would be false modesty on my part to pretend that dexterity and daring didn’t enter into the matter. It most certainly did. A lesser woman than I might have quailed at the situation in which she found herself, but I
carpe diem
ed, so to speak, and wrapped old opportunity in a stranglehold before he could hie himself off to parts unknown. So for the benefit of the privileged few, here is the unvarnished truth about how I acquired the funds to purchase my fine Georgian house on St. Alban’s Street, not far from the fleshly delights of Haymarket, and filled it with the softest beds, the finest liquor and the comeliest wenches in all of London. I’m not the top rung of the ladder yet but I’m on my way, and someday soon Lotus House will be the preferred destination of the nobs and nabobs that govern our sceptred isle.
***
‘Twas the late spring of 1870, and I had a nice little billet in a house run by Mother Moore. She was a decent lot, treating her girls with more kindness than many of the other abbesses in London. Mother Moore had been a famous beauty in her day and courtesan to the Duke of Litherland. The Duke was a jolly, purple-hued fellow and well advanced in years when he stumbled upon young Agnes Moore, she of the swan-like neck, vacuous lavender eyes and a complexion like a sun-ripened peach. He was so smitten that he soon had her ensconced in a house in St. John’s Wood, where she waited for him every night until the day he died, whereupon she learned the depth of the old fellow’s affections: he’d left her the house. Agnes was a sensible soul and she quickly turned the house into one of London’s choicest brothels. She had a keen eye for talent, as well, which is how I came to be working there for her that summer.
Naturally, I had the basic attributes of any tart recruited to work in such an upmarket establishment. I had a mane of tumbling black curls, startling blue eyes and the Hirsute Fellow Upstairs had seen fit to grace me with an astonishing figure and a creamy complexion, which I maintained through a rigorous abstention from opium and gin. In addition, I possessed a bit of learning and a flair for witty conversation that exceeded the average whore’s, which is limited, on most occasions, to a cackling laugh, a poke in the customer’s ribs, and an exclamation of “Ooh, you’re a clever clogs, ain’t you?” As a result of this confluence of beauty and learning, Mother Moore often paired me off with those of her clients who were looking for a bit more in the way of conversational capability. One such chap was Philip Barrett, scion of a distinguished but now impoverished family from Lincolnshire. Due to his family’s fiscal situation, Philip had been forced to “enter the world of trade” as he would phrase it, ducking his head and smiling wryly. He’d taken a job as manager of a firm importing goods into England from around the world. I could see he wasn’t happy about joining the dubious world of mercantilism but as a working girl myself, I liked him all the better for not looking down his nose at commerce. Most toffs would rather have tea with a plague carrier than the chap who sells insurance.
It didn’t hurt that Philip was a comely lad. We tarts have to take them as we find them, but it makes the burden considerably lighter if your customer would give Adonis a run for his money. And that Philip certainly did. His face could have been carved from marble by one of those Italian blokes; his nose was impossibly straight and his lips were as lush as a girl’s. But there was nothing effeminate about the man. His jaw was chiseled, his chin firm, his shoulders broad. His blond hair glinted in the sun like a field of wheat rippling in the breeze. There was a hint of mischief in his hazel eyes. He was a smooth chap, reducing Mother Moore to giggles with his outrageous flatteries. His lazy smile quite took your breath away if you were prone to the vapours, which I am most decidedly not. One can
carpe diem
ed, so to speak, and wrapped old opportunity in a stranglehold before he could hie himself off to parts unknown. So for the benefit of the privileged few, here is the unvarnished truth about how I acquired the funds to purchase my fine Georgian house on St. Alban’s Street, not far from the fleshly delights of Haymarket, and filled it with the softest beds, the finest liquor and the comeliest wenches in all of London. I’m not the top rung of the ladder yet but I’m on my way, and someday soon Lotus House will be the preferred destination of the nobs and nabobs that govern our sceptred isle.
***
‘Twas the late spring of 1870, and I had a nice little billet in a house run by Mother Moore. She was a decent lot, treating her girls with more kindness than many of the other abbesses in London. Mother Moore had been a famous beauty in her day and courtesan to the Duke of Litherland. The Duke was a jolly, purple-hued fellow and well advanced in years when he stumbled upon young Agnes Moore, she of the swan-like neck, vacuous lavender eyes and a complexion like a sun-ripened peach. He was so smitten that he soon had her ensconced in a house in St. John’s Wood, where she waited for him every night until the day he died, whereupon she learned the depth of the old fellow’s affections: he’d left her the house. Agnes was a sensible soul and she quickly turned the house into one of London’s choicest brothels. She had a keen eye for talent, as well, which is how I came to be working there for her that summer.
Naturally, I had the basic attributes of any tart recruited to work in such an upmarket establishment. I had a mane of tumbling black curls, startling blue eyes and the Hirsute Fellow Upstairs had seen fit to grace me with an astonishing figure and a creamy complexion, which I maintained through a rigorous abstention from opium and gin. In addition, I possessed a bit of learning and a flair for witty conversation that exceeded the average whore’s, which is limited, on most occasions, to a cackling laugh, a poke in the customer’s ribs, and an exclamation of “Ooh, you’re a clever clogs, ain’t you?” As a result of this confluence of beauty and learning, Mother Moore often paired me off with those of her clients who were looking for a bit more in the way of conversational capability. One such chap was Philip Barrett, scion of a distinguished but now impoverished family from Lincolnshire. Due to his family’s fiscal situation, Philip had been forced to “enter the world of trade” as he would phrase it, ducking his head and smiling wryly. He’d taken a job as manager of a firm importing goods into England from around the world. I could see he wasn’t happy about joining the dubious world of mercantilism but as a working girl myself, I liked him all the better for not looking down his nose at commerce. Most toffs would rather have tea with a plague carrier than the chap who sells insurance.
It didn’t hurt that Philip was a comely lad. We tarts have to take them as we find them, but it makes the burden considerably lighter if your customer would give Adonis a run for his money. And that Philip certainly did. His face could have been carved from marble by one of those Italian blokes; his nose was impossibly straight and his lips were as lush as a girl’s. But there was nothing effeminate about the man. His jaw was chiseled, his chin firm, his shoulders broad. His blond hair glinted in the sun like a field of wheat rippling in the breeze. There was a hint of mischief in his hazel eyes. He was a smooth chap, reducing Mother Moore to giggles with his outrageous flatteries. His lazy smile quite took your breath away if you were prone to the vapours, which I am most decidedly not. One can
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