Wasp (14 page)

‘Emblem? You mean one of those tattoos? How was it removed?’

‘With a hot knife. A quick enough job if the Fixer puts his mind to it. That is one task only a man could do well. Don’t ever upset the Abbess,
enfant
.’

‘Why did you let her do that? Why were you not dismissed, or leave of your own accord?’

Eloise laughs but there’s a hollow sound to it. ‘You’ll soon learn not to ask certain questions. Asking in itself can’t get you into trouble. It’s the answers you won’t like. The House is a refuge in many ways but if we are not careful our pasts will fester inside us. We look for any means to lock our histories deep inside ourselves. Sometimes a hot knife is the only remedy.’

They sit quietly for a moment. Apart from the snoring the only sound is the hiss of steam from the pot on its hook above the fire. Eloise drains her coffee. ‘Now we must go back to work,
enfant.
I shall take care of most of it. All you have to do is hand me the kindling. Can you manage that?’

‘I’ll try.’ Beth holds out her arms. Soot blackens both sleeves. ‘Why didn’t you give me an apron?’

‘Because you would have dirtied your gown just the same, then there would be two lots of washing to do. I doubt the washerwoman would thank you for that. She complains loudly enough as it is about the amount of laundry we give her. Fear not,
enfant,
you will get your scented bath at the end of the day, and a crisp fresh gown for the morning.

‘You make me look a sluggard.’

‘Once your strength returns you will surprise yourself with what you can do.’

They progress back through the rooms. Sometimes Eloise chats, sometimes she sings little French ditties. The day is beginning to soften into late afternoon when she declares their work finished.

‘Now you can go back to your bedchamber. If that idle friend of yours comes home early I shall bring supper so she can gorge her flabby face even more. There will also be a fresh pitcher of water and some towels. You at least have earned them.’

Nightingale is standing outside the door. Beth nearly walks into her. The Harlequin’s face is so pale it almost shines. Thin lips cut a pink gash in that icy skin. Beth drops the kindling bag. Behind her, Eloise draws in her breath.

‘Did the Kitten work well?’

‘Well enough,’ Eloise replies.

‘She did as she was told?’

‘She did, oui.’

‘No tantrums? No rebellion?’

‘Not so much.’

Nightingale turns to Beth. ‘So, you are a good girl? We shall see how far that obedience extends.’ She brushes past and glides off down the passage, linen gown whispering.

‘What did she mean by that?’ Beth asks.

Eloise cocks an eyebrow. ‘Ever trained a puppy?’

‘No. We never had a dog. Mama got the gripe whenever one came near her.’

‘Well, Nightingale is good at it. Very good. Now, let’s get these things put away. Be back here tomorrow at a quarter past the hour. We shall need to clean the fires out again in the morning.’

‘And this is done every single day?’

‘Don’t worry,
enfant,
it’s not forever. In a few days you might be changing bed linen.’

Beth finds her own way back to Hummingbird’s bedchamber. Every muscle in her body creaks.
I’m going to sleep smelling of soot and old chimneys,
she thinks.
If I never wake up I don’t care.

A stranger stands in the bedroom. A white-faced creature with rouge ringing her mouth. Dark eyes glitter above rosebud cheeks. A gown almost swallows her whole, massive loops topped with velvet bows sweeping across her skirts. Her head is smothered by a powdered wig topped with a tiny blue tricorne.

‘Did you clean out those ashes or take a bath in them?’ she says in Hummingbird’s voice. ‘I thought you a sweep’s boy.’

Beth struggles for breath. And
 . . . 
and you look like an earl’s doxy.’

Both girls burst into a fit of giggles. ‘I don’t know who fetched the bigger fright,’ Hummingbird says. ‘Me, I think.’

‘You’ll have to duck every time you go through the door,’ Beth retorts. ‘Where did you get those garments? I saw nothing like that in the wardrobe.’

‘These are my working clothes. I’m only allowed to wear them when I’m on Assignment. No, don’t touch, you’ll get dirt on them. Strip and wash. A clean shift is on the back of the chair and some water left in the ewer. Did our darling Eloise mention anything about supper?’

‘She promised to bring something up.’ Beth pulls off her soiled smock and lets it fall onto the rug. She nudges off her house shoes and pads over to the dresser in her bare feet. Water splashes into the basin. ‘That woman, Nightingale, was lurking in the corridor when Eloise and I finished working,’ Beth says, washing the soot from her fingers. ‘I don’t know how long she’d been standing there. She was like a cat waiting to pounce on a starling. She
scared
me, even after all I’d suffered before coming here. She’s harbouring some sort of gripe, I’m sure of it.’

‘She’s like that with all the Kittens. I think she’s laying down the pecking order.’

‘That’s what Moth said, but there’s more. It’s not just the way she wafts around in that golden gown and elbow gloves. She’s beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have seen, yet at the same time she’s like some unholy sculpture by a mad artist.’

‘Ah, those gloves. She has more than a hundred pairs. A little privilege the Abbess grants her. They infest every corner of her room. I’ve heard she even bathes wearing them.’

Beth cleans under her arms then across her breasts. The water is cool against her skin. ‘Eloise took me to a parlour to rest for a while. Will Nightingale likely go on haunting me?’

‘Harlequins have their own parlour. You’d have to scratch and scrabble to step through that door, Kitten. Beware, always beware. Your Sisters can quote Latin with the eloquence of a poet while pushing a hatpin through your throat.’

A knock on the door. Beth grabs the fresh shift and hugs it to herself, but it’s only Eloise carrying a tray and teapot which she sets on the dresser.

‘Et voila.
Scones with cream and sweet bramble jam, if that suits your highnesses.’

Hummingbird launches herself at the tray. ‘Give me anything so long as it has cream on it. In fact, leave the cream and forget the scone.’

‘I hope you are ashamed, Hummingbird, displaying such piggery in front of this girl, and her only recently arrived. Don’t expect me to patch your stays when the stitching bursts. Can you please take the Kitten to the Fixer before you go out, provided you can still move after gorging yourself of course?’

Hummingbird dollops cream on top of a scone. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do your job for you, as always. Please go now, Eloise, your twittering gives me a headache.’

The maid withdraws, mumbling something in French. Hummingbird breaks another scone in half and spreads a generous portion of jam over it.

‘Come on, Kitten, put that shift on and eat something before I finish it all. I’m sure a morsel won’t kill you, provided you don’t tattle to the Fixer.’

Beth, whose belly feels like an empty pot, picks up the butter knife. Hummingbird snatches it out of her grasp. ‘No.’ She taps the blade against the side of the tray. ‘Silver. You don’t touch it outside of dinner training. Next time I’ll remind Eloise to bring you a wooden knife. She should have known better.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘One of my papa’s friends had a sheepdog. He reared it from a puppy. I used to pet it until one day it bit me. Just like that. So, no, Kitten, I don’t trust you. Not entirely. And even if you didn’t hurt me you could always slip it out of here, perhaps up your sleeve, and use it on someone else. We’ve had girls try all sorts of things with the most unlikely implements. We even had one Kitten run off with an entire case of spoons and try to sell them to the local silversmith. You’re in my room because it is my job to watch you. The Abbess would have me strangled if she caught you with a silver knife. Now, take this scone and eat up. The Fixer wants you, and the city is expecting me. We can’t afford to keep either waiting.’

Art Lesson

Beth felt as if she was standing at the bottom of a huge cannon with a floor of black powder primed to go off. One wrong step could cause her whole world to explode. Daylight spilled through the thin windows, creating beams of sunlight like the spokes of a huge carriage wheel. A flight of stairs circled up through the ceiling, hugging the wall. A fire crackled in an iron grate, adding a smoky tint to the air.

Lord Russell was dressed like a visiting town merchant with blue breeches gathered at the knee with ribbons. Coloured hose sank into glittering shoes with rosettes as big as the moon. A dark satin doublet was embroidered with silver butterflies and a neckcloth circled his throat in milk-white folds.

Beth stole a breath. ‘May I ask why you were expecting me, m’lord, and what you could want of me in a place such as this?’

Lord Russell seemed to consider for a moment. Fingers, shiny with rings, ran through his hair, a flowing brown mane that fell over the shoulders and down his back. A sharp widow’s peak mixed with threads of grey stabbed his forehead. He resembled a tall, white-cheeked wolf. Beth half expected his teeth to be as sharp as needles. As it was they were polished to an unholy shine.

‘Such impertinence,’ he said through a smile. ‘You did not think to curtsey or wait until you were required to speak. If you were in any other service a birch would be laid across your back.’

He spoke in little bites, picking each word from between his teeth. His fingers scurried up his shirt, twiddled the fastenings, played meaningless games. ‘Fortunately I am not so disposed. I was expecting you because curiosity would inevitably lead you here. I have a penchant for painting and believe you can be of use to me.’

On top of a folding table lay a flat piece of board spattered with coloured blobs. Half a dozen thin-handled brushes were piled on one side. Beth had seen painters at Pendleton fair. Sixpence for your portrait.

‘Is this where you work? Don’t you have a canvas?’

He swept his hand around the room. ‘Men’s fascination for erect, cylindrical objects never ceases to amuse me. In a round house nothing can hide in the corners and canvas, for all its versatility, is not a living thing. It stands without protest and suffers the indignities thrust upon it by the great and incompetent alike.’

He positioned himself behind the table. ‘But how could I paint you? You are cold, locked up — everything hidden away as if in a cupboard. Your body has nothing to say. It does not speak to me.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. You hurt my head with all these words.’

‘Take off those gloves. Your fingers will resemble bloodless worms if you do not permit the sun to colour your flesh.’

‘The sun is a painter?’

‘Indeed. Every man with a brown face will testify to that. She is the world’s greatest artist, colouring the land with greens and yellows, the gold of autumn, the crisp whites of winter. Flowers follow her movement across the sky like eager children, folding up their pretty faces in petulance when the day ends and she takes her brush to the other side of the world.’

He beckoned Beth over and grasped her shoulder. ‘Be still. The brush will not bite.’

It circled then touched. Bristles kissed her knuckle. A hairy tongue slid down to her fingertip, leaving a trail of wet scarlet. The paint dried quickly on her warm skin.

He smiled. A whisper of air as the brush returned to the palette to feed. Returning, it gave Beth a blue thumb. Yellow, green and white coloured her other fingers. Ochre whirls spiralled up the back of her hand, chained her wrist and dipped back into her palm.

She giggled like a child. ‘It tickles, like being licked by a friendly cat.’

‘The brush is my friend. It takes what is in my heart and mind, and gives those visions substance. Now, move your hand. Waggle the fingers. See how the colours blend, become a single entity the way a painting is the sum of its many parts.’

‘It’s like watching a flower dancing in the air.’

‘Now you must try.’

‘I can’t paint. I have the hands of a milkmaid.’

‘If you can hate, if you can love, if you have ever felt angry or sad, or brimmed with joy so that you wanted to burst. If you have watched a beautiful sunset and cried, or felt melancholy because the sky was choked with rain clouds. If you have felt some or all of these things then of course you can paint. You do not work these miracles with this,’ he touched her hand, ‘but with this.’ His fingers alighted between her breasts, lingered, then fluttered away. Beth fancied she could feel her skin tingling.

He passed her the brush, which felt awkward in her many-coloured hand. His fingers curled around Beth’s and led them to the palette. The brush dived and wrapped itself in a bright shawl of purple then was guided to her other hand, where it made a shiny grape of each fingernail.

‘See how easy it is.’ His voice was a tickle in her right ear. ‘I’m no painter. Your hands are guiding mine.’

‘Parents help their infants to walk. Finally they take their own steps, unsteadily at first, but growing in confidence. Once you have a feel for things you won’t need help.’

He reclaimed the brush, wiped the end with a rag and dropped it into a pot beside the others. Stooping, he dipped a finger into the palette, turning moist pink into vivid green. He knelt in front of Beth and hooked his thumb over the lip of her gown. A sharp tug and the stitching parted. Air breathed over her exposed breasts. Before she could react his painted fingertip circled the left nipple. Beth was betrothed with a ring of green. Shivers cut like glass along her spine. She was ice, freezing and melting and freezing all over again.

He leaned forward, mouth filling with her body, but his eyes spoke directly to her soul.

I’ll paint the sky across your heart. A forest will sprout from your belly and, rooted in your feet, red roses shall stretch thorny necks up your calves. Gold for the centre, only gold. What other colour for so priceless a treasure?

An Odd Sort of Prank

The Fixer looks up when Beth enters the mirror chamber and nudges a chair with his boot. ‘Sit down. First I’ll attend to your upper limbs, and then we’ll look at the rest of you.’