Belle - Lesley Pearse [104]
She suspected Annie would have told them they could sling their hook if they didn’t like it and there were plenty more girls to take their place. But then, Belle had no idea how many men each of her mother’s girls serviced in an evening. Nor did she know the price they charged. But she doubted that they went for more than five pounds a time, top whack. She also had no doubt that if the girls had only got one pound a night all found, they’d have been ecstatic.
But knowing that didn’t make Belle feel any better. It was she who had to put up with men groping her, gawping at her, saying crude things, pawing her, fucking her and finally maybe even giving her the pox or making her pregnant. All Martha did was sit on her fat backside and watch the money flow in.
Belle was sore too, not so much from the sex, as none of the men lasted long enough to hurt or bruise her, but from the disinfectant Martha made them use. It smelled strong enough to kill a grown man, let alone a sperm or a germ.
It was clear there was big money to be made from whoring, but now Belle had a sick feeling that she wasn’t going to make it here working for Martha. The woman was unlikely to ever admit how much she paid for her, and that meant the time would never come when Belle didn’t owe her.
But Belle wasn’t finished yet. These Southern Americans thought they were all so smart, but they couldn’t beat the cunning of a girl from Seven Dials. She’d go along with everything for now, but she’d be watching, listening and learning, then when the right opportunity came along, she’d grab it with both hands.
Chapter Nineteen
Mog looked at Mrs Stewart in astonishment. ‘You say your Amy’s gone missing?’ she gasped.
‘Yes, that’s right. It were two years ago now. I nearly lost my mind with grief and worry.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mog said with utter sincerity. ‘We lost our Belle the same way so I can understand what you’ve been through. Could I come in for a moment and talk to you?’
‘You know something?’ Hope sprang up in Mrs Stewart’s face and for a brief second she looked ten years younger.
‘Not exactly, but if we put our heads together …’ Mog said.
Mrs Stewart opened her door wider. ‘Come in, Mrs …’ She paused, realizing she didn’t know the name.
‘Miss Davis,’ Mog said as she stepped over the threshold. ‘But everyone calls me Mog. Belle is my friend’s daughter, I don’t have any children of my own, but I helped bring Belle up from a baby.’
‘I’m Lizzie.’ Mrs Stewart led the way down a narrow passage into a large, warm kitchen. ‘I’d take you in the parlour but it’s so cold in there. I always lit the fire in there until Amy disappeared, but there doesn’t seem any point now.’
‘I live in the kitchen too,’ Mog said. She glanced round the room, noting that it was spotlessly clean, and the table and floor well scrubbed. Two easy chairs by the stove made it very homely. ‘No point in wasting good coal on a fire you can’t sit in front of. You say your Amy was thirteen when she went. Did the police have any suspects?’
Lizzie shook her head sadly. ‘They were worse than useless, kept telling me she’d come home in her own good time. I knew my girl, she wouldn’t go off like that and frighten me.’
‘What do you think has happened to her?’ Mog asked.
‘It’s my belief she’s gone to the white slave trade,’ Lizzie said.
In the more sensational newspapers there were always stories about young women being captured for this trade. In the past Mog had thought it was scaremongering, lurid stories made up to sell more newspapers. Yet however much she had once laughed at fanciful tales about young English girls being sold to become concubines