In a time of growing morality and principle, there was a constricting legislation surrounding the establishments where working class women made their means in the sex trade. It was the easiest available option for women to transition from impoverished to housed and autonomous, yet the gruelling stringency of the late nineteenth century was bearing down upon them, and the industry was now fiercely controlled by the courts. Following the Vagrancy Act of 1824, prostitutes were targeted by a corrupted police force for being ‘idle’ or ‘disorderly.’ This had a devastating effect on the independent sex-merchant, who was now either disabled from working freely on the street, or by compulsory mandate, would have to join a ‘disorderly house’ and pay dues out of her own earnings.
Arthur Melbourne knew very little of this world. He had never smelled the heady rose pastilles that burned in London’s most secretive establishments—he had never witnessed the boisterous laughter of women who were down on their luck, nor tasted the mead served to the rumbustious rakes that dare take advantage of these souls. He came from a very different world, a world of great prestige and influence. A world void of raw, beautiful women and premarital sex.
Arthur was raised by his father in addition to a rotation of many house maids and nannies following his mother’s terminal absence, who died of consumption when he was very young. His father, Clarence Melbourne, was the Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain, and had lived to see his son flourish while being granted the best academic opportunities possible as a result of his importance. And, as determined by polite society and the love culture, it was time for marriage considerations. Arthur’s twenty-second year came, and he was dutifully betrothed to his young cousin named Charlotte Lye. She was a bland sort of pretty whom Arthur was not particularly attracted to, but found his ability to converse with her easy, and so he was in verbal agreement with his father under the conditions put forward.
But as the reality of his marriage set in, Arthur was beginning to drown in a heavy pool of unease. Concerns that the longevity of true happiness could not be found in an arranged marriage were stirring inside of him, and as these thoughts began to impact his sleep, he had come to his father with a pale complexion and genuine terror.
“I worry—I worry that I can’t be happy nor can I make her happy. I am incompetent in matters of women, and my only experience of love is through fantastical works of fiction. I am afraid I will be made a fool on my own wedding night.” Arthur’s confessional touched the sympathy of his father, who then granted him a generous allowance, and told him where he could go to rid himself of this burden.
He ventured to Mayfair, whereupon he had passed through far more impoverished districts where smut peddlers harassed him for patronage, and dirty women touched his fine cotton. He bypassed a Flagellation House, which catered to men afflicted by unusual fetishism—he was intrigued but intimidated by the whistling sound of a flogging midwhip, and so he walked on. But once actually within the boundaries of Mayfair, he was exposed to a series of elevated establishments that were as dissimilar as could be to the aforementioned ‘disorderly houses.’ The High End Demimonde operated within shimmering shadows—Arthur was struck by the Bohemian atmosphere, it inspired his curiosity and ignited a thrilling sense of naughtiness in his usual refined self. Seeing the many cortisans and mistresses that moved in this darkness was like pulling a curtain away, and marvelling at what was hidden behind its censorship all along. Something grand, something to be in awe of.
With deference, Arthur entered into one of the many establishments, as he had no way of knowing which would be suitable for his sponsorship versus another. Immediately, the musty odor of garden roses and lavender oil woke his senses. An older, wrinkled woman in a revealing corset approached him with polished salesmanship; he was discreetly vetted by her, offered a menu of sellable experiences, and finally asked about the amount he was willing to pay. Her eyes lit up at his answer, and a wry smile grew on her prunish face.
“Ladies! Come at once, we have a fine gentleman here!” Shouted the Madame, who strutted into the parlor with Arthur sheepishly trailing behind her. The room was magnificent in style—Paresian rugs lined the floor beneath the women’s dainty feet, the walls were etched with highly detailed crown molding, and a monumental painting that took up a large portion of the room’s backdrop created a luxurious tone. The artwork featured a woman adorned in wet silk, her arms outstretched above her head with her budding breasts exposed. She lied in a fainting recline, her legs sprawled open to reveal a tuft of pubic hair. Arthur was mesmerized by the painting, but most astonished by the placement of the man in this iconic work; he sat at his knees, with his hands cradling a single foot of the woman, where it appeared he was ravishing it with kisses. The sight of it drew out a heavy sigh from Arthur.
About fifteen women had arrived cordially—he felt it impossible to observe every single one even in line-up formation, especially in the darkness of the room. In every shape, size, and color he held the freedom to select from. It was far too overwhelming, and out of bashfulness, Arthur leaned into Madame's ear. Whatever secrets he had shared with her induced an immediate snickering, which Arthur read as harmless banter between them.
“Cornelia is good for beginners.” She recommended, pointing to the impressive blonde. His eyes softened at the angelic sight of her.
“Yes, her.” He said feverishly, his entire body moved by her undeniable beauty.
