never far from her face, in fact the complete opposite of any common held perception of a mistress of castigation.
But now there was little cheer on her countenance; she was huddled on one of the plush divans so beloved by men of the cloth by dint of its Cardinal-red colour, and sniffed dolefully as the tears ran down her face.
In the hush, Big Annie Drummond stepped forward; all this had happened on her watch and plump graceful fingers, more used to stroking chords from the nearby piano, waved in the air as she attempted to explain.
‘Whit happened, Mistress Brash, Isabel was cuddling up to Lily, and Lily was enjoying it, everybody likes a wee change now and again –’
Annie stopped when Francine let out a vicious hiss and up came the knife hand.
‘Put that away,’ said Jean calmly, ‘or I’ll stick it in your heart.’
She turned back to Annie not even waiting to see Francine slowly replace the knife in the sheath near the top of her white thigh, and, with a look invited continuation of a story already discerned.
But while Annie blethered on it would give Jean time to dwell upon events and find a solution.
And where the hell was Hannah Semple?
‘It’s been quiet as the grave mistress, and the devil finds work for idle hands, eh?’
Annie’s large genial face was creased with unaccustomed thought as she ploughed onwards.
‘Anyway, it’s cauld as buggery in that cellar and Francine came up to get a wee warm and find Lily.’
‘And what was Lily supposed to be doing?’ Jean asked.
‘She was to bring me down some hot chocolate!’ Francine proclaimed, shooting a malevolent glance at the snuffling figure on the divan.
It always intrigued Jean how the mundane inserted itself into moments of high drama; a betrayed love, flashing blade and now hot chocolate.
But does not love lend itself to betrayal?
Any kind of love.
Annie continued, puffing out her cheeks.
‘So Francine finds Lily in a wee room wi’ Isabel, chases the both in here, cuts the one and swears in French at the other.’
‘How would you know the imprecation?’
‘
Jean shook her head but inwardly she was cursing herself for this state of affairs; Hannah had warned her things were sliding but she had not paid enough heed, too concerned with her own pleasure.
Forgetting she was a whoremistress and whores do not cleave to pleasure. Supply and demand is their trade.
‘Is all this true, Lily?’ she questioned, moving her lips slowly so the girl could understand. She received an ashamed nod in answer.
All the magpies watched Jean as she closed her eyes in apparent thought, then she reached forward and twitched the cloth away from Isabel’s face.
She took out a fine linen handkerchief from her coat pocket, and with care, like a man of medicine, wiped at the cut.
Obviously the stiletto was a fine-quality blade, it had left a thin line clean as a whistle, from the back of the cheekbone, down past the front of the ear, to the jaw.
This had drawn blood, but it would heal quickly and Isabel’s thick hair would hide the slender scar till then.
‘You’ll live,’ she said to Isabel, then turned to Annie who was waiting with some trepidation for a heavy reprimand, but Jean could not blame the woman and where the hell was Hannah Semple?
However, it was not the moment for that question to be asked aloud because it might lead to justified accusations about neglect of duty.
‘You deserved this,’ she flung over her shoulder to Isabel, and then winked at Annie Drummond and threw her the bloody cloth. ‘Take this creature away, Annie, put on some ointment, patch her up and get her back here. She’s a working girl.’
‘But mistress!’ wailed the wounded woman. ‘Whit about my catastrophe?’
‘As I said. You deserved it,’ replied Jean crisply. ‘We’re headed for a busy night and who knows, one of the clients might prefer a treacherous scratched hizzie; now on your way, Isabel Tasker.’
There was some laughter as the grumbling Isabel was led out of the salon but a measure of tension remained.
Jean turned to the tightly strung Francine and carefully folded up the linen handkerchief, which was spotted with Isabel’s blood.
‘One of you other two will have to go,’ she pronounced. ‘And I am afraid that I have too much money invested in you, Francine, those whips have cost me a fortune.’
She walked past the stunned Frenchwoman and confronted the little figure on the divan.
Above Lily Baxter was Jean’s favourite painting in the Just Land, ‘The Woman with the Octopus’; she had personally hung that work on the wall of every bawdy-hoose she had ever owned; it was a depiction of a woman being dragged under to the depths by a big slimy sea monster, most of the clothes ripped off her and a horrible fate in store.
As well as gingering the clients, it normally and perversely cheered Jean up no end, but not apparently this evening as she gazed with regret at Lily.
Again she mouthed the words slowly.
‘Lily Baxter, you must leave this fine house. I will give you enough money to last a few weeks and after that, you are on your lonesome.’
A cry of anguish came in answer but not, of course, from Lily. It was Francine who rushed forward to clasp the other protectively to her leather bosom.
‘No, the fault is mine!’ she declared to the octopus above. ‘I have been evil in my nature because it is so cold in that bastard of a cellar.’
‘You have a stove,’ Jean pointed out. ‘In your side room.’
‘It lacks impetus,’ was the proud reply as Francine hugged Lily all the more tightly. ‘But I drive Lily from me because of my bad words and she has gone to have comfort in another place. It is all my fault.’
A tearful Lily had watched Francine’s lips and put up a single finger to touch upon them at the end of all this; whether in agreement or sharing the blame was not clear to Jean but she had, as anticipated when the threat was made, got exactly what she wanted.
Authority established, now follows clemency.
‘Get back to your hidey-hole the pair of you, before I change my mind and sell you on to the slavers.’
This flat statement sent Lily scrambling to the door though Francine had, as she followed, a touch more
As Lily shot down the stairs like a hare, Francine turned to survey the company of frail sisterhood. Any smiles were hastily hidden but then Jean Brash pinned her with a hard look.
‘This ends now Francine. No vengeance taken.’
The Frenchwoman nodded.
‘Isabel is not worth my candle,’ she responded.
That mixed message gave Jean an idea.
‘When he’s done with the horses, I’ll get Angus to bring you down a brazier and some coals. It will provide additional heat and, who knows, you may find other uses for it.’
Francine’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then she nodded and left.
Jean turned to her girls, on the lookout for any trace of rebellion or insolence, but they were all as good as gold.
A strangled noise from the hall as one of the Dumfries men blew his nose into a flannel hankie reminded her that these two outside were but forerunners of the stampeding herd.
‘Best get yourselves ready, ladies,’ she murmured. ‘A busy night, one market over, the other begins.’
There was some laughter, indeed the farmers were wont to prod and pressure as if sizing up a heifer but they were in the main a good-natured lot, generous with their money and, if you ignored the odd barnyard odour,
