bless! She’s lucky, then, havin’ you to watch over her,’ said Sal wistfully. ‘Me, I was put on the streets by my ma when I was ten. To think I’m playin’ Hebe, the virgin goddess—Lord knows I can hardly remember bein’ a virgin meself. But I’ve learnt lessons. I know the ways of the so-called gentry like the back of my hand. And remember, the best way to make life comfortable for yourself and your little ‘un is to open your legs to a rich man—but get his money first, you hear me?’
‘Ladies!’ shrieked the boy Danny, flinging the door wide open. ‘Ready to go on stage!’
‘Here we go.’ Sal grinned.
Here we go indeed, echoed Rosalie silently.
But not before Mrs Patty Barnard, inspecting every goddess as they filed through the door, ripped open the bow securing the neckline of Rosalie’s bodice and tugged it down to show the curve of her breasts. ‘Told you before, Athena. Think you’re in a damned nunnery?’
Rosalie pressed her lips firmly together, but a faint flush of defiance rose in her cheeks.
With the curtains still closed, all the girls hurried to take up position on stage. Charlotte was carefully seating herself on a damask-covered throne and preening her dyed golden locks, while the others clustered around. Now Rosalie could hear Dr Barnard standing in front of the stage and announcing to the gathered audience, ‘For your delectation, my honoured friends! A scene of exquisite and ennobling artistry—the Greek goddesses!’
Rosalie had kept as far to the back as she could. Oh, she wondered, the breath hitching in her throat, what had she let herself in for?
The heavy curtains were gliding back.
There must be nigh-on a hundred men out there.
She felt rather sick. For Linette, her beloved sister. She would see this through, for Linette—and for Linette’s child, Katy.
Chapter Three
‘Dear Rosalie, why on earth are you asking me about such a place?’ had been her friend Helen’s startled response when Rosalie mentioned the Temple of Beauty two days ago. They were in Helen’s printing shop, and all around them were heaps of freshly printed broadsheets. ‘From what I’ve heard,’ Helen went on, ‘that Temple is nothing but a glorified brothel!’
‘Bwothel,’ little Katy had lisped. ‘Bwothel.’
Quickly Helen turned to the two children, who were drawing stick men on some scraps of paper. ‘Toby, darling, take Katy to the kitchen and get her a glass of milk, will you?’
‘And a treacle bun?’ Six-year-old Toby, always hungry, asked the question hopefully.
‘And a treacle bun each, yes, if Katy wants. Look after Katy, now!’
‘C’mon, Kate.’ Holding out his hand, Toby had valiantly led the toddling two-year-old past the for-once silent printing press towards the kitchen. Katy was still lisping, ‘Bwothel. Bwothel …’
Rosalie watched them go with a catch in her throat, then said quietly to Helen, ‘Toby’s wonderful with Katy. I’m so very grateful to you for letting us stay here with you, Helen. I wish you’d let me pay you for our food, at least!’
‘And I wish you’d take my advice and stop going round these dreadful places on your own.’ Helen had sighed. ‘Men who visit the Temple of Beauty have only one thing on their mind! Are you going because you’ve heard that Linette might have been there?’
‘Exactly. You know how Linette always talked of being an actress? Well, now I’ve found out she may have worked at this Temple of Beauty, three years ago.’
‘That place! Oh, poor, poor Linette!’
Helen had been a teacher at the little school in the village where Rosalie and Linette grew up, then she’d married and moved to London, where her husband ran a small publishing press in Aylesbury Street, Clerkenwell. But a few years later he’d abandoned Helen and their little son, Toby, for a singer from Sadler’s Wells. Helen had always kept in touch with Rosalie by letter, and after her husband’s departure she wrote to her young friend that she’d resolved to make a success of the publishing business on her own. When Rosalie’s search for Linette brought her to London last autumn, it was to Helen that she turned.
‘I will pay you, Helen, for my accommodation,’ Rosalie had insisted when she arrived outside Helen’s door.
‘Nonsense.’ Helen had hugged her warmly. ‘I’ll do everything I can to help you find your poor sister. As for payment—well, how about writing for The Scribbler?’
‘The Scribbler? Helen, what’s that?’
And Helen had gone on to explain.
The Scribbler was a weekly news sheet Helen produced, a round-up of London events and advertisements, which Helen also used from time to time to denounce the greed of the rich and the plight of the poor.
All this Helen had told Rosalie as she’d unpacked her bags last October. ‘What I really need,’ Helen had said, eyeing her former pupil thoughtfully, ‘is someone who’ll write a weekly diary of London life. Something light, about the theatre, for example, or an amusing commentary on the latest women’s fashions … How about it, Rosalie? You have talent—I realised it when you were my pupil.’
‘But I’ve never thought of writing for publication!’
‘Why not? I remember you write with such charm, such humour—just try it, please?’
Helen’s suggestion certainly paid off, because Rosalie’s weekly articles—published under the pen name of Ro Rowland, a fictional young man about town—had become resoundingly popular. In other circumstances, Rosalie would have revelled in her new life. She’d come to love this little Clerkenwell printer’s shop with its ancient hand press that rattled away merrily in the front parlour. But Helen could be stubborn, and every so often Rosalie had to make clear what she was after. What her purpose was.
‘All I want is to find out the truth about Linette,’ Rosalie had repeated steadily in the face of Helen’s objections. ‘I thought we’d discussed this. My sister might have met him at the Temple of Beauty and I cannot leave any stone unturned.’
‘Then …’ Helen had hesitated ‘… it might just help you to know that Dr Barnard keeps a secret register of clients. Names, addresses, the dates they visited, that sort of thing. I only heard about it because once I was offered the chance to publish some of it by a man who worked for Dr Barnard and showed me some pages he’d copied. I refused, of course—I’d have made too many enemies. But I learnt that Dr Barnard keeps this register—he calls it his green book—in his office, hidden inside a hollowed-out copy of a big old book called The Myths of Apollodorus. And since you know, roughly, the dates that Linette was there, it just might help you! It’s such a tragedy that you don’t know the name of her villainous seducer—’
Rosalie cut in, giving Helen’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thank you for the news about the register. You are such a good friend.’
