I could’ve died right there cause he was right beside me ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ edward guinness x reader
Edward Guinness increasingly frequents the whorehouse on the docks, not for one of their esteemed workers, but for the girl who scrubs the floor and boils the sheets in the dead of night .ᐟ edward guinness x fem!reader, minors dni, 1.9k words, nothing crazy - just an introductory chapter.
WHEN the night is bitter, a running chill weaving itself like a thread up your spine, you find it is the best time to begin cleaning. The girls are usually preoccupied with customers, and their rowdy patrons have either been plied with enough drink to become docile clay within their expert moulding, or caused enough fuss to be removed from the establishment altogether. You had been lucky to find the only whorehouse on the docks not owned by Bonnie Champion, but rather, an older madam, who despised the man as much as she despised filth. When you pitched yourself as an in-house cleaner, available at all hours of day and night, ready to scrub and boil whatever stained or soil cloth or carpet came your way, she had accepted in exchange for room, board and two shillings a week in payment. In a strange way, you had become close to Agatha Croyston, the older lady. She had taken kind upon you, and the girls’ increasing betting pool about when you would cave to the… other work… she offered, remain stagnant and unclaimed.
You try to scrub the newest sheet offered to you by one of your favourite girls, Lottie, who always smiled sheepishly when she handed you a neat bundle of cloth, sheet and whatever other… instrument was used in the night’s activities. When the scrubbing offers no reprieve, you allow it to sit in the boiling pot of water, a medium-ish, iron bowl you’d set atop a flame in the back of the whorehouse. Whenever it threatened to bubble over, picked up your stick and stirred it around until it was satisfied and growled itself into submission.
The air prickled at your cheeks, not the usual, harsh slap of winter, but a malevolent kind of coldness, that settled into your clothes and bleed past the fabric, deep into your bones. You pull your coat around yourself tighter, huffing to yourself before you began to hear a rattling at the Champion gate. It banged and crackled in the night, but you heard the frivolous, upbeat band in the inside of Croyston’s Girl’s Home drown it out, barely a whisper beneath it’s might.
You quickly glance either side, trying to see if the attention of any of the Champion security guards were piqued. Through the iron bars, they seemed disinterested, either purposefully ignoring him or genuinely unable to hear. You hum to yourself, taking another gulp of the scene before you to see if any thieves laid in wait to snatch your clean clothes. When you were satisfied with the emptiness before you, you rounded the large, brick manor on the edge of the dock.
On the same side of the fence as the attempted intruder, you tried to peer through the darkness to see if you could make out his shape. He was tall, with a cap and highly wrapped red scarf. You wondered if he was a rowdy customer, long ejected from their establishments; but if so, you wondered why he wasn’t trying to break his way into the Croyston home. It tended to pick up the stragglers from Champion’s - either tired of the services, the prices, the drink or the unwelcoming strain of hospitality Champion offered. He didn’t have the usual stutter in his step that most drinkers had, the purposeful concentration that ended in a strange misstep in their footing, swaying from right to left to keep themselves centred.
You could hear the faint call of a voice, low and certainly not slurring. He was calling a name, and as you drew closer, you could faintly make it out beyond the pitch of the music and the gleeful shouting from each house.
‘Arthur! Champion, tell me where my brother is!’ He roars, rattling on the iron bars, gripping one in each hand.
As you get closer, the heavy stink of alcohol washes away, the sea breeze caressing your nose and cheek, and his demands become louder. ‘Where is he?’
His desperation becomes apparent in his calls, a strained cry in each word, but there was a unique kind of rage that accompanied it, a startling strength as he pulled harder and harder on the iron bars.
You’re not sure what possess you to speak to him. Either the dull repetitiveness of your days, the knowledge that most girls would be preoccupied till morning with the shipment of whiskey Croyston brought in, or the desperation of the man in front of you, who’s side-profile you could just discern in the darkness, parted lips and mahogany eyes.
‘There’ll be no one here tonight, sir,’ You finally mutter out. The thickness of your own accent seems startling against his, low and refined, almost aristocratic. But his clothes and position seemed to beg otherwise.
He doesn’t quite jump at your voice like you expected, but he turns on his heel quickly, snatching his hat off his head once he realises it’s a woman addressing him. He seems almost ashamed, cheeks tinging pink at being discovered, although, you think momentarily, it could’ve been from his roaring at the door. Either way, his breath catches slightly in his mouth and he turns his head back a moment, before looking around at their barren surroundings.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ You quickly clasp both hands in front of yourself, lowering your head slightly, refusing to make eye contact. Something stirs in your stomach as you finally get a look at him - definitely not drunk, no repugnant stink of alcohol, clothes remaining undisturbed upon his body, his hair slightly amiss from ripping his hat off, but nothing further. He stands tall, shoulders pinned back and head pulled back high, you finally get to witness his face and it’s disturbingly handsome. Strangely familiar. Whilst there’s no strong smell of alcohol, there’s definitely a faint tinge of beer that hangs around him, on his clothes. He immediately shakes his head, taking a step towards you in which you instinctively step back; an instinct you learnt quickly in the whorehouse, learning from the girls around you.
‘No, no,’ He quickly raises both hands, as if to wordlessly communicated he meant no harm. ‘Absolutely not, I’m sorry if I was… uhm… disturbing you?’
His eyes seem to catch upon the building behind you. Croyston’s Girls Home was infamous in the same way as Bonnie Champion. Champion’s was the place you went when you needed to forget everything and have everyone forget you. Croyston’s was the place you went when you wanted a whore to remember your name and your children’s birthdays, even when you forgot. He purses his lips and you know an assumption is brewing in his mind, but if he’s disgusted at his own revelation, he doesn’t betray it. Instead, breathes out a heavy sigh.
‘Why is no one coming?’ He instead asks, craning his head back up at the large, iron gate.
‘It’s half-off night, sir. The girls offer half-off fees and half-off…,’ you pause before continuing, a thrum of bashfulness shooting through your body. ‘Clothing. Sir.’
His eyes widen slightly for half a second, before they settle back into harsh realisation. ‘It attracts too many men sometimes, so they bar it off at a certain time. No one in after ten and until sunrise.’
‘Is it…,’ He clears his throat politely, trying to fumble through his mind to arrive at the right wording, ‘I mean… can they leave?’
‘Oh sure. Just not through that gate. If you wanna sneak in, or speak to a guard, you’ll have to go ‘round to the back entrance, sir,’ You nod along to your own words.
‘Right…,’ he trails off, eyes blankly staring at the dock. ‘I feel quite impolite. I didn’t introduce myself, I’m Edward.’
He extends his hand and you furrow your eyes in puzzlement, before responding your own name back to him and taking it in a strange handshake.
‘You don’t know where the back entrance is, aye?’ You crack a small, mischievous smile and Edward smiles in response, wide and inviting, shaking his head, a lock of hair waving with it.
‘No, I’m afraid I’m not a common frequenter of this area,’
‘Don’t worry. It’s usually only maids and security that know that part anyways. And people who have to pick up their drunken relatives,’ You shrug and begin to walk by him, towards the back entrance. You walk for a few steps, before turning over your shoulder to notice him standing their, head tilted in confusion. ‘Well, do you want me to show you where it is?’
‘Oh!’ He nods, ‘Yes, of course. My apologies.’
‘So, are you trying to join the fun or help someone escape?’
‘I’ve been in the business of drunken relatives for a while. My brother…,’ Edward hesitates before continuing, biting on his lip, unsure if he could trust you. ‘I just want to make sure he’s safe.’
‘Of course,’ You nod politely, walking side by side. ‘Truthfully, I think it’s just me and the guards who know this way. Most of the patrons they show through the back door are too blindly drunk to remember. So, please keep it to yourself.’
‘Yes, no, absolutely…,’ You watch him closely from the corner of his eye, feeling his body heat as he brushes beside you slightly. ‘So are you not,’ he clears his throat again, obviously uncomfortable. He keeps his eyes forward, but you can see him flushing deep red again as he builds up to his question. ‘Offering the… tonight’s deal?’
‘Are you trying to ask if I’m a whore, sir?’ You come to a step a few metres away from rounding the back. Edward seems to pause in shock, lips parting slightly, pink and soft. His aversion to crudeness informs you of something about him that you squirrel away: he’s not from these parts.
‘In a way that isn’t rude,’ Edward confesses, hanging his head, but doesn’t back down from the question, which you appreciate. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve never-,’
‘I can tell, sir,’
‘Please, call me Edward. No need for such formalities,’
‘Are you sure?’
He cocks a sharp eyebrow at you, a half smile playing on his lips. ‘You’re awfully bold. So what is your purpose here then?’
‘I’m a maid for the girls. I make sure they stay clean and healthy at all costs,’ You nod, and Edward notices a slight gleam of pride radiating from your face. ‘You know, if you’re going to try and sneak through the docks like you’re one of us, you shouldn’t seem so shy.’
He lowers his head, trying to stifle the smirk forcing itself to his face. ‘I suppose I’ll be needing some guidance the next time I come.’
‘You’ll be coming a next time?’
‘Drunken relatives rarely sober themselves without cause and I’m afraid I have no cause to offer him,’ He shrugs, ‘Besides, apparently the company is as inviting as they boast.’
Edward meets your eye and you feel yourself bloom with shyness, taking a meek step back. ‘I’m sure there’s another who could offer more.’
‘I’ve never quite enjoyed the transactional nature of all that,’ He waves his hand around, dismissing your careful response. There’s a small moment of pause between you two, before he inhales another breath, steady.
‘Well,’ You huff, readjusting your coat around your body. ‘The door is just there,’ you point to a smaller gate, where a man stands guard. ‘If you offer him ten shillings, he’ll fetch whoever you want.’
‘Thank you, truely,’ He follows your gaze to the door and then back to you. ‘I should allow you to return to your nightly duties.’
‘Quite… Edward,’
He thinks about his name rolling off your lips as siren song. It whistles through the air and stirs his body. He tries not to watch you disappear back into the night, but he fails, eyes following your form until it dissipates into the shadows.
