever-so-innocent kiss on the cheek and leaves through the door that leads to the adjoining bathroom.
I sink into the chair. I am panting heavily, drinking down the red liquid like water. What am I to do now? My first impulse is to run from the room, slam the door, gather my few belongings and look for a new job. At least, then I won't have to make that decision any more. What scares me most is that I am more terrified of myself than of him. I have heard all kinds of tales about the famous – or infamous - first time, behind closed doors, in the private conversations of gossipping housemaids. They say it hurts like hell, they say you're bleeding, and they say you'll never find a husband again in your whole life if you give yourself to a man before you are married. I wonder whether there will ever be a husband about whom I will feel the same way I feel about the Judge now. I sincerely doubt it. My whole day and the better part of my sleepless nights center around his eyes. The gossip about the pain and the blood scares me. But then, there are those other stories. Of gentle whispers in the dark, of bodies moving to a silent rhythm no one else can hear. Stories of flying, of plunging into darkness, of being consumed by fire, stories of lovers and dreamers.

I am shivering all over, unsure whether it is from fear or from the cold. I realize that the Judge's frock coat is still draped over the armrest. I take it and wrap myself in it to keep me from shivering. It smells of him. I draw in his scent and wrap the frock coat around me more tightly, my hands finding the pockets. But what… My fingers close around a small box.
I still hear the Judge rummaging in the bathroom. I think it is reasonably safe to take the tiny box out of the pocket. I open it curiously.
A half-hoop ring of yellow gold, with five diamonds set between pairs of diamond points is sparkling in the firelight like stars.
It is the most beautiful piece of jewelery I have ever seen in my life, although many ladies have been here to dinner with their husbands and fathers. The light of the fire is reflected in the dazzling facets of the gem.
My eyes fill with tears. This is not really happening. I must be dreaming. He is the Great Judge Turpin, and what am I? I am a servant, a maid with no hopes of ever having fortune or fame, I am utterly beneath him, and yet here he is, hiding a jewelery box from me. This must be a figment of my imagination. He cannot be proposing to me. I am totally and utterly beneath him.
I am startled as he is suddenly back in the room with me.
I jump from the chair. "I'm so sorry," I gasp, "I didn't mean to…" I half-expect him to be offended, but he isn't.
"I meant to tell you later," he admits, "But now that you've already discovered my little secret…do you like it?" he asks with a playful smile.
"It's magical," I whisper. "It looks like a magic ring out of a fairy tale."
He looks satisfied. "I am glad you approve of my choice. Have you tried it on?"
My heart seems to stand still. I must have misheard him.
"Please," he says, gesturing at the box, "I was not sure about the size, you would really do me a great favour by trying it on."
With trembling hands, I hold out the box to him. "Will you put it on my finger, then?" I ask, my voice shaking with excitement.
"If you wish," he says. I still feel like in an impossible fairy tale as he kneels down in front of me and takes my hands in his. My hands are cold. "My love," he says softly, "Will you answer me one question: do you believe a beautiful, charming young woman, left alone, orphaned in a hostile world… a woman just like you, my pet… could be prevailed upon to… bind herself to an elderly but not penniless gentleman – such as myself?"
My heart is so full of joy I burst into tears. "Yes," I whisper, "I should definitely think so." I can hardly think clearly. Mrs Harris was so wrong. God, even I was so wrong! I never dared to hope, never dared to dream… He loves me. I will never sweep floors or clean windows any more, I will never have to endure the Beedle's advances, or Robertson's violence, but I couldn't care less because at this perfect moment, all that matters is that he loves me. I cry harder as all the tension drains out of me. The judge rises and sits down in the chair again, pulling me to his lap. The ring sparkles on my finger. It is my size. It is perfect.
"I'm so silly," I manage to say between sobs, "I should be so happy… no, I AM happy, but still, I can't stop crying! This is so sudden, I never expected…"
He shakes his head at my foolish weeping and silences me with a kiss. "How can it be sudden when two people have been living in the same household for so long, seeing each other every day… stealing glances during the meals… heaving little sighs while longingly staring at the beloved's windows…" He has a way of saying the right things at the perfect time.
I want to freeze time. I want to stay in this moment forever. In twenty years' time, when I think of the Judge and our time together, I will think of this very moment. He kisses my face, kisses away my tears.
He smiles at me and whispers in a conspiratory voice, "Let's keep this our little secret for the moment, right? I want Johanna to hear it from me first, not from some gossiping servant. I don't want to upset her."
I nod. "The young lady is a wonderful person," I reply, "I believe she will be overjoyed at the news." I give the ring on my finger a last, approving look. "Let's put this back in the box until you get to tell Johanna all about it," I suggest, slipping the ring from my finger.
"You're one clever woman," the Judge says approvingly. As he takes the box from my hand to put it back in his pocket, our fingers touch. An electric current is running through me.
The faint scent of French cologne surrounds him. It is intoxicating. Outside, a lightning bold lights up the room in sudden brightness, the thunder rolls only the fraction of a second later. The thunderstorm must be so close now. His hands are popping open my remaining buttons leisurely, one by one. I get up to stand on trembling legs. I step out of my discarded dress. Shoes, stockings, underwear, corset, apron, all in one big pile on the floor, he undresses me so slowly it is torture. I cannot speak or move. I feel almost feverish at his tenderness and the strength with which he sweeps me up in his arms and carries me to the four-poster bed. In the flashes of lightning that seem to come with the minute now, I see him undress, quickly, all the while watching me with hungry eyes. I tense up as he joins me on the bed, but he lets out a confident little laugh. "I keep my promises," he whispers. "We won't be doing anything you're not ready for." The rain is pouring down outside as if the world is going under. The wind is driving the rain through the streets, I can hear it over the growling of the thunder. The shadows of the trees are swaying dangerously. His kisses are more desperate now. I'm reluctant to touch him, for fear of encouraging things that might get out of hand.
My voice is shaking. "I was taught that some things are just to be shared between husband and wife." I can barely form a coherent sentence, so distracting are his fingers, touching my delicate skin in places I blush to even think of.
His hands pull my thighs apart, his body weight pins me heavily down to the bed. "So was I," he says in a ragged whisper, "Relax, my love. Will you allow me to kiss you again? Like this morning?"
I lie back in the silk sheets and pillows with closed eyes, my breath a little steadier, now that I know he will respect my wishes, but not for long. My eyes fly open as the Judge slides down my body, running his hands lazily over my waist and hips, down my thighs. He gently places the heels of his hands against my thighs. I know how it feels, I shiver with anticipation, but it is different this time. He flicks his tongue over my little pearl, at the same time running his long fingers over my folds, teasing, parting them, probing a finger into my wet depths. I cry out softly as waves of pleasure flood through my body. I expect the blissful feeling of my release, but it won't come. I'm almost there, but he keeps me at that point, slowing down, then teasing again, building up my tension, my arousal, then again his tongue leaves my little pearl and licks little paths along my thigh, ignoring my writhing under him, my almost physical, throbbing pain.
I whimper with frustration, but he pretends he can't see my distress. He moves to lie beside me and runs his hand to the juncture of my thighs playfully, but carefully evading the most delicate places that would give me release. I cannot bring myself to ask him to touch me there, or kiss me there again, so I cling to him, hoping the arousal will subside, but just when I think he will never give me the much-needed release, he slips a finger into me, making me gasp. I moan in protest as he withdraws his hand and resumes to kiss my lips, to caress my body. Another flash of lightning, I see the muscles of his arms, like white marble, the arms that hold me, and the hands that drive me insane. He kisses my breasts and neck, his hair brushes my face, and before I know, his body is pressing harder on my thighs, his hand assaults my aching centre, expert fingers teasing my little pearl until my head falls back in agony. His fingers are so close, but only just out of reach, so I arch my hips against his hand, his fingertips touch my clit, oh God, yes, the pent up energy so short before its release, and just when I think I'm there, his hand withdrawn just a little. My muscles tighten. I am only half aware that I buck my hips against his hand, spreading my legs further, because the teasing turns into a merciless rhythm, I'm hot and cold, approaching the familiar, scary and wonderful climax, it washes over me, for some rapid, shallow breaths, my body is arching with pleasure. I'm in the grip of the most powerful feelings of my life. Then it all happens very fast. His weight shifts, I feel him between my thighs, and he pushes full length inside me, thrusting quick and hard. I give a strangled cry, try to rear up, but he holds me down, it is too late as my orgasm burns my body and soul like liquid fire, I feel no pain because the pleasure is running through my veins, drowning every other feeling, but as soon as the pleasure ebbs into a warm, fuzzy feeling and total relaxation, my eyes lock on his, the hurt of betrayal a silent accusation, but he doesn't see, his eyes are hooded with desire, he thrusts into me, pounds into me mercilessly, his hands squeezing my hips roughly, too hard, too fast, until he finds his own release in my arms.
For a while, the only sound in his room is his breath, first shallow and fast, then getting slower, more steady. I'm lying in the dark, feeling the warmth of his body and the damp sheets.
"You made a promise," I say, after a while. I try to make it sound reproachful, but it comes as mildly chiding.
"I lied," he says levelly.
"So I noticed." The rain is still tapping on the window panes. "Why?"
It takes a long while for him to reply. I feel the mattress shift under his weight as he moves closer to me, his face is now next to mine. "Are you in any pain, love? Are you sore?"
I shake my head slowly.
"That is why." His lips brush mine. "If you had known, you would have tensed up." He raises one hand to touch my breasts. My skin responds to his touch. "It would have been very painful." He squeezes my nipple so tightly I gasp. He gives me a wicked little smile. "But this way…" His voice sinks down to a ragged whisper. "… you were all wet and ready, all sighs and moans and little cries of pleasure… It was better this way, don't you agree?"
It is too dark for him to see me blush, and I'm upset with myself for blushing, for what reason do I have now? His fingers find their way down my belly to the nest of curls, but I don't want to make it that easy, although my treacherous body is even now longing for the touch of his fingers, even for the feel of his hard length inside of me… I push the thought to the back of my mind. "Still, we're not married," I say, weakly.
"Are you familiar with a legal term that is called droit de seigneur?" he asks casually, as if chatting with some of his educated gentlemen guests at a party. I can hardly form a thought right now, I shiver. He slips a finger inside of my still-wet centre, sliding over the front wall as if feeling for something in particular, though I have no idea what. But he still keeps chatting as if this was a casual drawing room conversation. He takes my silence for a no.
"It goes back to medieval times," he explains, circling my sensitive inner walls with his finger. "It is a term used to describe an alleged legal right allowing the lord of an estate to spend the first night with the estate's virgin brides."
I shudder involuntarily, not so much from his words, but from the feel of his fingertip on a most sensitive area inside of me.
"Some may call this custom barbaric," he drawls. I close my eyes, giving in to the feel of what he is doing to me. "However, laying down their precious virginity to more experienced hands…" His experienced hands are taking me closer to another peak. "… used to spare them a lot of pain and displeasure from their pimpled, unknowing and egoistical young husbands."
It does not take longer than a few moments before I come against him again, the thunder is drowning my screams, and he's slowing down, drawing out my pleasure, pressing kisses along my forehead as my trembling subsides, leaving me exhausted.
"I have to leave for court very early in the morning," he says after a while. "I won't wake you."
I snuggle against him, already half asleep, forgetting that I actually have to get up for work. "Do wake me," I murmur, "Let me make your breakfast."
"Not tomorrow," he insists. "I have an important trial. A vicious thief who has been stealing repeatedly. You know, society has to be protected from such individuals, lest they become murderers one day."
I nod agreement. "Good thing you're here to keep us safe… my love."

*

The day begins with cloudy skies and a chill that creeps into my bones as I wake up. The Judge has already left. The harsh morning light makes me see the mess we made last night. My hair looks as if I'd been out in the storm last night. My clothes are scattered on the floor between the chair and the bed. My heart skips a beat as I see the stains and a few drops of dried blood on the white sheets.
One glance at the clock tells me I overslept. My heartbeat is racing. Noises on the stairs. Probably Mrs Harris coming up to change the sheets! Oh God…

*

The door flies open.
Mrs Harris stares at me open-mouthed. "I didn't realize you'd come up already!" She is holding a pile of fresh-smelling clean sheets. Dropping it on the bed, she looks at me reproachfully. "Girl, you know how I disapprove of violence, but right now I really want to slap you! Stupid, silly girl!"
I cast my eyes down guility.
But Mrs Harris is not done ranting. "You could have told me you have changed the sheets already, it would have spared me the way up those stairs with my arthritis!" She is rubbing her knees as if to show how much she is hurting.
"I'm sorry," I say lamely.
"You young people, never think twice about your actions! Now where are the old sheets? Let me take them down to the laundry at least."
"I've already done that," I say quickly, praying that Mrs Harris won't look under the bed.
She gives me an approving look – which turns into suspicion immediately. "You're not trying to impress the Judge with your work again, are you?"
I shake my head. "Please, Mrs Harris, we've had this conversation!" Besides, I have other ways to impress the Judge, but I'll be damned if I say that aloud.
"Right. I'm sorry," Mrs Harris replies. "Look… I didn't want to accuse you of anything, sweety. I was just worried. I know you're a good, decent girl, and you'd never play the harlot for the master."
"Thank you," I say sincerely. But my nagging conscience tells me I should feel ashamed, so I look away and begin to clean the windows.
"The bastard," Mrs Harris adds.
I'm almost afraid to ask. "Why?"
"Haven't you heard?" Mrs Harris inquires. "Poor Robertson is down with pneumonia. And all because of some stupid case file the bastard of a master made him fetch from the Old Bailey's. I do hope the case is worth it."
I think of Eleanor's little girl, barely able to breathe. As much as I hate Robertson, he doesn't deserve to be that ill.
"The Judge hinted yesterday that he was convicting a most heinous criminal today, a vicious thief," I tell her in order to redeem the Judge just a little.
"He's still a bastard," Mrs Harris insists. "He went to see the young lady this morning. She's been crying her eyes out since. Hasn't even had breakfast."
I feel the heat rise into my face. Did he tell her about the ring? Does she fear that a servant rising above her will endanger her position in this household? I have to talk to her immediately. I have to tell her she has nothing to dread from me. She has always been so good to me. "I'll go," I offer. "Maybe I can persuade her to eat a little." I gently put an arm around my foster mother's shoulders to lead her out of the bedroom, away from the stained sheets under the bed. "Why don't you go downstairs and look after Robertson? See if you can do anything for him."
Mrs Harris pats my cheek. "You're such a good girl. I'm so sorry for what I said the other day."
I practically flee from her.
The door to the young lady's room is locked.
I knock softly.
I just hear someone crying softly.
"Mylady?" I ask.
"Go away!" Johanna sobs.
"Johanna," I say in a more familiar tone, "It's me."
I hear something stir inside, a weight lifted from the bed, then the door is unlocked.
Johanna's eyes are red and puffed with weeping. Her hair is damp with sweat. She has never looked more desperate in her life.
I close the door behind me.
"Oh God, I'm so glad you're here!" she cries, throwing herself into my arms, shaking with heavy sobs. "You're my only friend in this world!"
I speak to her soothingly, but it takes a while until she calms down.
"Is there anything wrong? Have you had a row with the young sailor?" I ask slowly.
Johanna's face briefly lights up at my mentioning her secret admirer. "Anthony? No, he's wonderful. He wants me to go away with him, tonight!" Then a shadow falls over her face. "But my guardian… he will never let me go. Oh, God, I'm so scared!" She takes my hand. "This morning, he came to my room. Said he had great plans for the future. That I, young and orphaned as I am, must be protected in the fold of a real family."
I hesitate to push the matter any further. Does she disapprove of me? I have to know. "And that's not what you want."
"No!" Johanna exclaims. "He doesn't want to protect me! He's crazy! Look at this…" She fetches a small item from her bedstand. My heart sinks, I want to deny it is the same little boy he presented to me last night, but it is. "HE PROPOSED TO ME!" She pops it open to show me my ring… no… her ring. "BUT I DON'T WANT HIM!" She bursts into tears.
I hold Johanna in my arms and let her cry. After a while, my own tears start falling. She hugs me tightly. "Oh, my dear loyal friend," she gasps, "I'm so grateful for your compassion. You're such a tender, loving soul. You're even crying over my misery."
One of life's little ironies. She loathes the ring I so desperately long for. Here we are, both crying, about my craving the embrace that she shuns.
"What did you tell him?" I finally manage to ask.
"I'm stalling him," she admitted. "He mistook my crying for tears of joy, and I told him I was too moved and agitated right then, that I needed more time. He told me I had until tomorrow morning to make up my mind. I hope to be miles away by then. Anthony's coming for me tonight. He's off to ask some friend of his to hide me until he gets back with the carriage, some barber on Fleet Street, I forget his name." She clasps my hands. "Now all I need to do is get out of here unnoticed." She takes a deep, excited breath. "I know this is a lot to ask, given that my guardian is your employer, and you must be very fond of him, but… will you help me?"
You made a promise…
I lied.
I squeeze her hand. "Of course."
"Tonight it is, then."
"Tonight."

TBC...