by Ian Garbutt
‘They make presents of such things?’ Beth says.
‘Certainly, though we have to be careful a Masque is never seen in public wearing the wrong item. A few of our more smitten patrons have even donated horses. Our stables are full of such beasts.’ She steps back. ‘Now, let’s see if you pass muster in the street.’
‘I still can’t believe I’m going out.’
‘All part of your grooming, Kitten. You need to learn how to conduct yourself in the wicked city. No creeping down the back alley either. I’ll sign the wardrobe book then it’s the front door for us, as befits the princesses we are.’
The hot scent of the city smacks Beth across the face the moment she puts a foot outside. A foul mix of horseshit, smoke and human refuse. She has forgotten what the world can smell like beyond the gently scented corridors of the House. A dozen or so marble steps spread away from the front door onto a flagged pavement. Beth is reminded of thick cream spilling from the lip of a jug. Metal railings, glossy black with fresh paint, frame either side.
An ornate square faces the house. A few trees, a patch of green, a yellow peppering of flowers. Carriages rumble past, dogs bark, hawkers call from street pitches. Beth’s senses struggle to cope. She has the impression of being buried in the heart of some huge beast. She can feel it all around her, smell it with every whiff of air. Beyond the roofs and chimneys, how many other streets?
Hummingbird squeezes Beth’s arm. ‘Stay close to me. It’s often difficult the first time.’
‘I’ll be trampled.’
‘Keep off the road and you’ll be safe enough. You only have the length of this street to walk. From there we can hire sedan chairs.’
‘No.’
A click of the tongue. ‘I daresay you can go back indoors for now, Kitten, but I thought you had more courage. The Abbess might not be so generous with her favours in future. I’m sure you don’t want to spend another month cleaning hearths. The longer you put this off the harder it will become.’
‘Very well. You have such a sweet way of persuading people.’
Hummingbird’s grin sweeps back. ‘All the best teachers have. Come on now, don’t look so glum. Three hours outside and I’ll probably have to drag you back into the House.’
Moth harbours no such reluctance. She’s down the steps in a breath. Hummingbird has to call her back. She comes to heel wearing a scolded look. People make way as they cross the square. None looks them in the eye.
‘Have we the plague?’ Beth asks.
‘Keep walking. You’ll get used to it.’
Beth steals a quick look back at the House. Not so grand as Russell Hall, though neat in its own way. She could easily lose it amidst the jumble of buildings.
Nobody accosts them. Nobody points or gawps, yet it takes the longest five minutes in Beth’s memory to stroll to the edge of the square and turn the corner. She is conscious of everything. Her gait. The cropped hair beneath the wig. Her sense of awkwardness in these heavy clothes. She tugs down the brim of her bonnet and fingers the paper patch on her cheek, resisting the urge to peel it off. We’re like the bad women outside the market taverns, she thinks. The ones in the gaudy slammerkins and painted cheeks. Any moment now a man is going to stop one of us and offer a shilling for a tup.
The clamour smothers her. She tries breathing through her mouth, praying she won’t faint. Every chimney belches fingers of black smoke into the sky.
A figure appears on the path. A hag of a woman in a tattered green dress with a fright of ginger hair sprouting above her poxed face. She grins and gestures at the two rows of chipped, yellow-stained tombstones poking out of her gums. ‘See ’em? Forty years old and I got all my own teeth. Forty, and they’re mine, every one.’
‘Good for you, Sally,’ Hummingbird says, not breaking stride.
The creature darts after them with an agility that would shame a cutpurse.‘You’re ugly,’ she tells Beth, plucking at her sleeve. ‘Ugly. Not like me. I’m an earl’s daughter, d’you know that? Used to have all the young men lined up and begging for my hand.’
Beth jerks her arm away and tries to move on. The hag scurries at her heels like a terrier on the scent of a rabbit. ‘Shamed, are you? As well you might be. Bad times have hit old Sally. There but for the grace of God go you. But I’ve still got my looks. And my teeth. Count ’em. Go on. Every one still there. Every one still good.’
Beth groans. ‘For pity’s sake, give her a penny.’
‘A mirror would suit her better,’ Hummingbird says, ‘though ’twould cost a shilling to have the glass replaced.’
The hag’s squawking fades. Already she has tripped back into the throng. A glimpse of carrot hair then nothing.
‘Who was she?’
‘Never mind. We’re going the rest of the way by sedan.’
Chairs are lined up by the kerb, the bearers standing nearby, some talking, others smoking clay pipes. Beth has never used a chair before, though she’s spied them in her local market towns. ‘An extravagance for those too bone idle to use the good legs God gave them,’ Mother had said, happier to walk in a downpour than part with a few coppers for a bit of dry comfort.
Moth doesn’t seem impressed either. ‘Shouldn’t we just walk?’
‘’Tis more than a mile, Kitten,’ says Hummingbird. ‘My feet are very important to me and I don’t want to wear them out trudging through the city in a pair of satin slippers, so hush thy tongue, as Leonardo would say, and climb inside.’
The bearer tugs the brim of his hat as Beth seats herself. She grips the window frames either side as the sedan is hoisted into the air. The men set off at a cracking pace, the cabin swaying as passers-by scuttle out of the way. Street after street slips past. Gulls swoop in from the river, fight pigeons for scraps, soar off in a flurry of screeching feathers. A dog scampers after the chair, barking, heedless of the bearers’ curses. Beth clings on, her rump jounced about on the hard seat, her gaze fixed on the bobbing chairs ahead. Soon they are climbing a cobbled hill. The chairs slow as the bearers take the strain. At a signal from Hummingbird, they halt on the crest.
Bethany takes a deep breath then steps out. Buildings rise in a zigzag on either side of the road and fall down the other side of the hill. Hummingbird dips into her reticule, pays the bearers and waves Beth over. ‘Nearly there, Kitten. Did you enjoy the ride?’
Beth eyes the crowds lining both sides of the street. Beggars and beer hawkers share road space with finely powdered dandies. A legless man, face toothless and broken apart with some festering pox, holds out an emaciated hand. ‘Charity, sweet ladies, a little charity?’
Beth edges away. ‘Are we safe here? Should you give him something?’
Hummingbird grimaces. ‘Hand over so much as a farthing and you’ll have a mob on you before you can sneeze. There’s nothing like a soft face and the glint of coin to bring the rats scurrying out of the gutter. Keep a tight purse and your good intentions to yourself and nobody will trouble you. Not in daylight anyway.’
She leads them down a breezy side street. Beth peeks through an open door. A well-dressed gentleman is seated on a chair, a beard of white soapsuds covering the bottom half of his face. Beside him, a barrel-bellied fellow in an apron sharpens a razor on a leather belt. Next door is a hat shop, then a stall selling sugared fairings.
‘Ah, here we are.’
They’ve turned the corner into a terraced lane. Hummingbird climbs the steps of a lemon-coloured building. Inside is a good-sized room with a dozen busy tables and a fire flickering in a wrought-iron hearth. The windows are trimmed with lace, crisp linen smothers the tables and paintings of various city views hang on the wall. Above, wreathed in smoke, cherubs smile from a frescoed ceiling while a brass chandelier drips with fat, waxy candles.
Conversation abruptly stops. It’s only for a moment, like a hiccup or someone catching her breath, then it resumes again. If Hummingbird notices she doesn’t comment. She takes the only remaining empty table and gestures at the others to sit.<
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‘It’s like being inside a cake,’ Moth exclaims.
A maid flusters up, fresh in white apron and mob cab. Hummingbird orders tea and raspberry tart.
‘That red-haired woman yelling at us in the street,’ Beth says, once the maid has hurried off. ‘You knew her by name.’
‘Screeching Sally? She’s a tough old harlot. Been twice carted and none the worse for it.’
‘Carted?’
‘An old tradition in this city. Petty criminals are hoisted into a cart and driven through the streets for a pelting. Sally flaunts her scars like trophies and wanders the streets showing her teeth to every pretty young woman who passes by. She’s especially fond of Masques. She thinks we’re angels.’
‘Angels?’
‘She often claims to see them.’
‘She must be soft in the head. Can’t we help her?’
‘Many harlots die a filthy death. Others are lucky enough to dodge that particular grave. Sally has enough wits left to survive. I’d say that—’
She’s interrupted by shouting from a back room. A man’s voice, words knotted in anger. They hear the maid twittering a reply then a sharp slap followed by more yelling.
‘Oh dear,’ Hummingbird says, ‘I don’t believe we are going to get our tea after all.’
From a door behind the counter, a big fellow dressed in knee breeches and waistcoat lumbers into view. A horsehair wig spikes his head above a pair of florid cheeks and piglet eyes. His forearms resemble shanks of beef and his feet are the size of barges. He approaches the women and leans both fists on the white tablecloth. ‘We don’t serve you.’
Moth spluttered. ‘But—’
‘You’re just whores by another name. Get out.’
‘Come on.’ Hummingbird grabs hold of Moth. ‘You too, Kitten. Let’s not reinforce this gentleman’s prejudices.’
‘Did you see the way everyone stared?’ Beth says. ‘I thought that oaf was going to push us out the door.’
Hummingbird, tight-lipped, leads the way past the tradesmen’s stalls. Her face is white, her eyes black buttons. Both hands are clenched around her reticule. ‘We can hail chairs at the end of the main street.’
‘Can’t we try another tea room?’ Moth says.
Hummingbird gives her an odd look. ‘We could, but that won’t solve this particular issue.’
‘I just thought—’
‘Don’t dally, and keep away from those stalls.’
A haberdasher’s pitch has caught Moth’s eye. She lingers a moment before hurrying to catch up. In her haste she nearly sends a sewing basket tumbling into the gutter. ‘I’ll belt your arse,’ the red-faced owner howls, but Moth only laughs. She skips after the other girls, snickering to herself every few yards.
‘What have you got to be so jolly-go-lightly about?’ Hummingbird demands.
Moth seems to curl into herself. An odd, sly look falls across her face.
‘What are you hiding?’ Hummingbird stops so abruptly Beth nearly stumbles into the back of her. ‘Show me.’
Moth plucks something from a fold in her gown and unwinds it. A length of blue ribbon.
‘Did you steal that?’
‘Might have done.’
‘What do you think we are? A gaggle of common footpads? Either give it back or I’ll give you tuppence and you can pay for it.’
‘No. He’ll slap me if he finds out I filched from his cart.’
‘You’ll fetch more than that if you don’t go back. He’ll be happy enough with the money.’
‘If he was too stupid to see me pinch it then he deserves to lose it, and he doesn’t merit payment either. This is mine. I sweat for the Abbess all day and don’t get a penny to show for it. I’m entitled to take what I can and if you don’t like it then look the other way.’
‘Do I have to take it off you?’
‘You couldn’t even stop us getting thrown out of that tea room.’
‘Fine. So you want to end up like Screeching Sally, poxed and living on the street? Or maybe you prefer transportation? The gallows, too, will prove happy to welcome you. That ribbon won’t look so sweet when they bury you under shovel-loads of quicklime.’
‘’Twill be the only way you or anyone else will take it off me.’
‘The Fixer warned you about this sort of thing, Moth. Petty pilfering is against House rules. You can’t go lifting other people’s property just to make yourself feel good. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.’
Moth rolls up the ribbon and returns it to her gown. ‘I shan’t.’
Bits and Pieces
‘That’s not right.’
The Abbess surveys the combs and brushes spread out on her dresser. After a moment’s thought she moves one of the larger hairbrushes two palms’ width to the right. Then, shaking her head, she moves it back.
‘Perhaps if I try this.’
She plucks up two bone-handled combs and lays them side by side next to the mirror. ‘Better, but still not perfect.’
They had been given by one of her first clients, a long ago cleric whose church the Abbess and her Harlequins still attend to the horror of the latest incumbent and his outraged parishioners.
‘Going to church is the law and we shall not be seen to break the law,’ the Abbess told her girls. ‘Any legal chink will allow those opposing us to prise fingers into our affairs.’
She rubs her right hand, trying to soothe the sharpening ache in her joints. These bouts are becoming more frequent and the Fixer’s balms are losing their potency. Her previous loss of control hadn’t helped and the litter of that particular tantrum still bespoiled her bedchamber floor. A jumble of stays, stockings and garters lies strewn like gutted fish across the rug. All due to a bottle of lavender scent. Her favourite. It was not where she’d put it. A search through the dresser turned into a scrabble. Soon everything, drawers and all, was pulled onto the floor.
The Abbess started sobbing towards the end, throwing around curses that would make the saints blush. And she didn’t know what upset her more, the missing pot or her loss of dignity.
The bottle was gone, lost to the clutter of the room or somehow ghosted away. Like the many pieces of her life her ailing mind had eaten up. A beloved cushion, embroidered by one of her best girls, which the Abbess swore she’d left on her coverlet. A garter embroidered with her maiden name. A lace-trimmed kerchief brought by a client from Paris. Those too had been swallowed.
I’m too afraid to move anything, she thinks, lest it melt away. And if I turn my back for a second will things change again? Shall I even notice?
She fetches an inkpot and quill from her writing desk. Like everything else in the House the quill is of the finest quality. Metal-tipped and hard as a dagger blade. She draws around each item, scoring the varnish of the dresser. Once these inky images are created she writes labels onto the wood in a bold, sweeping hand. Clear, solid letters taught to her as a girl by someone willing to bargain for the lessons.
Her fingers are steady on the quill. Good. She is not losing everything then. Not yet. She picks up the last item. A frown cuts her tattooed forehead. She turns the object in her hands, this way, then that, examining its different angles. Her stuttering mind reaches for identification, then fails. She remembers using it in the recent past, can picture it in her hand, but the name has gone, fled, leaked out of her brain. She casts out mental hooks, hoping the name is hiding in the back of her thoughts and can be coaxed out, summoned, drawn back into the light.
Nothing.
Up to now she has been hiding it. For the most part her girls have not noticed, though Nightingale may have an inkling. Kingfisher too. Before long too much will have gone wrong and the last pieces of her mind will spill out of their disguise.
Will anything remain of the House?
She looks up. An image in the mirror. A distorted reflection skewing nose and eyes. An outline of a face that haunts itself.
Will anything remain of me?
Betrayal and Retribution
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‘Send the Kitten into the Scarlet Parlour,’ the Abbess instructs. ‘She can surrender her garments later. ’
‘Well, haven’t we been highly favoured,’ Hummingbird says on the way to the dressing room. Her mood has not improved since the incident at the tea room. She glares thunderstorms at Moth, who’s tied a strip of the stolen ribbon to a tuft of her hair. Since the sedans dropped them off at the corner of Crown Square she’s flaunted it at every opportunity, especially in front of the Masque who would, Beth suspects, gleefully throttle her with it. And yet there is something in Hummingbird’s expression that suggests a part of her is glad Moth overstepped some boundary or other. Beth has never been good at reading faces. She supposes she’d have suffered a lot less in recent months if she was. But the contradiction is there.
The Abbess is already seated when Beth enters the blood-coloured room. Again she is invited to sit on the fat sofa beside the old woman. Her gown billows around her waist as she settles.
‘Now you have spent some time here,’ the Abbess begins, ‘what do you think of the House?’
‘I’ve never known its like,’ Beth says truthfully.
‘I daresay. Perhaps it is the only one of its kind in the world. Perhaps not. What does it mean to you?’
‘I’m not sure. A prison. A slave pen. A brothel in all but name. Or maybe a refuge. A haven.’
‘You are still confused?’
‘Yes.’
‘I prefer to think of it as a place where the lost and broken can, shall we say, rediscover themselves.’
‘But you earn money from them.’
‘The pampering does not pay for itself, Kitten. Things weren’t always as you see them.’
‘What makes you different from any other bawdy-house madam?’
A smile cracks her patch-studded face. ‘Once, I was just another runaway country girl come fresh-cheeked to the city with an ugly past behind me and a head full of hopes. Some flee home due to their pregnant bellies. Others because of their deeds. My village had me as a witch, a white-haired foundling whose very touch could wither flowers or sour milk. A crop failed and they wanted to pillory me for it. A stolen sovereign bought a coach ride into the city. No one came after me, and I’ve never been back since. I earned this house, Kitten, and everything in it. I don’t know if you like stories, but here’s an enchanting tale for you. I started in a ruin that stank of the river it stood beside. A leaking, rat-infested shell possessed of four walls, a hole for a roof and precious little else. I took the skin off both knees scrubbing it clean. I found my first girl bleeding in a gutter by the docks, beaten half to death by some sailors who’d taken their pleasure then vented their spite when she’d asked for a shilling in exchange. I took her in, nursed her, fed her and turned her into a queen. The black butterfly tattooed on her cheek gave me the idea for the Emblems. She told me some witch-man straight off a ship from Africa had painted it on her cheek with a touch of his black finger. She always was a whore, and a lying whore at that, but her looks put paintings on my walls and rugs on the floor. Each room took a year of our lives, and there were so many rooms in that house, Kitten, so very many. New girls sold their company to have the windows fixed, new doors, a ton of fresh slate and a warm fire in the hearth. Women spat at me in the street, yet at night their husbands crept up my path. No matter how fat their purses I vowed no man would ever ill-use the bodies of my charges again. Think on that tonight when you lie on your comfortable feather mattress.’