Wasp (22 page)

‘On the terrace today. You were impertinent,’ George said. ‘The children were crying. They thought you’d taken a fit.’

‘I ask your pardon. I was upset.’

‘Do you wish to discuss the matter?’

She put down the watercolours and faced him. ‘I dread this time of year. Those things are everywhere. Week upon week of perdition. They haunt you like devils.’

‘Did something bad happen? With wasps? Before you came here?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Something did.’

Through most of the previous August Beth’s home had been tight as a stewpot, thanks mostly to a rain-sodden summer which had warped most of the windows in their frames. When the weather finally broke, it brought a heatwave which baked the lane into a river of dust. Mother prised open every window from larder to attic. Some hadn’t been touched for weeks and put up a squealing protest. Mother’s wiry forearms brooked no opposition. She put a jagged crack across one pane but Father knew better than to gripe. Not content with that, she marched into Beth’s room and dragged the covers to the foot of the bed. ‘No sneaking up for a nap today,’ Mother told her. ‘This place needs airing. You can spend your time outside.’

Beth worked her chores in a simmering broth of heat and bugs. A listless, drooping air settled over everything. After a cold supper she splashed water on her face and climbed the stairs. The dusk had spawned a faint breeze which tickled her bedchamber curtains. She tugged off her clothes, rolled onto the bed and drew the thin coverlet up to her chin. A moment later she collapsed into sleep.

A sliver of late summer light still coloured the sky when a sharp pain pulled her from her dreams. She lay in confusion, taking in the ceiling, the walls, the now stilled curtains, wondering if she’d imagined it or if night-time cramps were beginning to bite. Another pain needled into her leg and this time she yelped. Something was crawling across her thigh. More pain on her calf, her rump, her belly.

Screaming, Beth hurled herself from the covers, caught her foot on the bedpost and crashed onto the rug. Tiny legs scratched across her flesh. She slapped herself, eyes thick with tears. ‘Get off me. Get off.’

Feet thumped across the landing. The door was thrown open. Mother stood, frowning, candle in hand. ‘Bethany?’

Flickering light caught the tiny yellow-and-black bodies squirming on the carpet. Three. No, four. Mother crushed them under her slipper.

‘They were in there with me,’ Beth whimpered. ‘They were in my bed.’ Angry, flushed circles, punctured in the middle, spread across her leg. She could
feel
the holes, as if the wasps had burrowed into her flesh.

Mother became a tight-lipped picture of capability. She delved into her kitchen concoctions and produced a poultice which brought cool relief to her sopping daughter.

‘A bit of a nightmare that,’ Father remarked.

‘She’ll get over it,’ Mother said, not knowing how deep the roots of that particular horror had wormed into Bethany’s mind.

George looked grave. ‘I was sore for days,’ Beth finished explaining. ‘Mother could never make me go near that room for weeks.’

He reached a hand towards her face. She stepped away.

‘No.’

‘Bethany—’

‘No, George.’

He let his hand drop. ‘Why don’t you seem to care? What do I have to do to reach you? Is such a thing even possible?’

‘I shall not be your doxy. I’m not a horse you can mount whenever you please.’

‘How can you talk of our relationship in those terms?’

‘We don’t have a relationship. We never will. These things always end the same. Broken promises. Broken hearts. I’ve no feelings for you.’

‘Because of who you are? A paid companion for the children?’

‘No, because of who
you
are. Rich, handsome George who should be loved by everyone. That’s the real tic in your skin, I think. Don’t try to pretend that I’m different from any milkmaid or tavern wench you’ve tupped during your adventures. All those treats you insist on — the riding trips, the walks in the garden, the flirty looks you give me whenever the chance arises — are games and nothing more. You’re forever strutting about or posturing like some pampered dandy. Why d’you assume I’d be impressed with such things?’

‘They are not games.’

‘Really? It seems the rules are simple enough. Every girl wants you, so that means I must want you also.’

‘I could hand that back to you,
Miss Harris,
and say because I am the squire’s son you assume I must play the rake, that my role of heartbreaker is assured. You cannot believe me capable of harbouring genuine feelings for someone outside the circle of society butterflies Father parades in front of me. So I ask, do you think so little of me that you imagine I could love one of those featherheaded girls? Everything about them is artifice. But then we are taught both to know our place and to keep it, are we not? Some things, some people, make courting disaster a worthwhile enterprise.’

‘How full of words you are. I’m surprised you don’t choke on them.’

‘And what of you, whose mouth says one thing while the rest of your face says something else? What is it you truly want, Bethany Harris? What do you have your sights set on that you should lure my father into your bed?’

The picture fell from Beth’s hands, shattering the makeshift frame the children had made for it.

‘Yes, I’ve heard about it,’ George continued. ‘I’ve no doubt the whole household knows. I even confronted Father in his study, and God help me I had murder on my mind. His desk was awash with documents. All estate jiffery. He looked at me as if I were an ignorant boy who would never learn anything of worth. He was not angry, merely disappointed. Not one word passed between us. He went back to fussing with his papers and I walked out without looking back. For days afterwards I’d catch the servants whispering and drawing me looks. Everyone knew, right down to the stable boy, and all thought me a fool. What are you if not another breed of servant, yet you take it upon yourself to tup the master of the house? Even when you went about with the marks of his mouth fresh around your neck I did not thrash you into the floor as I ought to have done. Suppose you had a child?’

Beth’s fingers squeezed together, then loosened. ‘You did not kill him, obviously?’

‘Men such as I have resources to fall back on should we find ourselves financially unseated, so I tried to pretend that you were merely in his thrall and would grow weary of it once the shine had dulled. Am I a coward as well as an imbecile?’

‘Neither coward nor fool, though in your heart you don’t believe that.’

‘How could you use an old man in such a fashion?’

‘Because there was no usury.’

George’s face tightened. ‘Are you telling me he seduced you?’

‘Yes, and it was lovely. And it meant a lot. Seduction isn’t the same as force. A girl isn’t obliged to lift her petticoats at a gesture from you.’

‘But he’s my
father
.’

‘And? He was gentle when I wanted him to be, and passionate when my feelings called for it. He made me feel that I was
someone,
that I was worth
something.
Not a notch on your scabbard.’

‘I could have given you passion.’

‘You demanded it from me. It never occurred to you that I could refuse. Poor George, future darling of Parliament, cuckolded in his desires by his own father. What a blow to your pride.’

His hand split the air, carving through sunshine and dust motes. Clumsy. Only his fingertips connected with her jaw, but it was enough to melt her mouth into a wide ‘O’ of surprise. She touched the point of impact and stared at her own fingers.

‘You hit me.’

‘Nothing,’ he sucked in his breath. ‘It was nothing. Don’t say otherwise.’

‘You hit
me.’

‘Damn it, girl. You have twisted this household enough. I doubt I can persuade Father to have you dismissed but I’ll ensure you never see the children again.’

‘You can’t mean that? Julia and Sebastian are everything to me.’

‘Really? You should have thought of them before tickling my father’s breeches.’

‘George—’

He strode towards the door. ‘This is one thing you can’t influence. Don’t even try.’

Beth stared after him.
You’ll see what I can do, George Russell.
And it was only on feeling a warm trickle between her fingers that she realised how far her nails had dug into her palms.

A Sisterly Lesson

‘I know what you’re going to ask.’ Hummingbird clutches her bonnet against a stiff breeze. ‘You were squirming in that tea room as though a hot poker had punctured your chair. So you might as well say it.’

‘Those calling cards—’

‘Yes, the cards. A morsel of business to accompany a fine lunch. You don’t think the Abbess sent us out to take the air, do you?’

‘From what I saw, the idea was to humiliate the proprietor.’

‘He needed a lesson, true, but in the end the tea room will benefit from the notoriety. Those young men are potential clients.’

‘Then why act with such indifference?’

‘I need to stay aloof until the Abbess gives her approval. It’s part of the allure.’

‘Approval? Which is based on the size of their purse, I suppose?’

‘Their purses can contain cobwebs or half the Treasury for all the difference it makes. It’s
who
they are that matters. There’s more than one way to choose a plump goose.’

‘So are there fixed rates or are we priced according to our skills? I suppose the Harlequins attract a fatter purse.’

‘That’s certainly true. I don’t know the exact sum, it varies from person to person, but I’ll wager these prices would make your mouth flap open.’ Hummingbird winks. ‘Wealthy men are in danger of being crushed by the weight of their own fortunes. The Abbess is keen to relieve them of their burdens.’

‘A burden that is obviously not shared with us.’

‘Mind what you say, Kitten. One not-so-clever Sister thought to demand payment from the Abbess — made quite a show of it. The Abbess handed over the money then promptly charged for bed and board, rental of gowns and jewellery, and a dozen other things the girl had taken for granted. She ended up with the choice of keeping her gripes to herself or retiring to a debtors’ prison. If it came down to it, the Abbess could sell us for a cart load of sovereigns and we’d not have a say.’

‘Are we always given cards in public?’

‘Usually. On a good night out we can snare twenty or more, though you never do it whilst in the company of a client,’ she lowers her voice, ‘unless his back is turned.’

Beth laughs. Both girls skip out of the way when a sedan lurches towards them. Once it has passed, Hummingbird takes Beth’s arm.

‘Listen, Kitten, if you get carded when I’m not with you, whether I’m off in search of a pot or whatever, do as I did. Don’t speak, don’t look. Take the card, slip it into your reticule and go about your business. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good girl. You’ll be a Masque before you know it. Now here’s Leonardo with the carriage, patient pup that he is.’

They climb inside and the coach sets off, wheels rumbling on the dung-spattered road. Dogs chase and bark around the wheels. A hawker runs beside their window holding up strips of lace. ‘Fine for a bonnet, ladies, or a gift for a beloved aunt.’

A warning grumble from Leonardo and he falls away into the crowd. Beth squeezes her hands together.
Can I really complain?
she asks herself.
I have the chance to live better now than I’ve ever done, even at Russell Hall. Yet why am I uneasy?

First she’ll concentrate on getting her strength back, that’ll give her time to think. The House is not the Comfort Home. If she decides to leave there’s bound to be a dark night, an unlocked window or door. She’ll head west. Perhaps to Bristol, which by all accounts is fat with slave trade money. She can forge a letter of recommendation, maybe gain a post working with children again.

But first.
Oh yes, but first.

The coach hits a bump. The cake Beth had eaten in the tea room turns in her belly. It had tasted delicious and she’d felt hungry enough, but the proprietor’s face, bruised and discoloured as rotten fruit, loomed large in her thoughts. He had brought them their tea the way a child might after a scolding. Though resentment lingered in his battered eyes, the defiance was gone, purged like a bad fever. Beth last witnessed such an expression on the face of a local scold who, hair foul with eggs and bits of old cabbages, had spent a day in the village stocks.

The carriage lurches again. They pass a church, spire pricking the grey underbelly of the clouds. ‘Time we showed a little devotion,’ Hummingbird announces, rapping her knuckles on the roof. Leonardo brings the team to a snorting halt.

‘We have an errand to take care of,’ she tells him. ‘Don’t bother waiting. We’ll hire chairs.’

Leonardo’s voice rumbles from the driver’s perch. ‘’Tis my duty to return thee to thy House.’

‘Well, don’t worry thy head. Thou canst return thyself to thy stables with a clear conscience. ’

Her slippered feet are light on the church steps. Beth follows, almost tripping in her haste to keep up. Hummingbird pauses by an arched door, the oak black with age and studded with iron. ‘This is St Serf’s,’ she declares. ‘It boasts a very fine cut of parishioner.’

Beth takes in the tall stained-glass windows, the statue above the door, the gargoyles grinning on their rooftop perches. From inside, the mournful sound of singing leaks into the vestibule. ‘You can’t mean to go in?’

Hummingbird shoves open the inner door. Beth tries to grab her but misses. Two days left until the Sabbath yet the church is packed to the rafters. A hymn drones to an end. With coughs and creaking bones, the pious seat themselves. Beth hopes to tuck herself away at the back but the devil has come to St Serf’s and is squatting right inside Hummingbird’s head. She’s off down the centre aisle, skirts swishing, bonnet cocked on her head. People stare or glance at one another.

Where is she going?
Beth thinks.
Not to the head of the church surely?

But that’s exactly where Hummingbird is bound. She sweeps down to the rented pews where the gentry sit, plumps herself next to some powdered dowager and pats the bench. Mortified but helpless to do anything else, Beth sits beside her. ‘What are you doing?’ she whispers. ‘This place is thick with popery.’