An Almond for a Parrot

by Dray Wray

  Please, I pray, do not upbraid me. I am but a human filled with desire and loathing in equal measure, as are all God’s creatures. In my youth my presence alone was enough to sway a lady’s feelings. Now, in the autumn of my life and on this October afternoon, I beg you, my dearest of fairies, whose whole being has made me insensible to reason, to come to see the garden for yourself. You must be the judge. If my immodesty has offended, close the door, put the key under the stone, and think no more of it.

  My carriage will call for you at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.

  I am, madam, your obedient servant,

  Lord Barbeau

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  How could I respond to another man’s touch so soon – too soon – after Avery’s? If it was expected of me then I was bound to fail for I needed time to learn to breathe again in this less exalted atmosphere. I wished that I might conjure a magic spell to take away the leaden numbness that had crept through my body as if every part of my flesh knew my lover to be lost.

  The one ray of golden light was the thought that now I could be called an adulteress, already on the path to ruin, Captain Spiggot might agree to end the marriage contract. Why would he wish to claim a whore for a wife? I was not rich, and every way I looked at the matter, there was nothing that would benefit him.

  I lay in my chamber, listening to the bells of London and wondering where Avery was. By five o’clock I’d had enough of the tumult in my head and went in search of company. The house had undergone a transformation and the chaos of the night had been brushed, dusted, swept and badgered into order.

  When I reached the hall I heard Bethany with Queenie and Flora in the drawing room. Bethany’s voice was loud and angry. The door being open, I was about to go in when I realised that I was the cause of her fury. I stood in the shadows in the hall from where I could see the three of them. Queenie’s expression was serene, but it was the serenity that saints wear in paintings and is not to be trusted.

  ‘He belongs to Kitty,’ said Bethany. ‘You know that, I know that, the whole of London society knows that. And now, after a conversation of three sentences, Lord Barbeau throws her over in favour of Miss Whimsical. Tully knows nothing about the game – she’s not educated – not in the art of pleasure, the art of conversation, or etiquette.’

  Queenie’s voice was as clear as the blade of a sharp knife and each word left its mark.

  ‘Kitty’s best years are behind her. She has let herself run to fat and is drunk more often than she is sober. I cannot abide drunks, they give a house a bad name and let in the wrong sort of company – dangerous company. Talking of which, tell me, Flora, why on earth did you invite Victor Wrattan?’

  ‘Oh, tish tosh – he’s an old friend,’ said Flora, oblivious to what was building in Queenie, word by inevitable word. ‘I didn’t think he would cause any harm, after all…’

  Bethany looked at her askance, her rage somewhat defeated by the realisation of what Flora had done. ‘You invited him?’ asked Bethany.

  ‘There’s no need to make such a fuss,’ said Flora.

  Bethany and Flora seemed quite unaware of how violent Queenie’s icy rage could be. The air around her froze. I didn’t have to be a seer to know what was coming.

  ‘You are a guest in my house, Flora, and you pay very little for the privilege. I didn’t see the Earl of Wellborne last night. Why didn’t he come to the ball?’

  ‘I’ve finished with him,’ said Flora. ‘He’s so stingy. There are rumours that he’s going bankrupt.’

  ‘I will not have a spiteful whore in my house. I want you to leave.’

  Flora looked stunned. ‘Leave?’ she said. ‘Tish tosh! You don’t mean it.’

  ‘I was told,’ said Queenie, ‘that the Earl of Wellborne has found himself a younger courtesan, one who doesn’t ridicule him and spend his money on frippery and presents for her other lovers.’

  ‘You know I will take my clients with me,’ said Flora.

  ‘You will leave today,’ said Queenie.

  Flora gathered her words together and spat them out with force. ‘You old bitch!’

  Queenie stood. An unreadable smile crossed her lips, one that belied what came next. She went to Flora and slapped her across the face.

  ‘You should have more care to the company you keep. You near put the whole of my enterprise in jeopardy last night by inviting Victor Wrattan. What your game is I don’t know, but it’s fortunate for you that Ned and Mr Fitzjohn intervened. Mr Pouch has your bill ready. Good day.’

  Flora stormed out of the drawing room, knocking over a small table and shattering a figurine.

  ‘That goes on your bill,’ called Queenie, coming out to the hall as Flora flounced up the stairs. ‘Ah, Tully, there you are. Come in, my dear.’

  I followed her into the drawing room and stood as far from Bethany as I could.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Bethany. ‘Honestly, I didn’t know she had invited Victor Wrattan or I would have said something.’

  ‘Lord Barbeau,’ said Queenie, not taking her eyes off her, ‘is a man I respect. He has stood by Kitty but has been publicly humiliated by her once too often.’

  ‘According to Kitty, he can no longer keep his maypole up,’ said Bethany. ‘It dances at half-cock and it’s not her fault if she needs more satisfaction.’

  ‘If every man in England could rise to the occasion,’ said Queenie, ‘and every women was pleased to greet him, then our profession would be redundant. Watch your step, my gal, you’ve already tripped once. Do it again and you’re out.’

  I moved to let Bethany pass.

  ‘You are a witch,’ she hissed at me. ‘And you can go to the devil.’

  ‘Sit down, Tully,’ said Queenie when Bethany had gone. ‘I’m very pleased with you, my dear. It seems you enchanted Lord Barbeau and he has quite set his mind on you. It may feel sudden, but this is the way the world of pleasure turns. He has asked that, if his garden is to your liking, he might take you to Bath.’

  ‘Bath?’ I said. ‘You mean, leave the fairy house?’

  ‘After what happened here last night, Tully, I realise I cannot guarantee your safety. It would be better for you to be under the protection of a man who Mr Wrattan and Captain Spiggot would never have the gall to cross.’

  The small table was spinning and all the pieces of broken china floated before me an unresolved puzzle.

  ‘The table, Tully,’ said Mr Crease, limping into the drawing room.

  I became aware of what I was doing and righted the table.

  ‘And the figurine?’’

  I closed my eyes and willed it to be one. When I opened them again the unbroken figurine was in its place on the table.

  Mr Crease had his painted eyelids on me. ‘I wonder who your father was,’ he said, with a rare smile.

  Queenie examined the figurine. ‘Not a chip on it,’ she said. ‘I will miss you, Tully.’

  ‘Bethany won’t,’ I said, and immediately regretted how childish it sounded.

  ‘You are just starting out on your journey. The others, they know how the circle goes. They also know that as time passes the circle becomes smaller and smaller.’

  ‘That’s what I adore about you, my love,’ said Mr Crease. ‘You are a philosopher, as well as the best bawdy-house keeper in the metropolis.’

  The next morning, dressed in the finest gown that the fairy house had to offer, with silk stockings and silk shoes upon her feet and the prettiest of hats perched upon her head, this reluctant whore set out to see a garden.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Could I tell you where I was taken? I could not. Lord Barbeau’s coach was grander by far than that of the Earl of Wellborne. Black with a gold crest on the door, two footmen at the back, the coachman and another footman at the front – all were turned out immaculately as were the four grey horses. If I had imagined that I would be able to sit back and enjoy the novelty of such luxury, I was much mistaken for it soon became apparent that Lord Barbeau’s
carriage caused heads to turn and children to run behind it.

  My knowledge of London was so limited that I could have been in a different country. We bowled along, away from the tight-packed houses to where the roads widened and eventually we came to a stop by high brick wall. The carriage door was opened, the steps pulled down, a footman helped me to alight and there stood a man who announced himself as Lord Barbeau’s butler. He bowed.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘it is His Lordship’s wish that you wear a blindfold until we reach the garden gate.’

  It seemed a strange request but then the whole thing had something of the unreal about it. I was already nervous and the blindfold did nothing to calm me.

  The butler led me, giving instructions as we went.

  ‘Madam, if you would lift your foot…here is a step…’ and so on and so on until I felt gravel under my shoes.

  At last, the blindfold was removed. The butler bowed and took up his position as a wordless statue beside a heavy, studded oak gate. The key that I held in my hand was thin and delicate and appeared incapable of opening a jewellery box, let alone such a stubbornly well-established door as this.

  I turned to the butler for guidance. His face was inscrutable and, seeing that it was not in his remit to advise me, I pushed at the gate to find it well and truly locked.

  ‘Feathers and dust,’ I said and put the key in the lock. With a click the gate opened.

  I’d had all the previous day and a sleepless night to imagine what this garden might be like. Hope told me of a duke who had shown her his magnificent grounds by way of seduction, and this I presumed would be similar. She described a formal arrangement of small box hedges planted in geometrical patterns, gravel paths ending in the necessary explosion of fountains – an illustration, if one was needed, of his grace’s power and virility.

  Instead of anything so formal, I was greeted by an arbour that hid the rest of the garden from view. I walked through an archway glowing with rosehips, and beyond it were herbaceous borders filled with autumnal flowering plants whose names I knew not, whose colours had such riches in them – reds and scarlets, a tapestry of russets. The sunlight, dipped in rose gold, threw long shadows across a maze of curved and winding walkways. The garden’s very size, its intimacy, had a deeply reassuring quality, for I thought any man who could have planted such a garden must have a fine knowledge of women. A mist had begun to rise, a blush of modesty over such an immodest design. Beauty was to be found here in the dying of the year. Who would imagine that at the heart of green leaves burned such passionate reds as autumn brings, beauty defying death in all its finery.

  In the middle of this voluptuous garden was an oblong clearing where trickled a little stream. Nervous as I was, I couldn’t help smiling. Overlooking all was a bower where flaming leaves were falling and inside sat Lord Barbeau. Neither his costume nor his mask had served him well at the masquerade ball. I couldn’t call him handsome, for he was more than that and not that at the same time. His eyes were grey, his mouth neither full nor thin-lipped, his features not chiselled but not undefined. He was extremely elegant, a fashionable man of the metropolis, and I didn’t for a moment imagine the ruby and diamonds in his cravat were anything other than the finest, as were those in the buckles on his red-heeled shoes. His wig was of a dark grey, well fitted, and his three-cornered hat sat beside him. Both hat and master looked as if they had been waiting some time. I curtsied.

  He stood, bowed, then, taking my hand, lightly kissed the tips of my fingers.

  Two footmen appeared, one carrying a tray with two gold crystal glasses. While he poured the wine, the other helped me to my seat.

  ‘Does my garden please you, my sprite?’ asked Lord Barbeau.

  ‘Very much, sir,’ I said.

  I made to lift the glass to my lips and found I was trembling.

  ‘My dear sprite,’ he said. ‘I will not ravish you against your will.’

  ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ I said. ‘I didn’t expect the garden to be…like this.’

  He leaned forward and looked at me with interest. ‘And what kind of garden is this, pray?’

  My cheeks were on fire. Surely there could be no mistaking its design. I chose my words carefully. ‘I am told that gardens are designed to show off a gentleman’s power and that they usually end in an explosion of fountains.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘It’s rather predictable, all that rising water amid tight little beds of coiffed bushes. But I interrupt you – pray, continue. What do you think this garden says?’

  ‘It echoes a secret that I would think few men understand, or have any interest in showing that they understand.’

  ‘Go on, my sprite.’

  ‘I think it’s fashioned to be the inner part of the Venus mound, and we are seated at the spot of all desire.’

  ‘Most delicately put, my sprite, most acutely observed.’ He smiled, and leaned back. ‘I have shown my garden to but a handful of ladies. When I was younger I needed nothing to go before me. Now I am older I must rely on my garden to win you.’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ I said. ‘You and the garden enhance one another. Which is more than can be said for the Scapino costume.’

  Lord Barbeau burst out laughing and I too found myself in a fit of giggles.

  ‘I looked ridiculous, did I not? That was Kitty’s doing. If there had been a donkey costume, no doubt she would have insisted I wore it.’

  It was twilight and I wondered how long we were going to sit there for soon we would not be able to see one another at all. I jumped. Suddenly the garden had become illuminated without a hand to help it.

  ‘Do not be alarmed,’ said Lord Barbeau.

  ‘How do you do that, sir?’ I asked.

  He smiled. ‘You are not the only person who can do the extraordinary, my sprite. But I rely on scientific inventions, which as you see, can be just as magical.’ He paused, then said, ‘Queenie told me you have just lost a gallant.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Was he your first?’

  ‘Yes, sir, he was.’

  ‘And I surmise that you fell in love with him.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I asked.

  ‘My dear, intriguing sprite, it is written on that beautiful face of yours.’

  Taking up his hat, he stood, and for a moment I thought he was about to tell me that it had been a mistake and he had changed his mind.

  He gave a deep bow and said, ‘If you wish to stay, take this path. If you wish to go, the carriage awaits you. The decision is yours. But whichever path you take, the other will be closed to you for ever.’

  He took my hand and once more kissed the tips of my fingers. He bowed.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said and turned on his red heels and was gone.

  I drank my wine and for a while contemplated my future. I didn’t think I would ever love again but perhaps I could grow accustomed to Lord Barbeau. He made me laugh and he did have the most seductive garden. Weighing up my options, which were extremely few, I decided it was best to embrace what I was, a woman who enjoyed pleasure. I doubted that the passion with Lord Barbeau would be as it was with Avery. Perhaps that made the thought more bearable. Looking out at Lord Barbeau’s garden, I was reassured that he was a man who loved women. Mercy once had told me that I didn’t understand the true value of a vintage wine; she was right. It was a drink I would like to taste, and I knew then which path to take.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The house, like his lordship’s garden, was elegant and far more refined than the fairy house, which hitherto I had thought the pinnacle of taste and sophistication.

  A supper had been set out for us in his dining room amid candelabras, silver plate and crystal glasses. The dishes were served by white-gloved footmen while the butler hovered. Quite honestly, I had no idea how to make conversation with so many servants listening. I sat next to his lordship at a table that ran away from us into the darkened distance of the chamber.

  ‘Must we
be watched?’ I whispered. ‘I mean, sir, while we eat?’

  Lord Barbeau laughed and waved his hand and, to my great relief, the servants silently left us.

  ‘Is that more conducive to discourse?’

  ‘Much more, sir.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself, my little sprite.’

  I thought an edited version of my life would be more appealing than the unexpurgated story and touched only lightly upon Mr Truegood and left out the account of my clandestine marriage. I was delighted when I caused Lord Barbeau to guffaw with laughter and, somewhat more confident, went on to tell him how I came to leave Milk Street.

  ‘What I would have given to see you standing there in nothing more than your stockings and shoes,’ he said.

  Feeling a lot bolder, I said, ‘With luck, sir, you might.’

  ‘Are you flirting with me, my sprite?’

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ I said, blushing. ‘After all, you have shown me such an intimate garden, it is hard not to.’

  He leaned back and studied me. ‘Do you enjoy making love?’ he asked.

  ‘Prodigiously, sir,’ I said. ‘But I am a novice in the art.’

  ‘You make me wish I was still the young gallant.’

  The wine was delicious and I had drunk a little more than I should have.

  ‘You don’t seem so very old, sir.’

  ‘You flatter me unnecessarily, for I am well acquainted with the disadvantages of my age and not even your sweet words can remove the years from me.’

  ‘Have you been married, sir?’ I asked. ‘Or are you married still?’

  ‘My intriguing sprite, your ignorance of my life is wonderfully refreshing. I was married when I was twenty-four. It was an arranged marriage. My mother would have said it was to secure a great estate. I never expected to fall in love with my wife but, after a year, I was besotted with her. My days as a rake were behind me, or so I thought. Four of the happiest years of my life I spent with my angel.’