Awakening

By Mikala Ash

Anne Device, daughter of a prostitute turned spiritualist, has seen it all -- degradation, desperation, anger, pain, and sorrow. Unbroken by the rough and dirty streets of Whitechapel, Anne’s world revolves around her family -- her mother, sister, and brother.

Enter the charismatic and attractive Lord Carlyle, a gentleman magician who sees in Anne the potential to move worlds. For the first time Anne experiences the magic of romantic love. A rags to riches story she’d only imagined possible in a Faerie tale.

On her glorious wedding night she willingly gives her body, but the days that followed will test her very soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Dec 24, 2021

Book preview

Chapter One

June 8, 1851

I await my husband.

My name is Anne Device. I am nineteen years of age, and this is my wedding night. Already I am in error. Is this the first lesson of my new life? That it is not possible to truly let go of the past?

My new name is Lady Anne Carlyle, the virgin bride of Lord Lucian Carlyle of Lancashire.

How grand that sounds. I whisper it aloud, over and over, hoping it is all real, and not some silly and impossible dream. I began this chronicle to quell my nerves, for truly, my hand holding the quill trembles, and ink drops litter the page like the footprints of a confused imp.

My husband, how strange it is to write those words, for they seem to resonate in my mind like the incantations spoken to create an earthquake or a tumultuous storm at sea.

My husband, my husband, my husband, my husband.

Indeed, what tremors will I soon experience in the marriage bed behind where I sit?

I read what I have written, and a strong desire has taken an irresistible hold. I seem compelled to record my new life so I can remember in my dotage what these times are like. The more I think about it I realise general sentiments will probably mean little to my future self. In fifty years will I remember the context? Probably not. With that in mind I’ve decided to keep as detailed a record as possible of my new state, and how it came about.

My husband, Lucian, is downstairs in his marvellous library. Prepare yourself, my little dove, he had said when his closest friends, a curious collection of serious men of science had left. I return you to your mother’s care for a final word before you become Lady Carlyle in spirit as in law.

Lady Anne Carlyle. I wonder if I should ever get used to the title, or indeed to people bowing and curtsying as I pass, as they did today at the church.

To think, ten years ago I was barefoot with dirty rags draped over my scrawny shoulders, with my empty belly growling like a wild dog while I hawked matches on the corner of Commercial and Fournier Streets in Spitalfields. Gone now from my life were the slums where my mama sold herself to soldiers and sailors in the cramped room that also housed my younger brother and sister. Jennet and James, both of different fathers, and both unlike me in nature and disposition. Fragile Jennet so meek and mild, and James boisterous and impatient. That James would turn to soldiering was no surprise. He saw enough of them to acquire their rough ways and wanderlust. The mystery was how Jennet and I remained intact. How my mama withstood the temptation to sell our virginity, for we would have drawn a goodly price, is testament to the fact that she has principles, though she disguised them well enough when dealing with her men.

How to explain my conversion from ragamuffin with dirt smudged on my hollow cheeks to a sweet-smelling young woman able to attract the love of a lord? Though seemingly miraculous, and I will not deny the magical quality of the transition, the reason is simple enough.

My mama loves us. Of that there is no doubt. No matter the countless difficulties she endured and overcame, she insisted on educating us. In between male callers and our jobs; my selling lucifers on the corner with Jennet shivering beside me, and James off running telegrams for tuppence a day, she taught us our letters and sums, and how to behave in front of our betters. I grew up on a healthy diet of penny shockers, and sensational novels published in serial form. My favourite stories were those rags to riches tales. I enjoyed them because they were so fanciful, and for a little time they took me out of the squalor that was my daily fare. Never did I imagine I would emulate my brave and virtuous heroines. Mama instructed me in other things denied to Jennet and James. Things I was ordered never to speak about, lest we all ‘end up dangling at the end of a rope.’ A rule I am now breaking, though none shall read this but my future self.

Though he does not know everything about us, Lord Carlyle is fully aware of our lowly state, Mama’s pitiful occupation, and what she had sacrificed for her children. We have hidden little of that time from him. It bothers him not. That is a miracle, and one for which I am grateful.

So much for that chapter of my life. That strange creature who bore my name is gone forever, and I now embark on a new story. I will awaken in the morn a different person. A woman.

Well, my precious, Mama said after I’d had my bath, my second in two days, and I waited in my luxurious bedroom. I have little to say, for you’ve seen what men do to women often enough.

She was correct, for she conducted her business in our single room, a tattered sheet separating our lumpy pallets from hers, and I had often peeked and seen much in the flickering candlelight.

I baulked, though, at her bitter tone. Come, Mama, I said. Don’t be like that. There is surely pleasure in it. I’ve seen you in the throes of ecstasy more often to count, your back arched, toes curling, and your cries to heaven echoing down the lane to know there is much to look forward to.

Aye. She gave a knowing smile and wagged her finger. Now, do not appear too knowledgeable. Husbands prefer their brides to be untutored. So no giving away my secrets on the first night. Appear surprised when he shows you his pride and joy, and be hesitant when touching him, but not too coy. Obey his instructions, no matter how odd. Whatever you do, do not refuse him in anything. As you know, they rarely have more than five minutes of puff in ‘em, and if you squeeze the muscles of your sheath, you’ll milk his seed in quick time, and then you can snuggle and sleep.

I giggled, though I knew from observation that what she said was true. What concerned me was the muscles of my sheath. I had not exercised them, having no cause until now, and expected them to be weak. I said as much.

You’ll discover their power soon enough. She looked me over. Just look at that fine silk nightgown your husband bought for you. A year’s income for the likes of us.

I took her hand. Thank you, Mama. For all you have sacrificed for me. Know that I am grateful and know you will not have another hard day in your life. Tea and cake, hot fires, warm baths, and the best brandy to see you off at night. My husband had agreed to buy her a large cottage by Pendle Forest, with servants and an annuity that made me gasp when I heard him say the sum.

I did not love you for any of that, my precious girl. She sighed, a wistful sound containing all the grief and sorrow felt by every mother whoever parted with a beloved daughter. You and Jennet and James are all I will ever give to this world. Love and protect each other for the world will do neither.

She had often said similar. The sadness and regret in her voice hinted at dire events in her life before we three came into the world. The ragged scar across her neck, which she hid with colourful scarves, was testimony to a dreadful past. I said nothing of that. I didn’t wish to take her down that path tonight. I wanted her to keep some satisfaction of having taken me from the streets of the East End of London to the silken sheets of a lord’s bed. You were not disappointed in the service? I asked. You wouldn’t have liked a bigger church, a larger congregation?

What do the likes of us care for the trappings of religion? she asked as she helped me remove my drawers. You are married to a man of property, a man of power. He has knowledge that you can learn, and which you must learn. What does it matter if his society frowns on him marrying so far below his station? He wants you. That is all that matters.

I knew it to be true. What does he see in me? I asked, and not for the first time.

He sees a beautiful young woman, who will bear him beautiful children. She produced a vial of clear liquid. "Apply this to your virgin quim -- it will lessen the pain. I have blessed it already. Say this three times; I apply thee, my mother’s tears, to numb the pain, and lessen my girlish fears."

I giggled, knowing I would do no such thing. I wanted to experience everything. I would not shy away from what every other woman experiences. It would, I thought, be a sort of betrayal.

Mama left me with a gentle kiss, and now I sit and write. My hand is still shaking. Why? I do not know. I have nothing to fear. I’ve seen the act of love enough times not to be surprised or shocked.

To be honest, to observe the act of copulation, with all its fumbling and misstarts, it is hard not to raise a smile, a smirk of derision, and a frown of boredom. I have even become inured to the sometimes violence of it. Vile men had, from time to time, hurt my mama. I would laugh with her as we prepared a spell of retribution and fashioned the little clay figures and sharpened the pins. Harm a witch, so went her mantra, and die in a ditch.

I think back to when we met, my husband and I. Twelve months ago to the day. It had been raining, and I was in the hall helping the men of his party off with their dripping capes and hats before leading them into the parlour where Mama would hold her séance.

We had left Whitechapel behind us only a few months before, and I had trouble believing we belonged in such luxury. Mama had scrupulously saved some of the money she’d earned on her back, stored in a Bartmann jar under the floor, and used it to rent a modest set of rooms in west London just a few streets from Stanhope Gate. Modest it may have been in the eyes of our betters, but it was a mansion to me. Under the name Madame Sooth, my mama now advertised herself as a spiritualist, able to summon the dead.

Mama performed séances every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday nights. Tuesdays were reserved for palm readings, and card readings were done on Fridays. Sundays we had to ourselves for walks in the park and excursions to the countryside. We were comfortable by this time. Readings were cheap, a shilling a time, and she’d sometimes do twenty in a day while I’d dispense herbal remedies. I’d try to see only a few every day as I enjoyed spending some time with the customer for I knew the value of money and felt guilty that they parted with so much of it for me to simply give them a tiny packet of crushed flower petals. Séances were another thing; a guinea each for groups of up to ten. Our guests, as Mama preferred to call them, could afford it, being usually the wives of merchantmen and even those higher in society.

My role was that of hostess, to look pretty for the men and attentive to the women. I’d curtsy and smile and explain the proceedings so they knew what to expect and how to behave. I would light the candles and tapers and pour the brandy. By moving a candle beneath the glass table top I would show them that there was no trickery. Mama was not a charlatan, and we had shocked and disappointed many a sceptical gentleman who tried to expose her.

Such was the group that night. Six imposing men of science. The very same in fact who later attended our marriage. That night in addition to my future husband was Reginald Snits, Archibald Rayne, Philip Hasluck, Anthony Holt, and lastly, Rowland Phelps, an earnest and excitable man of my own age.

He was beardless and had bright blue eyes. His sandy hair was unruly, the pale locks hanging over his forehead in perfectly round ringlets. It was he who performed the introductions, and I could not help but admire his generous lips, the cleft chin and determined jaw. For some unknowable reason since