The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(7)
“And what reason was that, Charles?” Andrew asked, becoming impatient.
“The private enjoyment I get from knowing that my father, who looks down on the lower classes as though they were inferior beings, has the portrait of a common prostitute hanging in his library.” His words made Andrew reel.
“A prostitute?” he finally managed to stammer.
“Yes, cousin,” replied Charles, beaming with content. “But not a high-class whore from the brothels in Russell Square, not even one of the tarts who ply their trade in the park on Vincent Street, but a dirty, foul-smelling draggletail from Whitechapel in whose ravaged vagina the wretched of the earth alleviate their misery for a few meager pennies.” Andrew took a swig of brandy, attempting to take in his cousin’s words. There was no denying his cousin’s revelation had shocked him, as it would anybody who saw the portrait. But he also felt strangely disappointed. He stared at the painting again, trying to discover the cause of his unease. So, this lovely creature was a vulgar tart. Now he understood the mixture of passion and resentment seeping from her eyes that the artist had so skilfully captured. But Andrew had to admit his disappointment obeyed a far more selfish logic: the woman did not belong to his social class, which meant he could never meet her.
“I bought it thanks to Bruce Driscoll,” Charles explained, pouring two more brandies. “Do you remember Bruce?” Andrew nodded unenthusiastically. Bruce was a friend of his cousin whom boredom and money had made an art collector; a conceited, idle young man who had no compunction in showing off his knowledge of paintings at every opportunity.
“You know how he likes to look for treasure in the most unlikely places,” his cousin said, handing him the second brandy.
“Well, the last time I saw him, he told me about a painter he’d dug up during one of his visits to the flea markets. A man called Walter Sickert, a founding member of the New English Art Club.
His studio was in Cleveland Street, and he painted East End prostitutes as though they were society ladies. I dropped in there and couldn’t resist buying his latest canvas.” “Did he tell you anything about her?” Andrew asked, trying to appear nonchalant.
“About the whore? Only her name. I think she’s called Marie Jeannette.” Marie Jeannette, Andrew muttered. The name oddly suited her, like her little hat.
“A Whitechapel whore … ,” he whispered, still unable to get over his surprise.
“Yes, a Whitechapel whore. And my father has given her pride of place in his library!” Charles cried, spreading his arms theatrically in a mock gesture of triumph. “Isn’t it absolutely priceless?” With this, Charles flung his arm around his cousin’s shoulder and guided him through to the sitting room, changing the subject. Andrew tried to hide his agitation, but could not help thinking about the girl in the portrait as they were planning their assault on the charming Keller sisters.
That night, in his bedroom, Andrew lay wide awake. Where was the woman in the painting now? What was she doing? By the fourth or fifth question, he had begun calling the woman by her name, as though he really knew her and they enjoyed a nonexistent intimacy. He realized he was seriously disturbed when he began to feel an absurd jealousy towards the men who could have her for a few pennies, whereas for him, despite all his wealth, she was unattainable. And yet was she really beyond his reach? Surely, given his position, he could have her, physically at least, more easily than he could any other woman, and for the rest of his life. The problem was finding her. Andrew had never been to Whitechapel, but he had heard enough about the neighborhood to know it was dangerous, especially for someone of his class. It was not advisable to go there alone, but he could not count on Charles accompanying him. His cousin would not understand him preferring that tart’s grubby vagina to the sweet delights the charming Keller sisters kept hidden beneath their petticoats, or the perfumed honeypots of the Chelsea madams, where half the well-to-do West End gentlemen sated their appetites. Perhaps he would understand, and even agree to go with him for the fun of it, if Andrew explained it as a passing fancy, but he knew what he felt was too powerful to be reduced to a mere whim. Or was it? He would not know what he wanted from her until he had her in his arms. Would she really be that difficult to find? Three sleepless nights were enough for him to come up with a plan.
And so it was that while the Crystal Palace (which had been moved to Sydenham after displaying the Empire’s industrial prowess inside its vast belly of glass and reinforced iron) was offering organ recitals, children’s ballets, a host of ventriloquists’ acts, and even the possibility of picnicking in its beautiful gardens that Andrew Harrington—oblivious to the festive spirit that had taken hold of the city—put on the humble clothes of a commoner one of his servants had lent him, and examined his disguise in the cheval glass. He could not help giving a wry smile at the sight of himself in a threadbare jacket and trousers, his fair hair tucked under a check cap pulled down over his eyes. Surely looking like that people would take him for a nobody, possibly a cobbler or a barber. Disguised in this way, he ordered the astonished Harold to take him to Whitechapel. Before leaving, he made him swear to secrecy. No one must know about this expedition to London’s worst neighborhood, not his father, not the mistress of the house, not his brother Anthony, not even his cousin Charles. No one.
3
In order not to draw attention to himself, Andrew made Harold pull up the luxurious carriage in Leadenhall and continued alone on foot towards Commercial Street. After wandering a good way down that evil-smelling street, he plucked up his courage and entered the maze of alleyways that made up Whitechapel. Within ten minutes, a dozen prostitutes loomed out of the fog to offer him a trip to Mount Venus for the price of a few pennies, but none of them was the girl in the portrait. Had they been draped in seaweed, Andrew might easily have mistaken them for faded, dirty ship figureheads. He refused them politely without pausing, a dreadful sadness welling up in him at the sight of those scarecrows hunched against the cold who had no better way of earning a living. Their toothless mouths attempting bawdy smiles were more repulsive than desirable. Would Marie look like that outside the portrait, far from the brushstrokes that had transformed her into an angelic creature? He soon realized he was unlikely to find her by chance. Perhaps he would have more luck if he asked for her directly. Once he was sure his disguise was convincing, he entered the Ten Bells, a popular tavern on the corner of Fournier Street and Commercial Street opposite the ghostly Christ Church. When he peered inside the pub, it looked to him like just the sort of place whores went to in search of clients. As soon as he reached the bar, two of them came up to him. Trying to look casual, Andrew offered them a glass of stout, refusing their propositions as politely as possible.