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“I like them already,” I say.

He smirks. “You would.”Advertisement

CHAPTER SIX

THE LAST TIME I SAW OUR HOUSE IN BELGRAVIA, IT WAS cloaked in the starkness of winter. As our carriage winds through Hyde Park, we are greeted by the glorious sight of budding trees standing as proud as the royal guard. Daffodils show off their new yellow bonnets. London smiles.

Not so our housekeeper, Mrs. Jones. She greets me at the door in her black dress and white pinafore, a white doily of a cap on her head, and such a severe expression that I consider putting a glass to her mouth to see if there is still breath issuing from it.

“How was your journey, miss?” she asks without enthusiasm.

“Very pleasant, thank you.”

“Very good, miss. I’ll have your case brought to your room, then?”

“Yes, thank you.”

We take such pains to be polite. We never say what we mean. For all it matters, we could greet each other and speak only of cheese—“How was your Limburger, miss?” “Salty as a ripe Stinking Bishop, thank you.” “Ah, very cheddar, miss. I’ll have your Stilton brought to your Camembert, then.”—and no one would likely notice.

“Your grandmother waits for you in the parlor, miss.”

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“Thank you.” I cannot help myself. “I’ll see myself into the Muenster.”

“As you wish, miss.”

And there we are, though it is a pity my wickedness has been wasted with no one to appreciate it but me.

“You’re late,” Grandmama announces the moment I open the doors to the parlor. I don’t know why she’s blaming me, as I was neither the driver nor the horse. She casts a disapproving eye over me from head to toe. “We’ve a tea to attend at Mrs. Sheridan’s. You’ll want to change, of course. And what has happened to your hair? Is this the fashion at Spence these days? It won’t do. Stand still.” Grandmama pulls my hair up so tightly that my eyes water. She sticks in three pins that nearly impale my skull. “Much improved. A lady must always be at her best.”

She rings a bell and our housekeeper arrives like a phantom. “Yes, mum?”

“Mrs. Jones, Miss Doyle shall need assistance in dressing. Her gray wool, I should think. And another pair of gloves that do not look as if they’re the charwoman’s,” she says, scowling at the smudges on my fingertips.

I’ve been home less than a minute, and already, I am under siege. I take in the dim parlor—the heavy burgundy velvet drapes, the dark green papered walls, the mahogany desk and bookcases, the Oriental rug, and the enormous fern in a heavy pot. “This room could do with a bit of light.” Hah. If it’s criticism she wants, two may play at that game.

Grandmama’s face furrows into worry. “It is a fashionable room, is it not? Do you say that it is not fashionable?”

“I didn’t say that. Only that it would be nice to let in the light.”

Grandmama eyes the drapes as if considering. But it is short-lived and she once again regards me as a village’s missing idiot. “The sun will only fade the settee. And now, if we have dispensed with matters of decorating, you would do well to dress. We leave at half past.”

A silent maid welcomes us to Mrs. Sheridan’s well-appointed library. The sight of so many books comforts me, which is more than I can say for the gray wool suit. It chafes and itches till I could scream. Mrs. Jones has laced me so tightly in my corset that if I dare take two sips of tea, one shall surely come out again. Five other girls have come with their mothers. I am horrified to find that I do not know any of them, though they seem to know each other. Even worse, not a one has been forced to wear drab wool. They look as fresh as spring, whilst I resemble the spinster aunt every girl dreads as chaperone. It is all I can do not to confide to the girl closest to me: “If I should die during tea—asphyxiated by my own corset—please do not let them bury me in such a hideous dress or I shall come back to haunt you.”

I’m under no illusions that this is simply tea; it is a marketplace, and we girls are the wares. While the mothers talk, we sip our tea silently, our smiles mirroring theirs as if we are players in a pantomime. I must remember to speak only when spoken to, to echo the sentiments of others. We work in concert to maintain the clear, pretty surface of this life, never daring to make a splash.

With each question, each glance, we are being measured in the exacting scales of their minds, teetering in the balance between their expectations and their disappointments. This one laughs too frequently. That one’s hair is coarse, her skin ruddy. That girl wears a dour expression; still another stirs her tea far too long, while one unfortunate girl daringly ventures that she finds the rain “romantic,” and is told quite firmly that the rain is good only for the roses and for bringing on rheumatism. No doubt her mother will scold her mercilessly in the carriage and blame the misdeed squarely on the governess. pqdm.com