Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  ‘Perhaps Mother Joan dug it back up.’

  ‘Don’t laugh. How horrible for that sad old woman to have to play games like that. If her husband’s as important as you say he is then he should know better than to encourage her in such a farce.’

  ‘It was her husband’s idea to begin with, and it saved her life, Kitten. Mother Joan was wasting away. Wouldn’t eat, was up all night, refused to let the maid light the fire in the parlour. Old Slocombe tried everything. Spent a fortune on London quacks who bled her and charged two guineas for the privilege. Every queer potion an apothecary could concoct went down his wife’s throat. In the end he tried seers and Wise Women. As his purse got lighter so did Joan Slocombe. Shrank to a stick.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He persuaded her to go out for a walk in the hope fresh air would put colour back in her cheeks. She hadn’t left the house since Polly died, wouldn’t even allow the curtains to be drawn. Mr Slocombe was overjoyed at this little victory. And out there, on a blustery autumn day tripping out of the door of a hat shop, was a girl who looked like Polly.’

  Hummingbird adjusts one of her sleeves. ‘Not exactly like her, of course. Grief was killing Mother Joan but it hadn’t dulled her wits. The similarity was enough. According to her husband, the light returned to her eyes. Her steps picked up and she started talking in more than a whisper for the first time in weeks. At home she ate a pot of soup and half a round of bread. That’s when Mr Slocombe had his notion.’

  ‘You know a lot about it, Hummingbird.’

  She shrugs. ‘He called at the House, and we brought their daughter back to life. It’s no secret among the Sisters. Ah, here we are. If Eloise doesn’t gripe too much I’ll get her to bring a tub up to the room and we can both bathe. Then the Abbess will likely want to see you. This has proved a big day for you, Kitten, and bigger ones lie ahead.’

  A Matter of Some Importance

  Bethany Harris never forgot George’s threat. And she would not be silent. After an entire day locked in her bedchamber she was summoned to Lord Russell’s reception room. She stared at the floor and dipped a curtsey. How different it had been when she had last met her employer, her lover, in here.

  ‘You have brought an accusation against my son,’ he said without turning from the window.

  Beth swallowed. ‘M’lord.’

  ‘You are aware of the consequences this could have for my family? For the village?’

  ‘I can imagine some of them, m’lord.’

  He stepped away from the glass. ‘No, you cannot imagine the half of it. George has a future in Parliament, Miss Harris. He could do a great deal for this country. Would you see that brought to ruin?’

  Beth studied his face. It was entirely without tenderness. Nothing of the man who had danced with her, coloured her flesh with his paints and whispered beautiful things in her ear was there. She bowed her head. ‘His character has a twist — something dark and deeply rooted. He believes he can take his pleasure from people the way he might pluck a sweetmeat out of a bowl. I was engaged to look after the children, not service his desires.’

  ‘My son is a man of passion. In that respect we are alike, though it is true he is possessed of an exuberance that can sometimes prove difficult to contain. Nothing has been denied him in life, consequently he is accustomed to getting his way. In politics such attributes are to be admired.’

  ‘He attacked me.’

  ‘Come now. That is a severe word to use. You must have encouraged him.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘Local maids would throw themselves at my son just to win a smile.’

  ‘His attentions weren’t welcome.’

  ‘You still insist I involve the magistrate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were this to go no further than these walls, the situation could be dealt with compassionately.’

  ‘I have to think of the children.’

  ‘Ah yes, the children.’ He returned to staring out of the window. ‘Go home, Miss Harris. I shall send a message ahead to your father. Stay there until I have dealt with the matter.’

  When Beth walked into the family parlour her mother cracked her across the cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Where did you learn to spit such poison? What is it you can possibly want, Bethany? Haven’t the Russells — haven’t we — given you enough? How can I go to church? How can I face anyone? Who else have you lied to?’

  And so it went on. Mother castigating her for trying to get attention by telling vile fibs, for most likely whoring with a tinker or gypsy, and if she got roughed about it was her own fault for everyone knew what she was like. When Beth tried yet again to explain, Mother pushed her across the kitchen yelling ‘Liar, liar, liar’ until the words fell into one another, becoming a continuous howl.

  Speechless, Beth fled the house, nursing her stinging cheek. A stroll down the lane to the village would clear her head. Outside the churchyard something hard hit her on the temple. A flash of pain turned the world red. Through a haze she saw village children running through the trees that bordered the lane. Dazed, Beth stared at the chip of flint that had struck her. She dabbed her head with her fingers and was relieved to find no blood. Giving up all hope of visiting the village, Beth did the only thing she could and returned home. Her parents were in the kitchen, seated at the dinner table. Mother’s face was pale and puffy.

  ‘You used to walk to and from the Hall with your head up,’ Mother said. ‘Now you skulk around like a thief. You’ll bring disaster upon us.’

  ‘I can’t change what’s happened,’ Beth said.

  ‘None of us are blind, daughter. We’ll all suffer if you’re cast out of the Hall.’

  Next day Jane Harris, who believed that shame alone could purge sins, peeled off one of her woollen stockings, tied a knot in the centre and looped it around her thin, white throat. Pulling a stool over to the centre of the kitchen, she climbed up and fastened the other end to the chain supporting the brass candleholder. Satisfied that everything would support her weight, she clasped her narrow hands behind her waist and stepped towards eternity.

  Jane’s sense of penitence was ruined, however, when an errand brought Father home. He leapt at his wife’s dangling legs and hoisted her up while she flapped about like a fish on a riverbank. ‘Beth,’ he yelled. ‘Beth, come here now.’

  Finally, desperation gave him the wings and strength of an angel. He hurled himself into the air and ripped the makeshift noose from the candleholder. Husband and wife collapsed in a heap on the rug. Father held her head between his hands and whispered things that had remained unuttered since their courting days. That’s what he told Beth later.

  Bethany knew her mother wouldn’t die. The look in Father’s eyes said he wouldn’t let her die. He smiled and cooed like a youth, coaxing the will to live back into his wife. Beth slipped out of the house with the silence of a ghost and spent the rest of the afternoon yanking weeds and flowers alike out of the garden, ignorant of the dirt blackening her hands.

  That evening she crept into Mother’s bedchamber, struggling to find a tender phrase. She reached out to the figure in the bed, but Mother turned her face to the wall. ‘How dare you do such a thing,’ she said, voice coarse from the noose. ‘I taught you. Now you’ve shamed us and made a fool of yourself. You didn’t listen to me. You learned nothing.’

  Next morning Beth stepped into an empty kitchen and sat in front of a fire half choked on ashes. The night had yielded neither sleep nor comfort, though no sounds seeped through the lath and plaster wall separating her from her parents’ room. She supposed Mother was still in bed, that Father thought she was no longer a risk to herself. The remains of a poultice littered the kitchen table. Perhaps, worried for her throat, he had thought it inadequate and gone to fetch a surgeon, though the local quack couldn’t thread a needle let alone tend to injuries with any certainty.

  So Beth sat there, feeling useless, as the last of the embers collapsed. Eventually the lack
of movement from upstairs proved too much for her nerves and she dared a peek into Mother’s room. The bed was rumpled but empty.

  Back in the kitchen she tried a taste of milk, but either time or the weather had soured it, and she spat it into the slop pail. You’d never catch one of George’s society ladies doing that, she thought.

  The sky was turning into a cloudy patchwork when a coach and four pulled up at the gate. Beth ran out to meet it, wondering if it was news from Russell Hall. However, this wasn’t the polished walnut panels of Lord Russell’s private chaise, but a stout construction of weathered oak.

  Her father stepped out and held the door open. He explained that she was being sent away. A lodging house in Pendleton would take her in. What chattels she owned would be sent on later.

  ‘Are you putting me into hiding?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Look on it as an adventure,’ Father said. ‘For your own benefit until all this blows over.’

  ‘Where’s Mama?’

  ‘At the apothecary.’ Father’s smile was brittle as dry mortar. ‘My healing skills aren’t so polished it seems.’

  ‘I shan’t see her?’

  ‘It’s not as if you’re gone for good.’

  ‘Will the children be told? Julia and Sebastian?’

  ‘Best you forget them for now, lass.’ A hand on Beth’s waist guided her up the step and into the gloom. The door slammed. No kiss. No goodbye. Fumbling in the dark, Beth discovered locked wooden shutters instead of blinds. She ran her hand over the inside of the door. No handle. She pushed hard. It wouldn’t budge.

  The carriage lurched forward.

  She scrabbled at the wood panelling. Nothing. She smacked her fists against the shutters and screamed. The coach’s pace didn’t slacken. After a few hopeless miles she pressed her hands to her face, voice spent, nails broken. In the near silence, she realised she was not alone. In the opposite corner a big man sat watching her, a cropped white wig perched on top of his turnip head. He didn’t move or speak. Cracks in the shutters threw thin bars of light across his small blurry eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ Beth demanded.

  ‘You can call me Friend,’ he said.

  Anxiety boiled in the well of Beth’s stomach as the extent of her father’s deceit struck her. She fell back, exhausted, against the seat. It’s only until everything calms down, she thought. Papa wouldn’t do anything really bad. Not to me. Lord Russell wouldn’t allow it.

  Some hours later the carriage halted. The driver climbed down and unbolted the door. An oblong house squatted amidst gardens in the middle of woodland. Beth took in the cream walls, scissor-cut lawns and prim beds of red and yellow roses.

  ‘Have I come here to die?’ she asked.

  Friend was at her shoulder. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘A Comfort Home. A dainty hideaway for families too squeamish to have their loved ones committed to the madhouse. Too many ears in Bedlam, too many people who might be interested in even a madwoman’s outpourings. So I take care of them instead.’

  ‘I haven’t taken leave of my wits.’

  He leaned forward until his breath tickled her ear. ‘Almost ruined it for your family, you did. Your papa could have lost his job and his house. Why couldn’t you take a tupping and keep your mouth shut?’

  He pushed her inside. Through a door off the main passage lay a square, bare-walled room. A wooden bed frame hugged one corner. No dresser, no pitcher or washbowl. Friend caught her expression.

  ‘You aren’t here for comfort, my girl. You’re here to learn penitence.’

  Courage

  ‘Obedience,’ the Abbess says, lacing her fingers together on top of the desk, ‘is the most important quality I demand from my Masques. Without it the House would lose cohesion. This is a very narrow ledge we walk along and the fall, should we slip, would be both long and hard. Many of our girls are headstrong; most have experienced difficult circumstances. Loyalty to each other as well as to me is a prime concern.’

  She leans back, candlelight flickering across her coloured patches. Kingfisher stands immobile beside her, a silver wig forming a halo in the subdued lighting of the Scarlet Parlour. His attention never leaves Beth as the Abbess talks. A scattering of candles send shadowy half-ghosts flitting across the drapes. Outside, a dense, muggy night presses against the walls.

  ‘The Fixer tells me you can now accept simple Assignments within city society. Hummingbird, too, has been loud in her praise concerning your behaviour during your trial. Becoming a Masque, however, demands more than an ability to dance or eat a certain dish with the proper utensil. A final step is required, an act of boldness tempered with dignity. Are you ready for that?’

  Beth dips a curtsey. ‘I hope so, Abbess.’

  ‘You hope so, do you? Well, so do I.’ The Abbess removes an object from under the desk and places it in front of her. A large ornamental jar, the glass shaped into flower patterns and secured at the top with a cork lid. At first Beth thinks it’s empty but, no, something is moving inside. She scrunches her eyes to get a better look.

  ‘Come closer,’ the Abbess instructs.

  Beth’s nose is a whisker away from the glass. The thing inside hovers then alights on the wall of the jar.

  Beth recoils. A wasp.

  It’s a wasp.

  With summer drawing to a blustery close she thought they’d died out. The thing in the container, magnified by the curved glass, is a yellow-and-black monster. She imagines its sting, sharp as a pin and dripping with venom.

  ‘Put your hand inside,’ the Abbess says.

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Do it. Face your terror. Touch it, feel it sting.’

  Beth backs up a pace. She bumps into Kingfisher, who’s moved from the desk to stand behind her.

  ‘Must you remain a mewling Kitten?’ the Abbess continues, holding out the jar. ‘Perhaps you would like to return to the Comfort Home, be locked up like a beast? Women are either slaves or predators. Which are you? There is no half way Kingfisher secured your release; a word can put you back. By suppertime you will be forgotten.’

  Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘You’re sweating, Kitten. Your first instinct is to recoil. All you can see in your mind is that sting piercing your flesh, filling your veins with poison. Look again, harder this time. An insect. Hardly bigger than a fly. You could squeeze it between your thumb and forefinger — crush the life out of it with a single twitch of your hand. So tell me, who is the stronger? Everything you fear is inside that jar.’

  The Abbess removes the lid. Beth feels as if the entire House will collapse in on her. She remembers George Russell, face cut with fury, threatening to deny her the children. And just days later, Friend plucking at her soiled bodice. She thrusts her hand into the jar, whimpering as the wasp crawls over her fingers, its legs blunt needles against her flesh.

  ‘Don’t kill it,’ the Abbess warns. ‘Only a child lashes out without control.’

  Beth can’t prevent tremors rippling through her hand. The insect stings once, twice. Fiery agony. Her eyes blur with tears. She becomes aware that she’s shaking her head like a simpleton throwing a fit.

  Please . . .

  She falls backwards. Kingfisher’s big arms catch her. She’s carried to a divan tucked into the stairwell where he sits her down and pushes her head onto her knees. A minute, and the nausea passes. He releases her and Beth leans back, gasping. A fingertip rubs ointment into the stings.

  The Abbess stands above her, the jar in her hands, the lid replaced. ‘Your name is no longer Bethany,’ she explains. ‘It is Wasp. Do you understand? Everything you were has gone.’

  ‘My name is Wasp.’

  ‘You have done well, daughter, but you are only halfway through the door. You may have a moment before the next step, then you must go to the room of mirrors where the Fixer awaits you.’

  ‘What new hell is this?’

  ‘Not hell, daughter. A rebirth.’

  Kingfish
er escorts her through the curtain and along the passage, his hand resting on her arm. She knows the route so well now, could close her eyes and pace out the distance, the hem of her day gown swish-swishing on the thick carpet. The Fixer is ready for her, as always, with his chair and his small folding table, a hundred reflections of a hundred bald men like an approaching army. In his hand is a glittering needle. Pots of coloured ink cluster in a semi-circle on the tabletop.

  ‘Sit down,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you a drop of laudanum to help soothe you.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You are to receive your Emblem. No paper patch now. It’s time to grow up.’

  Wasp drinks from the cup he gives her. He’s mixed the drug with fruit juice and it slips down her throat. Kingfisher nods at the Fixer and leaves the room.

  ‘Now,’ the Fixer says, leaning over her, ‘this will hurt, but you’re a brave girl. Keep as still as you can. I’ve done this many times before.’

  Wasp thinks herself hardened to discomfort but whimpers when he presses the needle into her cheek. It’s like the insect sting pricking her flesh again and again. Her instincts scream at her to push him off. Instead she locks her hands behind the chair’s back rest. Pain flares then melts to a heavy numbness which spreads across her face.

  The Fixer pauses to dab her eyes. A brief respite before he dips the needle back into the inkpots. Yellow and black. A contrast to Hummingbird and her rainbow-winged Emblem.

  ‘Nearly done,’ the Fixer whispers. ‘A moment or two more. There.’ He wipes the needle on a cloth and slips it into a pouch. ‘No, don’t touch. I’ll apply a light dressing. Your cheek might ache for a while but keep your fingers off.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  He gestures. ‘Mirrors all around.’

  ‘I don’t think I can stand.’

  The Fixer chuckles. ‘Laudanum knocked the bones out of your legs? Here.’ He passes her a hand mirror. She holds it up to her face. There, in tiny perfection, is a picture of a wasp, its wings spread, back arched down, sting a dagger thrusting out of the tail.