Virgin Enriched

Chapter One

1892 Boston

"Pardon me, Miss, but...are you quite alright?"

Phoebe drew a ragged breath, then looked directly up at the man who had interrupted her research.

Humph. Just what she needed today - some nosy gent interfering in a matter that didn't concern him. Why couldn't he just mind his own bloody business and move on?

Alas, no. He continued to stare down on her as she crouched in her hiding spot.

Her own bloody fault! Never should she have ventured to the outdoor market at Boston's Fanuel Hall today of all days. Friday mornings brought hordes to the waterfront: Back Bay matrons with peevish children in hand shopping for fresh produce; North End restauranteurs sniffing the ice-packed catch-of-the-day for freshness; people new to the city taking in all the seaport sights, ducking harbor gulls flying low overhead while doing so.

Too bad about him...and his fine suit of clothes too...if one of those pooping seabirds splattered him.

If life was just, never would she have found herself in this precarious position in the first place. After all, Phoebe had handpicked an excellent hiding spot for herself. Though right in the thick of things, she remained out of sight for the most part, crouched low to the ground over by the fruit stands. Specifically, the ripe peaches. Now that she'd been discovered, though, nothing remained for her to do save face the damn music.

Ha! Like she'd ever do something idiotic like that.

Instead...after crawling out from under the overhanging canvas canopy...she'd headbutt him at the level of his kneecaps, then make a run for it.

Phoebe lowered her chin, ready to knock the gent right off his feet onto his arse...

"I wouldn't try it if I were you." He gave Phoebe a knowing look. "Violence never solves anything."

"Says you of the smarmy voice and fine cut of clothes. A lot you know about me."

Despite her resentment, the gent cocked his handsome jaw. Straightaway, he tried another tact with her.

"How will I walk you back home, miss, if I'm limping?"

Now, he was trying reasoning with her?

Waste of time. Like logic would ever work on her. She saw right through such clumsy ploys.

The thing was - violence wasn't Phoebe's usual way. It was only that...well...discovery spelled trouble for her. Heaps of trouble. And, this time, there'd be no fast talking her way out of it, either. Everyone at the orphanage knew one day a month was all she had off from work at the laundry and today wasn't it. She was definitely in for it today.

Then there was Miss Jenkins. When that shrew headmistress got wind of Phoebe's escape, there'd be all hell to pay. Again. The raised welts scarring Phoebe's knuckles gave proof to that bitch's wrath.

Sparing the rod wasn't exactly part of the orphanage's bylaws. At least not where Phoebe was concerned. Sure, there were others who got off easy. Not her. Never Phoebe. The headmistress had it in for her, alright.

And it wasn't owing to Phoebe being a shirker, either. Her chapped hands testified to the amount of time she spent bent over a washboard. Plus, the chilblains. Last winter, their hideous sores had blistered her fingers ‘til spring...

"Miss?"

The gent again, with another damn interruption! Now though, worry roughened his refined voice. Phoebe had an ear for these things and she could tell his tone was usually smooth and cultured. A typical Boston Brahmin's voice.

Snooty. Snooty. Snooty. Butter wouldn't melt in this bugger's mouth. In his seriously dark suit, he had high-class written all over him, a regular bleeding-heart, do-gooder, charitable and all that. Definitely not the sort to leave her be.

Drats! He wasn't going anywhere. Instead, he'd do the right thing and end up spoiling all her fine plans for the future -

Namely, selling her dime novel submission entitled A Virgin Enriched to the acquisition editor who'd shown an interest in publishing the story... after Phoebe revised the manuscript to include a romantic kissing scene at the happily-ever-after conclusion.

That kiss was the sticking point.

Phoebe snorted to herself. Like she knew anything about puckering-up. Or, for that matter, a happily-ever-after anything. Thus far, her life hadn't exactly been a fairytale. Well...apart from the witches and monsters.

Phoebe aimed to turn that all around. Which explained her presence here today at the marketplace, trying to master the fine art of smooching before resubmitting her story with a more "satisfying" ending.

In other words, the acquisition editor demanded the mushy stuff.

Nothing mushier than ripe peaches. What could possibly go wrong?

Plenty, if the gent's scowl was any indication.

Standing in the way of her escape route, he extended a hand - manicured, of course. "Here. Let me help you up. Come on out of there now, Miss. I must insist."

Three short words there at the end. Only three. And there went her plan to make a run for it smashed to overripe peach pulp.

Once Phoebe was back on her feet, the potential destroyer of all her hopes and dreams and ambitions looked her up and down. "You're from the Homeless Angels Orphanage at the bottom of Beacon Hill, are you not?"

Uh-oh.

Her goose?

Not only cooked - burnt to a fucking crisp.

Thinking to distract him while she came up with another idea to make her escape, she asked - sweetly too - "For future reference, sir, what gave me away?"

"Your gray serge uniform. I've seen them on orphans scrubbing the doorstep as I take my morning constitutional. I live at the top of the Hill."

She smirked. "Of course. Naturally. Where the hell else?"

"Beg pardon?"

"That's prime property up there in the clouds, all of them fancy brownstones with hidden gardens and naked marble Satyrs spouting water outta their enormous..."

He raised a hand. "I quite understand."

"I doubt it. What would a rich gent like you know about me, a poor parentless orphan? I wager only the stuff you read about in the yellow press."

"You make an excellent point. Scandalous journalism like that is all about selling copies. That's why I prefer books too newsprint. The author speaks directly to the reader in literature, a one-on-one kind of intimacy."

He read? Not only books but literature?

After this dime novel, she intended to write the fine stuff, with bindings and quality paper and everything. And not just short pieces thrown away afterwards, either, but long-winded books housed in libraries.

Phoebe stopped just short of clutching her bosom as she babbled, "The gray serge uniform...it's my best. We're given two changes a year, in different sizes. And they need to last. My other one got too snug across the chest and..."

He coughed, put up a halting hand. "I see."

Only, he couldn't possibly have seen. His gaze remained respectfully fixed on her eyes. Unlike some lecherous gents who came to the orphanage's laundry to pick up their clean shirts - a nickel for washing, a dime for ironing - while leering at the wash-girls, like Phoebe herself, the whole time. Later, these same leering gents would claim their laundry payment as a charitable deduction. Of course, then they'd uncharitably complain to the headmistress if a stubborn port wine stain refused to come out, regardless of how much Phoebe scrubbed, scrubbed until her knuckles bled. Not into the wash water, which would've earned her two demerits, but onto the hard stone laundry floor beneath her bruised knees...

Suddenly, the gent broke into her circling thoughts. His smile was what did it. He smiled at Phoebe. Not like a masher. Not out of pity, either. He smiled at her with genuineness, like a friend in the making.

In proof, he asked conversationally, "So what's with the peaches, anyway?"

Phoebe sighed. At his incredible handsomeness. At his jet-black hair, the curls trimmed short, as if in impatience. She sighed at his intelligent and patient brown eyes too. At his height. She was tall for a girl, but he towered over her. So nice, to feel petite for a change. Gosh, she sighed about a lot of things.

So besotted was she, Phoebe might very well tell him the God's honest truth about the peaches. Luckily, the orphan wariness beat into her through the years had her immediately thinking up a lie.

Finagling was a talent that had kept her back mostly free of the rod's puckered scarring. Others at the Home were not so fortunate, most especially the prettier girls.

Phoebe tossed her head. Her plaited hair bouncing on her shoulders, she shrugged in pretend nonchalance. "No fresh fruit at the orphanage, sir. A shame because peaches, especially the juicy ones with overripe flesh, suited my purpose."

"Purpose? You mean, you had one, other than eating them?"

Uh-oh. Quick witted and a good listener, he was easy to talk to, and so she'd said too much despite her usual cunning reserve.

Here-on-out, she'd have to take more care. "I misspoke, sir. I meant to say hankering, not purpose. I didn't have one of those."

Afterwards, Phoebe quick changed the subject. "And how did you find me out, sir, anyway? I took great pains to pick an out-of-the-way spot."

"Spot for what - the scene of your crime?"

Her peach-sticky hands went to her hips. "No crime. I only picked the mushy ones, the fruit no one would buy anyway. And you have to admit this location is just about perfect, behind the outdoor fruit and vegetable stalls as it is. Far removed from the heaviest of foot traffic, too. Yet still close to the source of my craving - the peaches in the fruit cart."

"I see."

Curiosity got the best of her and she asked, "So, what gave me away?"

"I noticed the neat pile of discarded peach pits on the ground at your feet. Their construction reminded me of a stone pyramid." He grinned.

Not her. Phoebe bit her lip.

Then, unable to help herself, she lowered her raised guards and cried, "You've actually been to Egypt?"

"No. Egypt as pictured in history books. I'd like to go there in person someday, however."

Despite all the trouble she was no doubt in right now, Phobe said wistfully, "Me too! I'd like to see the land of the pharaohs, sail down the Nile..."

Then, her fantasy drifted away into nothingness, taking her initial wariness of the gent with it. How could she suspect a kindred spirit like him of meaning her harm?

"Well, perhaps both of us will get there to the Pharaohs' tombs," he offered. "Your sense of adventure seems to match my own. But I'm always so busy..." He shrugged. "Well, back to the matter at hand, Miss."

In all phony innocence, Phoebe fluttered her lashes up at him. "Matter at hand, sir?"

"All those incriminating back-and-forth footsteps from the peach stand out front to here, to you, hidden in the shadows."

She puckered her brow and parroted, "Footsteps?"

"You know the ones. The ones in the muck. The ones that ended up giving your thievery away by creating a trail for me to follow here to you."

"Oh, those footsteps." Her hands perched on her hips. "Well, I couldn't very well take the peaches from the cart all at once!"

"Fine justification. And a good modus operandi. Carrying an armful would've generated suspicion." He nodded.

She nodded too. "So, I took the peaches one-at-a time."

"Smart thinking. Not that I'm condoning thievery, you understand. I'm a lawyer, after all."

Wait! A lawyer?

Was she ever in trouble now.

Phoebe managed to swallow a gasp, but her initial babbling resumed:

"This is all the fault of last night's downpour. The rain made puddles and turned my muddy route to evidence today. Then, an hour or so ago, the sun reappeared bright as bright can be, baking the imprints of my rundown shoes in the ground for all damn posterity to see. Or, at least for nosy you to see."

Her chin fell to her chest. She could just cry!

After sniffing, she said evenly enough, "We only get one pair every other year at the Home. Just like the uniforms, they start off too big and then get outgrown. Those same shoes pinch my toes now."

"I didn't understand any of that." He looked at her intently, then seemed to make up his mind about something. "I'm Mr. Matthews. May I know your name, please, miss?"

Considering the trouble, she was in already, she surrendered it without protest "Phoebe. I hate it. Always have. Though, I suppose, the crabby orphanage headmistress could've instead called me, Hortense, like the foundling who arrived right after me, so..." She shrugged. "Luck of the draw and small favors, I guess."

What was wrong with her?

Going on-and-on like an idiot. Volunteering unnecessary facts. Details he didn't need. Even spouting clichés, a writer's plague. This gent didn't care about any of that. He was only being polite. And responsible, what with his law profession at stake and everything. None of his concern was personal.

"So, you stole, Phoebe. Because you were hungry, right?"

A leading question if ever she heard one, one giving her a way out of her present predicament. And she'd been about to take him up on the offer too, to lie, to claim starvation had driven her to a life of crime...

Only, she couldn't do it. Not with him. He brought out the lapsed honesty in her. Damn inconvenient at a time like this, when her arse might end up in Charles Street jail overnight.

"Cease putting words in my mouth, sir."

He held up his hands, both of them, palms facing her, like she was a witch and he was warding off a spell or something.

Only she was no witch, more was the pity, so she took a deep breath and tried to get her fear under control. "The Home served the usual fare today for breakfast - lumpy gruel - and I had two helpings. The new arrival at the Home sickened at her first spoonful and gave me her own bowl to finish. So - no excuses about my being hungry or anything else. I just like to eat."

Call her a thief but never dishonest. Except, when she was writing. Her stories were all a pack of lies, after all. But fiction didn't count as dishonesty. Could be that explained why she liked telling stories so much. The Home had given her years of experience turning dreary into dreams.

Only, a work of romantic pulp fiction demanded more than hope. Some sort of action was needed too. The acquisition editor was looking for a happy ending, which - in the world of dime novels - required a passionate kiss.

Phoebe couldn't write one of those, not a realistic one, anyway, without experience in kissing, which she didn't have. Irony of ironies, her innocence had led her to a life of crime.

Phoebe wiped the back of her hand over her peach-sticky lips and straightened her wide shoulders until her get-in-the-way-of-everything bosoms practically popped the straining buttons on her plain, too small, serge uniform.

Straightaway, he averted his sights. Again.

As bosoms went, hers were admittedly pretty hard to ignore, especially when she was wearing the single, childish, muslin petticoat the orphanage provided. No corset, naturally. The Board of Directors - a bunch of leering old geezers in their dotage who looked their fill with complete impunity but, thus far, at least, hadn't groped any of the older girls - deemed support for a female an unnecessary expense.

For her, it was necessary. Very necessary.

"You like peaches, then, Phoebe? Couldn't resist their taste?"

Wasn't that sweet? The lawyer gent was still drumming up excuses for her. Unfortunately, he had it all wrong. Peaches were research to Phoebe.

Not to beat a dead horse or anything but...all dime novels must include a kiss in the final scene or the acquisition editor would automatically reject them for publication. If not for her ignorance on the subject, she'd have had no need to practice kissing on stolen peaches until she got it right.

In a twist of irony, her quest for honesty might very well land her arse in a locked cell at Charles Street jail.

And she'd do it all over again, anyway. Because research was necessary for authenticity and the illusion of authenticity meant all the difference between the acceptance of a manuscript for publication or a great, big, fat, red, R for rejection.

So Phoebe had to know: During a smoosh, were eyes open - better to gaze in romantic wonderment at a partner? Or shut - better to close out the rest of the world? Where did hands go? Feet? Wiggly tongues?

Spit. Sneezes, too, should one creep up on an unwary cold sufferer. And what about bellies? What if they bumped?

Good heavens, other anatomical parts bumping as well. Accidently, naturally, but still...

So very much to fret about. Like, breathless moans and sighs and rude grunts. Any of those would earn her an automatic rejection as not the 'stuff of romance'. The publisher's Dos and Don'ts list could fill an instruction booklet, which Phoebe could've used in selling this, her first submission to an actual, honest-to-goodness, romance publisher.

As to the rest of the company's requirements -

Of course, Phoebe had lied about her age and marital status, saying she was a matron of forty, mother of six, and happily wed for twenty years to her very own, real-life hero.

Then, after all that - and owing to "the high quality of her prose" - she'd received a qualified acceptance. Which meant - rather than a straightforward rejection - she'd received instead a request for revisions, including "the good parts" described in vivid if rosy detail as her saucy but nieve heroine made her way in High Society and finally kissed, for the first time, her fabulously wealthy hero under the stairwell before everything faded to black.

At the utter romance of it all, Phoebe sighed.

Not him. He shook his head in obvious confusion. "Something I said? An off-color faux pas?"

She looked at him blankly at that last bit. Faux pas? Was he even speaking English?

He explained: "If that remark I made when first we spoke offended you in some way, please forgive my boorishness. I didn't actually notice your schoolgirl's uniform."

And he thought he put his foot in it! What about her? What was she to do now that he'd discovered her thievery?

Her heart started beating much too fast. Then, a spate of dizziness assailed her.

Quick as can be, the gent at her side reached out a hand to steady her. "Are you feeling faint, Miss?"

Her chest clutching for air, she hiccupped, "Why do you ask?"

"You're weaving back and forth on your feet. Perhaps your wooziness explains the large quantity of peaches you've eaten?"

Sounded like a leading question to Phoebe, and that attempt to get her off the hook was ever so kind of this stranger.

The nice gent continued: "When feeling faint, I understand some people, particularly children like yourself, gravitate to certain foods to calm their digestive systems."

He stopped. "I apologize for the indelicacy. You see, when I came upon you, you were moaning, the peach held to your mouth, as if suckling it, so I thought you might possibly have fallen ill."

Playing the cards dealt her, Phoebe fanned a hand before her face. "Exactly, sir. I was feeling quite faint and I... I thought the fruit's sweetness would prevent my total collapse and then... and then..."

He lunged for her, encircled a muscled arm around her waist, virtually holding her up, his other hand, the free one, situated directly beneath her unbound chest.

He fell back and away. "I... I apologize for my... uh... accidental familiarity with your person."

Good Lord! He actually thought her a child, all innocence and giggles, and she'd never, ever, been one of those. Not that she wasn't above using his mistake to her advantage if given the chance.

He shook his head. "Bloody nuisance as it so happens but I'm afraid my carriage isn't here today. The stables around the corner from me on Beacon Hill are quite good, but I felt rather like a walk this morning. Less a nuisance than harnessing up the animals when the distance required is close at hand, you see. Apart from all that, the exercise helps me rehearse a closing argument in court when I'm trying a case. So, I'll be seeing you home on foot."

Home?

She'd never had one of those. Not a real one anyway, and an institution like an orphanage didn't count.

Neither did a jail. Though, he'd yet to mention a locked cell to her. Indeed, his voice contained no hint of legal threat whatsoever. Evidently, he'd never considered having her arrested for her crime. Not that his intentions mattered one way or the other. She wasn't going anywhere with him.

Crowds simplified giving someone the slip. And Phoebe knew all about that. This was not the first unfortunate situation she'd had to escape. In truth, she could've taken off on him already, disappearing into the densely packed marketplace, then racing the long way back to the orphanage, except...

The situation had suddenly changed. He'd become research to her, just like the damn peaches. Every moment she could spend in his company was a learning experience, an opportunity to understand how the other half - wealthy folk - lived so she could write about them authentically.

Fake authenticity was everything in a romance.

"Thank you, sir." So as not to appear overly eager... and out of character... she retreated from his support. "I know my way so I can see my own way back. Besides, my dizziness has passed."

"I'm afraid I must insist. Only proper you have an escort, Phoebe. After I pay for the purloined peaches, off we go."