The Invisible Girl

The Invisible Girl

Rating: NC-17
Characters: Judge Turpin, OC
Synopsis: A servant girl in Judge Turpin's household has a mad crush on her employer. But how much does she really know about the object of her desire?
This fic was inspired by the movie "Mary Reilly", telling the story of Jekyll and Hyde from a servant's perspective. I'm trying to do that with "Sweeney Todd". Warning: I'm not a big fan of the "he had such a horrible childhood" take on the Judge, so don't expect any fluff!


I wash his sheets, I put them out into the yard behind the house to dry. When I'm lucky, there are no pigeon stains on them, and I can carry them inside to mangle them. When there are stains, I have to wash them again, which takes a lot of time. If I'm too slow, I don't get my free afternoon once a month. But he takes for granted that I change the sheets every other day. He looks through the windows I have cleaned, but he sees right through them. Never does he notice they sparkle like diamonds. I spend hours on my knees, scrubbing the floors until they shine, but he never notices. Things beneath him escape his notice. And so do I.
He does not know who I am, although I have lived in his house for my whole life. Servant girls are supposed to be invisible. We have to go unnoticed, otherwise Mrs Harris says we're not doing our jobs properly. In the presence of our master, we must never raise our eyes or speak to him unbidden. Robertson, the butler, never ceases to remind us that there are hundreds of girls in the streets practically begging to have our jobs, and that we have to thank the Lord every day of our lives because we are allowed to work here. Especially an orphaned good-for-nothing girl like me.
I would love to tell Robertson to his face one day that he is a smug bastard, not better than the rest of us, only with better shoes. That I won't let him bully me or beat me any more when I make a mistake. But of course that is a fantasy, because doing so would mean leaving this place. Leaving him. The only reason I drag myself out of bed at four o'clock each morning.
He came home early today, telling Mrs Harris that we would be having a guest for dinner. Mrs Harris cursed him for the very short notice because that meant she had to change her plans, go to the marketplace once again, stand in the kitchen for longer to make a sumptious dinner, and all that with her arthritis. All afternoon, I prayed that the guest would not be Beadle Bamford. I needn't have bothered. Of course it was him. I hate him. He ogles my breasts when I take the plates to the kitchen after dinner, and when he thinks no one is looking, he makes obscene gestures or tries to grope me. I find him repelling, the little rat with his long, dirty fingernails and beady eyes. I don't know why he entertains a friendship with such a despicable man. However, when he has guests, that usually means I get to help at the table, not just carrying off dirty plates. I get to be in the dining room for long enough to get a glimpse of him. It is the little triumphs I enjoy most, like the day I figured out the colour of his eyes, which takes a lot of skill when you're not allowed to look at someone directly. Since that day, his eyes never leave my thoughts.
"Hey, you're not daydreaming again, are you?" Mrs Harris tears me from my reverie in a harsh voice.
"No, of course not," I hurry to say. Mrs Harris doesn't like me daydreaming about the Judge and always chides me when she catches me. She loathes him, although she'd never admit it. If she had ever said a word to me about what she dislikes about him, I might even understand her. I know, I'm crazy, he doesn't even know I exist, and if he did, it wouldn't make a difference. Mrs Harris means well. But she can't see that this daydream is all I have.
She pushes a tray with three soup bowls into my hands.
"Take that upstairs," she says. "Hurry!"
I give her a sympathetic look. When I get to carry the soup, it means she stays downstairs because her knees are bothering her too much. "Does it hurt a lot?" I ask compassionately.
She shakes her head unwillingly. "Don't stand around gaping, silly girl, Robertson's already pissed because I'm sending you to help. Hang on," she adds, "I almost forgot." With a satisfied grin, she bends over the tray and spits into the soup bowl on the left hand side. "This one's for the Great Judge Turpin," she instructs me.
I look at her with a shocked expression. "You can't do that!"
"Ah, you're right - good thinking!" she adds, and stirs the soup with a spoon until there are no traces of her crime.
I stand staring, too embarrassed to move. "But Mrs Harris," I protest weakly.
She shrugs. "What? He deserves it!"
"Why?" I ask helplessly.
She ushers me towards the door. "Why, why, young people always want to know why! Don't ask questions if you're not prepared to hear the answers! Lookin' down on us, they do. Now run, quick, quick!"
I hasten up the stairs. Robertson is already waiting.
"How good of you to join us," he says condescendingly.
"Sorry," I whisper, and follow him into the dining room.
They are seated at the long table. Beadle Bamford, leering at me as soon as I enter, the young lady, beautiful and pale, fragile like very expensive china, and… my heart skips a beat… the Judge, imperiously at the head of the table. He's wearing the dark brown frock coat tonight, with the patterned waistcoat and black necktie. I get only a glimpse of the white starched shirt, at the collar. I starch all of his shirts, and you never see much of them. I tear my eyes away from the master of the house and follow Robertson. He has provided everyone with wine and now announces: "Mulligatawny soup."
I approach the table stiffly.
Judge Turpin makes a comment about a case he dismissed in the morning.
"I do not know what goes on in women's heads these days," he says in a slightly annoyed tone, "I cannot believe that impertinent woman had the nerve to ask me for a divorce from her perfectly acceptable husband!"
"Maybe her husband was not kind to her," the young lady suggests.
He smiles at her. Oh, why can't he smile at me like that but once? I would die and go to heaven! "My dear Johanna," he says in a very patronizing tone, "You are yet ignorant of the world."
"Yeah, thanks to you," she murmurs in so low a voice that only I can hear her because I'm standing right next to her.
The young lady's eyes drift elsewhere, as if she was not there at all, punishing the Judge with her refusal to follow the conversation. Beadle Bamford pretends to listen carefully, nodding, smiling, but as soon as I pass him, his hand is at my rear.
"If you ask me," the Beadle says sycophantically, squeezing my cheek, "it is that woman's own fault if her husband is beating her up! You were so right to dismiss that case!"
It takes all my composure not to jump and spill the soup. He grins at me suggestively.
With a forced smile, I put the left soup bowl in front of him.
He doesn't wait for the others to receive their soup, but begins to eat hungrily. I think of Mrs Harris' special ingredient and feel better.
I put another soup bowl in front of the Judge, my hand shaking slightly, but he does not take notice of me. As always. I suppress a sigh as I walk around the table and put the third bowl in front of the young lady.
"Thank you," she says with a sweet smile and even adds my name. She always remembers the names of the servants.
"Johanna," the Judge says harshly. The tone of his voice startles me, but I remember to step back from the table and melt into the background, once again, invisible.
The young lady is startled, too. She almost drops her spoon. "Yes, Sir?" she says.
"What have I told you?" he says, his voice suddenly taking on a soft tone, as if mildly chiding a five-year-old.
"I remember very well, Sir," she replies politely, "You told me not to say 'thank you' to the servants. I apologize, I forgot."
She turns her attention back to the soup, eating as little as a sparrow.
"God, this soup is delicious," Beadle Bamford says with satisfaction and orders a second helping, inquiring politely: "Do you happen to know, does Mrs Harris have a new recipe?" I cannot help but smile. I shake my head mutely. Of course, as I fetch the bowl with his second helping, his hand is at my rear again, squeezing tightly. I curse the repugnant frog in my mind, but my eyes are on the Judge. His attention is turned to his food, I doubt he knows what his companion is doing, and if I'm completely honest, I doubt he would care.
The young lady lays her spoon aside. She hasn't eaten half her soup, but that doesn't surprise me. She's almost as thin as I am.
I collect the soup bowls.
"My compliments to Mrs Harris," the Beadle says, showing yellow, crooked teeth. "I bet if that woman at court today made such a wonderful Mullagatawney soup as your Mrs Harris, her husband would not have beaten her!"
"You are too kind, my friend," the Judge says politely.
The young lady looks at the two men with disgust.
Ouch! Robertson's elbow is at my waist. "Water," he hisses.
Of course. I grab the crystal carafe and pour some water into the glass next to the young lady.
She looks up at me and smiles, nodding her head.
The gesture does not go unobserved by the Judge, he gives her a dark look for thanking me, but he holds his peace. I make sure to keep my distance from the Beadle this time, as I pour some water into his glass, although he never drinks it, he sticks to the wine that lowers his inhibitions with the minute.
"I get ten of those cases every week," the Judge continues, "Wives who want to divorce their husbands, even wives who have their children with them, knowing they will be unprovided without a father!" He shakes his head. "I do not know what women expect from marriage nowadays."
The young lady's eyes become lively with passion. "Love, Sir!" she exclaims enthusiastically.
Judge Turpin cocks an eyebrow at his ward. "Love?" He frowns. "What do you know of love?" There is a jealous, suspicious undertone in his words. I don't know if anyone but me can hear it, but I know his voice, I distinguish all of his moods in his tone.
"Nothing, Sir," she says, a little too fast, a blush spreading over her cheeks. "I was just thinking… it's what I want in a marriage. A man who loves me," she adds defiantly.
I wonder if her odd behaviour had something to do with the young man I spotted in front of the house this morning. Judge Turpin hasn't noticed him yet, but the young man is always watching the windows, hoping for the young lady to appear. A look at her guilty face tells me it's true. Poor young lady – her love is as hopeless as mine.
"You have not thought it through, Johanna," he says, clearly hinting for her to correct her statement.
"Oh yes, I have," she protests politely, "Money doesn't matter to me. My husband could be as poor as churchmice, as long as he loved me above everything!"
"That's enough," the Judge says, his face a mask, "I will not have you contradict me in front of our guest. Go to your room."
Uh-oh. I know this tone on him, it's dangerous, perfectly calm, but he's boiling underneath. The best moment for the young lady to back off would be… now. I realize that Judge Turpin's glass is empty, and Robertson is looking daggers at me already. With a trembling hand, I hold the carafe over the Judge's glass.
The young lady gets up from her chair slowly, dropping her napkin on the table. "I wonder what you would know of love… Father."
Oh God. He has forbidden her to call him that. It makes him furious, and she knows it. His face goes white with rage.
And then it happens. My hands are shaking, the carafe slips from my grip and knocks over the glass, its content spilling over the Judge's lap. With a strangled cry, I set the carafe on the table, staring at my master's wet trousers, horrified.
I'm in a state of shock.
Without thinking, I sink to my knees, trying to repair the damage; I grab the napkin and try to soak up the water with it, rubbing frantically.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry!" I exclaim.
The sound of my own voice cuts through my panic. I get a grip on myself and, at the same time, I wish I didn't. I'm on the floor, on my knees, in front of Judge Turpin, my hands over his crotch, and everyone's staring at me in expressions of surprise, shock, and mortification. I hope against hope that the earth will swallow me any moment now, but it doesn't. I'm still here.
I know I'm not supposed to raise my eyes when I'm in my master's presence, but since the alternative would be to keep my gaze on his trousers, I slowly dare to look up at him. I expect him to be furious, I've heard stories from other servants who claimed they got a whipping for less than what I have just done, so I brace myself for his anger. I wonder which would be worse, to be beaten, or to be turned away.
To my surprise, all rage fades from his expression the moment our eyes lock.
"I'm so sorry," I repeat, in a whisper this time.
He takes the napkin from my hands and folds it, then puts it back to the table. Just that. Nothing else. My world stands still as I try to read his gaze, but find myself getting lost in his eyes.
"Don't you have work to do?" he asks coldly.
As quickly as possible, I rise from the floor and try to smoothe my ruffled dress with my hands. I hurry out of the dining room, hearing his dark laughter as I close the door behind me. My heart is beating so fast I begin to feel faint, and my knees are weak, but I'm happy, so happy. Robertson's shadow falls over me.
His face is bright red. "You stupid little girl," he thunders, "Can't you do anything right?" He slaps me hard.
My cheek hurts like hell, Mrs Harris gasps when she sees the imprint of his hand in my face, the servants gossip about it all week, but still, it is the happiest week I have spent in the house of the Great Judge Turpin. I'm no longer invisible.

*

I try not to think about him every day, which is hard when everything in the house reminds me of him. Today is the sixth day after the evening I became visible. I haven't had a chance to help at the table, and Robertson has been giving me all the nasty tasks in and around the house. I haven't even seen the Judge all week.
At least I'm allowed to dust the shelves in the library today. I feel his presence there more strongly than in the other rooms because he spends a lot of time with his books. I don't know what kind of books they are. Although my mother thought it very important to teach me how to read, I have never dared to touch them, except to dust the spines occasionally. He has collected them from all over the world. I wonder if he has seen many exotic countries. I only got as far as Greenwich.
Perhaps these books contain stories from those countries.
I run the duster over the shelves. The books smell of rich leather and old parchment. I hesitate for a moment. There is no one around. The other maids are busy with their daily chores, Mrs Harris is down at the marketplace, and Robertson is supervising the piano tuner. He probably thinks the poor man is going to steal some silver spoons. It is the perfect opportunity to have a look. I check the door before my fingers close around one of the books. I pull it out and put it on the table very carefully. I sit down in one of the comfortable leather chairs. I open the cover and glance at the page. There is hardly any text, but a huge picture that makes me catch my breath.
The picture shows a young couple, gazing at each other longingly, eyes locked. From the looks of it, they are in a country far away – oil lamps, heavy curtains and carpets with patterns reminiscient of exotic flowers, the way I have always imagined the Arabian Nights. The man is bearded, wearing a precious turban adorned with diamonds and pearls, and heavy golden necklaces, the woman, beautiful with long dark curls, painted face and nails, is hung with expensive jewelry, earrings, an amulet on a long chain that dangles down to her breasts. Other than that, they are nude. She is on top of him, their bodies entwined so I can hardly recognize where she ends and he begins. My heartbeat is racing as I turn the pages. The danger of getting caught enters my mind only very briefly, but if anything, it adds to the excitement. More drawings. Descriptions. Embraces, kisses, preludes, positions. I know I should feel repelled by the book, but in a way I can't explain, I'm drawn to it, I can't put it back on the shelf, I have to look at those pictures, read the words. I'm obsessed with the book. My mind wanders as I read the words and take in the details of the drawings, my thoughts are inexorably drawn to a pair of hazel eyes I found myself looking into, and when my eyes scan the lines on the pages, it is the Judge's voice I hear in my head, reciting the texts, my breath is flat and fast. Another drawing, of a couple seated on a bed. The knot of the woman's dress is loose, the man is in front of her, while one of his hands is on her naked thigh, the other one at the joint of her thighs, and his head is inclined to her ear, whispering things to her, and in my head it is the Judge's voice whispering to me…
"Do you like what you see?"
The words are spoken in a low, soft voice, but they ring in my ears. My first impulse is flight, but I'm seated in a chair at the table, the precious book open in front of me, and I don't need to turn around to know he's blocking the door. I've been caught red-handed. If there is one rule a servant must never break, it is to violate your master's privacy. It just isn't done.
"The master is back early," I say helplessly. I'm a dead woman. Oh, and a dead, unemployed woman at that.
He moves through the room like a predator and stands behind me. Oh, God. Now he can see what I have been looking at.
"You. Haven't. Answered. My. Question," he says, stressing every word.
The words barely register with me.
My mouth is so dry I can't speak.
His hands come down to the armrests of the chair, his face is so close to my ear I can feel his breath in my hair.
"I… I am not entitled to an opinion about…" I stumble.
He cuts me off. "But you are entitled to roaming through my private possessions?"
I draw in a sharp breath. "No, sir," I admit.
"Then you might as well answer my question," he says silkily.
"The master has a very impressive collection of books," I reply neutrally.
"And you have been particularly impressed by this one," he comments.
The picture of the couple is still in front of me on the table, and we are both looking at it now. I close my eyes to shut out the images that rise in my mind unbidden, in a desperate attempt to get my frantic heartbeat and my panting breath under control.
"Open your eyes," he commands, and I do not dare to disobey at this point. So I look at the picture.
That is when the Judge's hand leaves the armrest and his fingertips touch my shoulder. He runs his fingers along my neck, curls a strand of my hair around his index finger and remains completely still for a long moment, as if to contemplate what to do next.
He looks at my face. The skin is still a bit red where Robertson slapped me, and that is what makes the Judge realize who I am. He caresses my cheek, so softly, where the behated maior domus hit me.
"I know you," he says in a casual tone, as if chatting with a guest at a party. "You were at the dinner with Beadle Bamford." I stiffen in the chair as he mentions the name.
"Yes," I manage to say.
"You seemed to think I required a bath," he says, but there is no smile, not around his lips and not in his voice. Instead, he begins to pass his hand over my shoulders and arms, then over my belly. Just like that.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, totally in the dark about what he wants to hear, or what all of this means. "I… I overstepped my boundaries, I…"
"Don't you apologize to me," he says harshly, "Now I'm going to overstep mine," and his fingers find the top buttons of my dress as he pushes me deeper into the chair, I gasp as he shoves his hands underneath the coarse fabric of my simple woolen dress and runs his thumbs over my nipples, instantly hardened by his rough touch, but I don't move, for fear of waking up to find all of this a crazy dream. So I just yield to him, feel his hands on my skin and hope that his desire will make him forget that I'm just a servant girl, so much beneath him that he should not even look at me twice. The stubble on his cheek grazes the sensitive skin on my neck, but I couldn't care less.
My eyes drift from the table towards the window. I can see our images reflected in the window panes. I look like a street whore, with my top buttons undone, my glowing cheeks and hooded eyes, and the Judge towering over me, his hands on my breasts, but it is a display more erotic than all the drawings in his library taken together.
He follows my gaze, smiling condescendingly.
Then he freezes.
His fingers stop moving.
He looks past our reflection and into the street.
I, too, can spot the young man.
He hasn't noticed us because his gaze is directed to one of the upper windows. He's nodding, smiling, gazing at the window longingly.
It is the young lady's window.
Judge Turpin turns away hastily.
"Get dressed, and get out," he says coldly. "I have urgent business to attend to, and I need the library."
I feel dreadful. I should have known better. Dreams never come true. "Yes, sir," I reply despondently, but just when I am about to leave, he speaks.
"I'm going to tell Robertson not to hit you in the face the next time."
I dare to gaze at him, although I don't manage without blushing. "Thank you." I'm not done cleaning the library, but I can do that tomorrow, on Monday, when the Judge will be back at court.
And then he is close behind me.
"I expect you to finish the job tomorrow," he hisses into my ear.

TBC...