Gypsy - Lesley Pearse [63]
Later she washed her hair and went through her clothes as it was drying. She guessed Heaney expected her to wear something flashy, but she had nothing like that. The brightest dress was one Mrs Langworthy had passed on to her just before they left; she’d said at the time it might be useful if Beth got invited to a party or a dance. It was slightly shiny with green and white stripes, a rather low neckline, leg-of-mutton sleeves and a small bustle. Beth had been dying to put it on as it was very pretty, although she wasn’t entirely happy about wearing it to a saloon full of men. But she thought that if she sewed a little lace across the low neckline, at least she wouldn’t show any cleavage.
At half past seven she was ready, stays pulled in extra tight, her hair left loose on her shoulders, a couple of green ribbons in her hair and her boots polished. She hadn’t been able to button up her dress at the back, and had to go and ask the woman in the room below to do it for her. But she was pleased with the end result: she didn’t look like a loose woman, but neither did she look like a schoolmistress. The combination of nerves and excitement had given her a rosy glow, and her hair was very shiny.
Picking up her fiddle case, she locked the room and left.
Pat Heaney leaned back on the door that led to a room he kept for private gambling and watched the girl performing, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips.
He hadn’t expected much. Her soft English voice, the clarity of her skin and the innocence in her eyes had all made him think she would play like one of those stiff-backed spinsters in a drawing room. How wrong he was!
The first surprise, when she arrived bang on time, was how she looked with her hair down. A real stunner, with shiny black curls tumbling on to her shoulders, nothing like the prim look she’d had this morning with her little governess’s hat and her hair scraped up under it. He liked her dress too, a classy little number, though he’d rather rip off the lace across her chest and see what lay beneath it.
She was so scared when she got here that he thought she’d make a run for it. And her brother didn’t help by keeping looking round at her all the time while she was waiting to go on. Was he really her brother? They weren’t alike, except for their English accents.
But then he had announced her, and instead of faltering as he expected she almost leapt up on to the stage. She paused with that bow up in the air just long enough for every man in the place to turn and look at her. Then down it came and she was off and running, notes so sweet and fast he could hardly believe what he was hearing.
Maybe he had heard better fiddle players, but they’d never been pretty like her. She didn’t just play with her arms and hands, but her whole body, undulating with the music, better than any of those hoochy-coochy girls he’d seen at the Burlesque.
She was on her third number now, and she had everyone’s attention. Talking forgotten, drinks not quite getting to their open mouths, feet tapping, heads nodding, every man jack of them was in a trance.
She almost danced as she played, bending, swaying, those hips moving in a way that was sending messages down to his cock. He liked the way she tossed her hair back from her face, the way little strands stuck to the sweat on her cheeks. It was enough to make a man want to jump up beside her and stroke it back.
Liking something this much was something Pat wasn’t used to. Knowing he had a winning hand at poker, sitting down to a big juicy steak, the first whisky of the day — they were about the only things he could really claim to like. He couldn’t remember when he’d last listened to music, really listened; he guessed it was back when he was about her age.
Eighteen. He’d had fire in his belly then, always wanting to prove himself, and every nerve end twitching with life. When he wasn