Belle

  She knocked at the door, uncertain about what she was even going to say, and when the door was opened by a plump woman around the same age as her, wearing a spotless white apron over her print dress, Mog was tongue-tied for a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry to call on you, but does Amy Stewart live here?’ she asked once the woman had enquired what she wanted and forced her to say something.

  ‘She did,’ the woman replied, but all at once her lips began to quiver and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Oh, please don’t take on,’ Mog begged her in alarm, assuming the girl had done something to upset her mother.

  ‘Why are you asking?’ the woman said, and there was a kind of plea in her eyes that Mog could identify with. ‘My Amy disappeared two years ago. She went to the shop for me and she never came back. She was only thirteen, too young to go anywhere on her own.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I’m charmed to meet you, Belle. You must know your name means beautiful in French? You were well named for you are truly beautiful.’

  Belle felt she was blushing from her hair to the tips of her toes, for this handsome man paying her such an extravagant compliment had a French accent like Etienne, with a deep, velvety tone that made her tingle inside.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Laurent, you are very kind,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘You must call me Serge. Will you come for a little walk with me?’ he asked. ‘We could go to Jackson Square and get an ice cream.’

  Belle realized as soon as Martha called her downstairs to introduce her to this man that he had to be the one Martha hoped would teach her to like lovemaking. She had come downstairs in trepidation, expecting him to be old and ugly. When she was confronted by a slim, tall man, beautifully dressed in a pale grey suit, with a captivating face, her heart lurched. His hair was black, his eyes like pools of melted chocolate, and his full mouth that turned up at the edges made him look as if he was smiling even when he wasn’t. She had never seen such a perfect-looking man; he even had a dimple in his chin and his teeth were flawless.

  For a moment she could only stare at him. She might be scared stiff at the prospect of making love, but surely no woman in the world would be able to resist Serge Laurent. Even his name made her heart flutter.

  ‘I’d love to go for a walk with you,’ she said breathlessly. As they walked to Jackson Square, Serge told her many little stories about people who had lived in the houses they passed in the French Quarter. He introduced her to pirates, gamblers, Voodoo queens, madams and villains, along with a smattering of famous writers and poets. He made it all so colourful she felt sure he was making some of it up, or at least exaggerating, but that didn’t matter – she was enjoying his company and it was a lovely warm day.

  Martha had said earlier today that soon it would turn very hot, and that was when people got too lazy to work, tempers flared, and sometimes people went mad because the heat got to them. Belle couldn’t imagine heat like that; back home the hottest days she remembered was when the milk turned sour and the butter melted in a dish. But hot weather in England never amounted to more than perhaps only seven or eight days in a whole year.

  Serge bought them both an ice-cream cone and they went into the gardens on Jackson Square and sat on a bench in the shade to eat them. Belle had only been to this part of the French Quarter a couple of times and she really liked it. It was gentle, quiet and serene, at least compared with Basin Street which was always loud, hectic and rough.

  There were a couple of musicians busking, a black girl was tap-dancing on a piece of board, and a strange-looking mulatto woman wearing a red satin cape over what looked like an old lace wedding dress was telling fortunes with some sticks she was throwing.

  Many of the men walking round the square were likely to be down in the District later in the day; perhaps many of the pretty younger women walking under their frilly parasols were in fact whores by night too. But it didn’t seem that way. If Belle looked up she could see people sitting out in the afternoon sun on their pretty wrought-iron balconies, mothers nursing their babies. She could hear couples chatting together, and children squealing as they played ball games with their mothers, and it felt as if nothing bad could ever happen in the French Quarter.

  Serge didn’t ask her any questions, not even about her background or how she came to be with Martha. He talked about general things and told her even more amusing stories, but all the time he was holding her hand and caressing it, and all she could think of was how much she wanted to be kissed by him.

  They had come out of Martha’s at about three, and it was nearly five when he said he’d take her to his place to make her some mint tea. By then Belle felt she might just pass out with longing if he didn’t kiss her soon.

  She didn’t have long to wait. They were barely in his small apartment with dark wood shutters at the windows, when he took her in his arms. As his lips came down on hers she felt as if she was losing all sense of her own will. She wanted nothing more than to be possessed by Serge.

  ‘Beautiful, beautiful Belle,’ he whispered as he nuzzled at her neck while unhooking her dress. ‘You know you were made for love, your hair, your skin, your body, all so perfect. And I will make you see how good lovemaking is for you. You might have come in here a young girl, but you will go out a woman.’

  Belle wanted to believe him as he bent his head to kiss her breasts, murmuring that they too were perfect, that he’d never said this to another girl, and that he was falling in love with her. But she knew that wasn’t how it was, that he was just an actor who played his part superbly, and she didn’t really mind, for he was making her feel things she couldn’t have imagined before.

  He removed all her clothes easily and quickly and moved her over to his bed while still fully dressed himself, apart from his jacket which he’d taken off as they came in. Then on the bed he kissed her ever more passionately while his fingers caressed her private parts. The astounding thing was that the stroking and probing which those other men had done back in Paris and had seemed so vile and painful, were now exquisitely lovely.

  His lips moved down her body, kissing her breasts, her arms, her belly, and she was arching her back for more of his caresses for he had found a spot in her vagina which felt so wonderful when he circled it with his finger that she thought she might scream out loud.

  He moved away from it, turning her over to kiss her back and her buttocks, then slid his hand beneath her again to play with her and make her gasp out that it was wonderful.

  Belle didn’t remember him removing his clothes, he did it so seamlessly. One minute he was dressed, the next naked, and when she saw his erect penis, she wasn’t scared, she wanted it inside her.

  She was beyond caring about how she was behaving or what he would think of her. She pulled him towards her by his hips, wrapping her legs around him like a vine, and as he slid into her she screamed out in pleasure.

  Belle had witnessed the sex act many times now, but what she felt at this moment had nothing in common with the quick, unemotional procedures she’d observed. Both she and Serge were bathed in sweat, every stroke, squeeze, kiss or caress was intended to please, and it did, so much. He withdrew from her several times, on each occasion finding that little sensitive spot again. Then all at once she felt herself exploding under his fingers, and he drove himself in again, harder and harder, until it happened for him too.

  Half dozing, lying in the security of Serge’s arms, Belle felt that at last she understood all those jokes the girls made. This was the state everyone wanted to attain, but perhaps few did, for she was sure not many men understood a woman’s body like Serge did.

  He half sat up, leaning over her, his dark hair flopping over his tanned face. ‘You were made for love, Belle. And now you know how good it can be, make sure you have lovers worthy of you, for most men are selfish, thinking only of their own pleasure.’

  Belle frowned. She remembered Millie saying something like that one day in the kitchen. Mog had shushed
her, mouthing something to remind Millie that Belle was listening.

  ‘I doubt the men who will be paying me will want to please me,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Many will if you encourage them,’ he said with a smile, bending to kiss her again. ‘I learned all I know in cat houses. It is a fallacy that all men just want to spill their seed and leave. They may do that because it is expected, but a good courtesan will give them much more than that. Martha sees your promise, and I sense you wish to become rich. Is that so?’

  Belle nodded.

  ‘Then be the best of the best,’ he said. ‘When a man wants you, you ask him if he wants heaven, or just a little release. You fulfil his fantasies and he will come back again and again to you, paying more each time.’

  ‘But how do I know what his fantasies are?’ Belle asked, puzzled because she didn’t really know what he meant by the word.

  ‘It is simple, you ask him.’ Serge laughed, his dimple deepening. ‘You see, my fantasy is just what I had, an inexperienced girl whom I take to heaven and back. Many men share that one, especially with a young, pretty girl like you. But some men, they like a girl dressed as a maid or a waitress. I have a friend who likes his lady to dress in a nun’s habit.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be about dressing up or acting though. Some men like a girl to be a tease, to walk around naked and show herself to him. Even to touch herself there so he can watch her do it.’ Serge put his hand on her vagina again and smiled down at her. ‘I would like to see you do that, just as I would like to see you suck my cock, and I would like to lick you there too. But I have to get you back now, and I have to leave something for other men to be the first with.’

  Martha only smiled at Belle when she got back to Basin Street. Serge had brought her back at ten in the evening, kissed her goodbye at the door, and she knew deep down that it would be the last she’d see of him. She wondered as he walked away through the crowds on the street, so light on his feet, back straight, head held high, how much money he was paid for the time he spent with her.

  She felt she ought to be ashamed, but she wasn’t. Serge was after all just doing as she herself intended to do. And if he could make her feel so good when he was being paid to do it, then she was sure she’d be able to do likewise.

  She felt she understood all the mysteries of life now. Martha might have taught her the practical things like putting a little sponge deep into her vagina to prevent getting pregnant, the douching out afterwards, and what male infections looked like. But even if the men who paid her for sex could never make her feel the way Serge had, at least she knew now how good it could be with the right man.

  The following afternoon Martha called Belle up to her room. ‘I think you are ready now,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘So tonight you make your debut.’

  Belle’s heart fluttered nervously, wanting so much to ask for a bit more time. But Martha had already been incredibly patient and kind, and she had a feeling that might end if she didn’t get some return for her investment very soon. ‘If that’s what you’d like,’ she said.

  ‘Brave girl,’ Martha said. ‘The first time is always the worst, awkward and embarrassing, but let me show you the gown I’ve picked out for you. That should make you feel better.’

  She went behind her dressing screen and brought out a red silk gown. Belle couldn’t help but gasp for it was beautiful. Sleeveless, with a low neckline, it looked as if it was designed to cling to the body rather than conceal it.

  ‘Try it on,’ Martha said. ‘Go on! There’s a new chemise behind the screen too.’

  As soon as Belle had shed her own clothes and put on the new chemise, she sensed Martha didn’t want her wearing any drawers. The new chemise was red and white spotted crêpe de chine, barely covering her nipples and short, reaching only about two inches below her bottom. It made her feel wicked; she wished she could see herself in a mirror because she could imagine how Serge would have reacted to seeing her that way.

  The dress was whisper-light, with whalebones in the bodice to support and shape her breasts. There were several rows of ruffles beneath the hem of the skirt which created the swishing sound and movement of petticoats, but the soft red silk clung to her body like a second skin.

  ‘Come out and I’ll fasten it for you,’ Martha called out.

  She said nothing as Belle came out hesitantly. She secured the gown at the back in silence, tucking the straps of her chemise out of sight on her shoulders. ‘Take a look,’ she said then, pointing at the large cheval mirror.

  Belle could hardly believe what she was seeing. She looked so shapely, so adult, she hadn’t known her body was so curvy and womanly. It was of course the cut of the dress, which clung to places that were normally well covered with petticoats and drawers. She hadn’t even realized her breasts had become so big; they were threatening to pop out of the bodice.

  ‘Aren’t I indecent?’ she whispered, looking at Martha.

  The woman laughed. ‘Sure would be if it was church you were goin’ to. But for our gentlemen you’ll look like first prize. I think you like yourself a little in that gown, don’t you?’

  Belle did a twirl in front of the mirror. All that she’d felt with Serge the previous day was still with her, and this dress made her feel giddy with expectancy. ‘I like myself a lot in it,’ she admitted, and laughed. ‘I think I already am a whore at heart!’

  Martha came over to her and, putting a jewelled hand on each shoulder, kissed both of Belle’s cheeks. ‘Most women are, but they repress it and deny it,’ she said. ‘You’ll be one of the great ones, I sensed it when you first arrived. Now, let’s get that dress off, you can put it on later after you’ve bathed and Cissie has arranged your hair. You can have a little brandy tonight to calm your nerves, but don’t let Cissie tempt you into laudanum, that’s a bad road to take.’

  Belle was astounded by how nice the other girls were to her when she came down to the parlour dressed ready for her first gentleman. She had expected sniping – after all, she was competition and younger than all of them – but they complimented her on how lovely she looked and everyone had a bit of advice.

  ‘Don’t let them stay over their time.’ ‘At the first hint of trouble, call Cissie,’ ‘Don’t kiss them, or forget to wash and examine their cock. Make sure you get the money before you undress.’

  ‘You look scared,’ Hatty said in sympathy. ‘Remember that we all were. You’ll be fine, the men are going to be so eager for you, they’ll come as soon as look at you.’

  Martha watched when the first three men of the evening came in. Two of them were friends who had been here before, the third one she didn’t know, but he was young, no more than twenty-five, fresh-faced and fair-haired. She decided he was ideal for Belle, for he looked as nervous as she was.

  Belle looked beautiful. The dress was a triumph, enhancing both her figure and her skin tone. Cissie had coaxed some of her hair back and fastened it with a thin red ribbon, then used curling tongs to give her ringlets bouncing on her almost bare shoulders. A touch of rouge concealed that she was pale with nerves.

  Martha felt indebted to her associate in the hospital in Paris. She had been honest enough to admit Belle had been ill used, and the price she asked for reflected that. But she had said too that she thought Belle could be brought round, and she had that special quality which made great courtesans.

  It had been a gamble depositing a large sum of money in a bank with no certainty the girl would ever arrive here, and even if she did, the associate in Paris might have been totally wrong in her assessment.

  But the moment the Frenchman arrived here with Belle, Martha knew she’d found her little golden goose. She wasn’t just pretty, she was beautiful, with a perfect body, and her English voice would set many a man’s pulse racing even before he saw her other assets. At fifty dollars a time, more than double what she asked for the other girls, she would recoup what she’d paid out for her in just weeks.

  Many people claimed there was aphrodisiac in t
he very air of New Orleans, and maybe that was partially true, for this young English girl had opened out like a flower to the whole idea of sex and seduction since she’d been here. Maybe it was Etienne who had healed her wounds on the way here, perhaps created the first sexual stirring in her, and being made to watch the other girls with their clients and listening to their ribald tales had stirred her up still more. But it was Serge of course who had achieved her ripening into womanhood. Martha had seen the expression on the girl’s face when she returned home. Serge had definitely taken her to a place she was going to want to return to.

  Now that Belle was one of her girls, Martha had got Esme in to serve drinks in her place. Esme was in her thirties, a mother of three now and no longer inclined to sell herself, but she was a very good maid, intuitive, discreet and excellent at putting the right girl with the right man. She didn’t take any nonsense from the girls either. If they had their way they’d spend all night in the parlour drinking, dancing and flirting, but one look from Esme and they high-tailed it off up those stairs.

  Esme didn’t have to recommend Belle to the fair-haired young man. He gazed at her with his mouth hanging open and Belle moved towards him as though she’d done this a thousand times before.

  ‘I’m Belle,’ she said with that delightful, wide-mouthed smile she had. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  It was Esme who informed the young man that the fee would be fifty dollars, and Martha smiled when he didn’t even look shocked and took out his pocket book to pay then and there. Esme shook her head. ‘Not here, give it to Belle when you get upstairs, she passes it to the maid.’

  Belle was still sipping the brandy Martha had given her for Dutch courage, but the young man, who said he was called Jack Masters and was from Tennessee, gulped his down in one, then took Belle’s hand and walked with her to the stairs.

  Martha slunk back into the shadows as they walked up the stairs. She didn’t want to see Belle’s pretty face tight with fear. She could still recall her own first time, it was in a cat house in Atlanta and the man she’d got was no pussy cat like the one Belle had landed. He was such a brute she felt she’d been torn in two.