Wasp (20 page)

Moth rolls up the ribbon and returns it to her gown. ‘I shan’t.’

Bits and Pieces

‘That’s not right.’

The Abbess surveys the combs and brushes spread out on her dresser. After a moment’s thought she moves one of the larger hairbrushes two palms’ width to the right. Then, shaking her head, she moves it back.

‘Perhaps if I try this.’

She plucks up two bone-handled combs and lays them side by side next to the mirror. ‘Better, but still not perfect.’

They had been given by one of her first clients, a long ago cleric whose church the Abbess and her Harlequins still attend to the horror of the latest incumbent and his outraged parishioners.

‘Going to church is the law and we shall not be seen to break the law,’ the Abbess told her girls. ‘Any legal chink will allow those opposing us to prise fingers into our affairs.’

She rubs her right hand, trying to soothe the sharpening ache in her joints. These bouts are becoming more frequent and the Fixer’s balms are losing their potency. Her previous loss of control hadn’t helped and the litter of that particular tantrum still bespoiled her bedchamber floor. A jumble of stays, stockings and garters lies strewn like gutted fish across the rug. All due to a bottle of lavender scent. Her favourite. It was not where she’d put it. A search through the dresser turned into a scrabble. Soon everything, drawers and all, was pulled onto the floor.

The Abbess started sobbing towards the end, throwing around curses that would make the saints blush. And she didn’t know what upset her more, the missing pot or her loss of dignity.

The bottle was gone, lost to the clutter of the room or somehow ghosted away. Like the many pieces of her life her ailing mind had eaten up. A beloved cushion, embroidered by one of her best girls, which the Abbess swore she’d left on her coverlet. A garter embroidered with her maiden name. A lace-trimmed kerchief brought by a client from Paris. Those too had been swallowed.

I’m too afraid to move anything,
she thinks,
lest it melt away. And if I turn my back for a second will things change again? Shall I even notice?

She fetches an inkpot and quill from her writing desk. Like everything else in the House the quill is of the finest quality. Metal-tipped and hard as a dagger blade. She draws around each item, scoring the varnish of the dresser. Once these inky images are created she writes labels onto the wood in a bold, sweeping hand. Clear, solid letters taught to her as a girl by someone willing to bargain for the lessons.

Her fingers are steady on the quill. Good. She is not losing everything then. Not yet. She picks up the last item. A frown cuts her tattooed forehead. She turns the object in her hands, this way, then that, examining its different angles. Her stuttering mind reaches for identification, then fails. She remembers using it in the recent past, can picture it in her hand, but the name has gone, fled, leaked out of her brain. She casts out mental hooks, hoping the name is hiding in the back of her thoughts and can be coaxed out, summoned, drawn back into the light.

Nothing.

Up to now she has been hiding it. For the most part her girls have not noticed, though Nightingale may have an inkling. Kingfisher too. Before long too much will have gone wrong and the last pieces of her mind will spill out of their disguise.

Will anything remain of the House?

She looks up. An image in the mirror. A distorted reflection skewing nose and eyes. An outline of a face that haunts itself.

Will anything remain of me?

Betrayal and Retribution

‘Send the Kitten into the Scarlet Parlour,’ the Abbess instructs. ‘She can surrender her garments later. ’

‘Well, haven’t we been highly favoured,’ Hummingbird says on the way to the dressing room. Her mood has not improved since the incident at the tea room. She glares thunderstorms at Moth, who’s tied a strip of the stolen ribbon to a tuft of her hair. Since the sedans dropped them off at the corner of Crown Square she’s flaunted it at every opportunity, especially in front of the Masque who would, Beth suspects, gleefully throttle her with it. And yet there is something in Hummingbird’s expression that suggests a part of her is glad Moth overstepped some boundary or other. Beth has never been good at reading faces. She supposes she’d have suffered a lot less in recent months if she was. But the contradiction is there.

The Abbess is already seated when Beth enters the blood-coloured room. Again she is invited to sit on the fat sofa beside the old woman. Her gown billows around her waist as she settles.

‘Now you have spent some time here,’ the Abbess begins, ‘what do you think of the House?’

‘I’ve never known its like,’ Beth says truthfully.

‘I daresay. Perhaps it is the only one of its kind in the world. Perhaps not. What does it mean to you?’

‘I’m not sure. A prison. A slave pen. A brothel in all but name. Or maybe a refuge. A haven.’

‘You are still confused?’

‘Yes.’

‘I prefer to think of it as a place where the lost and broken can, shall we say, rediscover themselves.’

‘But you earn money from them.’

‘The pampering does not pay for itself, Kitten. Things weren’t always as you see them.’

‘What makes you different from any other bawdy-house madam?’

A smile cracks her patch-studded face. ‘Once, I was just another runaway country girl come fresh-cheeked to the city with an ugly past behind me and a head full of hopes. Some flee home due to their pregnant bellies. Others because of their deeds. My village had me as a witch, a white-haired foundling whose very touch could wither flowers or sour milk. A crop failed and they wanted to pillory me for it. A stolen sovereign bought a coach ride into the city. No one came after me, and I’ve never been back since. I earned this house, Kitten, and everything in it. I don’t know if you like stories, but here’s an enchanting tale for you. I started in a ruin that stank of the river it stood beside. A leaking, rat-infested shell possessed of four walls, a hole for a roof and precious little else. I took the skin off both knees scrubbing it clean. I found my first girl bleeding in a gutter by the docks, beaten half to death by some sailors who’d taken their pleasure then vented their spite when she’d asked for a shilling in exchange. I took her in, nursed her, fed her and turned her into a queen. The black butterfly tattooed on her cheek gave me the idea for the Emblems. She told me some witch-man straight off a ship from Africa had painted it on her cheek with a touch of his black finger. She always was a whore, and a lying whore at that, but her looks put paintings on my walls and rugs on the floor. Each room took a year of our lives, and there were so many rooms in that house, Kitten, so very many. New girls sold their company to have the windows fixed, new doors, a ton of fresh slate and a warm fire in the hearth. Women spat at me in the street, yet at night their husbands crept up my path. No matter how fat their purses I vowed no man would ever ill-use the bodies of my charges again. Think on that tonight when you lie on your comfortable feather mattress.’

Beth lets her gaze wander. ‘It seems you have done well for yourself.’

‘This building was given to me in payment for a debt by a lord who was too fond of the cards. He got the better side of the bargain, for in giving it to me he no longer had to maintain it, or pay window tax. The deeds are as solid as the foundations and none shall have them from me unless I so wish. Some years ago a troop of soldiers came to close me down. We barricaded ourselves in and emptied pisspots over their heads. Our clients brandished both their swords and their purses. A few hefty bribes and the matter was resolved. Now we are careful not to break the law.’

‘I still don’t know why I was chosen. The madhouses must closet a hundred girls with faces fairer than mine.’

‘That may be so, but wits are another matter. Listen to the way I speak. Impressive, is it not? What you say when you open your mouth will leave a mark more powerful than any expensive dress. Many a comely face has been ruined by a milkmaid’s squeak. You are a fighter, Kitten. That place had the power to snatch the last breath out of your lungs. Had you died you would have done so with defiance in your eyes. As it is, you will become so enchanting that men will gladly empty their pockets for the privilege of conversing or playing a hand of cards. Within a month you’ll know the name of every noted theatrical performer. You’ll sing like an angel and play whist or hazard with enough skill to bankrupt a gambler. At the table your manners must be without fault.’

‘You’ve the Fixer to thank for that.’

‘Indeed. Any clod is capable of cramming food into their mouth, but most can’t tell the difference between quail and mutton. Pass something the wrong way or pick up the wrong knife at an inopportune time and your charming social veneer will be irreparably cracked. This sort of thing is important to these people and word gets about. “Did you hear about the milkmaid Geoffrey had for dinner? What, tried to eat pheasant pie with a soup spoon?” You’d become a laughing stock.’

A door opens at the back of the room. A girl appears carrying a gilt tray piled with tea things. An ebony-eyed, round-faced lass of solid build, younger than Beth perhaps, with a tumble of chestnut curls sprouting from her crown. Freckles buzz around her neck and forehead. She wears a white shirt and embroidered waistcoat above a pair of buff riding breeches. A black bird swoops across her right cheek.

The tray is placed on the table. ‘Thank you, Raven,’ the Abbess says. ‘I shall take care of everything.’

The girl withdraws. The Abbess pours two dishes of tea and passes one to Beth. ‘We have stables at the back of the House. Can you ride?’

Beth nods. ‘My father was given a horse to travel the squire’s estate. He taught me.’

‘Leonardo will take you around the yard and appraise your style. Side-saddle only of course.’ The Abbess smiles. ‘Schooling a girl is akin to training a good mount. First you have to break it in. Then comes the finesse.’

‘Is that what this house is? A place full of broken people?’

‘The maids, the kitchen girls, even the wench who brickbats the front step — all have their place here. Nobody ever leaves. Nobody ever retires. Play your part and no man shall ever ill-use you again. Life here can be very comfortable if you follow the rules. You will continue to learn these as you progress.’

‘Not much of a choice, is it?’

The Abbess sips her tea and nudges a plate of cream fancies towards Beth. ‘You have earned a treat, I think. I’m sure your belly will cope in any case.’

Beth picks one. Her tongue nearly bursts with the exquisite taste of it.

‘Your first clients will be carefully selected,’ the Abbess continues. ‘You will also be accompanied. At the close of the evening touch the client on the cheek with your gloved fingertips and that will conclude the contract. Hummingbird will show you how to do it properly. Avoid skin contact. If he wishes to hold your hand then keep your glove on. Clients are not escorted by the same girl more than three times in any one year unless by special arrangement. This is to discourage them becoming over fond of any one Masque. Never ask a client’s name. If he wishes you to know, he will volunteer it. Otherwise it’s “sir” or “madam”, never “m’lord” or “m’lady”. Everyone is equal in the presence of a Masque. Sometimes they’ll want to address you by a name of their own choosing. Indulge them. Memorise the name, use it as your signature and answer to it for the duration of your hire period. Once your contract is fulfilled, push it out of your mind unless the same client hires you again.’

Beth cradles her tea dish. ‘Who’s going to want me with my tired face? You might as well give me to a travelling fair.’

‘Don’t belittle yourself. The Fixer is a master at his trade. Ours is a very select circle catering to unique tastes. One of our girls has a hook. Cuckoo. She’s in Florence on a long-term Assignment. A client once gifted her a ring. She was foolish enough to accept it. He became besotted, so Kingfisher warned him off. He managed to send her a private message, to meet him in his carriage by the wharf. And she, her head full of sparrows, went unaccompanied and stepped inside his coach, where he cut off her hand to get his ring back and dumped her in the harbour. Two dredgers found her in the mud, barely breathing. They were going to rob her of her silks, I believe, but then noticed the Emblem and brought her back to the House for a better reward. Stories like this are rare, however. Most of the time my girls enjoy a fulfilling life.’

‘This girl, Cuckoo, is still a Masque?’

‘As you heard, we cater for clients of all persuasions. Your first will likely be a local lady.’ She laughs. ‘Don’t look like that. It’s not what you think. We have a small female clientele. Some of these women are lonely, others have lost family members. They need a “daughter” or a “sister” to take to the theatre, sup tea or sit in the park. If more is involved then the same look-don’t-touch rules apply. A few tip very nicely too. You can keep whatever they give you, within reason.’

‘If I’m not to become a whore, then what am I?’

‘A companion.’

‘And what happens when I grow too old?’ Beth presses. ‘You said nobody leaves. Shall I spend the rest of my days cleaning out hearths?’

‘Ah, Kitten, such a black view you have of the world. Surely you are not finding it so difficult to settle in? I am told that you are performing your duties well enough, and you are comfortable with Hummingbird. A few weeks ago you had no future to speak of. Why trouble yourself now?’

Beth regards this strange, patch-covered creature. How very much at home she looks in her sumptuous, blood-red nest.

‘Men
 . . . 
people
 . . . 
are different. I wouldn’t rightly know how to please them all.’

‘No need to, Kitten. Most please themselves. You just have to be there.’

‘But—’

The Abbess raises a hand. ‘Don’t be too clever. More than one eloquent Kitten has talked herself out of a home. Trust what I tell you. Now sip your tea then tell me about your visit to the tea room in George Lane.’