What a Gentleman Desires Read online

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  Had Mr. Dunleavy but known it, Gina was as disappointed as he appeared to be. She moaned softly as she leaned back against the door. If he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her, if he’d said that he loved her, she might have capitulated and agreed to all he offered her. She ran to her bedroom. Throwing herself on the bed, she sobbed bitterly. “This is surely not what you wanted for me, is it, Mamma?” she cried into the empty room. “A respectable life filled with loneliness?” She yearned to give her body and her heart to Blair Dunleavy with a pain so strong it was like a knife had been thrust into her chest.

  When Milo came home, she would beg him to take her back to Italy. She knew she was running away, and what might await her there could be just as uncertain as her life here, but at least there, she might fit in. Here, the men were either crazy bohemians, oafish men of trade with no appreciation of culture, or the likes of the Earl of Douglass. But Dunleavy was a gentleman despite what he’d asked of her. She fought to banish from her mind his concerned blue eyes, his handsome mouth that quirked up in a smile, and his black hair which sprung onto his forehead when he took off his hat.

  Gina waited up for Milo, longing to talk to him. It grew very late and still there was no sound of his drunken fumbling at the door. Finally, she turned the gaslight down and prepared for bed. The town hall clock struck twelve. With his pockets full of money, Milo had been on one of his benders for days. He’d held a party to celebrate their good fortune. It cost far too much money, but Milo loved to be the center of attention. His friend, the actor, Arthur Blunt, who performed at the Comedy Theater in Westminster, warned Gina about Milo’s drinking. Those who crowded into their small rooms, painters and their models, and theater folk, drank and ate everything on offer. Times were bad, and most were glad of a free meal.

  She’d put a little of Milo’s money away to pay for food and rent, but the rest disappeared at a rapid rate at the beer house. Milo had begun shouting all the local lads and now that word had gone around that there were free drinks, the hostelry was packed. Milo would never move to Holland Park. If this continued, in a few weeks they’d be out on the street.

  As she stepped out of her dress, someone banged on the door. She ran and called through it. “Milo?”

  “Jeremy Sykes. A friend of Milo’s. Open up quick.”

  She hastily buttoned her dress. When she opened the door, a giant of a man stood there, breathing heavily. She tried to shut it again, but he put his foot in the door. “Milo’s in trouble.”

  Gina hesitated. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m sorry, lass. Your papa’s been hurt.”

  “I’ll get my cloak.”

  She had to run to keep up with the man as he marched down the shadowy lanes toward Red Lion Square. The fog, thick and yellow, swirled around, choking, and almost blinding her. She was constantly in danger of losing the bulky shape striding ahead. “Tell me what happened,” she called after him, her voice echoing hollowly around the alleyway.

  “Best you see for yourself,” he yelled back without lessening his pace.

  “Is Milo, all right?”

  “Didn’t look too good when I saw him last.”

  They emerged into the square. A group of men stood in a circle outside the beer house.

  Gina pushed her way through. Milo lay sprawled on his back on the ground, his eyes half-closed, and his face a frightening gray. A river of blood ran down into the gutter from his chest.

  “Papa?” She knelt beside him, almost gagging at the stink rising from the gutter and mingling with the acrid tang of fresh blood. Milo didn’t stir. “Papa?”

  “He’s as dead as last week’s kippers,” a man said.

  Gina put a fist to her mouth as a sob rose in her throat. “What happened?”

  “Someone robbed him, looks like.”

  She noticed his pockets had been turned inside out. “Oh, Papa!” She wept as she stroked his cooling forehead.

  A scruffy lad ran over to her. “Someone’s gone for the Watch.”

  At the mention of the police, a murmur rose up and the crowd quickly dispersed, leaving Gina and Jeremy Sykes alone with Milo’s body, as the dense, choking smog closed in around them.

  Chapter Nine

  Gina came home from the funeral and sank onto the sofa, still wearing her black veil. She wept at the futility of such a death and Milo’s unfulfilled life. How was she to go on? Milo hadn’t kept a record of the art he’d sold in the beer house and had never received payment for. Any chance of recovering it now was gone.

  A few of Milo’s artist friends had thrown in to pay for the funeral. She was eternally grateful to them and hated to have to ask them for modeling work when so many were struggling to live. Apparently, she was too well known as Milo’s model. “Give it time,” one of the artists had said.

  Time was something she didn’t have.

  The sight of his latest work, perched unfinished on the easel, caused the tears to flow again. Sobbing, she looked around the room, a cold and empty space without his energy and enthusiasm to fill it with life. Filled with enthusiasm, he’d rushed to complete four more works before he’d succumbed to the drink, and she wondered if it was possible to sell them. How perilous her situation had become. The landlord rapped on her door that morning before Milo was even in the ground and offered her a way to pay her rent that made her long to hit him. She’d thrust the rent money into his grubby hand telling him not to concern himself, she’d found work. Despite the lie, she’d almost enjoyed the stupefied expression on the man’s face. She had no idea what to do next, only that she would pack up and leave here as soon as she was able to.

  The next morning, Gina selected the two paintings she thought the best, wrapped them, and took an omnibus into the city. The canvasses tucked beneath her arm, she walked the rest of the distance to a gallery in Great Russell Street.

  The proprietor stood the paintings up on an easel and stepped back to study them. He stroked his mustache. “They are good, certainly,” he said. “But now Russo has died, I’m not sure if I can sell them. Buyers want living artists who’ll build up a good body of work which will increase in value.” He turned to her. “You can leave these with me if you like. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Might I have some money in advance?”

  The expression in his pale eyes lacked sympathy. “Sorry. As I said, I may not sell any.”

  “But Milo’s works are very much sought after. Why, one of his earlier paintings resold at auction for more than double what was first paid for it. The art critics are saying he would have become one of the most noted artists in England.”

  “But not a true indication of what his painting will sell for now. And beggars can’t be choosers miss.”

  As her heart sank to her boots, Gina paused to think. “I’ll leave them with you for two weeks. Please write me a receipt.”

  Gina left the shop tucking the receipt into her purse. Her final chance of work lay at Mabel’s theater. She would have to walk; she must not waste money. With the hem of her skirts raised to cross the wet road, she hurried to the Folly Theater.

  When she arrived at William IV Street, a street singer stood on the pavement outside the theater. She must once have been pretty. Now, a mask of thick rouge and powder covered her cheeks, and she’d lost a front tooth. In her tattered gown, she looked emaciated and unwashed.

  As Gina passed, she caught the reek of gin. The girl began to sing off-key and tried an unsteady dance step or two. A couple stopped to cheer her on as she sang

  One lovely morning as I was walking, In the merry month of May,

  Alone a smart young pair were talking,

  And I overheard what they did say.

  Gina put a penny in the girl’s upturned hat, as a scruffily dressed man approached the singer and whispered something in her ear. She nodded and followed him around the corner into the alley. As Gina approached the stage door, she saw the girl pull up her dress. She wore nothing underneath and her th
in body looked blue with cold. The man fumbled with his trousers and pushed the girl back against the wall. Gina shivered and turned away as the man’s breathy grunts filled the alley. No matter how difficult things became, she would never resort to this.

  She would rather die first.

  She entered the stage door and asked for Dave, the stage manager. Minutes later, he appeared. “I remember you,” he said. “Mabel’s friend. You don’t sing or dance, do you?”

  “No, but you thought I might be suitable for the statue number,” Gina said.

  He shook his head. “I’ve got all the goddesses I need.”

  Gina’s throat constricted, and tears pricked her eyes. “Do you have anything else?” she asked desperately.

  “Try again next week.” The man turned away.

  Tears trickled down Gina’s cheeks and she hurried away swiping at them angrily. She’d reached the street when the doorman called to her. “Dave wants you back.”

  She found the man waiting. “I’ve just heard one of me girls is sick. Let’s have a gander at you.”

  Gina followed him into the recesses of the theater. He stopped behind a painted backdrop.

  “Unbutton your dress,” he said.

  “No!”

  The man frowned. “You’re not going to be much good to me if you don’t want to show your body.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait! I’ll do what I have to when the time comes.”

  “I need to be sure you look the part.”

  “You can see that by looking at me.”

  He nodded. “Show me your legs then.”

  Gina pulled her skirt up to reveal her stocking-tops held up with pink garters and a glimpse of naked thigh.

  “Higher.”

  Her face heated as she pushed the skirt up to the frilled-edge of her bloomers.

  To her relief, the man nodded. “You’ll do. Two shillings a performance. Be here tomorrow morning at seven.”

  Gina returned to the flat. She stacked the remainder of Milo’s paintings away in a corner and covered them with a cloth. In every one, her naïve face stared back at her. She turned away from them and tried to buoy herself up with the knowledge that tomorrow her new career would begin.

  * * *

  “Great to have you here, ducks,” Mabel said. “I’m sorry to hear about your pa.”

  Gina gave her a hug. “I’m grateful to you for helping me, Mabel. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “You did it yourself, dearie,” Mabel said. “Look’n like you do.”

  Gina stood still as the wardrobe lady draped and stitched the brief costume. She was to be Artemis, goddess of the hunt, pulling back her bow as if about to let the arrow fly. She looked in the mirror at the almost transparent cloth hanging in folds from her shoulders and showing a good deal of her chest. The costume only reached mid-thigh. The wardrobe lady pulled a golden cord tightly around Gina’s waist raising the skirt even higher. In the mirror, her breasts heaved alarmingly, and her nipples rose to display themselves. She quickly covered them.

  She’d been comfortable under Milo’s gaze; his artistic eye looked at the composition and not really at her. A theater full of men studying her was a different thing altogether. The freezing drafts whipped around the old theater, flattening the cloth against her body, and making her afraid she’d catch her death. It was a regular occurrence for the girls to be off sick.

  Several of the goddesses wore even less than Gina as they shivered in the wings, watching what happened on the stage. She barely took the show in, concentrating on taking deep, rhythmical breaths to steady her nerves. She held up her chin. An artist’s model was adept at holding a pose. She would keep her bow and arrow still. If she wobbled or dropped it, she would lose her new employment before she’d even begun.

  After the sword swallower left the stage, the curtains closed, and the rush was on. The painted backdrop depicting a Grecian ruin unfurled with a bang. The girls dashed onto the stage.

  Gina took her place beside them, each with their own story: Gaia, the earth mother, with her hand on a cradle; Hestia, goddess of hearth and home, holding a candle; Demeter, goddess of the harvest cradling a sheath of wheat; Hera, wife of Zeus, majestic in her peacock robe and Athena, goddess of weaving, sitting at her loom. A girl rushed in late to stand among the flowers that grew at Persephone’s feet wherever she walked.

  As Gina adopted her pose, Dave ran on with a large dog of indefinable breed. He ordered it to sit beside her. When it began to scratch, its owner hissed a command from the wings, and it stopped. “Ready?” Dave said. Disconcerted by the animal, Gina fixed her arrow and pulled back her bow, her straining fingers threatening to release it at any moment.

  The curtain swung back to whistles and applause. Gina’s knees shook. It seemed an age until it swept shut again. The girls rose and stretched, murmuring to one another and the dog began to scratch in earnest before being led away. Gina flexed her stiff fingers. She saw Mabel clapping from the wings. She’d succeeded in holding her difficult pose right to the end.

  The manager hoped the semi-nudity of the Classical piece would be acceptable to the public, but the theater was besieged by protesters. They pasted signs over the walls warning Sodom and Gomorrah lay within. The manager left them there because they attracted more people than they kept away.

  Men gathered around the stage door, waiting to meet the girls. When Gina refused to go to supper with any of them, some complained to the management.

  “I’m worried I’ll lose my job, she confessed to Mabel.

  “Come to dinner with me and a couple of my gentlemen,” Mabel said.

  “Oh, no. I cannot.”

  “Just dinner. No funny business.”

  Gina hesitated, realizing she had little choice. “As long as they are aware of that.”

  “I’ll tell them.”

  They borrowed gowns from wardrobe. Gina’s pale lilac faille showed off her shoulders and upper arms with its scoop neck and short, beaded sleeves. Mabel looked like an exotic bird in a plunging garnet satin affair with feathers adorning her hair. The two toffs waited with the carriage.

  Gina found herself enjoying the company. They were gentlemen and Romano’s Restaurant, on the Strand, was known to be one of the best in town. All the Gaiety Girls dined there.

  Gina wished Mabel might act a little less familiar with her partner. She almost sat on Mr.

  Battersby’s knee in the carriage. His high-bridged nose appeared to look down on everything, and he had a mocking smile. He didn’t rebuff Mabel’s affections though, and his witty remarks made them all laugh.

  Gina was surprised and uneasy to find that they were to dine in a private parlor upstairs.

  The walls were covered in gold flock wallpaper and crimson velvet drapes divided the room into two. They sat on oyster velvet, button-back chairs at a small table as a waiter served them champagne and oysters.

  Mabel laughed uproariously when Mr. Battersby threatened to drink champagne from her slipper. He removed her shoe while sliding his other hand provocatively up her leg. She rapped his knuckles with her fan. Mabel giggled. “Later, sir.”

  “I do like a man with whiskers,” she said to Gina. “They tickle.”

  Gina gazed as Mr. Fenton stroked his bristly mustache.

  Mabel winked. “But it’s where it tickles, that counts.” She gave a peal of laughter and winked at the men who joined in.

  Gina grew uneasy. She pushed Mr. Fenton’s hand away from where it had settled on her knee beneath the table.

  He frowned, picked up the bottle and poured more wine into her glass. “Have another drink. You need to loosen up.”

  Several courses followed the first. Gina had never seen such food, lobster, chicken, and asparagus in aspic, followed by delectable desserts she wasn’t able to eat. Her corset already drastically constricted her ribs.

  When the meal was reduced to crumbs, Mabel, and Mr. Battersby took their champagne over to a chaise longue on the other s
ide of the curtain, and Gina sat with Mr. Fenton. He pulled his cravat askew and unbuttoned his collar, gazing at her owlishly. “You are a very beautiful girl.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I might give you a nice present. If you do something to please me.”

  Afraid of what that might be, she said nothing. Fearing the evening had taken a definite turn for the worst, she looked around hoping to persuade Mabel to come home with her. But Mabel and Mr. Battersby were kissing, and he was squeezing her breasts. When he saw Gina he rose and pulled the curtain across.

  Heart pounding, Gina spun round. Mr. Fenton’s cravat had come off and joined his coat on the floor. “Come here.” He grabbed her by the waist. Her wine glass flew from her hand splashing wine over the cherry-red carpet.

  Gina pushed him away and jumped to her feet. Behind the curtain, Mabel, and Mr. Battersby moaned and thrashed about. Not daring to look, she ran to the door and whipped it open. She shut it behind her and walked regally down the stairs. “Please call me a cab,” she said to the doorman. It would cost far more than she could afford, but worth every penny.

  The next day, Mabel was angry. “What did you need to go off like that for?” She put a hand to her head and moaned. “I have the worst headache. And Mr. Fenton was that angry.”

  “You told me there’d be none of that,” Gina said. “Just dinner you said.”

  “What will Dave do if Mr. Fenton complains? I don’t think Fenton will though, I’ve promised to make it up to him.”

  “Oh, no! Don’t Mabel, that’s awful.”

  “Don’t be silly, dearie. I want to.”

  “Oh,” Gina said with relief. She wasn’t sorry for Mabel. Her friend made the most of her life and remained in good spirits. Gina only wished she might be like her.

  Mabel gave Gina a pat on her shoulder. “Trouble is you don’t know how to have a good time. They was a nice pair of toffs, now weren’t they?”