by Joan Smith
“So, what have you to say of Vanbrugh?” he asked, pouring two glasses of wine.
“It was mildly amusing—well acted.”
“I look forward to seeing you when you are more than mildly amused. Do you know, I think it will be actually unladylike, if your roars this evening are any indication.”
“You will not find my behavior at any time to be less than ladylike, I hope.”
This set him in his place, or seemed to. The hovering smile dwindled noticeably. “How do the lessons go on?” he asked.
I mentioned the French week we had just passed. “And this week you have progressed to England,” he confirmed, when I mentioned it. “It will be Italy next week, I expect? Seven days to study a recorded history of twenty-one centuries—that would be three hundred years a day. I think even you, Miss Fenwick, will find yourself a trifle rushed.”
“I do not claim to be giving an in depth study of the civilizations of the various countries. An introduction merely. A little glance at the art, literature, and so on.”
“What do you construe to be the high points of French culture?” he asked, settling back with his old
haughty expression beginning to creep over his face.
I mentioned briefly what we had been doing, which set him to the task of finding fault with it. “I should have thought Voltaire and Rousseau more useful literary vehicles than Racine if it is the execution of their monarchs you have chosen to select as the apogee of a civilization that led western culture for centuries. I would have called it the nadir myself.”
“I did not call it the apogee, sir, merely the climax. Neither did we study Racine in connection with the Revolution. Two separate aspects of French culture, you see, is what we are talking about. History and literature,” I stated quickly, smarting under his sarcasm.
“Would it not be more plausible to bring them together, as it was a taste of civilization you mentioned trying to inculcate in the girls? Literature is usually considered to represent the progress of a nation. Odd you chose a seventeenth-century dramatist, who reworked themes from the classical Greek.”
“It is not considered odd that we study Shakespeare to familiarize ourselves with English literature; the truly great writers in any language deal with eternal themes and problems. Unlike a second-rate hack such as Vanbrugh.”
“How can you say so, Ma’am? A provoked wife is surely as old as the story of creation. I daresay Eve herself was provoked upon occasion. What else is on the girls’ curriculum?”
“It is my intention to cut the course to fit the girls’ needs. Where I find their knowledge to be lacking, I shall endeavor to strengthen it.”
“You will find no lack of areas requiring strengthening,” he replied in a sardonic way, but as I thought the slur in this case was on his nieces, I felt no need to object. I soon saw my error. “Manners, for instance. I notice neither of the girls bothered to thank me for having taken them. I thought you would mention it to them."
“I feel it is kinder to draw their lapses to their attention in private,” I answered.
“Kinder, but less effective I fancy. You consider yourself capable to enlighten them in any sphere, do you?”
“In those spheres generally considered to be essential in the polite conduct of a young lady I do, yes.”
“The world would turn more smoothly if young ladies had less lessons in drama—they have such a natural bent for that, you know—and more in managing a household. They will not be lecturers when they are grown up, but wives."
“I shan’t omit more practical matters by any means.” I had no idea of teaching them how to run a house actually, but in the areas of health and physical exercise I was quite a fanatic.
“I would be interested to hear what your particular qualifications are in that line, Ma’am.”
“I kept house for my father for several years in Bath. I am familiar with domestic management.”
“One wonders how efficacious your experience in running a small Deanery will be in instructing ladies who will have to see to the housekeeping of a castle, if they marry well.”
“My employers have not seen fit to question my expertise,” I reminded him sharply.
“Very true. It does not seem to have occurred to anyone to question it.”
"It has obviously occurred to you.”
"When a perfectly capable governess was let go to hire a new one whose qualifications had been so ill explained, I thought it worth a question. If you prove to be half as capable as you claim to be, I shall consider my sister to have got a bargain. Even at four hundred guineas,” he added.
“You must be sure to ask her after a year is up whether she is satisfied.”
“Do you know, I don’t think it will take that long,” he answered, with a challenging look. He might as well have said “Fraud.” It was inherent in that look.
I thanked him very civilly for a delightful evening, and with my fingers covering a simulated yawn, took my leave of him.
“We shall meet again soon, Miss Fenwick,” he warned.
I went straight upstairs and scolded the girls for not having thanked their uncle for his treat. Then I went to my own room to consider his parting shot. He had some influence with his sister; he might make life difficult for me if he took it into his head to do it. I disliked very much the imputation that I would not know how to hold house on a grand scale, but the fact was, he was correct. I had used the words “inclusive education” in my advertisement, along with such phrases “as progressive education, both practical and academic.” They were vague enough to mean anything, though I certainly had not meant them to imply kitchen management. If that was what was expected, however, I would throw it in.
Next morning, I went to the housekeeper. With a little judicious flattery, I contrived to bring her into my camp. She was to teach the teacher. She loved it, especially when I called her my “Instructress.” She did not despise the guinea I slipped into her fingers either.
Chapter Five
I made some shocking (not to say revolting) discoveries in my foray into the kitchen and pantries of Synge House. I hardly know whether it was the waste or the filth that dismayed me most. Our meals were cooked in vessels that must have been excavated from the site of Roman ruins. The housekeeper, Mrs. Ledwell, had never heard of Count Rumford, the philosopher-sage of kitchen management. I, who professed to no particular knowledge, knew at least that milk left standing overnight in a jug will sour.
A fool could see it was unnecessary to peel an inch of flesh from potatoes and carrots, and throw half the food into the garbage. But such waste was everywhere evident in the kitchen. A leg of mutton was bought and cooked for a handful of people, with the part not eaten shoved into the pantry to moulder, and attract rats.
I gently suggested to Mrs. Ledwell that she get the kitchen girls to scrub out the pantry shelves with carbolic soap, and scrape the rust from the sauce pans before Cook used them for our dinner. You could scarcely see daylight through the holes of the colander, so clogged was it with congealed matter.
“It’s the grease splattering from the roasts that destroys all my things,” Cook explained, but with a shamed face that tacitly admitted a brush and soap would have undone much of the stove’s work.
“In that case, you ought to see about getting a Bodley Range,” I told her. “It has a closed top at least, and the flue on the three sides of the oven gives a good even heat. No wonder our meat is black on the bottom half the time.”
“They don’t seem to mind, Miss. I’ve never had no complaints.”
“You are getting a complaint now,” I pointed out, but to Cook, not my “Instructress,” Mrs. Ledwell, whose good offices I required to examine her accounts.
Like the rest of the domestic arrangements, they were in a wretched muddle. Nothing bought in bulk, to save money, and no account ever paid in time to avoid interest. I am sure I could have cut the kitchen bills by a third had it been my job to do so, but I did no more than advise and suggest,
and at Cook’s beseeching, hint Lady Synge into purchasing a Bodley Range.
She thought it was very dear, and had heard from a friend that it was a monstrous user of coal—fifteen scuttles a day. But she liked well enough to brag about it to her callers, once I had talked her around.
Philmot heard about it on his next visit. I chanced to be with Lady Synge rather than in the schoolroom, as we had gone together to make the purchase, and there was a booklet of instructions for its maintenance that was beyond her comprehension. Philmot sat beside us to peer over his sister’s shoulder at the diagram.
“That looks like a very large firebox to me,” was his comment. “It will eat up a deal of coal.”
“You will notice there is also a nice big boiler.”
"How the devil is a woman expected to lift out such a huge container?” he asked.
“If she has any sense, I expect she would use a smaller container to ladle out what she needs at one time.”
“Miss Fenwick feels it will keep the kitchen much cleaner,” Lady Synge explained.
“The fire is still open in front,” he pointed out. He hadn’t a good word to say for it, and as no opportunity arose to mention my other efforts in the kitchen, he was left with the idea I had caused his sister to waste her money on a toy. I had the satisfaction of knowing it was not the case. My girls had now at their elbows a neat extract of tips and pointers for the effective management of a household, and we could return to our original academic studies.
We wasted no time in analyzing that farcical comedy of Vanbrugh’s, but went straight into Shakespeare. Hamlet was our next project. No one could take exception to a perusal of our greatest playwright’s greatest play. I had read it many times myself, of course, and set the girls to the task of reading it the next morning. I first sat with them, but found myself so often appealed to to explain a word to them—do the work for them in effect—that I soon picked up a newspaper to bury my nose in, to discourage their interruptions. I read with interest that Lord and Lady Strathacona were to have a large ball.
In the afternoon, I decided to make a quick trip over to leave a card at Deborah’s home, as she did not seem to have got my note. She and Jack had set up house on a very grand scale on Charles Street, just at the corner of Berkeley Square. I admit to a feeling of gratification at being on the most intimate terms with a lady who would surely be one of the major hostesses of the Season in London. Miss Dorothy came with me in my tilbury, while Alice went out with her mother.
“Are you really related to the Strathaconas?” Dottie asked, her eyes growing as she surveyed the mansion, which was roughly twice the size of her own home.
“Lady Strathacona is my cousin,” I told her.
“I wonder why she never calls on you. I expect she will ask you to her parties. Will you attend, Miss Fenwick?”
“Certainly I shall. But only in the evenings. I am a working lady, and do not intend to shab off on my duties, only because I happen to be on very intimate terms with Lady Strathacona.”
There was some sort of a do in progress that same afternoon. I left my card with the butler, but from the corner of my eye I saw the saloon to be full of ladies and gentlemen. I wondered at first that Debbie had not invited me, as it was quite a large do, but of course she knew my position. She would not wish to embarrass me by asking me when she knew I must work.
My lessons had made some good impression on her, for prior to them, she was not at all considerate of other people. I might have taken just one afternoon off, however, or even brought the girls with me, as it was a musical party in progress, offering some possibility of instruction. The melodious strains of an Italian soprano, accompanied by a pianist, wafted to my ears. The player was not quite so good as the singer. His accompaniment faltered, lagged the singer a little. Debbie never had much of an ear, poor girl. I would mention it when next we met. I was sure she would be in touch with me to help arrange her ball. She was not much of a dab at anything decorative. She would have guests sitting in saddles or waltzing in a barn, if left to her own devices. I would be happy to help her out.
“The Italian tunes are beautiful, are they not?" I mentioned to Dottie. "So lyrical, light and graceful. There is no mistaking them for anything else. Scarlatti I believe it was.”
“I don’t know how you have found time to learn so much, Miss Fenwick,” Dottie said.
“I never waste a minute, my girl. There is the secret. We shall rush straight home and see if your mama has any of Scarlatti’s sonatas for us to play.”
“But it was such a fine afternoon, I hoped we might drive to the Park,” she said, turning those puppy eyes on me. There was no denying her a little outing on such a lovely day. We took a leisurely drive, filling our lungs with fresh air. Walking would have been better for us, but of course in the Park one dare not abandon her carriage and we would find no boy to hold the reins.
After having a view of the mansion Debbie was occupying and the largeness of her afternoon party, I came to realize her ball would be one of the year’s grander affairs. My insignificant toilette of the play would not be repeated. I would order a gown worthy of the occasion, and was happy I had my first quarter’s salary in hand to attend to it, as the purchase of the tilbury and team had cleaned out my own savings.
There was some little uncertainty as to just how this was to be arranged. A lady in the normal way would have the modiste come to her home, but this point had not been settled between Lady Synge and myself, and I was careful not to encroach in any way, since her brother was always swift to interfere. I opted for the following method. I would select material and pattern, and take them to a modiste for making up, giving her a set of my measurements to obviate the unpleasantness of undressing on her premises for this job.
Dorothy was always happy to spend an hour in the shops. She was delighted to come with me and select material. The afternoon was not without its instructional aspect, as I took the opportunity to explain to her that a very gaudy shot silk plaid was not in the least pretty, as she seemed to think. I patiently outlined that a lady of quality does not dress to gain attention, but once attention wanders in her direction, it remains happily there for a decent interval.
Bright colors were not in the best of taste, nor were the more grotesquely dyed feathers at all what could be called elegant. Subdued colors, well-cut gowns of the best materials, discreetly ornamented, were the criteria I tried to impress upon her. I followed my own judgment to purchase a pale mint green material of gros de Naples, and a pattern that would see it made plain on top, to give the show to my mother’s diamond necklace. The skirt would be flounced and scalloped round the bottom to fill out my rather slim figure. Tiers of lace would peep from beneath the gathered-up scallops.
Somewhere in the city I hoped to procure green slippers with paste buckles, if they cost me my quarter salary. A lady’s elegance does not stop at the hem of her gown, especially if she has been told a few times she has a neat ankle, and knows perfectly well she has a dainty foot.
It remained only to discover of Lady Synge whom she considered a very good modiste, and my gown would be got under way in plenty of time for Debbie’s ball. A few compliments on a certain cinnamon colored outfit Lady Synge often chose for an evening out put me in possession of the name and address of Madame Vigneault, who kept shop in a smartly got up hole in the wall on a little street between Bond and Swallow, just off Conduit.
It was not my intention to take Miss Dorothy to the establishment with me, but to go alone and leave off the patterns and material, striking a bargain as to price with Madame. Getting away from my charge proved difficult, however, as the call must be made during the business hours of the day, when I was busy.
After wasting twenty-four hours trying to find a suitable excuse to leave the house alone, I could not spare another minute, and took Dorothy with me after all. A half hour in a stylish modiste’s shop could hardly impair her character inalterably.
Just after luncheon the two of us set out. We
saw little of Alice as the season got into full swing. If she were not too tired, she joined us in the mornings, but seldom in the afternoons.
“Where do you take little Dottie today, Miss Fenwick?” Lady Synge asked as we went through the hallway to hop into my waiting tilbury. She had a Lady Roberts with her, in front of whom she was eager to show me off.
I could not let her down. “We are accomplishing two projects at one time, Ma’am. Taking advantage of the delightful weather for a drive and later a walk, and doing some study of our London architecture.”
My employer nodded her head to Lady Roberts in an “I told you so” sort of way, to indicate how well I was worth my money. “What buildings are you going to see?” she asked. “It will be St. Paul’s I suppose, and the Tower.”
I knew by this time Lady Synge liked me to be a little more esoteric, especially in front of her friends. “Perish the thought, Ma’am,” I replied playfully. “We can do without the monotony of Wren and such well-known landmarks as the Tower. We mean to look around Trafalgar Square—Whitehall, the St. James area. The Old Admiralty building is worth a look. Perhaps we shall sketch Adam’s classic portico. The clock tower and archway at the Horse Guards too are rather interesting. The front of Harrington House is a must—one of the finer examples of Queen Anne architecture in the city.”
The mama’s gratification beamed on us. “Be sure to pay attention to Miss Fenwick,” she reminded her before my employer began an exhortation of my many accomplishments.
I was made to feel sufficiently guilty at this little deception that I did cruise quickly past the aforementioned spots, pointing out such features as were readily assimilated without stopping, but e’er long I turned my team back north to the establishment of Madame Vigneault
I guessed as soon as I entered the door that it was not the sort of establishment a young lady ought to visit. I had soon deduced that while it was acceptable to have Madame come along to one’s residence for fittings, it was not the thing to go to her. Not that it was crowded or noisy—quite the opposite. She had a tiny sitting room rigged up very stylishly, a waiting room to contain those bodies not actually out back being measured and stuck with pins. In the room sat two dandified gentlemen and a female who was not a lady, if you understand my meaning.