Wasp (35 page)

‘I even found myself in the washhouse with my head in the laundry basket, her clothes pressed against my face, desperate for a scent of her. What a sight I must have presented. In the end I smuggled the garments upstairs and hid them at the bottom of my wardrobe. Every day I held them, often for an hour at a time. After a while the scent faded until I couldn’t even imagine it was there any more.’

Mother Joan’s hand curls around Wasp’s wrist. The fingers are warm, pink kindling. ‘I was quite the beauty in this city once. I certainly had my share of beaux, but Polly taught me what a daughter’s love could mean. I’d played silly-girl games for most of my life. I love my husband, love him deeply. But you never forget your child’s smile, the first words she utters or the first steps across the nursery rug. In many ways I was still a girl until she died. And I’ll never be a girl again.’

She releases her grip. ‘What must you think of me, going on like this? I’m old and foolish. “A mind like a butterfly” was how my husband once put it. Polly’s death hit him hard too, of course, but he was better able to cope. Politicians need hard hearts in order to survive, and he wanted to be strong for me.’

Wasp doesn’t say anything. She can see Mother Joan as a young woman, in love, with the summer blowing lazy dandelions across a face as smooth as a pillow, and soft laughter burbling out of her throat.

‘The week I lost Polly there were flowers, condolences, a beautiful church service. Then, overnight, her friends stopped visiting. I never saw any of them again. No, that isn’t true. One did turn up, shortly after what would have been Polly’s birthday. The girl had been on the Grand Tour with her parents and sailed back from Italy the day before. She stood on my doorstep with a beautiful embroidered reticule made from Italian leather. A birthday gift for Polly. I suppose you could say I pounced on the poor child. I wanted someone to talk to. Needed someone — anyone. Constance was no use. I couldn’t mention Polly without her bursting into tears, which set me off too.

‘I sat the girl, Arabella, in my parlour and told her Polly was bathing and would come down presently. Over a tray of lemonade and sweet fancies I listened while she told me about her travels on the continent. But before long she started to fidget and kept checking at the clock on the mantel. I tried everything. Chocolate, storybooks, I even tried to show her my collection of pressed flowers. Arabella grew more and more agitated. “Please, Mrs Slocombe, where is Polly?” she entreated, and each time I answered with “She’ll be down presently, you know how fussy about her appearance she is”. I all but kidnapped the child. She was close to tears. In the end I mumbled something about Polly being tired or unwell. I watched Arabella hurry down the street, petticoats flapping about her legs. She looked back at me, once, as if I was some mad old witch. I never saw any of my daughter’s friends again. As for my husband, Polly’s death pushed him deeper into his political career. He practically lived in Parliament. Even on the rare occasions I saw him his mind never strayed far from the business of government. I know you say this pretend life I lead is unhealthy. But if it wasn’t for this occasional mote of comfort I think I would have been packed off to a madhouse long ago.’

She frowns. ‘And that would prove something of an embarrassment for a government minister. My husband has many reasons to be grateful to your Abbess.’

‘I hope I haven’t spoiled everything.’

Mother Joan shakes her head. ‘Since we are finished with pretence do you mind telling me your name?’

‘In the House I’m known as Wasp.’

‘Hence that colourful picture on your cheek?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Yes. I’m stuck with it, unless cause is given for its removal.’

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters, Wasp?’

‘The House is my family now.’

Mother Joan nods as if this is what she expected. ‘Would you mind calling on me again? As yourself, I mean. No more masks. No more games. We could chat, or perhaps stroll round the park together. You can wear whatever you choose, talk about whatever you wish.’

Wasp smiles. ‘I’d like that, though I’ll need the Abbess’s approval.’

‘She has not disapproved of my money yet.’ Mother Joan stands and walks to a cabinet beside the window. Sliding open a drawer, she takes out a slim case and brings it over to Wasp. ‘I want you to have this. It was bought for a birthday Polly will now never celebrate. Please don’t offend me by trying to refuse. My husband was always pressing me to sell it. I feel it has languished in that drawer long enough.’

Wasp prises open the lid. Snuggled in white velvet is a necklace, glittering with red and green jewels.

‘If you ever decide you want a real family,’ Mother Joan says quietly, ‘you will always be welcome here.’

The following morning Wasp is dealt another Assignment. Her client will call at the House that evening. No name is given, but Wasp can sense Richard’s hand in it. Intuition, she supposes.

She drops the scroll into the top drawer of her dresser. Has Moth been given breakfast? Is she still with the Fixer? Wasp could invent a pretext to go to the Mirror Room — brush up on her dancing, perhaps? She could beg a scrap of information, a word, anything that might tell her Moth hasn’t been harmed.

You were such a quiet girl. Why couldn’t you have stayed that way?

Wasp settles by the window to read a book but the light comes and goes at the whim of the clouds. Giving up, she stretches on the coverlet in a bid to catch up on the sleep she’s lost in this foreign bed. Sometime in the early afternoon a knock on the door arouses her. She opens it to find Hummingbird framed against the passage.

‘Settled in?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Well, I can’t help you with that. The Abbess sent me up. It’s about your Assignment tonight. Because your client is calling in person extra rules have to be observed. This is my last piece of advice. I’m taking on a new girl in the next few days and she’s a difficult little sow by all accounts, so my time is going to be full.’

‘You’d better come in.’

Hummingbird declines a chair and waves away the glass of lemonade Wasp offers.

‘When clients call at the House they’re not allowed to see our faces. I don’t know if there’s a particular reason for this or whether it’s tradition. You’ll meet in the Scarlet Parlour.’ Hummingbird presses something into Wasp’s hand. A porcelain mask, angular and insect-like. The edges are trimmed with white fur, and sapphires splinter the gold with radiant shards of blue. ‘This is yours. You would’ve had it sooner but the craftsman found an impurity in the material and had to start again. Put it on before you go inside and don’t take it off again until you leave. Even if your cheeks are itching enough to make you scream you mustn’t ever remove it in the guest’s company. He’ll be masked too. Sometimes we have several gentlemen callers waiting in the parlour at once and we can’t risk them recognising one another. Remember: the same look-don’t-touch rules apply. You might be asked to join him in a drink before you leave. Port or sherry is allowed. Don’t speak unless prompted. Stand at your place and avoid staring. Tonight of all nights you must close your ears and mouth. The Abbess will be watching, trying to decide whether her trust in you, and my ability to train you properly, is misplaced. We’re both on trial tonight, Wasp. It has proved a fraught week. Don’t disappoint me.’

Evening falls in a grey haze. The streets outside seem preternaturally quiet, as if the city is holding its breath. Wasp bathes, and allows Eloise to pin up her hair. Three other girls have Assignments and are already in the dressing room when Wasp arrives. She draws a cream gown looped in swathes of blue and tops it with a tall wig with curls tumbling down one side. Matching cream gloves and satin slippers complete the fantasy.

She checks herself in one of the mirrors. What would her father say now? No matter how hard Wasp tries she can’t quite bring his face into focus. He’s gone into hiding somewhere between her memories, and any image of him is smothered under a layer of mental gauze.

Her Emblem is perfect. A sharp yellow body, thin shimmering wings, the needle tip of a sting. The mask is painted to match. Wasp slips it on. Her face moulds easily to its inner contours. Whoever made this is a master of his craft.

Richard is waiting on a sofa in the Scarlet Parlour, immaculate in turquoise jacket and white hose. A black feather-trimmed mask conceals the top half of his face. He stands and bows when Wasp arrives. ‘There you are, and don’t you look magnificent. Yes, quite magnificent.’

Wasp dips her knees in a curtsey. ‘I am at your service, sir.’

‘Service, eh? No need for such formality. I thought we dispensed with that
 . . . 
eh, the other day. Come, sit with me.’

The parlour girl, Raven, has been standing quietly beside one of the looped red drapes. She flits over to a side table and returns with two glasses and a decanter of port. Richard tries to pour, but his hand trembles and some of the drink splashes onto the carpet. Raven remains professionally straight-faced but it’s easy to guess what she’s thinking.

Wasp sips the port through her mask. After a few minutes, Richard escorts her outside to a brace of hired chairs. They travel to a small inn, a spit from the cathedral, where they’re able to liberate themselves from their masks. The low-ceilinged taproom is full of well-dressed men noisily discussing business. In one corner a book club debates the latest titles.

Richard plays with his waistcoat buttons. He makes small talk over supper. Food spits from both corners of his mouth and he drops a lump of fish into his lap. Every third sentence is an apology.

Afterwards they take a stroll in the park. The cooing seats are full of young beaux and their doxies, while the night watchman prowls the verges, lantern throwing bobbing yellow pools across the grass. Richard returns to fiddling with his buttons. He remarks on the moon, which is a pale splodge behind some clouds, and the stars, few of which are out. Wasp walks by his side, saying nothing, waiting for him to work himself up to whatever it is he really wants to tell her. Finally he says: ‘You must have admirers. A retinue of them I’d have thought.’

Wasp shakes her head. ‘I am merely an escort.’

‘Surely you want more than that?’

‘My personal wants are not important. Everything is provided by the House.’

‘But—’ One of the buttons comes loose in his hand. He fumbles it into a waistcoat pocket.

‘Yes?’

‘A home. Children. A husband. These are the things every woman desires.’

‘Really? As a man you would know this?’

‘It is common knowledge.’

‘For men or women?’

‘You say you do not want these things?’

‘Some women are grateful to have any life at all.’

‘It must be possible to come to some arrangement with your mistress. If the price—’

Wasp stops and faces him. ‘Richard, I’ve enjoyed my time with you, but if you’re looking for some sort of wife or concubine then I’d hardly suit. I’m a glorified courtesan — that’s what they call them in Europe, isn’t it? — and I doubt any member of your undeniably important family would approve. There must be dozens if not hundreds of eligible ladies in this city who’d fight for a chance to wed a young man with your connections. I’m flattered at your suggestion, really I am, but I think the Abbess’s price might be too high, even for you. Now why not cherish this evening as a pleasant interlude?’

‘The issue runs a mite deeper than that.’

‘Whatever you want I’m not the answer. I’m a fantasy. You’ve hired a pretty gown, a mask, an educated voice. I’m here to provide a distraction, or something you might want to show off to your friends like a new hunting horse or a shiny pair of boots. You don’t know anything about me or my past.’

‘Really? Why not tell me? I want to know all about you.’

‘It’s well past the hour. I have a chair waiting at the gate.’

Wasp reaches for his cheek, goodnight fingers already extended. He catches her wrist.

‘You must let go of me, Richard. Please understand I am permitted no interest in you beyond that of a valued client.’

His hand drops to his side. Surprisingly he laughs. ‘And you must understand, dear Wasp, that it’s not necessarily
me
who has the most interest.’