An Almond for a Parrot

by Dray Wray

  My door was firmly bolted and my windows barred, but through them came sunlight and a breeze.

  Let the curtain rise, let the footlights shine. Take your seat, my love, and I will show you this short life of mine.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Green Gooseberry Tarts

  You may either use them whole, or make a marmalade of them with a good syrup. This last is recommended as the best method, for by this means you can judge easily how sweet they are, and ought to be, to please. For marmalade (if large) they ought to be cut in half.

  The indigestible revelation that I bore the name Tully Spiggot kept me awake at night. I learned that the captain was twenty-two years old and resided with Mr Wrattan at Great Ormond Street. All that could be said in his favour, as far as I could tell, was that he had his own teeth and hair. Apart from that he was a known gambler and cheat. I felt more drained than the Thames at low tide. Why had this mudlark of a husband waited so long to climb out of the silt of the past to throttle my future?

  The opening of the fairy house was only three weeks away and to make matters worse – or so it felt to me – two of London’s most notorious courtesans took up residence. Hope and Mercy were delighted to be reunited with their dear friends and, by degrees, I became excluded from their tête-à-têtes and card games.

  Flora Dingley was a small, doll-like creature. She arrived in a carriage bearing the arms of the Earl of Wellborne; her costume immaculate, her hair and gown studded with diamonds.

  Bethany Goodere arrived shortly after. It was she who had been found with the footman, doing what his lordship’s footman and his lordship’s mistress ought not. The papers were full of the scandal. There were cartoons, and much ridicule of Lord Bagley who had sent her packing. Bethany was the most beautiful and the most terrifying woman. She wore her curly hair high and powdered grey, her skin was the colour of honey, her features hard except for her liquid, light-brown eyes that became darker with passion. It was with Bethany that my trouble began.

  Bethany was given the finest suite of rooms the fairy house had to offer. With her came her maid and a hairdresser, a mole of a man called Signor Florentini who wore tiny spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose.

  I was certain that Bethany had taken a dislike to me the minute she met me and I’m afraid to say that the feeling was mutual.

  When she heard that I was married to Ralph Spiggot, she said, ‘Why, he is an abomination. It is said that he likes young girls and enjoys nothing more than humiliating them.’ For the first time she studied me and, her curiosity satisfied, said, ‘Oh fie, he will make a pretty dinner of you. How old?’

  I told her I was near seventeen.

  ‘He will whip you all the way to twenty and after that want no more to do with you. I have heard him boast on more than one occasion that he considers a woman over that age as being worthless to any man and better off dead. But I do declare,’ said Bethany, laughing, ‘once Ralph Spiggot has seen you, he will lose all interest. Those eyebrows are enough to make a bishop blush.’

  I expected that at least Hope would defend me but she too laughed. Bethany had a cruel tongue and it near defeated my spirits that neither Hope, Mercy or Queenie ever came to my rescue. I did my best to keep out of Bethany’s way but, a few days later, her maid came to my chamber and told me her mistress wanted to see me.

  I found Bethany lying naked on her bed, propped up on pillows. Signor Florentini was leaning over her, examining her Venus mound with great care.

  ‘Tully,’ said Bethany. ‘Come, sit beside me and tell me about yourself. You are a virgin?’

  This was the exercise I had been dreading: she was determined to undo me, to make a fool of me. My eyes were fixed on Signor Florentini and my cheeks must have gone to fire for he had a barber’s razor in one hand and in the other a soap mixture which he was lathering over Bethany’s pretty garden as if very familiar with all its beds and furrows.

  ‘What is he doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh fie! Don’t you know? He’s making sure the path is smooth.’ She turned her gaze to my face. ‘Those eyebrows. I do declare they need attention. Do you have hair elsewhere in such profusion?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Show me. This is no place for modesty.’

  I was not going to be bear-baited. I stood up and ran to the door but her maid barred my way.

  ‘Sit,’ said Bethany.

  I hate to admit it but I did, with tears in my eyes.

  ‘Where do you think you are?’ she asked me.

  ‘The fairy house.’

  ‘And what is the fairy house?’

  ‘A brothel.’

  ‘And what is your role in it?’

  ‘To assist Mr Crease.’

  She had a deep, rounded laugh that made her breasts judder. ‘You are a pretty, naive little fool.’

  I sniffed and the maid brought me a kerchief. Signor Florentini moved Bethany’s legs further apart and continued shaving.

  ‘And I suppose you think Queenie keeps you here because she doesn’t want you to be a whore?’

  I said nothing. Bethany waved Signor Florentini away and her maid, too. When they had gone, her very mannered way of talking disappeared and her voice became low and musical with an unfamiliar accent.

  ‘Listen to me, little Miss Innocent, Queenie says that to all her gals – you are no exception. I’ll tell you this for a bag of nothing – there are three ways you can go: one, save that sweet maidenhead for your donkey of a husband and live with the consequences of slavery; two, find a convent – and live with the consequences of slavery; three, become your own mistress and learn, as I have done, to make a man pay. This, to me, is freedom, the best freedom a woman can have. I own my own money and no one owns me.’ She slowly rose from the bed. ‘Look at me.’

  When I didn’t she took hold of my chin and moved my face towards her. ‘This is my gown, this skin given free when I was born. I have learned to wear it, be proud in it. Modesty is no whore’s friend and it is the enemy of pleasure. So, I ask you again: do you have hair on other parts that Signor Florentini might attend to?’

  I said nothing, so hard was the lump of rage in my throat. Cook always said I had a face as good as an open book that anyone could read without turning the pages.

  Bethany laughed. ‘I suggest you think about what I said. And this evening, join us for cards – but not with a face like that.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Here lies Tully Truegood,

  curvaceous and pretty.

  She died an old maid,

  More’s the pity.

  I determined to shake off my melancholy for it made a dull wit of me and I didn’t like the notion that to Bethany I appeared a silly, half-grown gal, naive in the ways of the world. Hope was the only one I could confide in. I found her in her chamber, reading a letter.

  She listened to all I had to say, then said, ‘We should have been honest with you when you came to the fairy house, but Queenie, Mercy and me took you to our hearts and it seemed…’

  ‘I don’t want to live as Spiggot’s wife,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to go into a nunnery and that leaves…’

  ‘The noblest profession of them all,’ said Hope with a smile. ‘Show me your wares, madam, and let us see if Bethany is right.’

  I pulled my petticoats aside without a blush.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Hope. ‘Yes, better by far that it all comes off, for you have pretty Venus mound and to lose it under such an ill-defined bush is, I think, a shame. The absence of it will add to your virginal qualities.’

  She told her maid to prepare a bath.

  With Hope I felt not the least worried to be naked, for she complimented me and assured me a thousand times that nakedness worn well is the height of elegance with which few gowns can compare. She gave me punch to drink and I think the alcohol helped in no small part to make me feel more confident about my body. I relished the warm water and Hope’s sweet words.

  It was only when I
was dried and my skin smelled of rose water that Signor Florentini arrived. He said not a word while he methodically laid a cloth on the bed and arranged his razors and ointments neatly before him. Still not a word did he say as he indicated that I was to lie down on the bed. I did so, surprised to find that I did not feel at all shy in front of this man. He placed his small glasses on his nose, rolled up his sleeves and scrutinised me before sharpening his razors.

  Hope looked on as Signor Florentini parted my legs until all of me was well exposed, then, taking his brush, covered my little garden with frothy soap. He gently moved the soft flesh of my purse with one hand while the razor in his other hand made sure that not one hair was left to spoil the view. The same he did with my legs and arms, and, rolling me over, parted the cheeks of my bottom. There was not a hair left on my body. He rubbed in ointments that were supposed to calm my senses, and didn’t. When Signor Florentini was satisfied with his handiwork he moved his attention to my eyebrows. I was shocked that the plucking of such small hairs could cause such great discomfort. For all my begging him to stop, he carried on.

  At last he stood back, studied me, and began to dress my hair. And what a palaver that was. He combed it out until – my oh my – it stood out as if I was a wild woman. He then powdered and pinned it moderately tight and by the time he was finished I had forgotten that I had no clothes on and was growing pleasantly comfortable with the sensation.

  Signor Florentini took out a mirror for me to see his handiwork and at last spoke. His voice was so surprising that I thought someone else must be in the room. It was as high pitched as a young girl’s, which sat oddly with his portly appearance.

  ‘She is a beauty,’ he said. ‘If I may say so, far too much is made of clothes – a woman who is comfortable in her naked state is blessed indeed.’

  Just when I was sure nothing more could be done to me, I was stood in the middle of the chamber while Signor Florentini blew powder all over me until I was china white. My nipples he dusted pink, as he did my cheeks, my lips he stained red. At last I was allowed to look in the long mirror. I could hardly believe the transformation. My face, which had been so overcast, now shone with light and there seemed to be more of it and it was better organised than when there had been thick eyebrows to cloud its expression. The white powder softened all blemishes and made one piece of me.

  Signor Florentini packed his bag and, with a bow, left.

  Hope found me a pair of stockings, shoes with embroidered heels and a small ruff made from silver lace that tied with a little black bow at the back of my neck. These were all I was allowed to put on.

  ‘If I was a painter,’ said Hope, ‘I would make my fortune with your portrait.’

  There came a knock on the chamber door.

  Hope, taking my hand said, ‘Quickly – go behind the screen and stay there until I call you. And then I want you to come out like a princess.’

  The door opened and I heard Queenie come in with Bethany.

  ‘If you can’t find anyone for tonight,’ Bethany said, ‘you’ll have to send out. Miss Jacqueline, I’m told, has some new girls in from the country.’

  ‘I’m not using her,’ said Queenie emphatically. ‘All her girls are patched-up virgins. Hope, we are only hours away from this evening’s entertainment and we are a virgin short. I’m at my wits’ end. What would you suggest?’

  ‘That you look no further than your own house, madam.’

  I knew that if I didn’t make my entrance then I never would have the courage to do it at all. I took a deep breath and, imagining myself to be wearing a gown fit for a queen, I appeared from behind the screen. For a moment there was silence.

  It was Bethany who spoke.

  ‘Signor Florentini’s work, if I’m not mistaken,’ she said. She walked round me. ‘Flora had better see this, Queenie.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t be bothered with tonight’s arrangements,’ said Flora as she walked into the chamber. ‘Surely you can…’ She, too, stopped on seeing me.

  If there was a moment to lose my confidence, this was it. No, I thought. I’d had quite enough of being left out of things and did not want to spend another night staring at a dead parrot.

  ‘I could become quite jealous,’ said Flora. ‘Where did you get her from?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Tully.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Flora and left the room.

  ‘Can I come to this evening’s soirée?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Queenie. ‘Most definitely, yes.’

  I spread my arms and span round and round, feeling myself to be as feathery as a bird. I heard Bethany’s rich, dark laugh. I opened my eyes and found I had risen above the floor and knew if the room had no ceiling I could have touched the clouds.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Memory, I confess, is not always a faithful interpreter of the heart. It tends to forget all the little details in its haste to come to the point. But oh, my love – this night I can recall as if it has just happened. I go over it again and again, a charm to ward off the inevitable drudgery of greyness. A fog has descended over any hope of a future. Seven months is the most I can expect from this life – if I don’t die giving birth or of jail fever then I have the hug of the hangman’s rope to look forward to. If my child – our daughter – lives, Hope will bring her up. Memories are the greatest comforts I have. They keep the ghosts at bay, for even in the governor’s house they’re here a-plenty. The dead are often more vibrant than the living, unencumbered as they are by life, and only irritated by regret.

  According to Queenie’s wishes, I was to be dressed with virginal simplicity. The gown chosen for the purpose was a polonaise the colour of primroses, embroidered with white flowers. My stays were tight, so tied that my breasts sat un adorned, two soft peaches. The kerchief around my neck was of the lightest muslin, not hiding the fruit but making them appear all the riper.

  It was Hope’s idea that none of us should wear a hooped petticoat; without it, the fabric of my gown fell in a way that showed my figure to great effect.

  When my maid had finished dressing me, I was told I must wait until called to the drawing room. Voices and music wafted up the stairs and I could not think what was causing the delay. In a vain attempt to calm myself, I walked back and forth, playing with my fan. I was trying to master it in an elegant manner when, without knocking, Mr Crease limped in. I stopped, quite prepared to feel the sting of his tongue. But as always, when I was certain he would say one thing, to my surprise he said another.

  ‘Queenie tells me you rose off the floor this afternoon.’

  I nodded and waited for the inevitable rebuke.

  Instead he said, ‘I will see you tomorrow morning in the long gallery.’ He bowed. ‘Goodnight.’

  Shortly after, Hope came to fetch me. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Is Mercy in the party?’

  ‘No, she is out. But don’t worry, my ninny-not. Queenie has found you the most handsome gallant and I don’t think you will be disappointed.’

  The redecoration of the drawing room was complete and I was much taken by its elegance, by its windows in well-measured panes gazing lazily over the square. The chamber, lit with hundreds of candles, gave the occupants a golden glow. Music came from an antechamber, the doors of which were open, revealing three musicians seated with their backs to us.

  Flora introduced me to her particular. The Earl of Wellborne was a grand man indeed, and older than I had imagined. He held a little glass to his eye and pronounced me delicious. Bethany’s gallant looked equally well bred and, like Bethany herself, not much interested in my arrival. He only once glanced in my direction before returning to concentrate on the charms of his new mistress. Hope’s gallant was younger than the other two gentlemen and it was plain that he was already enamoured by her beauty. That left only an overdressed dandy wearing a wig that was parted in the middle, rising into horns on either side. He had the longest fingers and neck I had ever seen, was as tall as a willow
tree and just as thin. His face was covered in patches.

  I tried not to look disappointed when Queenie introduced me to Sir Henry Slater, for he appeared effeminate compared with the other gentlemen in the party.

  ‘She is a picture, Queenie, I am sure,’ he said, yawning. ‘But not for me.’ I was confused, for surely this was the man who was to bed me. ‘I do like the gown, ma’am. No hoops – most radical.’

  ‘Why, Sir Henry,’ said Queenie, handing me a glass of champagne, ‘I am flattered that you approve.’

  She left me to talk to him.

  ‘Are you come fresh from the country?’ asked Sir Henry, taking a pinch of snuff.

  ‘No, sir, I have always lived in London.’

  ‘But you are really a virgin? Not just patched up for the night? My friend would not be impressed to find you have been overused.’

  Queenie hastily returned to my side and swished Sir Henry’s questions away with her fan.

  ‘I don’t deal in anything that isn’t genuine, Sir Henry. Now, stop making the poor gal terrified.’

  ‘Cards?’ said Hope.

  It was a suggestion that was greeted with approval by all except Flora, who said, ‘I don’t know – it will take the gentlemen’s minds off pleasure. They will be more concerned with their wallets than our purses.’

  There was laughter.

  ‘Oh, what a wit,’ said Sir Henry.

  ‘Let us not gamble with money then,’ said Hope.

  ‘If we don’t use money,’ said the Earl, ‘what, madam, would you suggest should be the token?’

  ‘Why, clothes, sir,’ said Hope. ‘And the winner is the person who is wearing the most at the end of the game.’

  This novel idea caused great delight and the Earl of Hatton put a twenty pound note on the table for the winner.

  Sir Henry declined to play.

  ‘No, by gad,’ he said. ‘I am on my way to my club and will leave you to your devices while I enjoy mine.’

  He took my hand, kissed it and, making his excuses to Queenie, left.