Then I heard creaking in the wind. “See,” said Shadow, and pointed.
There was a house on the slope above us, a town house once fine and imposing, with a brick exterior, four stories, and wide stone steps leading up to a pair of elegant, painted pillars that supported a porch over the front door. Over the years, the paint had peeled away, and salt and rain had eaten at the exposed brick. A faded sign swung in the rising wind.
I looked at it, scarce believing my eyes: a sheep by a wriggling blue stream, crudely painted. Miss Jennet had never said I’d be working in a tavern.
“Shadow, this can’t be the house!”
He shrugged. “Long Gull, you said.”
He was fidgeting, looking up at the windows of the house. I could see candlelight on the first floor, where the shutters had not yet been closed.
“No, no—Gull House—it was your master who said…”
“Plenty of ladies come ‘ere, Miss. I’ve brought ‘em. You’ll be right enough. They’ll give you a bed for the night, least.”
My heart sank. I remembered such places—houses of ill-repute—from my time in the Capital. “It’s the wrong house,” I said firmly.
“Is it Gull ‘ouse you want, then?” He looked up at the house again, then back at me.
“Do you know Gull House, Shadow?” I said suspiciously.
He looked shifty. “Could do. Plenty of grand ‘ouses in the center of town.” He began to cough, a barking cough that echoed down the empty cobbles. He wiped his mouth, his thin chest heaving, his large eyes fixed on mine.
I thought of trailing after him in the growing darkness of a strange town, a boy whom I didn’t even know I could trust to find it. While I was hesitating, the door opened as if on cue.
A woman stood on the step. In the dusk I couldn’t make out her face, young or old, but her clothes were tight around her shapely figure, her hair down and loose over her shoulders.
“Mistress Bundish?” I said uncertainly, and even as I said it I knew my misgivings were justified. “Mistress Elizabeth Bundish?”
There was a pause. She turned to Shadow—I couldn’t see her expression—and then back to me. “And who’s asking for her?” Her accent was genteel, yet she was no lady, I thought. All I wanted now was to leave this place as fast as possible.
“I’m sorry,” I said politely, climbing the steps so she could see me. “I believe I have mistaken the address. I’m a stranger here…”
“A mistake? Then why don’t you come in, my dear, and let us sort it out? It will be dark soon and at the least we may lend you a lantern.”
Her voice was gentle and kind; I should not have judged her so quickly.
“Go on, Miss,” urged Shadow. “We could do wiv the light.” He was jittering about on the step below me, as if he were cold.
Some instinct rose to protect me. I stepped back, almost at the same moment as Shadow must have pushed me forward. Encumbered by the box, I almost fell at the lady’s feet, and might have done so, if she hadn’t gripped my arm herself to raise me up. Her hand beneath my arm was like a claw.
I saw her other hand go out to Shadow, press something into his outstretched palm. Suddenly I was inside the wide, candlelit hall, and Shadow, with a gleeful jingle of coins, had disappeared into the darkness outside as the door shut.
16
Immediately, I struggled free of her powerful clutch on my arm, but already she had whisked a key from a pocket at her waist and locked the front door.
We gazed at each other, breathing fast: she with exertion, me with fear. She was a tall, wiry woman, richly dressed in stiff violet taffeta. “You are a pretty one,” she murmured, her rouged lips smiling. “I could see it even in the halflight.”
“What is this?” I faltered. “You are not Elizabeth Bundish, are you? Why are you imprisoning me here? I’ve nothing valuable in my box, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Your box?” She looked down and saw it clutched to me. “My dear, it’s not your box I want.” She gave a gurgle of laughter.
I looked around wildly, at the graceful staircase curving upwards at the end of the hall and the silken chairs standing either side of an open doorway. Of course she would not want my box. “What then?” I demanded.
She did not answer. Instead, she took out the key again, slow and deliberate. She held it aloft so I should mark it, then she unlocked the front door. “Leave, if you wish,” she said softly, “you are free to go,” and she held the door open so I could see the dusk pressing down on the black cobbles and the greasy, oozing water. “I must warn you that a pretty girl—so young too—should not be alone at night in Poorgrass Kayes.” She clicked her tongue. “As a mother once, I find it beholden on me to offer you a bed for the night. Indeed, I cannot bear to let you out again. It would be very irresponsible of me.”
I hesitated, looking out at the darkness. When I turned she was watching me expectantly, even humorously, thin brows arched. Her angular face and crooked smile did not seem evil. There was a warmth about her, a charm. A fire crackled from the room along the hall; and there was a rich smell of cooking meat in the air, and of sweet-scented flowers.
She gestured again at the open door. Cold night air seeped damply against my face. “There, leave if you wish.” She parted her hands to indicate it was my choice, not hers, and the candlelight gleamed on her silver bracelets.
I looked at her direct in her black-ringed eyes. “I would be free to leave in the morning?” I said, to make certain.
“You need to find your Mistress—Bundish, you said? I can help you find her, I’m sure. I know the town well. Let us discuss it properly tomorrow when you’ve rested.”
“I can’t pay you for a bed,” I said stiffly.
She shook her head, put her arm around my shoulders.
She was wearing a musky perfume; face powder had creased around her eyes. I hung back from her closeness, but she wouldn’t allow me; and somehow she was leading me down the hall and into a parlor, golden with candlelight and hung with wallpaper of yellow silk. A china bowl filled with hyacinths sat on a polished chest. She pressed me down on a couch amongst velvet cushions and perched herself opposite on an embroidered chair, leaning forward to tinkle a little brass bell on the chest.
It was delightfully warm and cozy; the fire blazed merrily in the wrought-iron grate. It was so long since I had been in a house, sat comfortably—so long since I had been truly warm! I put my box down carefully on the parquet floor and looked around, avoiding the lady’s appraising gaze.
This house did not seem like a tavern, unless they had no visitors. Where were the drinkers? The noise of ribald conversation? The clash of pewter and chink of glass? Shortly after the bell had rung, a girl poked her head around the door, saw me, and stared. She looked a few years older than I was, her fair hair in ringlets. “Connie, fetch the decanter and two glasses,” said the woman.
I shook my head when the drink—an amber liquid in a small, stemmed glass—was offered. The girl, Connie, having brought the glasses on a tray, had now disappeared after further inspection of me, and we were alone again. I felt almost too tired to speak.
“Drink,” urged the woman kindly. “A sip or two. It will do you good. You are much fatigued, I can see that.”
It was true, the drink did me good; a glow suffused me from my head to my feet. I had meant to take one sip only, but found I had swallowed the lot, and that my glass had been refilled. My head began to swim. The woman took an enameled tin from a corner cupboard and offered me a savory biscuit, then another. They were delicious: salty and sharp with cheese. I wolfed down several, though I tried to eat them slowly; I licked my fingers for the last of the taste when I thought she wasn’t looking.
“Now, let us exchange names.”
This was the hard part. “I am called by a nickname, Scuff,” I said in a small voice. In this beautiful room it seemed a silly, inelegant name.
She smiled again. “Nothing more glamorous than ‘Scuff’? Perhaps we shall f
ind something else that suits you better.”
“I am only a kitchen maid, Madam,” I muttered. “I am used to it.”
“Mine is Anora Drazel, though you may call me Anora, as my girls do.”
“Anora?” It was hard to get my tongue around it. “Your daughters call you that?” It seemed disrespectful, though it was a pretty name, the prettiest I’d ever heard.
She had an unexpectedly deep laugh. “They are not my daughters. They are girls like you whom I’ve not had the heart to turn away. They end up in Poorgrass for all kinds of reasons, and then they stay—they stay here with me.”
She smoothed the violet taffeta of her skirts. “In return for a bed and food, they help me. I don’t ask for money.”
“I’ve been a kitchen maid a good while,” I said. “I’m willing to do any housework you want in return for a bed tonight, and perhaps”—I looked at the tin—“a few more biscuits.”
She gave her deep laugh again. “Indeed, you shall have more than a few biscuits! But I won’t ask you to work tonight. Tomorrow, when you are rested, will be time enough. Besides,” she leaned forward again, her eyes on my face, “although a little housework would be helpful, there is something else I require of you, if you are willing.”
“What is it?” I said, suspicious again.
“You may have seen the sign outside. This house was once an inn, but sadly rundown when I bought it. I have brought it up in the world, thanks to the generosity of my dear departed husband. I now hold salons every week, Scuff. We have plenty of rich merchants and seamen passing through, willing to spend money on entertainment.”
“Salons, Ma’am?” I said doubtfully.
“Anora, please. Salons are parties, with music and singing.”
“Your guests dare break the Curfew?” I said, wide-eyed, for all towns had a Curfew and it could mean arrest if the Lawman found you out after dark.
She gave an elegant shrug. “The Lawman usually turns a blind eye to what goes on here. He knows my salons are much sought after. My girls are a great attraction, you know.”
“Why, what do they do, Ma’am—Anora?”
She smiled. “Each has a special talent. I train them well.”
“I can sing a little,” I said. “I’ve never been trained, though.”
“You can sing? Excellent!” She clapped her hands together, more like a little girl than a grown woman; she had large hands, with pointed nails that shone with a rusty glaze. “I knew as soon as I saw you that you would more than do.”
“Do for what?”
“Do as a replacement for poor little Sukey. She is unable to sing tomorrow. But you shall sing for us instead. You shall sing for your supper!”
“I’m only singing one night, if you please, Ma’am. I must find my new employers.”
“Ah! Tomorrow is our most popular night in the week. Our guests will love you, I know it. Will you give me a verse now, so I can hear your voice?”
I hesitated, but she smiled at me so encouragingly, I could not refuse to sing, although I had never felt less like doing so. I gave her the first verse and chorus of “So Sing Success to the Weaver.” My voice shook a little.
“Charming,” she said at the end, and smiled her crooked smile. “You will do very well.”
She rose with a stiff rustle, and held out her hand. “Come, we shall find some supper for you. You shall meet the girls!”
I did not take her hand, but I picked up the box and, holding it fast to me, stood up unsteadily and followed her.
17
There were three girls in the paneled dining room: Connie, with her fair ringlets, and two dark-haired girls, one of them around my age.
Madam Anora introduced me and told me their names, but what she said floated through my head. I merely noticed that the three of them were beautifully dressed, had perfect table manners—“pleases” and “thank yous” forever on their lips—and that throughout supper they did not stop staring at me, at my strange garb and ravenous eating.
A much older woman brought the food to us. She had a tired, sallow face, and was a housekeeper of sorts, I supposed, since she wore a cap and apron. She carved our servings of roast beef onto plates of painted china; each place setting was laid with silver cutlery, and she brought cut glass jugs of wine that she set down on the gleaming mahogany table.
Madam Anora’s late husband must have been wealthy indeed, I thought, but I was too tired and hungry to dwell on it. I was now cautious enough, however, to drink only water.
I scarce listened to the conversation: gossip about gentlemen they knew. Everything Anora said was greeted by tiny shrieks of laughter from the girls, who talked in high, affected little voices and giggled a good deal too much.
In the pointed golden flames of the candelabra, Madam Anora looked radiant, and not at all as if she were missing her late husband. “I always insist the girls dress in their best for dinner, even if it is only the family present,” she said to me during a lull.
“The family?” I said, bleary.
“I look on us as a little family, my dear—my girls and myself. Sometimes we entertain gentlemen, of course, especially before one of our salons. But during the week we tend to be just the five of us together at supper, don’t we, girls?”
“Yes, Anora,” they chorused.
She put her hand to her mouth. “I was forgetting…” Her black eyes glittered with sudden tears. “Poor, dear Sukey—she is no longer with us. But we have you instead, Scuff, a gift from the night.” She looked around at the girls, who had fallen silent without her to lead them in conversation. They never talked amongst themselves, I noticed. “Scuff is to sing tomorrow evening in place of Sukey.”
The three girls nodded at me, seemingly polite and interested now. I thought I saw a shadow pass over the face of the younger dark-haired girl, but perhaps I had imagined it.
We had finished our apple pie. I laid my spoon down on the exquisite plate, which I had scraped clean. In return for all this food, I thought uneasily, I must excel at singing tomorrow.
When the nero leaf and liqueurs were brought around, Madam Anora frowned at the housekeeper. She spoke so harshly I felt sorry for the poor woman. “Do you never remember that we must not indulge before a salon? Such ruination to our voices—our complexions…”
The housekeeper retreated with the silver tray, her face impassive. The girls barely glanced at each other, but I felt something pass between them. We gazed silently at the table, laden with our empty plates.
“Forgive me, girls,” Madam Anora said, with a tiny yawn, patting her hand to her mouth. “I shall have an early night. Don’t linger yourselves, for tomorrow is an important evening.” She dropped a kiss lightly on each girl’s head and swept to the door. For a moment I thought she had forgotten me, but she glanced briefly at the younger dark-haired girl before she closed the door behind her. “Becca, look after Scuff. She can have Sukey’s bed.”
The girls sat still and silent for a moment, and so did I, for I did not know what else to do. I thought they might be waiting for the downtrodden housekeeper’s return. But then Connie nodded at Becca, and Becca jumped to her feet and darted to the door and listened. “She has gone,” she whispered.
“Are you sure she doesn’t listen the other side?” said Connie, stretching languorously.
“She is too eager for her nero leaf,” said the other dark-haired girl, Rose, in a low voice. A subdued giggle went between the two.
Becca looked frightened. “Oh, hush! She might come back.”
“Then we must do our duties,” said Connie, and the three of them began to drift around the table, passing cutlery to each other with little smiles.
“Does the housekeeper come back for the dishes, or do we take them through to the kitchen?” I asked.
Connie looked nonplussed. “The housekeeper? Oh, you mean Anora’s mother, old Ma Drazel.” She gave a giggle behind her hand at my surprise. “She’ll be looking after Anora now—she’ll put her to bed.” She look
ed sideways at the other girls, but they did not meet her eyes.
I stood, uncertain, while they floated about, loading trays with the used china, wiping the table, snuffing out the candelabra. It took a long while.
“Can I help?” I said.
“Oh, no,” said Connie. “Anora likes it just so, in case we have gentlemen staying for a late dinner tomorrow night. You would not know what to do.” She lifted the bowl of fruit to the sideboard and dreamily checked its position between two silver candlesticks.
“She should learn, though,” said Rose. She had long black eyes and a face like pale, carved wood. “She will need to help in the future.”
“I am not staying long,” I explained. “I will be leaving the morning after the salon.”
All three girls looked at me in astonishment. “No one leaves here once they have come, unless Anora wants them to do so,” said Connie primly.
“Is that what happened to Sukey?” I asked.
There was a pause. They seemed taken aback, then Becca and Rose looked at Connie, who appeared to be the leader of the three. “Anora wanted Sukey to leave—yes,” said Connie. “Once she was ill, she was not so popular at our salons anymore, you see—she didn’t bring in so many gentlemen.”
“We bring lots,” said Becca, nodding her head like a jack-in-the-box.
“Our singing is most excellent, is it not?” said Rose, with her faint exotic accent, and the three of them smiled reassuringly at each other.
I looked from one complacent face to another, the three of them determinedly happy.
“But you could leave if you wanted to?” I asked uneasily.
Connie looked blank. “Why should we want to? The salons bring in money and we have our share.” She nudged Rose and giggled. “And then in return for a little kiss or two the gentlemen give us tips. And where else would we be clothed and fed so well?”
“We’d be out wandering the dark streets, homeless, like Sukey is now,” said Becca, shuddering. “Like we all were once, before Anora rescued us.”
Ambergate Page 9