Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  ‘She’s reluctant to take meals, Sister. She’s trying to run away again. Trying to be free in the only way she knows how. But the House won’t let her go. You should see how slender she has become. Before long you will be able to cup her waist in both hands. I’ve heard that’s how they like them in the Cellar.’

  ‘Cellar? What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you know? You seem proficient at thrusting your nose into everything else. After tonight our runaway is going to embark on a new career. It appears she won’t be getting her Emblem after all.’

  Wasp throws the mask across the room. It strikes the edge of the dresser and clatters onto the floor. She kicks over a chair, tears off her wig in a flurry of powder and throws her gloves onto the floor.

  ‘If you are going to throw a tantrum, chérie,’ Eloise observes, ‘then you’d do better to take it out on the pillows or upholstery Bruises will only spoil your pretty skin.’

  ‘Take that food out. I don’t want any supper. It turns my stomach.’

  ‘As you wish, chérie, but you had better return your garments to the dressing room. Such fine things to be so poorly treated.’

  ‘I don’t care about them.’

  Eloise puts the supper tray back down on the fireside table. ‘I think we need to have a chat, oui?’

  ‘A chat? Yes, we need to have a chat, but no more chérie this or enfant that. I want to know what’s to become of Moth. She was terrified, and kept talking about another side to the House. Don’t feign ignorance. I can stand here all night. No secrets, remember? So what will it be? Prison? A parish poorhouse? Will she spend the rest of her days at a bench seaming dresses, or touting for business round the back of a coaching inn?’

  ‘I think,’ Eloise says, ‘you had better go to bed.’

  ‘And I think you had better get that tongue of yours working. It’s busy enough most other times.’

  ‘Such impudence is not becoming. Don’t think I shall not take my hand to you, high and mighty Masque or not.’

  ‘And don’t think I shan’t pull your hair out by the roots. If there’s one thing my time in the Comfort Home taught me it’s how to fight like a bitch defending her pups. Moth was branded because of me.’

  Eloise clicks her tongue. ‘You should not have become so involved with her. Remember if one girl spoils something it is spoiled for all of us. If you won’t take supper then may I pour myself some tea? This contretemps has given me a dry mouth.’

  Hot liquid sloshes into a cup. Eloise takes a sip and turns back to face Wasp. ‘Look at this scar on my cheek. I am allowed to remain in the House because I persuaded the Abbess I make a good maid. My labours help pay for this pretty bedchamber, that gown, the sumptuous breakfast you will no doubt eat tomorrow. Moth will not be cast into the streets. A use will be found for her.’

  ‘She can’t take any more punishment. It will kill her.’

  Eloise shrugged. ‘That may be, chérie, but there are always other girls to take her place.’

  Pleasures and Punishments

  Morning dissolves into a sluggardly afternoon. A French lesson with a singsong tutor brought in especially from London. An evening of rich food and a fire that spits flaming hate into the iron guard. Night. Fidgeting in Moth’s haunted bed. Mind filling the dark with faces.

  Daybreak. Gritty eyes and cold water. Breakfast conjures smoked trout and an Assignment. Some lonely painter boy with indulgent parents. He mutters to himself throughout the course of their riverside walk, stopping only to declare that he’d love to paint her, but it will take a thousand Assignments and more money than his purse can stretch to in order to capture her perfection on canvas. Wasp, who has given him no more than half her attention the entire time, nods sympathetically. Then, at the end of it all, he surprises her.

  ‘May I have a souvenir?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A memento of an enchanting evening,’ he elaborates. ‘Something modest. Perhaps a glove? The one with which you have so delicately touched my cheek?’

  She thinks about it for a moment. No rule she’s aware of forbids such a thing. ‘This one,’ she says, tugging off her left glove. ‘The other has touched many faces. It would not be unique to you.’ He thanks her and cradles it like a treasure as he escorts her back to the hire carriage.

  In the House, the Abbess calls Wasp over to her desk, gesturing at the bare hand.

  ‘A glove? You handed him your glove?’ she remarks once Wasp has explained.

  ‘Was that wrong?’

  The Abbess grins, a horribly out-of-place expression on her usually dignified face. ‘They are welcome to their petty trophies. Kingfisher will add ten guineas to his account.’

  ‘Ten guineas for a strip of cloth?’

  ‘Chances are he’d come up with double if pressed. What he obtained was more than a glove. It was part of a Masque. Part of you. And if he wants it, he has to pay.’

  She reaches beneath the lip of the desk and produces a letter. ‘Joan Slocombe has written to express her satisfaction with your services and has offered to pay extra for the continued pleasure of your company. This is not the first good word I’ve heard concerning you. The Fixer said you were a natural the first night you stumbled through our door. You could become a Harlequin in two years, perhaps less.’

  Standing in that candle-flicker hall with the deep drapes and hidden doors, Wasp grasps an opportunity.

  ‘I would ask something.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  Wasp opens her hand. Mother Joan’s necklace spills across the top of the desk. ‘This belongs to me. A client’s gift.’

  The Abbess glances at the string of sparkling jewels. She makes no move to touch it. ‘Why do you show me this trinket?’

  ‘I wish to engage a Masque for one night.’

  The older woman’s gaze remains even. ‘It is not unknown. Masques occasionally find comfort in one another’s private company. Do you have someone in mind?’

  ‘Nightingale.’

  A heartbeat. Two. The pupils of the Abbess’s eyes widen into pitch pools. ‘Nightingale is a Harlequin. She has dented the pockets of dukes and princes.’

  ‘You don’t need to look closely at the necklace to know it’s worth ten of her.’

  ‘Whatever game you are playing, my dear, ruffling the feathers of Nightingale is not lightly done. I won’t tolerate a storm in the House.’

  ‘There will be no trouble, I promise.’

  A smile spreads across the Abbess’s withered lips. ‘She is beautiful, is she not? You wish to learn from her, perhaps?’

  Wasp swallows. ‘Yes, she’s beautiful, but my reasons are my own.’

  Tuesday morning. The Abbess hands out the day’s Assignments. Scrolls for Dragonfly, Swallow and Hummingbird. Deportment practice for most of the others. Wasp stares at the remains of her meal. On the edge of her vision, the Abbess hands Nightingale a scroll tied with red ribbon. ‘A special client for you.’

  Nightingale catches Wasp outside her bedchamber. ‘What is the meaning of this, Sister?’ She waves the opened scroll under Wasp’s nose. ‘A jest? You seek to play games with me?’

  She’s not angry. She is too confident in her own power for that. But Wasp has gone too far to become intimidated. ‘Tonight your life is mine, bought and paid for. You will give me your best, Nightingale, your very best, or you are not a Harlequin.’

  ‘My best for what exactly?’

  Wasp shakes her head. ‘Later.’

  Wasp finds Hummingbird in the maids’ parlour, buried in an armchair in the corner nearest the window.

  ‘Unusual place for you to spend your time,’ Wasp observes.

  ‘I’m ducking my new Kitten. She’s an absolute shrew and keeps beating my ears about everything. Practically expects her meals brought up on a silver trencher.’

  ‘I didn’t see her at breakfast.’

  ‘This one needs work before she can be allowed near the Kittens’ table.’ Hummingbird shifts in the chair. �
��I hear you’ve hired Nightingale for an evening. Where do you propose to take someone like her? She flies higher than any of us.’

  ‘Then it’s time her wings were tied. Buying her was easy enough.’

  ‘The Abbess herself would go on Assignment with you for the right price. How did you pay for it? Put on a highwayman’s mask and hold up a coach?’

  ‘I had something valuable I could barter. ’

  ‘The Crown Jewels?’

  Wasp laughs. ‘Not even Nightingale is worth that. It’s no use giving me that puppy-dog look, Hummingbird, I shan’t tell you a thing. Not until later anyway. I’ve a feeling this evening is going to prove dramatic enough.’

  ‘Your Masque is preparing herself,’ the Abbess says. ‘Go and wait for her. You can forgo any disguises. Raven will serve as your hostess tonight.’

  The parlour girl appears and places a gloved hand on Wasp’s arm. Raven’s eyes are swimming with a mixture of bemusement and curiosity. Word has indeed spread quickly through the House.

  Wasp fixes her gaze on Raven’s back as she leads the way into the Scarlet Parlour. Her bodice is a rainbow of glittering, gem-encrusted embroidery, the colours shifting in the candlelight as she moves. Heels click on the polished floor.

  The divans in the Scarlet Parlour are freshly brushed, the cushions plumped and undisturbed. Raven makes a sweeping gesture. Wasp chooses a seat at random and perches on the edge, knees pressed together, hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘What will be m’lady’s pleasure?’ the parlour girl enquires.

  Wasp stares blankly for a moment. Of course. House custom with newly arrived clients. Wasp has experienced it before, but to be a recipient, to sit on the other side of the curtain, now that is a foreign land.

  ‘Brandy.’

  Raven lifts the crystal decanter and pours a generous measure. Wasp’s hand shakes as she accepts it. She presses the rim to her mouth to steady the trembling. She’s seldom tasted brandy. Wine, yes, and a little gin if in the mood for something sharp. However the colour appeals, and a tentative sip spreads warmth across her tongue. She swallows, eyes closed. The clock chimes the half hour.

  No use, even the drink can’t help her relax. Wasp stands and traces the pattern of the rug with her feet as it spirals out from the centre. Despite spending an hour with powder and rouge she feels terribly exposed, and her stomach is performing butterfly loops.

  She fingers her Emblem. In the mirror it had seemed very stark sailing the pink, round ocean of her cheek. Her growing hair, now satin smooth and glossy with health, is tucked under a pink-tinted wig. A soft gown of sapphire taffeta hugs the now generous curves of her body. The garment looks spectacular, provided she doesn’t stretch too far or bend over unexpectedly. The rich scent she’d dabbed behind her ears and on the underside of both wrists flowers the air.

  ‘Don’t let her scare you,’ Hummingbird had advised, ‘whatever you have planned. Be sure to dress like the Queen and use all the weapons a young woman can muster. Beauty is the best armour. You may not defeat her in those stakes but, by heaven, you can give her something to think about.’

  The door opens. Nightingale glides into the room, lethally dressed in a scarlet gown trimmed with white bows. Her eyes are as sharp as flint. She plucks the glass Raven offers her, swallows the contents with effective grace then dips a professional if insolent curtsey.

  ‘I am at your service.’

  Wasp puts down her glass. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘So, my Sister, tell me what delights you have in mind. I take it this is no whim, that the evening’s festivities have been carefully plotted? No destination was mentioned on my scroll and the Abbess refused to enlighten me.’

  Wasp settles back in the seat of the hire carriage. The Abbess offered her Leonardo’s services but he’s the last person Wasp wants on this excursion. The Abbess didn’t press the matter nor ask any questions. She seemed distracted.

  ‘Actually, Nightingale, I want you to escort me somewhere.’

  ‘Oh? An opera? A gavotte? Perhaps coffee in one of the finer houses? Or would you prefer a stroll by the river so we can chat. I promise not to laugh as you spill your secrets into my ear.’

  Wasp shakes her head. ‘Has Moth been taken from the House?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Moth. Has she gone? Answer me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you will take me to her.’

  The carriage lantern bleeds yellow over Nightingale’s face. ‘A mighty peculiar way to satisfy your curiosity, Sister. If you want to see her that badly then I’m sure a visit, or even an extensive stay in her new accommodation, can be arranged.’

  ‘Save your poison for the House. I’m your client. Do as I ask.’

  ‘Poison?’ Nightingale leans over and, to Wasp’s astonishment, grasps her hand. ‘Whatever point you wish to prove, the Cellar is no place to do it. If your desire is to humble me then I’ll clean out your bedchamber, serve you breakfast, help Leonardo sweep the stables, anything you like. But believe me, Sister, the Cellar is not an establishment where anyone in the House chooses to go.’ Wasp shakes her hand free. ‘Lean out of the window and give the driver directions. I want to see this “Cellar”.’

  Nightingale, face pinched, does as instructed. The carriage jolts forward.

  ‘Will it be a long journey?’ Wasp asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whatever happens when we get there I want your support, do you understand?’

  ‘I am your paid escort, though I suspect this adventure will end up costing you a lot more than the Abbess’s fee. May I ask what you propose to do when we arrive?’

  ‘That depends on what I find.’

  ‘What part of the city is this?’

  Terraced dwellings, low-slung warehouses, higgledy-piggledy buildings dotted around as though they’d fallen out of the sky Close by, the stink of the river. No carriages, drunks or hawkers. Somewhere a cat is yowling at the moon. Upstairs windows show few lights. Yet the feeling of a hundred hidden eyes shivers the spine.

  ‘This is a borderland,’ Nightingale says. ‘An in-between place. A threshold between pretty parks and gin-soaked gutters. Two worlds living off one another need a place of parley, a market, a trading place. There are no such people as “withs” and “withouts”. Both have things the other wants and here is where the bartering is done. No constables, no footpads. No face that will willingly recognise yours or be recognised in turn. In the pretty crescents they will cut your purse. In the gin shops they’ll cut your throat. But here you can buy what you want or sell what you have to offer.’ Nightingale flicks out her tongue as if tasting the night. ‘We’re not supposed to be here. If Kingfisher catches us—’

  ‘Kingfisher doesn’t know where we are and our hire driver is two streets away tending to his horses. Now where is the Cellar?’ The Harlequin gestures towards a house bracketing one end of a terrace. ‘I tell you, Wasp, I don’t like this. Masques or not, we don’t fit here. Inside that house are people who wouldn’t twitch at turning your gown inside out and you along with it. These are not common men I speak of but high-class sparks who, for sport, would slice a person to pieces with their sword tips. If anything goes wrong the Abbess will have us both branded.’

  ‘Why? What is this place?’

  ‘It’s a brothel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A brothel. A whorehouse. Call it what you will. You cannot say you didn’t suspect. There is more to the workings of the House than sending pretty girls out to sup with gentlemen. Tell me what man wouldn’t wish to take his interests further after having been whipped up to a frenzy of delight by his charming companion? Carriages are always ready to whisk clients off to the Cellar. They are taken from abstinence to the feast table and it blows their senses to the stars. In such a mood they’d sell their own shirts for a tup. Whatever a man’s taste he’ll find an agreeable flavour within those walls.’

  ‘You are lying to me.’

  Nightingale looks
exasperated. ‘No, Sister, I am not lying. The Cellar is a place for men with bulging pockets and bulging breeches, both begging to be emptied. It is a place where dreams come true. Dark dreams. The House of Masques is only the gilding on a black lily.’

  ‘I’m going in, and you’re coming with me.’

  ‘You won’t be permitted. You enter by invitation or not at all.’ Wasp skitters across the street, satin slippers clacking on the paving. Windows beam at her with candle-bright eyes. In the moonlight the stonework resembles a dead face punctured by a dark, vertical mouth. The front door is painted some awful blood colour. ‘I can’t find a doorknob,’ Wasp says, running her fingers across the wood.

  ‘You have to knock to get in. One glimpse of you and the door will slam in your face.’

  ‘Then I’ll find another entrance.’

  ‘You’ll be caught.’

  Stairs descend to the mouth of the basement, blocked at the top by a barred gate. Wasp hitches up her gown and mounts the iron railing skirting the front of the house. One wrong foot and she’ll tumble head first into that dark hole.

  I won’t back out, not with Nightingale watching.

  She jumps. Her petticoats catch on a spike and rip. Any other time it would prove funny, but at least she lands on both feet. The gate is secured by a single bolt. Wasp hurries up the steps, slides it back and admits a paler than usual Harlequin. Why are you so afraid? Wasp thinks. What is it about this place that scares you?

  Bawdy music seeps through the windows. Laughter. Raised voices. Curtains block sight of the interior. Wasp grasps the brass latch. It won’t budge. She rattles the metal in its fixings then pushes against the door with both hands. Nothing.

  ‘Damn you all, where is she?’

  A small wicket opens. Curious eyes peer out. A lock clicks. Yellow light spills across the step. An apparition emerges, a demonic figure in a red slammerkin and a wig that brushes the top of the doorframe. Her face is a hollow pit of powder and rouge as if someone has gathered up the soft folds of her flesh and pinned it to her cheekbones. And there is the scar, the blurring of skin where an Emblem has been.