Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About this E-Book
London, in the year 1872. In Victorian England, opportunities are scarce for Joanna and her sisters. Their only hope is to marry well, but who would take one of the penniless sisters as a wife? Joanna doesn’t believe in fairy tales or princes, but she fiercely believes in herself. She decides to pursue a career of her own – by attending the prestigious Oliver Kenwood Boarding School, disguised as a boy.
There is only one issue: her cunning yet fascinating teacher Charles Hanson seems to dislike her with a passion – and she finds it increasingly difficult to hold up her disguise, especially when rich and confident Abigail sets her eyes on Hanson, driving Joanna inexplicably furious. To make matters worse, Joanna begins to wonder whether her secret is really safe …
Impressum
English Original Edition December 2017
Copyright © 2017, dp DIGITAL PUBLISHERS GmbH
Made in Stuttgart with ♥
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-3-96087-297-9
Coverdesign: Anna Jane Greenville
Editing: Sarah Schemske
Copyediting: Beth Lynne
Display of the text approved by the publisher can vary according to which gadget is used to access this ebook.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Find out more about the publisher
Website
Follow us
Newsletter
Facebook
Twitter
Chapter 1
Position and Partiality
'Jo,' yelled Eleanor, making the walls of our small and dusky house tremble in fear of her high-pitched voice, 'Jo, come quickly!'
My sister was one to make a big fuss over a small matter in regular intervals. Preferably during the quiet hours after dinner, when her brutally squeaky voice would stand in the most distinguished contrast to the harmonious silence. Confrontation was better avoided for arguments were impossible to win, as her lingual exploitations were as rich in resources as they were poor in logic. One could all but hide, and hope for the storm to pass without becoming its victim.
My favourite hiding place was in the world of Charles Dickens. I knew every word he had ever cared to collect in a novel by heart. The sentences formed in my mind before my eyes could skim through the letters. But not even a thousand pages forged from fine wood and decorated with the most beautiful of writings were fortress enough to keep my sister at bay, hence my plan to spend a lazy afternoon with my beloved characters was shattered like John Chivery's hopes to marry Amy in Little Dorrit, book 1, chapter 18.
Eleanor stormed the tiny bedroom like it was the Bastille, and she, La Liberté of the French Revolution. Except that her dress was not torn – though old and well-worn it might be. And instead of a Tricolour, it was her sleeves that flapped about furiously – an exertion that made her face go all red. On second thought, my little sister looked less like a famous painting and more like a mad chicken.
'Quickly!' she demanded and grabbed my arm firmly. In an urgent gallop she stomped down the tiny, creaking staircase, pulling me behind her.
In the kitchen, I was released and embraced by the strong aroma of food. The glum, little room was fearfully warm for the singular small window was not big enough to let the cooking heat and scents vent. The smell of food never left, as if we were rich and could afford plenty. Eleanor pointed to that very window with an unsteady finger and a shaking voice: 'Do you see the monstrous spider?'
'No.'
'It is right there above the frame!'
I took the magnifying glass from the cupboard at my left which had once belonged to father, pointed it to where Eleanor was indicating, and exclaimed: 'Oh, there it is.'
'Please, kill it, Jo. I was about to feed the cat when the wretched thing attacked.'
She threw up her long lashes at me and her eyes grew even bigger than they normally were. They filled to the rim with tears, which never failed to achieve their objective.
I fought the urge to strangle her, which, for a moment, seemed inexpressibly tempting. And surely I would have acted on it, had I not been told to love her from the very day she had been an ugly, wrinkled, little lump. According to Darwin it was not even her fault that she was such an unbearable, little creature but due to the traits she had inherited from our parents – though I did not recall father or mother half-fainting at the mere sight of an insect. I did not recall a great many things about them, in general, for the past three months had blocked my memory making my life prior to the most recent events seemed like a blurry dream. Seeing Eleanor fret over inconsequential matters felt strangely normal, and I was almost grateful for it.
A heavy sigh escaped my lips before I mounted the wooden table which had no two legs of the same length, and I reached for the spider to let it crawl onto my finger. Eleanor squealed, and ran to the far corner of the kitchen, instead of supporting the table, which leaned in a different direction every time I took even a breath. With a loud thud I jumped onto the brown tiled floor, and opened the door to let the spider escape over the rusty handrail that connected our home with the outside world, only then, Eleanor stopped screaming, and squealing, and being altogether intolerable.
The lush leaves of the trees around my family's house rustled in applause of my heroic act. A fresh breeze of warm spring air embraced me, and a glorious quietness settled. I climbed up a nearby tree, as high as I could, before Eleanor could find other employment for me. She would never follow me up a tree for it was full of bugs.
High above the roof of our small Regency cottage that the sea salt laden air had decorated with deep cracks, I resumed my journey through the streets of Southwark as depicted by Charles Dickens. And though Amy Dorrit and Arthur Clennam were captivating companions throughout that journey, they failed to take my mind off my dwellings. Troublesome thoughts, that I had successfully pushed from my mind this morning, returned with a greater force than ever before, I closed my eyes for a moment to collect myself.
'How many times have I told you not to sleep in the tree,' thundered the angry voice of Elizabeth. Even in rage my older sister sounded as beautiful as she looked. 'You might take a fall and break your neck.'
In the past, this conclusion of hers would have been accompanied by father's laughter. He would poke his head from a window, and insist I was too lucky a girl to ever break anything regardless of the height I fell from because I was like a cat who always landed on its feet. I did not feel so very lucky now, that he and mother were gone.
I opened my eyes and looked down to my sister.
Elizabeth returned home much earlier than expected. Even though she held herself gracefully and took off the bonnet and gloves in the elegant manner which was so natural to her, I could see, that her cheeks were crimson with fury. She paced the small, dusky kitchen, while she waited for her audience to arrive.
Just like my younger sister, my older sister was in constant need of attention, which was scarce on the Isle of Wight, as not many people lived on it.
My two sisters caused enough commotion for three, therefore, feeling my services were not needed, I mostly remained quiet in the background. After all, capriciousness was part of the charm in a beautiful lady but ugly in a plain one.
Upon hearing Elizabeth, Eleanor ran down the stairs to join us. The stomping of her little feet shook the walls so violently, I was afraid the cottage might cave at any moment.
Seeing Elizabeth's deep frown our little sister stopped dead in her tracks, straight as a candle, like a miniature soldier in a white dress.
'It is unbelievable,' Elizabeth uttered in a low, enraged voice.
Eleanor instantly thought she had done something wrong and drew in her breath sharply. Elizabeth had an authority over her I could never dream to achieve.
'He refused me, because I am a woman. I could hardly contain my temper,' she looked at us, intently, searching for an adequate reaction, but while a spider was an easy opponent for me, my eldest sister's emotions were not. I felt Eleanor slide up behind me using me as a shield, her small, sweaty hands clung to mine, reminding me how young she was.
Tears glistened in Elizabeth's eyes - not due to the disappointment she feared to have caused her family, but because of the humiliating feeling the rejection had stirred within her. Utterly strength-less she sunk to one of the old chairs and leaned against the table, which shifted its position under the weight of her arm.
Being the eldest of three daughters, Elizabeth had the hardest time accustoming to our new situation. With a gentleman as a father and a pretty enough face, she had always thought herself to be a proper lady. Indeed, she was very accomplished, played the piano, spoke French, and her embroidery was second to none. But if there was one thing I admired her the most for, it was the fact that she had overcome her pride in order to apply for a position as a companion to an elderly gentleman, who had only recently moved to Wight. According to rumour, he was nearly blind and deaf, between 120 and 170 years old (accounts varied here), and in desperate need of someone who would read to him. His bad temper had made him mildly famous among our neighbours, as he refused everyone who applied.
'There is no one else here, who would have the means to entertain a companion or a governess. I will have to go away,' my oldest sister's voice matched her expression. She would not find the slightest of pleasures in leaving the comfort, however small, of her family. Folding her arms in front of her chest, Elizabeth tapped nervously on her elbow. Her delicate nail caught on the frill of her sleeve, adding to her overall vexation. As she was forced to uncoil the thread, she looked down on her dress, which was long out of fashion. The space between her eyebrows wrinkled further.
A little while ago, it would have been hard to imagine what being poor meant, but now it was very vivid. We had never led a life in wasteful splendour but we had had the luxury to spend our father's income on little things, which the heart desired. A new bonnet here, an old book there. That was until last winter. A harsh winter, indeed.
I wanted to say something adequate and soothing but I could not think of a single thing that I had not already voiced a dozen times over the past weeks. 'All will be well' – all was not well and neither would it miraculously become so; 'we have us' – whatever is left, at least; 'we will manage, we will find a way' – quite evidently we were neither doing one nor the other; 'Not all is lost' – perhaps not all, but very nearly everything. I feared that if I said any of it my sister would attack me with a dull and rusty knife, for we had already sold all the silver.
'It is unthinkable that any of us should leave for any other reason than to marry,' said Eleanor, who had always imagined a handsome and wealthy young gentleman to ride into our village on a fiery steed, and take her with him, for naturally, she would be the fulfilment of all his dreams. It was enough to make me cry, and from the look of it, Elizabeth was close to tears also. If I started crying they all would, so instead I caught a loose strand of my hair and curled it around my finger.
The depression in the room was so thick it was almost tangible. Something had to change. With a swift movement of the hand I scooped the scissors off the kitchen table, and cut off my dark hair, which rained heavily on the floor. My sisters gasped.
'Elizabeth,' I demanded with forced cheerfulness, 'have you not told the gentleman that you have a brother?'
Chapter 2
Oddness and Oldness
'No man will want you for a wife if this gets known,' Eleanor proclaimed.
'As of now, to find myself a husband is not the most urgent concern,' I said harshly. This was not a moment to think about more problems but to try and solve the most pressing one.
The usually so eloquent Elizabeth was flabbergasted and if I waited for her to restore herself, she would surely say something that would dim my resolve. I briskly walked up the stairs before she regained her composure.
A brittle ladder led through a square hole to the attic. Covered in dust and spider webs, wooden beams formed a cross above my head, the smell of forgotten time hung in the air. It was a small space and almost empty, bar an old mirror and trunk. The lock of that trunk gave way under creaking protest, its lid hit against the wall and a cloud of dust went up like a thick fog. It made me cough.
How strange, that after many months father's clothes still smelled of him. Rummaging through the content, I picked out a beige shirt, that once was white, and dark green trousers. I exchanged my black, heavy cotton dress, the corset, and underskirts for them, in the constricted space available. It was strangely liberating. The clothes were too big but much lighter than my usual wear. I picked the first jacket and hat that I came across, and slid my arms through the sleeves of the former. It’s padded shoulders almost reached my elbows, I cramped up the sleeves as far as they would go.
'I will not allow this,' Elizabeth’s voice startled me. Her face emerged from the hole in the floor. The fury in her eyes illuminated the dark attic. She climbed the ladder and built herself up before me. The old, faded mirror in the corner, displayed the vast discrepancy between her and me. Having always been rather plain-looking in comparison to my sisters, I appeared almost inconsequential now, with short hair, wearing father's clothes that looked wrong on me – it was now a sight I had to get accustomed to. The dresses, handed down to me by my sister, never looked right on me anyway.
'Am I not ridiculed enough? Is my own sister going to humiliate me, and take away every last notion of dignity there is left?' she demanded.
'Hurting you, dearest Elizabeth, is the last thing on my mind,' I said quietly, and it was all it took to break the dam of tears. Elizabeth sobbed and yelled at me, but I still descended the ladder and stairs. She followed me as far as to the door, shouting her misery at me as though it was my fault. Her violent words, howling behind me, stung like a million daggers, and made me accelerate my pace to get as far, and as fast away from them as I could.
Running all the way, I could feel the wind through the thin fabric – there was no petty coat or corset to keep away its invigorating chill, and it was astonishing how much faster I could go wearing trousers instead of a dress, even though the braces where too long, forcing me to readjust them every yard. My brown, leather boots usually hidden underneath a heavy cotton skirt, now freed, hurried through the little forest, down a long dusty gravel road, and over the meadow, where my sisters and I had played as children. I jumped over a stream without bothering to cross the bridge, and had there been a mountain I felt like I could have jumped over it, too.
Everything had progressed so quickly, that I did not have time to think. But now, with only the waves crashing against the cliffs in the distance and my soles crunching on the ground for noise, the magnitude of my actions hit me hard. I pulled my hat lower. What was I doing? What made me think this scheme could ever work? I wanted to grab a loose strand of hair and curl it around my finger, as I always did when I was nervous, but all my hand caught was air, and I realised that there was no going back now, because it would be a shame if I had brought upon myself this ugly hair style for nothing.
A cottage rose from above the rolling hills. Yellow bricks, entangled in reddening ivy piled up to the brown roof tiles, that were embedded in soft moss. The windows framed nothing but endlessly blue s
ky. No one had lived in this house for a long time, but, unlike our house, the beautiful building had not aged. It had simply adjusted to the scenery of green puffy meadows and tall trees that reached on to the horizon. Despite the idyllic picture before me, a suffocating tension lay its fingers around my throat.
Perhaps, I had been too hasty, after all, and the wish to help my family had prevailed over my common sense. How humiliating it would be if the old man saw through my dress-up the moment I walked in. Gossip travelled fast on the small Isle of Wight. However, father once said that it was better to do one's best and fail, rather than not to try at all.
My feet reached the porch before my mind did. The heat came to my cheeks. I feared my heart pounding in my chest would be louder than my fist knocking on the door. No one answered.
A strong gust of wind carried in from the sea, and pushed the door open noiselessly, a long hallway stretched out before me running into the light of a tall window.
'Good afternoon,' I shouted through the doorway.
Only the wind answered by pushing me inside.
'I came for the advertised position,' I trailed off as my words disappeared in the vast hall.
A gold-framed mirror hanged horizontally in the golden flower field of a detailed wallpaper. I looked more out of place in the reflection than a rabbit among horses. The yellow shimmer of my surroundings highlighted me like the oddity in a fair. Father's worn, old clothes drowned my small figure like the clasp of a monstrous wave. A pair of fearful eyes looked back at me. The skewed hair-cut made strands point in all directions. I tried to ruffle it into something more presentable. It was hard to say whether or not I looked like a boy, but I certainly did not look like a girl.
The hallway led to a large, airy room with big windows, that caught the whole of the setting sun in them. An orange glow lay over the majestic furniture, of which not one piece matched the other. All of it had such an unfamiliar look to it, that I could not help but wonder, if any two pieces were from the same country.
The Girl who was a Gentleman Page 1