by Bianca Bloom
The young woman, whom I only knew now as Kitty, continued. “I am a citizen,” she said. “I am just as much a part of this ‘brutal men’s problem’ as anyone else. Since nobody in this government cares to work for the public, I’m sure that I ought to see if I can do things better. At the very least, perhaps I could think of a way for Parliament to govern without striking down my fellow citizens in the street.”
At this, her uncle laughed aloud, much to her consternation. “I have served in the House of Lords for longer than you have been alive, my dear,” he said, “And you must trust me that I have worked tirelessly for the public.”
This time, the smaller of the two women had a face frozen in a smile, and young Kitty was so angry that she could not speak. As the hostess, in a manner of speaking, I decided it was time for me to join them.
“Indeed, young lady,” I said to Kitty, though she could not have been more than ten years my junior. “We must all be attentive to our duty to serve the public, particularly in these tragic times.”
This made Kitty perk up a little, but the man only laughed once again. “Tragic?” he said, not believing me. “That is not at all what I would call it. Well, you may not understand this, as you are young, and a woman. But those slow people of Manchester needed to learn a bit about their country, see.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Then it is your view that such knowledge should be achieved through deat?”
He straightened himself up. “There are many honorable young men who have died for their country, madam,” he said. “Surely you do not intend to slight them.”
I shook my head. “Certainly not. I am mindful of their sacrifice.”
The man must have thought that I was quite finished, for he turned toward one of my top hats. But I smiled and kept speaking to him.
“I also feel that we ought not to worry night and day about our children dying in public squares, here on our very own soil,” I said, endeavoring to keep my tone polite and my voice completely level.
I thought that by identifying myself as a mother, I might find a way to calm down this particular father. But he only grew redder. “Well, I hope you do not have to worry about such a thing, although I do not believe you are clever enough to avoid it,” he snapped. “My daughter would never disgrace herself with such foolishness, and after I am through with her, my niece will have nothing to do with it either. Good day!” he said, shepherding both of the young women out of the shop.
46
The callous nature of the discussion threw me off for the rest of the day. I ought not to have been surprised. Over the years, I had witnessed a shocking coarseness in both the poor and the rich, and truly scandalous tendency to throw over their fellow man when either money or politics was involved. Still, I had been greatly affected by news of the massacre, and I simply could not bear to hear the politician dismiss it as if all of the dead had gotten their just desserts. If he was at all representative of the members of the House of Lords, as I greatly feared he was, I was indeed setting myself a great task when I thought of teaching Viviana about the sordid world of government.
However, that was something I would have to see to at another time. For before I talked about such things with my daughter, I had to plug the hole in my weary heart. And I knew a fairly wise and expedient way of doing just that.
I waited until Viviana was in bed to dress for the evening, not wishing my innocent daughter to see the getup that her mother wore when she was about to go out. My dress was striking, a scarlet so deep that it would have shocked a courtesan. Though the bodice was quite low-cut and fitted, I covered it with a coat that appeared to be even tighter after having my mother lace the stays so tight that I could hardly breathe, hoping she would make no comment on my intentions.
Her silence was enough, though, to shame me into speech. “I’m going to Rachel’s, Mama,” I said, looking away from the mirror in our hall so that I could not quite tell just how ravishing I looked.
“It is late,” was my mother’s only reply, and she handed me my coat when I asked.
“We may go to see a singer,” I said, and though my mother must have been able to tell that I was lying, she said nothing. In fact, after I kissed her goodnight and walked away, I had the unpleasant sensation that she had known the true purpose of my late evening visits for quite some time.
A hatmaker’s greatest strength is the power of her disguises. After I left mama, I went into the section of the shop reserved for widows. There I found a beautiful black hat with a veil that provided the greatest possible covering to the face. I had sold my share of carefully constructed hats with veils that were delicate and fashionable. Those ones usually did not offer much by way of shielding one’s face from onlookers. But whenever someone came in looking to help a woman who could not stop crying, I proposed an alternative. There were deep grey hats I sold with veils so dark and thick that one’s face could not be seen through them. And it was one of those hats that I wore, the veil so long that it concealed not only my features but also my neck and the top buttons of my throat.
After I left, I wondered at what my mother had said. It was certainly true that going out into the still-light evening in such attire would make me noticeable, and if anyone managed to recognize me behind the veil, I might cause a good deal of scandal.
Still, my bold decision seemed to be the one thing that might bring me peace. Before I had gone to Bath, meeting not only strange men but also my former husband, I had gone into the shop for work each day. Whenever I could, I sought the company of my friend Rachel. And once or twice a week, depending on our mutual need, I sought out Mr. Wharton for the satisfaction of various animal urges. If I could return to this pattern, perhaps I might stop feeling like a skittish foal every time I stepped outside the confines of my rooms. It was as if my whole days revolved around the fear and awe that another chance meeting with Mr. Barlow might instill in me.
Clearing my throat, I reminded myself that Mr. Barlow had not been to see me. He knew where the shop was, he had met my mother, and still he did not come. So he must have accepted my rejection as final, and I was most unlikely ever to see him again. And in the meantime, I would have to do what I could to still my nerves.
I slipped back to the servants’ entrance and let myself into Mr. Wharton’s house.
47
When I went to Mr. Wharton, at first he did not seem eager for conversation. And though I was not exactly transported on the wings of passion, at least a few of the demons inside me were quieted by Mr. Wharton’s sharp kisses, as well as the way he pushed up my dress and shift with a mixture of familiarity and anticipation. I undid his fall without thinking and prepared myself to be thrown on the bed immediately.
Then the silence was shattered by Mr. Wharton himself, who pulled away and dragged me over to the fire.
“Let’s sit here, Mrs. A., I forgot about something,” he said, his weapon already hanging out of the spot where he had eagerly torn open his fall. Since the veil had covered my face, I had allowed myself to wear cosmetics, putting so much red and pink onto my lips that traces of it were left on the man’s neck.
And then he spoke the words that I thought I would never hear. “You were cruel to go away, Mrs. Allen,” he said. “I like no woman’s body the way that I like yours. You’re the only real Jezebel in these parts,” he leered, falling into a chair and pulling me onto his lap.
I stiffened. These sort of inelegant proclamations were the reason that I seldom tried to have long conversations with Mr. Wharton, even though we were sufficiently experienced in each other’s company to chat before, during, and after the act. Well, after the act we might say a few words, but I was usually eager to get back to my home right away.
“What say you come and live here?” he asked me, and this made me feel a little less stiff.
After all, I had to laugh. “No thank you, Mr. Wharton.”
“Now, now,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “As an honest woman, mind. You could be here as Mrs. Wharto
n, and then we wouldn’t ever have to stop our fun, see.”
For a moment, the sheer economics of such a decision stopped me in my tracks. After all, my family had begun to eat fairly well, but only because my mother was brilliant in the kitchen. And if I did indeed become Mrs. Wharton, every single element of money’s role in my life would change. Viviana might be able to marry well, as we could settle an amount on her that would be grand enough to more than make up for her humble origins, provided she did not marry someone from the royal family. My mother, at last, would be able to live in the leisure that I had always imagined and always failed to obtain for her. And I would be able to stop kissing the feet of men who came into my hat shop and ranted that giving women any power at all would humiliate the entire nation.
But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and I was left only with shock. Marry this man? I was married already, and I could not think of anyone less fit to be my life’s companion.
“I do not think that is wise, Mr. Wharton,” I said, hoping that he would accept my answer.
He did not, of course. “But it would be a fine thing, Mrs. A., can you not see that? Come now, your clothes are fine, but I know enough to see that you are not a grand lady. Here you could go about on my arm, and even if the ladies gossiped, and all the men too, we would know it was only out of envy.”
He resettled me in his lap so that I was not sitting directly on top of his prick, which was still naked and poking out eagerly. “See, my friend here also wishes to live with you,” he said, squeezing me.
In a rush, all of it flooded back to me. My heartfelt proposal to Luke Barlow, a man I did not know well but felt certain I could love. And Luke Barlow’s shocked acceptance, his inability to keep from embracing me as we froze in a fierce tempest. Even if the proposal had failed, even if the marriage had proved too much, that moment was filled with joy and heartfelt wonder.
It could not have been more different from what Mr. Wharton was answering, and my answer was as sour as my mood. “And you would be fine with my mother and daughter coming to live here, as well? After all, they live with me now.”
He looked puzzled. “Well, perhaps. You say you live with your mama? And a daughter, too?”
It was a horrid remonstrance. The man, though I had seen him many times, knew nothing of my life. And yet he had the gall to think that I might be willing to throw over everything that I had known for the sake of more conveniently romping about with him.
In a rage, I threw on my coat, not even bothering to button it, threw the hat on my hand, and pinned it at an angle. The veil covered the fury in my face as I went out of his home and into the gathering darkness.
48
In fact, I was sure that Rachel would be able to comfort me. She might be already turning in, but I did not think of that as I banged at the door of her house.
It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, who answered. “My lady isn’t well,” she said. “I’m sorry, she’s not taking visitors.”
“Tell her that I’d like to speak with her,” I told Mrs. Morris, exasperated that the housekeeper was not displaying her usual understanding. “I am sure that she will see me.”
Mrs. Morris cringed a bit. “She is very unwell, ma’am.”
I stood still. “Then I’ll take care she does not cough on me! Goodness, Mrs. Morris, please do not make me stand here all night.”
The door was opened, and the housekeeper stepped back, but she did not show me to any particular room. Even in my rage, I was not so impolite as to barge past her up the stairs. We stared each other down, my face plastered with a glare, Mrs. Morris looking only tired and rather discomfited.
“You’d best come back to the breakfast room, Mrs. Allen,” she said. “I’ll get us both a cup of tea.”
Uneasy, I waited in the breakfast room for the tea, all the while picking at my gown and wishing that I had chosen something that did not scream “harlot” quite so loudly. After all, I thought that I was going out for a little bit of attention from a man, not to consult with my friend, and much less to sip a hot beverage with her less than forthcoming housekeeper. Mrs. Morris brought the tea out and waited for me to take a cup before she told me what had happened.
“My lady is not well, Mrs. Allen,” she said.
I tried to be diplomatic. “You have told me once that she is not well, and yet you have not bothered to ascertain whether she might wish to see me.”
“She cannot tell me that, ma’am. The doctor says that she will not awaken, and that we may lose her before the night is out.”
At first, I put my teacup down, and then I blinked and looked up at Mrs. Morris.
“What?” I asked her. But she waited in silence until I began to half-accept the news, panicking as I did so. “You’ll let me see her!” I said, grabbing at the woman’s arm.
“Of course, Mrs. Allen. But she doesn’t know us any longer, and she asked me not to let anyone see her in such a state.”
I opened my mouth to argue as Mrs. Norris said, “Still, knowing how well my lady thought of you, I shan’t refuse you, Mrs. Allen.”
When I went upstairs, floating up the grand staircase as in a dream, my friend was sleeping. Or she appeared to be sleeping, anyway. Mrs. Morris told me that she might wake again, but she might not, and that the doctor had left because he could do nothing else for her. There was a nurse in the room, but she stepped out so I could have some last moments with my friend.
I wished to tell her how much her friendship had meant to me over the years, particularly in my darkest moments. I wished to tell her that I was thankful, and that I wanted to be with her for longer than a few stolen moments.
Her skin looked pale, and her arms were thin as she lay back on a pile of high pillows. Thinking of her looks at the opera, I recalled that she had looked both more tired and a bit thinner than usual, but I had just put that down to the normal toll of age and activity. I could have pressed her at that time, of course, but I was too busy speaking of Mr. Luke Barlow and his possible role in my life. As I had chattered on, my friend had suffered, and now it was too late to say goodbye.
When Mrs. Morris came back in, I had not been able to get a word out.
“Now then, Mrs. Allen,” she said, but my voice was hardly above a whisper.
“Why couldn’t I say goodbye,” I told her plaintively. “There’s no possibility of Rachel hearing me now. Why didn’t she tell me?”
Mrs. Morris helped me sit back down by the bedside. “You know your friend, Mrs. Allen, if you’ll pardon my speaking out of turn.”
“Not as well as I would have thought,” I said, my voice still quavering.
“Think of it, please,” said Mrs. Morris, wiping away tears herself. “Is she the sort of woman who would let her friends know, or would her first impulse be to spare them the suffering and enjoy her final months on this earth without the joy-killing sympathy of others?”
At that, I did weep, and loudly. When I had quieted, I turned to my friend. Her breathing was still loud, and my outburst had not wakened her. That told me that she was unlikely ever to wake again.
“Good night, Rachel,” I whispered. “Good night, and thank you.”
49
Before I left the neighborhood, I looked up at the window where I knew my friend lay close to death. It was hard to see the light of the lamp through the curtains, but I took some comfort knowing that I had left her alone, deferring to her own wishes.
“Goodnight,” I said again, through my tears.
All the way home, I forgot about then men of my life. I forgot about Luke Barlow, bumbling around Bath looking for me. I forgot about the man I had known in Bath, who was apparently such a rake that he had come to all sorts of arrangements with public venues for the purpose of having his way with ladies who were not his wife. And even though I had been spitting mad at Mr. Wharton just hours ago, I thought of his stupid proposal of marriage and wondered why it had mattered to me.
Because I was thinking of Rachel, the one pers
on outside my own little home who had been like family. The streets were dark, and some of the people stared at me with surprise as I walked past. But I scarcely saw them, and after some blocks I remembered to throw down my veil again so that my face, heavy with tears, would not be to alarming to passersby. I should have taken the carriage, but there was so much turmoil in my feet that I thought I might be able to walk forever. The prophet Jeremiah would have said that I was wearing out my shoes, walking about with no purpose, but I could think of no possible alternative.
When I finally got back to my own rooms, I glided up the stairs feeling thankful. Even if I would certainly not be able to sleep all night, at least I would have the comfort of hearing my daughter’s breathing, touching her hand as she slept. Indeed, becoming a mother had brought me my life’s greatest panic, as every day I worried that I would not be able to provide for Viviana, even after my savings had grown into a sum that I could once only have dreamed of. And yet, she also brought me life’s greatest peace, because the joy I felt on seeing her was incomparable to anything that had come before. In that way, I realized that I could be thankful to Luke Barlow for granting me my life’s greatest wonder.
I was already up the stairs before I thought to take note of the signal. My mother had left a lamp burning in our hallway, which would have meant something to me had I been able to think. And even when she met me at the door, I did not think to question her actions, though typically she would have been safe in her own bed by that hour, if not actually asleep.
“Alice,” she said, “Wait.”
I was not in the mood to interpret my mother’s words, and I pushed past her into the sitting room, where I planned to take off my coat and take a drink of brandy before wishing my daughter a silent goodnight and retreating to the moonlight of my own room.