Ballads and Breeches
Trans M/cis F with reference to semi established trans M/cis M relationship. Fingering, nipple play. References to homosexuality being illegal including raids of queer clubs, some brief references to racism.
Apologies for any and all historical inaccuracies.
“I must be back to my bed…” I said, not for the first time, reluctantly beginning to extricate myself from Mr Flinn’s arms where we lay together in his narrow bed, in the room in my parents’ inn, until we had been disturbed by the early rays of dawn creeping through the window.
“Stay a moment,” he said languidly, pushing himself upright on the pillows, “I had something I wished to ask you.”
I felt my heart minuet about in my chest, turning my face away and taking as long as I could to locate my shift on the ground, filled with the horrified notion that he might be about to propose. After all, since we had visited Meg’s molly-house together some weeks ago, we had spent almost every possible night together. That had not been quite as risky or romantic an affair as it may sound as Flinn spent most nights away from his bed working at either the molly-house or doing whatever it was that he did on the other occasions he crept away from the inn late at night, and he was regularly away during the day on equally mysterious errands. Unfortunately, yet likely for the best when it came to our own safety, we could steal only one or two nights together a week. Perhaps, now I thought on it, it would make a great deal of sense to marry and thus no longer need to creep about to see one another. After all, I did like him exceedingly well, and he was a kind and good man as well as being thrilling and intriguing. I had also revealed more to him than to any other person and thus could be truer around him than anybody else: indeed, he had also teased such details out of me that I did not know about myself, and shared much about himself likewise even if there was still much I did not yet know. I felt that we were certainly a matching pair, of a kind. Yet, the idea of marriage still terrified me.
“I heard you sing in the tavern yesterday. I did not realise you had such a voice.” he said, searching about the side of the bed for a piece of ribbon to tie back his hair.
That was not at all what I had expected him to say. I slithered my upper body back into my shift, letting it fall loose to my knees.
“Yes, I do like to sing, although I do not often have the opportunity.”
Sometimes I sang a little on my own, going about my jobs arranging the rooms, but I supposed he would not have heard that as he was usually out of the house during those hours. I tended not to sing while serving the customers in the tavern, for fear of appearing as though I was shirking my duties. The previous night however had been a quiet one, mainly only regulars who knew me fairly well, and who were deep in their cups and in a merry mood, and so a couple of them incited me to sit down a moment and sing with them. It had mostly been bawdy drinking songs, but one old sot became a little weepy and begged me to sing something with a theme of romance, hitting his fellows with his cane and roaring at them for silence until they acquiesced. I did know quite a few ballads so chose an old one about a tragic tale of a love lost at sea and seemed to have chosen well as the drunk men were all watching me intently, although that may well have been politeness or indeed fear of another clobbering from the man who had asked for the song. He himself seemed pleased with my offering, thumping his fist on the tabletop in appreciation when I had finished and pressing a shilling in my hand when I got up to leave.
I had not noticed Flinn had been in the inn at all to witness my performance, but he was very good at creeping in and out of rooms without drawing much attention if he so chose, particularly in one of his less ostentatious outfits. Although for clarity’s sake I also had not been watching out for him, as I had not been expecting to see him down there that evening.
“Meg is looking for more singers for the house. Of course I am aware that you have much work to do around here but it would only be for one day a week and you would be paid for it- although the pay itself is not much.”
The idea of earning myself a little additional money was appealing, as I certainly did not earn my own wage in the tavern but merely worked for my keep. It was not an unfair arrangement, as I was given a room and food and my parents bought me new clothes whenever they could do so. I did not feel ill used but I did sometimes feel dissatisfied. Yet, the appeal of Flinn’s suggestion was less about the money and more of the idea of… being a part of that community. I had never, in my entire life, felt as much as though I was surrounded by my own peers as when I had stepped into Mother Meg’s Molly House. Of course I could have returned as a patron and yet I had some strange sort of reticence about it, a worry that I lacked some sort of legitimacy, a shyness and uncertainty about my place in it all. An occupation there might give me a stronger sense of belonging, I felt.
Thus, Flinn secured me an audition with Meg one evening. He could not accompany me as he was away on one of his other mysterious engagements but left me use of his horse and clear instructions on how to make my own way. I was also furnished with a large cape and hat, my face muffled with a scarf so that only my eyes were uncovered. Nobody gave me a second look when I trotted across the town limits, and despite a creeping concern that every shadowy figure was following me as I found my way through the backstreets to the molly-house, I made it to the door without being waylaid.
Even though we had gone over the watch-phrase more times than I could count, my heart was still pounding hard with the fear that my mind was going to go completely blank the moment I opened my mouth. Yet it slipped from my lips as easy as lying, and I stepped through the threshold of the old townhouse that now served as a secret club for sodomites, tribadies, the ambiguous and amphibious. I took off my outerclothes and hung them by the door while Meg herself swept down the stairs wearing a long coat and breeches instead of skirts in order to fully display the long riding boots which were laced from foot to thigh, criss crossing between hundreds of tiny eyelets. She wore gilded spurs on her heels, like a knight of old, and in her hand was a riding crop just as I had seen the last time I had seen her.
“In here,” she gestured to the small dressing room where Flinn prepared for his own singing performances in the persona of Nellie.
Her face remained impassive as I went through a selection of the songs I knew. A fast one, a slow one, a popular one that most people knew and a rarer one that might be more obscure. That was a risk, as even I knew it a little less than the others, and I felt that as my voice rose in pitch that I had gone too far, an embarrassing childish squeak, and I trailed off, my cheeks heating up.
“Sorry, can I… can I try that again?”
“No,” Meg held up her hand and my heart plummeted, “That’s enough.”
She rose from where she had been seated in front of the dressing table, stepping closer and taking both of my hands in hers.
“I am not looking for a perfect singer. Do not misunderstand me- you have a perfectly fine voice. You can keep to a tune and you can perform a number of styles. That is certainly useful, but it is not all. This is a different sort of establishment here, not merely one for the appreciation of song but of… people. I need somebody charming, with wit, who can entertain and captivate an audience. From our last meeting, I believe that you fulfil my needs, and Mr Milton has also vouched for your character. We will try one night at first and if we are both satisfied then we can discuss a lasting position.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely, a little touched by her gentle candour.
“Now, one of the important things is to build a costume. I suggest you take some time to do so now instead of leaving it until the day you come to work. It may help to inform what songs you wish to learn. You may use whatever you wish as long as it is not labelled. I must return upstairs to attend to the patrons but I will come down again when I can to see how you are faring.”
I was left alone in the small room with tacit permission to explore all the many boxes and pieces of furniture and I went about that task methodically, careful not to disrupt the order of things. It was not long before I discovered her meaning regarding the labels: several articles and multiple wig boxes had stiff paper labels tied to them with a name. One small box had ‘Nellie’ written on it and, when I peeked within, I saw the hairpiece still decorated with butterflies. The rest of the costume she had worn was laid out in a large drawer in the tallboy covered in a protective cloth. There were fragments of other costumes there too, worn presumably by the other people who performed at the club on different nights. One was a Pierrot outfit made entirely of white frills, labelled fittingly as ‘Pierre’. Later I found a Harlequin’s coat and mask labelled also as ‘Pierre’, suggesting intriguingly that perhaps this act had multiple parts and possibly changes of costume within one performance, unless the person alternated entire outfits on different nights. A dress in a pastoral shepherdess style was owned by somebody apparently called ‘Miss Muff’ and I had a feeling that perhaps a large wickerwork bonnet I had seen that was covered all over with silk flowers and ribbons might go along with that: checking the label proved me correct.
At first I was concerned that there might actually not be all that many items from which to assemble my ensemble. On further exploration however I realised that the existing claimed outfits were all arranged ready to be put on with haste, laid out flat or even hung up on pegs as was the case with several coats and overdresses, and thus took up more space than necessary. Wigs and hairpieces were left dressed, styled, full of pins and decorations, sitting ready on stands or placed carefully into boxes. The real wealth was to be explored in the nondescript chests and trunks where everything was packed in more tightly, folded and flattened into each available corner. I estimate that the majority was clothes from the current era: skirts, shirts, suits of various hues and materials, both ordinary dayclothes or extravagant attire suitable for a ball. There were uniforms associated with specific occupations: soldier, sailor, butler, maid, vicar, judge, smith. There seemed to be many more gowns, of various different sorts and sizes, than anything else, although perhaps my perspective was skewed due to those being significantly larger and thus taking up more physical space.
From my previous dalliances with dressing myself up, I fancied I knew the sort of outfit that I would be interested in: a foppish sort of court suit as I had previously worn. It was this which I was primarily searching for, although I had not yet seen anything that truly caught my attention. Naturally, as these were costumes for performance, the quality was not always there, often lacking linings, interfacing, or those little details in the buttons which had previously captured my attention. Some of the pieces I found did seem like real clothing that had been donated, particularly the shirts and plainer items, and most of the hats also seemed to be well-made, although several had also been modified with feathers, ribbons, beads and so on. This manner of alteration seemed fairly common across all of the items, whether simply a matter of tailoring for size or mysterious additions which I had not the context to understand, such as secret flaps and pockets which seemed to be designed to conceal objects which presumably would be revealed as part of a performance, and which seemed far too personal for me to reclaim.
I was beginning to despair, or rather to relent my hopeful grip on the idea that I might find the perfect costume which would fill me with the same level of exquisite joy and philautia which I had experienced when I first beheld that fine suit of Flinn’s, now some months ago. After all, that had been a serendipitous moment that one must not expect to happen with any regularity. I supposed that I must merely choose my preferred of the options here. Perhaps I ought to gather an armful in case the fit was not quite right on some. I had almost resolved to do so, and was in the process of looking for a waistcoat I thought I had previously seen which might suffice, when I spotted a tea chest in the corner of the room that I had previously overlooked, converted into a storage trunk by some enterprising person who had added handles, hinges, and other useful amendments. The initials R and T had been burned into the pale wood of the lid by use of a hot poker.
It was a little dusty and seemed not to have been opened in a while. The leather straps were secured with brass buckles and resisted my fingers as I tugged them open, and there was an audible complaint from the hinges when I lifted the lid. Inside, the contents were covered with a coarse linen cloth which was tucked tightly into each corner, and beneath this was a strange assortment of items indeed. My eyes were immediately drawn to an unsightly grey coloured moth-eaten mask, so bent that I was unsure what it was representing until I took it in my hands, straightening out the long ears and squashed snout, and recognising that it was a somewhat melancholy donkey. Beneath this was a gown made from rags wrapped around a tin crown, painted to appear gold and with paste jewels inserted at intervals around the circumference.
My hands dug down further, sifting through articles which I now presumed must have originally belonged to some sort of theatre, or a theatrical troupe or company, or else an establishment which provided costuming to such societies. Some seemed to have been tailored specifically for their purpose, particularly much of the historical garments which seemed appropriate for the Shakespearean era, while many seemed to be ordinary clothing of our current day which had been amended somewhat through strategic stitching or beading, to give more of a feeling of a Juliet or a Cordelia. Yet, you will not be surprised to hear, it was the men’s clothing which drew my attention.
I had not given much thought to the fashions of our forefathers, or rather the forefathers of the royal and aristocratic rather than my own ancestors who would I suppose have been dressed very differently. I was unsure how accurately any of the costumes represented the clothing of the time, having not at that point seen many paintings which depicted the style worn when the House of Tudor reigned, and my association was purely from seeing a handful of performances of the plays of Shakespeare or from cartoons in the papers occasionally depicting figures from history for some witty political comparison.
Shirts, stockings, hose… an artfully stained leather jerkin that might have been for a Falstaff or other buffoonish character… it seemed as though I had reached a rich vein of the male costuming, and I sifted through them with feverish intent. Before long I discovered something worth further investigation: a brown paper parcel with the edges tucked in to hold it closed. I unwrapped it to reveal an entire outfit which had been packed up together and must have been intended for a major character, although I could not quite recognise which one and indeed supposed I must be unfamiliar with this particular hero, having only seen a small portion of the prolific work of the Bard and not by any means being a scholar in the matter.
On top was a neat little white ruff, starched so severely that the pleats seemed to have held considerably well despite being packed in tight. Thoughtfully, I took hold of it, pinching a fold between thumb and forefinger, and almost automatically setting it aside on the open lid of the crate for future access. The largest object was a doublet made of some heavily embroidered cloth which showed a botanical pattern stitched beautifully in a goldenrod hue onto the vermilion fabric. It looked to be my size, and I was struck with the need to see how it truly looked, not merely flat and lifeless in my hands but quickened by the alchemy which brought all clothes to life, which was the act of being worn on the body and lent its vitality.
I undressed down to the simple shirt of Flinn’s I had worn, shaking out the folds of the doublet and allowing it to envelop my arms. The piece was fastened by a score of little buttons formed of silken knots which easily slid through their waiting holes. Smoothing it down with my palms, I considered my reflection in the glass. It did not look as ridiculous as I had feared, and while I perhaps would not dare to walk the streets dressed in such a manner, it seemed quite fitting for what was in itself a theatrical role. The doublet seemed to suit me well, giving an appealing exaggerated point to each shoulder. The sleeves were puffed out, the material slashed to show stripes of satin material beneath in a matching colour to the embroidery, and the hips had a similar exaggerated shape to the shoulders, stiffened with whalebone. Before my eyes, my perception of my body seemed to shift, seeing myself not merely as wearing an arrangement of fabric with an unusual shape but assimilating this striking new silhouette into my image of my self, as though my flesh was reshaping itself. I felt my shoulders were truly broader, my arms genuinely thicker. The whalebone may as well have been my bones, the satin my skin.
The next item in the parcel was a pair of short trunk hose which truly did look somewhat ridiculous. They were not made of the exact same material as the doublet, which would perhaps have been a little too garish, but the colours were the same. It seemed as though they might in fact be wider than they were long, only coming down to mid-thigh, but the thick padding beneath meant that they made my upper legs seem impossibly plump. Above this, the looseness of the strips and panels which constituted the visible top layer of material gave even more of an impression of voluminousness.
I mused how interesting it was that what was in ‘la mode’ could change so completely: men’s breeches in the present time tended to be very tight to the leg indeed. I had previously enjoyed that style very much on myself, so one might think that I would not like such a dramatically different way of displaying my finely turned shanks, and yet I found that I rather liked the effect of these immensely broad trunks just as well.
Here was a pair of stockings- naturally, due to the length of the hose, these were longer than the type I had become accustomed to and were perhaps a little long for me, reaching up to mid-thigh so that the tops were securely hidden beneath the hose. These were also rather tight around my calves, showing off the shape of the muscular backs of my legs very nicely, so I supposed that in some way I was still benefiting from a large portion of the leg still being very much visible. The shoes in the parcel were small silken little things which surprisingly fit much better than the ones I was wearing which had originated from Flinn’s collection and thus had been padded to assist the fit. I felt that these perhaps were not intended for outdoor wear as the soles were not wood nor thick leather but soft kid like a glove, and they gave my feet little protection, feeling almost as though I was not wearing any real shoe at all.
Now I picked up what I thought to be the final item in the parcel: a large hat with a flat round crown and small brim, decorated with a jewelled band where naturally the jewels were most likely false, and a truly enormous plume. When I gently combed it through between my fingers, rearranging it from where it had been flattened in storage, it stood to attention with the feather curling a little at the tip. I paused to first put on the ruff, which tied at the throat with strings that could be tucked and concealed beneath the collar. The stiff little thing seemed to adjust how I held my head, encouraging me to keep my neck straight and chin tilted upwards, but it was not too uncomfortable. Old fashioned and somewhat absurd as it looked, I did not dislike it. I was wearing my hair back in a braided club which I smoothed upwards against the back of my skull and eased the hat over the top to give the illusion of short hair, which I felt seemed more accurate to the time.
I had been mistaken in presuming that the hat was the final piece. There was one remaining article nestled into the rustling brown paper, but I did not understand at first what I was looking at. It was a small curved lump of padded fabric the size of my cupped hand and when I picked it up it rolled over to rest naturally into the hollow of my palm. There were two ribbon ties attached to one side and a small button to the other, and it was made out of the same material as the trunks except for the fact that it was decorated with a great deal of embroidery, displaying detailed swirls of leaves and budding flowers, which were given additional depth with the addition of small gilded glass seed beads which glimmered when they caught the lamplight. I turned it about in my hands to try and make some sense of the shapes of it. All of a sudden it seemed to crystallise into understanding in my mind and I felt about my waist to see if there was any means of attachment. Ingeniously disguised at the belt were two apertures I had previously not noticed, one at either side of the groin, through which I threaded the ribbons and tied them into place.
The object now hung there pendulously whilst I searched between my legs for a buttonhole. As I had supposed, there was a small waiting slot in the gusset of the trunks and with only a little difficulty I secured the button into place. This item was what I believe is usually referred to as a codpiece, and gives the wearer the appearance of possessing a prodigiously large tool of love. Indeed, from viewing my reflected image in the glass, I could see that the effect was truly quite impressive. The instrument contained within such a pouch, had it been constructed from flesh rather than bombast, would have been truly extraordinary.
Considering how simple it was to attach and remove the piece, I wondered if perhaps this costume was a part which requires gender play such as a Viola or a Portia. I had already thought that it may be intended for a ‘breeches role’, where a woman may play a man, as it seemed to fit my body exceedingly well despite my slight build and below average stature. Yet it was not one of those costumes which aimed to marry a masculine style with a feminine form, so that an actress might still look and feel like a woman despite her role and therefore not risk a damaged reputation via questions about her body being ill-formed for her sex: I admit no expertise in tailoring, but it seemed to be entirely indistinguishable from any costume intended for a man, so that it seemed almost as though my body adjusted itself to fit within it so neatly. Yet I often felt as though my very flesh and bones shifted to perfectly match certain clothing, to combine myself with it as completely as if it had been a replacement for my skin.
Attaching the codpiece had not added any noticeable ballast between the legs and the weight of the thing was trifling enough that if somebody had tied it to me while I had been distracted I likely would not feel any difference. Yet the knowledge of its presence, the bold shape of the protuberance and the implication of it, had caused me to adjust my stance, plant my feet apart with my legs further apart, hands on my hips with my pelvis tilted further forward, as though to compensate for something made of solid steel rather than cloth. For whatever reason, whatever shred remaining of internalised prudishness, I was uncertain whether this might be a little too obscene, but then again I was fairly sure that this was accurate to the past, and indeed it was not as though it was an actual appendage but merely an exaggeration in the same manner as my doublet had enormous sleeves and my trunks had those billowing legs which were not representative of the body beneath.
There was a soft tap at the door and Meg stepped back into the room, slowly looking me over, her expression unclear.
“I had forgotten we had those things… I inherited them from a lover who worked in the theatre. It is not what I expected you to choose but it looks well on you- and it is a style that none of the other performers wear which is ideal, since I look to provide a variety. Yes, now that I look at you, you really do seem well suited to it. I can well believe that Shakespeare would have dedicated a sonnet to your boyish beauty.”
I bowed deep, feeling my cheeks flush. The large feather on my hat danced down in front of my eyes.
“Thank you kindly, my lady.”
“Now, you’ll need a name. No need to fret over it too much, it need not mean anything profound. You could think of it more as naming the act, if you prefer.”
My reflection gazed steadily at me as I surveyed the mirror. With the frame around it, I could imagine I was viewing an oil painting of a young man from centuries past: a courtier or a squire or some sort of bard. I turned to one side, bending one leg up to try and create a pleasing shape for my imagined artwork. Given my general temperament I would usually prefer to ruminate over such a decision, yet she was looking at me expectantly, and perhaps it was better to not think about it too much so as not to end up in a quagmire of doubt attempting to find something perfect. It might be best to simply consider my image in the glass as though it were some other person rather than myself and say the first forename that came into my mind.
“Perceval,” I found myself saying.
I was not sure what had brought that onto my tongue, yet there it was and I had spoken it so I supposed that was the end of it.
“Perceval,” she repeated, and nodded seriously.
Thus I began travelling by myself once a week to the molly-house to spend my nights singing and performing in role, and I found myself truly enjoying the work. If it had been possible, I likely would have willingly done it every night, yet I knew that would have been untenable: I still had to work during the day in the inn and may have dropped dead from so little sleep. Additionally, I used Flinn’s horse to travel, and most nights he required it himself to go to either his own engagement working at the same molly-house, or to wherever he went on those other occasions. I believed the only other evening I would have been guaranteed use of the horse was the one that we usually spent together and, although I would not tell him, I prized that time highly and did not wish to relinquish it. It also seemed that it might be tempting fate to slip out of the house more often than I already was; while I believed I had a proficient talent at sneaking about without drawing notice, I tried not to get puffed up with my own successes as I was all too aware that it was broadly luck rather than skill.
I began to get to know several of the regulars to the club, or at least the ones who attended on the days when I was present, and learnt that the reasons for attendance were diverse. Some patrons used it as a meeting place to see their sweethearts with a reasonable degree of safety and security, while others hoped to kindle new acquaintance either for love or for trade- some buying, some plying. Indeed, Meg had informed me before my debut performance that some people might offer me coin for services and that I was free to accept so long as it did not interfere with my work.
“If it becomes a habit, or if you choose to advertise yourself as a tail, the house will start to take a cut,” she said with an unapologetic shrug, “Particularly if you use the bedchamber here or any of the other facilities. Of course, if you’re wapping for no pay, that is a different matter. I prefer you all do that here rather than out on the streets, for safety’s sake.”
This was the main purpose of the establishment after all- a safe place for deviants like we all were which was out of sight of the law. Meg frequently referred to it as a ‘business’, yet that was not truly the case. She herself made no money from the venture, using all donations and sponsorships she acquired to pay performers, the doormen who doubled as bullies for security, and I presumed any expenses required to maintain and furnish the house. I had no idea what she did in her ordinary life as she, like most of the house’s patrons, were quite secretive about who they were during the daylight hours. Whoever she was, she must be fairly well set up in herself as she seemingly did not rely on the molly-house for income: she profited not in coin but in people, and providing them a community, and I did not begrudge her for asking for a share in any money I might make here, since it would be returning to the house rather than to line her purse.
The sense of belonging I had initially felt when I originally set foot into this place had only strengthened as I had begun to know the people better. At first I had been deeply nervous at the thought of singing in front of a room full of people, but I had found them all to be a very gracious audience and the first time I had seen the hat being passed around, and almost everybody contributing at least a coin or two, I had felt most gratified. Many of them had called me over to tell me specifically that they had enjoyed my singing, or the choice of a particular favourite song, and several had offered me a drink and to sit and prattle with them. Yet there was still very much I did not know, both about the clientele and the House itself, which I would soon learn had more secrets within its walls than I had originally surmised.
Over the weeks, I had developed what I felt was my best song, or certainly the one which I most enjoyed singing. It is a popular ballad written some time in the distant past, which helped as the audience also knew it, and it was one which had a theme which appealed to both myself and seemingly many of the others. It was called ‘The Famous Flower of Serving-Men’ and recounted the story of a lady who disguised herself as a man and became the servant to a King who, upon discovering the truth, married said servant. It was not an uncommon theme in ballads, a woman dressing as a man, but what I did find particularly arresting in this one was that there was no emphasis on a return to womanhood by the end. Indeed, the version of it which I had learnt ended with the following lines:
“He took Sweet William to be his Wife; The like before was never seen; A Serving-man to be a Queen.”
Perhaps this was not the intent of the original writer who penned this ballad, yet I chose to believe that the subject of the tale remained Sweet William, living as a man as well as a queen, using the protection of his new husband to allow him to do as he pleased. I attempted to deliver that interpretation through the way I sang it- whether I was successful or not is down to those who heard me, I suppose. It felt as though this particular song was well suited to my persona as Perceval, who was robed in a manner befitting a man who lived centuries ago, as while I was unsure of the exact date of the ballad’s original penning, it certainly had a feeling of being from a time long past: a lost time of romance.
Lo, I was just finishing my act with this aforementioned song, culminating with the lyric I have just mentioned, when I noticed a woman I had not previously seen at the club was watching me intently from behind a fan painted with multiple miniatures of nude forms. When my song was over, and the patrons were all clapping politely, she made her own sound of applause by flicking her wrist to rapidly open and close her fan with an audible snap, never taking her eyes from me, and when our eyes met she made a small discreet gesture with the closed fan, a little beckoning motion with the handle, subtle enough that I could have ignored if I preferred. Once the hat had been passed around and I was liberated to wander where I chose, I meandered across the room to where she was seated on a low pouffe footstool.
She was a little older than I, perhaps in the latter half of her third decade, and her hair must have been originally of a straw blonde, although had been dressed with so much pomade and powder that it was now grey. It had been styled in a large heart-shaped puff above the crown, supplemented no doubt with postiches made perhaps of her own dropped hair collected industriously from her hair brush and formed into additional volume. It was all over decorated with satin bows, culminating at the top where there was a pretty centrepiece made from roses and a bunch of cherries- all of these I presumed must be artificial, created from silk and wax and painted to seem more realistic, yet it was done with such an art that I truly was not completely certain. When she laughed or spoke with any particularly vigorous motion of the neck, the lush globular fruit bobbed on their stalks, tempting the viewer to reach up and pluck them, but knowing that the artifice would then be dashed when he found himself with a hand full of some unappetising putty. Thick ringlets cascaded over one bare shoulder, like a waterfall flowing over a smooth pink rock.
Her habit was a full close-bodied gown of a salmon shade, as pale as to be almost the same colour as her skin, particularly where she had applied rouge to the latter. The neckline was very low and the bodice pressed against her breasts in a manner which made them seem about to bounce free, her stays laced tightly and her chest deliberately arranged to be lifted and held in place as two visible mounds of flesh, the complete opposite of how I arranged my own chest to be firmly strapped down out of sight. She had been wearing a fichu, a sort of lace kerchief used to cover the upper chest for modesty, but she had divested herself of this when entering the club and it now lay across her lap.
“Good evening,” she greeted me, looking me over with sharp, curious eyes which seemed to linger on my codpiece, “Are you fish or fowl?”
Taken aback, and not yet at that point accustomed to answering questions about my sex, I found myself replying sharply: “A good red herring.”
That answer seemed to please her, as she smiled, showing a mouthful of neat straight teeth.
“As fortune has it, I am an epicure,” she responded, lightly tapping her closed fan against her bottom lip, “I have been referred to as a fricatrix, yet I have equal appetite for docking.”
Her tone was perfectly innocent despite the lewd suggestion of the words she spoke.
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. My name is Perceval.” I said with a small bow.
“Lucinda Ormerod, but you may call me Lucy.” she answered, “I have been out of society for some time- travelling the Continent- so am a little out of practice. I feel I am once more the debutante.”
She opened her fan with a deft rotation of the wrist, fluttering it in front of her face in a show of shyness which was obviously disingenuous, as evidenced by her mischievous smile, and the way in which she held her fan, angling her arm out to the side so that even when she covered her face she was not obscuring the view of her bosom.
“Perhaps you might be my guide so that I do not get too lost,” she added softly, slowly and deliberately trailing a fingertip of her free hand down her throat, between the collarbones, leading my gaze like a fisherman reeling in his line, her finger only stopping once it arrived at the boundary between skin and cloth, slightly dipping beneath the bodice, remaining there, in the dip between her bountiful bubs, pressed between them tightly as there was scarce any space for any object there.
Her steady gaze on me and her lingering touch of her own chest seemed to me, particularly given our current environs, to be intentionally courting provocation, daring me to consider what it might be if that were my finger, and should I like it to be? I found that to my own surprise I wanted that dearly. I had thought that my perception of human breasts, in general, was overall neutral or biased towards the negative- a body part, like any other, and on myself I regarded them as superfluous and cumbersome. If one were to raise children then they had a utility but otherwise they simply made it more difficult for one’s clothes to fit. Certainly they could be pleasant or attractive in the same way as a knee or a wrist could have an aesthetic appeal, but I generally did not understand why they as a body part were often exalted as highly as, say, the lips or the genitalia. I did not believe I had in my life viewed breasts that could inspire sonnets, yet clearly my education had been lacking, since I now felt, as though struck with a bolt of divine inspiration, how I had been mistaken.
Whether Lucy happened to have a particularly beautiful bust and thus chose to display it to its advantage, or alternatively she had decided she wished to construct that area into the most pleasing configuration possible by use of clothing and posture, I was not sure. I do believe her general attitude and manner helped to add to this impression, as it was clear that she considered it to be a very appealing attribute, and was charming enough to communicate the idea effectively.
We were only just beginning to become acquainted with each other when several things happened in short succession. I had on several occasions observed the large heavy looking bell that hung in the hallway downstairs, although I had never heard it be rung until now- a clear, even chime that sounded through the entire house and which I did not immediately connect to the bell itself. It did not mean anything to me, or indeed Lucy, but it was apparent that it did mean something of great import as Meg herself immediately strode away from the group she was talking to without a word, a break in decorum I felt she would never normally make. The bell had halted its ring but the room remained silent. Without need for discussion, we had all recognised that something of great urgency had been communicated to her, and that she was about to relay that to us.
“The constable is here to make an inspection,” she said, her voice calm, “There is no need for alarm. If you please, swiftly follow Georgio beneath, and remain as quiet as mice until I am able to retrieve you.”
Georgio, a jocular regular I knew relatively well and who often chose to dress in a Classical Greek style, hitched his toga to one side with purpose as he flung back the large rug that covered the floor of one side of the room. It was clear that this was a drill he knew as well as she, and perhaps this entire routine had been carried out on numerous occasions before I had begun my work here, which at least was somewhat reassuring that it must be a successful scheme. Beneath, cunningly hidden, was a large iron ring, which once pulled revealed a square trapdoor opening onto a flight of stairs. Many of the other patrons seemed similarly unsurprised, quietly standing and quickly making their way to the hatch, ushering along those with baffled frightened countenances with a kind but firm motion.
In the meantime, Meg had opened an ottoman stool and retrieved a plain skirt which she quickly pulled on over the breeches she had been wearing, taking down her pinned hair into loose ringlets and tossing the riding crop she carried to Michael, the young man who was usually in the nude, with tonight being no exception, to take down with him through the trapdoor. I noticed that she was gesturing for several of the club members to stay seated, and recognised that all of her choices were dressed in a way acceptable for the street, while many of us who were being led to the mysterious hatch were in more unusual garb of one sort or another. I did not believe that Lucy was dressed especially inappropriately, particularly if she was to replace her kerchief to cover herself somewhat to attain a higher standard of modesty, yet she was not invited to stay. I believe this was due to her not being particularly well established in the club and thus not yet as well trusted. All of those who were being asked to remain were regulars who I either knew by name or at least recognised as having attended on multiple occasions.
Despite feeling somewhat as though this was a situation worthy of some consternation, particularly if we were actually found out by the authorities, I could not help but feel a little frisson of excitement. A large part of this was due to finally understanding more about the geography of this house, as I had often felt bewildered by how the upstairs was so spacious yet the downstairs so narrow: now I understood that there was a whole hidden room which occupied that mysterious space, which had been converted for the sole purpose of hiding the clientele during such raids and inspections. It was an ingenious solution, and a necessary one, since being caught at such an establishment could result in pillorying, or hanging. One could not smuggle approximately twenty frightened sodomites out of an upstairs window without notice.
I followed Lucy down the steps into the darkness below. The space was unlit, pure darkness, presumably for safety, and I could only see by the slight light from the room above. It felt as though descending into a deep cave deep below the surface. I could only just discern the other people huddled down in corners. This room must be the mirror in size and shape of the dressing room on the other side of the building although much less welcoming. Somebody had at least covered the ground with rugs and cushions for the frightened patrons to curl up on, and the walls seemed to be heavily covered with thick curtains or some other fabric, whether that may be to add a little warmth to the admittedly chilly chamber or to muffle sound so that we might avoid detection.
The entire enterprise was reminiscent to me in that moment, perhaps somewhat brought to mind due to my costume and adopted character, of the ‘priest holes’ said to have been built in the houses of the wealthy during the reign of the Virgin Queen for the purpose of concealing recusants. It had always seemed a ridiculous matter to me, who did not have any particularly strong sense of faith, to risk one’s life and limb and a life of persecution by refusing to conform to the dominant doctrine of the land. I felt now, in my current situation, that I had much more sympathy for the position.
Georgio was the final person to descend, lowering the trapdoor as he went, where presumably somebody would replace the rug on top to hide it from view. When the hatch was closed, darkness reigned. I could not see anything whatever, surrounded by blackness so absolute that I may as well have no sight at all. I had not yet settled myself down on the floor but had been on my path to a cluster of cushions a few feet away and so continued to shuffle in that direction until a flailing hand caught hold of mine and pulled me down. I felt myself fall upon what seemed to be a loose pile of satin before realising I was in fact sprawled upon the lap of a woman, feeling the pleats of her gown.
There was an odd cold wind on my cheek and I puzzled over it for but a second before recognising it as the waft of a fan. My suspicions about the identity of this personage were confirmed when I felt her fingers tighten around mine and soft lips brush lightly against the shell of my ear. Lucy whispered something so quietly that even I, hearing her words delivered directly into that organ of mine best designed for the purpose, could only just discern her words.
“Feel my frightened heart,” she had said, and a moment later she placed my hand against warm skin.
I shifted my fingertips, pressing, and I do believe I could indeed feel a rapid thump of her heartbeat fluttering against the cushion of my upper palm. It almost seemed as though I could hear it, like the beating of a drum, yet perhaps that was my own pulse throbbing in my head. It was difficult to tell precisely what was occurring in the room above, which increased my nerves. Very soon after we had first taken refuge in this room I thought I had heard footsteps cross the floor, and soon after which there had been a clattering from the wall which I thought might be the sound of the constable, or constables, or however many people there may be, coming up the stairs. I had been trying to listen for voices, but soon after this there had been the sound of the piano forte: one of the members who had remained behind, or indeed even Meg herself as she had great skill at the instrument, had begun to play, which was indeed a very pragmatic method of helping to make any sounds from below less audible, although it also did make it nearly impossible to work out what was occurring above. It was one of Handel’s suites, sedate but not without drama.
Perhaps distracted by listening to the music, as well as still being entirely unable to see a singular mote ahead of my straining eyes, I had allowed my hand to remain resting on Lucy’s chest, the elevated thump of her heart accompanying the opening ‘allemande’ on the keys. Her own hand remained on top of mine, discouraging me from removing it, and by degrees she began to subtly slide both of our hands down. I could feel my own heart pound against my own flattened breast, even faster than before. Her skin was soft like the nap of a peach, and warm, and I could not tell exactly where my hand was on the rounded swell of that fleshy knoll, which added an additional fire to my belly, and to the rising arousal in my loins. She ceased to push my hand across her skin, merely resting her fingers lightly on mine and trusting, it seemed, that I had received the message of her intentions. I expected at any moment to meet the top line of her bodice, a boundary which may halt progress. Yet such a limitation never arose.
My questing fingers skimmed over an unexpected nub of flesh and paused to investigate it more closely. It took only a brief exploration with my fingertip to recognise what I had found: the minx had plucked her entire breast out of her clothing, exposing it to me under only the cover of darkness, and I had discovered the stiff peak of one nipple! I did not dare to speak aloud to give her a playful admonishment so I delivered a rough punitive pinch, twisting the flesh and smirking in the darkness at the sharp intake of breath I heard from somewhere to the upper right. Experimentally I reached out in what I perceived to have been the direction of the sound, my fingers connecting with a downy cheek and feeling their way down to the unmistakable curve of her soft mouth pouting out into the shape of a grin.
I pressed one finger to her lips to indicate the need for silence. In response, she kissed the centre joint of my finger, first a light brush so gentle I thought I might have imagined it, before she parted her lips around my fingertip and planted a firmer buss there. Something wet and warm slid sinuously against one edge of my knuckle, and then the opposite side, and then a line licked up right to the tip. Moments later my entire finger was surrounded by that same wet heat and I realised she had sucked it into her mouth.
Upstairs we could still hear the music playing, and occasionally the creak of a floorboard as somebody stepped on it. Although my concealed friends were also staying perfectly quiet, I felt as though we must all have been holding our breaths whenever a heavy boot stepped on the floor worryingly close to the trapdoor.
A hand landed on my shoulder, smoothing up to my neck and curving behind it to pull me in closer. Lucy used the tip of her tongue to eject my finger from her mouth, moments later pressing her mouth unevenly to mine. It was an active effort to stay quiet when I felt her lick my mouth open, curling her tongue behind my teeth. Without any particular thought to do so, I ran my fingers down her chest, cupping a breast in each hand and squeezing lightly, catching the nipples between my knuckles and rolling them to hard buds. I could feel Lucy squirming beneath me, her hot breath coming out faster against one side of my nose. The material of her skirts was rustling, the heavy satin weave swishing against itself with the sound of a hissing snake, and I realised that she was hoisting her gown up to her waist. I had ended up on top of her, just lifted up onto my knees, her thighs either side of my body, and she was pressing passionate kisses to my lips as she drew me closer with both her arms and her legs about my back, encouraging me to rest atop her with the entire weight of my body.
I dipped my head down to kiss the soft hollow of her throat, nipping lightly with my teeth and enjoying the feeling of a shivered swallow felt against my mouth. It was not difficult to find the part of her body she wished me to touch next, even without sight, as she had arranged her seat of pleasure perfectly in range, unwrapped and prepared. If we had unlimited time I would have drawn it out to punish her impatience, teased and withheld until she asked and then begged and then pleaded, but in this current situation we had no idea how long we might have, so it felt best to make the most of it.
Her legs were bare from knee up to stomach. I could feel her trembling thighs as I ran my fingers up them, feeling the light dusting of hair thicken into a patch of wet curls in-between. Carefully I pressed the pads of two fingers, spreading the soft flesh I found there and exploring the flooding pocket of her core: wetter than the inside of her mouth. Her breath was coming out a little more unevenly now, her chest rising and falling quickly, and I found myself torn between the genuine important need to stay silent compared to my natural desire to feel somebody lose control from my touch.
She had anointed her body with some water of the toilette which evoked fresh violets in scent, although I could taste only the salt of her skin, trailing my tongue between her breasts and pressing my face into the pillowy welcoming bosom. I mouthed my sightless path over downy soft flesh, dropping a line of gentle kisses, but occasionally bestowing a rougher nibble or nip. Simultaneously my fingers worked at her cunt, plunging deep as a pickpocket might whilst attempting to fish out a gold coin from a silken purse, two fingers sunk almost to the knuckle. The pad of my thumb I used to rub the pearl above, clumsily I must admit without the sight or sound either of her body or of her reactions, although occasionally I did feel a clenching or shuddering which indicated that I had struck upon a lucrative angle.
In the hitherto tumbling, my hat had become somewhat dislodged, something I only became aware of when I felt Lucy’s fingers winding into the strands of my hair which had loosened from their tie, lightly tugging to one side as if using it as a rein to steer my head. I obliged, heeding her directions and repositioning my face against her chest a few inches to the right and finding my lower lip brushing against the base of her nipple, already stiff from the previous attention of my fingers. This was the second time she had hinted for me to touch this precise point: I concluded that she had a particular sensitivity in this region, and was filled with the instinctual desire to tease. I allowed the nipple to slip into my mouth for a moment, circling my tongue about the base, before deliberately letting it fall out from between my lips. Her displeasure was immediately evident as her fingers in my hair wound tighter, giving a sharp tug to the scalp which had me smirking into the tenebrous mid-air.
Both of us halted any movements, and it felt also halted our breathing, as a floorboard creaked directly above our heads. We held perfectly still for a moment, while we waited, but heard nothing more other than the soft piano music. I strained to hear, feeling like my ears must have pricked up like a dog with the effort I was taking to pick up any other sound. I did think that I could hear muffled conversation in a low baritone voice yet distinguishing any individual words was impossible. There was nothing more to be done other than wait, and occupy my mind and hands in the meantime.
I allowed the music of the piano forte to fill the chambers of my brain, replacing the fearful thoughts that threatened to cause panic. I could not myself play the piano particularly well but fancied I was playing my own kind of instrument, my fingers stroking and rubbing with the intention of bringing out a silent symphony of a sort. My mouth dropped back to her chest, having purposefully not strayed far so that I could easily find my way back in the dark, using my tongue to rechart a path to her teat. This time I did not dally, immediately taking the plump cherrilet into my mouth and sucking. Once more her grip tightened in my hair and yet it felt of a very different sort, a more involuntary clench of the digits rather than an admonishment, and indeed seconds later she released me and petted the nape of my neck with what seemed to be apology.
Likely I would have appeared calm to an observer, if such an observer had the ability to see through utter darkness; yet that was all artifice. Certainly my hands were not shaking, my lip not trembling, the quicksilver of my thoughts was not flowing all out of control, but this was purely because I did not allow myself to think of anything whatsoever other than the woman beneath me, and how I might best draw out her silent pleasure, how I could learn to divine the meanings of every wordless twitch and shudder. Without any particular intent to do so, my fingers were moving to the rhythm and speed of the piano music from above, while my mouth on her breast was more languid and leisurely, alternating between long sucks and caressing circular motions of the tongue.
Her hand had come to rest lightly at the back of my neck, but at one particular application of my hand her fingers gripped my nape with bruising strength and her entire body bucked beneath me like a wild horse, almost dislodging me from her completely. There was a sound, a strangled sob, muffled, and I realised that she had pressed something over her face to keep herself quiet, unable to suppress the sound of her jouissance through strength of will alone. She still seemed to be shaking, shuddering, sharp uneven little tremors, even as she drew back and took my hand from her privities but kept hold of it a moment, carrying it up somewhere through the darkness, and a moment later I felt a different warmth encircling my fingers: soft lips, wet tongue, hard pearls of teeth sliding past the fingertips before she sucked her own piquant honey from my skin.
The piano music stopped, and we both seemed to falter. Before we had too much time to panic there was a light knock on the trapdoor above, and Meg’s voice.
“The coast now is clear, sweethearts,” she called, and all of a sudden light was flooding the small chamber, and I was blinking as though staring at the sun, rather than merely the illumination of candles from above.
I glanced about me at the other people I had almost forgotten were down here with us, several of whom also seemed to be hurriedly scrambling to rearrange or secure articles of clothing which mysteriously appeared to have become unfastened in the dark interim. One man had a streak of snow-white face cream on one side of his jaw which seemed curiously similar to the white painted face of the man adjusting his askew periwig. Another was buttoning the drop front of his breeches but in his haste had got the buttons entirely misaligned. Lucy, meanwhile, was smoothing out her skirts with a slow nonchalance, apparently caring not a fig if any eyes were upon her while she ladled her wayward breasts back into her clothing. I myself retrieved my hat which had tumbled entirely from my head and lay forlornly on a lumpen cushion upon the ground.
Once the entire company had disencamped from the secret room, cautiously assembling back upstairs alongside those who had stayed behind, Meg signalled for our attention, her manner suddenly severe. She was still wearing her hair down, and the skirt that she had hastily donned earlier, yet she had regained ownership of her riding crop at some point and was holding it aloft like a general brandishing a sword. All pet names and sweetness had entirely vanished from her voice as she spoke, and each word was pronounced with deliberate clarity.
“We at the club take our patrons’ safety as the highest possible priority, as I am sure you may already have noted. Guests are only permitted if they are vouched for by an existing member and nobody is allowed entry without use of the passphrase. This means that we are aware of everybody who enters our walls. We ask you not to speak a word about this hidden chamber to any other person, and I warn you all that if any of you betrays knowledge of it to any of the authorities, whether directly or otherwise, you will find the hangman a significantly more appealing prospect compared to our wrath. This is no exaggeration. Do not imagine you would be able to conceal your actions. Do you all hear me and understand?”
There was a ripple of assent across the entire group: some nervous mumbles and some hearty shouts. It certainly felt believable that, if necessary, Meg could discover any traitor and she seemed absolutely capable of orchestrating a slow and painful punishment. Regardless, I would never want to reveal the secrets of the community that had welcomed my own, particularly since I relied on them for my own shelter and sanctuary. Indeed I have never breathed a word about that hidden chamber in all the many years hence, and speak of it now only as it has long since ceased to exist, and I may assure you that I have also altered certain details to make even retrospective identification of any of the persons and places involved much more difficult.
At a later point I learned some more about the entire charade which Meg and a trusted few would instigate whenever the premises were raided. She would claim to be a lady of means, the illegitimate daughter of a white man with a great deal of money and power in town, which I suspect may have indeed been true although I never knew for certain, and that she was holding a salon for her friends to discuss some topic related to art, food, politics, or music, in a house that belonged to her husband. I do believe she really did have a husband, and it was possible that quite a significant portion of this story was accurate and provable, so that any doubts could be easily assuaged by producing the necessary papers. I do not know how much, if anything, her husband knew about the reality of her nocturnal business. Truly, to this day, I greatly admire her resolve in running that establishment almost every night of the year, particularly since the wealth and connections I assumed she must have were also limited by her own social disadvantages both in the public and domestic sphere as a black woman in a world of white control.
Time had marched on while we were sequestered and I needed to change into my ordinary clothing and hurry home before morning. I paused to take my leave of Meg, and thank her for her fortitude in sheltering us at her own risk: we exchanged kisses and she slipped me my earnings for my work. It would have been easy to leave but I doubled back to the corner of the room where Lucy was sitting in order to bid her goodbye.
“Shall I see you here again?” she inquired, fanning herself with what seemed to me to be an almost artificial insouciance.
I affected a similar tone of indifference while I told her when I would next be working, and that I would perhaps converse with her if I had the time on that occasion, or if that were not possible then surely we would find a way to do so in the future. We did speak again, although not entirely how I had imagined- if the reader is interested in that tale I will relay it on another occasion. For now, know that I arrived home just as the sky began to turn pink with the first light of dawn, and I thought of how that shade resembled Lucy’s velvet lips, and I crept safely to my bed with a smile.
