by Ian Garbutt
He rolls up his sleeve. ‘See this bracelet? It is beautiful, is it not? Yet the slavers did not deem it worth stealing. No cold gems or dead metals went into its making. It is fashioned from a piece of my wife’s hair and decorated with bones. You look disgusted, but she spent hours crafting it to perfection. She was clean. She washed herself every day. She did not smell of stale sweat or foul breath. Lice did not plague her hair the way they infest people here. Even the wigs on your heads are plastered with animal fat. You hunt deer for sport instead of for food. Everyone is a savage.’
He remembers coming into the city with Crabbe and the Fixer, the baby a bundle in his arms. The place thronged with traffic. Little black carriage boys in sparkling feathery turbans clung to the backs of their masters’ coaches as if their palms had been nailed to the panelling. Buildings, larger than any he’d seen before, crowded around one another. He stared until his eyes hurt with the sight of it.
‘What is that smell? It is like a rotting food,’ he’d asked.
‘That there’s the city, you heathen monkey,’ Crabbe said.
‘It stinks of burned wood and dead things.’
‘More life there than among your tree trunks, I’ll wager.’
‘People should not live like this.’
‘Preacher now, are you?’
From boyhood, Kingfisher could run silent and unseen through the trees. The city is just another forest, teeming with life and death. He learned that during his first month at the House and had used it to his advantage since.
‘You and I are the same,’ he tells Beth. ‘We were both captives. We are both captives still. I came from a slave pen, you from a madhouse. As I’ve been obliged to tell someone already, some prisons are worse than others. Make the best of this one.’
An Unusual Assignment
‘You were all a part of it. Every one of you. Eloise sent me down to the washhouse on purpose.’
Hummingbird sits on the bed, wads of linen spreading her toes. She attacks the nails with a pair of scissors. ‘You’d better come in, Kitten,’ she says, blades going snip-snip. ‘It won’t do to yell in the corridor.’
Beth throws her ruined day gown onto the chair and slams the door behind her. ‘Don’t even pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. For all I know you might have been there, hiding your face behind one of those masks. I could’ve choked to death.’
Snip. ‘Perhaps next time you’ll think twice about snitching on one of the girls.’
‘Don’t talk of it so lightly. I have bruises.’
‘Moth got a hot hand.’
‘And what’s that exactly? A rap across the knuckles? A smack on the fingers with a leather belt? If so, she deserves it for thieving.’
‘She was branded.’
Beth’s mouth closed. Opened. Formed a word. ‘Branded? You mean burned?’
‘Do you know what it’s like to have a hot iron pressed against your skin? You can hear it sizzle like bacon on a skillet.’
‘She suffered that for a tuppeny length of ribbon?’
‘Theft cannot be tolerated. Who would dare admit a Masque into their home if she might lift the silver? Besides, the Abbess didn’t burn her so much for filching that ribbon as for disobeying me. In the House, discipline is everything. I was willing to forgive her because Moth is impulsive and was maltreated as a child. Usually we fetch a cane across the rump for breaking minor rules but the Abbess wanted to make an example. She’s mother to all of us, Kitten, but she doesn’t spare the rod. Or the brand. Your bruises will disappear, and that’s more than can be said for Moth’s little memento.’
Beth stares at the rug. ‘I never thought—’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Hummingbird tosses the scissors onto her bedside table, plucks the wads from between her toes and swings her legs off the bed. ‘You’d best get that soiled gown back to the washhouse.’
‘How can I face anyone? How can I sit in that dining room with everybody watching me? Or go to the parlour, or even look Eloise in the eye again?’
‘The Sisters have already punished you. No one will stare. No one will mention it. What’s done is forgotten. Just remember to keep your tongue still in future.’
Bethany faces another surprise when the Fixer sends for her. She meets him in the Mirror Room where he’s clad in satin jacket, breeches and hose. A white wig is perched on his usually bald head, fastened at the back with a black ribbon the size of two spread hands. He seems at ease in this dandy’s garb.
‘Dance,’ he says. ‘A gavotte first, then we’ll try you with a few couplets. I need to examine your style. You can dance, can’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Beth smooths her fresh day gown. ‘No music?’
‘I can’t conjure an orchestra out of the floorboards. Don’t worry, I’ll mark the time. Give me your hand. Now, one . . . two . . . three . . .’ Up and down they go, feet whispering on the oak floor. A little less stiffness in your legs. That’s right, work with me, don’t fight.’
They move. Turn. Move again. ‘You are too stiff. You’re not fumbling with a wheelwright at some country harvest festival. At least try to feign interest. Grip my hand properly, don’t let your fingers go flabby. And look at me, find a smile even if you have to imagine you’re gazing at someone else — a sweetheart or old beau. This can’t be the first time you’ve danced with a man.’
Every touch, every brush of the Fixer’s body digs a shiver out of her belly. In the great ballroom at Russell Hall, Lord Russell had held her so close their breath mingled. His face was slick with smiles, her nostrils full of his thick, spicy cologne. His eyes on hers. She looking at them but not daring to look into them. He’d had one of his footmen, a musician by a previous trade, tinkle a melody out of the spinet. His face was impassive enough but Beth knew she’d catch hell from the servants later. Getting above her station. Getting improper notions into her head. Getting this. Getting that. And the housekeeper asking, ‘Why should the squire give you favours, a while-away-the-hours village girl?’
Lord Russell moved with her, and did not complain about her sluggish limbs. ‘You dance like a princess,’ he said, and they’d both laughed at the lie.
‘But what if your son should catch us?’ Beth said, not really caring whether he did or not.
‘Oh, I think he should wish to dance with you himself.’
The Fixer keeps walking and turning her. Nothing Beth does meets with his approval. She trips, stumbles, treads on his toes, turns left when she ought to turn right. He works her until both feet hurt.
‘How do you know how to do this?’ she asks. ‘Aren’t you just a tradesman?’
His lips thin. ‘A tradesman, yes. Once I thought I was more than that.’
Finally he instructs her to sit beside the potion table. He fetches a stool and sits opposite. Any notion Beth might have that the hard work is over is soon dispelled.
‘At dinner your client will generally have a great deal to say,’ the Fixer explains. ‘Such people can’t resist talking about themselves. Let him order the food. If it’s something you can’t stomach then push it around your plate. He’ll be too interested in your face and the sound of his own voice to notice.’
‘How do I meet these fellows? Will Leonardo drive me?’
‘With established, reputable clients a coach will arrive to collect you. At other times you’ll be driven to an Assignment in one of our own carriages. When a client has no specific Masque in mind, he’ll come directly to the House and choose. On those nights we have a Parade. The Abbess will instruct you in that later.’
Afterwards he takes a piebald mare out of the stables and perches Beth on the saddle. Walking around the horse he checks her poise, her grip on the reins. ‘Not too bad. Your skills are unlikely to be stretched beyond a canter round the park.’
When Beth finally drags her feet up the stairs to her bedchamber, Hummingbird is already snoring. Beth crawls in beside her, blows out the candle and is asleep within moments.
A quiet dining r
oom confronts Beth the next morning. Moth is already seated, eyes studiously examining the table top. Throughout breakfast the two women avoid looking at one another, although it seems Moth makes no attempt to hide her bandaged hand.
Despite Beth’s fears, there are no whispers, nudging or sidelong glances from the Masques’ tables. Hummingbird receives an Assignment then, surprisingly, is called to the head of the table a second time, where she collects a scroll bound with a pink ribbon instead of the customary red. After breakfast, Hummingbird waits until the other girls have filed out of the dining room then drops the scroll into Beth’s palm.
‘Congratulations, Kitten, your first Assignment.’
Beth regards the roll of white paper with its sliver of ribbon.
‘Don’t look as if I’ve handed you a snake,’ Hummingbird laughs.
‘But . . . I’m not a Masque.’
‘We’re all Sisters of the House. Do this and you’ll be on your way to earning an Emblem.’
‘Shall I open it here?’
‘Best take it upstairs.’
‘Do you know what’s in it?’
Hummingbird grins. ‘I might.’
They scamper up to their room. Hummingbird pulls the curtains wider then pokes life back into the small fire. Beth’s hands are shaking as she tugs the ribbon loose and unfurls the paper. ‘One of the clock, Charlotte Street. House driver,’ she reads.
‘Well done, Kitten. You’ve drawn Mother Joan, and I’m to go with you. An easy job. Two hours at most. Perhaps half that.’
‘Mother Joan? Is that a nun?’
Hummingbird’s face nearly folds in on itself. ‘No, not a nun. By a cully’s breeches that would certainly be something. It’s only a nickname, though don’t ever say it in front of her. You’ll discover soon enough why she’s earned that title.’
‘How shall we get there?’
‘Kingfisher is taking us.’
‘I didn’t know he worked as a common coachman.’
‘This is your first Assignment. The Abbess wants it to go well. And don’t let Leonardo ever catch you calling him “common”.’
‘When does Moth get her first Assignment?’
‘Moth will probably be sent out with Red Orchid within the next week. She hasn’t progressed as quickly as you. She needs . . . more work.’
‘What is it I have to do with this Mother Joan person?’
‘I’ll tell you,’ Hummingbird says. ‘On the way.’
The Fixer steals Beth for the rest of the morning. He reviews her etiquette, then bids her read passages from a book of verse. ‘Only a formality,’ he explains. ‘I’m in no doubt you know your letters.’
It’s a little past noon when Hummingbird joins her in their bedchamber. ‘Time to go, Kitten. Excited?’
‘Nervous.’
‘Nothing amiss with that. Come on, Kingfisher is bringing the coach around.’
‘Don’t we have to go to the dressing room?’
‘Keep your day gown. You’ll find out why when we arrive.’
‘Mother Joan’s husband is a politician,’ Hummingbird says as the carriage rattles out of Crown Square. ‘He holds an important position in government.’
‘I’m not well versed in politics.’
‘I suppose not. What could you know about the workings of Parliament, living out in the meadows as you did?’
‘My papa read newspapers.’
‘You can read all your life and still not know what the roosters in that particular coop are up to. Mother Joan’s husband already has them squawking, so I’m told. I love it when things get stirred up. ’Tis good business for us.’
‘How?’
‘As the Abbess may have explained, men need the calm of a soft voice, the comfort of a pretty face. Every political storm brings them yowling to our door. Most of these fellows should never have left their mothers.’
Beth gazes at the passing buildings. She meshes her fingers together. ‘Where are we going? What will happen when we arrive?’
‘Our destination is a family house on the outskirts of town. Constance, the maid, will likely answer the door. If so, follow her into the parlour on the left side of the hall. Put on whatever clothes she hands you. If the fit isn’t right you’ll have to make the best of it.’
‘What exactly is this Assignment? The scroll didn’t say much.’
‘No need to. It’s always the same. You sit, smile, drink tea and eat whatever Mother Joan puts in front of you. Cakes usually. She bakes them herself and they lie in your stomach like charred bricks, but no one’s died yet. When she talks to you keep smiling and agree with everything she says. Whatever you do don’t react if she calls me Polly. You’ll get a name too, but we won’t know what that is until she greets us. Just be sure not to forget it.’
‘I don’t understand. Why does she call you Polly?’
‘It’s her daughter’s name. ’
‘Where is she?’
‘Fell under the wheels of a carriage. Must be about, oh, eight years ago now.’
‘You’re going to pretend to be her dead daughter? That’s foul.’
‘Not exactly. Mother Joan has accepted her daughter’s loss. However, she likes to imagine how it would be if Polly had grown up, what sort of society she would keep. The grief hasn’t ever let go, but doing this helps keep it locked away for a while. The House offers all kinds of services for all manner of people, Kitten.’
‘And who am I supposed to be?’
‘One of Polly’s friends. It changes with every visit. We’ve all taken turns. You don’t have to be an actress of any talent. Just look on it as a sort of tea party.’
Their arrival is exactly as Hummingbird described. The maid takes them into the parlour and provides garments from a trunk almost big enough to live in. Most of these are over-laced fancies. The hem of Beth’s gown barely reaches her ankle. ‘The waist is too tight,’ she complains. ‘I can’t breathe.’
‘No gowns, no tea, and likely no fee,’ Hummingbird warns.
The door opens. A tall, elegantly garbed woman stands framed against the hall. She has skin the colour of fine paper left in the sun and turned by its warm fingers into the deepening tints of autumn.
‘Polly, darling.’ Her bright eyes turn to Bethany. ‘And this, why, this must be Alice.’
‘Um . . . yes,’ says Beth.
‘Well, you both must come through to the withdrawing room. Constance has laid out a tray of cakes.’
She leads the way across the hall to a spacious, well-lit room draped in lemon-coloured fabrics. A settee as big as a double bed sits in front of a gilded hearth. The fireplace is full of dried flowers.
‘Sit down, dears.’
Hummingbird settles on the end of the settee; Beth takes the place beside her. The dress immediately rides up to her knees but Mother Joan seems not to notice. She seats herself in an armchair on the opposite side of a laden coffee table and offers both girls a sweetmeat. Dominating the wall above the mantel is a portrait of a staid-faced gentleman in a flowing periwig of the sort a magistrate might wear. Beth supposes this is the important husband.
Treats given out, Mother Joan starts to talk. She talks about her day in the park, about the blooms she bought from a flower seller, about the ducks on the lake and how they seem in danger of being poached by beggars. ‘Fewer and fewer eggs each year,’ she declares. ‘A scandal, but the constable does nothing.’
Hummingbird sighs and shakes her head at appropriate intervals while Beth forces a smile whenever Mother Joan’s eyes settle on her. The maid brings fresh tea. Mother Joan shoos her away and pours. Beth has never felt so foolish in her life, but she eats the cake, drinks the tea and keeps her mouth shut because, despite herself, her heart aches for this silly, twittering woman.
‘So,’ their host rubs her hands together, ‘tell me how you have spent the morning.’
Hummingbird spouts some fanciful story about how she and ‘Alice’ sat on the riverbank to sketch the skiffs on the water. Mother J
oan nods as if her neck is on iron hinges. ‘Oh, but, dear, you know it’s dangerous to go down by the river. The current can be strong, and there are lots of unsavoury types who skulk about the towpath, hoping to cut the purse from some unsuspecting victim.’
Hummingbird nods in return and says, ‘Yes, but Alice was with me the whole time and we never strayed far from the watchman’s hut. Besides it was such a lovely day’
‘I daresay A young lady has to go out and take the air, even in the city What are you looking at, Alice, dear?’
‘Oh,’ Beth spills tea onto her napkin. ‘I was just . . . thinking you have lovely curtains.’
The older woman smiles. ‘Very gracious of you to say so.’
And so it goes on. As the mantel clock ticks off the hour, Constance returns to clear the tea things away. A distant, distracted look settles in Mother Joan’s eyes.
‘Go into the parlour and enjoy a game of chequers,’ she says. ‘Polly, you know where the board is. I can never find it. I enjoyed meeting you, Alice. I hope Polly brings you to visit again soon.’
Back in the parlour, Hummingbird starts undressing.
‘Aren’t we going to play chequers?’ Beth asks.
‘We’re not playing anything. This is her way of saying goodbye. It allows us to slip out without any awkward farewells. Mother Joan plays a clever game but she’s not stupid. She knows she can only fool herself for so long. We have to depart before the cracks begin to show. Change quickly, then we’ll leave.’
‘Good job, Kitten,’ Hummingbird says on the way home. ‘You did well, though I had to fight to keep my composure when you told Mother Joan how nice her curtains were. The Abbess will be delighted.’
Beth grimaced. ‘Mostly I sat and smiled. I barely understood what she was talking about half the time.’
‘But she’s gone sweet on you. I saw it on her face. Don’t be surprised if she asks for you again.’
‘I hope not. It was terrible. I felt like some sort of ghost and that dress kept hitching up my legs. It smelled too. Of dust and dead moths. Almost as if Polly had been buried in it.’