Free Tilly True by Dilly Court Page B

rage.
    â€˜Don’t be shy,’ Bert said, pulling her down so that his mouth latched onto her nipple. Tilly raised her hand, steeling her nerves in readiness to plunge the blades into his neck, but, as she raised her arm, her nipple slid from his lips and his head lolled back amongst the pillows. Leaping off the bed, she stared down at him as he lay snoring, dribbling and still grinning as he slid into a deep, intoxicated sleep. Shuddering, retching and covering her naked breasts, Tilly went through the pockets of Bert’s greatcoat, searching for the key to the front door. Tears of frustration blurred her vision when she found nothing more than a couple of pennies and a pawnbroker’s slip. He lay on the bed, arms spread open, legs wide apart with his boots still on his feet; there was only one place left to look. Holding her breath, Tilly attempted to slip her fingers into the pocket of his breeches, but he grunted and rolled over, gripping her hand and pressing it against the bare flesh between his legs. Weak with dismay and disgust, she hardly dared breathe for fear of waking him, but as he relaxed into a deeper state of unconsciousness she managed somehow to inch her hand free. Backing away from the bed, Tilly saw something white poking out from the pocket of her ripped skirt. She snatched it up and saw that it was the business card that Barney had given her, half in jest. As she tucked it down the front of her stays, her fingers touched the key that by some miracle had not been dislodged by Bert’s fumbling hands. Creeping out of the room, she closed the door softly behind her; she could not escape, but at least she could find sanctuary for one night. She went into the room on the far side of the landing and locked the door. Sobbing with relief, she lay down on the palliasse and cried herself to sleep.
    Tilly opened her eyes and sat up with a start. It took her a few seconds to realise where she was, but it was still dark and she had no idea of the time. The window was high above her head; studying the dark oblong for a moment, she could see pale grey streaks slicing through the night sky. Her first thought was to get downstairs to the kitchen before Clem and Abel returned from working the river and before Bert roused from his drunken stupor. With his sons around, he would be less likely to try to force himself on her; she could not imagine that his male pride would allow him to admit his humiliating defeat of last night although, with luck, he might not even remember it. Making herself as tidy as possible, she unlocked the door, tucked the key into her stays and went downstairs to the kitchen. She would not think about what might happen later in the day; she would concentrate on getting through the next few minutes, the next hour and the next.
    Having raked the fire into life, she fetched water from the pump and put the kettle on the hob. Doing even the smallest task was difficult with hands that shook and the images of last night were still painfully fresh in her mind. Keeping busy was the only way that Tilly had of keeping at bay the sickening revulsion at what had happened and the fear of what was to come. She must not give in; would not give in. She would find a way to escape or she would kill Bert Tuffin even if it meant facing the gallows or a life of penal servitude. But as she grew calmer she realised that violence was not the way: God had given her a good brain and she must use it.
    Glancing at the clock on the wall, she knew that Abel and Clem would be returning very soon. Having discovered a sack of flour during her tidying operation of yesterday, she decided that the smell of baking bread would do a lot to sweeten Abel’s foul temper when he came in barking for his breakfast. For once she was grateful to Miss Morris, the cook-general in Barbary Terrace, who had instructed her in bread-making, not out of kindness but as a means of getting out of the hard labour of kneading and pummelling