hail yourself

jemima decided to up the stakes if they were to move along so slowly. she considered that the reason she paid for intimacy was to get the job done in tip-top fashion. normally, the lover of the night would know what jemima wanted, and she knew that they were ready and available. 

the last time she had given herself to someone without coin in hand had been a long, long time ago. as a young girl when she charmed on-lookers and dance in her petticoats for laughter. jemima pembroke had certainly long forgotten what it was like to romance someone truly, with no motive to simply fuck and be done with it! such a romance was so far from her her normality those days that she found herself shivering beneath her sweet gaze. 

there is bravery in her next step, her skirts skimming against the floors as she puts her hand against isabelle’s cheek. how many times had she touched a girls cheek? one hundred times? many! jemima had gotten so used to it in the brothels it had no longer been a daring move on her part. but right there, in her lounge? privacy made everything more real, more fleshed out - if the papers got hold of such a softness it’d be the last straw for her husband and perhaps the thomas family. 

but none of that mattered as she leaned in, cupping her face with a soft hold as she kisses her. such a kiss was to die for, the kind of kiss you’d read in poems and see in artwork - each movement of soft lips becoming a brushstroke on a canvas. slowly, acting as if she were with someone who’d bolt suddenly, jemima pulls back and offers her the softest of smiles. that soft curve of her lips that promises something more. “you are… an angel, the softest tip of velvet i could ever touch… and i have been longing to touch, longing to kiss..” she pauses, a breath caught behind her mouth as she listens to her own voice speak such scandal. “tell me you feel the same.. or have i just made a foolish blunder fit for a jester?” her voice dropping to a whisper as her hand trails from the fullness to her cheek then to her shoulder. 

Her eyes widened, tongue tying as she felt her touch against her cheek. Perhaps she had not mistaken her intention after all, for there seemed a very great purpose in the lady’s eyes for the few beats their gazes met. Hardly daring to act or even hope, Isabelle felt the greatest feeling of relief as their lips met. They were so much softer than she had imagined, strangely cool and a little tingly. Instinct overtook her as she responded in kind, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned in desperately. 

She was left flustered, yet warmer and brighter than full with excitement. Drifting closer to her hand before it left her cheek, it hurt to hear her express anything akin to the doubt she had herself been feeling. Such compliments brought a blush to her cheeks - not that it took much - but she could hardly find the words to return them herself. All she wanted was to assure Jemima that what they had shared was no blunder. 

it had felt nice to talk to women again. ciara’s absence had left a hole in rosalie where her confidence usually shined brightest, she was quite pleased to see that isabelle seemed to think her decent company. at least decent enough to stay. with an amused smirk rosalie nodded, nails tapping on the outside of her glass in thought as she watched isabelle drink from her own. 

“bravado? do you think me an act, isabelle?” she grinned. that was curious, and it almost made rosalie feel as if she’d been putting up a show - surely she had been, otherwise isabelle’s attention would be elsewhere, no? she was getting the attention she’d been desperately searching for after being rejected for her voice; this blonde was giving it to her. “men are brutes. and ale doesn’t help it.” was her reply as she watched on the men in the tavern, shrugging. “i prefer the company of women, who prefer the taste of wine. everybody wins.” she was bold, and unapologetic. 

“mr. overton,” winnie’s mouth was dry as the man passed and she called out to him, the swift chill of the oncoming winter running over her bare legs beneath her skirts. winifred looked about the street before stepping forward and approaching him, taking a deep breath. at this point she was sure she had been seen, but she could smell the alcohol on his person and a small part of her hoped that he’d not known where it was she was coming from. though that was unlikely.

“how curious to run into you at this hour,” she began with a clearing of her throat, swallowing. “would it be terribly nosy of me to inquire about your activities here, mr. overton? am i to understand that your wife knows you’re out and about so early?” she wondered, using it as a ploy to hang over his head should he say anything to her about her own activities in the area.

All at once, he stopped in place, fixing her with a wary, icy glare. It was the nature of Molly houses that no witness testimony could ever go without question, for the accusation could just as soon be turned upon the accuser. Rowan looked Winifred up and down, taking note of the imperfections of her attire even through his half-drunk perceptions.

One of the girls of the house walked by holding a cull by the hand, giggling as he, impatient, pawed at her skirts. Honora silenced herself as she pressed her body to the bottom of the stair and waited for them to pass. Once they had, tittering laughter fading down the hall, she leant herself up upon her tiptoes to speak closer to Miss Thomas’s face and quieter in tone.

“I approach you because I believe you are a woman of means, and because I am under the impression you are to be trusted. If this is true, I would have you ask - discreetly - for news of the name Thatch, in Oxfordshire.” She waited then for a moment, as if to let the name soak into Miss Thomas’s mind, and to watch for any sign of recognition. Then, in attempt to cover her bloodied tracks, added: “I had a cull, a keeper, years back. A banker’s son. I want to know where he is.”

This has happened enough times in Isabelle’s presence that she no longer paid passing couples much mind, glancing only in passing curiosity to the pair before turning back to Honora, briefly casting her eyes to the Heavens.

As she spoke, Isabelle leaned in to accommodate her soft tone, her eyes on a space by her shoulder as she searched her mind for recognition. She was not sure she found any. “I see. I can certainly ask,” She supposed, though thr curious tone for what was a largely innocuous request both baffled and concerned her. “May I ask why you would like to know?” She inquired carefully, looking back to her once again.

arabella turns back to rift through the dresses, fingers threading through the many heavy garments that hang before her. she picks the darker blue dress, with details that would only hint at the expense of it. “remind me.. i should never ask you for advice over such garments,” though her lips are pressed into a full line, rowan would be the only one to know that she smiled beneath her lipstick and pressed powders - even as she puts the dress on the bed and flattens it to get a proper look at how it’d look in the daylight. 

and so began her transformation - after a few detailed steps arabella went from the naked, soft woman of the home to the strict bawd who dealt with every inch of her business. though her front would need lacing, and though her late mother had apparently been blessed with nimble fingers, arabella couldn’t quite plait and tie with such a neat hand. “help me,” she commands, holding the ties before her, the dress causing her voice to change before her eyes soften on him. “please.” 

“I think you’ll find my taste is impeccable,” he replied without missing a beat, himself outwardly obstinate, but absolutely going along with an act. Sitting up again, he joined her in admiring the dress while mentally preparing himself to up and dress himself. It was too easy to be lazy at times like this, as much as it was against his nature. Truth be told, he did have much to accomplish today.

He swung his legs from the bed once again and stood, moving forward to take the ties Arabella offered him. Pulling tight enough to secure the dress, he weaved them between one another to plait the front of the bodice, occasionally glancing up from his work to meet her eye.

it wasn’t that jemima was totally fishing for secrets or rowan’s main purpose of his visits. it simply boiled down to the fact that she adored to talk, that she enjoyed making connections with others and thought herself similar to rowan in a way that many others couldn’t quite connect. he was a member of parliament rather than simply a baron, he probably was in contact with a cousin of her own, and it was more than likely that he was in contact with her oldest bastard brother, who had followed politics in a means to make up for his legitimacy. though she still doesn’t mention that - family was the one topic jemima didn’t want to ever talk about, which was rare since her tongue moved faster than the fasted mount. 

she blushes as he turns the subject round, but she hoped that the layer of powder disguised such a rash - keeping her composure as she forced a laugh and adjusted her gloves that clothe her hands. “dare i tell you the truth, sir? the men of my status are, to put it ever so bluntly, awful! that, and i’m indeed married and i fear my allowance and place in the home would be put into question if i were to take an actual lover. with money comes a sort of… guise to infidelity, a way to make it seem like a need,” she pauses, suddenly stuck as her tongue twists and turns to get the right words out. 

“to put it simply, sir, i see intimacy as a vital ingredient to life. such as food, air and exercise,” jemima admits, slipping one glove off her hand as her hand gently reaches above to fix a curl from straying before her eyes. “…and so i must turn such a compliment on it’s heel, since you are very handsome and i doubt with a passion that you’d have to pay for a girl to lavish you in desire… why, if you were a harlot i’d spend my coin on you, sir.”

Gradually cooling off, he found himself comfortable in her company. Truly, they were rather like minded. Perhaps she was freer, even, than him. Though she spoke of her limitations in pursuing lovers and he personally knew the state of her marriage, scandal truly could not touch her. It seemed to bounce from her person without making a dent. “I suppose my motivations are much the same, though I hadn’t considered precisely why until you described it so well,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulder. “A doxie doesn’t talk and they’re paid to be good at what they do — and whatever you tell them to do. And they take a lot less effort than ‘real’ women, if you will,” he continued, a hand lifting to hold his chin in consideration, the other folding across his chest. “Saying that, I’m not entirely sure I believe what you say about our own class always being a disappointment.”

He fixed her with a sly look and a burgeoning smirk as he encroached on the space between them. “It seems remiss to pass up on observing the similarity of our situations, and that we have - and rather freely - confessed how very attractive we find one another,” he noted, speaking perfectly pleasantly. He was, after all, simply stating a fact. Unfolding his arms, he tucked the persistent curl back away for her. “Did you have a charge in mind for this evening? Aside from that social call of yours,” he asked, stressing his disbelief again.

she takes a long sip from her cup after she allows herself to confess, letting the port stain her tongue, to twist round till it’s tattooed into her taste buds. without consciousness, jemima leary likened the taste to isabelle, something to ground her in this new world of actual feelings. jemima may be brave, courageous and avant-garde in her ways of thinking towards same sex relationships but it was a whole other matter to put it into practice. and even then, she had paid girls to be sweet upon her bones - there had never been actual feelings. 

and truthfully jemima had felt little for anyone after her childhood sweetheart, a boy who had worked in the gardens of her family home. she didn’t think of him, but whenever she caught a whiff of freshly cut grass she thought of such velvet touches. part of her believed she’d never experience such excitement and innocent love again - then isabelle came into her life. 

though neither of them were drunk it was save to assume that the pair were feeling the buzz, their bodies fidgeting from the drink - eager to clear the air that hung between them like wilting flowers. 

“we are alone,” she insists, her ankles uncrossing themselves as she places the cup and left over cakes back onto the table - making a mess of the crumbs that the staff would have to look after. “it’s just us and i want to speak as plainly as one can, as clean cut and crass as one should-” she does not refer to them as friends or lovers, since they were neither in that moment. yet she does place a hand on isabelle’s, holding her in place as her thumb gently caresses along her skin, the velvet sensation catching her off guard for some heavenly reason. 

If only Isabelle could form her thoughts into such a recognisable pattern, she may not have felt so frightened by them. She had not even a reference to recall past feelings from. Only half realised, passing fancies and feelings she felt she owed to others. One of Jemima’s own step sons knew all of that, having tried to court her himself only a month hence. She had convinced herself that the sickened feeling in her stomach was butterflies rather than discomfort. It was only until she had experienced the real thing, brought on first by Jemima’s flirtations and touches, that she had realised how very marked the difference was. 

Finishing her glass, she reached for the bottle and poured herself another, popping a piece of cheese into her mouth. It was rather stupid, but it filled time and gave her an excuse not to speak while she collected her ragged thoughts. Why she had dropped herself into this she may never know, but she had mounted a pedestal to speak some great confession of feelings to Jemima that, truly, she could not muster. She could not even begin to define how special this trifling crush was to her. How it had begun to define a part of her she had never before confronted. It excited and shamed her beyond definition. 

She breathed a quiet laugh, eyes closing a moment as she leaned against her enveloped hand. “What a pleasure it is to feel so...warmed by you,” she sighed, eyes averted, mind awander. “To think, I have seen you so many times without knowing you. I can’t --” She exhaled, breath shaky, though she leaned toward her companion even so. When she spoke again, it was painfully slow, as each word was dissected so carefully before she dared to speak it. 

“I...hesitate to - to speak my mind, Jemima. Yet...if I don’t, I feel...as though my heart might burst. I cannot understand myself. But...I cannot understand you, my Lady. I hope -- I don’t think that I...mistake your intentions in - in inviting me here. Do I?” 

she couldn’t help but trust him, as if she were a child who willingly accepted everything an adult told her. she leans into his hand, how is rests on her waist. dolly was much more at home with physical affection rather than words, and found such a touch a comfort in the foreign setting they were stood in. she listens but far from deeply, and almost skips a few words as she jumps on the spot and puts her hands to his cheeks. quickly, so there was no room for rowan to throw her from him, dolly presses her lips to his and kisses him in a way to show her gratitude and an apology for her enquires that were only wasting time. 

“you keep talkin’ to me like that and you’ll get more than a kiss,” dolly grins, taking him by the arm again so they could go inside as a pair. “i’m sorry sir, it’s just - sometimes you meet some real weird men on these streets and, to put it bluntly, the richer ones are normally the worst. like, just ‘cause you got coin doesn’t mean you can kidnap the girls! poor annie, she really went in a odd way…” her mind trailing, her body is forced to kick in as she gives his arm a quick tug. 

“are y’gonna fuck me at the end of this though? just so i’m prepared, aye?” 

He was staggered not only by the kiss, but also but the emotional whiplash. It seemed this vivacious red head could not experience emotions by halves, and it left him not knowing where he stood, yet strangely exhilarated. With a wary laugh, he nodded and straightened his back, fixing her with an odd and curious look before glancing either side of them. People moved past them, blinkered as they were in London, yet he had felt eyes on their unusual display. 

“You shan’t go like poor Annie. Let me assure you, I like to take care of my girls,” he continued, rather liking the cheek of her promise. With a bark of laughter, he scoffed at her question and leaned in to press a finger to her lips. 

“Not so loud. These are decent streets,” he reminded her with a harshness to his whisper and a pointed instruction to try and be a little quieter in the brief intensity of his eyes. “Of course I’m going to fuck you. Just stew in your anticipation a bit longer, won’t you? Now, are you coming into the shop or shall we make more of a scene out here?” he inquired, gesturing into the dressmakers behind them with a quirked brow. 

Flattered by Isabelle’s quick praise, and shy in the face of her wit, Catherine ducked her head with a smile. “I assure you, never would I dare to undercharge my models for what they do for me. Though it might provide me with a little more coin, it would leave me a poor artist, indeed.”

For a moment she watched their feet as they walked their way through the street, unsure of exactly where she was taking them, but knowing she would enjoy the company wherever they ended up. “How were you following the-” Catherine dropped her voice, “-the raid?”

“Then you shall always be morally rich, no matter their cost,” she wagered. They did not venture in any particular direction, simply out of the slums where eyes would follow their finer dresses and men hopeful for all sorts may be inclined to tail them. Busier streets brought more anonymity, strangely, which favoured Catherine’s question. 

Isabelle’s smile faded as she nodded, a look of concern overtaking her features. “Fortunately, I left before midnight and escaped it all. I thank God, for I fear my sister may have killed me for less,” she explained, punctuating herself with a nervous laugh. “You were not so lucky, I hear,” she added, her voice lower still, though only to mimic the others. 

“What a coincidence! I have been avoiding you everywhere.”

 Free-spirited and lively, Naveen has a positive tendency of bringing joy to others. Though not malicious, or particularly antagonistic, Naveen is extremely spoiled,  lazy, and entitled as a result of his privileged upbringing. Naveen's only concern is living life to the fullest by partying as much as possible — preferably with a pleasurable company.  Naveen is also extremely vain, constantly commenting on his looks and his ability to arouse women. He is also incapable of admitting his wrongdoings, and would instead put blame on someone else should trouble occur 

“Aren’t you sweet?”

“oh, one cannot survive without privacy! who do you live with, by chance?” she asks with sincere interest, leaning in automatically as she holds her hand and seems to put a sweetness on each syllable from her tongue. it’s only when they release yet again jemima can see through the thick fog, some mist clouding round their secret rendezvous as she takes one of the cakes, popping it in her mouth with a small laugh - she wondered, did she think about that first moment? that first time her fingers had taken the grace to touch her lip? she almost wants to remind her of it - but the thought also brings back such feelings that made isabelle run from the sinner’s ball ( though, they had both been smart on that front, not long afterwards the raid had commenced ). 

she softens, and reclines as they both sit on the couch that didn’t belong to either of the ladies. “oh!” she grins, placing her cup with ease in her lap, takng care not to spill it against the furniture or her dress. “well, after i moved to wimbledon i wanted to get out into the city! i was suggested this place to stay when it gets too late - the house belongs to a certain baron of stature, somewhere out in the country.. but it’s really a house where his mistress can live when he’s out of town with his family. it’s quite saucy, a rather big secret!” she insists, daring to take another cake before denying herself - whatever food went to waste would be given to the homeless anyway ( or at least, in the morning when the staff arrived ). 

“her name is emily, she’s rather sweet but awfully brash,” she admits, cup now back in her hand as she observes her new friend and perhaps - confidante. “how are you? i haven’t…” she pauses, toying with the idea of being completely honest with isabelle thomas. with another deep breath, she dedicates herself to the idea. “i haven’t stopped thinking about last night, miss thomas.” 

She had managed so far, though she did not wish to complain. Things were quiet in her home, but there was always someone about, even without half of her family under her feet as they had been in her youth. “I live with my sister, her staff and her throng of guests. She is a business woman at heart and a social creature...I prefer the quiet,” she explained, feeling all the more settled, though she sat forward rather than reclining, picking distractedly at the cake in her hand rather than eating it. It gave her something for her hands to do.

Of course she thought about that moment. She remembered the fear and uncertainty that overwhelmed her then. It still burned in the pit of her stomach when she took too long in admiring Jemima. It never really went away, though time and rationalisation had given her chance to suffer it quietly. Looking at her cake rather than her companion helped.

She listened quietly to her story, looking up to share her smile with the other intermittently, breaking into a helpless giggle at the excitement Jemima seemed to have for the scandal she shared. Truly, gossip was not her cup of tea and talk of affairs really turned her stomach. It was good to feel included, though. To feel that Jemima thought she ought to be included in these little parts of her world. “Then I had better keep my lips sealed,” She supposed with a hum of laughter, softly shaking her head. The way some aristocrats carried themselves really did amaze her. Though she could count herself among their peers, they really did feel like a different world to her. She supposed she should include Jemima in that as well.

The reminder and, indeed, the confession brought Isabelle’s gaze up to meet Lady Pembroke’s. A bashful blush darkened her cheeks, but she found the strength not to look away. What was the use of doing so now, at this late stage?

“Nor have I. It was...You are...” Dropping her handful of crumbs onto the plate she had plucked the cake from, she reached for her own glass of port as she spoke - or tried to speak, anyway. Lately she had found a taste for drink she had not managed before. Perhaps that was the doxie’s rubbing off on her. At any rate, she wagered she would need the courage. “You said last night we would be alone this evening. Is that so? I wonder if we might speak...plainly. If such a thing is possible.”

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

She had found out about the money. Of course she had. It was a stupid power play and a feeble attempt at revenge, but it had reminded her that he still had a spine. The income Penny made from her fathers estates and business was substantial, but before it was her money, it was his. Ordinarily that caused no issue, but he had gotten greedy. Spiteful. He had kept it from her and spent it predictably.

He grunted in response, swigging wine from his glass as he slouched deeper against the couch.

“The truly stupid thing is that I miss you.”

He blinked, looking back to her as she continued to speak.

“It’s so quiet here now. There’s so much to do. Visitors ask after you and I can’t tell them the truth. When you’re here I want to rip your stupid, poncy head off. But it’s hard to hate you when you’re not here. We shared a bed for seventeen years, but now it’s just...cold.”

She said it all in an almost perfect monotone, numb, mumbled words blurring into one another. There was the vaguest temptation to laugh. They hadn’t gotten this drunk without a party since they were in their twenties, but now there wasn’t even an occasion to excuse it. It was all they could do to make each another tolerable.

“You could always take me back,” he supposed, watching her sit with a kind of wary expectancy, though her eyes were closed and her body still.

Then she did the strangest thing. Perhaps the last action he had expected. She leaned across to let her head rest upon his shoulder, nestling comfortably against him. Her hands remained folded in her lap, the rest of her person turned away from him, but it was still the first touch they had shared in months, even if he only served a convenient purpose.

“But then you’d win, wouldn’t you?” She sighed without stirring or opening her eyes. “You don’t deserve that.”

quite pleased with herself, rosalie thanked the barkeep for her next pint and decided she would try to take her time with this one. the night was still young, after all, and she felt she was more likeable when she was less sober. “i rather like your approach. it’s not often i can find women who are able to keep up as such.” she dismissed her apology with a grin and a shake of her head. glancing down at her pint and then up at the blonde with amusement. “are you surprised to know that was my first tonight? not all need alcohol to speak as i do.”

“I’ve a request, if you would hear it,”  she said, and stepped closer til she were at the balustrade and looking up into Miss Thomas’s face. “Though it is delicate in matter, and would require great care.” Though she did not say it in as much words, Honora thought it clear that by care she meant secrecy. The house always bustled with activity. Even in the dead of night, when all were sleeping, it creaked and groaned and sighed under the weight of a dozen bodies. Honora knew, for she was often awake at such times, and heard it. Ears were everywhere, and whilst she got on with the girls well enough, she knew that the world was cruel, and people were hard, and that a secret like hers - even if only suspected - could get her into a whole world of trouble.

The natural smile she held for the woman diminished at the serious tone of her words. Precisely what an almost perfect stranger would have to tell her that could hold such importance was a mystery and, indeed, vaguely suspicious, but she could not deny the request.  “Of course,” she replied quietly, stepping down to Honora’s level, her hands clasped by her stomach, thumb idly running over her knuckles to mask burgeoning nerves. “What can I do for you?”