Tutoring Miss Molly

Tutoring Miss Molly

By
Lyn Armstrong

Resplendence Publishing, LLC

http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

Resplendence Publishing, LLC
2665 S Atlantic Avenue, #349
Daytona Beach, FL 32118

Tutoring Miss Molly
Copyright © 2011 Lyn Armstrong
Edited by Jessica Berry and Caitlin Green
Cover art by Les Byerley,
www.les3photo8.com

Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-290-7

Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Electronic Release: April, 2011

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

This story is dedicated to my awesome older sister, Reine. She took care of me when I was little, defended me against my brother, painted my nails, combed my hair, and forced me to wear an itchy, pink ballerina outfit. My sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost. Sis, I love ya guts.
Lyn Armstrong

I smile because you are my sister,
I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it!
-Unknown

Chapter One

Kent, England 1811

“You must go!” Aunt Rose declared with stubborn pride. In a dramatic flair, she held her arm out to the side and unceremoniously dropped an old brown bag.

The satchel struck the road with a thud, and a puff of dirt billowed in front of Molly Cambridge. The glaring sun caused Molly to squint as she peered up from the garden bed. Shading her eyes with the back of her muddy hand, she studied the outline of her beautiful aunt. With a contrived scowl etched on her forehead, Rose stood rigid, like a fierce general about to fight Napoleon’s army. Her thick, ebony hair swirled around slender shoulders while her white linen nightgown swayed gently in the breeze.

“What are you doing out here this cold morning? Go inside or you’ll catch your death,” Molly admonished, her muscles protesting when she rose from the ground to her full five feet, ten inches. She brushed aside tendrils of red hair that had fallen out of the bun she’d hastily wrapped that morning. Her nose twitched from the offending dirt she had accidentally rubbed onto her face. Without hesitation, she dusted her hands on her faded blue dress.

Her aunt groaned and stared at the dark smudge on Molly’s dress.

Molly smothered a smile and shrugged. Appearances had never concerned her. Producing enough food to last through the bitter winter took precedence over what color sash she tied around her waist.

Stepping over a row of turnips, Molly bent down with a groan and picked up the light bag. Its meager contents showed how very little she owned. She entwined her arm through the crook of her aunt’s and led her toward the small cottage they shared since she was a child. After the death of both her parents, Rose was the only family Molly had left. If they had another season of crops like last winter, Molly was afraid her sick aunt would not survive on turnip soup alone.

“You must go,” Rose continued.

“I told you, I am not going anywhere,” Molly replied, her tone just as stubborn.

Shrugging free from Molly’s arm, Rose stood her ground. With hands on her hips, she glared at Molly as if she was an errant youth and not a woman of twenty-two winters. “You will go or I will throw you out!”

Molly covered her mouth to suppress her merriment. “You would sooner cut off your head than throw me out into the cold,” she said. Pulling a woolen shawl from her shoulders, Molly wrapped the body-warmed fabric around her aunt’s slender form.

Rose’s cold bony hand grabbed Molly’s dirty one as they continued toward the cottage. “You have no choice but to go.”

She peered down into her aunt’s large amber eyes of hope. “We have gone over this before.” They entered the cozy cottage. Molly closed the door behind her, preventing the chilly wind from entering with them. “Putting aside that I have not even kissed a man, The Duke of Albany would never admit me into his manor or his exclusive sex society.”

Rose collapsed onto an overstuffed green chair. She settled into the cushions while Molly stoked the dying fire and added another log.

“You are wrong, my dear. I only just received word he will have you trained as society’s newest courtesan.”

From the old fireplace, Molly peeked over her shoulder. “Why would His Grace do that for me?”

A whimsical smile slipped across her pale lips. “Sit down next to me.”

Molly lowered to the cold wooden floor, leaning a shoulder against the chair.

Studying the back of her rough hands, Rose said, “I was once a very beautiful woman. I had the eye of every man I walked past.”

“You are still a—”

“Let me continue,” Rose interrupted, sadly shaking her head. “I used my looks to my advantage and became a courtesan. It was the best time of my life. Men gave me gowns, diamonds, and rubies. I stayed in the most elite hotels, taken to all the fashionable balls and London theatres.” Rose stared at Molly. “I was given more money than I thought I could ever spend.” She clasped Molly’s hand. “But I was wrong.”

“What happened?”

“I made a grave error. One a courtesan should never make.” A shadow of pain dulled her usual bright blue eyes. “I fell in love.”

“The duke?”

Rose nodded. “I knew we could never be together as man and wife, but I was foolish with my heart. He was to marry an aristocrat and I could no longer stay as his lover. It hurt too much to watch him wed another, give his heart to another. So I took what money I had and left for the country.” Rose glanced around their small rundown cottage, despair brushing her pink lips. “It has not been all that bad living on the farm has it? I know sometimes we have gone without food, but…”

Rose coughed into her handkerchief, her body spasm against an endless illness.

Molly rose on her knees and hugged her aunt. “No, it has not been all that bad. You have looked after me since I was child. It is time I took care of you.”

“Aw, poppy cock! I want you to have what I had. You are young and beautiful. You should not be wasting your days digging turnips.” Rose raised herself and shuffled over to Molly’s packed bag beside the door.

“This is your guest invitation.” She pulled out an envelope. “If you leave now, you will arrive by dusk.”

Molly stood. Her grimy hands were in stark contrast to the crisp white envelope. Sealed with the Harman crest in black wax, a wolf boldly glared at her, stating dominance over the world. Molly ran her fingers over the raised emblem. A warm glow flowed through her, leaving her stomach unsettled.

She stared at her aunt’s expectant face. If she found a wealthy benefactor, she could support her aunt through the next winter. Rose would not have to work the farm; she could stay in bed and rest.

“A courtesan.” Molly needed to hear it aloud. Could she really be one? What started out as a passing comment to her aunt last season could now be a reality. She lifted her gaze. “But who will look after you?”

“Old Jean down the way will pop in from time to time to help me with the heavy chores,” Rose said, patting Molly’s shoulder with reassurance. “It is time you enjoyed your youth. It will not last forever.”

Molly’s gaze wavered from the envelope to her aunt. Picking up a strand of her red frizzy hair, the old insecurities rattled around her head. “I…I don’t kn—”

“Go! Enjoy yourself.” Rose grabbed the bag and held it out to Molly. “I will be all right.”

Molly stared at the worn carrier then at the main room of their neglected cottage. There was so much work needed on the small two-bedroom abode, but not enough money to fix it. Her gaze returned to Rose’s pale face and red nose. She swallowed hard and wiped her sweaty palms on her dress.

“I will go,” she said with more conviction than she felt.

 Her aunt pulled the shawl from her shoulders and placed it around Molly. “Oh, it will be wonderful, Molly. The life of a courtesan is so magnificent.” She grabbed Molly’s arm. “Just promise me one thing.”

Molly nodded.

“You must guard your heart. You cannot fall in love. Do you understand?”

“I—I understand.”

Collecting the satchel from her aunt and a worn yellow bonnet from the hat stand, she opened the door. A gust of wind entered the small chamber and Molly turned toward its refreshing force. “I will be back before the spring crops need to be planted,” Molly called over her shoulder.

“Remember, do not fall in love or all will be lost,” her aunt called. An ominous chill ran down her spine, but she brushed it off.

With determination in her step, she set out along the dirt road toward Harman Manor on the outskirts of Ashford. Breathing in the fresh morning air, she gazed toward the blue sky. The sun trickled through thick green leaves. Aging oak trees lining the road gave her temporary respite from the burning rays. A lazy blue bird with a vibrant green tail peered down from a branch and chirped with zeal.

Just like the blue bird, courtesans must lead intriguing lives with nothing better to do but sit around and be admired. Gentlemen would bring jewels and gowns as they whispered sweetly into their ears, tempting them into bed for an afternoon of lovemaking.

Molly sighed dreamily.

On the side of the road, a bush of wild roses grew with abundance. She picked one to smell its sweet scent and touched the silky petal with the pad of her thumb.

“I could not even imagine a life of such decadence.”

Excitement and fear of the unknown mingled within her. Would the sex society live up to its notorious reputation? What if she made a fool of herself with her inexperience? Or they judged her red hair and freckles as unattractive, and they demanded she leave? Taking a deep breath, she clenched her fists. She had to stop thinking that way. A courtesan must be confident and assured of herself.