That Inevitable Victorian Thing

by E. K. Johnston

  At last there was a knock on the door, and it was Fanny come to fetch Helena upstairs for the last of her getting ready. They still had some hours to go, but Fanny had meticulously planned the preparations days earlier and Helena was happy to follow along.

  The creation of the schedule itself had thus far been one of the more complicated manoeuvers of the whole visit. Helena had never seen anything quite like the moment when Fanny, after politely listening to Aunt Theresa outline her plan for the day of the ball, calmly handed over her own printed itinerary. It was an exchange that, were it to pass between stubborn people, would have proved awkward, but between Fanny and Aunt Theresa there was goodwill enough to do both of them credit.

  “I’ll send a light tea up with Thomas in a while,” Theresa said when Helena rose to follow Fanny. “Mind you eat it before you put the dress on, and I’d advise leaving off the corset for as long as possible. It’ll have plenty of time to set, just travelling from here to uptown. You don’t want to overdo it before the dancing starts.”

  “I just want to make it through the curtsey,” Helena said quietly enough that only Fanny heard her. The other girl squeezed her arm. She raised her voice so that her aunt would hear her: “Thank you so much, Aunt Theresa.”

  Neither thought it necessary to point out that corsets hadn’t needed “time to set” in forty years.

  Then, even though she was still wearing trousers, she dropped into a close copy of the curtsey she would that evening give to the Queen. Without her skirts to add the flair, it didn’t look as impressive as it might have, but when Helena looked up, she saw that Theresa understood.

  “Get on with you, darling girl,” Theresa said, and Helena wondered how many more times today she would make someone cry.

  INTERLUDE

  Helena took in a breath and held it, just for spite.

  “Really,” said Fanny with a fond exasperation, “it’s not as if you’ve much of a figure to start with.”

  There were any number of sharp things Helena could have said to that, but all of them would have involved sacrificing the expansion of her rib cage, so she held her tongue. Fanny was forced to resort to trickier measures. She set the lacing –bot about Helena’s waist, its cold metal fingers lighting on Helena’s stays as softly as the warm spring breeze that wafted outside the window in the rose garden.

  It tickled, and Helena sputtered, trying not to laugh. Then the –bot contracted, pulling the corset laces so tight that Helena had to grasp the bedpost with both hands to remain on her feet. She had been practicing with the corset for three months now, but she didn’t relish the confinement for all it seemed to give Fanny an obscene amount of joy.

  “There,” said Fanny, a satisfied edge to her voice, “aren’t you a picture?”

  “Fanny!” Helena protested when she’d got her breath back.

  “Now, miss,” said the maid, “you’ll thank me when you see the expression on a certain young man’s face when he spots you.”

  “August liked me well enough before I had breasts,” Helena pointed out.

  She let Fanny pull the dress over her head, and tried not to watch in the mirror as Fanny settled the skirts.

  “Aye,” said Fanny, hands busy around the hem, “back when you used to put frogs in his pocket.”

  They giggled together, for a brief moment friends with shared summer memories instead of employer and employee. Helena very much preferred it that way, which Fanny always said was because Helena had no sisters of her own. Fanny rarely tried to be the consummate professional, whether they were in New London or up at The Woods, but here in Toronto, she was always formal. It was only on rare occasions that Helena was able to break through the façade. And whenever she did, what followed was always a pang of regret over whether that too was an imposition.

  Fanny helped Helena lace her slippers so they were perfectly even, and then took a step back to make sure she had not missed anything.

  When Fanny finally yielded a smile, Helena allowed her eyes to fall on the mirror.

  It was much more complicated than the dress Helena’s mother had originally planned, but that was Toronto for you. Instead of the simple lawn underskirt, there was now a full petticoat and crinoline. Helena had to learn how to properly sit in it, and she hoped she had practiced enough for the dancing that she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. But somehow none of that mattered. When all the elements came together, the effect was remarkable. Fanny was right. August was going to be worth watching indeed.

  “He’s always had such a charming squeal,” Helena said, trying to appear nonchalant as she pretended to check her gloves for spots.

  “Now, miss, none of that!” Fanny said, stilling Helena’s trembling hands and shifting a few of her curls into better-suited spots on her head. “You know your position with Mr. August Callaghan is all but assured.” Fanny dabbed Helena’s eyes with her handkerchief—for it seemed the tears were not limited to others—before giving each cheek a gentle pinch. “I only beg, for the sake of your mother’s peace, please be on your best behaviour tonight.”

  “I promise, Fanny,” Helena said, knowing full well this night’s success was as much Fanny’s as it was anyone’s. “Nary a frog in sight.”

  “It’s the ones out of sight I worry about with you,” Fanny said, and neatly pulled the last few ribbons into line.

  MARGARET’S HANDS were steady on the teapot as she poured. It should have been soothing, a ritual she’d performed many times, because that’s exactly what it was. She had shared tea with her father on countless occasions, since she’d been tall enough to reach the table, and never had she felt this many butterflies. She swallowed her anxiety, as her mother had taught her, and tried to keep her face politely smooth.

  Edmund Claremont watched his nervous daughter with no small measure of visible affection. The entire point of this exercise had been something of a holiday, a lark, and yet now that push had come to shove, she was on edge.

  “It’s not too late to cancel,” Edmund said. “We could always send a card and say that you are ill.”

  “And blame the Toronto weather?” Margaret said. Edmund’s proposal had given her some of her spine back, which she knew had been his intention. “I’ll not tell them that I am ill,” Margaret said. “I am sure that everyone else is just as nervous as I am.”

  She passed him a cup and saucer and poured a small amount of milk into her own serving. There were biscuits on the tray, but Margaret ignored them.

  “I am glad we were able to arrange this,” Edmund said. He leaned back as far as the chair would allow him, the very picture of an officer at ease. Margaret knew him better, though, and could tell from the way his fingers traced the embroidered upholstery of the hotel chair that he was not as relaxed as he appeared to be. He never was when he was thinking about Margaret’s future. “I do miss seeing you every day. I suppose if nothing else, the travel has been good for you. It’s not often you get to strike out on your own.”

  “We took the same train from Halifax,” Margaret pointed out.

  “Yes, but we travelled separately. And I wouldn’t even let your mother tour the train, like she wanted to, because I didn’t want her to spy on you.”

  “Everyone in my carriage was very disappointed about that, I’ll have you know. They were so excited to be on the same train as the Queen and then they didn’t even get to see her.”

  “We knew that this excursion would present complications. The security itself has been a nightmare. I still believe it is worth it, however, because you will get to see parts of your Empire that no other Crown Princess has seen.”

  Margaret knew that her father was not only speaking about geography. She had only spent a few days in Toronto so far and already felt that she had seen more of the Empire—the people of the Empire—than she had in her whole life in London, because in Toronto, no one knew that she was looking.

 
The Prince Consort never made much effort to hide his feelings about the benefits of being well travelled from his children, though, it was of course next to impossible for his wife and daughters to do so. He couldn’t save Margaret from the trap of a royal marriage, but he could do his best to prepare her for it by showing her as much of the world—the real world, not the stories passed down through generations since Queen Victoria I had sent her children into marriage across the Empire—as he could. This expedition was going to be as close as Margaret ever got, and they were both glad of it for that reason alone.

  “And you’ll make interesting friends in the process, because none of them know who you are.”

  “Your faith in Elizabeth’s ability to keep a secret is inspiring, Father,” Margaret said. “But I agree.”

  “Miss Highcastle will be fine,” Edmund said carelessly. “She thinks it a fine lark, and perhaps it is.”

  “I do not think it is a lark.”

  The corners of Edmund’s mouth turned up just slightly, and he paused a fraction longer than polite conversation would require. “I know, darling,” he said at last. Now it was his turn to find his hands shaking as he set down his teacup. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed if this doesn’t work.”

  Margaret watched her father for a moment, trying to decide whether the trace of anxiety she detected was real or a projection of her own. She did not share very many physical traits with him, but she had emulated so many of his mannerisms that she knew she resembled him most when speaking or thinking. Finally, she declared, “If the plan doesn’t turn out, then we shall simply have to find a way to have our cake and eat it, too,” Margaret said. “We’re not French.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t make jokes about failed monarchies. It makes me nervous,” he said, and reached for the sugar tongs.

  AUGUST SAT in the part of his new rooms designated for dressing and tried to focus on his screen instead of on the way Hiram fussed over his shoes.

  “Hiram, if they are any more polished, I’m likely to blind my dance partners,” he said, finally not able to take it anymore.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Hiram said. “It’s just that it’s a very important night, and I wanted you to look your best.”

  “It’s a very important night for Helena. Not so much for me.”

  “My sisters all tell me otherwise,” Hiram said very quietly.

  “Your sisters gossip more than all the lumbermen in the northwest quadrants.” But August couldn’t even pretend to be peevish about it.

  Hiram had been one of the company’s best cutters, until the accident that had taken his right hand. The prosthetic replacement was of the best money could buy, of course. Callaghan Ltd. would stand for nothing less. But Hiram couldn’t work the crystal saws anymore, and so August had taken him into the house. The footmen had been appalled at first, but Hiram’s easy nature had won them over; and his sisters all had places in the kitchen anyway, and everyone was fond of them.

  “You’ve always said that an abundance of sisters is what makes us fit so well together, sir,” said Hiram.

  “Well, today I simply wish for shoes that won’t make me look like some sort of dandy.”

  Hiram laughed, and set the shoes aside. He went to the clothespress and began to attend to August’s evening suit. Evie had it from one of the few kitchen girls not related to Hiram, who had it from Fanny that Helena would be wearing green, so she’d hastily commissioned a waistcoat in dark green to go with August’s best evening suit. He wasn’t entirely sure Helena cared that she and August matched on the dance floor, but Fanny, not to mention his sisters, seemed to think it was important, and generally speaking it was just easier to do as they suggested than deal with the fallout.

  As August examined the waistcoat, he noticed that the combined Callaghan and Lam family crests were delicately embroidered into the lining, such that it would cover his heart when he wore it.

  “Will you need help dressing?” Hiram asked.

  It was mostly a formality. August dressed himself, and Hiram couldn’t tie the cravat anyway, but he did his best to observe formalities, at least when they were in the city. There was also the matter of professional pride. A man who’d been a fine cutter would not long tolerate being a mediocre valet.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you,” August said. “You can go down to the kitchen, if you like. There’s probably early dinner set out by now.”

  “Good luck tonight, sir,” Hiram said.

  “Thank you,” August said again, and waited until the door closed behind the valet before he began to strip.

  He’d always known that Helena would have a season, and that he would watch her pass through it. He’d been old enough to attend the events of Evelyn’s season, but that had been in Penetanguishene, and most of the guests had been Navy or northern, anyway. Helena was supposed to debut in New London, surrounded by the sons and daughters of University dons and Ministers from the Anglican seminary. There, August probably could have worn boots and not caused scandal. Instead, they were all in Toronto, and the stakes were that much higher. So he wore shoes with bows, and did his best to ignore them.

  August sat down on the chair, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his coat still draped on the press in the corner. He held up the data-screen one last time, checking the numbers he had already memorized, like they’d been carved into his soul.

  Helena was a love match, and everyone knew it. Her father was well educated and her mother well respected, but she had no astounding wealth. August had that, and more besides—or at least he did for now. His father’s command of the tolls in the Trent-Severn waterway kept the family in good standing, and allowed for capital in their lumber ventures, the same ventures that August was so desperate to protect. This latest report from the American corsair captain did not bode well. He could not afford the protection rates to go much higher than they already were, even if it meant he was getting squeezed out by other firms.

  He heard laughter in the stairwell as a pair of kitchen maids came up to the floor beneath his, presumably carrying wood for the hearth in the room his father occupied. Everyone was in high spirits tonight. He would leave the work in his room, where it belonged. He owed Helena that much, even if he hadn’t loved her.

  And he loved her very much.

  EVERYTHING ABOUT Elizabeth Highcastle’s toilette was serenely perfect, which was nothing less than she expected.

  It is possible that in the future they will think less of me, marrying off your siblings as I have done, but we have seen the Americans break away and fall into ruin, and we cannot allow the same thing to happen to the Empire. Your own marriage to an Englishman is not better than theirs, it merely seeks to appease my generation. If you are as clever as I believe, you will find spouses for your own children in Hong Kong.

  —Queen Victoria I,

  in a letter to her daughter, Victoria II

  CHAPTER

  7

  This was the first party that Margaret had attended in several years where she was not a subject of interest. Though she was close to Elizabeth, she was relatively anonymous and was able to be more observer than observed. She found she rather liked it.

  The balls and teas that would follow this evening’s event were slightly less formal and thus slightly less scheduled. Tonight’s agenda, on the other hand, reminded her of the complicated tactics her father used to tell her about when he lectured her about historical naval battle plans.

  The forty or so young men and women who were set to debut waited in a room off the main ballroom while the Queen and Prince Consort were installed, and the press arranged, so as not to be in too many people’s way. For now, the debuts mingled nervously. There were few enough of them that they needn’t arrange themselves before they entered the ballroom. They only had to pay attention for when their own name was called. It had, of course, the possibility of backfiring, but Margaret was reason
ably confident that the Mistress of Ceremonies would get them all to the front of the crowd at the right time by sheer force of will.

  The parents and sponsors would be marshalled into place in the ballroom, and then, at Lady Highcastle’s signal, the debuts would make their entrance, and then wait to be called—alphabetically because Lady Highcastle was the consummate Navy wife and believed good sense should always overshadow good politics.

  Margaret was impressed at the number of boys in their company, as most young men chose not to have a public debut. It had been several decades since debuting had been treated merely as an entrance to the marriage mart. In fact, many girls now treated it as an extended career fair, where they might make connections to escape their own inherent nepotism and crack through someone else’s—though obviously neither Margaret nor Elizabeth needed to take that approach. There was still some sexist stigma associated with the affair, however, which caused boys to elect another, less ostentatious path. Margaret thought they were cheating themselves of a lot of fun that way and decided that the presence of Elizabeth Highcastle probably had a great deal to do with the increased number of boys in the room.

  “Silly, it’s the Queen!” said Elizabeth, when Margaret suggested as much.

  Margaret felt foolish for having forgot.

  Looking around, she saw knots of well-dressed young people whispering to one another, as nerves increased. The room was a riot of colour. Elegantly draped hijab and gele were worn in combination with ball gowns, tasteful kippot with suits, and vivid salwar kameez and military uniforms were worn by all genders. There was no shortage of English-style dresses like the one Elizabeth wore, but many of them were decorated with Chinese iconography, or, in at least two cases that Margaret could see, First Nation styles, depending on who wore them. She counted at least six saris. The few boys who were wearing plain, though well-tailored, Savile Row suits, stood out rather starkly in the crush.