He closed his eyes as he released into her, and bowed his head over her until he could feel her breath against his hair. And along with the blessed relaxation he felt the stabbing of a nameless regret.
He straightened up and disengaged himself from her body. He turned away to the washstand opposite the foot of the bed and poured cold water from the pitcher into the cracked bowl, dipped the rag of a cloth into it, squeezed out the excess water, and returned to the bed.
“Here,” he said, holding out the cloth to her. She had not moved beyond bringing her legs together. Her feet still rested on the floor. Her eyes were still open. “Clean yourself with this.” He glanced down to her bloodstained thighs.
She raised one hand to take the cloth, but it was shaking so out of control that she lowered it to the bed again and turned her head to one side, closing her eyes. He took her hand in his, turned it palm-up, and placed the cloth in it.
“You may dress when you have finished,” he said, and he turned his back on her in order to dress himself.
The quiet rustlings behind him told him that she had brought herself under control and was doing as she had been told. And yet when he turned at last, it was to find her trying to do up the three buttons of her cloak with hands that were trembling too badly to accomplish the task. He took the few steps toward her, brushed her hands aside, and did the buttons up for her.
The sheet at the edge of the bed, he could see over her shoulder, was liberally stained with blood. He had ripped her quite effectively.
“When did you last eat?” he asked her.
She straightened her cloak, looking down at it.
“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” he said curtly.
“Two days ago,” she said.
“And what did you eat then?”
“Some bread.”
“Was it only today you decided to turn to the profession of whore?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Yesterday. But no one wanted me.”
“I am not surprised,” he said. “You have no idea how to sell yourself.”
He took up his hat, unbolted the door, and left the room. She followed him. He paused at the foot of the stairs and looked about the noisy taproom. There was an empty table in a far corner. He turned, took the girl by the elbow, and crossed the room toward it. Any customer who was in his path took one look at him, at his fashionable clothes and harsh, scarred face, and instantly moved to one side.
He seated the girl with her back to the room and took the seat opposite her. He instructed the barmaid, who had followed them to the table and was bobbing curtsies to him, to bring a plate of food and two tankards of ale.
“I am not hungry,” the girl said.
“You will eat,” he said.
She did not speak again. The barmaid brought a plate on which were a large and steaming meat pie and two thick slices of bread and butter, and he gestured to her to set it before the prostitute.
The gentleman watched the girl eat. It was very obvious that she was ravenous, though she made an effort to eat slowly. She looked about her when her fingers, which still trembled, were covered with crumbs of meat and pastry, but of course it was a common inn and there were no napkins. He handed her a linen handkerchief from his pocket, and she took it after a moment’s hesitation and wiped her fingers.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What is your name?” he asked.
She finished chewing the bread she had in her mouth. “Fleur,” she said eventually.
“Just Fleur?” He was drumming his fingers slowly on the top of the table. He held his tankard of ale in his other hand.
“Just Fleur,” she said quietly.
He watched her silently until she had eaten the last crumb on her plate.
“You want more?” he asked her.
“No.” She looked up at him hastily. “No, thank you.”
“You don’t want to finish your ale?”
“No, thank you,” she said.
He paid the bill and they left the inn together.
“You said you had no place in which to ply your trade,” he said. “Do you have no home?”
“Yes,” she said. “I have a room.”
“I will escort you there,” he said.
“No.” She hung back in the doorway of the Bull and Horn.
“How far away do you live?” he asked.
“Not far,” she said. “About a mile.”
“I will take you three-quarters of a mile, then,” he said. “You are an innocent. You do not know what can happen to a woman alone on the streets.”
She gave a harsh little laugh. And she hurried along the street, her head down. He walked beside her, experiencing for the first time in his life, though only at second hand, all the despair of poverty, knowing that his own problems, his own reasons for unhappiness, were laughable in comparison with those of this girl, London’s newest whore.