Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [62]
“Yes.”
“Maurice Jerome bought your services as a male prostitute?” Land said triumphantly.
“Yes.”
“On one occasion or several?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be obtuse!” Land allowed his temper to show at last. “You can be charged with contempt of court, and find yourself in jail if you are obstructive, I promise you!”
“Several.” Albie was unruffled. He had a certain power and he meant to taste the full pleasure of it. It would almost certainly not arise again. Life would not be long, and he knew it. Few people’s were, in Bluegate Fields, still fewer in his occupation. Today was for the savoring. Land was the one with status and possessions to lose; Albie had nothing anyway—he could afford to live dangerously. He faced Land without a quiver.
“Maurice Jerome came to your rooms on several occasions?” Land waited to make sure the jury had taken the point.
“Yes,” Albie repeated.
“And did he have a physical relationship with you, and pay you for it?”
“Yes.” His mouth curled in contempt and his eyes flickered over the gallery. “Good God, I don’t do it free! You don’t imagine I like it, do you?”
“I have no idea as to your tastes, Mr. Frobisher,” Land said icily. There was a very small smile on his face. “They are quite beyond my imagination!”
Albie’s face was white in the gaslight. He leaned forward a little over the railing.
“They’re very simple. I expect they’re much the same as yours. I like to eat at least once every day. I like to have clothes that keep me warm, and don’t stink. I like to have a dry roof over my head and not have to share it with ten or twenty other people! Those are my tastes—sir!”
“Silence!” The judge banged his gravel. “You are being impertinent. We are not concerned with your life story or your desires. Mr. Land, if you cannot control your witness, you had better dismiss him. Surely you have elicited the information you require? Mr. Giles, have you anything to ask?”
“No, my lord. Thank you.” He had already tried to shake Albie’s identification and failed. There was no purpose in showing his failure to the jury.
Dismissed from the stand, Albie walked back along the aisle, passing within a few feet of Charlotte. His moment of protest was over, and he looked small and thin again.
The last witness for the prosecution was Abigail Winters. She was an ordinary-looking girl, a little plump but with fine, clear skin that many a lady would have envied. Her hair was frizzy and her teeth too large, and a little discolored, but she was handsome enough. Charlotte had seen daughters of countesses who had been less favored by nature.
The evidence was short and to the point. She had neither Albie’s bitterness nor his vicarious education. She was not ashamed of what she did. She knew gentlemen and judges, even bishops, had patronized her and girls like her, and a barrister without his gown and wig looks much the same as a clerk without his suit. If Abigail had few illusions about people, she had none at all about the rules of society. Those who wished to survive kept the rules.
She answered the questions soberly and directly, adding nothing. Yes, she knew the prisoner in the dock. Yes, he had patronized her establishment—not that he wished her services for himself, but for a young gentleman of about sixteen or seventeen years old that he had brought with him. Yes, he had asked her to initiate the young gentleman into the arts of such a relationship while he, the prisoner, sat in the room and watched.
There was a murmur of disgust around the court, a long letting out of breath in self-righteous horror. Then there was total silence, in case the audience should inadvertently miss the next revelation. Charlotte felt sick—for all of them. This should never have happened, and they should not be here willingly listening to it. How on earth was Eugenie going to bear it when she knew—some busybody would be bound to tell her!
Land inquired whether Abigail could describe the young gentleman concerned.
Yes, she could. He was slender, fair-haired, with light blue eyes. He was