An Almond for a Parrot

by Dray Wray

  ‘What do you think all those fine gents and ladies are hiding from?’ Ned whispered.

  ‘Ghosts,’ I said.

  I closed my eyes and, with all my being, willed the shades to be gone.

  Gilded lights illuminated the ballroom’s scurrilous paintings, a reflection of the delights that were on offer at the masquerade ball. Amid the collage of colour and the rising cacophony of chatter, still the dead clung, unforgiving, to the living.

  Waiting for my cue, Ned and me watched the scene. When all the guests had assembled, the musicians stopped playing and everyone fell silent. The man in the hooded domino strode menacingly into the middle of the floor, parting the guests with a wave of his hand so that he dominated an empty space. He whirled round and round, faster and faster, and as he did his cloak disappeared to reveal a black and silver harlequin. He came to an abrupt halt and a loud cheer greeted the master of ceremonies.

  ‘My lords and ladies,’ said Mr Crease. ‘For your delight and entertainment, we have filled our cellars with the wine of Bacchus and our kitchens have prepared a banquet fit for the gods. We have virgins and courtesans a-plenty, willing to share their innocent – and not so innocent – charms with you. We have gentlemen in need of lovers and lovers in need of gentlemen. Ladies, shake off all prejudice, for here is an opportunity to indulge your amorous inclinations without fear of interruption from father or husband. All we ask is that you leave your morals and virtue with your cloaks and swords.’

  He picked out a man in the audience and, addressing him, said, ‘If you, sir, happen to make love to your wife or to her maid, secrecy is the order of the night.’ The ballroom rang with the raucous laughter of the guests. Mr Crease raised his hands and once more everyone was quiet. ‘Be not ashamed of your desires. Relish your appetites and partake in all the dishes on offer. So, without another word, let the entertainment begin.’

  Rose petals fell from the ceiling as I walked up to Mr Crease. He removed my cloak, nodded his head and raised his hands again for silence. I closed my eyes and began to spin up and up until I was on the swing, and set sail over the heads of the guests and ghosts.

  I swung, causing my skirts to billow and the swing to go higher and higher until I could almost touch the naked lovers painted on the ceiling. The masked faces stared up at me in awe. Then I let go, throwing myself out, arms stretched, a flightless bird with nothing to stop me from falling. A horrified gasp rose from the guests. The ghosts vanished, hoping, no doubt, to catch me on the other side. But I was not to be theirs tonight.

  As Mr Crease had taught me, I hovered, luxuriating in the audience’s reaction, and for the first time I enjoyed the power my abilities had given me. I willed myself to slowly descend, and stopped about a foot from the ground where I floated until Mr Crease took my hand. I stepped down as if all along I had been standing on an invisible platform.

  My performance was greeted by a cascade of clapping that only stopped when a footman brought the birdcage containing Boozey and put it on a small table. I took the cage, opened it, and walked round the ballroom, showing Boozey to the guests who all agreed that he was a very dead parrot indeed. I whispered to Boozey. He ruffled his feathers, spread his wings and took flight. At that moment, to a hushed disbelief, the black and silver harlequin transformed the ballroom into a jungle. Even the old sailor made an appearance, calling to his beloved bird.

  Mr Crease clapped his hands. The illusion vanished, the sailor gone, the parrot returned lifeless to his cage.

  The musicians started up again and the dancing began. Mr Crease and I were to give two more shows that evening. In the next one, I brought back Shadow and by the time Mr Crease and his dog had worked their magic with the fortune-telling alphabet cards, you could almost hear the heartbeat of those in the room who were desperate for fate to look on them kindly.

  Queenie found us in an antechamber where we had escaped to take refreshments.

  Mr Crease took her in his arms. ‘Are you satisfied, my lady?’ he asked. ‘Yes, very,’ she said and kissed him. She turned to me and put out her hand. ‘Tully, you were superb. Quite enchanting. When you leapt from the swing…’

  ‘Am I forgiven?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. Where is Mr Fitzjohn?’

  ‘He left this afternoon for France.’

  ‘Then I will find you someone else to entertain.’

  She stared at me and I didn’t blink.

  Feathers and dust. This was my world now, this was where I belonged.

  ‘Why the hurry, madam?’ said Mr Crease. ‘Tully has more than proved her worth to the fairy house. She has value beyond that of any other courtesan.’

  I left them to their own company. Pretty Poppet was waiting for me outside in the hall.

  ‘He’ll shackle you, that’s what he’ll do.’

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  ‘It’s you he wants. Come, I’ll show you the cull so you can keep out the way of his cutty-eyes.’

  Supper had been served and many of the guests now made their way to the drawing room on the second floor, which had been given over to cards. I heard whispering as I passed and comments about my costume. As I watched, outrageous fortunes were wasted on a roll of the dice, the play of a card.

  A gentleman in a dusty-pink, striped Scapino costume came up and bowed to me. His mask seemed designed to revolt rather than please, being black with large moles upon it, and a bulbous nose.

  ‘I do not know you,’ he said.

  ‘I do not know you,’ said I.

  Was he the reason Pretty Poppet had brought me here?

  ‘I saw you on the swing, young fairy. How did you perform such magic? Wires, I presume.’

  His voice was rich, buttery and far more seductive than the mask he was wearing.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Come, come, my sprite. Surely you do not tell me that you can defy the laws of science? It is irrational.’

  ‘If you find that irrational, then what, sir, are you doing in a fairy house?’

  ‘Touché. Show me how it’s done.’

  ‘I will not, sir,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Do you give private performances?’

  ‘That depends,’ I said.

  It was then that I felt every bone in my body turn to lead. Pretty Poppet was standing behind the chair of one of the gamblers, his costume was striped in yellows and reds, his mask dominated by a big, hooked nose.

  Scapino saw that he looked in our direction and asked if I knew the gentleman.

  ‘Never been keen on Punch,’ said Scapino. ‘He’s too cruel for my liking.’

  I didn’t listen to what else he had to say on the subject because I did know the Pulcinella. With or without his mask, I knew Victor Wrattan.

  Desperate to remove myself from Wrattan’s orbit, I asked, ‘Do you dance, sir?’

  ‘I used to, but now I—’

  He was interrupted by a very drunk lady whose clothes were in disarray.

  ‘Kitty,’ said Scapino. ‘You look as if you have already been ravished.’

  ‘Perhaps I have,’ she said with a giggle.

  This then was Kitty Lay, the notorious mistress of Lord Barbeau. I had become a student of the gossip of the day and in near every paper I read, Kitty Lay was described as a beauty. What I could see of her face beneath the mask did not leave me with that impression. She put her arms lazily around Scapino and turned to me.

  ‘He’s mine,’ she said, confirming that I was correct in my deduction that the gentleman in the Scapino costume was none other than Lord Barbeau.

  ‘Madam,’ said Scapino, ‘you are drunk.’

  ‘And what other state would you have me in, sir?’

  He muttered something in her ear.

  ‘My lord, you are a bore tonight. I want to be extravagant. Lend me some money for the cards and you can have me any way you want.’

  She adjusted her dress, took the reluctant Scapino by the arm and walked unsteadily to the card table. Pulcinella stood up.

  ‘
Madam,’ he said to her, ‘please take this chair.’

  ‘I would if I could,’ she said. ‘I will wait for it to come round again and then, if necessary, I will take it by force.’

  She made to sit down, missed the chair and fell inelegantly onto the floor. In the commotion that followed I retreated to the antechamber that Mr Crease and I had used after the show, only to find there a rather portly gentleman, his pleasure pole well exposed, on the point of mounting an equally large lady. I quietly closed the door then jumped as I felt an arm round my waist and something sharp in my side.

  ‘I have been looking for you everywhere,’ said Pulcinella. He leaned his grotesque head towards me. ‘You will walk with me out of here. You will look loving, and if anyone stops you, you will tell them I am your gallant for the evening. But if you make any fuss I will willingly put this blade through you.’

  There was nothing I could do except hope that someone might see what was happening and would have the wit to ask where I was going. We had reached the top of the stairs to the hall and I could see the open front door and knew that once I had passed through it there was no return.

  ‘Sir, where are you taking her?’

  It was Ned.

  ‘None of your business,’ said Pulcinella, sinking his blade all too easily into my flesh.

  ‘But it is,’ said Ned, taking hold of Pulcinella’s arm. ‘Let go of her immediately, sir.’

  Just then a Blue Pierrot with a white mask came up towards us. He looked at me and immediately blocked Pulcinella’s way. I felt the knife pierce my skin and flinched.

  ‘Madam,’ said the Blue Pierrot, ‘do you need assistance?’

  I recognised his voice and my heart soared.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Magic that evening lay in the power of Avery’s voice, for the moment Wrattan heard him he pushed me away, ran down the stairs and escaped into the crowds of people who stood outside. Ned went after him. I tried to ask Avery how he came to be there, but the pain in my side overwhelmed me. I put my hand to my stays and found blood.

  ‘What the devil happened?’ said Avery.

  Before I could answer, Flora came up to us. ‘Where did Pulcinella go?’ she said.

  ‘Who?’ said Avery.

  ‘Victor Wrattan,’ said Flora.

  ‘Whoever he his, why would he try to take Tully away by force?’ said Avery.

  ‘I cannot imagine why,’ said Flora. Seeing Queenie approaching, she turned on her heels. ‘Tish tosh.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken,’ said Queenie, ‘it is you, Mr Fitzjohn.

  I’m very pleased you’ve come to our ball after all but you will have to excuse Tully – Mr Crease is about to start the third performance.’ She stopped and put her hand to her mouth. Blood was seeping from my side into my gown. ‘Oh, my! I will call the doctor.’

  ‘It’s not necessary, madam,’ said Avery, his arms round me. ‘I will attend to Tully.’

  He carried me to my chamber, laid me on the bed and told my maid to bring warm water and bandages. Once she’d brought them, she was sent for wine and food and by the time she’d returned, Avery had played the part of an abigail. I was lying naked on the bed, my hair, which had been loosely pinned, had come tumbling down in thick ringlets. The wound wasn’t deep but it did bleed profusely. Avery gently rolled me on my side, and cleaned and dressed it.

  ‘You seem to know exactly what to do.’

  ‘I have been attending to wounds since I was but seventeen. I was sent on the Grand Tour but, hating my tutor, I ran away from him in France and went to live in the household of a surgeon, a relative of my mother. He was a kind man and, as I didn’t faint at the sight of blood, he made me his assistant.’

  ‘And when you marry your countess,’ I said, ‘will you still practise?’

  ‘I very much hope so.’

  ‘I’m glad, for you seem well versed in human anatomy.’

  ‘Are you acquainted with the man who did this?’ One word, one lie and all is altered. I could have been honest with you then, except I had no desire to ruin the evening with the unpalatable truth. ‘He must have been out of his mind, or drunk.’

  ‘Probably both,’ I suggested, and quickly changed the subject. ‘Are you not supposed to be halfway to Dover by now?’

  ‘I missed the coach, and I’m glad I did.’

  ‘So am I,’ I said.

  ‘This, my lady,’ he said, kissing me on the lips, ‘is the best treatment for all wounds.’ He placed his hand on my breast. ‘These beauties, so white and firm, these nipples like rose petals…’ He bent and took the tip of one in his mouth. ‘It will be my pleasure to kiss every part of you.’

  ‘Every part?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, madam. It is the only cure I could prescribe for such an injury.’

  ‘Then, sir, I am much in need of your medicine.’

  He kissed my mouth, my neck, and down and down, and oh, the fire, it sent my body to flame. And my mind could only think of how he would feel inside me. When he reached my Venus mound, he kissed there the softest parts of the fruit, lingering until my juice flowed and I lost myself in the little death. His maypole hard, such a delight to look upon, to touch, he knelt above me, then, bending over, eased himself into the moisture of me until I could feel all of him and still want more. Our lovemaking that night had a sweet desperation to it in the knowledge that we would not meet again. Avery told me he was leaving at dawn and he could not miss the carriage. Not this time. We treated night as if it were day and let not one moment of it be lost in dreams.

  I had a chance then to tell you my truth. It was on the tip of my tongue but the morning light flooded the chamber and you took me again. Why waste the last farewell with the dregs of the past? I gave myself to voluptuous lovemaking.

  ‘Don’t go,’ I said, as I felt him ease out of me.

  He bent and kissed my belly. Determined not to cry, I watched him dress by the dusty, autumn light.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, as if I had just found something in the wreckage to cling to. ‘I was going to give you this last night.’

  It was in a little cotton pocket and didn’t look important.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it.

  ‘A present.’

  I was quite naked and, shivering, pulled the sheet off the bed to wrap round myself. Avery looked at me as he opened the present and I swear I saw a tear in his eye. He kissed me, said nothing more, and left.

  When someone one loves is gone, one can almost bear the first few moments. I could still in my mind hear his voice, feel his touch on my skin. It was only as the minutes knotted themselves into hours that loneliness imprisoned me.

  By the time all the guests had finally left, nine o’clock had passed and the fairy house had gathered itself in the silence, relishing the morning peace.

  I went to find Mercy. Forgetting to knock – which was a bad habit of mine, especially where Mercy was concerned – I found her in bed with the nymph who possessed an abundance of red, curly hair.

  I was on the verge of tiptoeing out again when Mercy said, sleepily, ‘Tully?’

  ‘I should have knocked,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She sat up and pulled back the bedclothes. ‘Come here.’

  I climbed in and she held me in her arms and kissed me.

  ‘Ned found his costume in some bushes. I brought his mask back. Perhaps I should nail it to the wall as a trophy.’

  The woman with the red hair yawned and said, ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Tully. Tully, this is Mofty.’

  ‘Is the wound deep?’ asked Mofty, raising her head to look at me.

  ‘Not too deep. I will survive.’

  ‘You were fortunate. My husband is a vile, cruel man.’

  ‘And he is in some way connected to my husband,’ I said.

  ‘Ralph Spiggot,’ said Mofty.

  ‘Alas, yes.’

  ‘Spiggot was but a boy when Victor employed him. He is probably the only creature my husban
d truly cares for. They are close, and together they are the very devil’s disciples. You must take great care.’

  Mercy put Mofty’s hand on her breast.

  We fell asleep. I woke to Mercy’s kisses

  Mofty said, softly, ‘May I join in?’

  ‘I would like it if you would,’ I said.

  Mercy rolled me over so that I was between them, and Mofty’s mouth found mine. Such was their passion, so tender their kisses, I found myself much comforted. They both with such sweetness brought me to that moment when all is beyond reason and I let out a cry of joy. As Mercy went to Mofty I slipped out of bed and, silently closing the door behind me, I left them to the main dish that only lovers enjoy.

  Downstairs the servants were still working and I was about to drift back to my chamber and sleep a little more when a footman arrived with a message.

  ‘For Miss Tully Truegood, and no one else,’ he said.

  I thanked him, and thinking it was from Avery went upstairs shaking with excitement. Out of the envelope fell a key. Ignoring it, I hungrily read the letter – once to know it wasn’t from Avery, again to understand what it was saying, and a third time to know what my future would be without him.

  Madam,

  Allow me to prostitute my pen and push aside all modesty. Let virtue go to church. My purpose as a shameful scribbler is simple: I am in pursuit of your sweet love. I have no illusions that it will flourish at first sight of me: my knowledge of such tender seedlings as love and desire persuades me that they need nourishment and time to grow. But first the seed must find a bed in which to lie.

  I ask nothing more than that you accept my invitation to visit my garden at Highgate. I designed it with the express wish of showing my mistress the tender way of my affections and how I would love her. The key that you hold opens the door.