She turned at last into her room and pulled out the brochures and read them carefully. Each place sounded like paradise: ‘cheap land’, ‘temperate climate’, ‘all welcome’, ‘assisted passage’.
On the table there was a quill pen, some ink and sheets of paper, a seal, and a wax taper. She sat beside these and thought of what John Bowker had said, how he would walk to London with the letters. And then she began to write.
To the Agent for the Canada Company:
Dear Sir,
My name is John Bowker. I wish to present myself for your consideration as an assisted immigrant to your beautiful country. I am a fit, hard-working labourer of twenty years and am free to travel at any time. Please advise me if my journey is possible.
I remain, Sir
Yours faithfully
She stared again at the Canadian brochure. All that space and freedom to begin a new life. Just for a moment she closed her eyes and saw herself and her sister, sitting on a Canadian mountain. Then she pulled herself together, drew another blank page towards her and wrote:
To the Agent for the New Zealand Company:
Dear Sir,
My name is John Bowker …
When she had finished the letters for John Bowker who wanted to have a new life, she picked up the book her father had sent her, flicking from page to page.
… the highest aim of this writer does not extend beyond the act of warning the women of England back to their domestic duties, in order that they may become better wives, more useful daughters, and mothers, who by their example shall bequeath a rich inheritance to those who follow in their steps … in her intercourse with man, it is impossible but that woman should feel her own inferiority; and it is right that it should be so. She does not meet him upon equal terms. Her part is to make sacrifices in order that his enjoyment may be enhanced.
Then for a long time she sat quite still. Afterwards with a supreme effort she picked up her pen and dipped it once more into the ink.
My dearest Mary,
If I tell you I have been writing letters all evening you will wonder if my circle of friends has become somewhat enlarged. (Yes, I have written to Aunt Julia, TWICE!) But I have been doing a good deed for one of the workmen here who cannot write and who wishes to travel to a different country and start a new life. Cousin John hit this man for speaking to me in the summerhouse.
But dearest Mary, imagine! Imagine if we were free to just decide to travel like that, to the other end of the world. The climates they say are temperate and a new life is to be had for everyone. How we would laugh as the ship pulled away, to Canada say, with you and me on board. We will find gold. We will take Quintus, of course. (You will see I have got quite carried away by my charitable labours.)
It occurs to me as I write that the serving maid here (who tonight spilt soup on Cousin John’s trousers while Aunt Lucretia was having hysterics), or indeed any of our maids at Bryanston Square, could go to any of the new countries. They would know what to do, they would obtain work, they would make their own living. But what should we do, you and I, who are only trained as ‘help-meets’? Father sent me ‘The Women of England: Their Social Duties & Domestic Habits’: I knew in my heart that he would never let me be a governess, or do anything at all.
I have now met Alice’s intended. He was here last night for a small musical evening. He is exactly as you would expect – but quite handsome and Alice is almost beside herself with joy and expectation. Alice sang ‘Then You’ll Remember Me’ and then the intended (Mr Alfred Miller) sang ‘Home Sweet Home’. Uncle William asked me to play the piano so I gave a feeling rendering of ‘The Loreley Waltz’ by Johann Strauss that everybody is whistling, and Uncle William wiped away a tear, a satisfactory evening all round as you can see.
And lastly but most importantly, tomorrow is your thirtieth birthday and I am not there to celebrate with you. The cholera seems very far away. I pray for you, my dearest sister, that you shall be happy and healthy for thirty years more, and that we may not be parted much longer.
Your loving sister
Harriet
PS And yesterday I learned something more from Asobel (who is of course the source of all my knowledge here!). Aunt Lucretia has a friend who is employed by the Royal household. In what capacity I do not know, a wardrobe mistress perhaps to the Queen from what Asobel spoke of. But she writes regularly to Aunt Lucretia about how things are done at Windsor and the like and of course that would explain the floral wallpaper and the wax fruit, which delights have not yet come to Bryanston Square in such profusion. And the very long tablecloths!
FOUR
In London, on the day of her thirtieth birthday, Mary Cooper asked to speak to her father’s lawyer, Mr Frith. He was coming out of her father’s study where he sometimes went over papers even though her father was at the Palace of Westminster.
She offered him tea in the drawing room; he placed his top hat in the hall.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Frith, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Cooper,’ and he leaned back in the chair by the fire, his eyes watching Mary carefully, how she limped as she poured from the teapot into the china cups and brought the cup to his side, how ugly the limp made her, an old maid to her bones. Her father said that she spent her life reading books. How very much he disliked women who didn’t fit in to the scheme of things.
‘Mr Frith,’ she said, without any preamble but with her warm smile, ‘I am thirty years old. I know my mother wanted to make provision for me because of my disability. She wished part of her own inheritance to come to me, if I was unmarried, when I was thirty.’
Mr Frith smiled also. ‘My dear Miss Cooper.’ And then he sipped his tea for some moments before he went on and the summer fire spat in the grate. ‘My dear Miss Cooper. Your father, as you know, became of course the arbiter of all your mother’s money when they married and her money belongs to him. You have your dress allowance, and your pin money for your no doubt worthy charitable activities. Whatever else, if I may be so bold as to ask, would be the needs of a young lady like yourself, who has all her happiness provided by her father?’ He sipped his tea again, still watching her carefully.
‘I believe my mother thought it important for women who did not marry to have money of their own. It was my mother’s wish, Mr Frith.’
Mr Frith smiled again. ‘My dear Miss Cooper. Much water has passed under the proverbial bridge since the very sad day of your mother’s demise. Your father, as I am sure you realise, has your best interests at heart at all times: I am sure you know and understand this. If you have any other little expenses, your father, I have no doubt, will provide. What is it, my dear, a new gown? A piece of pretty jewellery that has caught your eye? What can I arrange for you? Say the word.’ And he smiled benevolently.
‘Mr Frith, I do not want you to “arrange” for me in that way. I understood from my mother before she died that my father had agreed that the money was to come to me as it was unlikely that I would marry. That it was mine.’
Mr Frith put his cup down firmly on the small table beside the chair, and stood.
‘Miss Cooper, if I may be blunt, nothing in the world is yours. Now I am, if you will excuse me, an extremely busy man. Your mother’s money is safe where it is and wisely invested and I do not think you should be worrying your pretty little head about matters that do not concern you. Your father will always provide for you of course, and should anything happen to him your brothers will do the same. Your father, as I say, always has your interests at heart: only the other day he and I were reminded that you were about to turn thirty – indeed I believe the day is today and I do give you my very best wishes. Your duty, Miss Cooper, is to make your father happy, and he in return takes all the worries of the world from your weaker shoulders. That is how it will continue. Now if you will excuse me…’ and he moved into the hall where the footman waited to hand him his hat.
‘A final word, Miss Cooper. It is a well-known fact, my dear, that women’s brains are smaller than
men’s and should never be troubled by manly things.’
Mary flushed on her thirtieth birthday, the footman smirked very slightly as he opened the front door, and Mr Frith disappeared into the grey, hazy afternoon.
* * *
Harriet picked up her bonnet and a small basket.
‘I shall go for a walk,’ she said to her aunt and Augusta and Alice, who were sitting in the drawing room with the curtains partly drawn, looking exhausted.
‘Walk!’ repeated Aunt Lucretia in amazement.
‘Oh heavens!’ said Alice.
‘That is ridiculous,’ said Augusta.
Needlework sat untouched; all three of them were wearing gloves, to keep their hands white.
‘Unless of course there is something you wish me to do?’ added Harriet hurriedly.
Her aunt gave a limpid wave. ‘No, my dear.’ The clock ticked loudly and Aunt Lucretia sighed, picked up a fan decorated with bright flowers and fanned herself languidly. ‘We are only resting. Preparing ourselves for what is to come.’ Then she remembered her duty. ‘But I do not think a young girl should walk alone, it is not proper. We cannot spare one of the servants at the moment of course.’
‘I shall not go far, Aunt Lucretia,’ said Harriet.
‘It is not proper,’ repeated her aunt, but droopingly.
‘May I go, may I go, may I go?’ Asobel rushed into the room from nowhere with her own bonnet in her hand, ribbons trailing across the floor. ‘Let me come too, Harriet!’
‘Asobel!’ said Aunt Lucretia.
‘Asobel!’ said Augusta.
‘Asobel!’ said Alice.
‘Really Asobel, you are becoming more and more of a nuisance,’ said her mother. ‘It is too hot, you are not going with Harriet, you will lie down in the nursery and conserve your strength for the wedding day, or I shall not allow you to be a flowergirl at all. If Harriet means to be foolish that is her own business.’ And Aunt Lucretia lay back in the sofa in the darkened room and closed her eyes.
The little girl stood at the front porch waving disconsolately as Harriet became a smaller and smaller figure in the distance. She sat down on the steps in the sunshine and dejectedly plaited the ribbons of her bonnet. The voices of her mother and her sisters floated out from the drawing room.
‘I do not understand why Harriet is so solemn,’ Lucretia complained. ‘She used to be a perfectly pleasant little girl. It is as if she thinks she is better than us.’
Alice, too exhausted almost to speak as she lay among the cushions on the chaise longue, said, ‘But she is pretty, isn’t she? I expect she will easily find a husband.’
‘As if that is everything,’ said Augusta, who was hunched in the other corner of her mother’s sofa.
‘Augusta, do not sit like that, it will spoil your figure.’
‘Actually, Augy, you know finding a husband is everything,’ said Alice. ‘You just say things like that because it is me who is getting married and not you.’
‘That is ridiculous,’ said Augusta and immediately burst into tears and threw herself against the back of the sofa, spoiling her figure even more.
‘I shall go mad,’ cried Lucretia Cooper, ‘if you girls do not stop your endless bickering! As if we did not have enough trouble, and tomorrow her sister the cripple arriving; I am sure cripples are bad luck at weddings. Do you suppose there is some way we can ask Mary not to come?’
‘Noooooo!’ Asobel came running in from the porch. ‘I love Mary. She taught me to read. I love her like I love Harriet. Please don’t ask her not to come, Mamma, how can you be so horrible about her and Harriet and so cruel,’ and she burst into tears and threw herself on her mother’s lap.
‘I have never heard that cripples are bad luck,’ said Alice and burst into tears also.
Lucretia Cooper with a supreme effort of will pulled herself upright from the sofa and surveyed her weeping daughters. She gave a loud, large sigh. ‘Girls, girls. We are all far too excited and overwrought. We shall order some wine, even though we are expecting no visitors,’ and she rang the little bell on the table beside her. ‘And some Madeira cake. It is my own fault and only because I am so exhausted. Of course we all love Mary and she is not really a cripple, she has a small limp only. And I do believe that Harriet is only quiet because she is shy. She has been extremely kind.’ Asobel sat up, mollified, and her mother continued: ‘Augusta dear, you must not cry, you want to look your best at the wedding and remember, Lady Kingdom may come and you have only two more days to prepare yourself to look beautiful. As you will, in your elegant new dress. Alice, it is not like you to be so unkind to Augusta, who has been immensely kind and generous and helpful to you in your good fortune and I am sure you regret such unkindness with all your heart.’ And then she gave a little scream. ‘Oh good heavens, Donald, you startled me, I didn’t hear you come in. Where is our wine?’ But the butler handed her first a letter from his tray. She opened it immediately, and gasped.
‘Oh my dears, such good news. We must inform dear Harriet the minute she returns, she will be so pleased. A message to say Sir Charles will be accompanying dear Mary.’ And Lucretia Cooper’s demeanour suddenly improved visibly. ‘My dears. It will do a great deal for our side to have the Right Honourable Sir Charles Cooper as one of the family, they must not think all is on their side.’ She positively preened. ‘Now where is Donald with the wine?’
* * *
Harriet passed the stables. Edward was trying to calm a dog whose leg had obviously been broken; the leg hung, useless, as the dog tried to crawl away. Edward made calming, crooning noises; one of the grooms arrived with some saplings, laid them down on the ground and then knelt beside the dog also, and held its head.
‘Oh Edward! What has happened?’
‘She got kicked by John’s horse. I’m going to try and mend the leg, I can make a splint from one of these saplings. Keep out of the way Harriet, the dog will try to bite.’ She moved away but saw Edward lift the dog gently, talking to it all the time; then he suddenly grabbed the leg and tried to straighten it; the dog screamed in pain, reared for the groom’s face, its teeth bared. She heard Edward’s calming voice, and the dog’s cries, fainter, as she walked on into the shimmering afternoon.
She took the short cut to the town through her uncle’s fields; in the distance her uncle and her cousin John walked with a horse in the sunshine. In each field the wheat stacks stood tidily together, except for one field that was still to be harvested. She skirted the golden, waving stalks so as not to damage them; her skirt caught in the brambles and the bushes of the hedges at the side of the fields.
In a little more than an hour she saw the high steeple of the church. The small town was bustling: it was market day. Voices shouted their wares: turkeys, rabbits, ducks’ eggs, kaleidoscopes, lace, tin soldiers. A friend of her uncle’s recognised her, bowed, raised his hat. Harriet smiled demurely, bowed also, did not stop. John Bowker was standing, as he had said, under the clock. It struck a quarter to three as she walked towards him. The moment he saw her he smiled in relief and removed his cap. She felt rather shy, decided she would return at once, lifted the cover of the basket and took out the letters and the brochures as she approached him.
‘Good afternoon, miss.’
‘Good afternoon, John Bowker. I have written the letters for you.’ And she handed the bundle of papers to him.
In his enthusiasm to take the letters he took her gloved hand with them, felt her pull away, startled. He apologised at once, blushing slightly as he realised what he had done.
‘I hope – I hope the letters will change your life as you wish,’ and Harriet began to turn back the way she had come.
‘Miss – Miss – Harriet – I heard Mr John use your name – Miss Harriet, have you got just a bit of a minute more to spare?’
Harriet looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘My friend – he has a room just near here, he wants to travel too and he cannot write, please, Miss Harriet, it would take such a sho
rt time.’
She felt embarrassed, as if he should not have asked for more: he sensed this and blushed again.
‘Miss Harriet, this is life and death for the likes of us, and a few minutes for you, else I wouldn’t have bothered you.’ He looked quite desperate. She half-looked about her.
‘All right,’ she said at last, but reluctantly. ‘But only a moment.’
As if he understood at once that she might not like to walk with him, he moved slightly ahead of her, looking back now and then to see if she was following, holding his letters and his brochures carefully in front of him. Hens ran across her path and a huge cauliflower rolled out of a doorway. She avoided both of these impediments and the rabbit carcasses hanging from a nail and the blood that dripped from them and followed John Bowker round a corner and away from the main street down a narrow alley. Suddenly the streets were mean and dark, harder for the sun to penetrate. Doorways here looked darker and dirtier at once; the people who lounged in them made her feel uneasy and she wished she could go back. Backtracking down another narrow alley John Bowker slowed down and waited for her. Ahead of them stood several old hovels in need of much repair and what looked like a crumbling barn.
‘It’s just here, Miss Harriet.’ And he whistled. A shock of red hair appeared at a small hole in the wall of the barn, disappeared again immediately. Then, the red-haired person appeared from one of the dark doorways, grinning.
‘This is Miss Harriet,’ said John. ‘This is Seamus.’
The Trespass: A Novel Page 6