The elopement, p.32
The Elopement, page 32
‘What she hasn’t said,’ put in Olive from her seat by the window, ‘is that some years before that, she wrote for The Examiner arguing for degrees for women in that very university!’
‘Who knows if that made a difference?’ said Miss Orme modestly. ‘It may have done.’
‘Of course it did!’ cried Olive, apparently forgetting her resolve to stay out of it. ‘And she received scholarships, Pansy, scholarships!’
Suddenly Pansy did feel a tingle at the thought of following in the footsteps of this grave, learned woman, at the thought of attending lectures and learning about the law. The law! The very fabric from which society was fashioned. That’s what I want to learn, she thought, feeling suddenly breathless. Not how to make a brim and a crown, but how to make laws and policies. But it was all too ambitious! And Pansy needed an income. She couldn’t just study for interest’s sake.
‘Olive said that women still can’t practise law.’ She turned back to Miss Orme. ‘What is your work?’
‘Oh, she’s right. The restrictions upon us are still intolerable – but we must tackle this with a two-pronged approach.’
‘Like a toasting fork!’ said Olive excitedly, abandoning her detached demeanour and leaning forward urgently.
‘Quite so,’ nodded Miss Orme, making a little skewering motion with her hand. ‘We must concentrate on making a way for ourselves where we can within the existing system and make time to work on changing that system. We cannot qualify as a barrister or a solicitor but I have been devilling for years now together with my colleague Miss Lawrence and—’
‘Devilling?’ asked Pansy.
‘It’s the term used for training and junior work in the legal profession. It means drafting legal documents for the most part. It is interesting work, Pansy, and I make a good living from it.’
So you could make a living with a law degree, thought Pansy, feeling as though her eyes had been opened. Whoever thought of such a job for women? Yet here was the living proof. And she wasn’t the only one because her colleague was a woman too.
‘And do tell Pansy about your friend in India, Miss Orme,’ said Olive. ‘I want her to understand that there are other ways she might use such an education.’
‘Ah, yes. I told Miss Westallen about a friend of mine, Cornelia Sorabji, who was the first woman to study law at Oxford. She’s Indian, so she had even more to contend with than I and I had plenty, you may believe. Cornelia lives in India now where she too cannot practise law. But she undertakes advisory work for women who do not have a voice at all within their society and helps them in all manner of ways.’
‘Advisory work,’ murmured Pansy. Her head was spinning. She remembered when her mother had first charged her with finding something better to do than cleaning for the Blythes. All she could think of then was shop work or hats! Now she was sitting in a legal office with two women who were mighty presences. They genuinely believed that anything was possible and weren’t especially willing to wait for the world to catch up. Like a snake shedding her skin, Pansy was eager for transformation, to do something big. Suddenly she had a million questions for Miss Orme, instead of just one.
Fifty-five
Rowena
Life is changing unfairly fast – too fast for me to keep up with it. For three-and-twenty years I was a cosseted society darling with no idea that that might ever change. Then, in the space of less than two months, I fell in love, was abandoned on a towpath, have been attacked, propositioned, disinherited and rescued. I am estranged from my best friend but friends with my former rival. As if all that is not enough, I am a working woman and I am to become a mother. Oh yes, and then there’s John . . . whom I miss more every day. Why should that be? It is not as if I have nothing to distract me. My poor pretty head is awhirl and not, any more, with slippers and trimmings.
I step out of the office at the end of my third day at work. Olive was unperturbed by the news of my pregnancy. ‘We knew it was likely, did we not?’ she said, as John had said on Sunday. ‘Carry on as we discussed for now and when the baby comes, we shall reassess. You’re a boon to the foundation, Rowena. Even if we can only have you one or two days each week, then that is what we shall do.’ I cried a little in relief and gratitude and she gave me a cheery pat on the shoulder.
June is at its best and brightest and the streets are busy around me but the rushing crowds are nothing compared with my teeming mind. My job is wonderful! I have a desk in the corner of the foundation’s large office where I must keep meticulous records of the students who come to me: of whom I see on which days, what I teach them, which interviews they attend, what money or clothing they receive to help them make a good impression. I, who was never an avid student, enjoy the feeling of studiousness as I scratch away at my ledger. I keep it as neatly as I can – Verity would laugh; she used to call my handwritten notes spider scrawl and it’s true that I dashed them off with little care. The pen and I were not well acquainted! But I must present my notes to Mabs at the end of each month and after that Mr Gladstone will see them, so I take a pride.
I’m astonished that I enjoy the administrative work, but my favourite part of the job by far is helping the girls. Already I have met nine who wish to go into service. I’ve talked to them at length about what they can expect if they succeed, and have given them every bit of advice I can think of to do so. Only one of them, Maria, seems uninspired but Olive says she is a particularly sad case; Olive says her mother and father are people one would never wish to meet. Maria is a thin and wan creature, with huge, staring eyes and nothing to say. I felt like a failure at first that I could not kindle a little enthusiasm in her but Olive says it will take time with someone like that. ‘We can do something about poverty and lack of opportunity, but we can do nothing about someone’s home environment, their families and past experiences,’ she said, quite rightly.
The other girls are all more or less promising; two or three are gratifyingly excited to think that they might reach such exalted heights as lady’s maid one day. Imagine, a position that I used to consider beneath my notice is a high aspiration for some. I wish for my charges a more respectful mistress than I was. On Friday, I shall see all nine together and give them a practical lesson in dressing hair. I was always on the receiving end of such attentions, but idly watching someone in a mirror every day of my life does mean that I’ve picked up a few things. I shall be instructress and also model; they will practise on my own plentiful tresses. It’s liable to be painful – with a hot flush of shame I remember dismissing an inexperienced maid who once attempted a chignon for me because she tugged my hair – but I don’t mind if it helps them.
I stand in the doorway, letting the experiences of the day settle for a moment. Margie White, one of my students, comes barrelling out and bumps into me. ‘Oof, sorry, miss.’ She gasps and ducks when my arm shoots out to steady her. The poor girl actually thought I might hit her.
‘Please don’t worry, Margie. It’s my fault for standing just where people want to come in and out.’
‘Thank you, miss,’ she says, looking relieved. ‘Miss, can I say something?’
‘Of course!’
‘Thank you. For talkin’ to me. Makin’ me feel like I can do it. I never ’ad that before.’
‘Oh Margie, I’m so pleased you find it useful. Are you coming on Friday?’
‘Oh yes, miss. I’m that excited about it.’ Then her face falls. ‘Unless me ma says I ’ave to stay ’ome. Sometimes she takes in extra laundry on a Friday. The rich folks, they want it clean for the weekends. Sometimes she won’t let me out because she needs the help.’
‘Don’t worry. If you miss it, I’ll give you the same lesson another day. Any day you like.’
‘Really, miss? That’s proper kind. That’s a relief, that is. So long, miss!’
‘So long, Margie.’ I stand and watch her go. She cuts a dreadful figure, with her overlarge dress sagging and stained. A hand-me-down from her older sister apparently. She has no bonnet and her hair is a stack of mousey strands escaping from an inadequate pair of pins. Her gait is graceless. As she is, she will make a terrible impression on any housekeeper who might interview her. I understand now why Mabs wanted my help. Until I met Margie and Maria and the rest, I still thought perhaps she was humouring me. When Margie’s time comes, I’ll have her spick and span so that any family would count themselves lucky to employ her.
I set off walking, enjoying the summer sun and full of plans. I have so much before me. My own tiny boy or girl. Work that I can love – a means of supporting myself, even if only partially. I have my brothers, good friends and choices. No, my life will never be extravagant again. I shall struggle often, especially when the baby comes. But I am still so very blessed. Meeting Margie and the rest has taught me that. And my life is my own. All mine! I can choose who and what I have in it and who can go to the gallows (Verity Crawford!). I can choose where I live, how I work, how to bring up my child . . . I feel my chest swell with the joy and pride of it. As I ponder these questions, wherever my thoughts wander, one face keeps bobbing in my mind: John.
John is unquestionably someone I want to keep in my life. So are Olive, Hetty and Mabs . . . even Pansy . . . but John is different. I want my child to have a father, to know what it is to be dangled by strong hands or carried aloft on broad shoulders – clearly my own childhood is not the model for this daydream. And John is the person I imagine when I see that picture in my mind’s eye. And it is not just for my child. I too wish to have him always nearby. Memories rush upon me repeatedly – my brain trying to make sense of all the changes no doubt: John standing tall and silent in Garrowgate Hall, immaculate and proud in his livery. John taking me in without a moment’s hesitation when Pansy took me to him that terrible day. The strength and gentleness in his eyes when he said, We’ll take care of you . . . You’re safe now. John sitting near me in the courtyard, while butterflies danced. John dropping to one knee on the heath, offering me a small diamond and his stout heart.
With every new experience I have had at work these last days, I have longed to tell John. I’ve stored up every detail to share with him and a light dances in my heart because of it. I told him I needed to wait to be sure that my feelings for him were true. I thought it would take a little longer than this! But I needn’t wait any longer. If this is not love – this thorough admiration, the joy I take in his conversation and presence, this eternal turning to him that my mind makes, this devotion I feel – then what is? I cannot wait any longer!
I shall hail a cab. After all, I am earning a little money now! I am filled with wild excitement. But no.
I hesitate. A flood of feeling has led me wrong before. I do not want to go to John on an impulse. If I mistake myself again, it is John who would lose out this time, not me, and I would never, ever want to hurt him. I force myself to walk instead in the direction of home. I must wait. I must wait.
But oh, I am sure! I have never been surer of anything. From the very first, from even before that, he has been my truest friend. And it is not only friendship that I feel, it is a feeling akin to the glow of sunshine. It has been brimming awhile on the horizon, though I did not notice it at first. Now, it has burst into full daylight. What is the point of learning to trust myself if I do not do so on this most important and precious matter? This debate takes me halfway home before I pass a stand of cabs, stop and climb into one.
I direct the driver to Chelsea. I do not know the exact address but I know it overlooks the embankment and I know the name of his employers: Prentiss. When we arrive, the rushing river is pewter-blue and choppy from all the pleasure boats and cargo boats sailing up and down.
I leap from the cab and the very first person I ask is acquainted with Mr Prentiss. He directs me to a tall red-brick townhouse with a black door not far away. I’m flummoxed that there is no door knocker – am I meant to pound the door with my fists? Then I observe a small sign that reads Please Ring above a brass rosette. In the centre of the rosette is a white button. An electric doorbell – how very modern! Father would have forty fits before he’d have such a thing at Garrowgate Hall.
Nervously I press the button and startle nearly out of my skin when a loud brrrriing! sounds within. As soon as I have done it, I slap my hand over my mouth. I should have gone to the servants’ entrance! What a dreadful faux-pas. But where is the servants’ entrance in a townhouse? I cannot see one for only the front face of the house is accessible, joined as it is to its neighbours. What if John gets into trouble because of me? Again? Appalled at the thought, I turn to run but the door behind me opens. And of course, it is John.
‘Rowena!’ His eyes open wide. He glances behind him then steps outside. ‘Are you all right? Is anything wrong?’
‘No, no, I’m quite all right. I’m sorry to come to you at work. Only I wanted to tell you . . . well . . .’ I falter. I must either be far more abrupt than I’d hoped or sound very mysterious. I opt for the former. ‘John, I have come to tell you that I love you and if your offer of marriage still stands, I wish nothing more than to say yes.’
He laughs in sheer disbelief. ‘Truly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Already?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you couldn’t wait until Sunday to tell me?’ he teases, his face breaking into smile after smile. Now he hangs on to the door handle as if his life depends upon it.
‘No, I couldn’t. It came over me, John, in the middle of the street. All doubt washed away, only clarity in its place. And clarity made it . . . urgent. I’m sorry, I should have waited. I should have gone to the servants’ entrance. Only, where is it, John? I can’t see one!’
‘It’s there.’ He points down to a basement surrounded by black railings. I see now a tiny gate and narrow steps descending beneath the street. ‘And no, you shouldn’t have waited. Clarity is good. Urgency is good. Only, Rowena, dinner guests will arrive any minute, and I’ve no time to talk.’
‘I’ll go. I just wanted you to know.’
He catches my hand. ‘Thank you, Rowena. You’ve made me the happiest man alive.’ I can see it; it’s dancing in his blue eyes. ‘Until Sunday then.’
I nod happily, tears of joy blurring his face before me. I turn to go but he tugs my hand, pulling me back. ‘Wait, you forgot something.’ He reaches his free hand inside his handsome burgundy coat (his uniform was black and white at Garrowgate Hall) and withdraws a tiny box that I have seen before.
‘You carry it with you?’
‘Next to my heart. Always in hope.’ He snaps it open and takes out the beautiful ring. He places it on my finger and, with another swift backward glance, softly kisses my cheek.
I cannot help myself. I stretch out my hand and turn it this way and that to catch the light. The dainty ring looks well on my slender finger. I beam up at him before turning and hurrying down the steps, a betrothed woman.
Fifty-six
Pansy
‘You’re quiet today, Pansy,’ observed Hipólito, as Steed jogged along the road to Elstree.
Pansy turned to smile at him, the June sunlight warm upon her face, even at this early hour. Birdsong tumbled through the air and she felt utterly relaxed, for the first time in a long while. ‘I’m enjoying the ride. It’s so long since I’ve been home and it’s such a lovely day.’
He nodded. ‘Last time you were riding beside me, it was dark and cold.’
‘I’ve missed it. The rides with you, seeing Mum. I’ve missed Elstree.’ It was, Pansy reflected, new experiences and new people that had carried her through the last few months, compensating for the drudgery of working at Garrowgate Hall and accepting that John would never be hers. Novelty, and a sense of new horizons opening up, had soothed and stirred her spirit. But a person needed familiarity too: family, and the places where things went on just as they always had. Home.
Pansy had slept poorly after meeting Miss Orme. Everything she’d learned had swirled around in her head through the night and kept her simmering with possibility. She’d woken for the sixth or seventh time when Lou and Maisie did, and sat up with a groan, wondering what to do with her Thursday. Only then did it strike her that she could go home. She’d already written to Mr Endicott thanking him for his tutelage and explaining that millinery wasn’t for her. She would go and see him in person too, but it didn’t have to be today. She was awake early and hadn’t seen her mother for aeons, so she got dressed with the others, slipped out early and waited under a fading sky until she saw Mr Ollander moving about inside the store. What luxury to have a whole day just for pleasure.
‘I’ll come back to pick you up this evening,’ Hipólito said when he left her at the end of the lane. ‘Mr Ollander has a big delivery coming for Mrs Blythe’s ball. I’ll have a long day in the storeroom and I’ll be ready to get out again by then.’
‘Thanks, Hipólito. You can come in and have a slice of Mum’s fruitcake, she’d love to see you.’ Hipólito could never resist her mother’s fruitcake. Pansy waved as he drove away then ran all the way to the cottage, her tiredness forgotten.
She barrelled through the door, calling, ‘Mums! Mums! It’s me!’ and Laura came into the flagged hall, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Pansy? Good grief, how wonderful to see you! Oh my darling, come here!’ Pansy flew into her arms and they hugged tightly, laughing and jigging up and down with excitement. ‘You’re here for the day? The whole day?’
‘Yes! And Mrs Clarendon said that after the ball I can have an extra day off because of all the work I’ve been doing, so I’ll come again then and stay the night!’
