Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  Beth lets her gaze wander. ‘It seems you have done well for yourself.’

  ‘This building was given to me in payment for a debt by a lord who was too fond of the cards. He got the better side of the bargain, for in giving it to me he no longer had to maintain it, or pay window tax. The deeds are as solid as the foundations and none shall have them from me unless I so wish. Some years ago a troop of soldiers came to close me down. We barricaded ourselves in and emptied pisspots over their heads. Our clients brandished both their swords and their purses. A few hefty bribes and the matter was resolved. Now we are careful not to break the law.’

  ‘I still don’t know why I was chosen. The madhouses must closet a hundred girls with faces fairer than mine.’

  ‘That may be so, but wits are another matter. Listen to the way I speak. Impressive, is it not? What you say when you open your mouth will leave a mark more powerful than any expensive dress. Many a comely face has been ruined by a milkmaid’s squeak. You are a fighter, Kitten. That place had the power to snatch the last breath out of your lungs. Had you died you would have done so with defiance in your eyes. As it is, you will become so enchanting that men will gladly empty their pockets for the privilege of conversing or playing a hand of cards. Within a month you’ll know the name of every noted theatrical performer. You’ll sing like an angel and play whist or hazard with enough skill to bankrupt a gambler. At the table your manners must be without fault.’

  ‘You’ve the Fixer to thank for that.’

  ‘Indeed. Any clod is capable of cramming food into their mouth, but most can’t tell the difference between quail and mutton. Pass something the wrong way or pick up the wrong knife at an inopportune time and your charming social veneer will be irreparably cracked. This sort of thing is important to these people and word gets about. “Did you hear about the milkmaid Geoffrey had for dinner? What, tried to eat pheasant pie with a soup spoon?” You’d become a laughing stock.’

  A door opens at the back of the room. A girl appears carrying a gilt tray piled with tea things. An ebony-eyed, round-faced lass of solid build, younger than Beth perhaps, with a tumble of chestnut curls sprouting from her crown. Freckles buzz around her neck and forehead. She wears a white shirt and embroidered waistcoat above a pair of buff riding breeches. A black bird swoops across her right cheek.

  The tray is placed on the table. ‘Thank you, Raven,’ the Abbess says. ‘I shall take care of everything.’

  The girl withdraws. The Abbess pours two dishes of tea and passes one to Beth. ‘We have stables at the back of the House. Can you ride?’

  Beth nods. ‘My father was given a horse to travel the squire’s estate. He taught me.’

  ‘Leonardo will take you around the yard and appraise your style. Side-saddle only of course.’ The Abbess smiles. ‘Schooling a girl is akin to training a good mount. First you have to break it in. Then comes the finesse.’

  ‘Is that what this house is? A place full of broken people?’

  ‘The maids, the kitchen girls, even the wench who brickbats the front step — all have their place here. Nobody ever leaves. Nobody ever retires. Play your part and no man shall ever ill-use you again. Life here can be very comfortable if you follow the rules. You will continue to learn these as you progress.’

  ‘Not much of a choice, is it?’

  The Abbess sips her tea and nudges a plate of cream fancies towards Beth. ‘You have earned a treat, I think. I’m sure your belly will cope in any case.’

  Beth picks one. Her tongue nearly bursts with the exquisite taste of it.

  ‘Your first clients will be carefully selected,’ the Abbess continues. ‘You will also be accompanied. At the close of the evening touch the client on the cheek with your gloved fingertips and that will conclude the contract. Hummingbird will show you how to do it properly. Avoid skin contact. If he wishes to hold your hand then keep your glove on. Clients are not escorted by the same girl more than three times in any one year unless by special arrangement. This is to discourage them becoming over fond of any one Masque. Never ask a client’s name. If he wishes you to know, he will volunteer it. Otherwise it’s “sir” or “madam”, never “m’lord” or “m’lady”. Everyone is equal in the presence of a Masque. Sometimes they’ll want to address you by a name of their own choosing. Indulge them. Memorise the name, use it as your signature and answer to it for the duration of your hire period. Once your contract is fulfilled, push it out of your mind unless the same client hires you again.’

  Beth cradles her tea dish. ‘Who’s going to want me with my tired face? You might as well give me to a travelling fair.’

  ‘Don’t belittle yourself. The Fixer is a master at his trade. Ours is a very select circle catering to unique tastes. One of our girls has a hook. Cuckoo. She’s in Florence on a long-term Assignment. A client once gifted her a ring. She was foolish enough to accept it. He became besotted, so Kingfisher warned him off. He managed to send her a private message, to meet him in his carriage by the wharf. And she, her head full of sparrows, went unaccompanied and stepped inside his coach, where he cut off her hand to get his ring back and dumped her in the harbour. Two dredgers found her in the mud, barely breathing. They were going to rob her of her silks, I believe, but then noticed the Emblem and brought her back to the House for a better reward. Stories like this are rare, however. Most of the time my girls enjoy a fulfilling life.’

  ‘This girl, Cuckoo, is still a Masque?’

  ‘As you heard, we cater for clients of all persuasions. Your first will likely be a local lady.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t look like that. It’s not what you think. We have a small female clientele. Some of these women are lonely, others have lost family members. They need a “daughter” or a “sister” to take to the theatre, sup tea or sit in the park. If more is involved then the same look-don’t-touch rules apply. A few tip very nicely too. You can keep whatever they give you, within reason.’

  ‘If I’m not to become a whore, then what am I?’

  ‘A companion.’

  ‘And what happens when I grow too old?’ Beth presses. ‘You said nobody leaves. Shall I spend the rest of my days cleaning out hearths?’

  ‘Ah, Kitten, such a black view you have of the world. Surely you are not finding it so difficult to settle in? I am told that you are performing your duties well enough, and you are comfortable with Hummingbird. A few weeks ago you had no future to speak of. Why trouble yourself now?’

  Beth regards this strange, patch-covered creature. How very much at home she looks in her sumptuous, blood-red nest.

  ‘Men . . . people . . . are different. I wouldn’t rightly know how to please them all.’

  ‘No need to, Kitten. Most please themselves. You just have to be there.’

  ‘But—’

  The Abbess raises a hand. ‘Don’t be too clever. More than one eloquent Kitten has talked herself out of a home. Trust what I tell you. Now sip your tea then tell me about your visit to the tea room in George Lane.’

  Beth gives a brief account of the afternoon’s events. The Abbess listens without comment. ‘You were not hurt?’ she asks after Beth has finished describing the tea-room fracas.

  ‘No. It was shameful though. Moth’s antics didn’t improve things.’

  ‘Really?’ The Abbess leans forward. ‘What antics were those?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Two of the elegantly framed windows of the George Lane tea room are boarded up. The brass knocker has been ripped off leaving a bare oak scar.

  ‘These streets can be lively,’ Hummingbird says. ‘Things can happen if people aren’t careful. Shall we go in?’

  ‘Hummingbird, this is a mistake. You saw the look on the proprietor’s face. I’ve suffered enough troubles in my life without walking into more, especially over something as stupid as a dish of tea.’

  ‘No one is going to cause trouble.’

  Beth glances back down the lane. Leonardo is waiting with the carriage around the corner, whip clu
tched in his hand. On the way here a group of jeering urchins had been sent scattering by a few expert flicks of that leather coil.

  Hummingbird is halfway up the steps. Beth follows. Inside, the blocked windows cast a gloom over the tea room and motes of dust swirl in the light creeping through the one remaining window. Candles have been lit and placed along the mantelpiece. The air is stuffy and smells of hot wax. Patrons, fewer than before, sit at tables, sipping tea or squinting at newspapers. Someone coughs.

  ‘Sit down, Kitten,’ Hummingbird says.

  ‘Are we being punished?’ Beth asks. ‘Why isn’t Moth with us?’

  ‘I believe the Abbess wants her for something, and no, this isn’t punishment.’

  Bethany notices, as she pulls back a chair, a group of young men playing dice at the table in the bay window. Overdressed, faces blanched with powder, rouge painting little kiss-me mouths. Teetering on their heads are wigs as big as pillows. If it wasn’t for their striped and tasselled breeches they’d pass for girls. As the maid goes by, a pot of tea in her hands, one of the dandies squeezes her rump. She squeals and tips forward, spilling hot liquid on the carpet. The group dissolves into giggles. The maid, blushing, retreats with the pot, rubbing her backside with her free hand.

  ‘Who are those oafs?’ Beth whispers. ‘That poor girl could have been burned.’

  ‘Another gang of puffed young dandies,’ Hummingbird replies. ‘There seem to be more plaguing the streets every day. I’m surprised their heads don’t collapse into the witless gaps between their ears.’

  More laughter. Beth snatches glances around the room. An old fellow dozes in one corner, newspaper open on his lap. Near the door sits a lady in a wide-brimmed bonnet hung with ribbons. A child is beside her, a tiny mirror image of the older lady in a looped dress freckled with satin bows.

  The maid, composure regained, approaches their table. Beth’s fingers are knotted in her lap. Now there’ll be trouble, she thinks. What’s Hummingbird doing, bringing me here again? We’ll be back on the street in an ace.

  The maid opens her mouth then gets a good look at Hummingbird’s smiling face. Blood rushes out of cheeks that were bright red only a moment before. ‘Pray how . . . how may I serve you?’

  ‘You can get me the landlord,’ Hummingbird says. ‘I would have him attend to us.’

  Beth tries to nip her under the table but Hummingbird seems resolute. The serving girl hesitates a moment then skitters off. A few seconds later the landlord appears. Beth, who has resigned herself to an almighty row and possibly a thump across the ear, feels her breath catch. A mass of black and yellow bruises colours his face. One eye has closed completely. The other is watery and bloodshot. His arm hangs in a dirty sling, the fingers bandaged together. He stands at their table and stares at his feet.

  ‘Tea and a selection of your best sweetmeats,’ Hummingbird says.

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ His voice is barely more than a whisper. He fetches their order, bows and leaves without uttering another word.

  The young men’s laughter fragments into whispers. They stare and nudge one another. Hummingbird pores over a magazine as if nothing untoward is happening. The dandies finish their whispered debate. One shoves another who rises and approaches the girls. Beth wants to bury her head in the tablecloth. If he speaks how will she respond? She peeks at him from beneath the rim of her bonnet. Impossible to tell his age under the powder and rouge. Her mother could guess a person’s years just by glancing at their hands. This fellow wears satin gloves ringed with lace. Bright blue eyes, sharp with mischief, glitter beneath the soft wig.

  But he doesn’t say anything. He reaches inside a jacket pocket and produces a calling card. His friends watch as he drops it on the table. Hummingbird lifts her dish of tea and takes a sip, gaze not shifting from her magazine.

  Bethany stares at the card. Should she pick it up? Is the fellow an admirer of Hummingbird’s and this some complicated social ritual? The youth has returned to his seat and is talking to his companions.

  Hummingbird, as if sensing her friend’s discomfort, slides her periodical aside, plucks the card off the tablecloth and drops it into her reticule. Beth opens her mouth but the other girl silences her with a waved finger. ‘Try one of these.’ Hummingbird offers the plate of sweetmeats. ‘You’ll burst your stays but it’s worth it.’

  Sugar and cream explode across Beth’s tongue. Hummingbird calls the serving girl over and orders more tea.

  ‘D’you want the master to bring it, Miss, like last time?’

  Hummingbird shakes her head. ‘No, I think we’ve frightened him enough.’

  The girl scuttles off, apron ties flapping at her back. The tea room fills. Merchants, bankers, ladies in frilled summer gowns. Beth begins to relax. Up till now she’s wondered if this has all been some perverse game. The hubbub of voices soothes her frayed nerves. The three lads have stopped staring and returned to their dice game. She settles back in her chair and glances at the discarded magazine, which lies open at the society pages. Tea parties, seasonal Balls, names of people Beth doesn’t recognise. All look pompous and important. There are lists of births and marriages; families securing dowries and heirs being born. Then, on the facing page as if of secondary importance, is parliamentary business. The ‘den of donkeys’ as Father once denounced it. Beth has no knowledge of politics. It’s a part of the strange world of men and she can’t make any sense of the words printed there. Why is Hummingbird reading this?

  Cries of delight and outrage explode from the dice table. Purses are opened and coins exchanged. Beth regards the young man with the blue eyes and feels her stomach pinch. His name is printed on the calling card but that’s at the bottom of Hummingbird’s reticule. And the card itself? Clearly an invitation of some sort but to whom, and for what? It had not been handed over, merely left on the table.

  She steals a glance at the lad’s powdered face. Is he disappointed? Should Beth have said something? Would that have been proper? Even the way these young men move is exaggerated, every gesture overplayed. Beth shifts on her chair. The heat is back in her cheeks. She’s conscious of Hummingbird watching her, the trickle of a smile on those dark red lips. But Beth can’t afford to let her mind off the leash, to go down the path to the brink of the pit, the pit which held George, the children, and her life at Russell Hall. Friend should have killed her, or refused Kingfisher’s bribe and let her rot.

  Then it happens twice more.

  The first is a uniformed army officer. He slaps his card onto their table, scattering crumbs. The second is a fat fellow in black garb who resembles the fire-and-brimstone vicar from the church on the east side of Beth’s home village. He slips the card from his sleeve as if palming a guinea to a tavern whore. Such is his haste to return to his seat that his hip catches a table edge and sends a teapot clattering onto the floor. Scarlet-faced and puffing, he mutters apologies and buries himself in a newspaper.

  Both calling cards follow the first into Hummingbird’s reticule. No words have been exchanged. She drains her tea, scrapes back her chair and stands. ‘Time to go.’

  Who Are You, Bethany Harris?

  August. A wasp became tangled in her hair. She ran screaming from the garden, shoes kicking up gravel from the path. George found her slumped on the terrace, red-faced and shaking, hair a broken haystack around her face.

  ‘Where is it?’ she said. ‘Has it gone?’

  George bent and picked up a broken yellow-and-black shape by the tip of one stilled wing. ‘Look.’

  ‘Get it away from me.’

  ‘Are you stung? Let me see?’

  ‘Don’t touch me. And throw that thing away. I don’t want to see it.’

  She’d spent the morning beside the flowerbeds with Julia and Sebastian where they’d been identifying the different blooms. The children were sunbursts of life bound by neither tact nor guile and she had taught them through a three-season glory of glittering frost, spring shoots and hot summer meadows.

  ‘The flowers a
re like jewels,’ Bethany told them. ‘Close your eyes, breathe deeply, smell their pretty scent.’

  ‘I am told when I come of age I shall have my mother’s jewels,’ Julia said.

  ‘Really? My first jewel was a polished chestnut my father brought home. It was perfectly round, the only one of its kind I’d seen. He placed it in my cupped hands and I spent minutes running my fingers across its smooth skin.’