The Silk Thief (41 page)

Friday looked at them, then sniffed one. ‘I don’t know.’ She picked up the letter, glanced at Sarah, then broke the seal.

Sarah went to the dressing table and rummaged through the drawers again. She found a toothbrush and a tin of tooth powder (and another bottle of gin; God, she had it stashed everywhere), put them aside, poured cold water from a jug into a basin, and fetched a facecloth and a clean towel from the clothes press. Behind her she heard a stifled sob, and said without turning, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes,’ Friday replied in a thick voice. ‘It’s good. It’s a good letter.’

Busying herself tidying Friday’s collection of cosmetics and creams and lotions, and wiping up spilt powder and pipe ash, Sarah waited until Friday had finished reading and quietly crying.

‘I’m all right now,’ she said after a few minutes.

Sarah sat on the end of the bed. ‘How’s your head? Is the laudanum starting to work?’

Friday nodded, but gingerly.

‘Good. Then why don’t you get up and have a wash, including your hair, it’s disgusting, and come back to our house? Harrie and James are there, and Bernard and Ruthie. You like them.’

‘Is Harrie being mental?’

‘No, she’s good today. Come on, it’s Christmas. We’re all waiting for you so we can swap presents.’

‘Is there one for me?’

‘Of course there is.’

‘Have you got any gin?’

Sarah stifled a sigh; she knew more alcohol was the only thing that would help Friday through the horrors. ‘Yes, we’ve got some gin.’

Jack took Friday to her first appointment with Lucian Meriwether in Mrs H’s around-town gig. Mrs H had gone to some lengths to cater to Mr Meriwether’s particular needs, which she felt was warranted as he was paying a premium, and had purchased a very costly whip and a pair of manacles, had consulted with Minnie Thompson regarding the best local softwood for use as a birch (willow, soaked in brine), and had commissioned a costume for Friday.

This consisted of a deep navy-blue satin corset, reinforced with extra whalebone so Friday didn’t burst it when she was letting fly with the whip, a (silly, in Friday’s opinion) pair of fitted, knee-length drawers in the sheerest lawn dyed a matching colour, which she was tempted to toss out of the gig because she just knew they’d stick annoyingly to her arse as soon as she started to sweat, and a pair of buttoned ankle boots in dark red kid leather with ridiculous heels two inches high, making her a towering five feet eight inches tall. She hated stays because they squashed her guts and only conceded to wear them for work — and these had been made to lace really tightly, giving her a waist of a mere nineteen and a half inches — and she disliked drawers even more because the edges around her crotch always managed to sneak up her crack, unless the things were so baggy they gaped. (Though she had to admit it had been fun getting in between the edges of Aria’s.)

And the mask! Mrs H had said that when she’d been a madam in London the flagellants had worn masks, therefore Friday should wear one. Friday had asked her what was the point, when her arms, back and one calf were covered in highly distinctive tattoos and Mr Meriwether knew bloody well who she was anyway, but no, it added to the mystery, apparently. It was stupid, and she felt a fool wearing it.

Halfway along Cumberland Street she said, ‘Stop the gig.’

Jack glanced at her. ‘Why?’

‘Just stop for a second.’ Friday reached beneath the seat and hauled out the case containing her costume and other paraphernalia. The mask, an absurdly frothy concoction of black cock and blue peacock feathers, lay on top. Spotting a trio of scruffy young lads chucking stones at a cat trapped up a tree, she leant out of the gig. ‘’Oi, you lot, come here.’

Two shot off, but one stood his ground. ‘It’s just a dumb tibby!’

‘Never mind the cat. I’ve got something for you.’

The boy sidled closer, ragged trouser bottoms flapping around thin, dirty ankles, ready to run if necessary. ‘What?’

Friday passed him the mask. ‘A Christmas present.’

Jack rolled his eyes.

‘What is it?’ The boy fingered the shiny feathers.

‘A mystery mask. For balls for nobs and that. It’s worth a bit. You could sell it down the market.’

The boy grinned and put it on, looking like a strange hybrid of starved sparrow and peacock. ‘Ta!’ He ran off, flapping his arms and making cawing noises.

‘Mrs H’ll have your guts for garters,’ Jack said as he flicked the reins.

‘Well, it was stupid.’

Lucian Meriwether lived in a substantial one-storey sandstone house towards the smarter end of Princes Street, in fact not that far from Bella Shand’s brothel, Friday realised, as they drove past it. Mr Meriwether’s residence appeared welcoming, at least from the outside. A verandah ran along the front and down one side, cream-painted shutters flanked the windows and a low wooden fence separated the property from the street. A garden filled with a profusion of brightly coloured flowers, uncommon in a Sydney summer, bordered the fence and there were roses, too, in smaller round beds in the browning lawn. Mr Meriwether had said his wife was dead — she wondered who did the gardening, and how he managed to keep the plants watered, especially at this time of year.

‘How long’s the session?’ Jack asked.

‘Two hours.’

‘Christ, your arm’ll drop off, and so will his arse.’

‘It’s not two hours of solid flogging. I’m supposed to be having afternoon tea as well.’

‘La de da.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

‘Will I wait?’

‘No. Go back to the Siren and do some work.’

Jack snorted. ‘Who made you my boss?’

‘Well, you’ll only melt sitting out here in the heat.’

‘That’s true. Do you need a hand down?’

‘No.’ Friday scrambled inelegantly off the gig and adjusted her hat. Jack passed down the case. ‘Four o’clock, thanks, and don’t be late. Christ knows what I’m supposed to talk to him about.’

‘You’ll manage. Think of the money.’

Friday opened the hand gate and crunched up the gravel path to the front door, wondering, too late, if she should have gone around the back. Mr Meriwether might not want his neighbours to see what sort of visitors he was receiving. Still, she looked reasonably respectable today. More or less. She knocked on the green-painted door.

It was opened by an austere-looking middle-aged woman in a brown dress, a white apron and a plain white house cap. ‘Miss Friday?’ At Friday’s nod, she said, ‘Mr Meriwether’s expecting you. Please follow me.’

The woman led Friday, not to a bedchamber as she’d been expecting, but into a study, its walls lined with shelves stacked with more books than Friday had ever seen. Lucian Meriwether sat at a desk beneath the room’s single window, assorted cut blooms scattered before him. Several had been carefully arranged on a piece of card, which in turn was aligned on a rectangle of shellacked wood about a foot long and eight inches wide. A brass screw pierced the wood on each side.

Mr Meriwether glanced up. ‘Ah, Miss Friday! Lovely! I shan’t be a moment.’

Friday watched, fascinated, as he laid another piece of card over the blooms, then took a second of piece of wood, this one decorated with a floral marquetry pattern, and settled it over the screws. She suddenly realised, as he fitted a pair of bolts and tightened them, that he was pressing flowers! What a strange hobby to interest a man! Especially one who liked to be battered with whips. Still, it took all sorts, she supposed.

She asked, ‘What do you do with them?’

‘I put them in albums. The very best specimens, I frame.’

‘I’ll be going out now, Mr Meriwether,’ the woman in the brown dress said. ‘I’ll just fetch my bonnet and basket.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Wright.’

Friday heard her clomp down the hall towards the back of the house, clomp back again, then open and close the front door.

‘Off to the market,’ Mr Meriwether said. ‘Doesn’t entirely approve.’

‘Oh well.’

‘Though she understands that a man has certain needs. And she certainly values her position here. She’s been with me for years, since well before my wife died. A good woman, Mrs Wright.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘And she’s left us a very nice afternoon tea. All I have to do is boil the kettle.’ Mr Meriwether put aside the flower press. ‘Well, shall we get down to business? I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this.’

This was all feeling rather odd to Friday. According to Mistress Ruby, she was supposed to be assuming a position of uncompromising dominance over Lucian Meriwether, and here he was, talking about putting the kettle on. Was she doing it wrong? Already?

‘Er, am I supposed to be kicking you up the arse or calling you rude names or something? Is that what you’d like?’

Mr Meriwether gave a little smile. ‘Not really, thank you. I’ve tried that and I’ve found I don’t have a specific need to be humiliated. I simply enjoy the pain, which I would like you to administer. I have never forgotten your magnificent physique, and I was thrilled to see when we met again the other day that your beautiful hair is even longer.’

Friday had racked her brains since that meeting, and still couldn’t remember Lucian Merewether as a customer, but he must have been. Of course, there’d been so many. Perhaps it was the alcohol, eating holes in her memory. ‘And do you want to call me by a special name? You know, like Mistress Whiparse or something?’

Mr Meriwether laughed out loud, almost losing his dentures. ‘No, no. Miss Friday is perfectly adequate, I feel, don’t you?’

Friday shrugged. ‘Up to you. I’ve got a costume. Shall I wear it?’

‘Is it revealing?’

‘Quite.’

‘Yes, please.’ Mr Meriwether reached for his cane and stood. ‘Now, if you’ll give me a moment, I’ll go and prepare myself. I’ll be in my bedchamber. You may dress in here. Feel free to close the drapes.’

He hobbled out. Friday leant across the desk; there were bushes and a tree outside — no one would see her getting changed. She opened her case, took off her dress and shift, and stepped into the despised navy-blue drawers. But at least they sat neatly on her waist, having been made to fasten at the front and back with buttons instead of ties. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to bend without passing out once she got into the corset, she sat down next to put on the boots, her bare bum poking out of the gap in the drawers as she did so. The boots fastened, she dropped the button hook back in the case and lifted out the corset. The lacing was at the front, otherwise she couldn’t close it by herself. She loosened the grosgrain ribbons, shrugged it on over her head, swearing as she caught an earring, and wriggled it down into place, the hem sitting over the waistband of the drawers. She made sure none of her waist-length hair was caught under it, then started tightening the laces, bottom to the middle, top to the middle, bit by bit, until finally it was tight enough and the shape was sitting correctly on her. She hoped Mr Meriwether hadn’t died of old age in his room.

She swore again as she realised that her whip, birch and manacles were still in the case on the floor. Dropping to all fours to avoid bending at the waist, she grabbed them, and heaved herself up again. Bloody hell, this was ridiculous.

Taking as deep a breath as the stupid stays would allow her, she walked out into the hall, the high heels of her boots clacking on the floorboards. ‘Mr Meriwether? Where are you?’

‘I’m in here, Miss Friday!’

Following the sound of his voice, Friday found him stretched out face down on his bed, a double four-poster, fortunately without a canopy to interfere with the whip. He was naked, except for a pair of knee-length black silk hose. His skin was white and alarmingly fragile-looking, his legs thin and his flanks concave, though his torso was soft and barrel-shaped.

He gasped when he saw her. ‘Oh, I say. What an absolutely charming ensemble! And you have some new tattoos. Stupendous! And the colour of that corset against your hair. Delightful!’

Friday turned and raised her arms so he could appreciate the full glory of the phoenix rising up her back out of her stays.

‘Bravo, my dear! Bravo!’

‘What would you like?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a whip, a birch and manacles.’

‘Manacles, please. And the whip, of course.’

Having had four lessons now from Mistress Ruby, Friday knew what to do. She manacled Mr Meriwether’s left wrist to a bedpost, then walked around the bed and manacled his right wrist to another, leaving him helpless. She wondered what would happen if she just abandoned him. Poor Mrs Wright would certainly get a fright when she came back. She moved to the end of the bed, swung her arm a couple of times to limber up and gave the whip a few practice cracks.

‘No,’ Mr Meriwether said. ‘Not there. Come around to the side here, so I can see your magnificent personage.’

Friday did as he asked, checking the ceiling for candelabra. Nothing — it was all wall sconces in Mr Meriwether’s bedroom, fortunately.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

‘Oh, yes.’

Friday lifted the whip, flicked her wrist and brought the thong cracking down on Mr Meriwether’s skinny backside. He jumped and moaned simultaneously, his face creased in apparent ecstasy. She kept going, establishing a measured rhythm, which he matched, grinding his elderly hips into the mattress. After about ten minutes, it occurred to her that it didn’t matter that she was using a whip on him — he was still an old man and old men usually took forever to ring their chimes. Also, she was sweating like a pig and her right tit was falling out of the corset, and while Mr Meriwether might think that was fun, it was bloody uncomfortable.

A few minutes after that her shoulder began to feel as though it had caught on fire, so she changed hands, a bit worried because she wasn’t as accurate with her left. And then she missed, getting him on the inside of his thigh. He cried out, but pumped even harder. She aimed for his back, then, a bigger target, planning to move back to his bum when she swapped hands again. His arse looked like it needed a rest anyway. It was bright red and she’d broken the skin in one or two places. She could see a thin trickle of blood running down his flank and another disappearing between his cheeks, and wondered if that was supposed to happen. Who knew there’d be this much to whipping someone?