by Ian Garbutt
Hummingbird pats Beth on the shoulder then slips into the room, closing the door. Eloise flaps her free hand. ‘She is laughing at me in there, you know that? All the time she laughs, like this is some game I play for her amusement. Pray God you have some sense in that bare head of yours. Now we must get started. We are already late.’
Beth examines the empty sack dangling in her hand. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Do? Why, we are going to clean fireplaces, that is what we shall do. What did you hope for, enfant? Some flower arranging? A little crochet perhaps? Sew a sampler for a young beau? Not under this roof. Ashes and embers, those are our business, and you’d better get used to their smell before you can think about dabbing sweet scent behind those little-girl ears. We shall do your bedchamber last. I cannot go in there and suffer that idle creature braying at me. Here, we shall start in here.’
Hours of work leave Bethany’s back and legs aching. Each bedchamber, though a near mirror of Hummingbird’s, is infinitely tidier. Apart from some hairbrushes and the odd trinket box there’s little in the way of personal effects. It’s impossible to glean anything about the occupants.
Along the whispering corridors of this huge house she sometimes hears voices and odd snatches of laughter. Ghost women clean and polish, remove chamber pots, deal with the laundry. They are everywhere and as barely glimpsed as mice.
‘Where are all the tattooed girls?’ Beth asks.
‘Your Sisters-to-be are either out working or in the Mirror Room practising their skills. No one other than Hummingbird sits idle in this house for long.’
One more room, one more hearth. After clearing it out, Beth collapses into a sooty heap on the floor. ‘Finished at last. I’m exhausted.’
‘What are you doing, enfant, taking a nap? A little beauty sleep to put some rosebuds on your cheeks? Our work is only half done.’
‘Half done? What do you mean? There can’t be a grate I haven’t cleaned.’
‘Cleaned the grates, yes, but now we have to fetch fuel and kindling. Our brave princesses will want something to warm their pretty hands by. The walls of this house are thick and it has a cold heart, whatever the time of year. A room without a flame is a dread place. We must work some warmth into its bones.’
Beth tries to get up but tumbles back.
‘I can’t do it.’
‘Can’t do it? Of course you can do it.’
She tries again. Her legs won’t move. Both arms feel as if they are floating six inches out of their sockets. Her hands are two ash gloves and soot smears her face. ‘I can’t.’
Eloise stands over her. ‘Must I take a stick to you? Will you be beaten like a stubborn donkey?’
‘I’ll kill you if you touch me, I swear it.’
‘Brave words, enfant. You claim you cannot fetch a scrap of kindling yet in the same breath threaten my life. Look at you, trembling like a rabbit in a snare. I fear for my safety, I truly do.’
‘Don’t mock. I’ve been beaten enough, you French cow.’
Eloise claps her hands. ‘Mon dieu, now you sound like Hummingbird. Come, enfant, let me help you up. No, don’t flinch, I shall take you to a place you can rest awhile. You have a stout heart and have worked hard today. I doubt the House of Masques will be any poorer for sparing you half an hour.’
Eloise guides her down the passage and into an alcove. ‘Here we are, our little day palace.’
A plain varnished door opens into a parlour dotted with armchairs. Thick curtains are bunched at the windows. A coffee table, scattered with newspapers, sprouts from the polished floorboards.
Eloise lowers her into a leather armchair. Opposite, a figure lies snoring on a sofa. A woman in breeches and long leather apron. Her face is grubby, and she smells of manure and old rope.
‘Don’t pay any heed to her,’ Eloise says, filling two cups with steaming liquid from a pot over the fire. ‘This is where we come for respite. Our own parlour, though few of us have time to make much use of it.’
The rich smell of coffee warms Beth’s nostrils. She lifts one of the cups and takes a sip. ‘I’ve not had coffee in weeks.’
‘Then it will taste all the better. I take pity on you, new girl, because you are so weak and wrung out, but do not think I shall treat you like this every day.’
‘I’m grateful just the same.’
‘What did you do before your life turned bad?’
‘Bad? How would you know what happened to me?’
‘We are all people who have had something happen to them, enfant. Only the details differ.’
Beth stares into her coffee cup. ‘I looked after children.’
‘Ah, little ones,’ Eloise’s face softens, ‘they are our future, oui?’
‘Who is the girl on the couch?’
‘Another hard-working member of our family.’
‘Why is she asleep at this time of the day?’
‘She has spent all morning helping the dwarf with the horses.’
‘Couldn’t the stable boys see to them?’
‘Stable boys?’ Eloise laughs. ‘We don’t keep stable boys. Not with a house full of pretty girls, enfant. Men are pigs, don’t you know that? They get ideas above their place. They drink and wag their fat tongues into the wrong kind of ears. They fight among themselves because they all want to be king over any pile of straw they find. And they would not suffer a woman as their master. They are not bred for it, you see? The poorest farmer in the country can sire six daughters and hold them dear to his heart, but as soon as he spits a boy from his loins then that son inherits whatever patch of mud his papa possesses. This is what all men are brought up to believe. And it is the men who make the laws.’
Beth settles back in the chair. It feels like sinking into a soft glove. ‘My mother never saw a future for me beyond the walls of the squire’s house. Father didn’t object. Sometimes I hated him for that, sitting like a straw puppet agreeing with all her opinions as though he never had a single thought of his own. As it turned out, I was wrong. But what about Kingfisher? And the dwarf is a man of sorts.’
‘Ah, but those fellows are cut from a different cloth. I doubt you will hear Leonardo bemoaning his lot. Kingfisher enjoys a high place here and, darkie or not, he is not so witless as to send himself back to the slavers. He claims he was a leader in his own country who was tricked into captivity. The Abbess bought the collar off his neck and exchanged it for a cravat. He can knock the wits out of any so-called bruiser and still flourish a silver fork with the grace of a dandy. Yet he never touches the girls, not in that way. He jests that they are pale and horsy, with the fire drained out of their veins. The women of his own country are seemingly rich and exotic, like a strong spice, yet the humour leaves his face when he talks of them.’ She takes a mouthful of coffee. ‘Nevertheless he is a hunter. He sniffs out girls — good ones, not common trash. Everyone under this roof is well educated. He knows all the shut-away places families hide their black sheep. His net is huge and he caught you, my little minnow.’
‘Why did you become a maid here, Eloise?’
‘Maid?’ She taps her cheek. ‘You see this scar? I was once a Masque, a girl not much different to you, enjoying the company of landed gentlemen. However, rules are in place, and if rules are broken there should be consequences, no? My Emblem was taken from me and now I spend my days running after little mesdames like Hummingbird. I tell you, some days when she is difficult I wonder if working the streets would not be kinder.’
‘Emblem? You mean one of those tattoos? How was it removed?’
‘With a hot knife. A quick enough job if the Fixer puts his mind to it. That is one task only a man could do well. Don’t ever upset the Abbess, enfant.’
‘Why did you let her do that? Why were you not dismissed, or leave of your own accord?’
Eloise laughs but there’s a hollow sound to it. ‘You’ll soon learn not to ask certain questions. Asking in itself can’t get you into trouble. It’s the answers you won’t like. The Ho
use is a refuge in many ways but if we are not careful our pasts will fester inside us. We look for any means to lock our histories deep inside ourselves. Sometimes a hot knife is the only remedy.’
They sit quietly for a moment. Apart from the snoring the only sound is the hiss of steam from the pot on its hook above the fire. Eloise drains her coffee. ‘Now we must go back to work, enfant. I shall take care of most of it. All you have to do is hand me the kindling. Can you manage that?’
‘I’ll try.’ Beth holds out her arms. Soot blackens both sleeves. ‘Why didn’t you give me an apron?’
‘Because you would have dirtied your gown just the same, then there would be two lots of washing to do. I doubt the washerwoman would thank you for that. She complains loudly enough as it is about the amount of laundry we give her. Fear not, enfant, you will get your scented bath at the end of the day, and a crisp fresh gown for the morning.
‘You make me look a sluggard.’
‘Once your strength returns you will surprise yourself with what you can do.’
They progress back through the rooms. Sometimes Eloise chats, sometimes she sings little French ditties. The day is beginning to soften into late afternoon when she declares their work finished.
‘Now you can go back to your bedchamber. If that idle friend of yours comes home early I shall bring supper so she can gorge her flabby face even more. There will also be a fresh pitcher of water and some towels. You at least have earned them.’
Nightingale is standing outside the door. Beth nearly walks into her. The Harlequin’s face is so pale it almost shines. Thin lips cut a pink gash in that icy skin. Beth drops the kindling bag. Behind her, Eloise draws in her breath.
‘Did the Kitten work well?’
‘Well enough,’ Eloise replies.
‘She did as she was told?’
‘She did, oui.’
‘No tantrums? No rebellion?’
‘Not so much.’
Nightingale turns to Beth. ‘So, you are a good girl? We shall see how far that obedience extends.’ She brushes past and glides off down the passage, linen gown whispering.
‘What did she mean by that?’ Beth asks.
Eloise cocks an eyebrow. ‘Ever trained a puppy?’
‘No. We never had a dog. Mama got the gripe whenever one came near her.’
‘Well, Nightingale is good at it. Very good. Now, let’s get these things put away. Be back here tomorrow at a quarter past the hour. We shall need to clean the fires out again in the morning.’
‘And this is done every single day?’
‘Don’t worry, enfant, it’s not forever. In a few days you might be changing bed linen.’
Beth finds her own way back to Hummingbird’s bedchamber. Every muscle in her body creaks. I’m going to sleep smelling of soot and old chimneys, she thinks. If I never wake up I don’t care.
A stranger stands in the bedroom. A white-faced creature with rouge ringing her mouth. Dark eyes glitter above rosebud cheeks. A gown almost swallows her whole, massive loops topped with velvet bows sweeping across her skirts. Her head is smothered by a powdered wig topped with a tiny blue tricorne.
‘Did you clean out those ashes or take a bath in them?’ she says in Hummingbird’s voice. ‘I thought you a sweep’s boy.’
Beth struggles for breath. And . . . and you look like an earl’s doxy.’
Both girls burst into a fit of giggles. ‘I don’t know who fetched the bigger fright,’ Hummingbird says. ‘Me, I think.’
‘You’ll have to duck every time you go through the door,’ Beth retorts. ‘Where did you get those garments? I saw nothing like that in the wardrobe.’
‘These are my working clothes. I’m only allowed to wear them when I’m on Assignment. No, don’t touch, you’ll get dirt on them. Strip and wash. A clean shift is on the back of the chair and some water left in the ewer. Did our darling Eloise mention anything about supper?’
‘She promised to bring something up.’ Beth pulls off her soiled smock and lets it fall onto the rug. She nudges off her house shoes and pads over to the dresser in her bare feet. Water splashes into the basin. ‘That woman, Nightingale, was lurking in the corridor when Eloise and I finished working,’ Beth says, washing the soot from her fingers. ‘I don’t know how long she’d been standing there. She was like a cat waiting to pounce on a starling. She scared me, even after all I’d suffered before coming here. She’s harbouring some sort of gripe, I’m sure of it.’
‘She’s like that with all the Kittens. I think she’s laying down the pecking order.’
‘That’s what Moth said, but there’s more. It’s not just the way she wafts around in that golden gown and elbow gloves. She’s beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have seen, yet at the same time she’s like some unholy sculpture by a mad artist.’
‘Ah, those gloves. She has more than a hundred pairs. A little privilege the Abbess grants her. They infest every corner of her room. I’ve heard she even bathes wearing them.’
Beth cleans under her arms then across her breasts. The water is cool against her skin. ‘Eloise took me to a parlour to rest for a while. Will Nightingale likely go on haunting me?’
‘Harlequins have their own parlour. You’d have to scratch and scrabble to step through that door, Kitten. Beware, always beware. Your Sisters can quote Latin with the eloquence of a poet while pushing a hatpin through your throat.’
A knock on the door. Beth grabs the fresh shift and hugs it to herself, but it’s only Eloise carrying a tray and teapot which she sets on the dresser.
‘Et voila. Scones with cream and sweet bramble jam, if that suits your highnesses.’
Hummingbird launches herself at the tray. ‘Give me anything so long as it has cream on it. In fact, leave the cream and forget the scone.’
‘I hope you are ashamed, Hummingbird, displaying such piggery in front of this girl, and her only recently arrived. Don’t expect me to patch your stays when the stitching bursts. Can you please take the Kitten to the Fixer before you go out, provided you can still move after gorging yourself of course?’
Hummingbird dollops cream on top of a scone. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do your job for you, as always. Please go now, Eloise, your twittering gives me a headache.’
The maid withdraws, mumbling something in French. Hummingbird breaks another scone in half and spreads a generous portion of jam over it.
‘Come on, Kitten, put that shift on and eat something before I finish it all. I’m sure a morsel won’t kill you, provided you don’t tattle to the Fixer.’
Beth, whose belly feels like an empty pot, picks up the butter knife. Hummingbird snatches it out of her grasp. ‘No.’ She taps the blade against the side of the tray. ‘Silver. You don’t touch it outside of dinner training. Next time I’ll remind Eloise to bring you a wooden knife. She should have known better.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘One of my papa’s friends had a sheepdog. He reared it from a puppy. I used to pet it until one day it bit me. Just like that. So, no, Kitten, I don’t trust you. Not entirely. And even if you didn’t hurt me you could always slip it out of here, perhaps up your sleeve, and use it on someone else. We’ve had girls try all sorts of things with the most unlikely implements. We even had one Kitten run off with an entire case of spoons and try to sell them to the local silversmith. You’re in my room because it is my job to watch you. The Abbess would have me strangled if she caught you with a silver knife. Now, take this scone and eat up. The Fixer wants you, and the city is expecting me. We can’t afford to keep either waiting.’
Art Lesson
Beth felt as if she was standing at the bottom of a huge cannon with a floor of black powder primed to go off. One wrong step could cause her whole world to explode. Daylight spilled through the thin windows, creating beams of sunlight like the spokes of a huge carriage wheel. A flight of stairs circled up through the ceiling, hugging the wall. A fire crackled in an iron grate, adding a smoky tint to the air.
&n
bsp; Lord Russell was dressed like a visiting town merchant with blue breeches gathered at the knee with ribbons. Coloured hose sank into glittering shoes with rosettes as big as the moon. A dark satin doublet was embroidered with silver butterflies and a neckcloth circled his throat in milk-white folds.
Beth stole a breath. ‘May I ask why you were expecting me, m’lord, and what you could want of me in a place such as this?’
Lord Russell seemed to consider for a moment. Fingers, shiny with rings, ran through his hair, a flowing brown mane that fell over the shoulders and down his back. A sharp widow’s peak mixed with threads of grey stabbed his forehead. He resembled a tall, white-cheeked wolf. Beth half expected his teeth to be as sharp as needles. As it was they were polished to an unholy shine.
‘Such impertinence,’ he said through a smile. ‘You did not think to curtsey or wait until you were required to speak. If you were in any other service a birch would be laid across your back.’
He spoke in little bites, picking each word from between his teeth. His fingers scurried up his shirt, twiddled the fastenings, played meaningless games. ‘Fortunately I am not so disposed. I was expecting you because curiosity would inevitably lead you here. I have a penchant for painting and believe you can be of use to me.’
On top of a folding table lay a flat piece of board spattered with coloured blobs. Half a dozen thin-handled brushes were piled on one side. Beth had seen painters at Pendleton fair. Sixpence for your portrait.
‘Is this where you work? Don’t you have a canvas?’
He swept his hand around the room. ‘Men’s fascination for erect, cylindrical objects never ceases to amuse me. In a round house nothing can hide in the corners and canvas, for all its versatility, is not a living thing. It stands without protest and suffers the indignities thrust upon it by the great and incompetent alike.’
He positioned himself behind the table. ‘But how could I paint you? You are cold, locked up — everything hidden away as if in a cupboard. Your body has nothing to say. It does not speak to me.’