The Innocent Whore

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The audience went absolutely wild. They jumped off their seats, some even stood on them, clapping their hands and stomping their feet, shouting, whistling and cheering. Top hats and bonnets were flying through the air and many a time I wondered if it was always the rightful owner who caught his or her possession after having thrown it away so foolishly. The sound was deafening and I have to say that the frenzied screaming of the few had soon touched all present and every last man and woman in the auditorium was up and shrieking. Mass hysteria, I believe would be the expression for it. In different circumstances it would have been quite frightening.

Bouquets and individual flowers, mostly red roses were showered onto the stage, landing around the small woman who was the centre of attention, her colleagues carefully stepping away and allowing her the moment of triumph all to herself.

“Bravo!”, “Superb!”, “Repete! Repete!” screamed the audience. “Biss! Biss!” screeched the man in the private balcony suite next to mine and I was surprised to realize that he was sobbing, his face wet with tears.

I turned to my wife and found her standing quietly, visibly shaken. She too, had fallen under the spell of the people, in astonishment and disbelief admiring the powerful voice of Georgina Sjorensen, the Canary from Sweden, as she had been known. The name was slightly misleading, I dare say. Her father was a Swedish immigrant that much was true. Her mother, however, was a resident of London’s East End and I doubted Georgina spoke even a word of Swedish let alone seen her fatherland. The woman was small, from a distance one might have mistaken her for a child, but her voice was powerful enough to shatter glass, or so I believed.

Even from afar she appeared delicate and fragile; blond hair cupped on top of her head, most of it covered by the wide brimmed hat, her victorious face red with excitement and perhaps even embarrassment. Each time she bowed, she would place her small, gloved hand onto her stomach as if that was the point where her body would fold. She did not curtsy as other women did, rather she thanked the audience like a man, bowing slightly, tilting her head up and stealing a glance at the people who at that time loved her more than any other performer in the whole of London.

After a few bows, she straightened and blew kisses at the audience. The tip of the umbrella in one of her hands was firmly pressed against the stage floor and she had used it to keep her balance as she carefully squatted to pick up a few stems of the beautiful flowers, throwing them back into the crowd, which only caused the collective scream to become even louder, if that was at all possible.

After a few long minutes, the rest of the cast joined her, standing in a chorus line next to her, holding each other’s hands and bowing in unison.

“Georgina! Georgina!” the crowd didn’t seem to notice anyone but the small woman in the middle. For a moment I wondered how the others felt about this public show of affection. They were all good performers, the best London had to offer in fact and here they were, treated as mere sidekicks to the woman who had swept the city like a hurricane and in a span of a short year rose from the slums of East End and ending up as the brightest star of British opera.

“Time to go, my dear.” I whispered to my wife while clapping enthusiastically. “Come on, we should leave before the crowd lets out. It will be a stampede, I should imagine.” I said, noticing that Aurelia, my wife was very reluctant to leave. She wanted to stay and enjoy the happiness and exhilaration of the audience as long as she could. I had to admit that the atmosphere was very catchy and intoxicating.

“Come, now.” I said gently and firmly grabbed my wife’s elbow, half dragging her behind me, out of the private balcony box, down the stairs and towards the exit. All the while, she kept glancing back, obviously disappointed over my actions of preventing her to enjoy the hysteria shared by others.

Too eager to wait for the coachman to spot us, and still dragging my wife behind me, I found our calash and pushed Aurelia inside it. “I have a meeting to attend to, my dear.” I said and noticed panic striking her face. “Now?” she asked, holding onto my hands as if for dear life.

“I shan’t be long, I promise.” I said and before she could utter another word of protest, I closed the door and waved to the coachman to leave. “Straight home!” I said sternly, which in itself was an absurd command. Where on Earth could my wife go in the middle of the night but home?

I watched the calash turn the corner and just before it disappeared, I saw my wife’s sad face in the window, the palms of her hands firmly pressed against the glass. She was no fool, Aurelia. I was a good husband to her, I think. However, she did suspect me of many indiscretions that I had had and even if I were dying in a hospital, she’d still think I had some alternative motive to stay away from her. I couldn’t blame her. She took it all illegal bahis with dignity, crying in private, away from anyone’s view, too afraid to confront me, incapable to do anything about it.

Like I said, I was a good husband to her, providing for her comfort and our children’s. She was a good wife to me, too. She kept an immaculate household, our children were healthy and happy, and we were well liked by our friends and neighbours. One thing that was missing in our marriage, however, was true passion. I had married Aurelia because it was time for me to marry and sire offspring, my heirs. She married me because she loved me, I believe. I cannot go as far as to say that I didn’t feel anything for her. That would have been completely untrue. However, there was never any passion that I felt for her. I would make love to her gently and carefully while she laid still, her eyes closed, little moans escaping her mouth and absolutely not moving. I always felt like she was simply taking all that I was dishing out, without even the slightest effort of her own.

I wanted more than that. So much more. I yearned for a hot-blooded, passionate woman who would return my affections in more than just your mandatory signs of enjoyment. I wanted someone who would take charge sometimes. A woman who would not be ashamed to strip down to her skin in one swift move and parade around the room naked, teasing me, unafraid and unembarrassed. I wanted a woman who would open her eyes during lovemaking, look at me and ask me for more. Someone who would arch her back and meet my thrusts, someone who is willing to kneel on all fours and allow me to come at her from behind, her face an ugly mask of enjoyment while we’re observing ourselves in the mirror. None of that, of course, would have been possible with my wife even in my wildest dreams.

I did not despair, however. I did my duty in bed with Aurelia, once a week like clockwork, and we have four children to prove it. For true pleasure, I kept mistresses on the side and sometimes I even wandered to the East End of London for some perverse pleasure with the prostitutes. I cared not. Aurelia knew nothing for certain, her imagination was running wild, but she never confronted me with it and so I didn’t worry myself much.

As the calash carrying my wife finally turned the corner, I felt a tap on my shoulder and as I turned around, I found my faithful servant Norbert standing next to me, a huge bouquet of red and white roses in his arms. “Sir.” He bowed his head slightly and offered me the flowers.

“Thank you, Norbert.” I accepted the given and ran the hand through my hair. I wanted to look nothing but the best. “I shan’t be long.” I repeated the same promise that I had given my wife moments earlier, almost running back to the theatre, I found my way backstage.

While in the street, one could still hear the roar of the crowd. Inside, it was just as deafening as it had been when I led my wife out. A mass of people was pouring down the main staircase and out the exit doors on the sides, a clear signs that the bowing of the cast had been over and Georgina was probably back in her dressing room. I pushed my way through the crowd, finding it hard to plough through the avalanche of sweaty bodies all going in the opposite direction. As I had expected, quite a few gentlemen tried to force their way backstage, but upon specific orders of the theatre director, no one was allowed access but a chosen few, one of which was I.

“Sir,” I was greeted by the dressing room chambermaid, careful not to reveal my name or title to an accidental bystander. “She is resting.” Added the older woman, referring to Georgina, whom my entire body was aching for.

“Thank you,” I pressed a shilling in her hand, grateful for her loyalty and discretion. She knocked on the door delicately and then opened it, allowing me an entrance into a small room. Even though it was considered quite large by the theatre standards, Georgina’s dressing room was still a very tiny place. It was made to look even smaller by the heaps of dresses, carefully dressing the mannequins. Shoes were toeing an invisible line all around the wall, like small soldiers guarding their mistress. Every available inch of the tables, chairs and the dressing cabinet were bursting with flowers, the air in the room a wild mixture of lavender, roses, orchids and plain field flowers. On the walls, which were barely visible behind the dresses and flora were posters, covering the drab yellow paint like wallpaper, Georgina’s silhouette, face or at least the name prominent on all.

in the middle of this motley display sat a woman, her narrow shoulders and small back revealing her delicateness to the point where one might think she’d break if one was to hug and squeeze her too hard. Her small hands with carefully painted fingernails were running through her hair, pausing at the temples and rubbing quickly, only to hurry along and continue with an unusual finger-combing of the wheat coloured mane.

“Darling!” she exclaimed and looked illegal bahis siteleri at me through the mirror. I met her gaze and despite the fact that I had seen her nearly every night after the performance for the past two months, the beauty of her face still took my breath away. Like the rest of her body, her face was small, oval, with skin so white it was almost transparent. Big, grey eyes were half covered by the droopy lids, giving her an appearance of intoxication. The cheers of the crowd were very inebriating, I learned that. I had also learned that the effect of the happiness, love and loudness of the crowd was taking a toll on this beautiful woman, whom I regarded to be my mistress, even though I had never as much as laid my finger on her. She allowed me to kiss her hand in a gentlemanly way, but that was it. Whenever the passion would sweep through me and I tried to take her in my arms to press her tiny body against mine, she’d push me away, blush and shake her head in alarm.

“Really, William!” she’d say, her voice anxious. “Do not forget yourself like that!”

I had also learned that she was a wonderful actress. I had actually believed in her bashfulness for a few weeks. That is, until I visited her house one day and realized that despite her fame, her fortune could not have been large enough to afford the magnificent Tudor style mansion, filled to the brim with art and heavy furniture, exotic birds and purebred dogs roaming the rooms freely. Butlers, servants, chambermaids and cooks at her back and call at any given moment of the day.

She had a patron, very likely more than one. I suspected that like me they were married men, wealthy and highly respected, unwilling to give up what they had at home, still willing to pay a high price for Georgina’s company every once in a while. She was nothing more but a highly paid courtesan, who was lucky enough to be blessed with a voice of an angel, which had given her a respectful position in the haughty society of London. I had never laid my eyes on any of her benefactors, just like they never met me, Georgina made sure to keep us all apart. There were men who boasted of their conquests of her, but I was never certain whether they were truthful or simply wishful thinking fools.

Finally, she turned away from the mirror and faced me. Her full lips were pouted as if awaiting a kiss, but I knew better than that. Expecting a complaint of a headache, which she presented me with nearly every evening, I shook my head in disappointment and offered the flowers, which as beautiful as they were, could never measure up to her.

“Oh, darling!” her voice rang in excitement. “How lovely!” As she reached for the bouquet, I knelt next to her on the floor, gently grabbing onto one of her small hands. “Georgina!” I gasped and pressed a passionate kiss on the delicate skin. “Georgina!” I said again and felt like a fool, nevertheless a happy fool. At nearly fifty, I was more than twice Georgina’s age and one would have thought me her father had they managed to steal a glance inside the dressing room.

I felt my entire being aching for her, I wanted to take her in my arms, cover her face with kisses, breathe in the flowery smell of her hair and skin, run my hands all over her body. I wanted to feel her like a woman and offer her everything a man had to offer. I was madly in love and she knew it, despite my futile attempts to appear indifferent to her. Whenever I found myself in Georgina’s company, my hands would shake and I found it hard to breathe. I cursed myself for being so weak and foolish afterwards but during the moments of intoxication, I couldn’t help but show her how much she had affected me.

Very predictably, Georgina pulled her hand away, pressed the flowers to her body and shook her head. “Now, now…” she said and gave me an annoyed look, much like you would reprimand a child with. “Let us not start this again, William.” She whispered and dramatically rubbed her temple.

“Indeed, Georgina.” I sighed and stood up. “Let us not.” Astonishment replaced the look of torture on Georgina’s face. I had never given up this easily. Despite my age, stiff muscles and cracking bones, I’d kneel next to her sometimes for half an hour, kissing her hands and I have to admit with utmost shame, I have even found myself kissing her boots. I wanted her so very much that I would have done just about anything at the moment of exhilaration.

“I came here tonight to bid you farewell, my dear.” I said, having decided that like Georgina, I could put on a bit of a show, as well. “I don’t think I can see you any longer, you see.” I said and slowly stood up, my knees popping loudly.

“Why ever not?” Alarm in her voice was evident and oh, so soothing.

My mind raced through different scenarios, which had been playing in my mind for days. Should I pretend to be indifferent and bored with the woman? Would begging and pleading work its charm on her? Might some trivial excuse, nothing to do with her, but ever so important to me, be effective?

Despite canlı bahis siteleri my deep love for her, I had to admit to myself that I was becoming fed up with her little games. She had no shame in accepting my gifts, which as the time went by were becoming more big-hearted and lavish. It had struck me just days before how truly foolish I was in my generosity. Upon presenting her with a pair of gold and emerald earrings, a matching necklace and bracelet, which cost a substantial fortune, her response was nothing more than: “Oh, how very pretty!” No display of affection, not even a kiss, a simple phrase that had me so cross, I could have struck the woman unconscious right there and then. I returned home afterwards and promised myself I would never be that foolish again. If anybody deserved such generosity it would have been my wife, but I never bothered to indulge her in such a way. Not that she didn’t deserve it, you understand. She was simply my wife, sharing my wealth and good fortune and I found it unnecessary to present her with any more than an occasional obligatory piece of jewellery, which was rather expensive, but not overly so. Mistresses are the ones a man shows his true generosity towards. Mistresses, indeed. However, Georgina was not that and she showed no inclination of wanting to become one to me.

“Why, William?” she asked again, panic slowly rising. I had been more than good to her and she knew it. She delicately walked the fine line between wealth and poverty, prominence and oblivion. She had played her game expertly, but one false move could have destroyed it all and she was well aware of it.

“I come here every night, Georgina.” I began, pacing the small room with a firm gait, talking to her as I would have to someone who had done me wrong and I was offering them one more chance before abandonment. “Every night.” I stabbed the air with my finger, feeling my heart racing madly.

“You play with me.” I raised my hand to stop her from protesting. “I am not a child, not a young man anymore. I cannot play your games and will not, you see. If you feel any affection for me, you shall show it to me, or by God, Georgina, this will be the last time I ever speak to you.” I crossed my hands behind my back in an attempt to appear studious and grieved, afraid to look at her.

I finally gathered the courage to look at her. Again, the actress in her was thriving. Her beautiful face was twisted in a mask of martyrdom. Grey eyes big and filled with tears, her chin trembling in an oncoming burst, whether it was to be sadness or fury I couldn’t say. Her mouth was working, the sound hushed by surprise. I daresay there had been others who had presented her with an ultimatum like mine before; however, I had found most stunningly beautiful women to be arrogant enough to believe that nobody would truly dare do that.

“I shall be leaving London on Tuesday,” – it was Saturday – “I am headed for France where I will stay for almost two months on business. I shall be gone for a substantial amount of time, you see. I need something from you, Georgina, something that will make me believe that when I come back, I will be greeted by you as I deserve.” I looked at her sternly. “Indeed, I am almost entitled to have your affection.”

“How so?” she thumped the heel of her boot against the wooden floor. “How so, I ask you, my Lord?” The last word was emphasized in a way one would have thought it was a swear word, not a title that I so respectfully carried.

“I have been more than generous, Georgina. I am no fool, even though you continuously believe me to be just that. I know about men who secretly visit your home in the afternoons.” I said, carefully taking a step back, slightly worried that she might fly into a rage. “Lord Cunningham, Sir Walton, young Lord Ashley…” I named the ones who were quick to brag, of whom I was not certain were speaking the complete truth. There were many more I could have named, but she wouldn’t allow me to.

“What are you saying?” she yelled a bit too loud for my comfort and after a few minutes of complete silence, I sighed in relief when nobody came running to Georgina’s aid in fear that I might be hurting her. She flung the bouquet that I had given her against the mirror, knocking over a few bottles of perfume; miraculously none of them fell to the floor and shattered. “How dare you?” she screamed. “How dare you!” her voice was reaching an alarming pitch of hysteria. “Are you spying on me now?”

“I don’t need to lower myself like that, girl! Imagine the fool that I feel when I share the evening with all these…these…men! They are very quick to share their indiscretions with you. Just imagine!” I yelled back, unconcerned if anybody heard us at all. I trusted Georgina’s theatre chambermaid to keep a vigil at our door, preventing anybody to nosy around and overhear our yelling. “They don’t pay you like a prostitute. Oh, no!” I went on, unable to stop myself. “They bring you presents! Very expensive ones, I may add. Some you keep, most you pawn or sell, thus ensuring that you’ve enough money to lead the lavish life that you have become accustomed to in such a short time.” What had hurt me the most was the fact that she did not deny the allegations. Did that mean I had hit the target?

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