Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  The coach sets off at a brisk pace. Daytime scents gust through the open windows as Leonardo cracks the horses through one city street then another. Wasp feels her mouth curl into a smile. After a mile or so, they turn through a set of iron gates. Swards of lawn bristle with late season blooms. Bridleways crisscross the gardens with arterial precision while oak trees puncture the grass at regular intervals. For a moment Wasp, still flummoxed by the jostling city streets, feels the pull of the countryside she hails from, a fleeting sensation spoiled by the swarm of carriages and riders which soon joins the gravel track. Coaches of all shapes and dispositions, many with canopies lowered despite the breeze. Inside, elaborately dressed women regard everything with smiling indulgence. Others ride elegant horses, some in the company of a groom.

  Standing at the side of the path or seated on benches lining the route, gentlemen and ladies alike watch the parade as it circles the park. Some wave. A few take notes.

  ‘Who are those women?’ Wasp asks. ‘They ride like queens. Is there another House in this city?’

  ‘None like ours,’ Hummingbird replies. ‘Those creatures are courtesans, mostly enjoying lavish lifestyles at the expense of rich admirers.’

  ‘Are we much different? Is it not a life you would enjoy?’

  ‘What, becoming a demi-rep? I’ve no fancy to sell myself to a purse and a pair of breeches, only to go and tickle some handsome winkle on the side. You wouldn’t want to be one of those pampered fluffheads, mobbed wherever you go. All gilt and no gold. They can’t sneeze without half a dozen society scandal sheets reporting the matter. These women seldom work for anyone save themselves. They have no loyalties, no sense of sisterhood. They guzzle money with a view to a rich wedding and a comfortable retirement. Many end up bankrupt, poxed, and scorned by the very society which now adores them. Such power as they wield only lasts for as long as they remain fashionable. Time can’t be bought or bribed, Sister. When their chins sag and their bosoms start to founder watch how these multitudinous admirers scuttle back into the woodwork. Yet one glimpse of a fine carriage or expensive gown has every city gutter girl clamouring to join the Cyprian Corps. Neither the church nor the morally outraged can do aught to stop it. These women are fleeting. We don’t wish our candles snuffed before they are halfway burned.’

  ‘Cyprian Corps? You make them sound like an army.’

  Hummingbird leans forward and clasps Wasp’s knee. ‘We all inhabit a half-world, a demi-monde. It draws admiration yet allows people to socially exclude you in the same turn. Ladies will curse you for a harlot yet slavishly copy your fashion. Society has built a complex house. We can ascend to the top, but only if we are shut in a separate room.’ She gestures at the onlookers’ rapt faces. ‘They all come here to see us. To try and touch the stars. Never underestimate your power. You need only to be spotted in public wearing a new style of choker and within a week a score of society ladies will parrot the fashion. Charm is also a powerful weapon. With it you can turn a papist to a Baptist in the breath of a sentence.’

  Wasp peers out of the window. ‘Those men watching, they remind me of hungry dogs.’

  ‘Things can get out of hand. Last month the landau belonging to one famous courtesan struck a pothole as big as a pit and snapped the axle. Her carriage was mobbed. Grown men scrambled like urchins around a dropped farthing. Items were snatched: a strip of lace from her sleeve, a bead from her reticule. She was plundered like a shipwreck.’ Hummingbird laughed. ‘Don’t go so wide-eyed, Sister. Leonardo will look after us. Sit back and enjoy the ride.’

  Eloise dumps a pile of newspapers and society magazines on Wasp’s bed. ‘Madame Abbess says you must educate yourself,’ the maid explains. ‘Anything you need to know about your clients can often be discovered here. A lot of reading, enfant, but better than cleaning out a sooty fireplace, oui?’

  Wasp concedes that she has little else to do. After the carriage ride around the park, Hummingbird took herself off to the dressing room. She’ll be leaving for her Assignment soon and will likely be out most of the night.

  Wasp draws her chair over to the window and settles down to read. A few of the publications she’s familiar with. Father brought old copies home from Russell Hall and he spent time at the kitchen table with Mother, turning the pages and marvelling at the lives of city folk. In truth these society bibles are much the same. Births, marriages, petty scandals and endless politics.

  On a trip in search of coffee she steals a glance through Moth’s open door. Hummingbird, dressed in her evening finery, is sitting on the bed. She’s holding Moth’s hand and speaking into her ear.

  Wasp watches, unsure whether to interrupt. This may be a House matter and she’s caused enough trouble for Moth as it is. But the girl looks frightened — there’s no denying that — and Hummingbird’s expression is fixed in a carved grin. Wasp frets over it all the way to the maids’ parlour. When she returns, the door is closed.

  Dusk greys the sky. After hours of reading, Wasp’s eyes feel fit to drop out yet the pile of papers remains daunting. Acknowledging defeat, she draws the curtains, disrobes and slips into bed. Both neck and back ache, doubtless a result of cramming herself into that narrow chair, and sleep won’t come. She stares at the ceiling. Hummingbird returns, candle in hand, just after midnight. ‘You’re awake,’ she says.

  ‘Yes. Good Assignment?’

  ‘A minor tea party. Some dancing. I suspect hiring me might have bankrupted the host but it bought the attention he wanted.’

  She places the candle on the bedside table and climbs in beside Wasp. ‘A quiet evening for you, I daresay.’

  Wasp doesn’t answer. She is thinking of Moth and those wide, wide eyes.

  Next morning Wasp receives an Assignment. She regards the scroll lying on the coverlet. The ribbon is red, not pink. Imperfections mark the paper, dark traceries like veins. A simple knot crowns the ribbon.

  Wrapped like a gift, she thinks.

  ‘I’ll wager you’re with me again,’ Hummingbird remarks.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Too soon to be let loose on your own.’

  ‘Shall I open it now?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll open mine too.’

  Wasp tugs the knot free and smooths out her parchment. The instructions are clear enough. She and Hummingbird will make up part of a foursome. Their clients are a gentleman of some note in Parliament and his son. A private carriage will collect the Masques. Kingfisher will fetch them in a House coach after the festivities.

  ‘Supper at six,’ Hummingbird says, waving her scroll in the air. ‘Take my advice and eat sparingly. I once swallowed a huge meal only to have my client change his plans and take me dancing at the Assembly Rooms. As well as avoiding being tramped on by his leaden feet I was obliged to force down cinnamon sweetmeats and a glass of viciously rich wine. I was up half the night with grumbling innards.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have refused?’

  ‘You never decline, Wasp. Never. If you’re offered a drink try not to take more than one glass of anything, and a small glass at that. Make it last. An occasional sip should satisfy your host. Have you ever been to an opera?’

  ‘No.’

  Hummingbird grins. ‘I think you’ll like it. Wait and see.’

  The Abbess looks up from her desk. An open ledger lies in front of her. ‘Your face wears a troubled look, Wasp. Misgivings about tonight?’

  Wasp runs her fingers along the edge of the desk. The wood is cool to the touch. Behind her, maids rustle across the hallway, caught up in the everyday business of the House. ‘I feel as taut as a starched sheet.’

  ‘Such feelings can be put to good use.’ The Abbess closes the ledger. Wasp notices that an outline of the book has been scratched in ink onto the desk’s surface. Above it is the word ‘Ledger’. Other objects have lines drawn around them too, and are similarly labelled: ‘Inkpot’, ‘Pen’, ‘Letters’.

  ‘I know, Abbess, but there’s another matter I need to discuss.’

&nbs
p; ‘You are concerned about Moth? I know you’ve been enquiring about her.’

  ‘It’s my fault she was punished.’

  ‘How so? Did you filch that penny ribbon? Did you slip it into your cuff and defy Hummingbird’s demands to return it?’

  ‘No, but—’

  The Abbess raises a hand. ‘Scarcely a week has passed since you received your Emblem. There’s still a great deal to undertake without burdening yourself with a problem like Moth. Bear in mind you are still sharing a room with Hummingbird and remain under her tutelage. Moth must accept life under the terms we have given her.’

  ‘She can’t go on like this. She’s as fragile as a cracked pot.’

  ‘If not for us she would have no life at all.’

  ‘Not ball gowns,’ Hummingbird says, closing the wardrobe. ‘We won’t be dancing tonight. You need something you can comfortably sit in. Here,’ she opens another door, ‘try one of these.’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to choose. I’m not a Kitten any more.’

  Hummingbird has already selected a green velvet gown for herself. ‘We can’t keep clients waiting just because you decide to be fussy. You’ll become quicker with experience. In the meantime try this.’

  A cornflower blue dress trimmed in white. Wasp has to admit the garment is beautiful. She makes no complaint as Hummingbird fastens it up.

  ‘Now a wig each and a spray of jewellery. Pearls for you, something dark for me.’

  The girls help each other to finish dressing. They arrive at the front door with minutes to spare, Wasp smelling strongly of the honeysuckle perfume Hummingbird has also chosen for her. A carriage of polished oak waits in the street, a liveried driver on the perch and a brace of candied footmen clinging to the back. Four piebalds snort between the shafts.

  As the coach sets off with the women inside, Hummingbird reaches over and grasps Wasp’s gloved hand.

  ‘Anxious?’

  Wasp stares out at the passing buildings, their windows yellow with candlelight. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t be. Like the park, we’re mostly there to be seen. Our clients will make small talk but it’s unlikely to go further than that. If anything awkward happens or you get into difficulties I’ll deal with it. How’s your Emblem?’

  Wasp fingers the tattoo on her cheek. Most of the dead skin has already flaked off. Hummingbird rubbed some ointment into the Emblem before they left.

  ‘Itches, but hasn’t hurt for a while.’

  ‘Good. Try not to draw too much attention to it.’

  ‘Is my client the politician or the son?’

  ‘It’s their decision. Don’t take it personally. ’

  ‘I hope I like him.’

  Hummingbird squeezes her arm. ‘Liking him has naught to do with it. This is a job, remember.’

  The carriage rumbles to a halt. Wasp peers out of the window. A sensation of heat wafts across her cheeks. She can see very little. A hint of bodies moving in the dark, solitary flames bobbing along leaving wakes of orange sparks. And noises, like undercurrents slipping between the dark shapes of buildings.

  Wasp steps out, followed by Hummingbird. Another carriage clatters past, lanterns swaying. Across the road someone mouths an oath. Someone else laughs. Ahead, a short flight of stone steps leads up to a pair of open doors. Light spills onto the street.

  ‘This is the Royal,’ Hummingbird whispers. ‘A place for dandies to stuff themselves on over-rich food. I’ve met clients here before. The footmen are often more lofty than their customers.’

  The footmen escort the girls up the steps. Their clients are waiting inside, recognisable by their pink cravats studded with cameos. One is a cheesy fellow of middling years with a bulbous face and tufts of white hair poking out from either side of a wig. His son is soft-faced with dark eyes and brows that curve over the lids in wide arcs. Both men are dressed in dark blue with cream hose, the cravats providing the only splash of vivid colour.

  ‘So these are our fancies, are they?’ the older fellow declares in response to the coachman’s cough. ‘By God they resemble a pair of Italian poppets. Any one take your fancy, Richard?’

  Before the younger man can utter a word his father stabs the air with his cane. ‘You. You’ll do. What’s your name?’

  Wasp drops into a smooth curtsey. ‘I am Wasp. At your service, sir.’

  ‘Wasp, is it? Hiding a sting somewhere beneath those velvet skirts perhaps?’

  She glances at Hummingbird, who swoops into a curtsey of her own. ‘And I am Hummingbird, also at your service.’

  Richard bows. ‘It seems my choice has been made. Permit me to accompany you inside.’

  Hummingbird nods. ‘I would be delighted, sir.’

  His father taps his cane on the polished floor. ‘Don’t look so po-faced, girl. I haven’t emptied my purse to suffer a sour kipper at my side.’

  Wasp bolts on her most charming smile. Her client guffaws. ‘That’s the spirit. You may call me James. Sir James. My boy there is Richard, as you heard. Let’s get seated. This draughty hallway is killing my legs.’

  A long rectangular room topped by a gallery from which a string quintet saws out a melody. Tiers of fat candles hang from the ceiling; the air is yellow with tobacco smoke. Talk, laughter, a coughing fit from the far corner. Tables under white linen cloths dot the floor like cream buns, with waiters flitting expertly between them. One greases up to Sir James. ‘This way, sir.’

  The hubbub of conversation dips noticeably as the party follows the serving man to their table. Sir James seems to puff up in front of Wasp. His rolling gait turns into a swagger and he gestures expansively with his cane. When he speaks his voice is much too loud. Every ear and eye is the place is captured.

  ‘Not the best of tables for such company. Still, it will suffice.’

  Once seated, Wasp feels less exposed. You’ll be stared at, Hummingbird warned before they left the House. By women as well as men. Even servants will peek when they think you don’t see. Try not to be too self-conscious. It’s what you’re there for, and you’ll get used to it in time.

  People certainly steal glances, but the talk soon resumes its previous level. This is a riotous place for anyone to try to have a decent supper, she thinks. No tea-room serenity. No civilised dandies exchanging pleasantries over coffee and raspberry tart. The men around her, while smart enough, have a keen, almost criminal look about their faces, and from the snatches of conversation she overhears their talk involves more than casual business.

  ‘Welcome to our den of thieves,’ Richard remarks, smiling at Wasp.

  Hummingbird clasps her fingers under her chin. ‘You are all villains, then?’

  Richard laughs. He sounds nervous. ‘Without a doubt. Politicians, peers, bankers — what greater villainy could you find under one roof? They should hang the lot of us in chains.’

  ‘Then I would be robbed of enchanting company for the evening.’

  ‘And does your friend feel that way also?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Wasp splutters. ‘I know little of politics or commerce, sir.’

  ‘Call me Richard, please.’

  Wasp glances at her client. Sir James’s eyes flick over a menu. He hands it back to the waiter and mutters something in the fellow’s ear. The waiter slides off. He’s replaced by a rumpled-faced man in a grey periwig who’s seemingly popped out of the smoke. He and Sir James launch into some convoluted exchange full of incomprehensible words and parliamentary jargon. Wasp tries to say something to Richard but he’s already distracted. That’s more or less the last stab either girl has at conversation for the remainder of their supper. Patrons are constantly out of their seats, flitting from table to table, catching people in the aisles, shaking hands and talking, talking, talking. Richard attracts an equal measure of attention. Men slap his back or shake his hand.

  ‘Ever felt like a trinket in a box?’ Hummingbird whispered.

  ‘They’re ignoring us.’

  ‘Men’s business. Leave them to it. We serve
our purpose by being here.’

  Sir James excuses himself. Five minutes later he’s back, only to disappear somewhere else. Richard concentrates on his wine glass. Hummingbird does not interrupt his musing or try to cajole him into speaking. A tall, wigless gentleman, black hair scraped behind his head and tied with a velvet bow, cards the girls. Hummingbird shakes her head and returns it. Crestfallen, the man slinks back into the throng.

  Don’t accept cards while you’re with a client, she’d warned.

  More cards arrive at their table, only to be politely returned. Sir James, conducting business with other diners, doesn’t seem to notice. Hummingbird slips out a bone-handled fan from her sleeve and wafts it in front of her face.

  Should I do likewise? Wasp has chosen a tasteful, oriental-patterned fan from the selection in the dressing room, but when she attempts to flip it open, the handle catches on her lace cuff and it tumbles to the floor. Richard is watching her and she’s irritated to feel her cheeks go hot.

  Supper arrives, carried above the patrons’ heads by a brace of nimble-fingered serving men. Sir James, back from his excursions, downs half a chicken and three glasses of Madeira. His cheeks, already puffed and florid, grow redder as the minutes tick by. Bits of half chewed fowl catch in his teeth.

  The girls attend to their own food. They cut it, slice it, push it around their plates and pass the odd forkful across their lips. Hummingbird is an expert at not drinking. Whenever she puts down her glass it contains just as much red wine as when she picked it up. When the meal is concluded it’s as if a great feast has taken place. Sir James sits back, surrounded by the debris of his supper, and belches.

  ‘Can’t linger,’ he announces. ‘Richard wants a bit of culture.’

  Culture is an opera. They travel to the venue in Sir James’s carriage and are installed in a box so high above the other seats it makes Wasp dizzy. Having only ever been entertained by a travelling troupe, she thinks the woman on stage is an angel singing to God. Such a perfect voice, it shivers the nerves.