by Erin Satie
The gawkers finally made themselves useful. The gentleman got down on both knees and reached for the struggling child. The women stooped on either side, and working together, they lifted the boy.
Bonny’s fingers scrabbled for purchase on the slick, slimy stones of the embankment. She held on for long enough to take a few breaths and untangle her skirts, then pushed off again.
The second rescue was much easier. The boy wrapped his arms around her neck and kicked vigorously while she steered them toward safety. As soon as they were within arm’s reach of the rescuers, he let go.
Bonny kept herself afloat until two gentlemen—the useless gawker and a newcomer, brawny despite the gray at his temples—knelt in tandem. Each took one of her arms and, on the count of three, heaved with all their strength. They lifted her, though only halfway—after a second count and a second mighty pull, Bonny swung knees onto the stone embankment. She crawled away from the canal, panting hard, and collapsed on the grass.
She struggled to catch her breath. Her hair had fallen out of its careful coiffure, and the tangled locks dripped foul water into her eyes and mouth. Her waterlogged dress no longer fit properly; it felt tight at the seams and loose everywhere else.
Bonny’s head hung low and heavy. The polished patent leather of men’s boots and the soiled hems of ladies’ dresses surrounded her on all sides. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the drama and high emotion of the rescue.
One of the boys began to weep. The other coughed up water, his little chest shuddering.
Someone snickered. A whispered comment, of which Bonny caught only a few words, set her cheeks to burning. The danger was over. The time for passing judgment and cracking jokes had arrived. And Bonny was on her hands and knees before an audience of sophisticated Londoners, wearing a light summer dress rendered both clinging and transparent by the dunking she’d given it.
Two women stepped out of the crowd. Long-limbed, willowy, and almost of a height, one wore primrose pink and the other daffodil yellow. The girl in pink, pale and blond, had thin, smiling lips and a haughty tilt to her head. The girl in yellow, her skin the deep rich brown of new-poured bronze, was more watchful. She swept the crowd with jet-black eyes as she advanced on Bonny.
“Are we human beings or are we vultures?” snapped the girl in pink. “If you want to idle about and gossip, do it by the buffet tables.”
“No reaction,” murmured the girl in yellow. She had a slight accent, just enough to reveal that she’d been born speaking a language other than English, in a place other than England. Africa? The Indies? “How strange.”
“Oh, very peculiar indeed,” returned the girl in pink, voice flat with scorn.
The two women shook out their shawls and held them outspread like a pair of lacy curtains. Acting as one, they crouched on either side of Bonny, sheltering her from view.
“Can you stand?” asked the girl in yellow.
Bonny tried to answer, but she couldn’t articulate through her chattering teeth. It was a warm day, but she ached to the bone with cold.
“Do your best,” said the other. “We’ll make up the difference.”
They linked arms with Bonny and stood. Bonny stumbled, but her rescuers held her upright—bearing her weight without a groan or a grimace, as though she were light as a feather.
The two young women marched Bonny to the house, sheltering her with their shawls the whole way, steadying her steps and chattering in bright, tart voices.
“Only a little farther.” The girl in pink coaxed—and then, in a more normal tone to her friend, “Did you see those fools doting on Lilian Crowley?”
“Naturally,” returned the girl in yellow. “All men know that the rule where weeping women are concerned is to give comfort first and ask questions later.”
“She is a champion weeper,” said the girl in pink. Then more sweetly, “Almost there.”
The staff flocked to them.
“We need to get her out of these wet clothes,” said the girl in pink. “We need privacy—and I mean privacy, keep any prying eyes well away—”
The girl in yellow stepped in. “And hot tea with plenty of sugar. Something warm to eat and enough water to wash the stink of the canal off.”
Two footmen made for the kitchens at a trot. One of the younger maids offered to find a change of clothes in Bonny’s size.
Another maid, fairly senior given her proud posture, said, “This way,” and led them into the sprawling house.
Just as they reached the first flight of stairs, a uniformed maid appeared with a blanket. Bonny’s rescuers reclaimed their shawls and helped wrap the thick wool around her shoulders.
They were ushered into a plainly furnished bedroom. The senior maid unfastened the buttons running along the back of Bonny’s dress and picked the knot of her stays loose. Bonny’s two rescuers held her in their arms while she stepped out of her skirts, lest she stumble. They didn’t blush when the maid peeled Bonny’s soaked chemise away from her chilled, clammy body. They simply swaddled her in the blanket and helped her sit on the narrow bed.
“Thank you,” said Bonny.
“Oh, it was our pleasure,” said the girl in yellow, an edge of dark humor in her voice.
It dawned on Bonny that she’d been rescued by exactly the sort of sophisticated women she ordinarily went out of her way to avoid. On top of being beautiful (which Bonny, of all people, couldn’t hold against them), they were fashionable, elegant, and haughty. Rich too, judging by their fine clothes.
It was dangerous to draw the attention of such ladies. They knew everyone—their circumstances, their secrets—and, what’s more, formed opinions based on what they knew. They had influence and used it, raising their favorites up and bringing their rivals low.
It was not worth risking the disapproval of such ladies in order to court their favor. Bonny preferred to avoid their notice entirely. And yet here she was, alone with two glittering habitués of high society and very much in their debt.
“Perhaps we should introduce ourselves.” The girl in pink flattened one hand against her modest bosom. “I’m Olympia Swain.”
Olympia Swain paused, obviously expecting a reaction. Bonny had heard the name before—it had come up in recent gossip—but she couldn’t remember the context.
Bonny smiled politely. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Theresa Hurley,” said the girl in yellow. “Though my friends call me Tess.”
“My name is Bonny Reed,” said Bonny. “I’ve only just arrived in London—usually I live in New Quay, a town just south of Liverpool.”
“That was a very brave thing you did,” said Tess.
“We were on our way to help, if we could, but you got there first,” added Olympia. “You didn’t even pause when you reached the canal!”
“I couldn’t believe it.” Tess shook her head in astonishment. “I’d like to think I would have saved those boys if I’d been close enough, but I’ll tell you honestly: I would have hesitated.”
Olympia chimed in. “We decided that if we couldn’t rescue the boys, we could at least rescue the rescuer.”
A knock interrupted them. Tess stood, ready to bar the door, but the intruder turned out to be a maid carrying a shallow hip bath. Two more trailed behind, bearing pails of water.
“Soap?” asked Tess.
The woman holding the hip bath had a cake of soap tucked under one arm. She offered it to Tess, who sniffed it.
“Rose is too heavy for Miss Reed,” said Tess. “Do you have anything a little lighter? Orange blossom or lily of the valley?”
“Of course, miss.” The maid positioned the hip bath by the fireplace and laid a fire. The other two poured their buckets, and all three bobbed themselves out.
“I’m not sure the scent matters,” said Bonny.
“I am,” said Olympia. “So you’ve been outvoted.”
Bonny couldn’t help it. She began to laugh.
“Good. A sense of humor.” Olympia leaned against the w
all, hips cocked, a surprisingly intimidating pose. “I’d be crushed to find out we’d rescued a stick-in-the-mud.”
The tea arrived next—a huge pot of it, enough for six or seven people, along with several covered dishes and a plate of biscuits. Tess poured, not bothering to ask before adding plenty of milk and sugar to Bonny’s cup.
Bonny took a sip. The warmth went right to her belly.
The maid returned with a new cake of soap, scented with gardenia, along with towels and a fresh set of clothes. Tess approved this time and passed the soap to Bonny.
Bonny set it aside to have ready once her two rescuers left.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Olympia.
“If you don’t wash now, it’ll be weeks before you get that awful scent out of your hair,” Tess added.
Bonny blinked.
Olympia and Tess looked at her expectantly.
Of course Bonny knew that highborn women—and men—usually bathed with a personal servant in attendance. They never had to contort themselves to wash their backs or their feet… She had not guessed that, as a consequence, they might not feel shy about bathing with company.
“You’re eating,” Bonny protested weakly.
“So we are.” Olympia selected a biscuit from the tray and took a bite out of it. “I’ll finish it after you’re in the bath, to see if it tastes any different.”
Bonny gave up. A film of dirt was drying on her skin, itchy and tacky to the touch, and her hair really did stink. If she insisted that they leave, she might upset them. She was afraid of appearing ungrateful and, in the process, setting them against her.
So she dropped her blanket and stood in the bath, carefully lowering herself to a seated position. Tess nudged the soap closer.
“Who did those children belong to anyway?” Olympia sipped her tea.
“I think they’re related to George Trenton,” said Tess. “Nephews or cousins.”
“George Trenton?” Bonny asked. She didn’t know that name. She didn’t know any of the people that Tess and Olympia talked about.
“The gentleman on the embankment,” said Tess.
“Why on earth didn’t he do anything to help?” Bonny asked.
“He can’t swim,” said Tess.
“Oh.” Bonny picked up the soap and began to lather it. “I suppose he can’t be blamed.”
“And he did help lift the boys out,” Olympia added. “Not that it will save his reputation.”
“His reputation? But if he couldn’t swim…?”
“He ought to have drowned before he let a woman take a risk that rightly fell to him,” said Olympia. “Swimmer or not, he’ll never live down the shame.”
“Is there something we could do?” Bonny asked.
“For Trenton?” Tess snorted. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“He has frequently been unkind to Tess,” Olympia murmured.
“It’s Lilian Crowley and Shirley Dewitt you need to worry about,” said Tess. “They’re the ones who will attack you.”
“Lilian and…?”
“The two ladies with Trenton,” said Olympia. “You embarrassed them by jumping in while they stood idly by.”
“They contributed a few squeals,” said Tess.
“That’s right, they did. Uncharitable of me to forget the squealing.” Olympia took a bite of the biscuit. “You see? It’s fine.”
A sly smile curled the corners of Tess’s mouth. She glanced sidelong at Bonny and explained, “Those two wouldn’t ruin a new dress to save a whole cartload of little boys.”
“Which anyone who’s spent an hour in conversation with either of them would know.”
The door burst open. Cordelia stood in the threshold, arms spread wide, chin out, ready for battle. Like an avenging angel.
“Bonny?” she cried.
“I’m here. And unclothed! Get in and close that door!”
Cordelia took in the scene before her—Tess and Olympia sipping tea while Bonny crouched naked in a hip bath—and while she closed the door as asked, her furious expression didn’t change.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine, but you seem rather flustered. Sit down and have some tea; there’s plenty.”
“I’ve crossed the whole estate five times looking for you.” Cordelia accepted a cup from Olympia but held it at arm’s length as though it might be poisoned. “I think the staff was misleading me on purpose.”
“They were,” murmured Olympia.
“Let me introduce you to my rescuers. These two ladies saved me from a great deal of embarrassment. I’m terribly grateful.” Bonny tipped her head to the left. “Miss Olympia Swain and”—Bonny tipped right—“Miss Theresa Hurley.”
“Call me Tess,” added Tess.
Cordelia’s eyes widened ever so slightly—obviously she recognized the names. Good. That meant she could tell Bonny who they were later.
“Olympia and Tess, please meet my dearest friend, Cordelia Kelly. We’re neighbors.”
“As Miss Reed’s greatest admirers, we are honored to meet you,” said Tess. “I don’t think I saw you by the canal.”
“No, I was inside—Sir John offered to show me the library.”
“So you missed the rescue?” Tess asked.
“What rescue?” Cordelia asked.
Olympia clapped. “We’re going to tell you all about it!”
Olympia and Tess regaled Cordelia with the story while Bonny finished washing. They exaggerated shamelessly—the canal doubled in width, the current sped up, the children very nearly expired. They talked over one another, adding asides and embellishments. By the end Cordelia had visibly softened.
Bonny reached for the towel and dried herself. Cordelia was stubborn and smart—it was difficult to lead her where she didn’t want to go. But the London sophisticates had won her over.
Impressive. And a little frightening.
“So,” said Tess. “What brings you to London?”
“The usual,” answered Cordelia.
“We’re looking for husbands,” explained Bonny.
“And has the search been fruitful?”
“Not yet.” Bonny began sorting through the clean clothes the maid had brought.
Cordelia put in, “Do you really want a husband who proposes to a woman he’s only known for a week?”
“Stop asking silly questions.” Bonny slid a clean chemise over her head. “If I don’t want Charles Gavin, then yes, I do want a man who will propose to me after a week.”
“Imagine it takes you a year to find a husband,” said Cordelia. “So what? Your sister is young, and your family won’t starve. They can wait.”
“Yes, let’s imagine,” returned Bonny, stepping into a petticoat and hiking it up to her waist. Tess batted her hand aside and tied the ribbons. “What if I don’t find a husband in a year? Or two years? My parents will be burdened, Margot will be furious, and I’ll be desperate.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Tess chuckled. “It won’t take you two years.”
Bonny sputtered. “It’s not as easy—”
“Listen to your new friend,” interrupted Cordelia. “And besides, you were never one to give up without a fight.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“For two weeks.”
“Even if I wanted to return, I doubt your aunt and uncle would welcome me back.”
“Why not?” Olympia interrupted, shaking out the dress and holding it open for Bonny to step through.
“Because Bonny is too pretty,” said Cordelia.
“Why did I ask?” Olympia clucked at herself. “I should have guessed.”
“You can’t blame them,” added Tess. “I’m sorry, Bonny, but people have to be practical.”
“Let me worry about my aunt and uncle,” said Cordelia. “The point I’m making is: A man who’s careless in his selection of a wife won’t allow her to play a substantial role in his life.”
“Some women don’t wa
nt to play a substantial role in their husband’s life.” Bonny held still so Olympia could fasten the buttons on her borrowed gown. “Some of us would rather be protected and cherished.”
“Any woman clever enough to correctly identify which of her suitors will become husbands capable of shielding her from care for a whole lifetime is a woman too clever for the idle life that husband would provide.”
“Oh, now that’s good,” said Olympia. “Say it again. I want to be able to repeat it in future.”
Cordelia hesitated, but as Olympia seemed sincere, she obliged.
“Perhaps you’d like to offer an opinion,” Cordelia added. “Bonny is currently engaged to marry a truly awful man.”
“True,” Bonny agreed. “But he’s handsome and wealthy and well liked.”
“And of those qualities, which do you find indispensable?” Tess asked, a little slyly.
“His wealth,” Bonny admitted.
“So find another wealthy man,” said Tess. “With your looks, you could take your pick.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Bonny. “But no other man has ever courted me seriously.”
“I think Charles Gavin is to blame for that,” said Cordelia.
“He’d never—” Bonny caught herself. It was time to stop defending everything Mr. Charles Gavin did and said. “It’s not nice to make an accusation like that without proof.”
“No one else has proposed to you these past three years,” said Cordelia. “What more proof could you want?”
“The bachelors in New Quay know my circumstances,” said Bonny. “Perhaps that’s enough to dissuade them.”
“Dissuade all but the richest and handsomest man in town?” Cordelia clucked. “Don’t be daft.”
“You think Mr. Gavin scared them away?”
“What else?”
“I suppose he might be that awful,” Bonny admitted. “He really might.”
“You can’t marry him, Bonny,” said Cordelia. “It might seem like the best option right now, but marriage is forever and the law is not kind to women. If a man faced all the limitations that we do, none of them would marry. Not a one.”
“If a woman wants a family of her own, she only has one way to go about it,” said Tess. “So you can have your principles to keep you company in your old age… or you can have grandchildren.”