Masked Identities
by
Dustin Adrian Rhodes
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Dustin Adrian Rhodes on Smashwords
Masked Identities
Copyright 2011 by Dustin Adrian Rhodes
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Information about Dustin Adrian Rhodes can be obtained through the author’s official website:
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Acknowledgements
Special thank you to Diane, Erika, Kaje, Mary & Melanie
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Masked Identities
Disclaimer
Although this literary work is fictional, the interior story featuring Ambrose and Sebastian does include mention of actual events, locations, businesses and real-life individuals which existed in 1889 - 1890 Victorian London of which can be validated in recorded historical documentation. An exhaustive effort was made to depict the historical details as accurately as possible; however, recorded data obtained from historical documents were riddled with inconsistencies. The interior story does contain old English spelling and some terms commonly used during Britain’s Victorian era.
Maneuvering twists and turns along the black ribbon of the two lane asphalt road the blue metallic Lexus convertible meandered in and out of bronzed autumn foliage. Megan, a freshman attending Bard College, passed stately homes and sprawling manicured lawns, she had put one hundred and eighty miles between her world of academia, and the problems that troubled her. Or so she thought as she approached her grandparents' home. Megan made a sharp left turn into the circular driveway and parked the car in front of the house. As she turned off the ignition the hum of the car engine went silent, cutting off Katy Perry's, “Boom Boom Boom. Ever brighter than the moon, moon, moo-”, which had resonated through the car interior.
Megan rummaged through her purse and extracted a hair brush and cell phone. She checked the phone - no messages or missed calls. Disappointed, she dropped it back into her bag. She pulled down the car visor and flipped open the vanity mirror. She ran the brush through her long, straight brunette hair, and observed in the reflective image that her hazel eyes were red and bloodshot. She snatched her purse again and retrieved eye drops, which she applied a few drops in each eye, and with a tissue gently wiped excess liquid from her natural rosy cheeks. She then haphazardly stuffed all of the paraphernalia back into her bag.
Megan climbed from the car and stepped into the crisp air. It smelled of cedar with a subtle hint of chrysanthemum. The gray overcast sky didn’t indicate rain; it just muted the late morning light which lacked the brilliance to cast shadows. The trees were ablaze in gold and amber, the ground collected dried fallen leaves. Autumn had arrived. Megan loved autumn in upstate New York. It was her favorite time of year.
Displaced autumn leaves crunched beneath her Reebok’s as she walked around the car to the distressed maroon brick pathway leading to her grandparent’s front door. She breathed a sigh of relief as she gazed at the massive oak door; this was the best sanctuary to recover after breaking up with her high school sweetheart, Chandler. She rang the bell, but no one answered the door of the grand Tudor style home.
Her grandparents were probably out. She had not phoned ahead to announce her unplanned visit. Using the key tucked away in the mailbox, she unlocked the door and entered the house. The warmth and familiarity wrapped around her like a cozy blanket. Aromatic cinnamon and apples hovered in the air. The calm that greeted her was magnified by the low mechanical ticking of various clocks placed strategically throughout the house. The quarter hour would be marked by a duet of light chimes, to be joined by a few additional notes on the half hour; the three-quarter hour would sound with a quartet of chiming voices. At the top of the hour, a full chorus of chimes and bongs permeate the house joyously proclaiming the time. Looking at the interior of the house it had not changed as far back as she could remember. The white rubber soles of her Reebok’s squeaked against the gleaming polished parquet floor as she progressed through the elegant Victorian parlor. She found comfort in the many happy memories the house held for her while she advanced toward the grand staircase. Her destination was her favorite room, granddad’s study, on the second floor.
Ascending the forest green carpeted stairs, Megan paused on the landing, to take in the picturesque view from the huge leaded pained glass window. The impeccably manicured grounds seemed almost surreal, too immaculate; the lawn was always flawlessly kept. From the panes, she viewed the pond; the water was so very still, like glass, except for gentle ripples from a couple of domestic geese swimming along its surface. Surrounding the pond’s edges, dark green Lilly pads floated, and isolated stands of Cattail protruded from the water with their stiff leaves like giant blades of grass and tan cigar-shaped stalks. Graceful Weeping Willows lined the soil-rich banks, lazily dipping their delicate boughs into the body of water like soda straws to sip in nutrition. A colorful collage of dense trees attired in autumn hues filled the distant perimeter, framing nature’s artistry.
Closing her eyes, Megan held the serene image in her mind, sensing her tensions dissolving and becoming calm and more relaxed. When she opened her eyes, she spotted a cautious deer timidly approach the water's edge for a drink. A smile slipped across her face before she turned and completed her climb up the remaining eight steps.
Pushing open the heavy walnut double doors, she entered granddad’s study. It was warm and inviting, with floor to ceiling shelves constructed of dark cherry wood, filled with nothing but books and more delightful books. The Berber carpet, or the fact that her mood was improving from when she entered the house, softened the blow of her intent foot steps. Lazily strolling alongside the rows upon rows of carefully shelved books, she ran her fingertips lightly along the bindings of antiques, glancing at the familiar titles, as fleeting images flashed in her mind of each novel, each story, each adventure she had read. Since a small girl, when granddad had first held her in his lap and read Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Megan was hooked on stories. Shortly thereafter she began reading on her own. Little Women, Anna Karenina, Wuthering Heights; and adventures like Moby Dick and Treasure Island, the list went on and on. Granddad’s collection included all of the classics, and many obscure titles. Over the years, the study had become her refuge when she needed to escape from the world. She could read for hours in silence from her favorite chair, while granddad quietly read from behind his desk. Although, not a single word was exchanged between them, she felt a kinship to her granddad and an undying appreciation for his opening her mind to books at an exceptionally young age. Her fingers gently caressed the hard spines, mostly bound in leather, embossed with intricate scroll work and titles engraved in tarnished gold leaf. The books were of familiar titles she had read while visiting during summer or winter breaks from school. Conclusion of visits she had always packed a pile of unread books into her backpack before leaving for home. This had always fed her need for words and mental images of places and people with whom she would grow uniquely acquainted. Suddenly she paused, spotting a title she had never seen before. At first, she assumed the book had been accidentally re-shelved in error. Not uncommon, since granddad would sometimes absentmindedly return a book on the wrong shelf while he mulled a theory or political opinion.
The library was divided into fiction along one wall, while other genres filled the many shelves wrapped entirely around the remaining walls. Megan had read every book in the fiction section, hundreds of books. She had never thought about how many she had read, the adventures had been of more importance than the quantity of books read. Megan was filled with a sense of excitement at the idea of discovering a book she had thought she had drained the last drop. Sliding the book in question from between Great Expectations and Jane Eyre, the leather binding had a waxy feel. Opening the cover, she detected a mixture of grassy notes with a sharpness of acids and a subtle hint of vanilla over an underlying mustiness. The smell of old books. She flipped the yellowed thick, gritty paper to the table of contents to see if she could determine where in the library the book should be properly re-shelved. Scrawled in bold black script across the title page was printed: Masked Identities. Megan furrowed her brow, from the title it sounded as if it could be a sociological or psychology book. Flipping another page, she scanned the introduction.
The United Kingdom had seen significant changes under the monarchy of Queen Alexandrina Victoria since 1837. Most notably Britain had become the world's first industrial society, as well as the first urban commonwealth. The population of Britain bloomed during the 19th century, in spite of the many thousands who fled her shores to escape her poverty.
London in 1890 was a Victorian city of startling contrasts. The population was surging, the growth more than exceeded London's ability to look after the basic needs of her citizens. New affluent development went hand in hand with horribly overcrowded slums, where the poor lived in the worst human conditions imaginable. People lived their squalid lives against a backdrop of immorality, drunkenness and crime. Robbery and violence were commonplace, and the streets were ruled by thieves, pickpockets, and other unsavory types. The many alleyways were unlit at night, prostitutes and brothels were common, and the streets were most miserable places.
A combination of coal-fired stoves and poor sanitation made the air heavy and foul-smelling, due to the immense amounts of raw sewage dumped directly into the Thames River and into the streets from house windows. Even the royal family was not immune from the stench of London - Queen Victoria’s Buckingham Palace apartments were ventilated through the common sewers of London.
This chapter of history had not been the most favorable of times for Britain, considering the deplorable living conditions and meager earnings of the masses. It was during this period that Ambrose, the nineteen year old son of a financially struggling fish porter of the East End, struck out on his own to make a better life for himself than his father had been capable of providing on his sparse wages.
At the same time on the West End, Sebastian a nineteen year old heir to a king’s ransom had grown bored with the socialite lifestyle and the tedious social circles. He struck out on a quest for adventure and mischief, far from the confines and ridicule of the social elite.
Thus, begins the tale of East meets West.
Megan moved across the room, her eyes glued to the type face coming to life on the gritty pages. She was curious how the printed story would unfold. Crossing the room, she tossed her purse onto the floor and settled into her favorite yellow striped upholstered wing chair. Filtered early afternoon light eased through the window illuminating the pages of an intriguing story.
Ambrose
Not the poorest of the poor, Ambrose's family belonged to the inner city East End of London, also known as the Old Nichol Street Rookeries, which was comprised mostly of the poor, existing in squalor and slum conditions. The name ‘rookeries’ was given because of the overcrowded dwellings the poor inhabited, because families lived without separate accommodation from each other. The analogies that other birds appear to exist in separate families, rooks, however, do not. Neither did the exceedingly poor in the East End tenements of London.
In those days, there were three classes of poor: the lowest class was made up of the vicious and the semi-criminal; the middle class poor were those in chronic want; and finally the least poor, who barely survived, and lacked conveniences.
Ambrose was among the middle class poor. He rented a small space in a dilapidated building located in the borough of Old Nichol that once served as a warehouse. Over time, the building had been abandoned and shabbily converted into a cramped and confined hostel for the poor who had jobs, and prostitutes who worked to secure the money to satisfy the solicitor's with two pence per day rent demand. Large sheets of threadbare material divided the separate quarters which consisted solely of a straw mattress. The living conditions severely lacked of convenience or privacy, but it provided a place for Ambrose to lay his head at night. The structure was housed on Turin Street, off Bethnal Green Road, just a short pedestrian distance to his parent's home.
Ambrose was not a man without ambition or a dream; he had two objectives. The first was to rise out of the East End slums. He wanted more from life than what his father had been able to provide on the meager wages of a fish porter. The Industrial Revolution was just beginning, and Ambrose sensed possibilities would arise from this new era. His hunch had served him right; landing him a launderer apprenticeship at a new kind of laundry house called a Dry Cleaner. Ambrose had been fortunate to have not only found himself a job, but one that paid wages better than most, since much of London was either out of work or the salaries earned from the work they did was not enough to sustain a family. His other ambition, although considered quite illegal in England, was to find a male companion.
Ambrose had homosexual tendencies and had pondered the laws to note that throughout the eighteenth century and up until 1861, all penetrative homosexual acts committed by men were punishable by death. Following this date, hanging was replaced by life imprisonment and after the passage of the Henry Labouchere Amendment in 1885, with a condition that made “gross indecency” between men a criminal offense, punishable by up to two years’ imprisonment or hard labour. Ambrose comprehended that not only was sodomy illegal, but so were all other homosexual acts. The law had become known as the “blackmailer’s” charter.
He also discovered that the rules of evidence, however, ensured that relatively few men were actually found guilty of sodomy. Ambrose learned that to prove sodomy one needed at least two eyewitnesses and evidence of both penetration and ejaculation. As a result, most trials he had followed, the proceedings were for the lesser offense of “assault with sodomitical intent” rather than for sodomy itself. The penalties for sodomy were reduced, however, the level of proof needed to gain a conviction was lowered, and following 1885 the definition of illegal sexual activity was widened to include “gross indecency” between men. The laws confused Ambrose, but from what he understood in its entirety he sensed that through prudence and perseverance he could escape retribution by the laws.
Ambrose had a desire for more than the periodic sexual release, but that of a male counterpart to love and to share his life. He had been approached by, and oft on Jermyn Street, St. James Park, St. Georges and Cleveland Streets, but he wanted love and companionship. He knew that he would have to find a West-Ender so that their relationship would not be scoffed. Unlike the majority of London, residents of London’s West End were much more tolerant of same-sex companions, as long as they were discreet and did not flaunt it. There were well known relationships like those of painters Charles Shannon and his companion Charles Ricketts and many other affluent West-Ender partnered men.
If, however, the relationship were overt, then the couple would find that the law was stricter in Britain than anywhere else in Europe.
Being from the East End, Ambrose knew the rookery cockneys would not tolerate the companioning of two men. He devised a plan to act and dress like that of a West-Ender, to snare a desirable West End gentleman. Sure, he would have to scrape by and save to afford the deception; however, the investment in creating the illusion would be well worth the ultimate outcome.
Ambrose carefully studied, where in London; he would best find the West End companion he sought. He decided on Soho, the playground for London's fashionable West-Enders with her offerings of museums, theaters, pubs and brothels. The West-Ender fast and young swells frequently congregated at the Cider Cellars in Maiden Lane – Near Covent Garden, it was the popular place to be seen by West-Enders following an enjoyable show at the theatre. Having followed the newspapers reviews of the theatre, Ambrose had uncovered a glowing review in The Stage of a new show playing at The Queen’s Palace of Varieties. Tonight would be the final run of the wildly popular show. Ambrose was dead set to be in attendance at Covent Garden this very night.
Sebastian
The future heir to position and prosperity that rivaled that of the Royal’s, Sebastian was the son of an aristocratic shipping magnet. He was afforded a life of luxury and decadence. He had butlers, footmen, maids, servants of every kind, a small army catered to his every whim, often times to his amusement to ward off boredom.
At the age of nineteen, Sebastian had grown tired of parading through fashionable social events, full of pretentious convention, where both men and women had their own set of rules. There was a rule of propriety, for almost everything one did in a day. For women, there were rules about the precise jewelry one could wear, as well as, when and where. Who to walk with, who one should dance with, how and when it was proper to speak to a stranger, were all critical knowledge. For men, there were strict rules about bowing, hat tipping, chaperonage, where to sit and next to whom, even the proper circumstances in which it was correct or not to smoke or drink in front of ladies. There were also apt titles for almost every type of profession, social status and influence.
Sebastian grew to feel that living in the family palatial estate home in the borough of Kensington had become a prison of sorts, holding Sebastian captive, to protect him from the evils of the outside world or as a prisoner in a social position he felt that he was suffocating. He wanted to experience life like that of a commoner, to abandon the starchy threads of socially acceptable clothes, to guzzle ale rather than inhale brandy, to consume parchment wrapped fish and chips with his bare hands, to dance a polka instead of gliding through a Saraband, Gavotte, or Courante or playing another patronizing parlour cotillion game.
On many late night occasions, Sebastian had found agreeable gratification at The London Central Telegraph Office on Cleveland Street. He had encountered the telegraph boys were quite receptive to the corruption and exploitation by members of the upper class, for a minimal price of course. Sebastian discovered he preferred the pleasure was more gratifying when shared in the company of a young teenage partner of his own gender. The desire to make another visit to 19 Cleveland Street was making itself evident in his trousers. However, he had previously made a social contract to meet his gentlemen friends for the highly praised show at The Queen’s Palace of Varieties tonight.
Two men of different social classes, one struggles to make a meager living, while the other existed in an oppressive social world as that of an arrogant, wealthy tycoon, each in pursuit of adventure on the unforgiving streets of 1890 London.
Megan slipped a piece of scrap paper between the pages before setting the book down on the chair side table. Climbing out from the comfort of the chair, she returned to the stairs to make her way toward the kitchen, to brew a cup of tea.
Cradling the ceramic mug in her hands, she absently blew the steam from the too hot to drink Earl Grey. She looked out the kitchen window as if peering into a gazing ball of memories, recalling a certain autumn evening at Starbucks…
The evening had been cool and damp; however, it was dry and cozy in the declining hours before the Starbucks locked its doors for the night. Megan was in her sophomore year, in high school. She had adjusted easily into the transition of a new school. She had effortlessly worked her way into the appropriate social network and joined the most popular clubs and looked forward to cheerleading tryouts next year when she was eligible. Her grades were well above average, and all of this would appear impressive on her transcript when she applied to colleges.
Megan recalled a quiet early November evening, just a few weeks before her birthday. Thanksgiving was approaching followed soon after by the holidays and the New Year. She had been in no hurry to go to an empty house. Sure the housekeeper and other household staff would putter about the large house, but they were invisible entities who Megan had long ago learned to depend on. Other than the shadows of the silent bustling staff, the house was lonely and discomforting. This was a way of life she had learned to accept at an early age. Megan’s mother, the CEO of a conglomerate was hardly ever home. Megan’s mother was constantly jet-setting between meetings and mergers; they had grown apart, becoming passing strangers to one another. Her father lived in Europe, where he headed up a large investment firm. Since her parent’s divorce, neither former spouse was willing to reside in the same continent. Megan had been an only child raised by nannies due to over-achieving absentee parents.
Her annual summer visits to see her father consisted of the loss of a month of personal summer holiday fun. If she were lucky, during the four week stay, she might dine two or three times with her father, usually accompanied by clients or board of directors. Megan had been extensively educated in the finer graces and was quite at ease in the out-of-office business environment. She understood the importance of pushing herself and using others to get ahead in business and life; it was what she had been taught.
At an early age Megan discovered that she could fill the void brought on by absentee maternal parents by reading and every moment she could devote to printed words, she would do so. This particular evening she was recalling had been no different; with her head buried in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s timeless words of The Great Gatsby for her English Lit class. Megan escaped from the world playing out around her as she reveled in a world opening between the pages of the book she held.
“Is this chair taken?” a male voice had politely asked.
Without looking up from the book, she had waved an indication of permission to remove the chair. Dismissing the minor distraction, she did not break from her reading.