by Bianca Bloom
Before I could go to see her, I stopped in to check on my daughter. When Viviana’s tutors weren’t about, she was supposed to sit in our rooms and do her work. But when my mother was in the shop, I did not trust her to do it.
Indeed, when I walked in, Vivi was neither at her books nor ashamed of the steps she had taken to avoid them.
“Viviana,” I said. “You are to start Greek next week. How can you do that when you haven’t even finished your Latin work?”
“It’s not work if you don’t get any money for it,” I heard from the window. I could only see the back of Viviana, as she was peering through the curtains at something down below. The bow that she had tied at the bottom of her braid was askew, and I moved to fix it, but she ducked.
“Vivi,” I told the back of her head, but she did not turn. “It is the work that is set out for you.”
She only continued to look out the window, snorting in derision. “Mama, did you know that one of the carriages nearly overturned?”
For a moment, I worried. Commotion on the street outside sometimes hurt the shop, as customers might begin to avoid the street altogether. “An overturned carriage?”
She finally looked at me. “No, mama. I was trying to tell you that the carriage nearly overturned. It did not, and now it’s stopped on the far side.”
The strangest things seemed to arrest my daughter’s attention. “I wonder that you watch it, then.”
She began to smile again. “Mama, there was someone in it! And she got out and refused to go back in. They’re all trying to speak to her about it, but she refuses.”
“The poor woman knows what impertinence is, then. I should say that she and I have something in common.”
Viviana frowned at this, wrinkling her nose. “You also don’t like getting in dangerous carriages, mama?”
“No. What that woman and I have in common is a thorough knowledge of stubborn natures, and a full idea of their consequences. I am imagining that it would be rather difficult to get you to go back into a carriage, Vivi, as even learning these Latin verbs seems to be too much of a sacrifice.”
With another child, that might have been a stern reprimand, but Viviana only laughed, winking at me. “I will sacrifice the verbs, mama! I will sacrifice all of Latin. They can all go to some other girl, and I shall never have to be tortured with them ever again.”
She giggled so much that she could not stop herself, and I held her in my arms, finally laughing myself after a rather trying day.
For a moment, embracing my daughter, I did feel a great comfort. After all, she was as dear to me as anyone ever could be, and in spite of her impertinence she was growing into a smart young woman.
But then she ran off with a smile, and my heart contracted. Viviana’s dimples were not from me, they were from her father. Luke Barlow had done the “honorable” thing, and he had certainly not become a father until after we had taken our wedding vows, but he had left me to raise his child as he stayed in the woods where he himself had grown up.
It was a truth that I was not sure I could bear.
28
After we had settled into our box at the opera, my friend Rachel told me that she saw the truth quite differently. She was the only person in London besides my mother who knew the whole truth of my marriage, and I thought that she would vilify Mr. Barlow, but she had a much more mercenary take on the incidents, at least at first.
“Why do you not meet with the man?” she asked, settling a shawl carefully about her. Rachel’s hair, though grey, was her one vanity. It was arranged carefully on her head in a series of braids and curls so intricate that it very nearly made me dizzy. The rest of her attire was simple. Her gown, though silk, was a deep blue, and her shawl was green. My dress had more lace and details, and yet Rachel had such a presence that I felt I must look rather frivolous beside her.
Perhaps I sounded frivolous, too. “I cannot speak with him. Have you forgotten how ill I was when I first got to London? He left me and Viviana destitute. I will not stoop to speaking with the man.”
She gave a harrumph at that, and I was reminded that Rachel considered herself wiser than I, not simply older. “Well, talk to him, don’t talk to him. You could have me speak to the man if it’s the talking that is the trouble.”
This made me frown. “But I mustn’t have any contact, no matter how willing the emissary!”
“And why not, I ask you?”
Just like Viviana, I looked away from my conversation partner, but she took my hand so that I was forced to look at her once again.
“Really, Alice,” she said, touching one of her hair pins. “It is true, you and the boy parted when you were both children, and you never heard from him again. I am not willing to believe that he was quite as black-hearted as you claim, and feel that a few years of living nearer to each other would have sorted out much of the heartbreak.”
Before I could object, she began talking over me. “But even if he was determined that you and your child should starve, really, is that any cause for avoiding him now? You have not starved, and you have brought up a daughter. He has nothing to reproach you with, and really, you would win in any contest of valor.”
I sighed. “Yes, but I cannot bear for him to see me. I cannot really bear to see him, either. It is all too delicate.”
“Delicate? How? I do not understand why two grown people ought to avoid each other just because things seem ‘delicate,’ and that does not seem very consistent with your own behavior, you know.”
At that very moment, I could see a man with whom I had once had a fumbled encounter in a cloakroom enter the box next to ours, and I did have the grace to blush.
Rachel, from whom I had no secrets, raised her eyes at me. “See?”
Before I could let her win, however, I remembered one point on which her feelings were almost certainly just as tender as mine.
“Well, you talk of having broken Mrs. Johnson’s easel,” I told her, looking directly at her so she would stop glancing over at the man I had held in the cloakroom, an amused smile on her face.
And, sure enough, the mention of the broken easel was enough to drain the smile from her face. She raised her eyes heavenward. “Ah, the young Mrs. Johnson.”
“Precisely. And yet you have never made clear to me what exactly was behind the story.”
Rachel folded her hands carefully. I noticed that she winced a bit as she shifted in her seat, something that was new. Rachel was no stranger to the infirmities of old age, but she was generally so careful that not a single look of pain or discomfort passed her face in public.
“Very well, then, Alice. You may first want to learn that Mrs. Johnson was one a set of women, the so-called Roses’ Club.”
I drew in my breath. That little phrase evoked many of the very worst women I had known over the years. Only women who were beautiful, rich, and vapid were permitted to pay the hefty annual fee required for membership. And once the women had joined, the degradation of their characters only continued.
Rachel gave a bitter smile. “Well, I never joined their club, and that was probably one reason that Mrs. Johnson disliked me. Another, surely, was that once I had the misfortune of accidentally breaking one of her easels.”
I laughed. “An easel is easily replaced, surely?”
Rachel either did not notice the witticism or did not comment on it. “In spite of all that I learned, I would go back and keep myself from touching that easel if I could. Mrs. Johnson went mad. She had certainly had too much punch, and there seemed to be some other source of rage. She threw teacups at me, screaming at me, chasing me out of her house as she called me the most horrid names. She said that I reeked of sewage, and that it was fortunate I had never married, as no man would ever regard me as more than a stinking rat.”
In spite of myself, I nearly gagged. “But that is slanderous!”
Rachel offered only a sigh. “Yes, but I did not want to touch her, Alice. I did not wish to be in the same city as that woman.”
“And now,” I asked, trying not to betray all my hopes. “Has it healed?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. But I have seen Mrs. Smith wither away. She has taken her husband about the country, seeking new society and new amusements, but nothing ever seems amusing to her. And I know quite well that she has not been a great success in London society. Even the Roses’ Club could not make any guarantee of that.”
“Do you hate her still?”
“Mostly I have forgotten, but when I remember the teacup flying at my head, yes, I suppose that I do. The arrangement of my hair was uncommonly flattering that day, you see.”
It was just the sort of joke that I would have happily made myself, and yet I could not laugh at it. To think that London society was even more rotten than imagined.
Pondering the great cruelty of many human interactions, I chanced a glance down at the gallery. It was one reason that I enjoyed going to the opera. Normally, I told Rachel that she did not have to entertain me with fine things, that I was more than satisfied with my lot in life. But the opera was one of the exceptions, as I loved to look at the crowd. Not only could I scan their attire for business opportunities, I could determine which amongst the well-dressed upper set were attempting to live beyond their means. After all, a truly wealthy group should have been able to afford a box, and yet I saw many who purchased the finest hats sitting quite close to each other lower down.
The boxes opposite us held all of the usual crowd, so I did not look to them until just after the lights had been lowered. Too late, I noticed that one of them contained Luke Barlow, the very man I had been desperately attempting to avoid.
He met my eyes, then, and all of my thoughts of escape fled. With hardly a word to my host, I left the box, thankful that I had only needed a light coat and that I had somehow had the foresight to keep it with me. As soon as I got onto the street, I was on my way home, walking several blocks before I hired a carriage. The expense was considerable, as normally Rachel’s coach would have taken me home, but I was thankful to be within four walls and did not balk at the money that I would spend. The secrecy, I knew, would be well worth the cost.
29
The first day after the opera, I stayed in my bed, claiming that a fever might be taking hold. In truth, I only felt safe when I was under the covers, freed from the possibility of encountering Mr. Barlow.
On the second day, I believed myself safe if I only stayed in our quarters. Walking into the shop would have been like striding out on the promenade again, or showing my shoulders at the opera within view of a man who had once ravished me.
In fact, there were a few men who attended the opera and had, in the past, had relations with me. But they were always such dogs that I was never ashamed to see them again, and they looked on me as one might look on a discarded piece of furniture.
Mr. Barlow was to one of those men, I was sure. If he saw me, the scorn in his eyes would be truly unbearable. And I knew that whatever the cost, I must continue to avoid him. Even if I had wished to go mind my shop, as I had for eight years, I could not have done it. Every time that I was near the stair, my feet took me back into the safe confines of our above-stairs rooms.
They were quiet and very nearly empty. Since mama had to mind the shop for me, I was left alone with my daughter, and she was long past the age to come find me in the morning after she woke.
Viviana was always supposed to do her lessons in the morning, but it was my mother who forced her to comply with that particular regimen. I thought that she might not even be awake, but she was up and dressed, sitting at our table with her pencils and books before her.
However, she seemed interested in something rather more peculiar than her Latin grammar lessons. When I approached her, I saw that she was adding detail to an immense drawing, and that she must have been at work on it for hours.
“Good morning, Vivi,” I told her, “You’ve a lovely drawing there.”
“It’s not a drawing,” she told me, not bothering to wish me a good morning in return.
This forced a little smile from me. “It’s not a drawing? What is it then,” I asked, pleased that she was embarking on some sort of project even while she neglected the course of study that I had set out for her.
“It’s a map of England,” she said, and I wondered why Dover was drawn as a large place with many details, while larger Manchester was only a tiny spot on the map. In the countryside, she had drawn faeries, dragons, and other fantastical creatures.
“Interesting map, then,” I told her.
“All the best places are big,” she said, “And the horrid places are small.”
London was about the same size as Manchester. “You think that our city and Manchester are both equally horrid, then?”
“Not horrid, mama. But not interesting.”
“You should draw the places that have the most votes as large cities, and the ones that do not as small villages. That would let you keep Manchester small, and it teach you a bit of politics.”
“You already forced me to do that, mama,” she answered, and I recalled that I had.
As Vivi worked away at her drawing, I began to think again of the past. Her map made me remember the conversation I had once had at the Barlow dinner table, in which Miss Courtenay had insisted that it was stupid for me to even hold an opinion on the state of political affairs. One of the few things that had not changed since the conversation was the unequal distribution of votes in our nation.
I wondered what had happened to Miss Courtenay. A broken engagement could not have given her an easy future. It was some little consolation that we were most likely both miserable. At least I had ended up with a magnificent girl, I thought, drawing Vivi to me and kissing the top of her head.
“Mama,” she complained. “You are so dull today!”
I smiled at her. “Yes dear,” I said. “I am rather tired. I think that I will go and have a nap.”
“You’re always napping,” I heard her complain as I went into my bedchamber and put my hands up to take down my hair, forgetting that I had not put it up properly all day.
It would have been easy for me to sleep on a normal day, but my body had been given so much sleep that it would not surrender. I tossed about on the bed, rubbing at my neck.
If nothing else, I should have been able to feel secure that my mother would not disturb me, as she must have been far too busy in the shop. But before too long, I felt her at my shoulder.
“Are you coming down, then?” she asked.
My mother’s gift with words was that when she could use her voice, she did. As soon as I heard the bristle in it, I understood right away that she wished me to go down, even if her wishes were not quite strong enough to get me from my bed.
“You can manage for the afternoon, mama,” I told her, my voice heavy with the anticipation of sleep.
She made no answer, and so I was forced to protest. “Yes, mama,” I said. “Really, there’s nothing that I must do there. All of the newest hats are ready, and all of the orders are made up. And if you’re taking new orders, I’ll help you with them tomorrow if you need it.”
“Well, then,” she said. “I suppose you’re going to see that the bills are paid, because I cannot.”
And the thought of my business going down in flames made me sit up straight. Of all the scenarios that I could not face, the one in which my home and work was taken from me was somehow worse even than the one in which I had to speak to Mr. Barlow.
30
When I first came down into the shop, I could see why my mother was having trouble paying the bills. One of my regular clients was there to buy a hat for his wife, but he was as indecisive as he was friendly. Mama’s one-word answers had plainly not been sufficient for him, though she had been steering him toward an understated bonnet that looked perfect for his wife.
“Mr. Martin,” I said, greeting the man warmly. “Tell me, how is dear Mrs. Martin? I know that we see little of her in summer, but I do so m
iss our conversations.”
He looked at me with relief, as if I were about to rescue him from the throes of shopping. “She is well, Mrs. Allen, but I am not. I am wanting a birthday present, and I have only three days.”
I smiled. “Was not my mother suggesting this hat, then? I think that it would make a marvelous present.”
“Yes,” he said, still nervous, then shook his head. “I do not know. Is not the brim a bit thin? My wife is already warm and uncomfortable in the heat, and I fear this would not shade her face enough.”
His wife was the sort of woman who never needed to go out in the heat of the day, but as it would have been impolitic to point this out, I took a different tack. “This is only for the early morning,” I explained. “The colors would suit a simple morning dress perfectly, and they would look well with her complexion. After the sun gets hot, she would either need to change into a different hat or simply come indoors.”
It took him several minutes to consider this, and I smiled to myself thinking of how mama would not have tolerated such a delay. By the time he finally decided to purchase the hat, I had a new customer on my hands.
My smile faded as I looked at her, and at first I could hardly manage to speak.
It was the young lady who had been on Luke Barlow’s arm, and she was demanding to know more about one of my hats.
“I hope this will not fade after the first day in the sun,” she whined. “So many hats only look well for a day, and I am going on a picnic tomorrow week that simply requires a hat with a bit of color.”
“I can assure you,” I promised, “Our hats are not quick to fade.”
“Yes,” she said, heaving a great sigh. “I believe that Lady Smith wore many of your hats.”