The Ruin of Us Read online

  Copyright © Keira Michelle Telford 2015

  Venatic Press

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover image copyright

  NemesisINC/Shutterstock.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  www.venaticpress.com

  “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.”

  -- Oscar Wilde

  (from The Picture of Dorian Gray)

  1

  She crossed her legs at the knee. Maddie noticed that when Miss Camille first sauntered into her room and perched on the edge of her bed, asking questions about this and that, making small talk. Otherwise, she was the utmost picture of respectability.

  She wore the finest navy blue silk dress. The black lace collar came up high on her neck, buttoned to her throat, and a silver chatelaine hung from her waist, the keys of the house affixed to it. In that way, she exuded refinement.

  Her movements were fluid and graceful, and she walked with a practiced elegance, every step measured and precise. A pair of teardrop earrings set with sapphire gems swayed with the motion of her body. Were they real? They might well have been paste, but it didn’t matter; that wasn’t what people were looking at when their eyes fell upon her.

  She had the softest face. Maddie swore her cheeks had the lightest dusting of rouge, her lips pinkened with tinted beeswax, but no-one would ever dare to suggest as much. Whatever tricks she employed to enhance her outward beauty—and to conceal the inevitable encroachment of age, for she must’ve been in her decline—were no business of anyone’s.

  Everyone loved her. She wasn’t a schoolmistress as such, for the establishment she ran wasn’t a school—not in the strictest sense. It was Miss Harper’s House of Etiquette, and its function was to prepare blossoming young girls for society life and marriage. It was to provide the finishing touches, if you will. It was to make women out of girls: to strip them of the awkwardness of adolescence and prime them for their coming out. Among the better social classes, it was a well-regarded institute for molding wearisome teens into elegant debutantes, and Maddie was its latest inductee.

  “I do believe you’re the youngest girl we’ve ever welcomed here,” Camille noted, her full lips curled into a warm smile. “You’ve only recently turned sixteen, yes?”

  Maddie nodded. Less than a week had passed since her birthday celebrations, and she rather got the impression that her mother and father—if she were generous enough to call them that, which she seldom was—had been bursting to get rid of her. Not that she cared. In fact, gazing at Camille upon her bed, she felt a small splash of satisfaction. They’d not have sent her off quite so keenly if they knew the type of woman they were entrusting her to. The type of woman who crossed her legs at the knee.

  “I hope you’ll settle well with us.” Camille’s smile broadened. “Most girls do.”

  As she spoke, she tucked a wayward lock of honey-colored hair behind her ear, her waist-length tresses pinned up in a loose bun, several untamed blonde curls spilling out, framing her face and cascading down her neck. Some would’ve frowned upon her for that—after all, if one’s hair is kept so brazenly unrestrained, what must that say of one’s morals?—but Maddie thought such insouciance was daringly bohemian.

  “Your parents have written to me warning that you might be somewhat resistant,” Camille went on, casting an interested eye over the contents of Maddie’s half-unpacked steamer trunk that lay open on the floor. “They’ve enjoined me to use a firm hand. Will that be necessary, do you think?”

  Maddie lowered her gaze, glimpsing a splash of pale knit silk stockings above a pair of black leather ankle boots as her eyes fell from Camille’s face to her feet.

  With her legs crossed in such an outrageous manner, her skirts were drawn up a little, peaking several inches below the knee and exposing more than they ought. From within these many layered folds—silk upon cotton upon cotton upon silk—Maddie spied the embroidered lace hem of a silk petticoat. Her petticoat! The very garment that lay directly against her body!

  Distracted by that thought, she was slow to respond to the question she’d been asked.

  “I shan’t cause you any bother,” she said at last. “But I do not think I belong here.”

  “Why not?” Camille cocked her head inquiringly. “Simply because you weren’t born to privilege?”

  Maddie’s mouth opened, but no sound made its way out. Camille’s knowledge of her circumstance shocked her, for it was quite the usual course of things to pretend that her adoption had never occurred, as if she just appeared in her new family’s bosom by magic. No-one ever made mention of her former life. Certainly not the part about the foundling home.

  “Your provenance is of no consequence to me,” Camille assured her, dismissing the past with a wave of her hand. “It saddens me to think that you consider yourself less deserving than the other girls. How you came to be in this world has no bearing on your character.”

  “But I don’t fit,” Maddie insisted. “I’m an orphan.”

  “So am I,” Camille revealed without a hint of shame. “My mother died when I was fourteen, and I never knew my father.” She clasped her hands over her knee and flexed her ankle, not seeming to care that it was on display. “A girl’s position in life is not fixed, Madeline. She can be bettered.”

  Maddie cringed. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Is it not your name?” One of Camille’s eyebrows arched toward the ceiling.

  “It’s what they call me.” Maddie tried not to inject too much venom into her voice. “They are quite obstinate about it, but my real mother always called me by the diminutive: Maddie.”

  “Maddie,” Camille repeated, testing the sound of it on her tongue. “You would prefer it if I called you this also?”

  Her eyes were like the ocean: two deep pools of pale green flecked with gray and blue. They had a hypnotizing effect, and Maddie was entranced.

  “Very much.” The teen forced herself to look away and caught her rather wilted reflection in the mirror atop the vanity.

  She looked tired. Her brunette mane—somewhat disheveled from the long train ride—was tumbling from a hasty up-sweep. Her cheeks were pink, not because they were rouged, or because the spring evening was particularly muggy, but because the temperature of the room had curiously risen several degrees since Camille walked in.

  For want of something to keep her hands busy, lest she should fidget and pick at her nails—a vulgar habit, so said her adoptive mother—she resumed her halfhearted unpacking and plucked a small hatbox from her steamer trunk.

  While attempting to set it out of the way on top of the armoire, she stood on her tippy toes, lifted it above her head, and felt a cool breeze tickle her underarms, her attention drawn to a distinct and inexplicable dampening there. Afraid that Camille might see the telltale wetness seeping into her dress and think her dirty, she dropped her arms, the hatbox still clasped in her hands.

  “Can you not reach?” Camille rose from the bed and relieved her of it.

  She was tall, Maddie realized then. Perhaps it was the French in her blood. Were French people particularly statuesque? She didn’t know. Upon her arrival that morning, the other girls—only half a dozen in number—had taken great pleasure in feeding her snippets of Camille’s history. Though most of it seemed mere conjecture, her French provenance was one of the few undisputed facts she’d managed to glean. Ergo, after the box had been successfully stashe
d away, she sought to impress her exotic new maîtresse by thanking her in poorly enunciated français.

  “Murr-sea,” she mumbled, not at all sure of the proper pronunciation.

  Camille broke into an amused grin. “Someone’s been talking about me, I see. How frightfully dangerous.” Her eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “If those little gossipmongers tell you anything in the slightest bit unflattering, do ignore it.” She winked.

  As if there was any chance of that. In the few short hours Maddie had been at the house, she’d heard nothing but praise and fawning admiration for Camille:

  She has the kindest heart and treats us all so well. She was born in Paris. Isn’t that exotic, Maddie? Don’t you think it is? She’s an artist, you know. We all wish to be painted by her, if only she would ask. She always has a favorite to dote on. Perhaps this year it will be you!

  In it all, no-one uttered a single ill thought, and throughout her grand tour of the building and grounds—which the girls whisked her away on directly she set foot in the place—Maddie soaked up every word. Long before evening fell, she was already enamored.

  “I suppose I ought to let you get some sleep.” Camille explored the few meager belongings Maddie had thus far unpacked and heaped in a disorderly pile atop the vanity. “You must be exhausted. It’s been a long day.”

  She ran her fingers over the bust of a plain cotton nightgown flung hastily over a small bundle of books bound in silk ribbon and Maddie gasped. A paperback of the most erotic variety hid among the pile, and Camille was perilously close to uncovering it.

  “You like to read?” She fished out the stack and scanned the titles. “Oh, my! This is some advanced literature indeed.” A smile twitched at her lips.

  Maddie hovered by the armoire, her buttocks tensed and ready for a lashing. “You must birch me now, I suppose.”

  “Must I?” Camille slipped the forbidden book from the bunch and flipped through its pages. “I rather think I should pretend I never saw it.” She paused to read a few paragraphs, then handed it over. “Wouldn’t that be preferable?”

  Accepting it back into her possession, Maddie blushed. “Yes, thank you.” Her fingers grazed Camille’s. “I shan’t read it again.”

  “What a shame that would be.” Camille let the smile break free. “Books are to be read as a woman is to be loved: deeply and without restraint.” She headed for the door. “Try not to stay up too late. Get some rest.” She lingered at the threshold of the room. “Goodnight, Maddie.”

  From that moment on, Maddie had but one aim: she wanted to be Camille’s favorite.

  2

  In the ensuing weeks, Maddie strove to be noticed by Camille. Though she didn’t care one bit for improving herself for purpose of ensnaring a husband, she did all that she could to excel in whatever endeavor Camille set to her, whether it was needlework, dancing, or the reading of poetry—all of which she hated in equal measure.

  Dance lessons were particularly tedious. Camille’s focus invariably centered on the girls who required the most coaching, while Maddie’s focus was on her derrière, admiring how the ruffles and pleats of her skirts fell over her rump, enhancing its shape. It never occurred to her that the ballroom was lined with mirrors, and that Camille could quite easily see where her attentions were fixed. And it certainly never occurred to her that she might like it.

  Proficient in many forms of dance, including the polka, the schottische, and the waltz, Camille always led, and she seemed perfectly at ease in the role. Persistent but unsubstantiated rumors that she also knew how to cancan—a scandalous talent no doubt learnt in Paris—were repeatedly brushed off with a good-natured laugh, but Maddie believed every word and had no difficulty imagining it. Indeed, those tantalizing daydreams significantly alleviated the monotony of watching her peers fumble all over the ballroom.

  “Look at me, not at your feet,” Camille reminded the hopelessly clumsy girl in her arms, frustration seeping into her voice. “It’s unattractive.”

  When the girl finally did succeed in keeping her head up, everything else fell apart. She stepped forward when she ought to have stepped back, bumped Camille’s chest, trampled one of her boots underfoot, and trod hard on her toe.

  “You really do have the most dreadful coordination,” Camille grumbled, calling an abrupt halt to the dance. “It’s a wonder to me that you haven’t yet caused someone an injury.”

  She looked over the rest of the group, making her next selection, and Maddie’s heart thrummed when their eyes met.

  “Your turn.” Camille bent forward and held her hand out, playing the role of the gentleman. “Will you favor me with your hand for this dance?”

  Gladly! Oh, so gladly, Maddie thought as the rest of the world melted away and Camille drew her to the middle of the ballroom floor.

  “You’ve been watching me closely, I hope.” Camille led them in a waltz. “You always do.”

  Determined not to err as the previous girl had done, Maddie fixed her eyes upon Camille’s. She wouldn’t look down—not even for a second—but Camille did. Her gaze broke away for a moment and dropped to Maddie’s lips. Her lips! She corrected the mistake immediately, but not without a slight blush coloring her cheeks.

  Maddie had never been kissed, but she’d read about it in books. Always, there seemed to be the moment before the kiss where one looked to the other’s mouth, as if in contemplation of intimacy. Did Camille want to kiss her? Maddie chastised herself for the foolish thought as soon as it fluttered into her mind and concentrated instead on her steps. She’d been taught to dance, but was mechanical about the operation. Emotionless. Dispassionate.

  “You’re too stiff.” Camille took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake, loosening her up. “Dancing is a prelude, yes? Good dancers make good lovers.”

  Giggles erupted at the sidelines.

  Ignoring them, Camille slid her hand onto Maddie’s lower back, resting it above her rump. “Our bodies must work together, as though we were—” She stopped herself and lowered her voice. “More intimately entwined.” She took Maddie’s hand in hers and coached her. “Your movements must be sympathetic to mine. Feel the motion of my body and respond accordingly.”

  Maddie had no trouble at all with that. What she had considerable difficulty with was remaining at an appropriate distance. When Camille took a strong step forward, she took a small step back, relaxing her elbows so that Camille was drawn incrementally closer.

  “You’re standing much too near,” Camille warned as their bosoms brushed together. “If you’re not careful, we shall soon be in a full embrace.” She separated their bodies, enforcing propriety, and they continued to waltz.

  Throughout, Maddie’s head swirled, her nostrils filled with the scent of Camille’s exotic French perfume. Her palm grew clammy in Camille’s hand, though it was only grasped softly, Camille’s touch featherlight. Her breathing grew heavy. She became dizzy, stumbled over her own feet, and crumpled against Camille’s chest, saved from plummeting to the parquet floor only by Camille’s quick action.

  “That’s enough for today.” Camille took hold of her waist, keeping her upright. “Who’s for some tea and biscuits?”

  3

  As spring rolled into summer, the heat became unbearable. Many lessons were moved outside, but poetry reading always took place in the stuffy and ill-ventilated library. For relief, Camille often threw open the tiny windows and perched upon the nearby desk, maximizing her exposure to whatever breeze came drifting through. When that wasn’t enough, she’d unfasten the top buttons of her bodice.

  In her characteristically risqué manner, she’d ease the high lace collar away from her lily white skin and tilt her head, letting the cool air kiss her neck. Once, Maddie saw her fish a large chip of ice from a pitcher of water. She held it just below her ear and let it melt there, sighing as tiny rivulets of the cool liquid cascaded downward, trickling over her exposed collarbone and disappearing under her clothing.

  At the end of the
se most sweltering days, when all the girls were shifting uncomfortably in their drawers, their backs slick with sweat, their inner thighs clammy, Camille would spring from the desk and declare that a trip to the lake was in order.

  Nestled at the heart of the house’s expansive gardens, the lake was a private refuge for the girls during the excruciatingly hot summer months. Camille never swam in it—not that anyone ever saw—but she always sat near the water’s edge, supervising the proceedings while reclined on a blanket beneath the shade of a large oak.

  Since the girls didn’t have bathing suits, they swam in their shemmies. Quite without inhibition, they ran to the bank of the lake and stripped off to their undergarments. The most demure girls went in with their drawers on, but the additional layer afforded them little more modesty. When saturated with water, the thin cotton became disgracefully translucent. But what did it matter? There was no-one there to see. No-one except Camille.

  As they splashed and squealed and frolicked, Camille watched. As they emerged from the water, cotton clinging to skin, she watched. As they chased each other along the little wooden jetty and leapt into the very deepest part of the lake, she watched.

  Many of them were enviably well-formed. Their full, youthful bosoms bounced and jiggled, their nipples stiffened by the chill of the water. Where their uppermost thighs came together, there was the dark shadow of womanly bloom—something which Maddie had only just begun to appreciate on her own body.

  Having spent her early childhood poor, with little in the way of decent meals, the pleasantly curvaceous figure she’d developed in recent years still felt alien to her. She had little confidence in it, and so lingered at the lakeside, hesitant to join in.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” Camille inquired of her. “Can you not swim?”

  Maddie nodded. She learnt to swim in the public baths.