The Bound Heart (5 page)

She made him think of all kinds of things.

Mentally he closed a door on the direction of his thoughts.

His world was not for her. Women who walking into his world were already seasoned in the world of sex and desire. They were already working those currents of need that people hungered for. Very few people stepped up to work in the areas of Erotic art without that natural drive.

He knew where Olive lived. Her world would have placed sex work at her door many a time. If not that, using her appeal to draw men who’d get her a better life, like Madeline. It was abundantly clear Olive hadn’t taken up either option.

He’d let her go. It was the best direction for both of them.

“Madeline is a washing line. You can hang the rope on her, nothing more.”

“Now you are being unkind. She is well respected in our circles; she has won many benefactors over the years.”

Okazaki stayed silent, she’d made her point, and there was truth in it.

She slipped her hand inside her kimono, brought out an envelope, and placed it on the table. Then she picked up the tray, and in that ethereal Japanese way, went from kneeling to standing in a smooth straight rise.

“I will run the bath.” She left.

Jamie picked up the envelope as she slid the sliding door to the rest of the house closed.

The wax seal told him whom it was from.

Blackburn.

A powerful self-made man climbing the ranks of The Collectors and pushing higher still.

Tearing it open, a simple white card embossed with the letter B slid out.

Regarding a Mr. Sato:

He has submitted a request to enter the competition in Paris.

He claims he is also a long-time pupil of Mr. Kobayashi’s and seeks an opportunity not only to compete in the Paris competition, but also to win Kobayashi’s remaining contract with The Collectors. The current value standing at 20,000 pounds.

I have been asked to present an informal opportunity for you and Mr. Sato to meet and perhaps, come to an understanding.

An invitation to a gathering is enclosed. Your attendance is expected.

Blackburn

The muscles in his jaw tightened, Sato.

He’d met Sato in Yokohama in the spring of 1887. They’d all sat under the Cherry blossoms. Sake, beer, bento boxes and cherry blossom petals in the rice.

Geisha had attended at Sensei’s invitation. Women wrapped in layers of exquisite fabric, twirling translucent oriental parasols in reds and pinks, the light flickering through the trees. No amount of books, photo plates of Japan and Sensei’s stories had prepared him for the reality of the culture. He was baptized into a culture so ancient, so controlled and yet in many ways so liberated, a part of him had found its home, its source.

Sato had thrown a rope over a low hung branch and proceeded to suspend one of the geisha. She was terrified and it simply acted to fuel Sato on. The afternoon ended with Sensei stepping in and cutting the girl down, rope burns to her arms, legs, and neck.

Sato was recklessly inventive; and the chances he took when they worked were spectacular, and when they didn’t, he left a wake of girls with damaged skin in the best cases and lasting numbness in the worst.

Jamie slipped the invitation back in its envelope.

This shouldn’t even be an issue. If it weren’t for the Collector’s contract and their conditional transfer of it to him as Sensei’s heir and lineage holder, he would simply refuse to deal with Sato altogether.

Unfortunately the morbid fact about human nature was that Sato’s dramatic disregard and overconfidence garnered him many admirers and loyal followers, even here in London.

Jamie picked up his chop sticks and began to eat.

The grilled fish in caramelized soy sauce melted on his tongue. It was followed by the clean plump flavor of koshi-higari rice. Then a sip of miso soup, a soft flavor with its wakame seaweed and small tofu squares.

He didn’t have to meet Blackburn to know what was coming.

Sato wanted money. In addition, despite almost being removed from Kobayashi-sensei’s lineage, Sato wanted recognition in the circles that counted.

No resolution would come at Blackburn’s, but the rules of engagement would be set.

Whatever unfolded, the annual Paris rope competition was now going to have another layer, a rope off between him and Sato for the Collector’s contract.

Rope offs weren’t new. Rope men competed against each other for performance contracts. Gentleman clubs, back tents at the circus, private shows, and royal court after dark parties.

The loss of The Collectors’ contract would mean he’d have to work very hard to manage the house and dependents he’d inherited. Once The Collectors deemed you unfit or surpassable, they did not easily look back at you again as a group. Individual collectors may still be interested; however, the orders would be fickle making funds very unpredictable.

Jamie needed to set aside more time working with Madeline to get her ready. Find that special connection he needed because he’d have to present something special to go up against Sato.

It was mid-week before Olive had an excuse to head back to Mr. Edwards… to Jamie. An atypical delivery was needed and she made sure she was the one to take it.

She stood at the workshop door, The gloom of the stairwell around her as her heart hammered like one of the book chisels she could hear inside. She knocked.

“Holla.” It wasn’t him. It was Mr. Johns; he liked to use foreign words.

Inside, she scanned the room. “Delivery, sir.”

“Ah, Olive. Yes right over here.” Mr. Johns motioned to the counter.

Mr. Edwards… Jamie was not there.

She was thinking of him as Jamie after that afternoon. The kiss, the intimate touches between her legs, and then the pictures. Since then, her hands in private acts of pleasure were always his; it didn’t feel wrong to think of him like that. They’d kissed. They’d started, so what if it was her fingers that did the rest.

Next time it wouldn’t be.

Next time she was determined it would be his fingers and more.

Olive laid out the order for Mr. Johns, checking the room again. Tables, workbenches, books in clamps, glue pots open.

“Mr. Edwards’s not here today?” Her voice sounded casual as if she wasn’t interested in the answer.

“Doing some work from home. He’s moving on, you know. We have his replacement, started this week.” Mr. Johns smirked to himself.

Perhaps, if she’d seen the smirk last week, she wouldn’t have even thought much about it; but now she knew what that ‘work from home’ would entail and understood the look on Mr. Johns’ face. Part envy, part derision.

Had she been the only one who didn’t know Jamie’s, preferences?

Heat flushed up her neck.

No wonder Jamie had sent her away. He knew she didn’t have a clue about those things and was not interested in playing with someone who didn’t.

She left and the workshop door closed behind her. Olive walked to the edge of the landing and sat on the top step. A single gas lamp shone above her on the wall.

She took the photographs from her coat pocket and looked at them. She should take them to Evie and give them back. But Evie didn’t expect them until Friday.

Right now, Jamie was doing this or something like this with someone. Working with the photographer, most likely Edgar, who was sweet on Evie.

The thought that tightened her chest and grated through her was the model. Jamie would be spending hours touching the model. His voice, firm, giving directions. He would be so close to her, she’d smell that wonderful oriental scent in his clothes, would know the warm puff of his breath as he leaned close to her. But also the pleasure. There was no possible way that a woman would have these photos taken and not feel the pleasure of what Jamie was doing to her.

A sharp possessive bite snapped around her heart.

Her belly tumbled.

She slipped the photos back in her pocket and stood.

These things in the photo plates shouldn’t be for her; but they excited her. Everything about Mr. Edwards excited her.

A sharp something dug into her chest and stung.

But there was also determination. It wrapped round her like the leather bands of her brace holding her firm and strong against her doubts.

With each step, she pulled in her breath and pushed back her shoulders. Her life had not been easy, in fact, still was not. Her hip hurt. The limp was the cause of years of ridicule. Men saw her as an easy target, and no job of any merit came her way. A fault of physical build was as much a signal to mental capacity. It hadn’t mattered how well she’d performed, whom she outshone. No advancement was possible for the crippled. Best keep them out of sight especially, from those with money to spend and goodwill to disseminate.

Therefore, she ran errands for a twine shop and lived with her sister and her sister’s ill-fated family. The pounding of her sister’s headboard against the adjoining wall was a regular reminder that although they were almost identical, her sister was wanted and she was not.

Then there was the pain. A child who’d had infantile paralysis could not convey the pain they went through. Children cry. They hurt at the smallest thing, or so the adults thought. However, she had suffered, had known the mark of mindless skin-peeling pain; and what she had felt as an adult, the occasional abusive man who had hit her, the ones who had broken her heart or humiliated her, that pain hadn’t come close. Her sister was frustrated with her.
‘
Why not marr
y Bill? He’s a good enough man.’

Good enough for you
,
had echoed across the space. Perhaps Bill was the best she could do. A man no other woman wanted. He had no real prospects and little to offer by way of his character or self. He was a minor in all spheres of life.

Was that all she could hope for? If so, she wanted to go it alone and that was what she had planned until she had laid eyes on him, Mr. Edwards.

A warm flame had run through her, a spark, which ignited the very same essence that made her walk again. Those first painful, awkward steps, holding onto to the table in her mother’s kitchen. She knew then what would get her walking again was a will she would have to develop, pull from a place deep down in her.

It had taken time. She had floundered regularly, cried constantly.

Now it was always there, under the surface. There if she needed it. Two years she had waited for Jamie to see her, waited for that strange pull between them to be recognized.

Perhaps he didn’t want to feel a pull towards her. Perhaps it was because of her limp or perhaps something she had no idea about. But…but none of it mattered. Just her determination. Her determination and will to make him notice.

And he had.

“Don’t you like me?”

His face had changed. “Oh, I do, Olive, very much.” His voice had wrapped around her. He’d leaned closer. “But I don’t want soft and sweet. What I want, what I need Olive is like a shadow over the sun. Step back and leave this rain cloud to play somewhere else, for I don’t have the will.”

And he’d let her go.

He knew he was leaving and had said nothing.

That hurt!

Yet, the fact that he couldn’t leave without kissing her, that she had pushed him and he’d wanted more as much as she had. That meant everything.

The stairs, an avenue of some frustration, were their usual treacherous self. But she navigated the dark and went down to that lower level, pushed the door open into the little office storeroom, and through the curtain into The Velvet Basement.

“Olive?” Evie was distracted.

Olive placed the photos reluctantly on the counter.

Evie swept them up and slid them into the box on the counter as if they weren’t the most wondrous of images. As if they were simply any picture.

Olive lifted her head. Evie looked back at her and stilled.

“Olive…” Evie shook her head.

“Where does he live, Evie? He’s left.”

“Good. He has some decency after all. Anyone can tell you’re a sweetheart who deserves better.”

“Evie, please.”

No one else was in the shop. They were alone. Evie was agitated about something, but was also trying to be there for her.

“I will have to ask Mr. Howard upstairs.”

Her heart bounded into her ribs in a leap of unabashed joy. “Oh, Evie…will you?”

Evie held up her hand. “This is not without cost, Olive. Mr. Howard… well, I will have to deal with him. You will owe me.”

Evie pointedly caught her gaze. “My black corset, the one with the leather trimming, I want it embroidered…fully.”

“You need to supply the thread and we can talk design.” A smile spread over her face. “That’s giving me something I want and asking me to pay you by doing something I love. Really Evie, you make it too easy for me.”

“Well, you may not like the design. I don’t want pretty flowers; I want floggers.”

“You want me to embroider that beautiful corset with floggers?”

“I would say, don’t judge what you don’t understand, but look who’s chasing Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deviant.”

“He’s not deviant; he’s just different,” Olive said.

“Well then, so am I.” Evie grinned.

“Yes, you are. It will be the most beautiful corset in England if you get me his address.”

“Floggers?” Evie arched an eyebrow.

Olive stuck out her hand. “Floggers.”

Evie wrapped her hand around Olive’s in a solid warm clasp. “Agreed.”

As soon as was practical, Evie went upstairs to see Mr. Howard and gain access to the employment records.

Olive had to look after the shop.

It was too early for most visitors. They came after dark or close to it. Perhaps even late at night. They rang a special bell to be let in after regular hours. It was, in fact, remarkable that word of these details got to patrons or potential patrons.

The shop itself was quite lovely. Polished wooden floors that Evie kept with a beautiful shine, potted palms in bright brass pots and some Chesterfield sofas on a large oriental rug.

As the time passed, her curiosity grew, as each section of the shop seemed to hold one range of inexplicable and unimaginable items after another.

Once you were used to the immediately obvious insertable objects, floggers, whips, and the like, there were things that needed a bit more imagination.

Olive had never stepped from behind the counter. Evie had been very firm.
‘If you come down here to see me, Olive, you stay behind the counter. Don’t go looking and don’t talk to those who come down here. You’re a nice girl, Olive, and there are things here you just don’t want in your head.’

But it had strangely become his world.

She always thought upstairs with the book clamps, glues, and paper was his world. However, after those pictures, she had seen something different.

The shelves that slipped back into the darkness must contain more, more of the world Jamie was familiar with.

Olive stood and started to move from behind the counter. A quick peek.

The door across the room opened; the one that came in from the bookshop above.

Her heart jumped. What if she had to answer questions?

Olive looked behind her, no Evie. A man stepped in with the lapels of his coat up, head ducked down. His face shielded as he scanned the room. A nod in her direction, and then he slipped behind the second row of shelving.

If he came to the counter, she would simply tell him to wait. The basement shop held enough to keep him busy until Evie came back.

Olive sat back down on the stool behind the counter. Some boxes were under it, and she pulled a large one out. Perhaps there would be more pictures of Jamie or, at least, what he did. Surely, not many people could tie the way he did.

Olive started to flip through the photos. They were, in their own way, beautiful, some raw. Most were taken from a distance, the ladies’ bits in the more intimate shots somehow shaded with dark shadow so you got the idea, but not all the detail.

In the middle of the second row, she found another shot.

Her heart beat faster.

It had to be him.

The rope work was of a woman’s back and the inverted heart shape of her bottom as it sat on her feet. The rope came up through the crack of the heart and ran up her spine in a plait, which made the rope look as if it were the woman’s spine, the thing which held her up and gave her shape.

The other difference she noticed was that this photo was different, far more intimate than the usual ones taken at a distance. This was as if the photographer was the artist. The photograph was very close up with faces cut out just the body and the rope. Viewing the image, you felt like an accomplice to the binder and the woman bound, waiting for you, the viewer to do the next thing.

Olive turned the photo over; at the bottom was the price, one pound. A fortune. She turned over the next shot in the box, one done in that usual distant style, fifty pence.

A few shots further down was another one, which again must be Jamie’s. A very close focus, a man with rope all over his face, his torso, and his hands tied across his back. A woman stood in front of him fully dressed, the image stopped at her waist. She held out her hand and the man was licking her palm, his tongue through the rope. The image made the focus sink between her legs, her eyes fixed on the tongue as it licked the woman’s palm doing the strangest things to her.

“Olive?” Evie stepped through the curtain behind the counter, a line of sweat on her brow.

“Evie, are you all right?”

“Here is the address, Olive.”

The paper crumpled in Olive’s hand as Evie pushed it in her palm. “And here take this.” Evie pushed some money in her coat pocket. “It’s not around here, and I don’t want you walking. Hail a cab.”

Evie spun her around and propelled her through the curtain she’d just come through into the storeroom.

“Off you go now. I have things to do.”

Olive wanted to read the paper, read the address. However, in moments Evie guided her out onto the landing and started her up the stairs.

“Evie, are you all right?”

The look on Evie’s face softened.

“I’m fine. I’m not sure how I feel about you doing this.”

And a part of her had to agree with Evie; she was crazy to chase him. She should step back and admit defeat, that he didn’t want her. That fact alone usually meant a man would be off eventually to look for what he did want.

Yet the other part, the biggest part was set on fighting for him. She knew deep in her core he was the one for her and instinctively, knew he felt it too. Why he was so determined to push her away was becoming a bit clearer after she’d seen the postcards.

The thing was… those images didn’t scare her.

What he wanted didn’t scare her. Didn’t scare her one bit.

If he knew that, maybe he would stop pushing her away.

For a little while in the workshop, he had wanted her in that way that overtakes you, the way that washes away all sense. Something like that doesn’t disappear.

Evie stepped forward and turned back the hem of Olive’s jacket showing the embroidery underneath.

“You have talent, Olive. You really could do something with this.”