Wasp (19 page)

‘They make presents of such things?’ Beth says.

‘Certainly, though we have to be careful a Masque is never seen in public wearing the wrong item. A few of our more smitten patrons have even donated horses. Our stables are full of such beasts.’ She steps back. ‘Now, let’s see if you pass muster in the street.’

‘I still can’t believe I’m going out.’

‘All part of your grooming, Kitten. You need to learn how to conduct yourself in the wicked city. No creeping down the back alley either. I’ll sign the wardrobe book then it’s the front door for us, as befits the princesses we are.’

The hot scent of the city smacks Beth across the face the moment she puts a foot outside. A foul mix of horseshit, smoke and human refuse. She has forgotten what the world can smell like beyond the gently scented corridors of the House. A dozen or so marble steps spread away from the front door onto a flagged pavement. Beth is reminded of thick cream spilling from the lip of a jug. Metal railings, glossy black with fresh paint, frame either side.

An ornate square faces the house. A few trees, a patch of green, a yellow peppering of flowers. Carriages rumble past, dogs bark, hawkers call from street pitches. Beth’s senses struggle to cope. She has the impression of being buried in the heart of some huge beast. She can feel it all around her, smell it with every whiff of air. Beyond the roofs and chimneys, how many other streets?

Hummingbird squeezes Beth’s arm. ‘Stay close to me. It’s often difficult the first time.’

‘I’ll be trampled.’

‘Keep off the road and you’ll be safe enough. You only have the length of this street to walk. From there we can hire sedan chairs.’

‘No.’

A click of the tongue. ‘I daresay you can go back indoors for now, Kitten, but I thought you had more courage. The Abbess might not be so generous with her favours in future. I’m sure you don’t want to spend another month cleaning hearths. The longer you put this off the harder it will become.’

‘Very well. You have such a sweet way of persuading people.’

Hummingbird’s grin sweeps back. ‘All the best teachers have. Come on now, don’t look so glum. Three hours outside and I’ll probably have to drag you back into the House.’

Moth harbours no such reluctance. She’s down the steps in a breath. Hummingbird has to call her back. She comes to heel wearing a scolded look. People make way as they cross the square. None looks them in the eye.

‘Have we the plague?’ Beth asks.

‘Keep walking. You’ll get used to it.’

Beth steals a quick look back at the House. Not so grand as Russell Hall, though neat in its own way. She could easily lose it amidst the jumble of buildings.

Nobody accosts them. Nobody points or gawps, yet it takes the longest five minutes in Beth’s memory to stroll to the edge of the square and turn the corner. She is conscious of everything. Her gait. The cropped hair beneath the wig. Her sense of awkwardness in these heavy clothes. She tugs down the brim of her bonnet and fingers the paper patch on her cheek, resisting the urge to peel it off.
We’re like the bad women outside the market taverns,
she thinks.
The ones in the gaudy slammerkins and painted cheeks. Any moment now a man is going to stop one of us and offer a shilling for a tup.

The clamour smothers her. She tries breathing through her mouth, praying she won’t faint. Every chimney belches fingers of black smoke into the sky.

A figure appears on the path. A hag of a woman in a tattered green dress with a fright of ginger hair sprouting above her poxed face. She grins and gestures at the two rows of chipped, yellow-stained tombstones poking out of her gums. ‘See ’em? Forty years old and I got all my own teeth. Forty, and they’re mine, every one.’

‘Good for you, Sally,’ Hummingbird says, not breaking stride.

The creature darts after them with an agility that would shame a cutpurse.‘You’re ugly,’ she tells Beth, plucking at her sleeve. ‘Ugly. Not like me. I’m an earl’s daughter, d’you know that? Used to have all the young men lined up and begging for my hand.’

Beth jerks her arm away and tries to move on. The hag scurries at her heels like a terrier on the scent of a rabbit. ‘Shamed, are you? As well you might be. Bad times have hit old Sally. There but for the grace of God go you. But I’ve still got my looks. And my teeth. Count ’em. Go on. Every one still there. Every one still good.’

Beth groans. ‘For pity’s sake, give her a penny.’

‘A mirror would suit her better,’ Hummingbird says, ‘though ’twould cost a shilling to have the glass replaced.’

The hag’s squawking fades. Already she has tripped back into the throng. A glimpse of carrot hair then nothing.

‘Who was she?’

‘Never mind. We’re going the rest of the way by sedan.’

Chairs are lined up by the kerb, the bearers standing nearby, some talking, others smoking clay pipes. Beth has never used a chair before, though she’s spied them in her local market towns. ‘An extravagance for those too bone idle to use the good legs God gave them,’ Mother had said, happier to walk in a downpour than part with a few coppers for a bit of dry comfort.

Moth doesn’t seem impressed either. ‘Shouldn’t we just walk?’

‘’Tis more than a mile, Kitten,’ says Hummingbird. ‘My feet are very important to me and I don’t want to wear them out trudging through the city in a pair of satin slippers, so hush thy tongue, as Leonardo would say, and climb inside.’

The bearer tugs the brim of his hat as Beth seats herself. She grips the window frames either side as the sedan is hoisted into the air. The men set off at a cracking pace, the cabin swaying as passers-by scuttle out of the way. Street after street slips past. Gulls swoop in from the river, fight pigeons for scraps, soar off in a flurry of screeching feathers. A dog scampers after the chair, barking, heedless of the bearers’ curses. Beth clings on, her rump jounced about on the hard seat, her gaze fixed on the bobbing chairs ahead. Soon they are climbing a cobbled hill. The chairs slow as the bearers take the strain. At a signal from Hummingbird, they halt on the crest.

Bethany takes a deep breath then steps out. Buildings rise in a zigzag on either side of the road and fall down the other side of the hill. Hummingbird dips into her reticule, pays the bearers and waves Beth over. ‘Nearly there, Kitten. Did you enjoy the ride?’

Beth eyes the crowds lining both sides of the street. Beggars and beer hawkers share road space with finely powdered dandies. A legless man, face toothless and broken apart with some festering pox, holds out an emaciated hand. ‘Charity, sweet ladies, a little charity?’

Beth edges away. ‘Are we safe here? Should you give him something?’

Hummingbird grimaces. ‘Hand over so much as a farthing and you’ll have a mob on you before you can sneeze. There’s nothing like a soft face and the glint of coin to bring the rats scurrying out of the gutter. Keep a tight purse and your good intentions to yourself and nobody will trouble you. Not in daylight anyway.’

She leads them down a breezy side street. Beth peeks through an open door. A well-dressed gentleman is seated on a chair, a beard of white soapsuds covering the bottom half of his face. Beside him, a barrel-bellied fellow in an apron sharpens a razor on a leather belt. Next door is a hat shop, then a stall selling sugared fairings.

‘Ah, here we are.’

They’ve turned the corner into a terraced lane. Hummingbird climbs the steps of a lemon-coloured building. Inside is a good-sized room with a dozen busy tables and a fire flickering in a wrought-iron hearth. The windows are trimmed with lace, crisp linen smothers the tables and paintings of various city views hang on the wall. Above, wreathed in smoke, cherubs smile from a frescoed ceiling while a brass chandelier drips with fat, waxy candles.

Conversation abruptly stops. It’s only for a moment, like a hiccup or someone catching her breath, then it resumes again. If Hummingbird notices she doesn’t comment. She takes the only remaining empty table and gestures at the others to sit.

‘It’s like being inside a cake,’ Moth exclaims.

A maid flusters up, fresh in white apron and mob cab. Hummingbird orders tea and raspberry tart.

‘That red-haired woman yelling at us in the street,’ Beth says, once the maid has hurried off. ‘You knew her by name.’

‘Screeching Sally? She’s a tough old harlot. Been twice carted and none the worse for it.’

‘Carted?’

‘An old tradition in this city. Petty criminals are hoisted into a cart and driven through the streets for a pelting. Sally flaunts her scars like trophies and wanders the streets showing her teeth to every pretty young woman who passes by. She’s especially fond of Masques. She thinks we’re angels.’

‘Angels?’

‘She often claims to see them.’

‘She must be soft in the head. Can’t we help her?’

‘Many harlots die a filthy death. Others are lucky enough to dodge that particular grave. Sally has enough wits left to survive. I’d say that—’

She’s interrupted by shouting from a back room. A man’s voice, words knotted in anger. They hear the maid twittering a reply then a sharp slap followed by more yelling.

‘Oh dear,’ Hummingbird says, ‘I don’t believe we are going to get our tea after all.’

From a door behind the counter, a big fellow dressed in knee breeches and waistcoat lumbers into view. A horsehair wig spikes his head above a pair of florid cheeks and piglet eyes. His forearms resemble shanks of beef and his feet are the size of barges. He approaches the women and leans both fists on the white tablecloth. ‘We don’t serve you.’

Moth spluttered. ‘But—’

‘You’re just whores by another name. Get out.’

‘Come on.’ Hummingbird grabs hold of Moth. ‘You too, Kitten. Let’s not reinforce this gentleman’s prejudices.’

‘Did you see the way everyone stared?’ Beth says. ‘I thought that oaf was going to push us out the door.’

Hummingbird, tight-lipped, leads the way past the tradesmen’s stalls. Her face is white, her eyes black buttons. Both hands are clenched around her reticule. ‘We can hail chairs at the end of the main street.’

‘Can’t we try another tea room?’ Moth says.

Hummingbird gives her an odd look. ‘We could, but that won’t solve this particular issue.’

‘I just thought—’

‘Don’t dally, and keep away from those stalls.’

A haberdasher’s pitch has caught Moth’s eye. She lingers a moment before hurrying to catch up. In her haste she nearly sends a sewing basket tumbling into the gutter. ‘I’ll belt your arse,’ the red-faced owner howls, but Moth only laughs. She skips after the other girls, snickering to herself every few yards.

‘What have you got to be so jolly-go-lightly about?’ Hummingbird demands.

Moth seems to curl into herself. An odd, sly look falls across her face.

‘What are you hiding?’ Hummingbird stops so abruptly Beth nearly stumbles into the back of her. ‘Show me.’

Moth plucks something from a fold in her gown and unwinds it. A length of blue ribbon.

‘Did you steal that?’

‘Might have done.’

‘What do you think we are? A gaggle of common footpads? Either give it back or I’ll give you tuppence and you can pay for it.’

‘No. He’ll slap me if he finds out I filched from his cart.’

‘You’ll fetch more than that if you don’t go back. He’ll be happy enough with the money.’

‘If he was too stupid to see me pinch it then he deserves to lose it, and he doesn’t merit payment either. This is mine. I sweat for the Abbess all day and don’t get a penny to show for it. I’m entitled to take what I can and if you don’t like it then look the other way.’

‘Do I have to take it off you?’

‘You couldn’t even stop us getting thrown out of that tea room.’

‘Fine. So you want to end up like Screeching Sally, poxed and living on the street? Or maybe you prefer transportation? The gallows, too, will prove happy to welcome you. That ribbon won’t look so sweet when they bury you under shovel-loads of quicklime.’

‘’Twill be the only way you or anyone else will take it off me.’

‘The Fixer warned you about this sort of thing, Moth. Petty pilfering is against House rules. You can’t go lifting other people’s property just to make yourself feel good. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.’