The Maidenhead Read Online Free Page A

Modesty thought. But not even a silk dress and fine manners would make her into what she was not.
    She was a child of the streets who had been robbed of all illusions. In a society where only the strongest survived, she had only her mediocre talent of art and her worldly knowledge of human nature to barter—
    "That's it!" she said, springing to a sitting position.
    “What’s it?" Rose asked.
    "We need someone to barter the best marriage arrangement for ourselves. A marriage broker!”
    She hurried on, her words spilling out barely ahead of her thoughts. “Think about it. Tis yewr choice. Why not make the best arrangement possible—accept only the proposals of those bachelors who can offer yew something in exchange besides years of hard work?” She thought of the independent Mistress Pierce with her own sixty acres. "Land, animals, conditions to yewr liking—all these can be arranged for yew.”
    "What if . . . what if I want a marriage that doesn’t require . . . ” Clarissa tried again, her expression set in determined lines. "I love someone else. A poet. I couldn't imagine giving my maidenhead to any but Nigel Jarvis. Especially not to the old Duke of Clarence."
    Modesty’s mouth crimped in exasperation. "Surely yew knew what would be expected of yew once yew signed that marriage contract.”
    "I didn’t think. I had no time to make other plans.”
    “And I wager yew relied on the two things that had always helped yew out of uncomfortable situations before—yewr wealth and beauty. Well, they’re useless here." She was feeling irritated with Clarissa and slightly sorry for herself. Wasn't she in the same tight spot?
    "I only knew that I had to find a way to stall," Clarissa explained. "My father arranged to have Nigel sent to Marshalsea for two years."
    Modesty knew that the prison was used mainly for pirates and debtors. "Obviously, yewr poet is no pirate."
    "He was imprisoned for penning pagan sonnets.”
    Modesty rubbed her chin, then snapped her fingers. "That's it! It could be stipulated in the marriage arrangement that no"—she searched for the biblical word—"no connubial relations with yewr husband would be required."
    "Three acres," Annie said. "That's what I want for meself. Like Mistress Pierce."
    "But we already have contracts,” Rose pointed out with a yawn and blinked her eyes sleepily.
    "Contracts to marry the men of our choice. Nothing was said against our making the terms of our marriage.”
    Clarissa pushed her tumbled doubloon- colored curls back from her face. "Who would we find among the rabble of this godforsaken outpost to act as a marriage broker?”
    Modesty’s smile was barely modest. “Why, meself.”
    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
    On the morrow, more men streamed into the fort. Modesty estimated there had to be at least 600 men, as thick as the mosquitoes, swarming after the women in Market Square, the scene of the courting.
    The day had dawned hot and humid and grew only more so as Modesty and a score of other young women clustered beneath a palmetto-roofed shed used to cure tobacco. Like most Londoners, Modesty knew that up until now Jamestown had served as a market for the sale of white Englishmen and Irishmen into servitude. But today it was marriage contracts being sold.
    She saw the maids coyly eye the swains and whisper among themselves in frivolity. She had instructed the women with whom she had billeted the night before to look and ask questions to their hearts’ content but to give no pledge today. That evening, they would discuss whom they were attracted to and what requirements they desired in exchange for marriage. Then, the following day she would begin negotiations.
    Modesty watched as, their hats doffed, some of the men bashfully drew near enough to talk, then drifted away to the shade of long-beaned catalpa trees. From their gestures and the occasional words she overheard, they were discoursing among themselves about the merits of the maids. Other bachelors scrapped like dogs over