am going.’
The woman shrugged, but her face was disappointed. It wasn’t the first time that Phoebe had been approached in such a way and she now knew that it was a common practice for the brothels who populated the winding old streets around Covent Garden to send old bawds out on the hunt for fresh meat. Their usual prey was naive country girls, newly arrived in London and keen to better themselves. You could spot them a mile off as they stood in the middle of the street, their cloth bags clutched tightly in their tanned hands, their eyes and mouths wide Os of wonder as they looked around them.
Phoebe hurried on across the noisy, thronged piazza then plunged into the stinking warren of streets that surrounded it. She’d been there several times before and now instinctively knew her way to her destination, a small dark brick house on Maiden Lane. Her black mask and obvious youth attracted a few curious stares but to her relief, most passersby didn’t give her a second glance, probably because they were just as intent on not drawing attention to themselves.
She shivered and pulled her black cashmere shawl closer about her shoulders as she turned off Bedford Street onto Maiden Lane. She had heard that at night the tall windows of the soot stained houses that loomed overhead were lit up with dozens of candles and filled with scantily clad girls who brazenly showed off their bodies and called down to passing men, trying to lure them inside. Now though the windows were dark and empty, giving no clue of what vice and depravity lay behind them.
Taking a deep breath Phoebe marched up to the shiny red painted front door of number 5 and let herself in. The hallway was small and dark with raspberry pink painted walls, old portraits of wet lipped ladies with tumbled hair and shimmering silk robes that barely concealed their breasts and, most surprisingly, a large Bible lying open on the round mahogany table. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and had clearly not been touched for a long time.
‘Madam says it’s there to confound the Runners should they come a calling,’ said a young slender blonde girl who had slunk down the dark wood staircase. ‘She says they’ll see the Bible and think this is an honest house.’
Phoebe smiled. ‘If she dusted it every so often, they might even believe her.’ She looked the girl over, taking in her magnificently gaudy purple and pink silk dress, the bright spots of crimson rouge that she wore high on her cheekbones and the false yellow saffron assisted tint of her loose, untidy hair, which hung below her thin waist. She was probably about the same age as Phoebe but in just a couple of years she would look like the woman who had accosted her in the piazza. The thought of it made her feel sad until she realised that the girl was looking her up and down with a derisive curl of her glossy red lips.
‘I’ve seen you here before,’ she stated flatly in a northern accent as she stepped closer. The air between them filled with the rich, heady jasmine scent that she wore. ‘You come to meet that man.’
Phoebe didn’t reply, preferring instead to lift her chin and sweep past the other girl, who obligingly stepped aside but continued to stare after her as she went up the stairs. ‘You aren’t the first, my fine lady,’ she muttered resentfully as Phoebe pretended not to hear her. ‘You are no better than me so don’t bother giving yourself airs. We’re all here for the same thing - the only difference between you and me is that you give it away for free.’
George Garland was waiting for her in their usual room and had clearly been there for a while as he’d taken off his blue silk jacket and white wig, throwing them over a pink upholstered sofa and had a half finished glass of claret in his hand. ‘I was starting to think that you weren’t going to come,’ he murmured, rising to his feet as she closed the door behind her and let her shawl drop to the floor,
The woman shrugged, but her face was disappointed. It wasn’t the first time that Phoebe had been approached in such a way and she now knew that it was a common practice for the brothels who populated the winding old streets around Covent Garden to send old bawds out on the hunt for fresh meat. Their usual prey was naive country girls, newly arrived in London and keen to better themselves. You could spot them a mile off as they stood in the middle of the street, their cloth bags clutched tightly in their tanned hands, their eyes and mouths wide Os of wonder as they looked around them.
Phoebe hurried on across the noisy, thronged piazza then plunged into the stinking warren of streets that surrounded it. She’d been there several times before and now instinctively knew her way to her destination, a small dark brick house on Maiden Lane. Her black mask and obvious youth attracted a few curious stares but to her relief, most passersby didn’t give her a second glance, probably because they were just as intent on not drawing attention to themselves.
She shivered and pulled her black cashmere shawl closer about her shoulders as she turned off Bedford Street onto Maiden Lane. She had heard that at night the tall windows of the soot stained houses that loomed overhead were lit up with dozens of candles and filled with scantily clad girls who brazenly showed off their bodies and called down to passing men, trying to lure them inside. Now though the windows were dark and empty, giving no clue of what vice and depravity lay behind them.
Taking a deep breath Phoebe marched up to the shiny red painted front door of number 5 and let herself in. The hallway was small and dark with raspberry pink painted walls, old portraits of wet lipped ladies with tumbled hair and shimmering silk robes that barely concealed their breasts and, most surprisingly, a large Bible lying open on the round mahogany table. It was covered in a thick layer of dust and had clearly not been touched for a long time.
‘Madam says it’s there to confound the Runners should they come a calling,’ said a young slender blonde girl who had slunk down the dark wood staircase. ‘She says they’ll see the Bible and think this is an honest house.’
Phoebe smiled. ‘If she dusted it every so often, they might even believe her.’ She looked the girl over, taking in her magnificently gaudy purple and pink silk dress, the bright spots of crimson rouge that she wore high on her cheekbones and the false yellow saffron assisted tint of her loose, untidy hair, which hung below her thin waist. She was probably about the same age as Phoebe but in just a couple of years she would look like the woman who had accosted her in the piazza. The thought of it made her feel sad until she realised that the girl was looking her up and down with a derisive curl of her glossy red lips.
‘I’ve seen you here before,’ she stated flatly in a northern accent as she stepped closer. The air between them filled with the rich, heady jasmine scent that she wore. ‘You come to meet that man.’
Phoebe didn’t reply, preferring instead to lift her chin and sweep past the other girl, who obligingly stepped aside but continued to stare after her as she went up the stairs. ‘You aren’t the first, my fine lady,’ she muttered resentfully as Phoebe pretended not to hear her. ‘You are no better than me so don’t bother giving yourself airs. We’re all here for the same thing - the only difference between you and me is that you give it away for free.’
George Garland was waiting for her in their usual room and had clearly been there for a while as he’d taken off his blue silk jacket and white wig, throwing them over a pink upholstered sofa and had a half finished glass of claret in his hand. ‘I was starting to think that you weren’t going to come,’ he murmured, rising to his feet as she closed the door behind her and let her shawl drop to the floor,
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