((OOC: Nora's last post was in Kisses and Coins))

”Help me…” The feeble whisper could hardly be heard by anyone, except perhaps the pigeon that was preening its feathers on the ledge outside Nora’s window. Neither was it intended for anyone to hear. It was a half unconscious prayer, as faint and hazy as the rest of her thoughts. In between her gasps for air - futile attempts to calm her irregular breathing - some of them simply tumbled out. ”Help me…” Lying curled up with her hands around her legs, Nora was shaking badly, and sweating. Perhaps it was God she was talking to, or perhaps only herself; she didn’t know. ”I can’t do this – I can’t do this.” She whimpered with pain and exhaustion. ”I can’t!”

Her chest hurt. Her arms were heavy and her head was dizzy. ”Please…. I can’t breathe. I can’t do this.” She knew she had done it before. She knew she mostly came through, but it always felt like this. Unbearable. Intolerable. Excruciating. Sometimes she thought she would surely die, and sometimes she thought that if she did… that it might just be a good thing. Digging her nails into her legs relieved the tension a little. In a way it felt almost like a strong drink.

A bottle was on the nightstand, and she had drunk from it, but tonight that did not seem to help. She bit her lip. Hard. The taste of blood filled her mouth and her heartbeat seemed to pick up a little. Another relief – another pleasant rush through her veins as other feelings than panic and anguish could be felt. Physical pain was so much better than this perpetual tormenting anxiety.

”Breathe, Nora…” Now she was definitely talking to herself, like a crazy person. She probably was crazy… She sure felt like it right now. ”In – two, three, four, and out - six, seven, eight… You’re fine.” But it helped calm her on occasion, hearing a voice, feeling a hand against her skin, even if it was just her own. ”You’re doing fine.” She stroked her cheek, dried away a few tears, trying to pretend it was someone else’s hand that was so tenderly comforting her. ”You can do this. Breathe…”

Slowly, after a few hours of constant terror, she regained a certain amount of control over her breath and managed to stretch out her legs for a few moments. She never felt as beat as she did after one of these attacks. Having expended all her defences, she was now completely overcome by a deep, dark, all-encompassing sensation of hopelessness. She sobbed uncontrollably for close to an hour before collapsing worn out on her back, staring bleakly and apathetically at the ceiling.

Now, if she could only just… disappear. Maybe if she lay like this long enough…

There was a small noise then, like a pebble had hit the window. Nora ignored it at first, but then it happened again, and then again. She turned idly towards the dark sky outside. It was probably close to four in the morning… And that was probably a costumer out there, trying to get in touch with her. She sighed. She really did not want to have to tend to someone else’s needs right now.

But then again, anything was better than lying here caught up in her own misery. Sleeping seemed to be out of the question anyway. And maybe he could make her feel something besides despondency and fear. So she opened the window. It was Mr. Hanford, one of her older clients, a rich man with a beautiful wife as well as several wonderful children and grandchildren. Despite all his success, Mr. Hanford was not a happy man, and Nora knew it. His visits to her were sad attempts to make himself feel better. She had even seen him cry.

He simply waved, not wanting to speak, as the street was very quiet and he was not particularly keen on being noticed.
“Have you been drinking?” she whispered. He was not a very pleasant man when drunk. But then she remembered that some more material type of pain might actually just calm her nerves. He shook his head, however, and leaned it towards his hands to indicate that he had been sleeping. She nodded and motioned for him to wait. Having no time to fix her face more than a quick wash, she slipped into another dress before going down to let the man inside. “Good morning, darling,” she whispered. He smilingly greeted her with a tip of his hat and followed her upstairs.

“Would you like to sit?” she offered. Nodding, he sat down on the bed. He looked very tired. In fact, he looked a lot like she felt. “Having a tough day?”
“Awful.” He held his hand out for her and she took it, sliding down on his lap. Immediately he started fondling her, breathing heavily. She kissed him intensely, because she knew he liked it like that. His wife was the delicate type, probably tender and careful – perhaps even passive – in these things.
“Is it getting any better?” she whispered. He groaned and started ripping desperately at her dress. “Oh, my, it is, isn’t it,” she smiled, feeling a bit envious. “Good for you.”

Nora was bone-weary. She merely watched Mr. Hanford’s wobbling chins from a haze as he satisfied himself with her a second time. He had insisted, and paid her well too, so she couldn’t really deny him his pleasure just because she felt like it. Who was she to feel like anything at all?
"You don’t have to do anything at all this time, sweetness. Simply say the things I tell you to say and be quiet when I tell you to.” She wondered if that was how he usually did it with his wife. Maybe she was always “tired” as well. Nora wouldn’t really blame her. Mr. Hanford was many things; large was one of them, but attractive was not. Maybe it was good for his wife, then, that he could go to Nora sometimes. After all, better her than Mrs. Hanford. Mrs. Hanford was not a worm, not a disgrace like Nora. She was a mother and a grandmother and a very important lady who did a lot for charity. And though there were few people who would describe her as a nice person, at least she was one, and Nora was sure she must have hordes of wonderful qualities. - At any rate she would if she were to be compared with Nora.
”Nnnnggghhh!!” Oh. Right. She opened her eyes as he fell over her, realizing she had been about to doze off. He was heavy and sweaty and whispered sultry words in her ears that were probably meant as compliments. And he was still touching her. Did he never grow tired?! She smiled jadedly at him.
“Did it help?”
“You saved my day,” he grunted, finally starting to climb to his knees.

Good. That was good. Then at least it hadn’t been for nothing.

”I put the money right here.”
“Thank you.”
”And… Well, ah… so… Yes…” he began after having dressed himself. He was trying to get back into the role of a gentleman. They were always so pitiable doing that. Why did they bother? She had seen them lose all their inhibitions – naked and needy like overgrown babies – and only seconds later they tried to act like it never happened. She covered herself up, for his sake, and showed him to the door as if she had just hosted a tea-party.
“Try to have a nice day then,” she urged him mildly and kissed his cheek.
”Ah, yes. You too.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Hanford.”
”Good Day.”
As the door slammed shut behind him she immediately sank to the floor. Right there, curled up in her blanket, she fainted into a deep, dreamless slumber.

It was late when she woke back up. But Nora didn’t mind late. She spent some time cleaning both herself and her room before she climbed up in her window sill – in fact the best thing about this entire room and the reason why she had chosen it. Window sills had always been her favorite places. The glass and the height sheltered her from the rest of the world while she could still share in it to a degree. She could watch and enjoy it without having to actually partake. And if someone came along who wanted her to, she could choose to say yes or no. Yes, window sills were the best invention ever. After whiskey of course. – And gin.

She leaned her head back and studied the sky. It was a sad, dark shade of grey today. Nora loved the sky, too. But that couldn’t very well be called an invention, could it? No one invented the sky; God created it. Nora wondered if music was an invention or part of The Creation. Did people have the ability to create something so… magical? She doubted it. It had to have been created by God. Or maybe it was teamwork. Nora wished she could have been a musician. Then she could have felt that she was cooperating with the Lord himself. She would have been part of something wonderful.

Oh, but not these senseless dreams again! Having nobody else there to punish her, Nora hit herself hard in the face. “Stop it!” She was hopeless! The other day she had actually imagined herself using Baron Wothersham’s Christian name! What an outrage, what a silly… What is wrong with you? Several more times she slapped her face. Wake up, foolish girl!

”What is your task, Nora?”
“To please and serve people like people please and serve God.”

…But he had said “I’m sorry.” - Even though it was her fault. And she still had his pen-case. What if she… just… asked someone where he lived? And she could go there just to… just to deliver his pen-case.

He needed his pen-case. It was a pretty pen-case.

And maybe she could see that glance of his once more, the one where he looked as if he had just discovered something he never knew existed and was frightened yet fascinated by it. Because that was how Nora felt about the world, always. Maybe he did too? And maybe she could see once more that half-smile that had flickered across his lips when he had finished her signature. He had not been mad at her when she messed it up. He had taken her hand, and his hand had felt so good and his voice had been so surprisingly warm just then. And she remembered having imagined his lips on her neck – how it scared her! – and hers on his... And when she had been out of line and thoroughly disregarded his limits, he had not stricken her. He had not stricken her and he had said “I’m sorry.” He had treated her as if… as if…

”…as if things were true that are not and can never be. You are a whore! A worm! A tool, if anything useful at all!”
Right. Of course. It could never be. What was she thinking? She could never meet him again. He would never treat her like that again. It was not right for people to treat her like that, she did not deserve it. He was a fool for not striking her; he should have roughed her up good. He was probably not a baron at all. He was probably just a crazy person pretending to be one.

A real gentleman would have never treated her so courteously.

”Nora!”
She opened the window. “Hello.”
”Can I come up? I don’t want to shout any names or…”
“I know who you work for.”
”Right. Um, well he wants you to accompany his son to the theatre and suchlike. This weekend.”
“Oh! The theatre!” Nora was overjoyed.
”Yes. So, um… That a yes?”
“Yes! Yes!”
”Good then! Oh, and dress like, you know…
“Yes!”
”Right! If you will meet him at…” he looked around. No one was paying attention and Nora’s window was only on the second floor, but one could never be too careful, so she ran downstairs in little happy skips to make further arrangements.

The theatre! Her own reprimand about dreaming was already completely forgotten, blown away by ideas of lights and splendor and fairy-tales.

(OOC: Nora's next post is in: Sanctuary))

(OOC: Haverhill and John both last appeared in The House on Waverley-street.)

John rapped on the door of number seven, Grainger-street, and because he was irritated with Haverhill, the knock was perhaps more forceful than necessary. It was answered promptly by a maid, who led them down a short corridor to the parlour and then said that she would go find whomever they needed, and who was that, if they pleased? John told her he was looking for Miss Nora. She looked at him strangely, but did not raise any fuss in the face of his rather unforgiving and stern countenance. Haverhill felt bad for the poor girl, being asked to find a person who didn’t live here, but he kept his mouth shut as the maid said that she would see what she could do and then left.

After a few minutes of patient silence on Haverhill’s part and frustrated silence on John’s end, a stubby gentleman of about fifty in a sack suit came into the room. He glanced curiously at his visitors, both of them obviously from a higher background than he, and said questioningly, “Good afternoon?”
John, because he was here in Nora’s house, felt it would be impolitic at this moment to be rude to her associates and so prefaced his question with, “Good afternoon, sir. You are the landlord of this house?”
The man replied, “I am. Is there some way I can be of assistance?”
John said, “I am looking for Miss Nora.”
The landlord said, “Miss Nora?”
John said shortly, “Yes.”
The landlord, a puzzled expression forming on his face when John did not elaborate further, said in a confused tone, “Ah, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir, but there isn’t any Miss Nora here. Not that I know about.”
John’s voice did not change from its previous tone as he stated, “No Miss Nora.”
The landlord nodded agreement and repeated his denial of knowing Miss Nora, “No, sir, I haven’t a tenant by that name.”
“No Miss Nora?” John’s sentence rose at the end, in question, and his face was blank—only this wasn’t the blankness of his anger or some other emotion, it was the blankness of not being able to think of anything to say.
“No, sir. I’m sorry sir.”
“No Miss Nora.”

Haverhill stepped forward into the conversation, taking over for the seemingly speechless John. “I see my friend has been given the wrong address. I am so sorry for the trouble. I do hope we have not taken too much of your time.”
The landlord smiled, the expression giving his stubby face the only handsomeness the man would ever have. “Of course not, sir.”
Haverhill began to discreetly steer John out of the parlour, the latter with a stunned look on his face and not resisting at all. “We shan’t trouble you further, then. A pleasant afternoon to you, sir.”
The landlord said after him, “And to you.”
Haverhill and John walked out of the parlour and down the short corridor to the front door. After a moment, the stout landlord bustled after them, seeing them out himself instead of leaving the duty to the maid. He said benevolently, “The best of luck with your lady, sir.”
This prompted John to turn his face to the landlord and say in a wondering tone, “She is not my lady.”
“No?”
“No.”
“I… see. The best of luck to you anyway, sir.”
John only stared at the landlord some more, not going through the door he held open, and so Haverhill prompted him through and turned to the landlord to say, “Thank you. Good afternoon.”
The landlord replied, “Good afternoon.” He went back into his house grinning slightly, and for the rest of his day he wondered whom his love struck visitor had been.

Outside, there was silence, and then the two men began to walk. Once they were off Grainger-street, Haverhill said to John, “So, my lord. Shall I give you Miss Nora’s address?”
John didn’t respond to the question, but he was prompted to speak. He said, “She lied to me.”
Haverhill was silent. What could he say? His friend was in all kinds of denial here.
John repeated himself blankly, “She lied to me. Why did she lie to me?” His question was asked in the same unbelieving and shocked tone that a boy might ask why Christmas had been cancelled.
Haverhill began delicately, “Perhaps she—”
John cut him short. “She lied to me.”
His voice was off. Haverhill could detect a faint quiver in it, he thought, and he wondered that John was so affected by the fact that one person would lie to him when numerous others lied to him every day. Did he really admire Miss Nora enough that he would lose his composure over her in public? Haverhill peered at his friend closely, without being too obvious about it, but John noticed anyway. He took a letter out of his pocket, thrusting it at Haverhill. “Here. You deliver it, if she does not want me to know where she lives. Go on, then. Take it to her. Here. Go.” The Baron left abruptly, almost before Haverhill had a solid grip on the letter.

And that, reflected Haverhill, was possibly an entire scenario that could have gone another way. He’d have to see if there was a discreet way to—but no, there really wasn’t. Hmm. Well, best to be moving. He made his way to Nora’s actual residence in Durdon. On the way over, he wondered if John knew that Nora was incapable of reading his letter. Haverhill was familiar enough with the class of people she belonged to, having once belonged to that class himself, to know that most of her status were not literate. How exactly had John intended that she would comprehend his letter? Or had he not really thought about that? In any case, Haverhill did, and he realised that the letter was likely to be of a personal nature. Personal correspondence between the Baron and a whore. If a street-reader, one of those people who read letters and documents to illiterates for a small fee, were to get hold of it, there would be the possibility for blackmail.

So Haverhill, always on the lookout for a way to save his friend from his own carelessness, thought of the only practicable solution. He would offer to read it to her himself. Which meant he’d be required to stay at her place until she arrived, if she were out, but the house on Waverley-street would continue to function smoothly without his supervision of the staff for a few hours. He arrived in Durdon, and found Nora’s flat on Hurston-street, went up the stairs to the short corridor that contained her door and the door to the flat opposite, and knocked. If he received no response, he would continue to knock every half hour, until he did, or she came back.

(OOC: Nora's last post was in "A Walk to Remember")

There was a disturbance. What was it? Nora tried to hit an invisible fly and her hand swept two bottles and a glass off her nightstand.
"Go away," she moaned to the crashing sound that made her various pains reappear, and really to the world in general. She did not want to wake up. She did not want to feel the throbbing pain in her jaw and her ribs, or in her head, but most of all she did not want to feel. At all. But it was too late. The bottle that kept rolling across the floor made enough of a noise for Nora's mind to come back to reality and tears at once started running down her cheeks. "Stupid..." She hit herself on he head and buried her face in her pillow.

She had only come home a few hours ago, after spending the night at McMillian's. The place was not normally open around the clock, but Byron had not been too eager to go home to "the missus" and Nora dreaded being alone with her messy thoughts. She had not wanted to walk alone in the dark either, on the night of the ball - and a murder - in a pretty dress. McMillian's had not been crowded, as it was a Monday night and late already. A few men and a young lady were gathered around the bar, and there were a couple of other tables in the room that were still occupied. Oh, anything now, to get her mind off this - off him! Why had she even bothered to get involved with him in the first place? Why did she care so much, there was no way and she had known it all along! She kept setting herself up for disappointments.
"Well, look 'oo's 'ere all dollied up!" Byron yelled from his spot as he refilled someone's glass.
"Evening." This was where she belonged. This was the people she ought to be with, if anyone at all.
"Evnun, ingel." He waited for her to come closer and looked her up and down, clearly pleased with what he saw. Someone whistled. "Some fancy feller took us to the ball, now, did'e?"
"He did."
"Really? Was it marvellous?" the girl by the counter regarded Nora with admiration in her eyes. Nora considered that for a moment. It had been a rather lovely evening in many ways, before she managed to ruin it.
"It was nice," she smiled. She decided not to tell them about the murder. Someone else could do that, she needed drinks, she needed someone's eyes and hands on her, she needed... purpose.
"I bet it was!"
"Now, you daun' look much like a girl who had a marvellous time, dus she?" He appealed to the elderly man whose name Nora coule never quite remember, but who had always been nice to her. He was red and wrinkly as usual, and now he smiled and shook his head in agreement. "We oughtta do something 'bout that, methinks." Nora glided around the counter to him and placed herself between him and it, pressing her back towards him.
"Would you?" she breathed longingly. Several of the patrons cheered at this and Byron raised his fist and looked around at them as if he had just won some sort of competition.
"Would I?" he murmured down at her.
"Oh, go on, lass, give'im the kiss!" Anyone who knew Nora and Byron knew his rule about the kiss: Before he handed her strong liquor she had to kiss him. It was generally accepted - even his wife knew of it.
"Are we going for the Scotch today, then?" Of course they were. She could not survive this gruesome, hollow feeling of nothingness, of loneliness and self-loathing. Nora leaned backwards onto his shoulder and he twisted so that he could get a better hold of her. There was more cheering from the guests around the counter.

The two of them had ended up nursing each other throughout the night, Byron supplying Nora with alcohol and Nora supplying him with what he desired - which was her. They had not slept for long when Byron realized the time, and that he - surprisingly enough - had an actual schedule to keep. Nora had stumbled home when the sun had already been awake for hours, ignoring the appalled looks sent to her by people with respectable lives, respectable jobs. Once at home, she had stripped of the outer layers of her dress and fainted onto her bed, thanking the Lord that she was sedated enough that perhaps she could still get some sleep.

And she had slept. Until now. Again the disturbance sounded and she realized that it had not been a fly. Someone was knocking on her door. What did life want with her now?! "Go away," she moaned again, but she had managed to stack herself onto her feet by this time, and, holding a hand to her head to make sure it didn't fall off completely, she staggered to the door. She took a breather against the wall before she opened it. Whoever was behind it would have to wait for another time, that was for sure.

Unless it was ...Haverhill? Lord Wothersham's steward! She gaped, realized quickly that her appearance was horribly shameful and managed to rasp: "Uh, I'm sorry."

Haverhill heard a crash from inside in response to his knock, and a moan, and then nothing. So he knocked again, and this time the moan came again, but also the sound of someone approaching the door. He was expecting that Nora would not be at her best, given the last time that he had found her after John had been as upset as tonight, but she looked even worse than he had thought she would. She was an absolute sight, her hair sticking every which way, her makeup running and smudged where she had rubbed her eyes, and a look of complete bone-tiredness on her face. Her hand came down from where it had been holding her head and she forced out, “Uh, I’m sorry.”

Haverhill insinuated himself into her room—not in a nasty way at all, he simply was outside one moment and then inside the other, without really pushing his way in but without asking either. He put a supportive arm around her shoulders and took one of her hands in his other, so that she could lean most of her weight on him if she needed to. She didn’t, but she let him steer her back to the bed as he said, “I’d ask how do you do, Miss Nora, but I am afraid you seem to be doing quite poorly indeed. Come, you needn’t stand on ceremony; you can lie down. Here we are then, in you go.” He lifted her back into the bed she had clearly just vacated. Once Nora was propped up, the pillows arranged behind her so that she was not in imminent danger of falling out of the bed again, Haverhill went to the vanity and the pitcher standing on it. Cleaning one of the many liquor-glasses with his handkerchief, he poured the cup full and took it over to Nora, smiling and saying softly, “Here you are, Miss Nora.”

She looked at him as if he were not quite real and protested feebly, “You don’t have t—”
“No, I don’t, but I will anyway. You just sit tight until you feel well enough to talk, and I’ll set this place to rights for you, shall I?” Suiting his actions to his words, Haverhill began to clean up, keeping a very calm, very soft running commentary that incorporated all of Nora’s protests. It was really quite a curious conversation.
“You know, when I was younger, I used to be hung over quite a lot. I find that water always helps.”
“There’s no need for—”
“Well, actually, it has been scientifically proven that alcohol deprives the body of water. So technically there is a need. This dress is lovely. I understand that the Baron was quite taken with it. I’ll just hang it over here, if you don’t mind.”
“It can stay on t-the floor…”
“Yes, I suppose it could, but it’ll keep its condition longer if it doesn’t. Borden’s, isn’t it? Quite lovely. Will you be needing anything else to drink, Miss Nora?”
“No, I don’t t-think so. Look, you really—”
“Then you won’t mind if I just remove these cups from the floor, I’m sure. An excellent defence against intruders, I understand, but unsafe for you as well.” Haverhill washed each one in a basin of water he poured at her vanity and then carried them over to the table and set them upside down on a towel to dry.

While he was at the table he noticed a very familiar pen-case on it, as well as a couple of scattered sheets of paper covered in a child-like scrawl. Placing them neatly beside the pen-case he saw that one of the sheets contained a collection of random words, including a set that seemed to read “Gin St. Francis The Holy Scripture” but the other was devoted mainly to legible and fairly well-done signatures. Every one read “Nora Doyle.” A broad smile crossed Haverhill’s face, but he wiped it off and assumed his usual urbane expression before continuing his semi-monologue. “I see you are learning to write. I must say you are starting earlier than I did; I was thirty-four before I became literate. Account keeping, you know. Do you usually keep these in your dresser or your wardrobe, Miss Nora?”
Nora said, “Those aren’t—you shouldn’t—”
“I have seen more intimate articles, Miss Nora, I assure you. Aha, breast bands in here then?” At Nora’s weak nod, Haverhill continued after putting the garments in the drawer he had opened, “You know, you have quite a lovely view from the window. I have always been fond of large windows. I suppose it is lucky that I am in the service of the Baron; he likes light for his reading, and I simply like the views, but we are both quite happy with the number of windows.”

Haverhill picked a number of bottles off the dresser top, straightening the few small knickknacks on it as well. He wondered why she would have a pair of children’s shoes, but that was her own business, not his. Adding the bottles to the by now frighteningly impressive collection of them in the wicker trash basket under the table, he headed towards the only remaining untidy section of her room—the vanity and the wardrobe. He refilled her glass of water and removed the bottles and cups from around her nightstand, setting the water pitcher there for easy access. Then he moved on to begin tidying the petticoats dropped from their hangers in the wardrobe and the cosmetics that were higgledy-piggledy spilling everywhere on her vanity, all the while rattling on almost non-stop.

Once the room was quite tidy, he pulled the vanity chair up beside Nora’s bed, almost as if she were a dear friend whom he needed to keep watch over until she grew well again, and said in his same soft, calm voice, “I suppose you are wondering why I am here?” She confirmed this with a speechless nod of her head. Haverhill smiled slightly and launched into his explanation. “Well, it seems that the Baron was somehow under the impression that you dwelt at number seven, Grainger-street. This morning he wished to see something delivered to you, and we took a stroll down that direction. Most unfortunately we discovered you were out, and John suddenly remembered that he was occupied, but he did request that I see that you get it.” Smiling slightly, Haverhill said mock-pompously, “John Doyle, the Right Honourable the Lord Wothersham, wishes that you receive this letter.”

Haverhill pulled it from his pocket and presented it with an elaborate flourish.

Nora was unsure of how to deal with the situation of Mr. Haverhill appearing at her door. Did he want to buy her services? If he did, was he really going to take her despite the state she was in? Did she really want him to? He seemed like a nice enough bloke, but did he know that she had been hoping to get his employer as a costumer? Would he mind using the same girl as the baron if she ever succeeded? But then, with a sting to her chest, she remembered that Lord Wothersham would most likely never want to see her again. She let Haverhill put her to bed as if she was a child, but he did not come with her. Instead he was fussing over her as if she were the one he worked for and not the baron. It was hard to be afraid of him when he was making small-talk in such a friendly manner, but Nora was very aware that this was not normal, and so she kept her guard, but did not leave the bed. He was a man, after all; she had best do what he said, and at least there would probably be little use in attempting to stop him physically.

He called her "Miss Nora," like Lord Wothersham and Mr Green did. She knew she was stupid to notice it and like it, but she did anyway, and his voice was so kind when he said it and handed her the glass of water.

She did try to protest some, though, when he began tidying up her mess. It was not right that anyone should clean up after her, least of all a man, and the steward of a baron at that. However, he did not want to listen to her assurances that it was completely unnecessary for him to be picking up her dress and her bottles, washing her cups, cleaning up her make-up and - goodness - the man was putting away her breast-bands for heaven's sake. And all the while he burbled on, complimenting her on this and that, comparing her life to his own, apparently trying to make her feel at ease with this whole ordeal. He said that he had not been literate either, until the age of thirty-four. He seemed like such a gentleman though, like he had always belonged in those circles, like it was his natural habitat. She studied him as he moved about, prattling. He was a fascinating man, like his employer. What did they want with her?

Nora dipped a piece of her covers in her glass of water and began to rub at her face to try and clean herself up a little. She felt awful, and judging by what Mr. Haverhill had said when he first came in, she probably looked it too. It hurt to rub her left cheek, but she thought she still managed to make the worst of the dark smudges disappear. Then she tried to smooth her hair, but that was harder; her hair had always been wild, and especially in the mornings. She noticed only when he sat down that Haverhill had pulled a chair up to her bed, and instinctively she pressed herself backwards a bit, berating herself for having let her guard down.

“I suppose you are wondering why I am here?” he said, still in that gentle, amiable tone that made her want to grab his hands, but feel frightened of him at the same time. She nodded. Yes, please. “Well, it seems that the Baron was somehow under the impression that you dwelt at number seven, Grainger-street. This morning he wished to see something delivered to you, and we took a stroll down that direction. Most unfortunately we discovered you were out... Wait! The baron had thought she really lived there? How could a whore have supported herself at such a location? She would have been thrown out for one; it would have been scandalous, and of course bound to be noticed with all the different men coming and going. And how did he think she could afford to keep herself in dresses and materials for them and for make-up had she paid that kind of rent? Did he think such things were easy to access for a girl like her? She had never learned to cook or sew - she was self-educated on the latter and proud of it - so she had to eat out and... Well, of course he did not know those things, but he could not possibly be that dense, could he?!

...And what on earth was it he wanted delivered to her? She shuddered. A punch in the face? A court order of some sort? "...and John suddenly remembered that he was occupied, but he did request that I see that you get it.” Nora bit her lip and took a deep breath. Right then. Now came the punishment she had been spared of yesterday. Of course he would find some other way of doing it than merely giving her a simple beating; he was a peer. People like that ruined each other's very lives in battle; slapping each other around a little just wasn't enough. “John Doyle, the Right Honourable the Lord Wothersham, wishes that you receive this letter.” She squinted suspiciously at him. Was he playing games with her? He had just made his voice all funny and now he acted, again, as if she were of high standing, producing the letter in such an elaborate manner as if he were handing it to the Queen herself.

Taking the letter with a trembling hand, she studied the adress on the back of the envelope. She recognized his writing. And that was her name. The rest must be the false adress she had given him.
"I-I don't really live in..." she began, but looking up at him she understood that there was no need to finish that sentence..
"I know," he said mildly. She stared at him for a moment, then nodded. Right. Of course he knew. Had he not told his employer, then? Or had Lord Wothersham not believed him? Or had he just been joking when he said they went there to look for her? She hesitated a while before she began to open the envelope, unsure of whether she dared. But of course she had no choice, so it was a silly thing to consider at all. He was sitting right there; she must open it. As she started to fumble with the paper on the front, however, she realized that her hands were still shaking fiercely from the fear of what might be coming, and it made them difficult to control. She wouldn't be able to read it herself anyway. Closing her eyes and swallowing heavily, she handed it back over to him.
"I-I don't read so well yet, Sir," she gestured towards the table where she had seen him looking at her moronic scribblings and prayed to God that the wrong sheet was not on top, "Um, would you mind reading it to me?"

Suddenly she saw, in her peripheral vision, the glove that she had foolishly taken out of her dress that morning and brought with her to bed. She had put it under her pillow, but now, she realized panic-stricken, it was lying fully exposed on her sheet. With a swift movement that hurt her ribs but was completely necessary, she threw herself to the side and swept it back into hiding. Straightening back up, she found no excuse of her odd behaviour and all she managed to say was a sheepish "Ehheh. 'Scuse me."

(OOC: The letter in question.)

Nora had taken the letter with a trembling hand, saying that she didn’t really live at #7, Grainger-street—or she would have if she’d finished her sentence. Haverhill only smiled and said he knew; there was no point in making her feel bad for it. He was quite certain that she had not known that John would be hurt by what was probably an oft-told white lie. She hesitated, and then handed the letter back without cracking the seal. “I-I don't read so well yet, Sir,” she motioned to the table with her practice writing on it as if to back herself up. Haverhill restrained a smile, thinking of the signatures there. She would likely misinterpret it as a smile at her admission, so he kept it from showing. She asked him, “Um, would you mind reading it to me?”

Smiling gently, he took the letter from Nora’s hand, and said, without disdain for her illiteracy, “Haverhill will do, no need for ‘Sir’. And of course, Miss N—” He was cut off, however, when Nora suddenly lunged to the side. He almost rose, concerned, before he saw she was simply scooping something off her sheets. He hadn’t noticed it before; it must have been dislodged from inside a fold when Nora had been trying to clean her face. He instantly recognised the object. It was a man’s glove, and specifically, one of John’s. Nora blurted at him, “Ehheh. 'Scuse me,” as she straightened, and it took every ounce of the practice he’d had over the years to maintain his urbanity and keep from letting anything into his features. Nora’s infatuation with John was clear, and both endearing and amusing that she would try and hide it. Haverhill would do his best to see that it became a lasting love. But all he said in response was a repetition of his previous words, “Of course, Miss Nora.”

He held the letter so that she could see the writing, and followed the letters with his finger, so she would know where he was in the text—what each word meant. “This on the outside, says ‘Nora, Number Seven, Grainger-street, Lindebo, England.’ The seal is the crest of Wothersham.” He slipped a thumb under the seal and cracked it, taking out the letter and unfolding it, holding it again where she could see. He read the short contents softly. “It says, ‘Miss Nora, I am most deeply apologetic for my actions last night. I had no right to treat you in such an unseemly manner and I regret speaking in anger very much. My behaviour was inexcusable. I have no right to ask your forgiveness and I have no hope that I will attain it, but I do hope that you will accept this letter as my sincere apology. My regards, John Doyle.’ And there is his personal seal.” Haverhill pointed unnecessarily to the red wax seal pressed to the letter.

Haverhill let his voice stop, saying nothing afterwards but rather giving Nora time to herself. He assumed a manner that all good servants were familiar with, a sort of unobtrusive existence, and he thought about the Baron’s letter. It was not written in the most formal style. If Haverhill had to guess, he would say that John had had a difficult time writing the letter—actually, he didn’t have to guess on that part—and had done it in the less formal style in an attempt to soften his short message. The man was always curt, but had probably not wanted to appear so in his apology, for fear that Nora would think it hostile. Or possibly he would rather not be formal with Nora—which brought to mind that maybe this “behaviour” that he wrote of was something where he had been too informal. Haverhill considered the possibility that his friend had slept with Nora, since she was undeniably of a profession that allowed it, but dismissed the possibility. No man in his right mind would apologise for having sex with a whore.

It must be something else, something drastic. Haverhill knew John hated to apologise for anything and rarely did so, especially in writing. What had he done last night? What had he been angry about? What did he think was so dreadful that he would tell Nora that he didn’t deserve her forgiveness? Haverhill tried to keep the curiosity from being obvious as he sat beside Nora’s bed, but it was difficult. He laid the letter gently on the covers, next to her hands.

As Haverhill read, Nora felt her heart sink. She knew for certain now that this was all a twisted joke. A respectable man would never have sent such a letter to a woman like her. She had thought it odd all the time, his behaviour, and the strangest thing had been how he forced Lennox to apologize to her. This was taking it to far. A baron would not apologize - in writing! - to a whore! And he certainly would not do it when he had not been at fault in the first place; it was she who had offended him, she who had been in the wrong the whole time. Why should he be groveling for her forgiveness? Why should he care about her forgiveness at all? - Or her "good opinion," as he had claimed was what he wanted from her. Why, by the mother of God - and all the other saints for that matter - would the Lord Wothersham feel the need to attain the good opinion of a shameless woman? Yes, there was definitely some sick game going on, that only such people as the baron and his sisters had power enough to play. They were entertaining themselves with her stupidity - They were probably having a good laugh this very moment. She closed her eyes. She could practically hear them. "Haha, she was stuttering about how she hoped if he became her client, she might be able to see him again. She is sooo besotted, it's pathetic!"
"Yes, we have her just where we want her now, John!"
"She's probably sighing and swooning over my letter right about now. Hahaha! What a fool."

Still with a trembling hand, Nora picked up the letter and looked at it in silence for a few moments. It was definitely the baron's handwriting. But oh, please, let there be something... Maybe that was not what it said? She glanced up at Haverhill, who now seemed to be putting all his willpower into appearing invisible. Maybe he was fooling her. Maybe that was why he looked like he was trying to be inconspicuous now; because he had just came up with a hilarious prank and hoped she fell for it, so that he could point and laugh. She studied him - The steward who incidentally had just cleaned up a whore's apartment for no apparent reason - and he looked sincere enough when she sought his eyes, and he had acted sincere when he read the letter to her. She thought she knew a lot about sincerity in people. Maybe she thought wrong. She probably did. She had thought the baron sincere as well.
"Is-is that... Is that really what it says?"
"That is what it says."
"M-may I... ask..." She hesitated. She was not sure how to put her many questions into words.
"You may."
"Well, I..." No, she didn't dare. She needed... Gin. She was not yet entirely sobered up, and it would not take too much to bring her back to a state of more or less untroubled placidity. Upon starting to clamber out of bed, however, she felt his hand on her shoulder and saw his other one held up in a forestalling gesture.
"Please, Miss Nora, let me. What was it that you needed?"
"I was just..." She pointed stupidly towards the bottle of gin on her dresser. "...the bottle..." He looked hesitant for a moment, looking her over as if trying to deduce if he should really give her what she asked, but he did get up and he did pour one of the newly cleaned cups for her. As he handed her the glass, which she gratefully grabbed a good hold of with both hands, he looked sad for some reason, and she suddenly felt bad for him. Maybe he was not part of this at all. Maybe he did not like it?

"Your... master," she began, having finally manned herself up, "...He is... Is - is he..." Well, allright, so maybe she was not so manned up after all, but at least she was getting ahead, if the pace was less than impressive. "...right? I mean in - in the... Is he well? In the head?" If anyone knew, it would have to be his servant. And he was perhaps less inclined to be offended by her question than the baron's sisters. But then she remembered that Lord Wothersham had called Haverhill his friend, and a wave of panic and regret flushed through her. "I mean - I mean - not to offe-h - I mean... He's - he's lovely... So good, so... But... very... curious...? And - and..." She rubbed her forehead - this was so hard! - and tried to collect her thoughts.

There had to be something; something she had not yet seen. There must be something she did not understand, that she was too much of a dunce to perceive. He would know what it was they wanted from her, all these people who were acting completely kooky. He would know what sort of game they were playing. And yes, he might be in on it, but he was just the servant; There might just be a possibility of convincing him to let slip a few secrets.

"...and I also wondered... You know, I - they... This..." She waved the letter around a little. "I don't know what they want with me, I need to... I need to know..." He looked like he wanted to speak; to interrupt her and say something maybe, but she needed to ask him this now while she had the courage, so she held up her hands and continued. "Please..." She was not quite sure herself whether the "please" was meant for him to let her talk, or if it was part of her appeal to him. "I need to know, because I... I..." Her eyes were welling up with tears now. She did not pay any heed to that; the tears would come if they had to, and perhaps it would even make him take pity on her and share with her some of the truth. "They are acting very strange, him and his sisters, and you come here and you - you..." she gestured around the room, feebly. "...and he apologizes?!" She threw the letter to the floor; it was all a sham anyway, he was toying with her, she knew he was, so why should she still hold on to that inane devotion to him? "For what?! I-I-I need to know," she repeated, "What - what they - you - what they want - and why me?! There are other whores, and I... Whatever it is he wants me for, whatever... Can you tell him please, I'm nothing special, I'm no... I'm no good." She looked at him, imploringly, and now her tears did start flowing, because she knew that what she said was true and it just hurt so very much. "I'm no good." Again he opened his mouth to speak, and he might have actually said something too, she didn't know, because she ignored him while she shifted on the bed and put the now half-empty glass on her nightstand. Then she took hold of his shoulders. "Listen," she said, calmer and firmer now, despite her tears. "I know you have no reason to tell me the truth, he's your employer and friend and... but... We could make a deal...?" She drew her breath and the next few sentences were quick and intense, overrunning any interruptions. "I know I don't look like much now, but I can make myself pretty for you and if you tell me the honest truth I'd let you do whatever you wanted with me, free of charge, and I mean everything, even the things I don't normally do, nothing even extra for bruises, how does that sound?" It was a really good offer - too good - but she was desperate; this was driving her mad.

Haverhill watched sadly as Nora drank the gin he himself had gotten her. She would have gotten it herself if he had not, but he still felt vaguely guilty, and sad. She began to speak finally, after it was half gone. “Your... master... He is... Is - is he... right? I mean in - in the... Is he well? In the head? I mean - I mean - not to offe-h - I mean... He's - he's lovely... So good, so... But... very... curious...? And - and...” Nora rubbed her forehead as if asking him what she really wanted to know was so hard as to be painful. Haverhill only waited patiently. “...and I also wondered... You know, I - they... This... I don't know what they want with me, I need to... I need to know...” She waved the letter around, and Haverhill began to protest that she didn’t need to be so agitated, that there was nothing nefarious that she need be frightened about, as she seemed to be.

She held up a both hands, stilling him. “Please...” Haverhill nodded for her to continue. “I need to know, because I... I... They are acting very strange, him and his sisters, and you come here and you – you… and he apologizes?!” There were tears in her eyes, and she threw the letter on the floor. Haverhill picked it up, folded it, and placed it on the nightstand. She watched him warily, angrily, with confusion, desperation, a sadness and fear; Haverhill looked back calmly. “For what?! I-I-I need to know what - what they - you - what they want - and why me?! There are other whores, and I... Whatever it is he wants me for, whatever... Can you tell him please, I'm nothing special, I'm no... I'm no good.” She began to cry, and repeated herself. “I'm no good.”

Haverhill was now at a point where he could not simply listen to her tear herself down without saying anything. “Miss Nora, you have it all—” She cut him off, putting her half-full glass of gin on the nightstand and taking him by the shoulders. “Listen, I know you have no reason to tell me the truth, he's your employer and friend and... but... We could make a deal...? I know I don't look like much now, but I can make myself pretty for you and if you tell me the honest truth I'd let you do whatever you wanted with me, free of charge, and I mean everything, even the things I don't normally do, nothing even extra for bruises, how does that sound?” Haverhill simply looked at her. He wondered if she had really this small an idea of what was going on, and if she really expected him to take her up on the offer. She wasn’t open to him, despite what she said, because even if he were the type to take such advantage of a desperate and confused woman, he would not betray his friend that way.

But there was no change in her expression. Haverhill sighed slightly, and then took hold of both her hands, bringing them down in his. He placed them gently on her lap, keeping one of his on hers for a moment as he leaned forward in his chair, almost as if she were an ill and bedridden relation that needed comforting. He patted her hand and said, “While I am sensible to what the offer must have cost you, that won’t be necessary, Miss Nora. I shall tell you the honest truth as I know it, free of charge. But you must understand that this is my opinion, and I am not privy to everything that has happened between you.” Haverhill withdrew his hand and balanced himself with his elbows on his knees, his weight leaning on them and his hands clasped loosely. He looked down at the floor, trying to summon the words he needed, and then back up at Nora.

His voice was its same usual calm that gave away nothing, but his gaze was direct and sincere. “You suspect that Lord Wothersham has some devious purpose in mind for you. You think that because he treats you with courtesy, because he does not take what you have to offer, because he is not what you expect, he must either be off his head or have some unknown design on you. Yes? You think his behaviour is curious and therefore signifies that he wants something unknown to you, and you expect it to be something dreadful, do you not?” Nora nodded uncertainly, and Haverhill’s face saddened. He looked at the floor again, needing time but not having it. Nora would become suspicious—more suspicious than she already was—the longer he waited. But what should he say? How much should he tell, what of his own suspicions about John should he reveal? He decided to go with facts first.

“But the truth is, I suspect, that Lord Wothersham himself doesn’t know what he wants. You have upset the normal routine of his life. He drank himself asleep the night he sent me to see you home safely, did you know that? He has never done that before in all the time I have been his steward. Last night he walked you to the Grainger-street house. He’s never walked any woman except his sisters anywhere before. This morning he was troubled when he discovered you did not tell him the truth of where you lived—he was going to deliver the letter himself—when he usually assumes that everyone is a liar and has a skin as thick as leather for that sort of thing. It is obvious to me that he thinks you are beautiful; he has not told me but I feel it safe to assume that he feels something of lust for you as well.”

Haverhill sighed again, this time somewhat apologetically. It was awkward to discuss this subject with a woman whom he hardly knew, even if she were in the profession of lust. It was just not something he normally talked about. “I do not say this to be crude, Miss Nora, but simply so that you may understand. From your frame of reference, lust is something that is normal. You have experience in men lusting after you, in fact I would dare to guess that the greater part of your experience with men is in that frame. But for Lord Wothersham, lust is something to be controlled. In his circle of society it is not proper to display it to a woman until he is wed to her, and even then only under controlled circumstances.” Nora moved on the bed, almost as if she wanted to say something, but Haverhill forestalled her by holding up a hand.

“I know you know this already, and I know that it doesn’t seem to explain his behaviour. But it does. The reason that he is so curious to you is that with you, he need not retain the customs of high society, and yet he does. Yes? Because you see yourself as only a whore, because you are ‘no good.’ You feel that he is restrained by his class where he doesn’t need to be. And that is where you are mistaken. He is not restrained by outside influences; he is restrained by his personal honour. And he is of the opinion that to sleep with a woman outside of wedlock is a dishonour to both in the liaison. It is true that this opinion was formed around ladies of a higher class, but he applies it to all. And yet at the same time he is aware that he would face no public censure if he should relax his honour in your case.” Haverhill hoped that Nora would forgive the assumptions he was making about her, and also tried to be as clear as he could, although he felt vaguely that he wasn’t being clear at all.

“Lord Wothersham’s sense of honour is something he defines for himself, and always tries to abide by. For his entire life, it has been enough to see him through every situation. But you, Miss Nora, are a woman already outside the bounds of honour, and he is being forced to forge a new path in the dark. And so he tries to cope by treating you the only way he knows how that also will leave him with some pride in himself; as a lady. That is why he does not take advantage of what you offer, and that is why he writes you this letter of apology—he must have done something he considers unforgivable to do to a lady…” Haverhill trailed off. The explanation was the best he could offer, and he felt that to add more would be speculating too much, as well as being disloyal to his friend. He could not think of a better way too phrase himself either, even though he was aware of the somewhat disorganised delivery of his explanation.

Unable to continue on the subject of what John wanted with Nora, Haverhill spoke on what he was sure of. “As for what his sisters want, that I do know. They want their brother to be happy. And for my part, I seek to smooth the path for everyone.” Haverhill felt washed out, as if talking for so long had drained him. He took hold of the half-full glass of gin on the nightstand and drank half of what was left in one swallow. Setting the cup down slowly, he sagged back in the chair, looking at Nora. Did she believe him, or think he was full of crock? Did it matter? John would be as he was whether she did or not, and his apology would be just as sincere regardless of Nora’s opinion of him. But it did matter, for Nora’s peace of mind. It wasn’t right that she should be so frightened and confused.

Haverhill sighed. “And there you have it, Miss Nora. You may believe it, or not, as you choose; but it is the truth.”

He did not take her up on her offer. Was she losing her touch? Was she getting too old? Nora frowned, but reminded herself that only the previous day Byron and Mr. Raymond both had proved that she could still make men go dizzy with desire. It was only these odd new acquaintances of hers that had some issues, she assured herself.

"...because he is not what you expect, he must either be off his head or have some unknown design on you. Yes?" It sounded very narrow-minded when he put it like that. Still, as much as she hated to admit it, that was exactly how it was. He was not angry with her, however, when she confirmed it; in fact he looked rather sad again. She would have liked to do something that might comfort him, as he seemed to be in a rather dismal mood today, poor thing. But he didn't want her, so what could she do?

“But the truth is, I suspect, that Lord Wothersham himself doesn’t know what he wants." She could believe that. Chewing her lip, she remembered how he had seemed to almost want to give in, several times; how she had suspected that he was only insecure and frightened. Up until now, that was, with this letter - why did he have to send the letter?! - that turned it all around. "You have upset the normal routine of his life." She had? "He drank himself asleep the night he sent me to see you home safely, did you know that?" Nora stopped chewing her lip and her mouth instead fell open. She did not know that. Did she believe it? Maybe... He had seemed very troubled that day. Sad at first, almost bitter - she had wanted to teach him how to laugh - and then very distressed when he left. "He has never done that before in all the time I have been his steward. Now, that was harder to believe. A man who had never drunk himself asleep?! Why, then, would he suddenly do it now? "Last night he walked you to the Grainger-street house. He’s never walked any woman except his sisters anywhere before." Again easier to believe; he had little experience with women, and Nora knew she was pretty. He might have wanted her, but not dared to act on it, and then she offended him.

"This morning he was troubled when he discovered you did not tell him the truth of where you lived—he was going to deliver the letter himself—when he usually assumes that everyone is a liar and has a skin as thick as leather for that sort of thing." He had thought she lived there?! No, that could not be; he was an intelligent man, a learned and well-read one! And why on earth should it trouble him that she had lied - especially if he was usually thick-skinned about liars? It was not like he could expect loyalty from a whore?!

"It is obvious to me that he thinks you are beautiful; he has not told me but I feel it safe to assume that he feels something of lust for you as well.” Well, good then, at least he wasn't a queer. Haverhill continued by explaining to her how lust was regarded in different circles of society, which Nora guessed was not really a very pleasant topic of conversation for him, and quite strictly it was not necessary, as she already knew about such things. She considered interrupting him to tell him that and spare him any further discomfort, but he noticed and held up a hand, which made Nora blush fiercely and lower her head in shame. He must think her so disrespectful now. “I know you know this already, and I know that it doesn’t seem to explain his behaviour. But it does." It did? She glanced hesitantly back up at him.

"...you see yourself as only a whore, because you are ‘no good. You feel that he is restrained by his class where he doesn’t need to be. And that is where you are mistaken." Here we go again... If he started going on about equality or some other such nonsense, she would scream. Fortunately, he did not, because only God knew what would have happened if she had started screaming. Instead he presented a theory that sounded logical enough for a peculiar man like the baron, but at the same time strange enough that it might well be utter bogus: "He is not restrained by outside influences; he is restrained by his personal honour. And he is of the opinion that to sleep with a woman outside of wedlock is a dishonour to both in the liaison. It is true that this opinion was formed around ladies of a higher class, but he applies it to all. And yet at the same time he is aware that he would face no public censure if he should relax his honour in your case. Lord Wothersham’s sense of honour is something he defines for himself, and always tries to abide by. For his entire life, it has been enough to see him through every situation. But you, Miss Nora, are a woman already outside the bounds of honour, and he is being forced to forge a new path in the dark. And so he tries to cope by treating you the only way he knows how that also will leave him with some pride in himself; as a lady. That is why he does not take advantage of what you offer, and that is why he writes you this letter of apology—he must have done something he considers unforgivable to do to a lady…”

Nora blinked. Her first thought was that Haverhill was a part of it all; that there was no other plausible explanation than that he was lying as well, coming up with fabricated stories instead of accepting a great offer. Next minute, however, she reminded herself that such a thing was too far-fetched. She could believe that the baron's sisters had been plotting something, maybe even the baron himself, but to bring in the steward and go to these kind of lengths? Why would they? If they wanted her for something, they could just do it, there was really no need for such games, particularly when there were so many of them and only one of her - hardly even that. Lord Wothersham was very concerned with honour. Courtesy was extremely important to him. He did seem confused at times; as if he was not quite sure what he wanted or how to treat her. Some of Haverhill's explanation did make sense.

“As for what his sisters want, that I do know. They want their brother to be happy. And for my part, I seek to smooth the path for everyone.” To be happy... Of course, well, what sister would not want that for her brother, but that did not explain to Nora why they were treating her with such exaggerated decency. Was it because their brother would be angry with them if they did not? Did they perhaps subordinate themselves to someone after all?

Having no idea what to say, Nora simply watched Haverhill drink her gin. He looked tired as he sank back in the chair and met her gaze again. "“And there you have it, Miss Nora. You may believe it, or not, as you choose; but it is the truth.”
Her regular "I'm sorry," came automatically. She was sorry in case he was angry at her for wanting him to explain, and in case he had been annoyed at her near-interruption, or about the letter she had thrown on the floor. She had to say something more, though...

"I don't know what t..." she trailed off. She was afraid to admit that she still did not know whether or not to believe him. "But you can tell him, sir, there is no need to apologize. It is I who should apologize. I offended him. - I didn't mean to!" she inserted quickly. "I never meant to insinuate.... what he thought I did. I never meant that. You can tell him that, sir, if you... if you... I never meant it like he thought. But I was thoughtless in my words and so I did offend him and his reaction was more than warranted, I deserved a much sterner punishment than that." She closed her eyes at the horrible memory. It was true that she had never meant to offend him, and despite it she had managed to throw at him one of the worst insults a man could possibly get. What a complete moron she was. And now he was mad at her for having lied to him about where she lived as well. "And I did not mean to lie to him!" she exclaimed in a sudden fit of panic. She had just remembered that they were supposed to call on the Kendalls this Sunday. She could not go there alone! "I always tell my clients I live there, for appearances, so they can look like they pick up or take home a respectable lady. I cannot force them to come here, but they usually know - they understand - I mean... I thought... Well, you knew where I lived, sir, and... and... But oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to say I'm not wrong, I just... It just..." She could not ask. Could she? Yes, she must; she must know, and if he needed to rough her up for her rudeness, so be it.

"Do you think...? Will he still be going to the Kendalls this Sunday?" She closed her eyes again, this time hard, expecting a punch.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what t...” Miss Nora trailed off, and Haverhill only waited. She would have something else to say, and besides, he did not have anything else to say at the moment; it was best just to be patient and wait until she said what she felt she needed to say. Especially since he had already talked her ear off with his rather long answer to her question. He was not offended by her almost-admission that she was not sure she believed him; she was trying to overcome weeks of confusion in the space of a few moments. He would not automatically believe what he had said, either, were he in her position. She did continue after a moment, saying, “But you can tell him, sir, there is no need to apologize. It is I who should apologize. I offended him. - I didn't mean to! I never meant to insinuate.... what he thought I did. I never meant that. You can tell him that, sir, if you... if you... I never meant it like he thought. But I was thoughtless in my words and so I did offend him and his reaction was more than warranted, I deserved a much sterner punishment than that.”

Haverhill simultaneously wondered about two things. The first was a burning curiosity to know exactly what this insult was that she had given John. And what had he done in return? What punishment had he given—he’d have to have done something if she felt she warranted something sterner—that had caused him to be so guilty that he’d actually write a letter of apology? What harsher punishment had she expected to receive for whatever she had said? What had brought about the situation? What did she not mean? What had John thought she meant? What exactly had she meant instead of whatever meaning it was that John had misread? Haverhill was not privy to any of the things that had passed between Nora and John, except for the few hours of nearly completely pointless small talk at the ball; it seemed that every time something happened, he got to know that it had happened, but not what had happened.

The second thing he wondered was something that amused him a great deal. What exactly did she expect he would say to John, given that he didn’t know? Well, my lord, Miss Nora did not mean that thing that you thought she meant. It was rather like the night John had come home, actually. That time, Haverhill had been sent to find a woman he could identify by first name only in a place John could not name to tell her that John was sorry for something that he did not specify and escort her to her home, which, needless to say, John did not know the whereabouts of. Haverhill wondered if either of them really thought about what they were asking, or if such requests were merely the result of a vague hope that he could make things right. He would of course do his best to convey Nora’s apology in a suitable way so as to allow John to feel forgiven without actually specifying what for; that way, he would not put words in her mouth. It did amuse him, however, that she was asking him to deliver the unknown apology, exactly as John had before.

Suddenly, she became more agitated and burst out with, “And I did not mean to lie to him! I always tell my clients I live there, for appearances, so they can look like they pick up or take home a respectable lady. I cannot force them to come here, but they usually know - they understand - I mean... I thought... Well, you knew where I lived, sir, and... and... But oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to say I'm not wrong, I just... It just...” Haverhill understood. She was not actually telling the truth there; she had meant to lie to John. It was just that John was supposed to understand it was a lie from the start. She had not meant for him to believe her. Haverhill wondered though, if she had not picked up on where here usual reasoning had led her astray. John was not her client. Thus, what she always told her clients would not always translate all that well to her dealings with the baron. Yet at the same time, Haverhill reflected, what else could she do? Just as she was outside John’s normal experience, so John was outside her normal experience.

Haverhill leaned forward, about to reassure her that John would get over his disappointment, likely sooner rather than later (in fact, as soon as he next saw Nora, unless Haverhill missed his guess, although he would not mention that), when Nora blurted out, “Do you think...? Will he still be going to the Kendalls this Sunday?” She pinched her eyes up immediately after she asked, and shrank in on herself, even though she didn’t move on the bed. Haverhill sighed. She really didn’t need to be so afraid of him, but there was nothing except time and experience that would persuade her of that. So instead of attempting to persuade her rationally that he was not going to hit her, all he did was lean forward to take her hand on the bed, offering the physical support of one human being to another. At the same time, he said, “You really should just call me Haverhill, Miss Nora.”

She opened her eyes in surprise, perhaps because of the seeming change of subject apropos of nothing, perhaps because he had not hit her, or perhaps because of some other thing entirely. He smiled gently and said, “If you are going, and you wish his presence, I daresay that he will be going also. I will be telling him that you have forgiven him for whatever he did—what did he do, by the way?—and that you did not mean what you said—which was what, out of curiosity?—and that your lie about your lodgings was intended as a convenient fiction for him. If you wish, I will also tell him where he might pick you up; it would be no great trouble to do so.”

“You really should just call me Haverhill, Miss Nora.” He had taken her hand and was speaking softly. She hesitantly reopened her eyes and looked at him. He was not angry? He was smiling! And he was just as gentle and kind as before; he didn't seem to think she had been rude at all. 'Haverhill' sounded like a surname. She could call him that, sure. But she would not stop showing him the proper respect he deserved. It had to be "sir," he was way above her on the social ladder and she was not worthy of being his friend. The only man she could think of that she dared call by his first name was Byron McMillian. Besides, Haverhill still called her "Miss Nora."

“If you are going, and you wish his presence, I daresay that he will be going also," he now assured her. Oh! Relief washed over her. Really? He would go with her? She wouldn't need to face Mrs. Kendall by herself; there would be a man with her. Wait, would she be endangering the baron by taking him there? No, Mrs. Kendall's husband would be there, he didn't even know about his wife being a murderess. She could not do anything, not in the middle of the day, and on a Sunday at that - she could not touch him without reprecussions. She could do whatever she wanted with Nora and no one would care, but Lord Wothersham was a peer, he was important.

"I will be telling him that you have forgiven him for whatever he did—what did he do, by the way?—and that you did not mean what you said—which was what, out of curiosity?—and that your lie about your lodgings was intended as a convenient fiction for him." Oh, yes! That would be lovely. He was so nice to her! She had wondered if she should ask him to write down her apology, but he had just summed it up in a way that told her he understood exactly what it was she wanted to say. "If you wish, I will also tell him where he might pick you up; it would be no great trouble to do so.” Why were they all so kind? It could not all be about the baron's sense of honour? Could it? Had he created a little part of the world where everyone turned soft and benevolent and courteous? Was it simply his influence that did it or did he order them all to act that way?

He had asked her to tell him what happened yesterday; what she had said and what Lord Wothersham was apologizing for. She knew she could not simply refuse to tell him, but she wished he had not asked, because now he would know how bad she had acted, how senseless she had been, and he would be angry with her for her insolence. Or worse: The baron would find out that she had told his steward private details that most likely he did not want him to find out about. He would be furious.

Couldn't they just sit here like this and hold hands and be quiet instead? It felt nice and safe, having him here. She lifted his hand to her face.
"I don't want anyone to be mad at me," she whispered, pressing his palm to her cheek. "If I tell you what I said, you will hate me." She saw him shake his head. He looked puzzled by her behaviour, but let her hold on to his hand none the less. She hid in it, let it cover her eyes and most of her face while she whimpered pathetically. "I don't want you to hate me."
"No one will. I assure you it is safe to talk to me. No one would be offended." She would have to tell him anyway, sooner or later; he would hate her even more if she did not. Or would he? She had said some pretty dumb sounding things. Squeezing his hand even harder - although her grip was already unnecessarily tight - against her cheek, she started stumbling through her explanation.
"I didn't... I meant to tell him - to say - to offer... I meant to tell him that I would like to be there for him to..." she sighed, still clutching Haverhil's hand fiercely. This was hard to explain. "He seemed uncomfortable and I thought maybe he wanted to... get used to being close to someone, you know, for his - for when he is to marry and... I - I accidentally - I used the wrong words. I said I could..." She closed her eyes and bit her lip before she peeped: "I said I could teach him. Then I said he didn't have to be nervous and that nobody needed to know and by the time of his wedding night he would be able to enjoy his bride like he ought to." She gave a slight whimper at this. "As if he would not know how to enjoy a woman! I'm so sorry, that was not what I meant!" She removed his hand from her face for a moment, studied it, looked at Haverhill, and then placed the hand back on her face, but this time on her other cheek. He was not angry. "S-so he... took hold of me and held me tight and asked me if I thought he needed teaching; if I thought his wife would find him lacking were he married. He was angry and hurt, and I felt s-so bad, because I never meant for him to be. I only wanted him to... to..." Yes, Nora, what is it you want? And why is it that you think you deserve to get it?

"I only wanted to be with him," she concluded quietly. "I wanted to see him again."

Nora lifted his hand to her face, pressing the palm to her skin, and Haverhill would have prevented her from doing it except that she obviously did not mean it as an enticing gesture. He slipped from the chair to the edge of the bed when she took control of his hand, following it and sitting facing her, not too close but nearer than the chair. She murmured, “I don't want anyone to be mad at me. If I tell you what I said, you will hate me.” He did not understand what this was, and he shook his head in partial confusion and partial denial. He would not hate her, or be angry with her, he was sure. But why did she hold his hand like that? She turned her head into his palm, so that his hand covered most of her face and prevented him from seeing her—or perhaps it was her from seeing him. He felt her breath against his skin as she whispered, “I don't want you to hate me.” He did his best to assure her that he would not, that no one would, and after a while she started to tell her story.

“I didn't... I meant to tell him - to say - to offer... I meant to tell him that I would like to be there for him to...” She clung to his hand tightly, and Haverhill smiled encouragingly. “He seemed uncomfortable and I thought maybe he wanted to... get used to being close to someone, you know, for his - for when he is to marry and... I - I accidentally - I used the wrong words. I said I could...” Nora stopped a moment, biting her lip, and Haverhill did not push her even though he was dying of curiosity. Behind his urbane mask, his inquisitive mind ran rampant with the information already imparted. John was uncomfortable with Nora’s offer—not unexpected; he would be, uptight as he was—and Nora thought that was why he associated with her, to get rid of that stiffness. A fair assumption, if lusting men was all you were familiar with… and that would have offended John, the implication he wouldn’t be faithful to someone he was engaged or married to. But so much so that he would do something that he had to write a letter of apology for? Had he struck her? Or had he taken her up on the offer?

Nora cut into Haverhill’s curiosity with a tiny voice. She told him, “I said I could teach him. Then I said he didn't have to be nervous and that nobody needed to know and by the time of his wedding night he would be able to enjoy his bride like he ought to.” Haverhill tried very gallantly not to laugh. He did not want Nora to misunderstand and think he was laughing at her for any reason, but imagining John’s face as someone told him that was intensely amusing to Haverhill. The way that the baron had misunderstood Nora was also funny; Haverhill admitted that it sounded like an easy misunderstanding to make, but still, John should have realised that no woman of Nora’s profession would ever imply that a prospective client didn’t know which hole to put it in, especially one as rich as John was. Haverhill was able to keep from laughing outright, but a grin crossed his face despite his best efforts. Nora made a small sound and protested, “As if he would not know how to enjoy a woman! I'm so sorry, that was not what I meant!”

She took his hand down from her face and looked at it, and Haverhill gently squeezed her hand, murmuring, “I know.” She looked up at him and after a moment put his hand to her cheek again, only this time it was the opposite side. She continued, “S-so he... took hold of me and held me tight and asked me if I thought he needed teaching; if I thought his wife would find him lacking were he married. He was angry and hurt, and I felt s-so bad, because I never meant for him to be.” Ah, so that was what it was. She didn’t state everything in detail, but Haverhill could read between the lines. That was definitely enough to prompt John to write a letter of apology. He could see how both were hurt over the misunderstanding—John because of the perceived insult and the presumed opinion behind it, and Nora because her best intentions had been misunderstood and rejected angrily. Haverhill felt for both of them, and could only hope that John’s apology and the message that he would carry in reply would help matters.

Nora hesitantly added, “I only wanted him to... to...” She clutched to his hand even more tightly, and Haverhill wondered why she was so afraid to say it. It was obvious to him what she wanted; she wanted John. Perhaps his body too, but what she really wanted was for him to like her, to want to be around her, to see her again and again. Why was she reluctant to admit it? She found her voice though, and said as much as he had surmised. “I only wanted to be with him. I wanted to see him again.” There was silence in the room for a long moment, as she just sat there looking at him, his hand pressed to her face, perhaps checking for anger or to see if he thought she was stupid. He looked at her, and even though she was a mess, hung over and disarrayed, he could see why John liked her. She was without pretence. He looked back at her without judgement in his eyes, seeing her not as a whore, but as someone that needed help and reassurance that he could provide—almost seeing her as his daughter.

He asked softly, “Miss Nora, will you humour an old man for a moment?” She nodded hesitantly, lowering his hand from her face to cradle it in her own, and Haverhill’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Then let me give you some advice. He is not your client; do not treat him as such, and do not try and force the issue.” Haverhill squeezed the hand she held his with, and she put his palm back on her face. He continued before she could interrupt, “The times you have seen him before, it has not worked, and yet he will still see you at the Kendall’s to visit them, for a reason completely unrelated to your profession. He does not hate you, but you confuse him. Give him time to sort through it. Treat him as a friend, Miss Nora. Treat him as a friend, and he will see you again. He will seek you out.

She turned her face down into his palm, hiding her features in his hand again, and Haverhill gently shifted his hand on her face until it was cupping her chin, and lifted. When her eyes met his, he said, “And Miss Nora, you do not need to be afraid to admit that you want to see him again, either to him or to me.” He leaned forward and kissed Nora on the forehead, after the fashion of a father kissing his daughter, his short beard brushing the bridge of her nose. Sitting back, he let his hand fall from her face, one of hers going with it, until once again he was only holding her hand on the bed. “And you never need to be afraid I will hate you because of an honest wish, or an honest mistake. If you ever want to talk to me about something, I will listen.”

(OOC: I know, I'm giving you nothing to work with here and it's not a good post, but I'm sick as hell, so cut me some slack, mkay?)

“Miss Nora, will you humour an old man for a moment?”
The wrinkles that appeared around his eyes as he asked her this made him look even milder than before. She lowered his hand just to get a good look at him. Was this what they meant when they said men were 'fatherly?' But it was nothing like Father Ormsby. Her old mentor never had this warmth about him, this seemingly genuine expression of concern. Oh no! What was she doing? What are you thinking? How could she entertain such thoughts about the man that had raised her, guided her, enlightened her and loved her; how could she allow herself to think that the Father's way of displaying concern seemed more feigned than this stranger's?

“Then let me give you some advice," Haverhil offered, waking Nora from her self-scorning. "He is not your client; do not treat him as such, and do not try and force the issue.” She had been forward and extremely inconsiderate. She had done exactly what she had promised herself that she would never do to anyone; she had disregarded his personal limits. And he was not just anyone. He was a baron, the Lord Wothersham! How could she have been so selfish, repeatedly? Why could she never learn to control herself? She felt Haverhill's hand give hers a gentle squeeze, and again she lifted it to her face. It felt comforting. Do not try and force the issue. She repeated the instruction in her head. He should beat it into her, evidently that was the only way to make her lousy brain remember.

“The times you have seen him before, it has not worked, and yet he will still see you at the Kendall’s to visit them, for a reason completely unrelated to your profession." Yes. That was the odd thing about it. He wanted to see her. He wanted her forgiveness, or at least his letter said so. He wanted her "good opinion" and her "company," as he had put it the previous night. What ever for? If it was true... Nora felt like her blood was trying to tickle her from the inside. How lovely that would be. And how extremely dense you are to even consider it. "He does not hate you, but you confuse him. Give him time to sort through it." Oh, she confused him?! Hah! At least she had acted like a whore was expected to act! ...Well, aside from the fact that she had offended him and cried in his arms. God, what a dope she was! "Treat him as a friend, Miss Nora. Treat him as a friend, and he will see you again. He will seek you out."

A friend.

How did one treat a friend? Nora searched her mind for examples that could possibly provide a model for her to imitate. She had never really had any friends herself. She had Anna. Anna had called herself Nora's friend. But they had been toddlers and never really talked much. And now... well, they were both women. She could not treat a man like a woman. She knew of some friends of Byron's, but she could not treat a man like a man treated another man, either. Did she even know of any instances where a man and a woman were friends? The Countess had male friends. Nora had not really seen her interact with them, though, and if she had, she could not let that set a standard, because the Countess was the Countess and Nora was a worm. In frustration she hid her face behind Haverhill's hand once more. There was no way to imagine a shameless woman treating a baron as a friend. It was unthinkable!

He lifted her face, then, to look her in the eyes.
"And Miss Nora, you do not need to be afraid to admit that you want to see him again, either to him or to me." There was something about him, she was certain now. It was almost as if she remembered him from somewhere; as if she had met him long ago, but could not quite recall the details. There was something safe - almost familiar - about his mannerisms. Could it be her real father that he reminded her of? As he leaned in and placed a kiss on her forehead, Nora let out a voiced sigh. She had not intended to, and so she was somewhat discomfited when she heard the whimpering "Mmh..!" that had escaped her. She expected him to continue kissing her, but he didn't. He sat back and kept on talking instead. She wanted to follow his face with hers and hide on his shoulder. "And you never need to be afraid I will hate you because of an honest wish, or an honest mistake. If you ever want to talk to me about something, I will listen.” Oh...! Good heavens, what a way he had with her. She made the same decision again that she had made several times the night before. Who cared if this was some crazy rich man's game? Who cared if it was all too good to be true? It felt so amazing, and she wanted it - she craved it. Never mind the consequences. They would come when they did.
"Anything you say, sir," Nora cooed. She could have melted in his hands then and there; he had her in his power as completely as the baron did.

“Anything you say, sir,” Nora cooed at him, and Haverhill regarded her steadily. Not many moments ago she had been wary and nervous, and thought that he would hit her; now she was cooing at him and he didn’t think that it had much to do with a renewed offer to let him bed her. She was a very odd woman, and had remarkably fast turns in her opinion. But then, who didn’t? Until he had seen Reuben Raymond viciously beating the stuffing out of Nora, he’d thought the man was your average ugly-yet-well-to-do bloke. Son of a gentleman, large and not handsome, but well-off, and therefore paying a lovely whore to appear as a lady of class—his lady of class—for the night. Nothing Haverhill felt a need to judge about that. And then, just like that, his opinion had changed, literally in the time it took him to blink an eye. He’d gone from accepting that Raymond would find himself in the position of hiring ladies of the night on account of his inability to attract women from his own status level to judging the man very harshly indeed.

Haverhill was still proud of the almost scientific beating that he had administered to the man. The bastard would wake up without any visible bruises on him, but extremely pained in the vulnerable areas and with large bruises all over his fat gut, arms, and legs. The man would not, of course, want to admit he had been beaten because he had been abusing a woman, and since he had nothing visibly wrong with him no one would be forced to inquire about some stray mark he hadn’t had the day before. He could keep his dirty secret, but he’d have the bruises to remind him that Haverhill knew it too, and they wouldn’t heal for a while, either. Unthinkingly brushing his nose, Haverhill reflected that he was lucky to get away from that incident with nothing more than a nosebleed—Raymond had not even succeeded in breaking Haverhill’s nose. A good thing, really, given that Nora might not be feeling so comforted by his presence now if he had shown up with a broken nose or other souvenirs of a recent fight.

That thought brought his wandering trail of them back around to the present situation, and he was silent for a moment longer as he considered what to do. He did not want to give her any ideas she might take in the wrong way, and he especially did not want to give her any ideas that John might take in the wrong way if she told him about them. Haverhill got the feeling that if he stayed much longer this might be an increasingly difficult objective to achieve, and so he decided that he would extract himself as soon as possible. Giving her hand a pat, he said, “Well, then, Miss Nora, if it is to be ‘anything I say,’ I really do say you should just call me Haverhill.” Smiling at her, he withdrew his hand from hers and stood up, carrying the chair he had brought over back to its place by the vanity. He added, “I should be on my way, Miss Nora. I have duties I must attend to, and I think it best to inform Lord Wothersham of your acceptance of his apology as soon as possible, to put his mind at ease.” Then he stopped as something occurred to him.

It would be best if John did not take his shiny new barouche to pick up someone in Durdon. The people around Nora’s room would know that she was a whore, and would ask whom it was that came to see her in such an expensive carriage. Once the inquisitive ears found out, then the wagging tongues would start up, and before long John would have rumours spreading about him that he was not prepared to handle quite yet. Haverhill knew that such rumours would start anyway, sooner or later, but it was best that they were later; specifically, it was best that they not start until after John had realised that he did care for Nora and should, ideally, marry her. If they started too soon, he might be too proud to ever admit it to himself. So Haverhill needed to ensure that the rumours started later and John decided his mind sooner; he thought wryly that he did not set out difficult tasks for himself at all.

However, Haverhill could not—or at least he would not—say to Nora that he would rather John not drive his conspicuous barouche here to pick her up. It would be excessively impolite. Yet if he did not arrange for some other alternative that was exactly what John would do. The Baron lacked much ability at real-life cloak-and-dagger secrecy, although he did quite well at disguising blackmailing paper trails. But then again, Nora must have dealt with an occasion where she needed to be met somewhere else at least a few times before. Haverhill decided to trust that she had been and would know on her own that this was one of those times. He said nothing of the matter at all, and only asked, “What is the best time and place for Lord Wothersham to meet you before you go to the Kendalls, Miss Nora?”

“Well, then, Miss Nora, if it is to be ‘anything I say,’ I really do say you should just call me Haverhill.” For some reason he didn't like it when she 'sir'ed him. Nora wondered why that was. Haverhill was a last name, was it not? It didn't sound like a Christian name that a mother would call her son. But then what did Nora know? Perhaps it was, really - it must be, since he kept insisting she call him that. She would not - could not! - call him by his first name; it would be disrespectful. She noted to herself that she should try to 'sir' him less, though, if that pleased him, although it would be hard.

He got up and placed the chair back where it belonged before proceeding towards the door. She didn't want him to leave. She liked to have him there, it felt like her apartment was suddenly a safer and more pleasant place to be.
“I should be on my way, Miss Nora," he said, and again she felt how much she liked it when he called her Miss Nora, just like she liked it when the baron did, and she didn't want to tell him not to. How selfish that was of her. Of course they should not call her miss; they should not speak to her as if she was any other young, pure, unmarried girl. It was just as inappropriate as it would be for her to call them by their first names. "I have duties I must attend to, and I think it best to inform Lord Wothersham of your acceptance of his apology as soon as possible, to put his mind at ease.” To put his mind at ease...

What were Haverhill's duties, Nora wondered. She would liked to have known what it was, exactly, that a steward did for a master such as the baron, and particularly a steward whose master claimed that he was a friend. How odd they were, the both of them. All of them. The baron, his sisters, his steward. They were all so very strange, and she liked it, and feared it. But mostly she liked it. She liked how he said he thought it best to put Lord Wothersham's mind at ease. How childish of her. Why would the Lord Wothersham care whether or not she accepted his apology? Why would he apologize to her at all? "You are being unreasonable again, Nora." Of course she was. She knew she was. I don't care.

"What is the best time and place for Lord Wothersham to meet you before you go to the Kendalls, Miss Nora?”
"That's uh..." Nora hesitated. Time and place? Wasn't that rather obvious? He would have to pick her up the only suitable place, which was Grainger Street, and he would have to do so a little before three o'clock in order to arrive at the Kendalls' house on time. "That's what Grainger Street is for..." she said insecurely. "Will he not want to meet me there?"

“That's uh... That's what Grainger Street is for... Will he not want to meet me there?” Timidly, as if afraid to point this out, Nora answered Haverhill’s question. The steward nodded. He had not been sure if she would want to remind the Baron about what had occurred there, but it was a sensible place. He said, “I am certain that if that is where you want to meet him, that is where he wants to meet you.” Haverhill smiled gently to take any sting out of his slight humour, so that she would not think he was making fun of her. It was a true statement. If Nora had said that the Baron ought to pick her up from a brothel in the middle of Bramwell, Haverhill was quite certain that John would think it a very good idea indeed. The man wasn’t quite capable of the very best judgement when it came to Nora.

But it was time that Haverhill should go. There was only one more thing that he wanted to do here, but he could not think of a way to request it, and besides, he had no right to do so. It was clear that Nora was in poor condition, and still hurting from her beating. She needed time to rest and relax, but would she on her own? He couldn’t request that she do so, because he was in no position to have authority over her. Except… and then he thought of the way, and approached the bed again. Taking two sovereigns from his pocket, he placed them on the nightstand, on top of the discarded letter of apology he had folded and placed there earlier. Thinking about the contents of the letter brought the papers on the table, particularly the one covered with ‘Nora Doyle’ signatures, to mind, and he had to struggle not to grin. Once his face was under control again, he looked at the writer of those signatures and said, “Miss Nora, I should be most grateful if you would take today and tonight off from work. I am paying for your time.”

He held up a hand to forestall any protest she might make, saying, “You are not looking as well as you might, and I know you must still be in pain from the beating your first escort at the Easter Ball administered to you. Though I will not be here to see that you do not work, nor will I have any way of knowing whether or not you do, I hope that you will honour my wishes.” Then, before she could muster any more protest, Haverhill turned and strode to the door, opening it and stepping into the corridor outside. There he turned again, to face back into the room, and smiled once more at Nora, bidding her farewell with, “Goodbye, Miss Nora. It was a pleasure to see you again.” Ignoring a loud guffaw and the, “I bet it was!” that burst from a man leaving the next room down, Haverhill closed the door softly. The latch clicked, and he let go of the handle, fairly sure that Nora would actually rest today. Even if she didn’t, it didn’t hurt him that much to part with a couple of sovereigns, and it might help her.

Heading down the corridor to the stairs, he passed by the man who had laughed, and abruptly shot out one hand to grab the fellow’s arm. The man stopped and looked at him, startled and then with the beginnings of anger, and Haverhill, despite being shorter by nearly half a head, gazed back at him calmly. He told the fellow silkily, “There is no need to assume, my good man. You would likely be right, most times, but you are wrong today.”
The man tried to shrug Haverhill off, but the steward’s grip had suddenly become vise-like and did not budge. His face darkening, the fellow scowled. “Piss off.”
Haverhill did not move. Instead, he said, in the same silken tones, “In my own time. First, I have a proposition for you that will earn you a crown a week, and require little effort on your part.”
Avarice gleamed in the man’s eyes, but pride dictated that he not be too interested at once. Attempting to shrug Haverhill off again, he muttered, “Yeah? What if I says no?”
This time, Haverhill let his hand be brushed off. “Then I will simply find another.”

The man pursed his lips, but Haverhill could see the idea of a extra crown a week for supposedly little effort was too good for him to pass up. The man asked reluctantly, “What’s yer idea, then?”
Haverhill needed a name before there would be any deal, however, and he needed his own assumption confirmed. The man had entered the corridor from the next room down; he likely lived there. “First, what is your name, and do you live in this building?”
The man said, “Yeah. Robert Shackle. That’s my room there.” He gestured to the one past Nora’s, the one he had just come from.
Satisfied, Haverhill said, “Then it is simple. You will inform me if Miss Nora is physically harmed. You will find out who did it, if possible, and when, and report that to me. I must know within the hour of it happening.”
Shackle’s forehead creased in puzzlement, and he asked, “What, the whore? What’s she to you?”
Haverhill replied, “That is not your concern. Shall I find another for the task?”
The man studied him for a moment, and then shrugged. “I’ll do it. Fer a half-pound a week.”
Haverhill smiled. The gleam in the man’s eyes told him that Shackle expected him to dicker. Even though Haverhill could very well afford the man’s price, Shackle would be unsettled if Haverhill failed to haggle. “Seven shillings.”
“Nine bob.”
“Eight.”
“Done. Where’s I goin’ to find you and who am I tellin’?”
Haverhill did not, of course, want the man to know that it was the steward of a Baron hiring him. So instead he gave the man the name of a woman in whom he had absolute confidence of discretion, who was one of his fronts for gathering information. “You will tell Mrs Gilbert Odde, number sixteen Newgate-road. Do you know the place?”
Shackle shook his head, but replied confidently, “I can find it.”
Haverhill smiled. “We are settled then.”
Shackle asked with attempted nonchalance, “When’s I’m goin’ to get paid?”
Haverhill said, “Mrs Odde will take care of it, but here is the first month in advance.” He fished in his pocket and gave Shackle two sovereigns.
The man looked at him, an expression of mingled disbelief and budding slyness on his face. “Yer just goin’ to give it to me?”

“Absolutely. You see, I trust you implicitly,” Haverhill explained, in tones that resounded with unspoken shades of I-know-where-you-live-and-I-can-arrange-for-painful-things-to-happen-to-you. He smiled cherubically. “My trust isn’t misplaced, is it?”
Shackle’s sly expression slid off his face. He smiled a sickly smile and said, “Of course not, gov. Right you are. I’ll be lettin’ you know if anythin’ happens, sure as the sun is shinin’.”
Haverhill said, perfectly sincerely, “I knew I could count on you.”
Then he passed the fellow by completely, stepping down the last few stairs while Shackle stood looking at the two coins in his hand with a bemused look on his face. Now, if something like what had happened at the Easter Ball should happen again—as it would eventually; whoring was not the safest of occupations—Haverhill would know of it and would be able to arrange for assistance for Nora. Although he might not be able to forestall such, he would at least be able to see that she was given the proper medical attention afterwards.

Haverhill headed back to the Waverley-street house, quite satisfied with the morning’s events. Now all that remained was to wait for the Baron to get over his shock and return there also, and then tell him what Nora had said.

"I am certain that if that is where you want to meet him, that is where he wants to meet you.” He kept talking like they all did; reassuringly and overly polite, and all the while he gave her a little smile, as if they shared a secret. She smiled back, supposing they did, in a way, share a secret, and knowing that she had to accept that this was the way he talked. She was rather relieved, really, that there was no need for her to come up with another spot for Lord Wothersham to pick her up, because she could not think of one at the moment.

“Miss Nora, I should be most grateful if you would take today and tonight off from work." Haverhill suddenly said, placing a couple of coins on her nightstand. "I am paying for your time.” She stared at the money. There were two sovereigns there! He could not possibly mean that he intended to pay her two sovereigns to do nothing? “You are not looking as well as you might, and I know you must still be in pain from the beating your first escort at the Easter Ball administered to you. Though I will not be here to see that you do not work, nor will I have any way of knowing whether or not you do, I hope that you will honour my wishes.” What?! Why would he pay her to rest?! She was not meeting the baron until this Sunday; there was no need for him to worry that she would show up in a state anywhere near this one. There was no need for him to do this. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What was she to say? She could not form a sentence, and she could not simply say "No!" although that was her first impulse.

“Goodbye, Miss Nora. It was a pleasure to see you again.” He had opened the door and stepped into the hallway, and she heard Mr. Shackle laughing loudly from somewhere out there. Then he called out: “I bet it was!” and Nora cringed. Oh no! Mr. Haverhill was risking his reputation just by coming here! And he came here to deliver her a letter! And the letter contained an apology from a baron! And the apology was for something that had been her fault in the first place! What a mess! How unnecessary! What was he thinking? What was she thinking? Did she have any choice but to oblige them? Did she want a choice? What had happened to the world? Nora felt dizzy, and since the door had already closed behind her visitor and she heard his steps disappearing down the hall, she laid back down to stare at the ceiling. There was no use running after him with the sovereigns, she knew that. He would only talk to her in that outlandish way again and she would not know what to say again, and she would end up going back with the coins still in her hand, feeling stupid and confused and with Mr. Shackle leering and grinning at her.

Was it a test? Perhaps he had someone scouting for him, to find out if she "honoured his wishes." What was it with these people and all their talk of honour? What was honour anyway? She knew about honouring the Lord. It meant to serve him, to live by his commandments, to give first of your income to the church, to obey your husband, father or master, and to seek God's Kingdom and His righteousness before all other things. It meant to love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind, and to love your neighbor as yourself.

Nora was no good at honouring.

So instead she did the next best thing she could think of at the time. She drank what was left of her bottle of gin, and then she fell asleep.

(OOC: Nora's next post is in the thread "Arrangements")