Wasp (18 page)

‘But you haven’t actually raced him?’

‘Let’s see what we can find for you.’

Beth is given a wheezy old nag with its ribs sticking out of its flanks. ‘I shan’t get far on that.’

‘You’re not meant to go far,’ George said with a dry smile.

‘Oh, I see. It’ll drop down dead if I decide to stray.’

George put his boot in a stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. Beth eyed her nag doubtfully then climbed up onto the side-saddle. The beast snorted when she settled on its back, and all four legs shuddered.

‘’Tis a nice enough day. We’ll settle for walking pace.’

‘As if this sack of bones could manage more.’

‘Be patient, Bethany. He’s very experienced.’

‘So was my grandfather, but he could hardly walk.’

A bridleway skirted the edge of the lawns. George led his hunter up the muddy path. Beth’s lump of bones plodded along behind. She hated riding side-saddle. You couldn’t feel the horse properly. The riding clothes weighed her down and the hat made her head itch. As a girl she never had her hair fettered, even with ribbons. Father cropped it every half year and it went its own way after that.

‘Shouldn’t you be riding with someone of your own station?’ she called ahead.

George shook his head. ‘I daresay I should, but local ladies are too fond of their carriages. They refuse to tolerate saddle or bridle, and prefer a stroll on the lawns to a hearty gallop. Every so often I like to go to the ridge and scare the birds off their perches. Today, however, we shall enjoy a gentle pace. I don’t always risk a broken neck.’

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nostrils. ‘Smell that air. It’s sharp enough to cut your lungs.’

All Beth could smell was the flyblown hide of the stinky old nag she was perched on. She sniffed a couple of times to keep George happy, but her backside proved ill company for the saddle and began to hurt. She’d just as soon return to the children.

The bridleway widened. George hung back until Beth was alongside. ‘Julia and Sebastian would like it here,’ she said. ‘They would love to smell the air, the way you just did.’

‘You are fond of them?’

‘Very much so.’

‘And would prefer their company to mine?’

‘That’s a foolish thing to say.’

‘You have a remarkably frank tongue for a young woman in your position.’

‘If you want me to behave like a servant then treat me like one. Don’t favour me with fancy clothes and take me riding across land that isn’t mine.’

The bridleway opened into a rutted lane. Neat hedges gave way to clumps of gorse and scratchy bramble. Patchwork meadows rolled away in all directions. Sheep, fat with unborn lambs, grazed the rough grass.

Ahead, a fist of trees crowned a gentle rise. George nudged his hunter off the road and between the scraggy trunks. Beth squeezed the nag through the gap, ducking as twigs scraped the top of her hat. Inside lay a dark circle of musty forest loam. A cramped spot, but her nag could probably do with the rest.

George was out of the saddle in one easy movement. Beth wasn’t sure whether to remain seated or dismount. He walked over to the nag, boots quiet on the soft mulch. He breathed in snipped gasps. Surely that plod of a ride couldn’t have worn him out?

He reached up a hand. Beth grasped his fingers and slid out of the saddle. Her boot caught in the stirrup and she landed on George in a flurry of petticoats. Both rolled over in the dirt. Damp seeped through the back of her dress and a pebble dug into her skull. George’s breath was all over Beth’s face like a rash. The air was squeezed out of her lungs. She tried to wriggle free but couldn’t budge for the weight of him. He kept saying things but she couldn’t hear a word. His thighs pushed against her, his breeches making a faint rasping against her gown. She didn’t know whether to laugh or retch. Finally she managed to get a hand free and shove him half off her. It was enough to let her roll out from under his pawing hands and scramble to her feet.

Shadows seemed to flit across George’s face, then lifted. ‘An unfortunate accident,’ he said, picking himself up.

‘But—’

‘An accident, as I said. You understand, Miss Harris?’

A fox broke out of the undergrowth, stared at them impudently for a moment then disappeared back into the dark greenery. Nothing else stirred among the ferns.

‘Yes. I understand.’

‘Good. Then nothing more need be said.’

Beth brushed dark loam from the creases of her riding habit then tucked a wayward string of hair behind her ear. ‘Perhaps we should go back to the house.’

George swallowed air, then fetched his horse and mounted. Beth eyed her nag. The stupid thing seemed to be grinning at her. On the way back she poked it in the ribs with her heel. It barely stirred.

George rode in silence. The knees of his breeches were grubby and his boots scuffed. He’d probably say he fell off his own horse or some such thing. He kept breaking into a canter and Beth had to shout for him to wait. Her useless beast hadn’t a hope of keeping up. This couldn’t go on. They had to talk about something. Finally George drew his horse to walking pace. The usual expression of lazy confidence had settled back on his face.

‘We are almost home,’ he said. ‘I look forward to riding with you again, Bethany. I hope you feel likewise.’

‘As long as there are no more unfortunate accidents.’

A snap of his reins sent him galloping forward and this time he didn’t turn back when she called him.

Beth perched on the edge of the bed. She still wore the riding habit, feeling too wretched to take it off. The material was soiled where she’d rolled in the dirt.

I can’t just sit here like this.

She tied her hat back on and stepped onto the landing. She met no one on the stairs. Outside it had grown colder. A thin layer of cloud watered down the dipping sun. There were too many shadows in this warren of a garden. What was the point of it anyway? Why keep all this land if not to grow crops or graze cattle? Smallholders in Dunston worked themselves ragged trying to make a living on less ground than this.

She passed the gardener’s hut. Something rattled inside. A pigeon flew out the door, trailing feathers. Beth kept out of sight of the house as much as possible before deciding to head back. The grass was already damp and had soaked her soft leather boots. She thought about supper. Perhaps she’d get a strip of beef pie and some hot potatoes. Better than broth. But what would she say if she ran into George? He’d been around so much lately, always enquiring after the children, always trying to help her when she didn’t need it, always standing too close or becoming too familiar with his hands brushing her shoulder or resting in the small of her back.

Beth closed her eyes, took a sharp breath then turned and set off down the meadow towards Lord Russell’s tower.

Into Town

‘We’re going out today.’

Beth peeks from underneath the coverlet. Hummingbird is framed in the window wearing a gown of deep green velvet. Powder whitens her face and her dark hair is hidden beneath a wig.

‘Out where?’

‘To breakfast. A new tea room has opened in George Lane. Very fashionable by all accounts. It’s time you stepped out and coped with a little society.’

‘Why a tea room?’

‘Good business can be found in all kinds of places. Tea rooms are often the knots that tie many threads together.’

‘What business?’

Hummingbird smiles. ‘The business of being seen. So stir yourself, girl, unless you want to spend another morning in that stuffy dining room?’

Beth slides both legs from under the covers and makes a grab for her shift. ‘I’m allowed outside? Just like that?’

‘Why not? The Abbess has to trust you sometime. You can’t stay indoors forever.’

‘Suppose I run away?’

‘Then Kingfisher will catch you and I’ll beat your silly arse blue.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘I’m the one who’ll get into trouble if you don’t behave, Kitten, and I’ve no mind to sour the Abbess’s mood. Make a nuisance of yourself and it might be a long time before either of us will be permitted outdoors again. Besides, Moth will be joining us.’

‘Moth? She is well?’

‘A little calmer. The Fixer has tinkered with her wits. He’s confident she’ll behave. Now, we need to find you a suitable gown. Come with me.’

Moth is waiting in the hall. The shadows have lifted from under her eyes and she tucks a smile on her mouth on spying Beth. Hummingbird leads both girls round the back of the staircase and through a set of curtained double doors. Beth wonders how many tuck-me-away places exist in this house. Every tapestry, every alcove seems to conceal a secret. Here is a passage carpeted in green with full-length mirrors set into each wall at regular intervals. Above, a vaulted skylight sheds bright daylight while sconces, fat with unlit candles, fill the spaces between the mirrors. Beth wonders what it would be like to walk down here at night with nothing but stars overhead and a dozen flickering flames throwing their reflections across the floor.

Through another set of doors lies a rectangular room. Tall wardrobes hug the left side. Opposite sit half a dozen teak dressers. Windows set into the end wall throw bright planks of light across the carpet. Beth is lost in this place. The walls of the House are thick and hard. They don’t creak in the wind like the eaves of her father’s cottage. No birds skitter across the roof and no overhanging branches tap-tap the slates with their twig fingers. She’s locked in a big stone box.

Bending over, Beth can see a pale blob, her face, staring back from the shiny floorboards. Rugs are white fur puddles. The glass in the window is cold. Tiny ripples cross each pane. It’s like looking at the world from the bottom of a brook.

‘Let’s see,’ Hummingbird says. ‘Something light for you, I think.’ She tugs open a door, rummages about and passes a gown to Beth. ‘It should fit. I’ve a good eye for that sort of thing.’ She glances at Moth. ‘Blue for you, definitely, trimmed with white, and satin bows across the loops. Not too big, mind. A narrow border lies between looking like a princess and a harlot.’

She crosses to one of the dressers and slides open a drawer. ‘Thin stockings only, it’s hot out today, and you’re both too skinny for corsets. One petticoat each and don’t step on any horseshit, these slippers are satin and the Abbess will flay me if they come back ruined. Stay away from the gutters too. They’re always full of swill, and they stink, especially in the middle of summer.’

‘Why don’t Masques have their own clothes?’ Beth asks.

‘Good merry lord, we’d all need bedchambers the size of the dining room. Every task requires a different set of garments. We put them on when we go out, we take them off when we come back. Some of the girls prefer maids to help them but I’m sure we’ll manage.’

It takes the better part of an hour to dress. Beth’s inexperienced hands shake on the fastenings. There isn’t a part of her that doesn’t itch. For the first time in her life she’s wearing a proper society gown and it’s the most beautiful thing she’s seen. Pale cream with crimson sleeves and dozens of bows that swoop up and down the material like butterflies. Layers of petticoats swish-swish whenever she moves. There’s a garter too. Crimson, like the bows. ‘Don’t harlots wear these?’ she says.

‘They might, I’ve never taken a peek myself.’ Hummingbird fingers Bethany’s growing hair. It’s clean with a hint of copper. Beth’s never realised that. She didn’t know her eyes were such a rich shade of brown, like fresh horse chestnuts, or that her lips could look so full and red. Her skin is pale and clear. No scabs, no festering sores.

Full-length mirrors are fixed to the inside of the wardrobe doors. Moth, gown half fastened, dances in front of them, turning this way, then that.

‘Look at you,’ Hummingbird declares. ‘You’ve never worn fine clothes before?’

‘My da wouldn’t let me have a good dress. He said I’d look like a trollop. I’d fetch a strap across my back if he caught me like this.’

Hummingbird stands behind Beth who’s checking her now bewigged reflection in another mirror. ‘What about you, Kitten? Do you like what you see?’

‘I don’t resemble a boy any more.’

‘You’ll need one of these.’ Hummingbird reaches towards Beth’s cheek, something tucked in her hand.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t be a turnip. You can’t go out without an Emblem. This is only until you earn a proper mark. Look, it’s made of paper. You can take it off when we return home.’

Beth examines the object in Hummingbird’s open palm. A scrap of black paper in the shape of a mummer’s mask. ‘Ladies wear those to cover pox scars,’ she blurts.

Hummingbird bursts out laughing. Grains of white powder fly off her cheeks. ‘Not this sort, they don’t. People need to know you belong to the House.’

‘Why?’

‘It earns certain privileges. Stop fussing and let me put it on.’

Beth feels a cool spot on her cheek as Hummingbird applies the patch. ‘There,’ she declares, straightening up. ‘Almost like a real Masque. Now, bonnets for the pair of you, though not ones with feathers as they make me sneeze. And something for your faces. We have everything: rouge, milk of roses, pearl powder. Jewellery too, most of it gifted by generous clients.’