Green Spectacles and Rosy Cheeks , livre ebook

Green Spectacles and Rosy Cheeks
Jean Roberta




First published in 2020 by
House of Erotica
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Jean Roberta
The right of Jean Roberta to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Chapter 1
It was just the sort of day when Signor Vitrina, proprietor of the shop, did his best work. I stood watching the rain pour down the clear glass window on which was painted a large Egyptian eye over the words: Professor Pietro Vitrina, Optical Specialist. From my viewpoint, of course, the words appeared backwards, as in a looking glass.
I envisioned my own name, “Miss Dorothea Clark, Assistant,” directly below that of the master. I reminded myself that I needed no such advertisement of my questionable – although entirely blameless – relationship with the greatest practitioner of vitreous clairvoyance since John Dee helped Good Queen Bess foresee the future of her realm.
No customers had entered the shop all afternoon, and I hoped that the weather alone was driving them from our door. Certainly the puddles in the street were sufficiently deep and plentiful to splatter many a pair of trousers and raised petticoats, especially when carriages clattered past pedestrians.
The darkness outside the shop enabled me to see my reflection in the window. My face looked very pale in contrast with my large grey eyes and my auburn chignon. My blue shirtwaist looked both smart and modest, I thought, but perhaps it could not compensate for my expression, which lacked something of maidenly innocence. I aspired to learn more of the world than the proper table settings for a formal dinner.
A mud bomb exploded against the glass, followed by an explosion of voices outside the shop. I could see a blur of male bodies in agitated motion.
“Foreign quack’s whore!”
“—Eye-talian bastard!”
“You hooligans need a lesson in manners! You could be arrested for vandalism.”
The bell jingled as a gentleman in a canary-yellow brocade waistcoat and a snugly-fitting suit backed through the door, dragging two squirming schoolboys by their ears. They both wore drenched, crumpled uniforms which bore the crest of St. Jude’s Academy. I was shocked that the sons of toffs knew and cared about Signor Vitrina’s practise, or my connection with it.
The good man himself bustled out of the laboratory at the back of the shop. Judging from his glance at me, he needed my assistance with the latest batch of lenses, but he could hardly discuss the secrets of the trade in such company. “Gentlemen!” he greeted them, smiling in a way that conveyed no friendliness whatsoever. “May I be of service?”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” replied the gentleman, looking more at me than at Signor Vitrina. “I am Francis Pennyworth, photographer. I found these young men defacing your shop window. They are here to apologise and clean the glass as well as possible in this weather.”
“Didn’t mean any harm,” muttered one of the boys. His fellow nudged him hard in the ribs.
“Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth, for this service. I am Pietro Vitrina, Master Maker of prophetic and telepathic glass. And this is my assistant, Miss Dorothea Clark, a Glass-Maker in training. We value the quality of the glass in this shop, even that which is simply to look through.”
“What do you say, lads?” prompted Mr. Pennyworth.
“We’re sorry.”
“Sorry your window got splashed.”
Mr. Pennyworth released his grip on the boys’ ears to cuff them soundly on both sides of their heads.
“Sorry!” the boys shouted in unison. They looked at each other and ran out the door as though hell-hounds were chasing them. The bell jangled discordantly.
“Please accept my apologies on their behalf, Mr. Vitrina and Miss Clark.” Mr. Pennyworth’s expressive face looked as penitent as that of a reformed sinner on the stage, but he raised his chin as though unwilling to surrender his pride.