Page 46 of The Laudanum Ladies' Society

They took seats in the gallery at one side– the only ones they could afford. The evening was one marvel after another and Jenny was hard pressed to say which was her favourite element. Dancers swirled and twirled in dazzling costumes, a magician allegedly from the depths of Hindustan took to the stage, his hands a blur of motion as he wove enchantments over a woman dressed in a rainbow of gauzy veils and lifted her into the air by the power of his mind alone.

The final act was called ‘The Opium Eater’. The stage lights turned red and the audience murmured with excitement. Jenny’s lips twitched in amusement as a slender figure emerged from the shadows of the wings, clad in red from head to toe, with a long, black moustache that reached to his waist. He produceda small vial, its contents shimmering in the soft glow of the gas lights.

Jenny turned to Miriam, who was sitting bolt upright. She took Miriam’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘We don’t have to stay,’ she whispered.

Miriam squeezed back. ‘Thank you, dearest, but I don’t mind.’

Under the cover of the dimness, they continued holding hands, to Jenny’s elation. If only there was a world where they could do this without secrecy.

As the performer uncorked the vial, the scent of violets wafted through the air. It was a clever illusion because the scent could not possibly have reached so far. The orchestra began to play a low, throbbing rhythm. The Opium Eater lifted the vial aloft, tilted his head back, and allowed the contents to fall into his open mouth. He breathed out a long plume of white smoke. His body stiffened, then he fell to the stage. Some members of the audience cried out in panic, but as soon as he had fallen, he leapt back up and began to perform a series of agile acrobatics. Leaping, balancing on his hands, contorting himself; striking and holding poses that seemed impossible.

Miriam was laughing and gasping in astonishment along with everyone else and Jenny’s spirits rose. Perhaps her aversion to opium was lessening.

As his act came to an end and the lights went up, Jenny stared around her. To her surprise, she recognised a familiar face. On the level below theirs, in one of the private boxes to the side, sat Miss Salisbury in the company of a gentleman of her own age. He was clapping enthusiastically. On the wide ledge in front of them was a champagne bucket.

Miss Salisbury looked splendid, though also so unlike herself that Jenny thought at first she had been mistaken. Miss Salisbury’s hair was piled high and ornamented with a small hattrimmed with a net veil that concealed only her forehead. Her ears sparkled with diamonds, and she wore a vermillion dress with an indecently plunging neckline that was barely concealed with a thick, fur stole. She held a pair of long-handled opera glasses in one white-gloved hand, while the other rested on the thigh of her companion– something that would not be visible to anyone on the lower levels but which the cheap seats could see perfectly.

‘Come on,’ Miriam urged. ‘It’s time to go and I want to get out before the crush, or we’ll never get home.’

‘I’ve seen someone I know.’ Jenny pointed down to where Miss Salisbury was sitting.

‘In one of the courtesan boxes?’ Miriam’s eyes widened in interest. ‘Show me who you mean!’

Jenny had never heard the term before, but was familiar with Miriam’s meaning. High-class courtesans were known to hire a box at the theatres to entertain clients. She was about tocontradict Miriam, because that couldn’t be why Miss Salisbury was there, but she hesitated. Doubts crept into her mind. Miss Salisbury wasn’t married, and her hand had been resting on her companion’s leg in a very inappropriate manner. And Miss Salisbury had definitely been engaging in enthusiastic lovemaking when Jenny and Gwen had visited.

‘I’m sure my acquaintance is not a courtesan,’ she said. Questions that Jenny would rather not contemplate crept into her mind, regarding how Uncle Conrad knew her. It was probably more likely that he was not her only possible choice of future husband.

‘Well, whether she is or isn’t, what does that matter? I’d still like to see who you mean,’ Miriam retorted, gathering her stole around her neck. ‘We all have to do what we can to survive, don’t we?’

‘Yes, but not that,’ Jenny said. She looked back to where Miss Salisbury had been, but the box was now empty.

Miriam looked impatient. ‘There are worse ways of paying the rent.’

‘I suppose so,’ Jenny mumbled. Would Miriam rather Jenny actually sold her body instead of selling the tincture? She wasn’t sure she wanted to discover the answer.

They made their way back home, alighting from the horse-drawn bus near a street vendor, his cart laden with roasted chestnuts. He called out to passers-by, and Jenny and Miriam both stopped as the warm aroma punctuated the scents of the coal smoke and horses. They strolled over and joined the queue, waiting at the bank of the canal for the paper bags full of steaming hot nuts.

As they neared the head of the queue, a volley of uncharacteristically alarmed voices began to shout around them.

‘What’s that fuss? What’s going on over there?’ Miriam asked. She walked to the bank of the canal, where there appeared to be a riot happening. Jenny followed reluctantly.

‘If there’s trouble, why do we want to get involved?’ she muttered under her breath.

‘I just want to see,’ Miriam said, rolling her eyes and dancing towards the crowd. Then she gasped and put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness!’

Jenny peered around her in time to see two men in a small craft heaving a large bundle onto the bank, aided by a third man on the bank who held a large hook. It looked like a sack until one pale arm flopped out to the side.

Jenny retched. She swallowed quickly before the bile that she tasted in the back of her throat erupted. The sack was actually a shabby, grey cloak and the bundle was a body. Even in the dim evening light, she could see the body was a woman’s– andclearly dead. The man who had hauled her off the boat pulled back the cloak. The woman was younger than Jenny or Miriam– and her face was smoothed by bloating. Red hair that was obviously fake made her pale face even paler. She looked like a China doll.

Jenny turned her head away and reached for Miriam’s hand. ‘Who do you think she is?’

‘Some poor streetwalker,’ Miriam muttered, her voice thick with horror.

A small crowd was gathering, and the cries of shock or anger threatened to draw a larger one.

‘Or a poor scrap whose husband took out his temper on her,’ growled a weary-looking woman who had joined their side.

‘Or a suicide.’ This was said by a heavy-set man with a dog on a length of rope. The dog keened and pulled towards the body, but was pulled roughly back.