Kevin Anderson - The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

“Ah.” Lord Basmond gawked at her. “Blind. And you would be their…”

“Procuress, my lord.”

“Yes.” Lord Basmond rubbed his hands together as he walked slowly round the ladies, who obligingly struck attitudes of refined invitation. “Yes, well. They’re not poxed, I hope?”

“If you was at all familiar with my establishment, sir, you would know how baseless any allegations of the sort must be,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Only look, my lord! Bloom of youth, pink of health, and not so much as a crablouse between the four of ’em.”

“We’d be happy to give his lordship a closer look at the goods,” said Dora, fingering her buttons suggestively. “What about a nice roll between the sheets before tea, dear, eh?” But Lord Basmond backed away from her.

“No! No thank you. Y-you must be fresh for my guests. Have they been told about the banquet?”

“Not yet, my lord,” said Pilkins, blotting sweat from his face with a handkerchief.

“Well, tell them! Get them into their costumes and rehearse them! The business must proceed perfectly, do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And where are my girls to lodge, your lordship?” Mrs. Corvey inquired. Lord Basmond, who had turned as though to depart, halted with an air of astonishment.

“Lodge? Er — I assume they will lie with the guests.”

“I ain’t, however,” said Mrs. Corvey. “And do require a decent place to sleep and wash, you know.”

“I suppose so,” said Lord Basmond. “Well then. Hem. We’ll just have a bed made up for you in… erm…” He turned his back on the ladies and gestured wildly at Pilkins, mouthing in silence The closet behind the stables , and pointed across the yard to be sure Pilkins got the point. “A nice little room below the coachman’s, quite cozy.”

“How very kind,” said Mrs. Corvey.

But the window looks out on the — mouthed Pilkins, with an alarmed gesture. Lord Basmond grimaced and, with his index finger, drew X s in the air before his eyes.

She won’t see anything, you idiot , he mouthed. Pilkins looked affronted, but subsided.

“Certainly, my lord. I’ll have Daisy see to it at once,” he replied.

“See that you do.” Lord Basmond turned and strode from the room.

They were grudgingly served tea in the pantry, and then ushered into another low dark room wherein were a great number of florist’s boxes and a neatly folded stack of bedsheets.

“Those are your costumes,” said Pilkins, with a sniff.

“Rather too modest, aren’t they?” remarked Lady Beatrice. “Or not modest enough. What are we intended to do with them?”

Pilkins studied the floor. “His lordship wishes you to fashion them into, er, togas. The entertainment planned is to resemble, as closely as possible, a — hem — bacchanal of the ancient Romans. And he wishes you to resemble, ah, nymphs dressed in togas.”

“But the toga was worn by men,” Lady Beatrice informed him. Pilkins looked up, panic-stricken, and gently Lady Beatrice pressed on: “I suspect that what his lordship requires is the chiton, as worn by the ancient hetaerae.”

“If you say so,” stammered Pilkins. “With laurel wreaths and all.”

“But the laurel wreath was rather worn by—”

“Bless your heart, dear, if his lordship wishes the girls to wear laurel wreaths on their heads, I’m sure they shall,” said Mrs. Corvey. “And what must they do, besides the obvious? Dance, or something?”

“In fact, they are to bear in the dessert,” said Pilkins, resorting to his handkerchief once more. “Rather a large and elaborate refreshment on a pallet between two poles. And if they could somehow contrive to dance whilst bringing it in, his lordship would prefer it.”

“We’ll do our best, ducks,” said Maude dubiously.

“And there are some finger cymbals in that red morocco case, and his lordship wishes that they might be played upon as you enter.”

“In addition to dancing and carrying in the dessert,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Perhaps you might practice,” said Pilkins. “It is now half past noon and the dinner will be served at eight o’clock precisely.”

“Never you fear,” said Mrs. Corvey. “My girls is nothing if not versatile.”

At that moment they heard the sound of a coach entering the courtyard. “The first of the guests,” exclaimed Pilkins, and bolted for the door, where he halted and called back “Sort out the costumes for yourselves, please,” before closing the door on them.

“Nice,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Jane, dear, just open the window for us?”

Jane turned and obliged, exerting herself somewhat to pull the swollen wood of the casement free. The light so admitted was not much improved, for the window was tiny and blocked by a great deal of ivy. “Shall I try to pull a few leaves?” Jane asked.

“Not necessary, dear.” Mrs. Corvey stepped close to the window and, removing her goggles, extended her optics through the cover of the vines.

“What do you see?”

“I expect this is the Russian,” said Mrs. Corvey. “At least, that’s a Russian crest on his coach. Prince Nakhimov, that was the name. Mother was Prussian; inherited businesses from her and invested, and it’s made him very rich indeed. Well! And there he is.”

“What’s he look like?” asked Maude.

“He’s quite large,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Has a beard. Well dressed. Footman, coachman, valet. There they go — he’s been let off at the front door, I expect. Well, and who’s this? Another carriage! Ah, now that must be the Turk. Ali Pasha.”

“Oh! Has he got a turban on?”

“No, dear, one of those red sugar-loaf hats. And a military uniform with a lot of ornament. Some sort of official that’s made a fortune in the Sultan’s service.”

“Has he got a carriage full of wives?”

“If he had, I should hardly think he’d bring them to a party of this sort. No, same as the other fellow: footman, driver, valet. And here’s the next one! This would be the Frenchman, now. Count de Mortain, the brief said; I expect that’s his coat-of-arms. Millionaire like the others, because his family did some favors for Bonaparte, but mostly the wealth’s in his land. A bit cash-poor. Wonder if Lord Basmond knows?

“And here’s the last one. Sir George Spiggott. No question he’s a millionaire; pots of money from mills in the north. Bad-tempered-looking man, I must say. Well, ladies, one for each of you; and I doubt you’ll get to choose.”

“I suppose Lord Basmond is a bit of a fairy prince after all,” said Maude.

“Might be, I suppose.” Mrs. Corvey turned away from the window. “Notwithstanding, if he does require your services in the customary way, any one of you, be sure to oblige and see if you can’t slip him something to make him talkative into the bargain.”

Having been left to fend for themselves, the ladies spent an hour or two devising chitons out of the bed sheets. Fortunately Jane had a sewing kit in her reticule, and found moreover a spool of ten yards of peacock blue grosgrain ribbon in the bottom of her trunk, so a certain amount of tailoring was possible. The florist’s boxes proved to contain laurel leaves indeed, but also maidenhair fern and pink rosebuds, and Lady Beatrice was therefore able to produce chaplets that better suited her sense of historical accuracy.

They were chatting pleasantly about the plot of Dickens’s latest literary effort when Mrs. Duncan opened the door and peered in at them.

“I don’t suppose one of you girls would consider doing a bit of honest work,” she said.

“Really, madam, how much more honest could our profession be?” said Lady Beatrice. “We dissemble about nothing.”