by Dray Wray
I had never seen her like this. She looked as if she could kill me, she was so angry. Mercy tried to stop her but Queenie’s temper, once lost, was unrestrained.
‘Do you wish to remain at the fairy house? Or have you changed your mind?’ she said, hitting me with her fan. ‘What do you think we provide here? Afternoon tea?’ Her fan snapped as she hit me again. ‘Your job is to pleasure your client, not to abandon him at the theatre.’ My tears were making me shudder. ‘He didn’t pay for a new gown in order for you to ridicule him, and make me look a fool. I should have followed my instinct and left you at Milk Street.’ She threw the broken fan at me.
‘Queenie.’ Unnoticed, Mr Crease had come in. He closed the door. ‘Queenie – quiet.’ He said it in a manner that burst the boil of her rage. ‘Mr Fitzjohn is downstairs.’
‘We should offer him Bethany’s services by way of compensation,’ said Queenie.
‘He is adamant – he wants to see Tully.’
‘Then she’d better go and apologise for her behaviour.’
I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass. I was shaking and my face was red and blotchy.
‘Madam,’ said Mr Crease to Queenie, ‘would you leave this to me?’
Mercy took Queenie’s arm and led her from the room.
‘Sit,’ said Mr Crease. ‘And close your eyes.’ I did, and when I opened them again I felt completely calm, and my face had nothing to show where Queenie’s rage had been.
‘Come,’ said Mr Crease. ‘We are to go downstairs.’
It was on the landing that a thought came to me.
‘Mr Crease,’ I said, ‘Mrs Coker gave me a pearl hand.’ He stopped and looked at me with his closed, painted eyes. ‘I don’t know what it is but I’m certain that I should.’
‘It will make a man reach the point beyond reason by the use of your hand on his machine. It might just be your redemption tonight.’
I stood outside the drawing room, my heart beating, the words, ‘I am most humbly sorry,’ on my lips, but the moment I entered, Avery came to me.
‘You are full of passion,’ he said, putting his arms round me. ‘Your fire makes me seem cold, but I am not.’
‘Forgive me, sir. I should have behaved with more decorum,’ I said.
‘Why should you?’ he said. ‘As I walked here I thought how I would feel if I found out that you were married. I was shocked by the outrage such a thought caused me.’
All my longing for him returned. I could no more be angry with him than with autumn for taking summer from us. I took his hand and led him to my chamber. We embraced as if it would be our last. He slipped me out of my petticoat and shift and took possession of me with such care that I reached that moment when all is lost and all is found again.
We fell asleep in each other’s arms. I woke as dawn was breaking and, gently, I moved so that I might feast my eyes on his body. His sweet sugar stick was semi-hard, its head rising from its white shaft, his dark hair a forest curling round two baubles. As he slept I touched him and found that my fingers knew what was needed, where to press and where to release. There was excitement in seeing the effect my hand had on him for he became hard, so hard. He stirred.
‘Tully,’ he groaned. ‘Oh, Tully.’
From his tip burst forth the dew of him and, having never tasted such liquor as this, I put my lips to it and kissed the moisture from him, salty and delicious.
He moaned again and, my hand never leaving that majestic machine, soon found the harmony of him and moved accordingly, my ache becoming desperate as my hand slid up and down, up and down until he exploded, crying out, a stream of white liquid shooting from him in a glorious arc.
In the peace that followed he whispered, ‘Who taught you to do that?’
‘No one. It was a wish.’
He looked puzzled.
‘Did I do anything wrong?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, Tully,’ he said. ‘You overwhelm me.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In those hectic days before the masquerade ball, I avoided Queenie. Her anger had sent a chill through me and I knew that if I let her down again I would be thrown out and forced to make my living on the streets. I had little sympathy from Bethany or Flora. I had never managed to make any headway with either of them. Both saw themselves as being at the top of their profession and me as nothing more than a silly girl. Due to my fall from Queenie’s favour they felt free to unleash their razor-sharp tongues and their words cut deep.
‘What will happen to Miss Prissy when Mr Fitzjohn leaves?’ mocked Bethany.
‘The streets,’ said Flora. ‘I can’t imagine any good reason for keeping an unwilling whore.’
I had not the confidence to see that in part this taunting was brought on by jealousy.
I was sure that if I didn’t prove myself with Mr Crease then their grim prediction would be fulfilled and I concentrated on my work as I hadn’t done before. Mr Crease had a swing rigged up in the ballroom, far too high off the ground for me to reach.
‘You will swing back and forth,’ he said, ‘and when I give the command, you will jump off the swing and float in mid-air.’
It was a truly incredible thought. I wanted to say, ‘So that will be my end,’ but Mr Crease had his painted eyes firm upon me.
‘It will be difficult in all these petticoats,’ I said.
‘I suggest you take them off and rehearse in your shift and bare feet.’
I knew enough not to argue. I did as I was told.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I will leave you to practise.’
‘But how do I reach the thing?’
‘Ads bleed. You can rise off the ground, can you not? You will learn to rise to the height of the swing, that is all. Time is pressing, madam.’
By the following day I had only managed to rise a few feet at a time. Then I remembered the stairs at Milk Street that I had named the Coffin-Maker and Dead Drunk, and how I had once thrown myself down them and stopped before crashing to the floor. Why hadn’t I ever tried to fly again? Because Cook had told me it was impossible. Perhaps Mr Crease was right. I believed it was impossible and impossible it became. I was contemplating this when Flora wandered into the ballroom.
‘What are you doing?’ she said.
I explained.
‘Tish tosh,’ she said. ‘That is too rich.’ She held her stays for she was laughing so much. ‘You, oh fie, that is priceless, so it is. Really Mr Crease should know better. He might be able to do it – after all, he is extraordinary. But you… you are dull-witted and ordinary.’
Still giggling, she walked away across the ballroom. I felt a lump of rage so tight in my throat that I thought I might choke. While her back was turned from me, I closed my eyes and willed myself to rise from the floor, willed myself to be seated on the swing.
‘This ballroom is dusty,’ said Flora. ‘Perhaps you would be better employed sweeping the…Tully?’
It was not elegantly done but I had mastered the feat. I had risen, grabbed hold of the seat of the swing and pulled myself on to it.
When Flora saw me she let out a scream which brought Mr Crease to the ballroom.
‘She hasn’t fallen?’ he said.
Flora, her hand over her mouth, pointed up at me.
‘Perfect,’ said Mr Crease. ‘Now jump.’
But first I wanted to acquaint myself with the sensation of being up so high and was surprised to find I enjoyed it. In fact, I would say it gave me courage to see Flora so small beneath me. I leaned back and leaned forward and by degrees the swing moved.
‘When you are ready, jump,’ said Mr Crease.
‘No!’ said Flora. ‘No, Mr Crease, she will break every bone in her body.’
‘What’s going on?’ Queenie had entered the gallery.
‘Mr Crease wants Tully to jump. It’s insane.’
Queenie looked unimpressed. I wanted so badly for Queenie to forgive me that I slid from the swing and fell like a stone to be caught by Mr Crease.
�
�That won’t do,’ said Queenie and turned to leave. ‘Flora, your seamstress is downstairs.’
After that I practised every day, all day. I swung back and forth, a pendulum marking the passing hours until the time I would have to perform in public. Elevation was no trouble; the descent ruined the effect.
It was the nights that I secretly longed for. They belonged to Avery and Avery alone. We never talked of the countess again and, in those few days left to us, I tried and failed to harden my soft heart to the inevitable loss of him. I wonder how many lovers have longed to hold back time. I would have paid with my soul to stop the hands of the clock. I decided to give him a parting gift, something solid, and as time was so much on my mind I thought of giving him a pocket watch. Still owning the twenty pound note I’d won at cards, I asked Mercy if she would find one for me and have it engraved.
‘You noodle,’ she said. ‘He is supposed to buy you gifts, not the other way round.’
‘Nevertheless, would you do it for me?’
Mercy took the money. ‘What should be the inscription?’
‘“To Avery Fitzjohn from Tully”.’
‘You mean Tully Truegood,’ said Mercy.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just Tully.’
The fairy house, which up to then had been only partially open, now showed itself in all its glory. The dust sheets were removed, folded and put away, chambers aired, beds fumigated against bugs, traps put down for rats. The stairs were polished and everything gleamed. On the ground floor, a vista of rooms opened into each other and beyond them was the ballroom, painted in a lush red with mirrors to reflect the dancers. At one end was a balcony where the musicians practised. Carpenters came and went, furniture arrived from Chippendale and Hepplewhite; food in vast quantities was delivered to the kitchen. An endless procession of tailors and dressmakers, weighed down by rolls of fabric and heavy books with all the latest fashions from the continent, passed through the hall. Flora and Bethany virtually locked themselves away with their dressmakers to discuss the latest modes from Paris, how their hair should be coiffed and the quality of the masks they were to wear. All the while Queenie sat in her rookery with Mr Pouch, going over the books, making sure that nothing had been forgotten.
We were not the only house in the new squares of London to be engaged in feverish activity, for every butler and housekeeper worth their salt was preparing for the arrival of their master and mistress. The small, powerful elite of fashionable London was returning from draughty estates and leaky country seats before the snows imprisoned them in perpetual boredom.
The invitations to the masquerade ball had been sent out long before. Two hundred people were expected. This was to be the first ball of the season.
‘The most sought-after ticket in London,’ so a newspaper reported, much to Queenie’s delight. ‘A masked ball always brings out the most extravagant fashions,’ she read.
On the afternoon of the masquerade ball Queenie insisted that we all rested to look fresh. The house had never been so full of young gals, each personally selected by Queenie for their particular services, each obliged to sign a document saying that they would not get drunk and that they would abide by the rules of the house.
I went to my chamber, and was dozing a little when there was a knock at the door. To my surprise Avery came in.
I ran to him and threw my arms round his neck and kissed him.
‘What are you doing here so early?’
He kissed me but at the same time untangled himself. I looked into his face and asked if something had happened, for all the light-heartedness of him had gone.
‘I must return to Paris,’ he said. ‘The coach leaves in an hour. I am sorry, Tully, I will not be able to attend the ball.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no, you must come! You can’t be leaving, not tonight.’ Then I stopped for it occurred to me perhaps an account of the incident at the theatre had found its way to the countess’s family. ‘Surely you could wait one more night?’
‘It’s impossible, my sweet. But I didn’t want to leave without seeing you.’ He hesitated. ‘I wanted to tell you…’ He stopped, closed his eyes and, shaking his head, said, ‘It’s of little consequence.’
‘What’s troubling you, sir?’ I asked.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You trouble me.’
‘Have I done something to displease you?’
‘No. Far from it.’
‘Then what?’
‘I cannot tolerate the idea of you being with another man and yet I can do nothing about it. I have not the resources to keep you. If I could, I would but…’ He stopped. ‘I thought when I met you that we… that I…’
‘You are to be married, sir,’ I reminded him.
He looked wretched. ‘Yes, but not yet.’
I didn’t know what to say. I knew what fabric must feel like when it is torn. But nothing, I told myself must overshadow the evening, even though my lover had chosen now, of all times, to tell me of his departure.
I pulled away. ‘I thank you for your courtesy, sir,’ I said, and curtsied, keeping my eyes to the floor.
And before I could say another word the door had closed abruptly behind him and I was left with a heart less whole than it had been a few minutes earlier.
I needed my mind to be distracted before the reality of his going destroyed me. I knocked on the door of Mercy’s chamber. She was looking at herself in the mirror. Signor Florentini had cut off all her hair.
‘Radical, isn’t it?’ said Mercy. ‘What do you think?’
‘It suits you.’
She looked at me in the serious way she had. I bit my cheek, refusing to give in to tears. She took me in her arms and kissed me.
‘Mr Fitzjohn has left, hasn’t he?’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘do you know what it’s like? Have you ever loved anyone?’
‘Yes. I have – I do. But I would be grateful if you didn’t tell Queenie.’
‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Who is it?’
‘Mofty, of course. I would willingly give up this game to be with her. There. You see, it’s not only you who has a heart to lose.’
‘Kiss me again and hold me,’ I said.
A little later, her maid came to dress her.
‘What is your costume?’ Mercy asked me.
‘A surprising one,’ I said.
‘I heard Mr Crease tell Queenie you are to be the star of tonight’s entertainment.’
‘I think not,’ I said and was about to return to my chamber when Mercy said, ‘Wait, I have something for you, although now it is sadly mistimed.’ She handed me a small package. ‘I thought it should be simple,’ she said.
The pocket watch was plain in design but when I opened it, I could see the cogs and small wheels turn and tick. It was engraved as I had requested. Mercy said, ‘It looks a little odd without your surname.’
I clicked the watch shut. ‘No, it’s perfect,’ I said.
I was saved from my misery by Signor Florentini. He came to my chamber, dressed my hair and painted my face. He hardly spoke and I was not in the mood for words. But he spent his time on me and, when at last he gave me the glass, I was surprised. My face looked more composed than it had before and I even saw a shimmer of beauty but whether it was me or Signor Florentini’s workmanship, I couldn’t say.
At seven o’clock, Mr Crease came to my chamber followed by a parade of footmen, one carrying a tray of champagne and two glasses, the others an assortment of boxes. Mr Crease opened a box.
‘Put her in this,’ he said to my maid, handing her a garment of cream gossamer that was more thistledown than fabric.
The bodice and skirts were one garment, worn without panniers or stays, made of muslin embroidered with small gold dots. My maid laced the flimsy gown tight at the back and at the front it was cut low so that that my breasts could all but be seen, but were beguilingly hidden behind a silk gauze. From another box came slippers of supple, gilded leather with ribbons that crossed-laced round my a
nkles.
When Mr Crease was satisfied, he ordered the maid out of the room and told me to concentrate, as I had in our rehearsals, on lifting myself from the floor. I did so and felt myself to be spinning. Once more grounded, I discovered that attached to my back were two tiny iridescent wings. Finally, he put his hands on my face and when he removed them I was wearing a simple mask with no ribbons to keep it in place. I looked in the glass again and saw an extraordinary being of Mr Crease’s creation. What had I to fear? This was not me, this was not my face that so boldly stared back from the glass. This was a sprite of pleasure, a nymph of passion that not even gravity had the power to control. All care fell away and it seemed that Avery’s departure had had no more effect than a sermon on Sunday.
I was intoxicated with excitement. I had a view of the square outside and could see that every other house there was ablaze with lights and the windows were full of people, an audience hoping to recognise the guests in their disguises.
It was a little after nine-thirty when Mr Crease, in a black domino and mask, came to fetch me. If ever a man looked more sinister I have yet to see him. He draped a cloak round my shoulders and took my hand.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us dazzle London.’
Chapter Thirty
Fair Venus calls, her voice obey,
in beauty’s arms spend night and day.
I have been told there are strange lands where live exotic beasts, their heads larger than their bodies, birds of exuberant plumage, and creatures that possess horns and resemble men in all but nature. As I stood with Ned Bird, waiting to make my entrance, the musicians playing in the gallery, I thought that these creatures must have been washed ashore here. They tottered about, holding tight to their papier-mâché faces, mingling with others dressed from the Italian comedy, with nuns and priests who belonged to no order other than that of pleasure, with women changed into men and men changed into women, with whores dressed as saints – the world bedizened in borrowed gowns. The truth of who they were was lost behind the array of masks. But I saw that from the folds of their clothes, ghosts emerged, whispering shapes. They needed no masks for they were here to haunt the living, to niggle at their thick consciences in hope of driving them to Bedlam for the wrongs they had committed. There she was, Pretty Poppet, her arm on Queenie’s waist. Seeing her made me shudder. A bad omen, I thought.