Wasp (30 page)

The footmen escort the girls up the steps. Their clients are waiting inside, recognisable by their pink cravats studded with cameos. One is a cheesy fellow of middling years with a bulbous face and tufts of white hair poking out from either side of a wig. His son is soft-faced with dark eyes and brows that curve over the lids in wide arcs. Both men are dressed in dark blue with cream hose, the cravats providing the only splash of vivid colour.

‘So these are our fancies, are they?’ the older fellow declares in response to the coachman’s cough. ‘By God they resemble a pair of Italian poppets. Any one take your fancy, Richard?’

Before the younger man can utter a word his father stabs the air with his cane. ‘You. You’ll do. What’s your name?’

Wasp drops into a smooth curtsey. ‘I am Wasp. At your service, sir.’

‘Wasp, is it? Hiding a sting somewhere beneath those velvet skirts perhaps?’

She glances at Hummingbird, who swoops into a curtsey of her own. ‘And I am Hummingbird, also at your service.’

Richard bows. ‘It seems my choice has been made. Permit me to accompany you inside.’

Hummingbird nods. ‘I would be delighted, sir.’

His father taps his cane on the polished floor. ‘Don’t look so po-faced, girl. I haven’t emptied my purse to suffer a sour kipper at my side.’

Wasp bolts on her most charming smile. Her client guffaws. ‘That’s the spirit. You may call me James. Sir James. My boy there is Richard, as you heard. Let’s get seated. This draughty hallway is killing my legs.’

A long rectangular room topped by a gallery from which a string quintet saws out a melody. Tiers of fat candles hang from the ceiling; the air is yellow with tobacco smoke. Talk, laughter, a coughing fit from the far corner. Tables under white linen cloths dot the floor like cream buns, with waiters flitting expertly between them. One greases up to Sir James. ‘This way, sir.’

The hubbub of conversation dips noticeably as the party follows the serving man to their table. Sir James seems to puff up in front of Wasp. His rolling gait turns into a swagger and he gestures expansively with his cane. When he speaks his voice is much too loud. Every ear and eye is the place is captured.

‘Not the best of tables for such company. Still, it will suffice.’

Once seated, Wasp feels less exposed.
You’ll be stared at,
Hummingbird warned before they left the House.
By women as well as men. Even servants will peek when they think you don’t see. Try not to be too self-conscious. It’s what you’re there for, and you’ll get used to it in time.

People certainly steal glances, but the talk soon resumes its previous level. This is a riotous place for anyone to try to have a decent supper, she thinks. No tea-room serenity. No civilised dandies exchanging pleasantries over coffee and raspberry tart. The men around her, while smart enough, have a keen, almost criminal look about their faces, and from the snatches of conversation she overhears their talk involves more than casual business.

‘Welcome to our den of thieves,’ Richard remarks, smiling at Wasp.

Hummingbird clasps her fingers under her chin. ‘You are all villains, then?’

Richard laughs. He sounds nervous. ‘Without a doubt. Politicians, peers, bankers — what greater villainy could you find under one roof? They should hang the lot of us in chains.’

‘Then I would be robbed of enchanting company for the evening.’

‘And does your friend feel that way also?’

‘Um
 . . .
’ Wasp splutters. ‘I know little of politics or commerce, sir.’

‘Call me Richard, please.’

Wasp glances at her client. Sir James’s eyes flick over a menu. He hands it back to the waiter and mutters something in the fellow’s ear. The waiter slides off. He’s replaced by a rumpled-faced man in a grey periwig who’s seemingly popped out of the smoke. He and Sir James launch into some convoluted exchange full of incomprehensible words and parliamentary jargon. Wasp tries to say something to Richard but he’s already distracted. That’s more or less the last stab either girl has at conversation for the remainder of their supper. Patrons are constantly out of their seats, flitting from table to table, catching people in the aisles, shaking hands and talking, talking, talking. Richard attracts an equal measure of attention. Men slap his back or shake his hand.

‘Ever felt like a trinket in a box?’ Hummingbird whispered.

‘They’re ignoring us.’

‘Men’s business. Leave them to it. We serve our purpose by being here.’

Sir James excuses himself. Five minutes later he’s back, only to disappear somewhere else. Richard concentrates on his wine glass. Hummingbird does not interrupt his musing or try to cajole him into speaking. A tall, wigless gentleman, black hair scraped behind his head and tied with a velvet bow, cards the girls. Hummingbird shakes her head and returns it. Crestfallen, the man slinks back into the throng.

Don’t accept cards while you’re with a client,
she’d warned.

More cards arrive at their table, only to be politely returned. Sir James, conducting business with other diners, doesn’t seem to notice. Hummingbird slips out a bone-handled fan from her sleeve and wafts it in front of her face.

Should I do likewise?
Wasp has chosen a tasteful, oriental-patterned fan from the selection in the dressing room, but when she attempts to flip it open, the handle catches on her lace cuff and it tumbles to the floor. Richard is watching her and she’s irritated to feel her cheeks go hot.

Supper arrives, carried above the patrons’ heads by a brace of nimble-fingered serving men. Sir James, back from his excursions, downs half a chicken and three glasses of Madeira. His cheeks, already puffed and florid, grow redder as the minutes tick by. Bits of half chewed fowl catch in his teeth.

The girls attend to their own food. They cut it, slice it, push it around their plates and pass the odd forkful across their lips. Hummingbird is an expert at not drinking. Whenever she puts down her glass it contains just as much red wine as when she picked it up. When the meal is concluded it’s as if a great feast has taken place. Sir James sits back, surrounded by the debris of his supper, and belches.

‘Can’t linger,’ he announces. ‘Richard wants a bit of culture.’

Culture is an opera. They travel to the venue in Sir James’s carriage and are installed in a box so high above the other seats it makes Wasp dizzy. Having only ever been entertained by a travelling troupe, she thinks the woman on stage is an angel singing to God. Such a perfect voice, it shivers the nerves.

Richard presses a silk handkerchief into her gloved hand. ‘Opera can do that to your soul,’ he explains. ‘There is no shame in tears. Enough divas have broken my heart in the past.’

‘I didn’t know men allowed themselves such feelings. Father told me it was a sign of weakness
 . . . 
of
unmanliness.
He once berated a neighbour’s boy for crying when a cat scratched him. He was only six years old.’

‘Very candid of you. I don’t myself care for bullish men. They are too fond of themselves and their ideas. For a woman to marry such a creature is to sit forever in silence.’

The curtain drops. The orchestra slips into an easy melody. People murmur, stand, stretch limbs. Wasp steals a glance at Sir James. He’s slumped in his chair, his head tilted forward. An uncorked flask lies on his lap. A gentle snore stirs at the back of his nostrils.

Richard wakes his father and helps him down the stairs. He staggers a little but once out in the night air seems to rally. His carriage is parked at the kerb, driver and footmen waiting patiently. There is, as yet, no sign of Kingfisher.

Sir James disappears behind one of the sandstone pillars supporting the entrance pediment.

‘Help me will you, m’dear? I’m having a spot of trouble.’

She glances back at Hummingbird, who’s talking intently to Richard. Without thinking Wasp steps behind the pillar. Sir James is slumped against the opera house wall.

‘Are you ill, sir? Shall I fetch your coachman?’

‘No, no, just a bit of bother with the old todger.’

A fumbling noise then Sir James urinates noisily against the stonework.

Wasp thinks the entire city must hear it. The splashing finished, he turns, stumbles and grabs her arm. She tries to pull away. His grip tightens.

‘You are breaking the rules, sir, and hurting my arm.’

‘My money makes the rules.’ His breath, sweet with Madeira, invades her nostrils. Eyes glint as if the sockets are filled with cold diamonds. All the buffoonery has gone. Wasp’s prior feelings of contentment sputter and die like a candle drowning in its own wax.

‘What a timid lily we have,’ he purrs. ‘See how she trembles, or perhaps the air is a little too cool on that lovely pale neck?’

His hand slips along Wasp’s arm and across her shoulder. She fights the impulse to lash out. Despite the cold evening, fingers of sweat slither down her face.

‘Just a touch,’ he whispers, voice bristling with traps. ‘I’ve paid your Abbess handsomely enough, filled your belly with fine food and taken you to the opera. An out-and-out tup with a decent class of whore would cost a fraction of that.’

His palm flattens out. With flinty confidence it moves to accommodate the contours of her body and lingers at her breast.

Wasp meets his unblinking gaze. Her voice is full of sawdust. ‘You are not allowed to handle me, sir.’

‘Ah, but who is handling whom? Do you seek to fleece a man’s pockets then tease him to distraction without consequence? That is neither business nor bargain. So I shall not move my hand. If you are able to hold that quivering body still for long enough then this business will be done and your precious rules will be none the wiser.’

‘I think, sir, that we should join the others.’

She tries to step out from behind the pillar. Sir James snatches her by the rear of her gown and pulls her back into the shadows. ‘I’ll squeeze the juices out of that ripe little arse.’

The night opens its belly and disgorges Kingfisher. He strides up, velvet coat flapping. ‘You don’t touch the ladies, sir.’ His voice is like surf rumbling over a rocky shoreline. ‘Against the rules, as well you know.’

‘Back away. I’ve paid for this tart and I’ll have her any way I please.’

‘That you won’t, sir, and I’d be pleased if you’d turn her over to me now.’

Sir James raises his cane. It quivers in the air between them. Kingfisher spreads his hands. Rings glint on every finger. ‘No need for that, sir. I shall be happy to leave you to your business once these ladies have taken their leave.’

‘Curse your black hide, you silk-tongued lackey. I’ve a hot spike in my breeches and it’s in want of a dipping.’

Richard appears, Hummingbird in his wake. ‘Father, we have better places to go and other things to do.’ He squeezes Sir James’s arm. The cane wavers a moment then lowers.

‘Yes, my boy, that we do. I daresay my business here is done, but I shan’t forget this, not by a league.’ He allows himself to be led away. Wasp expects some final insult, an over-the-cuff
whore
or
harlot
. But he walks off laughing, and somehow that’s worse.

Desperate or Damned?

Nightingale has no idea where she’s going or how long it’ll take to get there. She tried asking the coachman but all she got for her trouble were tight lips and a stony face. The carriage lurches along the lane like a sow in a mud bath and it makes her sick to her belly. It’s a fine enough box on wheels, though not so fancy it would get overly noticed. At a guess they’ve gone ten miles. Maybe a little more. Most of the milestones are covered in thick patches of bramble.

Voices outside. Sheep bleating. A bell clanging the hour. Nightingale presses her face to the window. A higgledy-piggledy market town. The carriage pulls to a stop. The driver’s boots are heavy on the ladder. Blessed fresh air rushes through the open door. She doesn’t have time to enjoy it. Stepping outside, pins and needles shoot up both legs and she nearly falls flat on her face. The coachman gestures with his whip.

‘The Stoke Inn is over there,’ he says. ‘I’ll be waiting when you come out.’

The whip is black and glistening in his gloved hand. Nightingale smells oiled leather. She nods. ‘I doubt this will take long.’

Ferguson is half an hour late. Nightingale’s so nervous her stomach wants to throw out her breakfast. The innkeeper has already set two cups of tea in front of her and twice she’s asked him the time. A clock stands beside the hearth but one hand is missing and the other bent. ‘Half past two,’ the innkeeper says, putting down the teapot. He’s frowning. Nightingale wonders what’s in his head. Maybe he thinks she’s a whore or a trickster. Enough of those plague the highways, she’s heard. Will he want coin? She doesn’t have any. She can’t even pay for the tea. If Ferguson won’t take care of it she might be branded a thief and see all her plans unravel.

The thought almost amuses her.
Brought to ruin over a dish of tea and some pastry. What would the Abbess say to that?

She’s doing her best. An insolent amount of powder and rouge was needed to hide the Emblems on her cheeks. The loan of a respectable dress and bonnet cost her a gilded necklace. Getting a message to Ferguson required a pair of earrings. At least he had been accommodating enough to send his coach for her.