Howard’s (est. 1783)

Content warning: gender dysphoria

“Father– late last week, at tea with Sybil and Dolores–”

“Yes?”

“The conversation turned to, er, pertinent matters…”

“Spit it out, Eleanor. There’s no need to beat around the bush.”

“Well. Sybil mentioned that her brother had just joined some club– and they gave him money for his business venture– not lent, gave, and quite a sum, too.”

“Nonsense. No doubt he won it at the races and is trying to cover his tracks.”

“But, father… it would at least be worth investigating, with how–”

“With what, girl? What is it that permits you to presume that your handling of the estate’s finances is better than mine?”

“…Nothing, father. Forgive me.”

“In any case. If such an organisation did exist, nothing good would come of it – more like than not, you would pay for the money with your soul. I forbid you to think of this any further, Eleanor.”

“Yes, father.”

“Now, eat your plum pudding.”

And indeed, Eleanor did her best not to think of it. However, in his letter to her just weeks after their time together, her father mentioned a slight fever.

He died in April of 1938, after having paid Eleanor’s last year of university fees. The title and the estate went to her in their entirety. As Viscountess Eleanor Wentworth stood over the large dark coffin, she was acutely aware of the fact that, whatever her father’s wishes had been, their finances were very much her problem now.

After she graduated, she returned home and looked over the accounts. They had already been living in their London townhouse and letting out the country estate, and this for years now. They had already given up most of the servants, the horses, and crucially, they had sold off nearly all of their land. Eleanor checked every document twice, thrice – but in the end, she could only conclude that sacrificing any more would simply extend her purgatory by a few months, rather than allow her to accrue enough income to sustain herself.

That settled it. They were– no, she was somewhat in debt, but she would need to get herself further in debt if she wanted a chance of getting out of this. Generous terms, then. A low rate of interest, a long repayment period– even that would only perpetuate the situation–

She bit at her thumbnail, a long-combatted habit, and stared fruitlessly at a bill.

But then. She was already disobeying her father in handling the finances in the first place. Would it be any greater of a sin to inquire with Sybil, months afterward?

Thus came Eleanor to write a polite, somewhat cryptic letter to her college chum, only to receive the reply that she had not seen her brother since shortly after that conversation. He had come to spend more and more time out of doors, Sybil said, and upon his occasional stays at home, said nothing except that he had been “at the club”. Eventually he had started living there entirely – or so Sybil hoped.

Nevertheless, she did reaffirm that fact that her brother had received vast sums of money, and crucially, she gave Eleanor an address. She provided it, presumably, in the hopes that Eleanor would, unlike her, be able to get in and find him – she had come back time and time again, she said, and had seen nothing but a locked door.

The next morning, in her nicest sea-green day dress, Eleanor arrived outside an unmarked wooden door on Pall Mall. She checked the note she had written, then the golden number on the plaque – yes. She knocked. No response.

“Excuse me!” She knocked again. “Excuse me! I’ve come to inquire about joining the club!” If there was a waiting list, as there usually was with these organisations, she would simply put her name on it and wait while looking for some other lead. Or try to circumvent it in some way.

“Good morning! I’d like to be let in!” Yet another knock.

Twenty minutes in, at precisely nine o’clock on her watch, a neatly-dressed footman emerged.

“Good morning,” said Eleanor, and cleared her throat. “I’ve come to inquire about joining this club.”

“…Excuse me, madam?” The footman raised his eyebrow in a way that distinctly struck Eleanor as above his station. “My apologies – I am afraid I may not have heard you correctly.”

Bastard. Eleanor exhaled and looked him in the eye. “I’d like to join this club. I’ll have you go inside and summon your employer, please.”

“My sincerest apologies, madam. I am afraid this is a gentlemen’s club–” he fixed her with a condescending stare– “and therefore, ladies such as yourself are strictly not admitted, Miss…?”

“Viscountess,” she corrected him sharply, “Eleanor Wentworth.”

“Lady Wentworth,” he said with a begrudgingly apologetic smile. “Forgive me. In any case, ladies are not admitted.”

“I must join. Fetch me this club’s manager, sir.”

“Madam, I apologise for repeating myself in informing you that ladies are not permitted to become members of this establishment.” His hands remained motionless at his sides. “May I suggest you seek out a ladies’ social club instead?”

Eleanor was a member of one of these, of course, and it had borne no fruit. So this suggestion did not sway her, and indeed had her gritting her teeth. “No, I think not,” she said firmly. “Let me in, please.”

“I am afraid I cannot, Lady Wentworth.”

“Yes, you can. Let me in, sir.”

“My deepest apologies, Lady Wentworth.”

He never showed a sign of changing his mind, but she never budged – it wasn’t as though she had anything more important to do that day than ensuring the restoration of her estate. The minutes turned into hours, the heat of the summer built up on her ears and cheeks, and still she persisted.

Finally, at lunchtime, the door opened, and another man appeared. This one, rather than a footman’s livery, was wearing an understated but well-made suit – someone more important. Good. Her eyes went to his. “Sir,” she said with a polite smile. “I don’t suppose you could let me in?”

The footman leaned up and whispered a few words in this new man’s ear, to which he smiled. “Your interest in our establishment is an honour, Lady Wentworth.” His eyes had been curious before, but now they were sparkling with interest. Good – perhaps she could do something with him. He bowed. “My name is Henry Rochester. I have the pleasure to be the proprietor at Howard’s.”

“Charmed, Mr. Rochester.”

She extended her hand, and he kissed it, a mere brush of the lips. Strands of his auburn hair reflected the midday sun. “I understand that you wish to apply for membership?”

“–Yes.” She was caught off guard by the easy tone of Mr. Rochester’s question. “As quickly as possible, ideally.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Rochester, and smiled. “Before I give my answer, I hope you will indulge me in listening to the requirements for entry.” He twitched an eyebrow, she made no protest, and he continued. “Firstly, every member of Howard’s shall be of suitable background. You are a viscountess, so you shall have no worries on that front.”

Oh, what an honour, to have her background accepted without much doubt. She smiled thinly, and Mr. Rochester gave her a little nod in return.

“Secondly – as Smith has been telling you, this is a gentlemen’s club. We employ women servants, and we occasionally allow women guests, but our bylaws forbid the admittance of ladies as members.” He shrugged apologetically. “Meaning that, as you are now, Lady Wentworth, you are unfortunately ineligible for membership.”

So this man had led her down the garden path, had her “indulge him”, only to say more or less what the footman had been repeating for hours. Wonderful.

She went to rebuke him, but before the first word could leave her lips, his exact phrasing worked itself out in her head.

“…As I am now, Mr. Rochester?”

“As you are now, Lady Wentworth.” He seemed pleased that she had asked about it, rather than letting him bring it up himself. What an irritating way to hold a conversation. “You see – at Howard’s, we opine that it is our duty to ensure that all our members are of sufficient breeding – allowing one common man to enter will bring three the following morning. Our terms are very generous, as I am sure you have heard, and we could simply not sustain ourselves if we catered to all classes.

“However,” he continued, “this does not hold true for the sex of our members. Indeed, the intent of this rule of ours is to free our gentlemen members from outside expectations of chivalry, from standing on ceremony upon seeing a woman of their class.”

“In other words.” He adjusted a cuff. “So long as you appear to be a gentleman, you may become a member.”

He shot forward– his slender fingers lifted her chin, just slightly. She saw straight into his deep black eyes. “Would that be amenable to you, Lady Wentworth?”

She did not move away. She wanted to, she could feel it, but her feet were rooted to the pavement. A gentleman? Her, with her blonde curls and pretty hazel eyes? Her, in her ruffled dress, and her white sun-hat with the taffeta flower on top? The boys at St. Andrews had called her a blue-stocking, but she had never once been called a man. “You must be joking,” she managed.

“No, Lady Wentworth.” The pads of his pointer and middle fingers pressed under her jaw-bone, soft and warm. “In fact, if you intend on staying on this doorstep until you are admitted – I must insist upon it.”

She was speechless, and evidently he took this as assent, because he let go of her chin and grabbed her hand instead. She flushed with indignation – ignoring this, he tugged her onto the pavement before she could scold him for such an egregious breach of etiquette.

“Come,” he said, as he dragged her toward St. James’s Square. “I imagine ‘becoming a gentleman’ might have been quite a confusing endeavour for you, Lady Wentworth, should you have set off on the mission on your own – fortunately, Howard’s has relationships with a number of establishments for this purpose. We have been entrusting them with the, ah, transformation of prospective members from time immemorial, and they have never once disappointed.”

Eleanor might have said something, but she was in a daze. This man – he had approached her so suddenly, even laid hands on her – never before had she dealt with anything remotely similar. Was this how common people behaved? Or perhaps this was how men acted toward other men?

One very small part of her, having remained clear-headed, sensed that this was her only way in. If she slapped this man in the face and went back to her townhouse, to her life, then how long would she be able to keep hold of that life before her savings drained away and she was reduced to poverty? Before she became a governess and then died in obscurity fifty years hence? No – she would see this through, at least until something truly objectionable occurred.

She was taken past the square, onto a high street, and into a shop. Black leather, maroon velvet curtains, mahogany shelves filled with cloth, brown carpet on the wall, unfinished suits. A tailor’s. Not a dressmaker’s. Her father had preferred one on Savile Row, when he was still buying new suits, and he had taken her once or twice. It had been too long ago for her to remember its name, and she had only vague impressions of its interior. This felt somewhat similar.

A slight grey-haired man with a large moustache was standing behind a mahogany counter, looking over a ledger.

“Mr. Usborne,” said Mr. Rochester, and let go of Eleanor’s hand to shake his. The small grey man returned the handshake and gave Mr. Rochester, then Eleanor behind him, an inoffensive smile.

Mr. Rochester turned back to Eleanor. “Lady Wentworth, may I have the pleasure of introducing Charles Usborne, head tailor at Usborne and Fallow. He will be clothing you today.”

Mr Usborne bowed. “My lady.”

“Mr. Usborne.”

His moustache shifted as he bleated, “You may rest assured – although they are old, my hands are steady and exact. If my lady could please step onto this dais?”

Tilting his head, he indicated a small, round platform, surrounded by shelves and golden curtain rails.

Polite enough. With a slight nod, she approached it, and he helped her up and delicately began measuring her arms.

“Now that we are acquainted,” came a voice from the corner of the room, “what brought us the honour of having you at the doorstep of Howard’s, Lady Wentworth?” Mr. Rochester had nestled himself into a plush leather armchair.

Goodness. For an overseer of a club for people of refinement, this man had very poor manners. “Being the proprietor, Mr. Rochester,” she said, “surely you have a good idea of why one might show an interest in joining?”

“Naturally, Lady Wentworth,” said Mr. Rochester, as Mr. Usborne politely measured her waist. “Particularly when a prospective member is as… spirited, we might call it, as you were this morning.” He leaned back, pulled a notebook and pen out of his suit pockets and started languidly scribbling. She glowered at him, to no effect.

“That being said – I find that each member has unique enough circumstances to be interesting to hear, even within the assumed scope.” He smirked at her, and since Mr. Usborne was measuring her neck, she could only side-eye him disdainfully. “So do tell me, Lady Wentworth. Why are you interested in joining?”

She feigned disinterest and examined a wall hanging. The room remained utterly silent, to her steadily growing dismay, and when she finally glanced back she saw Mr Rochester’s eyes locked on her face. Staring at her the entire time, no doubt. Blast.

“I,” she finally said, “have just inherited the family estate from my father. I wish to restore it to its former state, as it was in my childhood. I heard of the club through a girl at my old college, Sybil Godfrey– she told me that her b–”

“Yes,” said Mr. Rochester, “of course, the lovely Miss Godfrey.” A devious smile spread across his face, and he seemed to think for a moment. “Miss Sybil, of course, has been seen at the entrance a few times, but has never quite caught me at the right time, unfortunately.” It was hard to tell whether he was making an excuse, even upon careful examination of his expression, so she did not inquire further.

Mr. Usborne was seeking her attention, in any case.

“My lady,” he said, bent a little lower than he had been originally. “If I might trouble you to raise your arms? I am afraid I must measure your… bust.”

“Oh,” she said. She should have expected this, being measured. In fact, it was a matter of course at her dressmaker’s – but this was a male tailor who was about to touch her chest, in the presence of a second man in an armchair opposite her, who looked as though he was enjoying her dilemma entirely too much.

She swallowed, and took a glance around the shop. “You have no women present to assist you in this task, Mr. Usborne?”

“I am afraid not, Lady Wentworth.” He at least had the decency to look properly apologetic.

Unlike Mr. Rochester, who was tapping his foot in restrained enjoyment. “Now, Lady Wentworth,” he ejaculated, “if you are to become a gentleman, you must do away with this idea of modesty.” He was clearly taking a special pleasure in her discomfort, which she might have mistaken for a personal vendetta had she not been sure she had never met the man before. She would have remembered someone like him. “Other men will be your companions, your confidants – your benefactors.”

As much as she detested being toyed with, having the money dangled in front of her in such a blatant manner gave her the push she needed. Blast it. “Very well,” she blustered, raising her arms as directed, keeping her gaze steadily forward. “Do as you must, but no more than that.”

Mr. Usborne gave a contrite bow, then wrapped the tape measure squarely around Eleanor’s breasts. She stopped breathing. She could feel the hard fabric of the tape measure pressing on her nipples through her brassiere, could feel it digging into the flesh to her sides. And then he pulled it tighter. What was this? At the dressmaker’s, this step was done with the lightest touch, so that she barely noticed. Why was this man handling her so roughly?

She realised Mr. Usborne had moved on and was now measuring her underbust, but she could still feel the ghosts of that pressure on the soft flesh underneath her armpits. He hadn’t ever been in contact with her skin, nor even her undergarments, and yet she felt invaded. He released the tape, brought it tight again around her waist – her hips. Her buttocks. She sucked in a breath and looked down at him, wondering if he had the decency to continue looking apologetic, but his expression was entirely businessline now. Even when his finger lightly rested on the curve of her behind.

“It is all finished,” said Mr. Usborne, a few moments after she had gone as far away as possible in her mind. “Thank you for your patience.”

“It was no trouble,” said Mr. Rochester before she could reply.

“The usual set of items?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Rochester, “in fabrics that match her colouring. Thank you, Mr. Usborne.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Rochester.” Mr. Usborne bowed to the man nestled into the armchair, then offered a hand to Eleanor, who took it silently and stepped off the podium. “I look forward to your next visit… my lady.”

Even with how utterly indecently she had been treated, her upbringing could allow no stronger refusal than a quiet but pointed “We shall see.”

She reached for her dress to put back on, only to realise that she had been fully clothed the whole way through, and simply cleared her throat and paced out of the shop with her head down. She could not remember the last time she had lost her composure in such a manner.

She heard the pounding of feet, and then saw Mr. Rochester catch up to her, relaxed but easily matching her pace. “Lady Wentworth. We have not finished for today.”

“Have we not?” Eleanor paused in her steps, and Mr. Rochester stopped opposite her. They were close – too close for decorum’s sake. Then again, it was nothing compared to what had just transpired. “It takes at least a week between being measured and receiving one’s finished garments, if my prior knowledge has any validity in the processes of the opposite sex.”

“Well,” said Mr. Rochester, and tilted his head. “Mr. Usborne is a very efficient craftsman, I am pleased to tell you. All will be ready by tonight.”

“Tonight,” said Eleanor, with no small amount of wonder in her voice. She could be out of debt in less than a day, if things went well. The thought dizzied her.

“Yes,” he said, “tonight. Given that you seemed to need to enter quite urgently, I will take the liberty of assuming that minimising delay would be your first priority.”

Diaphanous plans forming themselves in her head, she simply nodded, and Mr. Rochester took her arm. She could feel the warmth of his knuckles radiating onto the side of her bust. “Good girl. We will be visiting one more establishment, and then you will be ready in time for tonight’s dinner.”

Good g–!?

She turned to rebuke him, but he had her by the arm, and his pace made her stumble, and by the time she had regained her dignity they were already stepping through a doorway.

The tinkle of a bell welcomed them into what looked to Eleanor at first to be an apothecary. There were rows of coloured-glass bottles in cabinets along the walls, a dark wood counter. A set of short brushes, neatly arranged, and prominently displayed razors – ah. A barbershop, then.

The barber, she assumed, was a broad-shouldered, dark blond man with a full beard that hid his mouth, sharpening a razor by a line of red leather chairs. He looked up at the sound of the bell. “Mr. Rochester,” he said, in a gruff voice. “And a new member.”

Mr. Rochester simply hummed and led Eleanor deeper into the shop, and after a moment she realised she was going to have to introduce herself. Ruder and ruder – this man couldn’t possibly have a title, or even hold land… “My name is Viscountess Eleanor Wentworth,” she said, lamely. She forwent the usual pleasantries out of a petty sense of retribution.

At the very least, this new man ducked his head toward her. “Lewis Connolly,” he said. “Pleasure, miss.”

Oh, no, the pleasure was all hers. This man must not have any acquaintances of good breeding, to address her incorrectly. Perhaps a personal friend of Mr. Rochester’s then. “Quite,” she managed.

“This way, please.” His beard shifted up and down as he spoke, raising a hand toward a line of curtained cubicles toward the inside of the shop.

Giving Mr. Rochester a skeptical glance, she followed him in, revealing a red leather chair within each cubicle, bolted to the floor. In front of the chair there was a marble sink, above which stood a mirror flanked with shelves of ointments and tinctures. The walls to either side had mirrors at the same height, set into elegantly paneled dark wood.

Eleanor pressed her lips together, her mind refusing to follow its suspicions to any sort of conclusion, and stood still until Mr. Rochester gestured to the chair. She sat. She felt out of place – she had always had her hair trimmed by a stylist who came to her house for the purpose. The chair was even slightly too big for her.

“And what brings you both here today, Mr. Rochester?” The slightly dry tone of Connolly’s voice gave Eleanor the impression that he had some idea of what was going on already.

“Yes,” said Mr. Rochester. “Lady Wentworth wishes to become a member of Howard’s, and as such requires the necessary changes.”

Connolly nodded in a slightly curt way that betrayed nothing else of his emotions. “If you could remove your hat, please, miss.”

At least he wasn’t rude enough to touch her head without prior permission. Wondering why exactly a barber had been tasked with procuring her a men’s hat – perhaps he would be trimming the ends of her hair in such a way that she appeared masculine when the bulk was tucked underneath? – she removed her white sun-hat and revealed slightly flattened blonde waves. The curls below the flattened portion, resting daintily about her shoulders, remained springy and undisturbed.

“Right,” said Connolly, and turned on the device in his hand.

It jolted to life with a deep whir, startling Eleanor. “What on earth is that?”

“Hair clippers, miss,” said Connolly, looking far too pleased with himself for Eleanor’s liking. “The latest design. Faster than a razor on long hair, gets it shorter than scissors. Cuts even, too.”

“…Excuse me, ‘shorter’?” asked Eleanor.

But the ‘clippers’ were already pressed against her skull. In horror, she felt them shift cruelly upward and plow over the back of her head, leaving skin that caught the chill of the air in their wake. Fluffy flaxen curls fluttered down past Eleanor’s shoulders, down onto the floor of the barbershop like dust. Her mouth dropped open. “You–!”

“Lady Wentworth,” said Mr. Rochester, “I assure you, this is all in service of your membership. One cannot exactly look like a gentleman with long, flowing hair, I’m sure you agree?”

“You– you– you–!” She was stuck staring at the mirror as the barber (Condely?) shore hank after hank of hair off of her head. He dared to touch her ear, folding it firmly down to pare all of the lovely golden locks behind it to nothing, and she screamed. Or rather, she felt as though she wanted to scream, but all that came out was a squeak. “You– scoundrel! You duplicitous cur! How dare you–”

“Now, now, my dear.” Mr. Rochester put an all-too-familiar hand on her shoulder, then brushed it over her upper back, his fingers ghosting over the little hairs– no, the stubble (stubble!) on the nape of her neck. “We will have none of this. Where is the conviction that drove you to stand for hours outside my door in the summer heat? Surely you cannot let such a trivial matter as hair become your stopping point?”

Eleanor hated it, with a burning passion. She hated that she had been put in a position where a man could say such a thing to her, and her immediate response was not to slap him and leave the premises immediately – but she knew in her heart of hearts that he was right. She would take all this, without a word to the authorities, because ultimately there was no limit to what she would endure to keep her family legacy intact. That much had been instilled in her from the moment of her birth, back when her mother had still been alive, and ever since.

Still. She swallowed, and felt a burning in her eyes. She felt as though she was losing something else entirely – something that, unlike the money, she would never get back.

“You beastly man!”

Fine hairs rained down over her face, sticking to her tears, as this terrible barber cropped the top of her head, leaving her with nothing longer than an inch. No, half an inch.

Good God, she really was going to look like a man, or at least a boy. She hiccupped and pressed her hands to her face, imagining the awful sight.

Her crying obscured her vision, so she could avoid looking at it for now, at the very least, but she could feel the deep vibration of the ‘clippers’ on the back of her neck again. And then just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a wet, soft brush, moving in little circles, covering her newly-accessible scalp in a layer of dense foam. And then – the touch of cold, hard metal. A razor. And it started moving over her skin, confidently, unrelentingly.

“Oh,” she moaned in anguish. Was she really to be shorn of even the tiny hairs she had left? She could feel it pressed against her sensitive scalp, scraping steadily towards the top of her head.

It was no great comfort that the sharp edge lifted away upon reaching the height of the top of her ear, or thereabouts, but it was something. Condely had the gall to pull her hands off her face, albeit one at a time with gingerly fingers, not even sparing the little strips of fuzz by her ears from this meticulous mutilation. She still refused to look.

Just as her despair had started to fade into the background, Mr. Rochester let out an approving hum. She felt another brush, dry but just as soft, being swept over her shoulders, surely to clear whatever cut-off hair hadn’t fallen straight into her lap. “There, now,” he said. “Gather yourself and see what a fine man you make.”

“Shan’t!”, she was tempted to wail – to bang her fists on the counter in front of her, to bury her head in her arms – but she knew it would do her no good, not now that the damage had already been done. Without her hair, she was almost certain she must look terribly queer, and she couldn’t bear the thought of being absolutely sure of the fact. Still – she would need to leave the room eventually, and to do that she would need to open her eyes.

So, haltingly, she did.

“Gracious.” She did look like a man. A man in a dress, but that somehow made her new masculine features stand out all the more. This was no Dutch boy cut or Eton crop – it was – well – it was a haircut that men had, whatever those were called. She could see her scalp all the way up the sides of her head, and even a little way around the top where her hair, while nominally present, was so brutally short as to look transparent anyway.

At the top she had been left just enough to say she was not entirely bald – half an inch, perhaps, or a third. As she watched, that terrible Condely slicked his hands up with some kind of wax, then pushed them into what remained of her hair and pressed it into a severe side part. He was so aggressive in his motions as to require that she strain her neck in order to avoid having her head forced down. As she watched, he lifted those hands to reveal wet-looking, darkened, flat hair – how very dull. How very masculine.

She inhaled through her nose, feeling the salt dry on her face. “I thought you ran a gentlemen’s club, not Sandhurst.”

“It was quite necessary,” shrugged Mr. Rochester. “Leave too much and you would simply look like an avant-garde flapper. Perhaps once you settle into your new role, you may be able to grow it a little longer without looking feminine.”

How horrid. To think she’d need to stay like this until she had enough money to get back on her feet. Hopefully that would be soon.

“Now,” said Mr. Rochester. “I believe Mr. Usborne will have your suit ready by now – and once that is fitted, we will be just in time for dinner.”

And Mr. Usborne did, indeed, have her suit ready.

Standing on the raised platform once again (although she had been allowed the small mercy of a private room to change in), she looked herself over in the mirror that had been placed to the side. “Women have the vote,” she said, her voice rough with unshed tears, “on the same terms as men do, in fact, and they have for nearly a decade now. I see no reason your club should persist in such an archaic restriction.”

Lord above, she looked like the worst parts of a woman combined with the worst parts of a man. Her head looked unflatteringly small without her curls surrounding it, and the shoulder pads and loose cut of the suit amplified the effect by making her body look blocky and, simply, enormous.

As she had come of age, she had grown to thoroughly enjoy the way her curves looked in a good bias-cut evening dress, and learned to enhance said curves with a brassiere, a girdle, a pair of sheer stockings. She knew how to be womanly, how to feel at home in herself in that shape – she liked the way the boys at university looked at her when she passed them. Torn out of her undergarments and shoved into something that had the exact opposite effect on her figure, she felt foundationless.

She could feel her governess’s disapproving eyes on her, even though they had long since parted – she was in no way the lady she had been carefully sculpted to be since before she could remember. She was something else entirely – something more base.

“As I have said, Lady Wentworth,” interjected Mr. Rochester from his irritatingly ever-present upholstered chair, “we consider it very important that our members feel no need to stand on ceremony. You do not object to chivalry, surely?”

“Well, no,” she replied, sputtering a little. “But– surely– there is… some, adapted protocol…”

“In any case,” Mr. Rochester replied, the mirth in his voice so obvious that Eleanor gritted her teeth, “this is no longer any of your concern, surely? You have undergone your transformation,” he said with a grand flourish of his right arm, “and as such, the upper management of the club will have no concerns admitting you. I offer my congratulations.”

“I am quite sure you do, Mr. Rochester,” muttered Eleanor, looking down at the suit. Trust him to gloat. She wasn’t anything alluring now. Even the colour of the suit was a dull grey, with inelegant black windowpane check and a red-and-white striped tie that was thick enough to make her neck look thick to match. “And when will I be able to reap the fruits of this ordeal?”

“This evening,” he said silkily. “We are having a dinner, and I imagine the members will be happy to welcome a new entry.” He took a look down at his watch – surprisingly well-made, she noted. “They will be having drinks now.” He gestured for her to come down off the podium. “Shall we?”

Notably, after the initial gesture, his hand stayed firmly at his side. So much for chivalry, Eleanor huffed internally, and stepped down unassisted, leaving the store begrudgingly at his heels.

By some miracle, when they had walked from the barber’s to the tailor’s, there had been nobody else on the street. Eleanor had been nervous – she thought she might have simply died if someone had seen her with practically no hair – but that had not been an issue. Now, though, it seemed as though people were starting to leave their offices, and those people were glancing at her. The usual skimming-over of one’s gaze that one normally practiced unconsciously on passers-by, followed by a pause, then a slightly urgent glance back, then a bewildered stare. They could tell, she thought, and felt the urge to crawl into a deep hole.

Mr. Rochester glanced from side to side, then smirked at Eleanor. “Well,” he said, and Eleanor knew to brace for something inane before it even came out of his mouth. “You are certainly making an impression.”

“Thank you,” she said pointedly, pulled at the hem of one of her gloves – but of course they had taken her gloves, so she settled for shoving her hands in her new cavernous pockets – and started walking faster. “It is perfectly lovely, making an impression.” Oh, but normally, it would have been. How had her life gotten to this point?

“But of course,” he replied. “You need attention to make connections, do you not?”

It was a relief when finally, blessedly, they reached the door to the club. Exhaling the embarrassment, she swung the door open, then closed it swiftly behind her.

The noise surrounded her. A warm and stuffy dark-wood room, the buzz of countless conversations, the clinks of glasses being set down and picked up off trays, the shuffle of bodies, the laughter of men. Photographs, portraits, shields and trophies from who knew how long ago covered the walls.

A few swaying ostrich feathers poked out from the throng of lounge suits – one approached the door, bobbing seductively, and the crowd parted to reveal a tall, beautiful woman in a bustled black-and-red dress that looked like it was from Eleanor’s mother’s generation. Her hair was a bright, brassy red, bound up in a matching hairstyle with a few curls artfully spilling out. “Mr. Rochester,” she said in a soft voice, then looked to Eleanor. There was something familiar about the shape of her face. “And our new guest,” she purred, averting her eyes for a moment. “Would you like a drink?”

“My dear,” said Mr. Rochester. He took the woman’s free hand and gave the back of it a gentle, chivalrous kiss, then looked back at Eleanor and inclined his head. “We are very lucky to have such charming waitresses at Howard’s. Do you not find her exquisite?”

“Quite,” said Eleanor absently. Her chest burned with jealousy – the fact that she had been put through the ordeal of having her pretty hair all cut off and being shoved into a dreary old suit, yet here was an elegant, beaming woman, covered in frills, and rubbing shoulders with the same men she had given up so much of herself to get access to.

Eleanor turned to the woman, meaning to greet her as well – but the look of unrestrained contentment in her eyes triggered a wave of emotion in her that she was not willing to entertain. She took a large gulp of one of the glasses on the tray – she had had quite enough of this experience sober – then looked around. “So this is it, is it?” she asked Mr. Rochester. “I simply– mingle with these old men, and they decide whether or not to, ah, assist me?”

He inclined his head, his eyes twinkling with entertainment, no doubt at Eleanor’s clear desperation. No matter. She was in a man’s suit, with no hair – it was obvious enough how desperate she was. “Indeed,” he said, then glanced toward the inner corner of the room. Eleanor’s eyes followed his, and saw a steady flow of men through an open doorway. “But you will have to do so at dinner,” he finished.

Eleanor glanced at him, and was implacably stunned when he started on his way into the dining room. After a moment, she followed him.

It only occurred to her another moment later, after she had found her position at the table, that she had been waiting for him to offer his arm.

Her seat, as indicated by Mr. Rochester, was between a distinguished older man and a portly middle-aged one. He remained hovering over the three of them.

He smiled his smile at each of the men, then gestured casually at Eleanor. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to the holder of the viscounty of Wentworth. Lord Gillingham, I believe you tutored the late viscount briefly at St. Andrews – and Lord Latymer, your son was in attendance at the same time as Wentworth here. Wentworth – Baron Reginald Latymer, Earl Alexander Drummond of Gillingham.”

Ah, yes, the Latymer seat was in Kent. She’d heard the younger Reginald Latymer – Timmers, as his circle called him – talk at length about the hunting at his country estate, and how his father was a rotten shot, especially when it came to pheasants. That father was now staring her in the face. By contrast, she had never heard talk of this Lord Gillingham, which she found odd given how often her own father spoke of his college days. She examined the man – refined but masculine features, a lean but well-built body. Perhaps their acquaintance had simply been short.

As Mr. Rochester took his seat next to Lord Latymer, Lord Gillingham looked up at Wentworth, then casually extended his hand. “Your father was a very bright man,” he said with a surprising depth of expression. “I am very sorry for your loss.”

Eleanor felt herself slightly overwhelmed as she returned his handshake, and was grateful for the awaiting chair. The handshake with Lord Latymer was much less profound, although she did find herself grimacing internally at its dampness.

“Now,” said Lord Latymer, munching on an hors d’oeuvre, “I am very glad to meet one of Reginald’s acquaintances of his age. One cannot be behind the times these days, not when the world changes every year,” he chortled. “One has only just gotten used to hearing one’s news over the wireless, in addition to the morning and evening papers – soon, no doubt, it will be beamed straight into our heads!” He slapped Eleanor on the back and she jumped, but managed to hold back a shocked squeak. “Tell me – did you read Classics as well?”

“No, mathematics,” said Eleanor in an embarrassingly quiet voice, and both Latymer and Gillingham’s heads snapped back to her. Curses – curses, curses. Her cheeks pinked, and she ducked her head. She had known her voice would give her away, and had almost subconsciously been trying to avoid speaking as long as she could – but she could not stay silent through a whole dinner. This moment would have come eventually, but she certainly did not relish having to live through it.

She could see Lord Latymer’s face, bearing the same expression as the passers-by on the way to the club, except she was trapped there next to him as he made said face. Polite, restrained revulsion. Who was this man-woman-thing, he must be thinking? And what on earth has it been doing around my son?

She avoided his gaze, and turned to – Lord Gillingham, who seemed unperturbed. Intrigued, perhaps, but not at all disgusted, which was an unexpected relief. The silence was accentuated by a waitress setting tureens of soup in front of each of them – clink. Clink. Clink. It was the waitress from earlier – she winked at Eleanor, who looked away resolutely. Instead, she picked up her soup spoon and felt at the edges.

Lord Latymer went so far as to narrow his eyes. “Forgive me – what did you say your name was?”

“I, er–”

“-nest,” finished Mr. Rochester from a good distance away. “Viscount Ernest Wentworth, a courageous young chap – he sought out the club with no guarantee of acceptance, as I have it, for the love of his family. I took him to, ah, the usual places, and here he is now.”

He and Lord Gillingham shared a look. Then, together, they turned to Lord Latymer, who faltered a little bit at so suddenly being the centre of attention.

As Lord Gillingham turned back to Eleanor and said “Well now, Ernest. Welcome to Howard’s – I’m sure many of our members have once been in the same position,” Mr Rochester leaned in and started talking in a low, urgent voice to Lord Latymer.

Eleanor turned fully to Lord Gillingham, smiled thinly and replied, “Thank you. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to get to know you all.” She thought she could hear the words “procedure” and “transform” from the other side of the conversation. She took a sip of the soup – consommé royale. And, objectively, quite a good one. It was a pity her palate was marred by the occasion.

When Mr. Rochester pulled away, Lord Latymer had adopted a strange smile. “Of course,” he said. To Eleanor? To no one in particular, it seemed. “Yes – perfectly in order.” He cleared his throat. “Mathematics, you said.”

Eleanor finished another spoon of soup and nodded. “Yes. Although I am afraid I–” was not a very good student, she was about to say, but then realised that, in this male guise, there was no detriment to being honest. “I am afraid talk of the subject may bore you. My final piece of coursework concerned complex numbers.”

“Ah! Goodness, you were right,” chortled Lord Latymer, back to his previous self already. “Times do move quickly indeed – I am sure ‘complex numbers’ did not exist when I was a boy.”

They had existed, and Eleanor was about to say as much, when the older man quickly continued, “Shall we speak of lighter things, then?”

Eleanor was about to agree wholeheartedly, when she caught a glimpse of something… lecherous, for lack of a better word, in Latymer’s eyes.

She was familiar enough with the look to know it when she saw it – balls at which the boys allowed their instincts to overtake their reason, discreet liaisons with her classmates where they called her the most wonderful thing in the world – but she was unfamiliar with the emotion herself. It was a curiosity that she had indulged, thinking more experience might provide more answers, but nothing had come forth and so she had put it aside.

Either way, she knew what Lord Latymer was about to bring up, or thereabouts.

He sank into his mood, lowered his eyelids, wiggled his eyebrows. “I hear…” He leaned in to Eleanor’s ear, then seemed to remember that she was not one of the boys at the club and paused, and then seemed to remember that she was indeed one of the boys at the club as far as the club was concerned and leaned in further.

“I hear that this club does more than just dinners, if you understand my meaning.”

Eleanor blinked. She had been expecting talk of some other, less reputable establishment – one that hosted more ladies, perhaps, nocturnal ladies – but to think the subject of these licentious interests was the very place she was sitting.

She blinked and coughed, and said “I am sure I do not understand your meaning, sir,” but he pressed on.

“You see,” he said, “those waitresses?” He gestured to the waitress from earlier, who had come around to retrieve the soup bowls. The corner of her skirt brushed against Eleanor’s leg as she leaned over to take hold of Eleanor’s bowl. Eleanor looked back at the woman for just long enough to oblige Lord Latymer, then returned to her original position as quickly as possible.

Even with so brief a glance, she was struck by her radiant happiness, and by the acute sense that she had seen her somewhere before. Someone’s sister, perhaps? She couldn’t put her finger on it – but no, she had been in a conversation. She refocused her attention on Lord Latymer and replied “Yes – what about them?”

He smirked. “They, ah…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They aren’t just waitresses. If you understand… my meaning.” He smiled like a child left alone with a jar of sweets.

Eleanor’s eyebrows raised in alarm, and she stared at Lord Latymer in open shock. She got the feeling that Lord Latymer expected her to be just as excited by this as he was, but she felt nothing but revulsion. Well – she may as well have felt nothing but revulsion. Any other emotions would fade soon, she was sure.

Lord Latymer’s expression faltered in a way that made Eleanor think he must have felt quite insecure, and he leaned past Eleanor to speak to Lord Gillingham. “Lord Gillingham – I have heard they are quite good at their auxiliary duties, are they not?”

Lord Gillingham nodded somewhat obligingly, and gazed out at the hall full of waitresses drifting about, all in matching dresses with matching feathers in their hair. “They are, yes. I have heard from the leadership of the club that they are, one might say, trained in such things… in fact, they are groomed just as much for these duties as their main ones.”

He reached out into the aisle and clicked his fingers twice, and the waitress sauntered over and took his hand delicately, her expression bashful. “This is the delightful Miss Godfrey,” he said to Eleanor. “She has only been in employment here for the past three months, but she has settled in beautifully – especially in the sense we were discussing. Haven’t you, my darling?”

“Only thanks to your kindness, Lord Gillingham,” the waitress purred, her eyelashes fluttering. “And that of the other patrons of the club. You have been ever so considerate.”

Godfrey. Sybil Godfrey! The very woman who had introduced her to the idea of the club in the first place. For the first time, Eleanor looked carefully at the woman’s face – no, this wasn’t Sybil, but it was someone that looked like her, and of a similar age, perhaps a few years older. “I wasn’t aware Sybil had a sister,” she ventured, because frankly she had no idea how to approach the greater topic of discussion.

Lord Gillingham chuckled, and rubbed his thumb over Miss Godfrey’s fingers. “It was quite a recent development, but my goodness, what a lovely development it has been,” he said, then lightly kissed her hand. That earned him a slight blush and a soft giggle, and re-ignited the gnawing jealousy in Eleanor’s chest.

It could have been her being complimented, being doted on. But no, of course she had to be “one of the gentlemen”, and had to endure such indelicate treatment as being spoken to about indecencies and indiscretions, because surely no gentleman at a club would give money to a woman and also treat her civilly. She pressed her lips together and tried not to feel anything.

Lord Gillingham looked at her contemplatively for a moment, and she wondered if he would say some kind words about her as well. Instead, he tugged Miss Godfrey over gently, and handed her over to Eleanor, who looked up in surprise. “Given that this is your first time at the club, Ernest,” he said with a little quirk to his mouth, “why don’t you have a taste of what it has to offer? Being seen to be well-integrated will help you achieve your goal, I am sure.”

“W-What?” Eleanor completely lost her composure at that point, her mouth wide open, but Lord Gillingham simply turned to Miss Godfrey. “My dear, help the young Lord Wentworth settle in, won’t you?”

If Miss Godfrey had been content before, she was elated now. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks pinked, and her long fingers wrapped delicately around Eleanor’s upturned hand. “Lord Wentworth,” she purred. “I won’t disappoint you, I promise.”

She suddenly put her weight on Eleanor’s hand, and Eleanor scrambled to keep her upright as she toed her shoes off. Eleanor openly stared at her face, feeling she had no other option at this point. She had stayed over at Sybil’s for the holidays twice now – there was no way she would have overlooked a sibling. Perhaps she had been estranged? Or illegitimate? Given how casually she was currently unhooking her own stockings, one could only assume she had been born into reduced circumstances – but then how could she have taken the Godfrey name?

There was nothing for it – she would have to ask. As Sybil pushed Eleanor’s place setting aside and sat up onto the edge of the dining table, Eleanor ventured to ask, “Miss Godfrey… forgive me, but have we met? I, ah…” She leaned in and whispered “I’m Eleanor. Eleanor Wentworth. Sybil has had me over at the estate.”

Instead of being offended by the question, Miss Godfrey giggled, and took Eleanor’s other hand as well. “Could I oblige you to take off your shoes, Lord Wentworth?” And as Eleanor did so, she continued, “We have met, my lord – several times. At breakfast and such. Although it flatters me that you don’t recognise me.” She gently tugged Eleanor up onto her own chair, then onto the surprisingly stable, and thankfully very wide, dinner table. “My name is Rose. I’ve always loved flowers, so I felt it fitting.”

Altogether too late, a memory of Sybil’s brother sitting in the garden crashed together with a sudden awareness of what this club did to people in the first place, and her eyes widened. “You’re F–”

The rest of the name was sealed off with a chaste but urgent kiss, and when Miss Godfrey – Rose – pulled away, she looked a little shy, her eyes averted. “Yes,” she said, “or I was.” She looked back up at Eleanor through her lashes, and said softly “You’ll be gentle with me, though, won’t you?”

The things that she had resolutely not been feeling burst out and filled her entire mind. “Yes,” she said, to which she heard Lord Latymer respond with a jovial “Good man!”

She ignored him and positioned herself in the middle of the table, where Rose had already lain back with her arms above her head, her hands curled into loose fists. As Eleanor watched, she reached one of said hands out and beckoned her closer with a finger. “Come lay yourself over me, my lord,” she said, her eyes half-lidded.

Eleanor moved, somewhat clumsily, to oblige, and found herself straddled over Rose’s thighs, her hands either side of Rose’s head.

Suddenly, it occurred to her that she was in a very compromising position, in front of a hall full of men that she hardly knew, about to enter an even more compromising position. Her shoulders twitched, and she moved away the slightest bit, but Rose’s hand shot out to land gently on her upper arm. “Come now, Lord Wentworth,” she purred, “don’t be shy. You are among fellow men here, are you not?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she continued “They’ll be expecting a show if you want anything from them.”

Of course things had to be made unpleasant just as she was starting to enj– find them bearable. But to be frank, she had gotten this far, and had reached a kind of altered mental state where the only way out of this situation was through. Even though she could feel herself getting a little lightheaded at the thought of being disrobed in front of so many men, she simply swallowed, and didn’t move as Rose’s fingers gently ran down her arm, past her fingers, over to the button on her trousers.

“Don’t worry, I’m very skilled,” she said, and undid the top button with a simple flick, then pulled the zipper down between her second and third fingers. “Have you done this before?”

“Not quite this, obviously,” Eleanor retorted, and then realised she would have to elaborate after starting so specifically. “But– yes. In the general sense.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Rose said, with a soft giggle. “I’m the one who’s about to be deflowered, after all, my lord.” She pulled down Eleanor’s trousers, revealing a pair of blue-and-white-striped boxers. “Ooh! Lovely colour,” she remarked, as Eleanor looked firmly away. No wonder they had insisted on her being dressed so completely like a man.

Rose hooked her thumbs under the elastic and shimmied them down, and took a shaky breath in as she saw what Eleanor had to offer underneath. “You’re so big… goodness, I don’t know if all that will fit,” she murmured.

Eleanor looked down at her and said “What?” She had what she assumed most women her age had – and a neatly trimmed patch of pubic hair atop it – but certainly nothing that could be called ‘big’.

Rose simply blushed, and coyly spread her legs, and whispered “Please do be gentle, my lord. I’m ever so worried it will hurt.” That worry didn’t stop her from efficiently pulling her skirts over her waist with one hand.

Now there was something that might be called big – and it was already fully hard.

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open, and after a moment, she managed to splutter out a surprisingly high-pitched “You’re worried?!”, but Rose was already taking her hand, pulling her a little further forward – lining up their bottom halves, Eleanor realised, with Eleanor’s unmentionables now positioned directly above Rose’s. “Please, Lord Wentworth,” she said, “please, take me. I want you so badly.”

‘Take her’ was right, Eleanor thought somewhat snidely, and she felt the urge to protest, to delay things, but Rose’s steady hand pulled her downwards – and she made contact, and it breached her.

Eleanor winced and let out a little grunt, but that was nothing compared to Rose’s high, breathy moan, her head already thrown back in ecstasy. “Oh, Lord Wentworth, you’re filling me up!” Eleanor hissed through her teeth and tried to adjust her posture, to make things a little easier on herself, but that just sank her down further on the fleshy rod inside her. She heard a whoop from one of the dinner guests, but she was nowhere near being able to think about anything outside her immediate vicinity.

“Please,” Rose gasped, and Eleanor felt herself bottoming out. Well. This was about what she had come to expect from her previous encounters – unpleasant, but not insurmountable. She could get through it, she thought.

She came back to herself enough to leave her own mind for a moment, and her eyes drifted down to Rose’s face below her – and there it was again, from earlier. That feeling.

She knew she didn’t like the fact that there was something inside her, certainly, but – well, if there had to be something inside her, she realised that she much preferred it to belong to a beautiful woman. How odd. And how lucky for her, today.

Rose’s hips started moving, her moans getting higher and more frequent, and Eleanor put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, to steady herself both physically and mentally. It felt – better, than usual, being fucked by a woman and not a man, seeing that woman squeal and shake under her.

Would she have wanted to lay with a… woman with the usual anatomy, she suddenly thought to herself? Well, perhaps, but not necessarily – she had no guarantee she would enjoy that any more than she would enjoy things with a, er, member. Whatever ‘that’ was – there was nothing to put inside anything else, so she couldn’t imagine what having relations would involve in the first place. Besides, she thought, staring down at Rose, as far as women in general went, she could be doing worse than someone with a face like this.

She met Rose’s eyes, and something must have changed in her expression, because Rose’s mouth widened into a smug, closed-mouthed smile. “I wish,” she gasped, her cheeks bright with exertion, “I wish this were real – that it were all real.” She took Eleanor’s hand, the one on her shoulder, and squeezed it, her eyes sparkling. “I wish you really had your thick, fleshy rod inside me – I wish I had a soft, wet hole for you,” she breathed.

For a moment she suddenly looked quite vulnerable – but then she breathed in, and there was something mischievous about her expression. “They’re going to do that, if I do well enough here,” she leaned up and whispered into Eleanor’s ear. “They know a doctor who can make me a beautiful, proper set of parts, just like yours. They’re going to make me into a real woman,” she said with genuine hope in her voice.

“Rose–” said Eleanor, suddenly quite overwhelmed with all this new information. On one hand – they weren’t going to make her go that far, were they? They’d seen fit to cut all her hair off without so much as a by-your-leave – perhaps they would see it as perfectly reasonable to switch out her sensitive areas as well. (No, surely not – they would have done that before taking her here, then.) Still, it unsettled her. “I think you’re as much of a ‘real woman’ as any woman needs to be, quite honestly,” she whispered back, mostly to reassure herself.

Rose let out a surprised, delighted laugh, and lay back down on the table, pulling Eleanor down with her to envelop her lips in another passionate kiss. She moaned into the kiss, and the movement of her hips got a little more erratic, her breath coming faster. She pulled her head to the side, but only to gasp “Oh– oh, Lord Wentworth,” then leaned right back up into the kiss, her thighs clenching and unclenching under Eleanor’s buttocks.

In turn, Eleanor could feel the thing inside her moving faster, and even getting a little larger. Reminding herself of what it was sent a little bit of cold down her spine, so she distracted herself by kissing Rose back, deeply, enthusiastically.

Rose’s moans seemed to peak, and Eleanor braced herself for the inevitable. She felt hands on her shoulders, on her hips – three hands, four hands – what?

She turned around to find two rowdy men pulling her off of Rose, and she jerked away instinctively, but they overpowered her and had her sitting on the edge of the table, bewildered, in an instant. She looked at Rose, but the woman seemed disappointed but light-heartedly resigned. She turned to the men. “What–?”

“The man of the hour,” chuckled one of them, and slipped his entire hand under Eleanor’s rear. She squeaked and tried to fend him off, but he simply tugged her forward off the table and pressed her against his body. “Viscount Wentworth, I hear?” He had the smell of old men on him, although he seemed muscled and virile, in a way that made her feel like he was spreading his hard flesh all over her.

“Your father was a wonderful chap,” he hummed, and squeezed her buttock hard. She cried out this time, and went so far as to stamp on his feet, but either she hadn’t struck the right place or he didn’t care, because he simply continued. “With a wonderfully plump derrière,” he said. “The spitting image, truly. I imagine he must have gotten it into shape here, bouncing on the cocks of every man in the building,” he chortled, “but looking at you now, perhaps it was in his blood – as it seems to be in yours.”

“And now, given that you have decided to grace this esteemed club with your presence, Master Wentworth,” he said, his eyes boring into her skull, “I think I shall take my opportunity to see which of you is the better fuck.”

Eleanor screamed and struggled, but it did nothing to dissuade the man – until a familiar voice cleared its throat behind him.

“Pardon me,” said Lord Gillingham, and pointedly turned the man around, leaving Eleanor to gasp and pant and collect herself, as much as was possible when she’d just heard such horrible things about her own father. She busied herself with the re-assembly of her outfit – unflattering or not, it was better than being naked.

Lord Gillingham engaged the man in a quiet, intense conversation, their backs turned away from Eleanor, and when Lord Gillingham turned back around the man slunk off into the… throng of bodies that the dining hall had become. Men were passionately engaged with waitresses, or each other, or both at the same time – Eleanor spied Lord Latymer propping a waitress in a black-and-green dress up against the wall, with a young, muscled man pressed up against his backside. She coughed, and her head floated for a moment.

“Lord Wentworth,” said Lord Gillingham, and waited until she faced him to continue. “I trust you enjoyed your first session at the club?”

“Quite,” she said out of politeness – well, that and a lack of surety about how she had really felt. She had enjoyed Rose, and enjoyed getting to know her – but perhaps not getting so well-acquainted with every part of her. Actually – she might have preferred to focus on the top half of her person rather than the bottom, if she had had the choice.

“Good, good,” said Lord Gillingham, and casually pushed Eleanor’s jacket off of her shoulders, then took her hips in his hands. She spluttered, but he continued, “Of course, you will be expected to continue to participate until the event comes near to ending.” His nimble fingers undid her fly and tugged her trousers down, making twice now in the same night. “I took the liberty of assuming you might prefer someone a little more gentle than the fellow who came seeking a liaison with you just now.”

She tried to jerk away, but he held firm. “Now, Lord Wentworth,” he said with an old man’s twinkle in his eye, “I think you will find this more enjoyable than you currently seem to be expecting. I would know.” How cryptic.

He slipped his hand under the waistband of Eleanor’s undergarments and pressed it straight to Eleanor’s clitoris.

Oh, Christ above. Eleanor inhaled sharply – she could feel his fingers, warm, surprisingly soft, and applying just the right amount of force to her most sensitive of spots. It violated her dignity, to have pleasure forced upon her in this way, but it would be dishonest not to admit this was a better feeling than she had ever experienced with a man. She had never even been able to induce this level of pleasure in herself, even, as shocking as that seemed to her now.

She glanced up at Lord Gillingham, expecting to find him infuriatingly smug like any man might be in this situation. Instead, he simply seemed focused, with a trace of quiet satisfaction in his eyes. At least he wasn’t being quite as much of a prick about it as he could be.

He reached down a little further and started massaging the flat of his hand against her whole vulva, and as she shuddered, he started to speak again. “Before you ask,” he said, “please do allow me to explain the crass remarks of the gentleman from earlier.”

Eleanor shook her head – she really had no interest in hearing about some inane delusions a drunk had about her father – but he continued anyway. “You see,” he said, while undoing his own trousers with his free hand, “your late father was indeed a member of this fine institution. Initially, I believe he sought membership out for similar reasons to you, but then stayed on for the, ah, company.”

Eleanor frowned, and made to retort that her father would never have willingly subjected himself to such a thing, but Lord Gillingham shoved the heel of his hand up into just the right spot, and drew a sharp, keening moan from her throat and a shiver up her spine.

As his trousers rustled to the ground, he continued, “I can understand why one might have difficulties picturing someone they admire in a place like this – a place so far from the bounds of daytime society – but, if you will humour me. You must see some of it by now, surely?” Lord Gillingham’s gaze dropped to his own body, and Eleanor’s followed it, to– well. An expanse of bare skin, clean-shaven, in the place one might expect, on an ordinary man, to find– said ordinary man’s ordinary male parts. But there was nothing there, and instead– further below that, nestled between his thighs, barely visible, was–

“Is–” Eleanor’s eyes were blown wide, the pleasure of Lord Gillingham’s fingers nearly forgotten. “Is everyone at this establishment– are they–”

“Not everyone, dear boy,” said Lord Gillingham with a surprising amount of warmth. “It depends on what you are asking, I suppose.” Wordlessly, he guided Eleanor down onto the floor, laid her shirted back down against the carpet and pulled her trousers off completely, to her rapidly growing shock. He spread her legs wide, and stepped over her.

“Lord Latymer, for example, is a man and has the usual male anatomy – and I would say the majority of our members are similarly configured – but,” he lowered his pelvis and settled his weight between Eleanor’s thighs, “one might perhaps say that we all share tastes that would not be so common outside these doors.” His… wet parts, were placed firmly atop hers, in a way that spread a deep pleasure through her abdomen. “How did you find Miss Godfrey?” Something in the lilt of his voice told Eleanor that he knew the answer very well.

Eleanor looked away from Lord Gillingham, only to see Rose with her back against a table leg, head thrown back in ecstasy and eyes closed with a pair of men’s legs sticking out of her skirts. The sight of it sent an acrid pang through her chest, and she looked away, suddenly a little more willing to make the best of what Lord Gillingham was doing to her. “It was interesting,” she said, managing to keep her voice composed.

“She is beautiful, is she not?” Eleanor felt herself starting to frown, but Lord Gillingham shifted his weight, and the pleasure in her pulsed, and she gasped, and her eyelids fluttered. “Lying with a woman is not for everyone – but then, lying with a man is not for everyone, either.” She could feel him rocking his hips above her, building something up inside her that was far past the bounds of her prior knowledge.

“I wish she had been more like a woman in her body,” said Eleanor, surprisingly candid even to her own ears. “She seems to want to be so,” she said quickly afterward, as if to excuse the desire as an altruistic one, but she could tell her guilt was showing on her face.

“Like this, you mean?” said Lord Gillingham, and he jerked his pelvis suddenly in a way that tore a closed-mouthed squeak from her throat. Her head was spinning. Something was approaching, and it scared her that she did not know what it was. “With a wet cunt between her legs, like you and me?”

“If you must– phrase it so crudely.”

“Perhaps you might seek out one of our more conventionally-designed waitresses, then.” Lord Gillingham looked behind him, at festivities in full swing. “The one in purple, perhaps – Lydia. She has enough experience to ensure you enjoy yourself.”

“Perhaps another day,” said Eleanor, somewhat sharply. The thought of opening the most secret parts of her body up to yet another person nauseated her, even with the prospect of more unbelievable pleasure tied up in it. Another day – with a little more time, and a little more distance. For now, she would get through this night, and find out exactly how this debauchery was linked to the acquisition– of– f–

Lord in Heaven. A moan was ripped from her throat by a force she did not understand, which crashed into her like a wave on the open ocean and only built and built with each moment, relentlessly. Her back arched and she clenched her fists, her eyes closing. Above her, she swore she could feel Lord Gillingham shaking up and down, as if chuckling, but that mattered little when faced with this overwhelming pleasure.

Her fingers were tingling. Her feet were tingling. She was panting. Her eyes flickered open. Lord Gillingham was staring down at her, seeming exerted but pleased, and her back was flat on the floor, her cheeks flushed.

She exhaled, and sat up. Lord Gillingham had dismounted her, and although the dinner – the orgy – was in full swing around her, the satisfaction in his eyes indicated, hopefully, that she had done all that was required of her today. Required of her… yes. Funny to think she had done such a thing for money.

Did this make her a prostitute? The thought came to her with little resistance, as if she already knew the answer.

In any case, the thing was already done.

After that, Lord Gillingham was kind enough to situate her in a chair in a quiet corner of the room, and have a cup of tea brought to her as she watched the remainder of the proceedings. He rejoined the throng of writhing bodies, and she went through a second cup – even so, by the time people started to excuse themselves, her head was starting to droop with lack of sleep.

As the last guest slipped out of the room, someone else entered. A familiar face, in the well-made suit, with the dark eyes. Mr. Rochester.

“Where have you been?” Her voice came out so rough as to shock her.

He smiled patronisingly at her, as if to imply that she had missed him. “Unfortunately, the proprietor of an institution such as this has duties that make it difficult to participate in every event to completion.”

Bastard.

She exhaled. “So when do I get the money?”

“Next week.” For once, a straight answer. Mr. Rochester flipped open a silver case and lit a cigarette, and sent smoke billowing up against the ceiling. “In an envelope, to your townhouse. Monthly thereafter, in amounts corresponding to your, ah, integration into the community – all as decided by existing members, of course.”

She took a sip of her tea. Both of them had their backs to the wall, staring out into the empty dining room. “How much?”

Mr Rochester exhaled. The smell of tobacco smoke began to overpower the smell of her tea. He smiled. “However much the more long-standing members of the club think appropriate. If I may be so bold as to speculate – a respectable sum.”

Her first instinct was to be annoyed, but a suddenly-emerging question took precedence. “…More than my father?”

Mr. Rochester, for the first time, glanced at her in a way that indicated that he hadn’t been expecting what had come out of her mouth. “…Yes. With inflation – no, perhaps even accounting for that.” He raised his eyebrows for a moment, and seemed more honest to her than he had been previously. “You made a good impression on that table, with Rose.”

She exhaled through her nose – she didn’t know exactly why, but the memory brought her pain. Perhaps it was the blatant falsity of Rose’s words. But some of them had been genuine, surely? One sentence, even.

As long as it had brought her closer to her goal.

Her goal…

It seemed so far away now.