Wasp

by Ian Garbutt

  ‘Have I? Throwing all my problems in your lap doesn’t speak of courage. The Abbess branded me. Pressed a hot iron against my skin because I broke the rules. I’ll have it for life. Not only on my arm but in my head and heart too.’

  His mouth is inches from her ear. His breath comes in short, sharp bites. ‘I have rooms in Portsmouth near the harbour. Father doesn’t know about them. The landlord owns a shipping business and, thanks to my ministrations, enjoys favourable import duties on his cargoes. The place is hardly a palace but it’s comfortable, at least for a while. I go there when Father is conducting private business in the city and use it as I please. You are welcome there. I doubt even the Abbess’s bloodhounds could sniff you out.’

  ‘Where is your father? Is he at the party?’

  ‘Last I saw of him he was climbing the stairs with a bottle of canary tucked under one arm and the Duchess of Hambleton on the other. I shall be the last thing occupying his thoughts.’

  Wasp sighs. ‘I still don’t know how I’m going to smuggle Moth out of the House. I’ve no idea where she’s being kept and I can’t keep asking.’

  ‘Are your Sisters prone to bribery?’

  ‘I suspect most would sell their mothers for a shilling.’

  He fumbles in his jacket then drops something heavy into her lap. Coins jangle. ‘That should be enough to open doors and seal mouths.’

  Wasp slides the purse into her reticule. ‘I don’t know how to begin thanking you, Richard.’

  ‘Indeed you do.’

  He lays a hand on her arm. Wasp’s mouth has gone dry. She tries to move. Her muscles won’t obey. ‘What are you doing?’ she whispers.

  A rogue lick of starlight peeks through the trees and illuminates his face. His teeth seem to leap out at her. ‘You were so upset tonight I thought you might welcome a distraction.’

  ‘Take your hand away. I am a Masque. No one touches me.’

  His fingers caress her sleeve. ‘Going against your Abbess carries a dreadful risk,’ he murmurs into her ear. ‘More so than even you know. Everything bears a price. You’re getting by far the better bargain. You and that girl whose hide you’re so keen on saving. This caper is going to cost.’

  ‘Richard—’

  ‘It’s all I want. It’s all I ever wanted. Not so much to ask, considering the life you must’ve led already.’

  Friend’s voice in her head. You want a decent supper, lass, you’ll have to pay for it. And then her father. You’re nothing but a painted whore.

  A price. Always a price.

  Wasp settles back against the seat. ‘Just like your papa after all,’ she says.

  ‘No, you don’t understand.’ His fingers leave her arm and linger above her cheek. ‘I only wish to touch your face.’

  ‘My face?’

  ‘Yes. A few moments, no more.’

  ‘You are not permitted to—’

  He waves her into silence. ‘You rejected me in the park. You accuse me of setting up a clandestine Assignment then you interrogate me about George. Not satisfied with that, you go onto demand favours as if you and I were close kin. I am not here to be used. What I ask in return is little enough, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve done worse things,’ Wasp murmurs, closing her eyes.

  ‘I should accompany you into the House,’ says Richard. ‘I’ll say you took ill at the party and I brought you home.’

  ‘What about Nightingale?’

  ‘She was busy with the other guests. I’m sure your Abbess will understand.’

  ‘Keep your end of the bargain and I shall not burden you with anything more than we agreed to.’

  Outside, city windows slide past in candlelit blocks. His face lights up, darkens, lights again. He’s back on the opposite seat, slouching like some idle, pampered squire. The carriage turns into Crown Square and draws to a halt in front of the House.

  Seated behind the reception table is Hummingbird. Candles flicker over the rolled-up scrolls of the following day’s Assignments.

  ‘Where is the Abbess?’ Wasp asks. ‘Still indisposed?’

  Hummingbird puts down the quill she’s been fingering. ‘In a manner of speaking. You’re back early.’

  ‘Perhaps I can explain this unexpected return,’ Richard says, stepping forward.

  ‘Perhaps you can.’

  Wasp casts around the otherwise empty hall. ‘Why is Kingfisher not here?’

  ‘Now that,’ Hummingbird says, ‘is a very good question.’

  Wasp rouses Eloise and orders a hot posset to settle her stomach. The maid brings it to Wasp’s bedchamber and places it on the bedside table.

  ‘I had to heat the milk myself,’ Eloise says. ‘Cook is not about at this hour.’

  ‘Fine. Please leave towels and a fresh shift outside my door.’

  ‘Anything else, enfant, or am I permitted to enjoy a little sleep before daybreak?’

  ‘Go to bed. I won’t need anything more tonight.’

  ‘Very well, but you will be sure to return that gown, oui?’

  Too tired to care about the House’s precious garments, Wasp dabs her aching body with a wet towel. If she has to humour Richard for the sake of herself and Moth then so be it. She wipes the smell of Nightingale’s chosen perfume from her breasts and runs the towel over her face, clouding the water in the basin with face powder.

  Feeling better, Wasp ties her hair behind her neck. She scoops up the ball gown and hooks it over the back of the chair. She pads naked to the window. Hummingbird has taken Richard into the Scarlet Parlour, something she lacks the authority to do. Wasp found herself dismissed. She heard neither Richard’s explanation for their early return nor Hummingbird’s response.

  Outside, the moon drags itself from behind a patch of cloud and shivers Crown Square with pale light. Waiting as instructed, horses snorting and pawing the road, is Richard’s carriage.

  It’s still there when, sleepless, she checks again two hours later.

  Wasp turns over in her bed. Grey light trickles between the curtains. The air feels cold against her cheeks despite the orange bowl of embers hugging the bottom of the hearth. She swings her legs out from under the coverlet and stands, stretching. Richard’s purse is tucked beneath her pillow. She’ll have to think of a better hiding place. In the Comfort Home things were stuffed up sleeves or tucked into skirt linings. No such opportunity in a place where clothes and bed linen are changed daily.

  She goes to the dresser, plucks a towel and rubs her face. The coarse material invigorates her skin. She pulls the curtains wide. Beneath a washed-out sky everything is the colour of ashes. Wasp half expects to see Richard’s coach and team still waiting by the kerb, but apart from a scattering of hawkers pitching their wares no one else is abroad.

  A knock on the door. Hummingbird slips uninvited into the room. Wasp isn’t sure if she’s pleased to see her old friend or not. The Masque’s eyes are puffy and her hair unusually tangled. Her emblem resembles a livid welt on her pale cheek.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ Wasp ventures.

  ‘That Kitten of mine is killing me.’ Hummingbird perches on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m going to put her in a room of her own before I commit murder.’

  ‘Is she keeping you awake?’

  ‘I don’t think she knows the meaning of sleep. She spends night after night fidgeting and whispering. Again and again, hour after hour, and much worse than any other new girl. I’ve yelled at her, poked her, thrown a pillow at her head, but it doesn’t make any difference. I’ve even threatened to tip a pitcher of water over her. Yet each morning she’s up and about like a spring bunny while I’ve got my head under the pillow feeling like death.’

  ‘I didn’t think a Kitten could best you, Hummingbird.’

  ‘Neither did I but, short of murder, what can I do?’

  ‘She wasn’t the sole reason for your late night.’

  ‘Indeed not. Your escort hadn’t even left before Nightingale turned up. She’d make a spitting cat look sweet-natur
ed. Richard had to explain everything.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He’s been recompensed for his trouble and Nightingale is a mite less put out. I’d tread softly around her for a day or two though. She thought you’d been kidnapped.’

  ‘Where is the Abbess? Is she still unwell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does the Fixer think?’

  ‘The Fixer has troubles of his own. Are you coming to breakfast?’

  ‘I’m not hungry. If I get an Assignment send it up.’

  ‘Can I do this?’

  Wasp holds both hands in front of her face. Her fingers shake so badly they’re long, pink blurs. She flexes them, stretching the muscles, then balls them into fists. She must gamble everything on this one attempt. There’s no other way. She can’t go tiptoeing around the Masques, hoping one of them will tell her something. They’ll just as likely inform the Abbess, or the Abbess will find out anyway. Things might go wrong whatever Wasp chooses to do. She’s already tried collaring Moth’s former mentor, Red Orchid.

  ‘I want to know where Moth is being kept.’

  ‘Go and ask the Abbess.’

  ‘I can’t do that, as well you know.’

  ‘So why do you think I can help?’

  ‘You’ve been here longer than me. I’ll wager there’s not a rat in the rafters you can’t account for. You’re bound to know where Moth is. You’d make it your business to know.’

  ‘Even if that were true why should I tell you anything? You’re too stuck on that little duckling. Everyone says so.’

  And that had been that.

  Wasp sits on the edge of her bedroom chair, careful where she puts her legs. She’s pinned up a fold in her gown to fashion a makeshift pocket for Richard’s purse. The coins swing against her thigh whenever she moves. What if the fastening breaks and the purse tumbles out at the wrong moment?

  She peers out of the window. It’s going to work. It has to work. She’ll find where Moth is being kept and a way to get her out. They’ll go to Portsmouth with Richard and never have to come back here. He was right; she is using him, but perhaps he’s the sort who likes that. A touch on the cheek is scant price to pay.

  Mind made up, Wasp slips out of her room and hurries down the passage. On the stairs she bumps into a maid carrying a bundle of linen and sends the whole lot tumbling over the banisters. Shouting an apology, Wasp pushes through the hall curtain and down the long passage, skirts billowing in a cloud of taffeta. She shoves the mirror door open with both hands. It swings round on its hinges and bangs against the wall. Shattered glass spills across the floor.

  The Fixer is standing beside a dome lantern. With him is Lapwing, one of the younger girls. A couple of weeks ago a carriage ran over her foot, breaking three of her toes. The Fixer is teaching her to walk properly again. He holds her arms while she faces him, her injured limb swathed in bandages.

  The Fixer turns and regards the broken mirror. ‘That will prove expensive to replace.’

  Heat rushes into Wasp’s cheeks. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Really?’ His gaze flicks over her gown. ‘Are you off somewhere, or just returned?’

  Wasp’s flush deepens. Her anger has fallen away. She feels like a child about to get slapped by her papa for smearing mud on her petticoat.

  The Fixer steers Lapwing towards a stool and helps her sit. He rubs his hands, ambles over to his leather box and takes out a vial. ‘You’re certainly distressed about something,’ he continues. ‘This draught will calm you. It’s my last one, so it’s fortunate I’m seeing the apothecary later today. At any rate it should soothe your disposition.’

  ‘I don’t need remedies.’

  ‘And I don’t have time for conversation. I’m busy with someone as you can see. Go and calm yourself, as I said, then we can see what is so important that you feel obliged to blunder into my chambers.’

  An amused look tickles Lapwing’s pale face. Wasp seizes the only notion that enters her head. ‘I can sweep up the mess.’

  The Fixer holds out the vial. ‘I think you’ve done enough.’

  How could I have been so clumsy? Wasp bemoans as she skulks back along the passage, the Fixer’s vial gripped in her fist. So much for playing the rescuer, the conquering heroine straight from the pages of a penny story sheet. Her demand to know Moth’s whereabouts had turned to ashes on her tongue. How can she hope to help anyone this way?

  Still, there remains a chance. The Fixer can’t haunt the Mirror Room forever. Wasp could check each door, perhaps call Moth’s name until she hears a response. Moth won’t be gagged, will she? The door is likely locked but perhaps Richard’s burly coachman can break it. He might even be able to handle the Fixer should there be an ugly scene. Once they have Moth inside Richard’s carriage the battle will be won.

  Wasp crosses the lobby. Two Masques pass her, put their heads together and whisper. She ignores them and hurries back upstairs. ‘Can anything else go wrong today?’ she mutters. Outside, in the grey folds of the city, someone is screaming. The voice ululates as if struggling to reach a too-high note. It penetrates her nerves before tailing off.

  What if I forget about the whole thing? I could keep my own counsel and carry on with my life. After all, Moth’s not my friend. She’s a lost soul who needs someone to cling to. I’m not her mother or sister. I hardly know her. I’ve already been branded once. What good did helping people ever do me? Why should I care any more?

  A scroll is lying on her bed. Last-minute Assignments aren’t uncommon. As a Kitten, Wasp had watched more than one Masque dash, flustered, for the dressing room. Perhaps it’s what she needs. A break, a chance to gather her thoughts. She picks up the scroll, tugs on the ribbon and reads the instructions. A simple enough job. A ‘gentleman merchant’ wants to promenade around the park then take supper. No special clothes or affectations. Perhaps they’ll finish early and she can come home in time for this evening’s Parade. She might have a better perspective on things by then.

  But another note is scrawled along the bottom, same handwriting as before.

  Ask Hummingbird about the baby.

  Pain flares in Wasp’s chest. She realises she’s holding her breath and lets it out in a long whoosh. In the novels she had borrowed from the Russells’ library, or the stories she read to the children, everything was clear. The good. The evil. In each there was a conflict, an adventure, a resolution with perhaps some love and betrayal thrown in for spice. Real life is confusing. Events seem to drift around in no particular order until something sticks. Heroic acts don’t necessarily result in happy endings. By liberating Moth from the Cellar, has Wasp damned her further? We don’t carry baggage in the House. Did Hummingbird tell her that? Or was it the Abbess?

  Wasp folds the parchment. Who is the mystery confidant? Is it some sort of trick designed to trap her, to test her loyalty? Wasp has never taken note of her Sisters’ handwriting so can’t identify the script, but Hummingbird is the nearest thing she has to a friend.

  She tosses the scroll on top of the dresser and collapses onto the bed. Outside, the screaming has started up again. It sounds like the end of the world.

  A sharp wind churns around Crown Square. It flaps Wasp’s skirts around her ankles and she grabs her bonnet to stop it being wrenched off. Apart from a few pedestrians blustering along, the square is empty. In the lee of the steps a pair of sedan bearers stand blowing into their hands beside a mud-splattered chair. Above, clouds boil across the rooftops.

  Wasp squeezes her voluminous skirts into the sedan. It’s an hour’s trip across town and the bearers are in no mood to be gentle. Draughts whistle through chinks in the woodwork. Wasp hangs on, distracted by thoughts of Moth. One rescue had already ended in disaster; what would the result of another be? It would be easy to let it all go, to accept that everyone’s lives belonged to the Abbess. No more brandings, no more guilt, no more trouble.

  A yapping mongrel runs out in front of the lead b
earer. He stumbles and the chair lurches forward. Wasp grabs the door handle for support. Moth can’t survive the House. She can’t survive life. Fate has plucked then crushed her. Abandoning her might be for the best.

  Mightn’t it?

  And what about George Russell? What have you tried to convince yourself every night since the moment you accused him? That it was for the best? And what of his father? You could never be equals, so in the end who used whom?

  She had known every crease and tuck of Lord Russell’s body. Just to touch it made her shiver. Lord Russell understood the dark, passionate core that lurked inside her. He knew that in the Comfort Home she could make accusations until her throat was raw and they would be dismissed as the demented ravings of a lunatic.

  What about the children, Bethany?

  ‘I would have cared for them,’ she whispers into clenched fists. ‘Don’t you see that? It was an act of compassion.’

  Why? Because Lord Russell was your master? Because you were taught from birth to lower your eyes and curtsey to his kind, no matter what? You couldn’t leave him alone, no matter how many times you both slaked your lust on one another. His appetites were as strong as yours, and you thought his bastard was the key to open the gate of his world. Only that didn’t work, did it, Bethany? So you wanted to take Julia and Sebastian away. Forever. A mother will resort to desperate measures when faced with enough of a threat. And that’s how you regarded yourself. A mother.

  ‘No—’

  You were bound for the turnpike. An hour’s journey at most. But George caught you at the gate. He wore no cravat that day. His shirt was open, his throat soft and white. How perfect he looked.

  ‘Where are you taking the children, Miss Harris?’

  He stood in the lane, still in his riding boots. You had been caught on the fly, Julia and Sebastian wrapped tight in their travelling cloaks, small bundles tucked under their arms. The hired carriage was late. Its tardiness had damned you, so you muttered something about Pendleton market and fairings for the children, and even as you blurted out that lie his gaze fell on the bundles, then on your face. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘as I recollect Pendleton market is not held until Thursday. ’Tis remiss of you to be confused over such a trifling matter. You who are normally so precise in everything you do.’