The Emerald Tartan
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 1
Chatham, England
Late February 1857
When she closed her eyes hard and shut out the rest of the world, Lydia envisioned the havoc she so desperately wanted to wreak, and it all centered on her father. The purple and gray clouds would puff up and swoop in to hover over her home. Whistling wind would whip the gracious oaks to a frenzy, tearing away thick majestic branches and toss them about like small splinters. Lightning would streak across the sky and speed toward the ground, exploding in bright flashes and deafening all life around the area. She could see her father now, down on his knees, praying fervently to be spared God’s wrath.
A voice would bellow down to the man, “You!” The vision always ended there, and Lydia cast out the rest of her vision – afraid of her own deepest dreams. When she reopened her eyes, life was just as it was before she closed them.
Her dreary room was Spartan – like her life. A narrow wooden poster bed stood along the side of the slanted plank attic wall. Draped over the bed was her one creative accomplishment – a white, tatted lace coverlet. The coverlet, too, was a product of the monotony in her life and represented hours and hours of tedious handwork, spent alone with no friends and few outside activities.
Opposite the bed on the far wall a tiny square window, the only source of light, looked out over the small, barren graveyard at the back of the church where her father, the vicar, preached fire and brimstone every Sunday morning. An oak, straight-backed chair sat under the window. Near the chair stood a small chest in which Lydia stored her personal items. On the top of the chest was a silver-handled hairbrush – a gift from Lydia’s mother when she turned eighteen. On the wall just to the right of the window, three wooden pegs held Lydia’s her linen nightgown along with two dresses, one a serviceable brown and the other gray, for Sundays.
There were no draperies to cover the window, no rug to warm the floor, and no heat in the attic room. Yet, this small room was Lydia’s refuge, in both the frigid winters and in the muggy summers.
This sparse little room was her escape from her father, the Reverend Matthew Holcomb. He viewed any activity other than reading the bible, praying, performing household chores or charity work, an abomination in the eyes of God.
Here, within the privacy of her own room, where her father had never visited, Lydia found moments of contentment and even joy when she could open the pages of a novella her mother purchased for her. The little books created Lydia’s door to another world where she became the beautiful, luscious heroine in an exciting adventure, and the hero saved her from earthly disasters and sinister villains. Lydia’s green eyes lit up with excitement as she read how the valiant hero, risking life and limb, raced his trustworthy steed to the top of the mountain to save the heroine just before she slipped over the wet, sharp-edged cliff into the boiling sea below.
“Someday,” Lydia sighed, “I will have a life of excitement, and hopefully, I will find a way to escape this boring life.”
Lydia put down the book she was reading and looked out the little window. Reality smacked her in the face when she saw her father marching from the rectory to his office through a garden patch where numerous crocuses had begun to blossom against the muddy brown earth. Someday had better come soon, she thought. She was twenty-four years old, and the children in the church school already called her a spinster. She realized if her father did not let her have a life of her own soon, she would be relegated to a lifetime of afternoon teas with the Widows Charity Organization with her mother and a solitary existence.
She sat down on the chair, and tears of frustration burgeoned in her eyes. What am I going to do? I have tried so hard to be the person my father wants me to be. I am not that woman. I am not saintly, or pure of mind and spirit. I don’t want to spend my life here in Chatham, never experiencing anything of life and adventure. I just cannot be the woman he wants me to be. I have to have a chance to break out and live my own life.
Pulling her shining chestnut hair back into the requisite severe bun at the nape of her neck, she also straightened her dress and fichu. A lifetime of restrictions took its toll on Lydia. She was still an attractive young woman, but she felt beaten down by the years of rejection by her father, as well as his bizarre requirement she never have any contact with members of the opposite sex.
From the day she was born, her father had never held or touched her. He had never kissed her (to her knowledge) and had never spoken kindly to her. The only conversations Lydia could remember with her father pertained to his directives that she remain pure in spirit, chaste in body, and that she never talk to men or boys. She had trained to be a teacher to young girls and had been mechanically doing so for the last eight years.
Yet, Lydia’s optimism refused to diminish. Today, she would approach her father for a second time and talk to him – right before church services.
It did not seem like much of a request … to attend a tea social after Sunday morning church services. The widow’s group from the church was sponsoring tea and scones in the churchyard, weather permitting, right after the service. It was different from the usual teas for the women of the church only; this was to be a mix of both men and women. Her father had already refused her first request to attend without even thinking about it. Lydia’s mother, Caroline, agreed to speak to her father earlier that morning. However, the look on her father’s face told Lydia she had failed again, and she would pay dearly for the affront to her father’s wisdom.
The Reverend Holcomb pasted a smile on his bony face as the parishioners climbed up the stairs and walked past him to enter the church. His voice came out in a whispered sneer as she approached her father. “You would like that, wouldn’t you, Miss Lydia?”
He never addressed his daughter as simply “Lydia”.
“Papa” Lydia began, “the social will be attended by everyone from the church – even you and Mama will be there. It is such a beautiful spring day, and the winter was so harsh. I just want to be able to enjoy being outside with the parishioners. Please don’t make me spend the afternoon in the house.”
“Miss Lydia, need I remind you this is a mixed function? No, I do not need to remind you. You know very well the social will include the young men from the church. No, no, I will not take that chance. You would just love to find yourself with some of the young men from the church … and that will never happen! No daughter of mine will ever engage in sinful conduct. I am doing this for your own good, Miss Lydia. The safest way for me to protect you from sin is to keep you completely away from temptation, and you know I mean men.”
Lydia quickly scanned the area to make sure no one was approaching the steps to the church where she and her father stood. She straightened her shoulders and said
, “Papa, I am almost twenty-four years old, a spinster and a plain woman. No man in his right mind will ever want to talk with me. I promise I will stay by Mama’s side during the entire social.” Lydia fought back the tears of disappointment, but she would not give her father the pleasure of seeing her distress.
The Reverend’s eyes turned dark gray. Lowering his head slightly so Lydia could hear him clearly, he put his right hand to Lydia’s elbow, as though to usher her into the church. Instead, he discretely pinched her elbow, with force. Spittle dribbled down his mouth as he spoke to her, “You’re just like all the women – a slut. You think only of men and making babies. Well, not you! Not my daughter. Don’t you ever forget that. Now, get into church and seat yourself so I may greet my parishioners.”
Lydia lowered her eyes to hide her frustration and anger, took a deep breath, pulled her elbow away from her father, and walked into church. She looked up briefly toward the front pew, where her mother, Caroline Holcomb, looked down the aisle right back at her. Lydia shook her head once to signal the answer had been “no”, and made her way to the front pew to join her mother. They sat down together. For the next few minutes, Lydia busied herself with adjusting her petticoat and smoothing out the folds of the gray gored dress.
After a moment of despair, Lydia pursed her lips in determination and wiped an angry tear from her cheek. Her bun had not been securely fastened, and several tendrils of hair pulled free. She removed her bonnet and yanked all the pins from her hair so her tresses flowed down her back in a cascade of silky brown movement. She proceeded to put her bonnet back on. Her father had told her numerous times a woman’s hair should never be allowed to hang down freely, because that was behavior only a wanton woman would do. Caroline stared wide-eyed at Lydia in disbelief and then patted Lydia’s lap in a gesture of understanding.
Caroline sighed and sat down too, facing the altar so she would no longer have to look towards her husband.
Lydia sat back, and looked around the austere church. All her life she had been obedient and docile – well, most of her life. There was that one summer when she borrowed a pair of boy’s trousers from Hufnagle’s barn. The old oak tree had been taunting her for years to climb those thick branches. Lydia remembered how she trembled with excitement when she had successfully clambered up to the first branch. From there she felt the challenge to ascend higher. Then, she realized she could go no further up … or down! Several of the young boys from town came to gawk at the fourteen-year-old girl, dressed in boy’s breeches, who had managed to get herself stuck in the upper branches of the oak tree. Mr. Smythe’s teen-aged son scaled the tree and helped her down.
Her father could not forgive her outrageous conduct and took a birch stick to her legs. The lashes sliced the back of her legs, and the welts and cuts took almost a week to go down. Her father had mumbled a few words about unladylike conduct and the smithy’s son putting his hands all over Lydia’s body. Nevertheless, the whipping and the month long restriction to her room had been worth the exhilaration and sense of adventure and freedom she had felt. For just a brief second, Lydia enjoyed the sense of liberation and elation again as she waited for her father to begin the church service.
If Papa believed my climbing a tree was scandalous, thought Lydia, he’ll have apoplexy when he learns of my new plan. Then, with luck, by the time he finds out what I plan to do, it will be too late for him to do anything. I will not lose this battle to be a free woman. I will succeed, no matter what Papa thinks.
***
A few days later, Lydia and her mother walked in the brisk morning air to deliver a basket of fresh baked goods to St. Michael’s Sanitarium in the nearby village of Lotham. Neither woman said much, and each focused on avoiding the muddy puddles in the roadway created by the recent winter thaw. Early spring green colors blanketed the countryside against the muddy soil after a hard winter. Two mockingbirds chirped and chased after one another in rapid-fire flight.
Once or twice, Lydia started to say something to her mother, but each time Lydia’s voice faltered, and she ended each attempt at speech with a mumbled phrased that sounded like, “Oh nothing”. Finally, Lydia reached into her cloak pocket and pulled out a small white envelope.
“Now, Mama,” began Lydia, “please don’t think me too bold, but read the contents and tell me what you think. I have not yet read it. Aunt Adele has helped me in this endeavor. She smuggled the letter to me two days ago when we visited her. If I have misjudged your trust in my judgment, forgive me. But, no matter what, I beg you not tell Papa.”
At first, Caroline did not reach out to take the envelope from her daughter. Caroline and Lydia spoke, on occasion, about the stultifying life they both lead under the roof of Matthew Holcomb.
“I have a feeling you have taken a dramatic step, dear,” said her mother. “At least, I hope you have. I wish I could have thought of something to help you.”
“Mama, I am not unhappy. It’s just sometimes I do get a little bored.” She looked away and grimaced. She hated to lie to her mother.
“Lydia, let’s not play games. Our life is unpleasant, and that is the most that can be said about it. However, while I made my choice when I was younger than you are now, you have not been given the opportunity to make any choices. I regret only my own lack of creativity in coming up with a plan to help you find some happiness in life.”
Caroline looked down at the letter in her hand. The fancy script on the envelope was addressed to Miss Lydia Holcomb, but the address was for Caroline’s own sister, Adele Farberstrum, who lived in nearby Thornton Cove. Caroline examined the envelope – it had not yet been opened.
“Tell me, why haven’t you opened the envelope?”
“I want to share this with you. I didn’t know how to tell you what I have been looking into. So, whether the letter is good or bad, after you read it, at least you will know what I want to do with my life.”
Slowly, Caroline removed her gloves and opened the envelope with care. She pushed back a few loose strands of dark brown hair which showed no signs of any graying. Lydia fidgeted with her gloves as she watched her mother, waiting for a reaction.
Caroline skimmed the contents of the letter and then read aloud:
“Dear Miss Holcomb:
I was most pleased to receive your inquiry for the position of governess in San Francisco for the children of the Lord Saxonby and Lady Saxonby, which I had advertised in The London Times. Your accomplishments as a teacher for children are excellent. Additionally, you come from a good family, well-recognized in the community for its charitable work. Therefore, it would give me great pleasure to meet with you Tuesday next, at 11:00 am at my offices on Baxter Street here in London to further discuss the details of this position.”
The signature on the letter said, “Hiram T. Quigley, Solicitor.”
Caroline’s hand began to tremble. Lydia peered cautiously from under her bonnet at her mother, trying to contain her own excitement, and at the same time, aching for her mother’s understanding of her sense of desperation.
Lydia could no longer wait for a response from her mother and assumed the worst. “Mama, forgive me. I never wanted you to believe you have an ungrateful child on your hands.”
“Lydia. Stop that nonsense! You and I both know you have no life as long as you continue to live under the roof with your father. I only wish I had been the one to think of such a wonderful solution. It’s high time you start living, Lydia. You have waited much too long already. Oh, Lydia! I couldn’t be happier for you! This is wonderful. Now, we must think of a scheme to get both of us out of the house next Tuesday so we can get you to London for your appointment.”
Caroline’s deep blue eyes began to twinkle. “You know, Lydia, I feel the excitement of being alive again. It has been too many years since I felt this way. Just give me a couple of minutes to come up with a plan.”
Lydia couldn’t believe her ears. She was going to interview for the governess position with the solicitor! Better yet, her mot
her was actually going to help her get out of the parsonage and away from her overbearing father. Suddenly, from somewhere deep inside Lydia, a short giggle burst out. The giggle worked its way into a quiet laugh. Then, a full-blown gale of laughter came from Lydia. Caroline looked confused. She glanced at Lydia, and Caroline broke into laughter as well.
“Yes, yes, yes. A thousand yeses! Oh Mama, I am so happy. For the first time in my life I feel as though I have a chance to be free and to hold my head up and look around without fear of father accusing me of wanton behavior. I actually have a chance to live my life the way I want to live it, and not the way father dictates to me. Yes. I want to go to London to speak with Mr. Quigley. I may not get the teaching position, but for the first time in my life, I feel true hope for the future.”
With that said, Lydia threw her arms around her mother’s shoulders, and heedless of all the puddles and mud, swung her mother around and around while both women squealed with joy.
The laughter of the women echoed around them, and the early spring sun continued to warm the land and give birth to new growth.
CHAPTER 2
The two women delivered the supplies to the Sanitarium and left sooner than normal. They had plans to make.
Lydia and Caroline walked back to Chatham, each woman looked down at the ground, lost in thought. Caroline said, “I’ve got it! We will visit the Westcott Women’s Club in London. As a charity organization, it has received the favorable attention of the Archbishop of Canterbury for its work at several orphanages. In fact, the Archbishop’s wife is quite active in the group. I know they meet on Tuesday afternoons. I’ll suggest to your father you and I attend the meeting so we can begin such an organization in Chatham. Your father is always interested in currying favor with the Archbishop; he hopes for an assignment to a better parish. An organization such as the Westcott Women’s Club in Chatham bodes well for your him. I’m sure he will let us go. We’ll take the downstairs maid, Abigail, as a chaperone.”
Lydia’s face flushed with anticipation and her green eyes burned with determination. As they neared the parsonage, both women slowed their gait, as though dreading to walk through the gate to the churchyard. Although a few of the nearby trees had small buds on their branches, the leafless oak tree in the parsonage yard declared the gloom that prevailed in the parsonage.
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