The Rat-Catcher's Daughter by KJ Charles

Author:KJ Charles
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: victorian, historical romance, trans romance, victorian romance, asexual romance, trans, asexual
Publisher: KJC Books
Published: 2019-09-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Three

“I ALWAYS LIKE PEOPLE open and free,

Underhand business would never suit me.

I’ll tell you something to make your hair curl,

I saw a married man kissing a girl.”

The crowd bellowed along:

“Out in the open with everyone passing them,

Everyone passing them, shouting ‘What ho’,

She will be eighteen months old her next birthday,

So what does it matter? I’d just like to know.”

It was one of those nights, the special ones. Every note hit perfectly, every joke and wink at the audience drew roars. They were in the palm of her hand, and best of all, Stan was sat in the third row of the stalls, beaming.

Stan. Curly black hair and dark brown eyes, impressive nose, and that lovely shy smile. She liked his smile a lot, and his artisan’s hands too, strong and covered with tiny scars. He wasn’t the best-looking man in the world, if one were to be objective about it, and she’d seen people smirk as they walked together, since she stood a good six inches taller than him. It was impossible to imagine caring about any of that.

They’d been seeing each other for two months. Not seeing one another in a formal sort of way, just Stan coming to her dressing room after performances. Going out for a drink, sometimes dressed up, sometimes as herself. Dinner, now and then, talking about anything and nothing. He’d never pressed for more.

It felt like something real. The doormen and the other girls knew him by name, for heaven’s sake, which was virtually the same as bringing him home to meet the family, and he’d mentioned, very casually, that she might one day like to come to tea with Uncle Jacob and Uncle Louis. It felt like courting.

She came to the end of the song, her last of the night.

“One day I rode on the top of a bus,

Downstairs I heard someone making a fuss.

Just then a girl’s voice in anger arose,

Shouting, ‘Don’t start till I’ve got on my clothes.’

Out in the open with everyone passing them,

Everyone passing them, shouting ‘What ho.’

She was a laundress with clothes in a basket,

So what does it matter? I’d just like to know.”

She hurried down to her dressing room, the applause still ringing out. Mr. Starling was at the stage door, talking to Jim, the doorman. He wore a purple velvet scarf and big gold hoops in his ears. He’d worn pink chiffon and silver jewellery when she’d first come to ask about a place at the bottom of the bill, and she’d felt safe for the first time in years.

“Miss Chris. Excellent performance. You’re on form tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“In a hurry? I won’t keep you, but find me for a chat tomorrow, will you?” He smiled at her. “We need to talk about moving you up.”

She clapped a hand to her mouth. “Really?”

“Really. Tomorrow.” He winked and strolled off.

“Nice one, Chrissie,” Jim said. He was a solid brute who looked like a rough-hewn plank of wood, and belonged to the theatre body and soul. “Good work. Your young man coming by tonight? I should charge admission, I should, all the inning and outing.

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