The Last Bachelor

by Betina Krahn

  “A marrying wage?” she said, reaching for another lamp globe.

  He frowned. “You know … enough money to get married and support a wife.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t know, had never heard the term.

  “If Hanks sticks me with too many other duties, like cleaning, my pay suffers.”

  “It does? You mean they don’t pay you to do this work?”

  “No. Didn’t they explain all this to you when you started?” he asked with genuine concern. When she shook her head, he made a noise of disgust. Then he eyed her and her tailored silk dress. “You’re new to working, aren’t you?”

  “Not really,” she said with a defensive edge.

  “Those are mourning colors. You must be a widow.” She nodded and he smiled sympathetically. “I thought so. Those are mighty fine clothes for a shop clerk.”

  His consoling look made Antonia realize that he believed her bereavement was recent. She sensed that to correct that impression could open a number of other questions about her being there. As they progressed to rearranging a display of bed linens, she ventured a few questions of him and was surprised to learn he was the son of a knitting-mill foreman from New Market and had come to London hoping to find an entry into the world of business. He worked at the Emporium by day, attended classes by night, and had a fondness for a girl named Meg, which made the need for a marrying wage more urgent every day.

  “What sort of classes? From what sort of a school?” Antonia asked, warming to this good-hearted young man who seemed to think marriage a desirable state.

  “It’s a company-sponsored school, with classes taught by leading men from banks and companies and firms in the City. It’s the best part of working here. We learn bookkeeping, the laws of commerce, and the principles of good business. If my commissions are good and I study hard, I can work my way up … someday have my own department, or even my own store.”

  Antonia watched the light in his eyes and recalled that the men in Remington’s employ spoke proudly of having worked their way up to positions of trust and authority. Young Davidson seemed to have pinned his hopes for the future on just such a possibility. A sweet ache developed in her chest at the thought that Remington’s liberal policies might give Davidson the chance to marry his Meg and fulfill his dream.

  The young clerk had a sudden thought and leaned eagerly across a stack of pillow covers. “Say … play your cards right, and maybe they’ll let you into the classes. The store’s owner is known to favor giving females a hand.”

  “He is?” Her suspicions came alive as she realized how her thoughts were softening. “Well, any man would give a woman a hand,” she said primly, “for a price.”

  Davidson frowned, puzzled, then took her meaning and reddened. “Well, I know what they say about Lord Carr in the papers, but I don’t believe it. He’s a good man. He’d never attack a woman on the street.”

  “Attack a woman?” Her shock was genuine.

  Davidson glanced around to see that no one was looking, then slipped around a counter and snagged a copy of a newspaper hidden beneath it. Holding it low, he showed her a front page bearing Gaflinger’s gaudy masthead and a story title on the lower half that declared:

  NOBLEMAN ASSAULTS WOMAN ON STREET!

  Below that hideous accusation was a subtitle that only muddled the issue further: “Landon Forces the Lady to Do Men’s Work!” Antonia’s heart stopped as she read the rather bizarre account, in which Remington was supposed to have seized her in the street, dragged her back to his offices, and forced her to perform “degrading male labor.”

  The story, like the ink and paper used to print it, presented everything in stark black and white. Once again she was the courageous woman and Remington was the jaded, world-weary beast who was determined to ruin her good name and virtuous spirit. The sensational way they described his actions struck her with unexpected impact, and she reddened and gripped the paper tighter. How could they print such obviously false things?

  “It’s a lot of bunkum, is what it is,” young Davidson said, bringing her back to the present. “His lordship’s a fair man and a good employer. He’s given me a chance to better myself, and I can’t believe he would do such a thing to a decent woman—”

  “Here, here—what’s going on?” A harsh voice demanded their attention, and they stuffed the paper behind them as they whirled to find Mr. Hanks glowering at them. “I’ll not have you standing about idle, gossiping like old women. I want an accounting of every runner, tablecloth, and napkin on the shelves,” he ordered. Antonia did an admirable job of constraining her irritable impulses, until she turned to follow Davidson, and Hanks put out an arm to block her way. “Not you.” He thrust a broom in her hands instead. “You … sweep.”

  “I think it would be much more efficient if one of us counted and the other kept the tally,” she said emphatically.

  “You think? You’re not paid to think.” He reddened ominously. “I’ll not have women handling numbers in my department. I want an accurate count.”

  Hanks strode away, leaving Antonia hot-faced and sputtering. She would have gone after him, but Davidson pulled her back and shook his head in warning. “Don’t get on the wrong side of him,” he whispered. “He’d sack you in a wink.”

  “What—does he think women can’t count?” she demanded, matching his whisper, though with extra force.

  “He thinks women should be at home, not in shops doing men’s work.” He shrugged apologetically and advised: “Better start pushing that broom.”

  Men’s work. She frowned and looked down at the broom handle in her hand. Sweeping, dusting shelves, cleaning lamp globes, counting linen … this was men’s work? It was called women’s work when it was done in the home. What made it so different out here, in the almighty world of trade and commerce? She looked up at the male clerks going about their tidying, tending, and assisting customers. The answer was: nothing. There wasn’t any difference, except the location in which it was done. Women’s work. Men’s work. How dare the old cod tell her she wasn’t capable of simple counting, just because he believed all women belonged at home! What if she actually wanted to work here?

  The thought struck: what if she needed to work here? What if she had to make her own way in the world, like so many unmarried and widowed women did? What if she had children to feed and no husband to provide for them? What must it be like for such women to be told they belonged at home because all they were capable of was “women’s work”?

  The incident lingered in her mind through the rest of the afternoon as she was shifted from department to department in the store. Admittedly, the display shelves at the front of the store needed cleaning, the brass fittings on the glass cases needed polishing, and the display shoes needed to be shined. But the narrow looks she received from the various department heads hinted that their choice of work for her had to do with the fact that they were eager to have her off their hands.

  The coveted task of waiting on customers and the reward of earning commissions were reserved for the senior clerks and those juniors fortunate enough to escape lesser duties. She watched the clerks in each department vie for the chance to assist customers. And on two occasions, when she was approached by a woman customer desiring help, the department manager quickly intervened and steered the customer toward one of the senior clerks. Davidson, she observed dismally, was faring little better than she was in securing the opportunity to make sales.

  By the time the counters and tables were draped for the night and the employees were dismissed, Antonia’s back was aching, her eyes were burning from the dyes, lint, and dust, and she was in no mood to have to deal with Remington Carr. But when she exited the employee’s entrance wondering where she could get a cab to take her home, she spotted Remington’s carriage waiting on the street and felt a treacherous burst of gratitude inside.

  He must have been watching for her; he swung down immediately from the carriage and bundled her inside. As the carriage lurched into motion, h
e looked her over and grinned at what he saw. She sat straighter and sent a self-conscious hand to check her hat and hair … and regretted it instantly, as his smile broadened.

  “A hard day, was it?” he said.

  “I’ve had worse,” she said tightly, looking out the window. “I can’t imagine what you think you have accomplished by all this.”

  “I can’t imagine either. Why don’t you tell me?” he said, leaning back against the soft leather seat and folding his arms. “What did you learn about men’s work today?”

  She frowned as she thought about it. “I learned that men’s work is tiresome, grueling, and largely indistinguishable from women’s work,” she answered testily. “I dusted, swept, cleaned, polished, and put up with impossible people, mostly managers and staff. I could have stayed home and done the very same things. Do you know—that idiot department head, Hanks, wouldn’t allow me to count linens in his department? Apparently he thinks women have defective heads when it comes to numbers.”

  He winced. “Unfortunately, not everyone in my employ shares my profound and ever-enlarging respect for womanhood. What else?”

  His words, though lightly spoken, echoed through Antonia with unexpected impact. In that moment her ideas about him and his views on women’s rights underwent a palpable shift. He did respect women, though in a way she hadn’t recognized as respect until now. He insisted they should have the right to work, to learn, to be independent and take care of themselves outside of marriage. And that new recognition of his decency and fairness released a well-guarded warmth in her.

  “I also learned that working outside the home can be difficult for women,” she continued, her spirits rising, “not because they cannot do the work, but because of others’ attitudes toward them. If a woman needs or wishes to work for pay, to support herself and be independent, then she should be allowed to do so without some old fossil like Hanks degrading or berating her. I have to say, today’s experience has quite converted me to your school of thought.”

  “It has?” His grin faded.

  “Most certainly. I see clearly now that many women need never marry at all,” she said, beaming vengefully. “Marriage is indeed an inequitable institution … one that constrains and burdens women unfairly. If a woman chooses not to marry, then she should be allowed to train and work to support herself, independent of men.” His face was as readable as a newspaper headline; he was genuinely alarmed by her adoption of his “enlightened” views.

  “Hold on, now. I never said …” But he had said marriage was onerous and inequitable. “I never said women should …” But he had said that unmarried women should give up the notion of marriage. “I have never said that a woman had a right to choose or not choose marriage,” he declared adamantly.

  “That’s true.” Her smile broadened. “But since you have widely championed that freedom for men, I’m sure that was just an oversight on your part.” There was a bit of justice in the world, she thought, relishing the sight of him with his ears aflame and his face dark with the knowledge that the duality of his standard was showing.

  “Or perhaps the newspapers and magazines just neglected to print it,” she continued, smiling softly. “That is another thing I learned today: you cannot trust the newspapers to present the whole or unbiased truth.”

  He fastened on those words and she could see him analyzing and interpreting them. “You saw the article,” he concluded, trying to decide if it was good or bad.

  “I did.” She paused to censor her words before she revealed any part of the outrage that vicious bit of scandalmongering had generated in her. “And I must say, your lordship, I wouldn’t have guessed that you and that odious Gaflinger’s Gazette had so much in common.”

  “In common? How is that?” he growled.

  “You both have a way of being miserably wrong, even when you’re right.”

  Remington sighed quietly while she settled back into the seat and into silence. But he brightened when it occurred to him that the day hadn’t been a total waste if it led her to admit that at least on occasion he was right.

  Promptly at eight-thirty the next morning, Remington’s carriage appeared in the street outside Paxton House. Antonia was determined to ignore it this time. In one short day she had experienced enough of “men’s work” to last a lifetime. But the wretched coach remained in the street until a quarter past ten and once again drew attention—from news writers, delivery lorries, a local constable, and several irate neighbors who felt that street access to their houses was being impeded.

  The tsking and tutting outside the small parlor finally pulled Antonia from her desk. When she emerged and strode for the front door, intent on sending the carriage and driver packing, she found Aunt Hermione in the front hall, dressed for an outing and holding her hat and gloves. In short order Hermione had harnessed her forward momentum and propelled her through the clutch of news writers and straight into the open carriage. They were under way before Antonia recovered enough to protest. In the cross seat Hermione sat with a cherubic smile.

  “Put your hat on, dear,” Hermione said, thrusting it into her lap. “The blue goes perfectly with your eyes.”

  When the carriage stopped, Antonia was surprised to find herself being handed down onto the street before the Emporium. Standing not three yards away was Remington, with a watch in his hand. He glanced at her and at the timepiece, then shook his head. After giving his driver instructions to take Hermione on to his offices, where his Uncle Paddington awaited her, he took Antonia by the elbow and propelled her toward the employee entrance of the store.

  “We shall have to do something about this tardiness of yours.”

  “This is low,” she said irritably, wresting her arm from his hand and walking ahead a pace. “Employing my own aunt to belay and kidnap me. You do seem to bring out the worst in people, your lordship.” From the corner of her eye she saw his smug expression fade and felt a twinge of satisfaction. “This is positively the last time. After today my obligation to you is finished.”

  “Two weeks, Antonia, not two days,” he declared.

  “Two days in this place is the same as two weeks … believe me,” she said crossly, quickening her step and hurrying up the steps and through the door without looking back.

  The hidebound Mr. Hanks was positively choleric when she appeared in his department—more than two hours after store opening. He spent some time berating her lack of diligence and industry. Then he ordered her to remove “that ridiculous bonnet,” handed her a dust cap, and set her to washing the front windows. She spent the better part of two hours standing in the middle of a huge display window, in blistering sunlight, breathing ammonia fumes. She was so miserable, she scarcely noticed the people stopping to peer into the window … or the fact that a number of them wore brown bowlers and carried notepads.

  It was approaching dinnertime before she was able to finish and return to the sales floor. Davidson greeted her with a wan smile and, over the course of the next hour, introduced her to a number of the other young clerks. They didn’t seem a bad lot, individually, but their comradeship evaporated the instant a customer came into view.

  Antonia found their competitive attitude and blatant self-interest unsettling. From her largely menial tasks she was able to observe their quiet jostling for sales and resulting commissions, and noticed the subtle flow of favor toward certain junior clerks, who were not assigned tidying duties. Then, just when they were due to go to dinner, Davidson was approached by a fashionably dressed gentleman who had a number of purchases to make. She watched with growing pleasure as Davidson ably assisted the customer and suggested a number of related items the man found desirable. It would be his first large sale and would make a wonderful contribution to his “marriage fund.”

  But Antonia was not the only one watching. The department head, Hanks, and the senior clerks were also taking note of the mounting total. Just when Davidson was about to finalize the sale and collect the payment, Hanks stepped in and direc
ted the customer and his sizable purchase to one of the senior clerks for writing up. Davidson was forced to step away and watch the commission go to another clerk. Antonia was stunned by the injustice of it, but was even more shocked by Davidson’s attitude toward what to her would have been a lethal blow.

  “That’s the way it is, sometimes,” he said, swallowing his disappointment along with his bread and cheese as he shared his cold dinner with her over a barrel in the stock room. He shrugged. “There’ll be another sale.”

  “But it’s not fair,” she declared. “You needed that commission.”

  He gave her a pained look. “Harrison needed the commission too … he’s got four children to feed.” When she frowned and folded her arms, he smiled. “We all need the money. Most of the seniors have wives and families to support, and the juniors—Easley has two younger brothers to feed, and Bayless is taking care of his sick mother. Look, I don’t mind competing in a contest where everybody does his best. I can hold my own in a fair fight.” He scowled. “What’s bad is when the department heads mix in and play favorites. That means you never know if your sale will be snatched out of your hands and all your hard work will go for naught.” After a thoughtful silence he straightened and his boyish smile reappeared.

  “I lost this time. But the next time I’ll win because I’ll work that much harder. Take a lesson, Paxton. You have to be able to take a few knocks and come back again. You have to learn to take it like a man.”

  She didn’t want to take it like a man, she thought, when the dinner break ended and she was plunged back into the tension of the sales floor. She wanted to take it like a woman—rather, like a mother—so she could take the rest of them by the ear, make them say they were sorry, and make them promise to behave in a more civilized and charitable manner. Competition. Ugh.

  But as the day wore on and she watched the other clerks on the floor, she began to think about Davidson’s view of it as a contest that was sometimes won, sometimes lost. Gradually she began to see Harrison in terms of four hungry little mouths, Easley as a diligent older brother, and Bayless as a dutiful son. Each man on the floor was driven by responsibilities, which made their striving pressured at times, but at least more understandable.