The Girl who was a Gentleman (Victorian Romance, History)

by Anna Jane Greenville

  'Did he think that... you and I?' he did not even bat an eye posing that question.

  My heart began hammering against my ribcage as if it wanted to jump out of my chest and chase after Redford to kill him. This time it was me who remained silent long enough for an answer not to be required any more.

  'This was why I said you should not come here quite so often,' mumbled Hanson angrily.

  'I am sorry... I did not want you to...'

  'Me? Who cares about me? I am a man, Jo, no one will be too bothered that I spend time alone with a woman. It is the woman they will tear apart.'

  'No one knows I am a woman... or, not that many people.'

  'What if they find out? Haven't you considered that?'

  'I have and if I am found out then, believe me, the time I have spent with you alone will be the least of my problems.'

  'What will you do?'

  'Emigrate to Australia.'

  'This is no laughing matter.'

  'Well, in that case, the answer is really quite simple, I won't let anyone find out. And, the fact that you say it as though you have no doubt that I will fail eventually shows, that you have no faith in me, which seems rather strange, considering how you constantly claim that I should put my faith in you,' although I sounded self-assured I wasn't at all. Maybe it was time, that I started having faith in myself. I had gone on long enough without being discovered (today excepted) and I would mange to remain undiscovered for the few months left. 'I am as worthy, as brave and as strong as any man and it is time that people acknowledge it. Not a single one of the other students would have challenged Redford like I did.'

  'Are you suggesting that you can only be worthy of whatever ideal you are referring to by waving your fists in the air?'

  'It is what the other boys do and it is what they are respected for. It is what you teach in fencing.'

  'Well, then I really must say, I am utterly unworthy and I most certainly do not teach that in fencing.'

  'But you are respected.'

  'Yes, but not for fighting. Have you even ever seen me fence? Jo, I am the world's worst fencer. I know the techniques well enough to fool people into believing I am a prime swordsman, but I really am not. Why do you think I never fenced with Redford? He would destroy me and then he would have no one to look up to. As it is, he thinks he needs to improve to be able to stand up to me, it is why he has long surpassed me. Back when I was a schoolboy, I was the biggest coward of all. My father sent me to school when I was four – he could not wait to be rid of me. It was at a school much worse than Kenwood. We had revolutions every other week. The boys set fires to the buildings, there were massive street fights – not one on one – but ten against twenty. Do you think I would be standing in front of you now if I had been on the front line? Never. I generally attempted to maintain a low profile so no one noticed that I hid or ran away. And while all the other boys had had their bones broken, I came out unscathed. It is something I am very proud of because I used my health and brain to study. The fact that I am an expert in certain fields is what makes people respect me today, and it is also what makes me respect myself – the latter being much more important. It is also what I teach in fencing. Authority arises from your own confidence in your skills.'

  It was a shocking revelation, because it was devastatingly true. I had assumed that Hanson was excellent in every respect but the truth of it was that he skilfully emphasised his strengths and understated his weaknesses. This was the answer I had been craving. This was what I had to do. My constant efforts to prove that I was a man was the exact thing that raised doubt. When Chester claimed that I was a girl I should not have tried to punch him but rather shrugged it off – then he would have been the fool.

  'I am stupid,' I mumbled absent-mindedly.

  'Yes you are, I have been trying to tell you all along, but you never listen.'

  I looked up at Hanson with my bruised cheek and hurt pride. He was confident, and wise, and there was something in his countenance that made you want to be on his good side – not in a threatening way but in a warm one. I wanted to be like him but to achieve that I had to learn to be content with being myself.

  Chapter 26

  AMBITION AND ANXIETY

  With Redford staying true to his word and leaving Kenwood for good, spring finally came after a long and harsh winter. The first flowers of the year broke through the crusted soil, and soon the whole school was surrounded by purple, white, and yellow crocuses, the caretaker was more often outside now, tending to the flowers, rather than prying on the students. The mornings were made merrier by the chirping of bird, the days became longer, the sun climbed higher with every new noon, the air became sweeter.

  My fellow class mates were hardly affected by nature's preparations for the warm months. Everyone, including me, was focused on what was lying ahead. Our schooldays were coming to an end.

  The class was divided into two groups. There were the lucky ones who would go to university. They still had three to five years of ease ahead of them. The rest were looking at an abrupt change. Childhood would soon be replaced by responsibilities. All the things we thought mattered would cease to occupy our minds, for much greater worries were approaching. Worries which I, for one, vehemently tried to push away, yet failed. I had hoped they would solve themselves while I read my books and wrote my papers. But no such thing was the case. No miracles had happened at Oliver Kenwood. Yes, I had gotten an education which forged me into a more sophisticated and knowledgable person. But all that knowledge did not help me in finding a path that would lead me away from the troubles of life.

  Even the sunniest day could be spoilt by clouds. During Mr Ferring's French period I watched the rain hit like impatient fingers against the glass window. I could not see the church's clock tower through the high density of drops. Although I was usually an intent listener, today, Mr Ferring's voice was as monotonous as the weather.

  I was not the only one preoccupied by thoughts unrelated to French lessons. Two boys in the back rows were spitting little snippets of paper at each other and muffling their laughs with their fists. Most boys stared absent-mindedly at the scribblings on the black board. My neighbour carved something into his desk with a sharp stick. When he caught me looking, he nodded, and I nodded back. I had followed Hanson's advice, and stopped to constantly try and prove myself. Though it had not resulted in any notable friendships, I had become a part of the cohort.

  Even if he noticed that no one was listening, Mr Ferring said nothing. The melancholy of his students affected him. For teachers it must be strange too. Letting the boys they had gotten used to go, only to watch a new group arrive. When French period ended, he gave us an exceptionally long reading assignment – a silent protest, I presumed.

  Hanson was less benevolent. He send five students out of the room criticising their lack of participation. I did not pay any more attention to him than I did to Mr Ferring, but I did sit straighter in my chair. And when he called me to answer a question, I hastily looked at the black board, and tried to think of something that might be relevant to the information I found there.

  'The blood type 0 can be a donor to all the other blood types but can only receive from a blood type 0 donor, itself,' I said self-assuredly and with a straight face.

  'That is correct,' he noted, 'but I asked why you were still here.'

  I looked behind me and found the room empty. A blush warmed my cheeks and I collected my ink and paper as fast as humanly possible and hastened outside. Hanson tried to shake his head disapprovingly, but he was too amused to frown.

  I ran across the green and through the pouring rain. The mud squished under my soles and splashed onto the blue trousers. The entrance to the halls of residence was covered in dirty foot prints. The short run had left me entirely wet and cold. A strong draft came from the main door. Hardly any light entered through the tall windows for the sky was dark. The hallway was made even darker by the heavy water which ran down the glass, and made the outside worl
d a mass of muted colours and undistinguishable shapes. My hot breath left perspiration on the window, and I became aware of how close I had come to it. The scarce oil lamps in the hall provided enough light for my reflection to become visible in the murky glass. I had not looked closely at myself in a long time. Whenever there was a mirror within my reach I had either no time to waste, or there were other boys around. Turning from side to side to inspect myself from every angle would have been a very feminine thing to do. I avoided it, even though the urge to do so was strong. If only to make sure I did not look too feminine.

  My hair had grown long. A lose, wet strand pointed in my face and nearly reached my chin. I had to cut it, but somehow I did not want to. I wondered what Hanson thought of my hair. Did he think it would look better if it were long? Would he like it braided or curled? No, he did not think of it at all. Why would he? What a silly thing to consider. The more I pushed such silly thoughts away the more they haunted me. Worst of all, I caught myself enjoying them just as much as I hated them.

  It was a dangerous game that burned a great deal of strength from my bones. My face was so much thinner than when I had lived with my sisters. The uniform lay even looser on my shoulders than on the day of my arrival. Was this the life I had hoped for when I had come to London? So far everything had been much more difficult. My days alternated between worries and problems. Moreover, I could see no silver lining. And yet, I would not want to go back to my former life. Ever since I had dressed as a man, every single one of my actions began carrying more weight and meaning. There was much more at stake, but also much more to gain. As a man, I felt, I the right to rise above the girl I was born as.

  Next to my face in the reflection suddenly appeared a real man's face. I whirled around. Hanson was as surprised by my reaction as I was to see him in the halls of residence.

  'Sorry,' I hastened to say so he would not feel unwelcome.

  He gave me a warm smile and I could not help but return it. It was as though the lamps became brighter, and the hallway seemed less cold. I had to stop myself before I looked like a love-struck fool, but somehow I did not know how.

  Hanson handed me a thin envelope which I took gladly and inspected enthusiastically, if only to validate a reason to look away from his green eyes.

  'It came yesterday evening, but I forgot to pass it on to you,' he said apologetically, 'I hope it is nothing very urgent.'

  'Is anything troubling you?' I could not help looking up from the envelope and observing the tension, that occupied his features despite the effort he made to look agreeable and at ease. Hanson was not a negligent person. If he became forgetful it could only mean he was overwhelmed by dwellings.

  He laughed and admitted that nothing ever escaped me.

  'You look like you might have one or two worries of your own,' he sighed. 'Would you be willing to share yours, if I shared mine?'

  'I would like that very much.'

  The prospect filled my heart with joy, in fact.

  'Let us have tea at my office, then. The weather hardly permits to do any serious work, anyway, with the rain hammering so annoyingly against the windows. One feels inclined to have a headache from it.'

  Across the green, which had turned to a perfect lake of mud, we ran back to the Academic Building. It occurred to me that if Hanson had given me the letter after his lesson, both of us could have remained dry. Our efforts to reach the other building quickly were of little use, as the rain – I would not have thought it possible – intensified, hence we were soaked to the bone as soon as we stepped out of the halls. The large umbrella Hanson carried was torn to shreds by the winds almost immediately. Of course, the adventure would not have been complete if I had not slipped and fallen to the ground only to swallow some mud in the process. Surely, Hanson would have helped me up gallantly if he had not had been too busy bending over from laughter. So strong was his amusement that I simply must throw some mud at him, and while I aimed at his body, it was the the wind that lifted the brown mass up to hit him square across the face. The bewilderment in his expression was hilarious. He shouted something, which the weather literally drowned, that must have been a declaration of war, as brown balls of soaked soil started flying at my head. I was not going to surrender easily, and dug my hands into the ground and shovelled it at Hanson.

  By the time we reached Hanson's office we were two frightening creatures from a gory tale. The mud ran down the ends of our arms and legs like lava from an erupting volcano. Collectively, we left a dirt trail that would make the caretaker cry tears of despair when he discovered it.

  While Hanson tried to remove the key from his pocket to open the door to his office – a task not easily accomplished with the key slipping from his hands – I became self-conscious. There were two formless clods that had once been my shoes, a thick layer of mud was on my face and running down my neck. I glanced at Hanson. His face was completely greenish brown except for the circles he had cleaned around his eyes and mouth. There was a leaf sticking out from behind his ear. If he looked this bad, then I could only guess at the extent of horror which awaited me in the mirror. Because Hanson's arms were longer and stronger he had thrown twice as much dirt at me than I at him. Regrettably.

  As a matter of reflex, I felt my hair, and found not only a leaf, but a whole branch. Quickly, I removed it, although it hardly improved my countenance.

  'You look marvellous, Miss Ryde,' he commented cheekily, 'If only there was another one of Miss Abigail's famous balls tonight.'

  'We positively must call on her to make arrangements,' I proposed, and almost wished we would do it. This very instant we were a perfect couple, and suddenly I was proud to be dirty. 'All eyes shall be on us my fair Dr Hanson.'

  'Indeed, they shall, my dear, indeed they shall.'

  With a turn of the reluctant key in the lock, the door swung open. Hanson straightened his posture and offered his arm to me, as though it was not his office we were about to enter, but the splendid halls of Versailles. I could feel the stir about me, the envious eyes, and the music. My fingers slid around the soft fabric of his soaking wet coat. They did not rest there long for Hanson took my hand into his and led the way through the crowds into an open space. He lifted my arms and we began dancing a Waltz to the music of the most formidable orchestra.

  This was the moment to gaze longingly into his eyes, instead however, I stumbled over his foot and bumped my knee into his. A Waltz was not the most complicated of dances, and I knew all the steps. The male steps. Growing up with two sisters on a small island there were not many suitable men they could employ to exercise their ball room obsessions on. They had to make do with what was at hand. Hence I could not remember how to be led rather than lead. Hanson made no attempt to hide his mocking grin.

  'Sisters,' I said as a way of apology.

  'Ah, yes, they ruin a decent person's life, do they not? Though, I am sure you are not the only one to have suffered such a fate!'

  'Indeed, they do,' returned I a little too passionately. This could have been a wonderfully romantic moment and I made Elizabeth and Eleanor personally responsible for ruining it.

  'There is little one can do, I suppose,” he said, but he did not stop trying. We left dirty and badly coordinated foot prints all over the floor. If it were up to me I would have let go of his hand because this whole affair was mutually embarrassing, but Hanson held on firmly. And suddenly, he changed his pace, and we were dancing gracefully about the beautifully decorated ball room to the exquisite music of an orchestra that only just now grew in splendour. I looked at him with surprise. It took a moment before I realised that Hanson had stopped leading and was now following my lead.

  'Better?'

  I blushed in reply.

  The question had been voiced with humour, yet I failed to answer with a pleasant laugh or at least a timid smile. It was when I enjoyed myself the most that being with him was the hardest. Perhaps the glumness of my thoughts showed on my face, or perhaps it was something else that unse
ttled him but the result was the same. We slowed. We stopped.

  'Your hands are cold, I had better light a fire,' he said with an urgency as though the decrease of temperature in my hands could lead to sudden death. When he let go to tend to the fire, all the other couples in the room stared disapprovingly. Not for long, though, they soon disappeared, along with the orchestra, the music, and the splendid ball room decorations, until we were surrounded by the familiar book shelves, desk, and sofa.

  The room was dark and chilly. I was indeed freezing through the wet school uniform. But my hands were warm where Hanson had touched them. So how did he know I was cold everywhere else?

  A discomforting silence settled as he poked the old ashes in the fire place while a new flame began to grow slowly.

  'We have a deal, Miss Ryde.'

  Why did he suddenly call me 'Miss Ryde'? I thought, I was 'Jo' to him when we were alone.

  'Your worries for mine.'

  The orange glow guided the warmth towards my cheeks. The flames ate up the wood, and slowly turned it white. The crackling had a soothing effect. My worries were not as clear as they had been this morning.

  'Could you not start?' I asked. 'I am afraid I might not make sense at the moment.'

  'If you so wish,' he raised his palms to the flame to receive it's warmth. I watched his profile. A frown – nowhere near as deep as his father's – formed on his forehead that led to an almost straight nose. Just before opening his mouth to speak he pursed his lips displaying the full extent of the strain that tortured him.

  'Wait,' it occurred to me that whatever he had to say would make my troubles seem pitiful and small. If I did not voice them now, I never would. 'Let me begin, after all.'

  He nodded with a patience that told me he would listen for as long as I required his hearing. There was only one other person who had made me feel as though I could say anything: the old man, how strange to find one of his precious qualities in Hanson.