Lady of Spirit

by Edith Layton

  He’d placed money on stocks for developing gold mines that produced sand, and had put good coin of the realm in schemes to dig diamonds from the rich soil of Surrey. It seemed there was no illusion he hadn’t been willing to back with his hard-earned money, if only the tale was told glibly enough. Mostly, it appeared he fancied himself a medical expert, and in his papers there were discovered dozens of patents for curing colds, removing stones without surgery, and manufacturing blood in bottles. What he had succeeded in discovering was a foolproof way to lose all his money, his property, and everything the family had owned, except for the antique brooch with half the seed pearls missing, for no one would buy that at all.

  It was odd, Victoria thought now, sighing and stirring on her bed, how inheritance will out. For if one saw how the themes of personality ran in her own little family, then it wasn’t too difficult to believe Papa had descended from some wayward lady no better than she should be. And although her mama had been a good, meek, indulgent woman, Victoria had always been closest to her grandmother, a fiercely independent managing female who’d run her son’s hapless wife as she ran his family, until the day she died, still shouting instructions, when her granddaughter had been thirteen. It was not surprising, then, that after Papa’s funeral, Richard, for all he was three-and-twenty and tall, straight, and stalwart-looking, had looked about, just as Mama had done, just as they both always did when tragedy struck, waiting for someone to take charge and tell them what to do. So Victoria, the only one left who was able to, did.

  Mama was told, of course, she mustn’t hesitate to take Cousin Beatrice’s kind offer, and that she must do so at once and without a backward look. Though a pinchpenny, Cousin Beatrice was well enough off, and lived nicely on the profits of her husband’s dry-goods store in Manchester. And if she were kind enough to take Mama in as a companion, and unkind enough to insist there was no room for her daughter as well, well, what of it, Victoria had insisted, it was a generous offer, and she could take care of herself. Mama, of course, used to having life ordered for her, went, though, despite all orders, with many a backward glance, and, despite all assurances, with many a reservation. But there was no help for it.

  Richard was urged, just as he wished to be, to take Cousin Josiah’s cousin’s best friend’s offer of employment, with an eye to eventual partnership, in an apothecary shop in Virginia, in the United States of America. It was the best of all the offers, and however many miles away the position, its opportunities stretched further. He might venture far, his sister reminded him, but his money would return by post with alacrity, to keep their tiny family solvent and perhaps one day buy them all freedom from worry again. So, with only a few nervous backward glances, he too went.

  Victoria went through the only door open to her. She went to Mrs. Valentine, known to the family through her patronage of their shop. She was a draper’s wife who lived in London and had a beautiful, precocious daughter who needed polishing. It turned out she needed a thrashing more, but before anyone could discover that, she’d decamped to Paris without either baggage or benefit of clergy, with a dissolute young man she’d met at Vauxhall, departing precisely three weeks after she’d met Miss Dawkins. Therefore, Miss Dawkins, of course, had to depart the day after that.

  Fortunately, Master Edward Richmond, age seven, and known to the Valentine family through their draper’s shop, was in need of strong discipline, being a great trial to his mother due to his waywardness and passionate spirit. But unfortunately, as Miss Dawkins soon discovered, so was his father. And so it was not long before she found herself in need of a new position once again. That was how she discovered the Misses Parkinson, Employment Counselors, and that was how she found her next post.

  Now, of course, even the estimable Misses Parkinson seemed unable to help her, though only just this morning Miss Lavinia Parkinson, senior counselor, had condoled with her and then added pithily that she ought not to worry, as it was only to be expected that there be many a slip till a good tight fit was found. A governess or companion, after all, she reminded Victoria, could look forward to twenty years or more of employment with the same family if she suited. Although sometimes luck played a hand, Miss Parkinson had said wisely, seeking such an adoption by a family was much like finding any other kind of permanent position in life, such as housekeeper or wife, and so it took more than luck, it took patience and time as well. Victoria tried to find some comfort from that advice, reminding herself that it was given by a shrewd, experienced woman who ran one of the best employment bureaus in London.

  But for all her experience, though Victoria was not to know it, the redoubtable Miss Parkinson had been dreading her interview with Miss Dawkins. Very little could discomfit Miss Lavinia Parkinson, but, as she told her sister later when they were having tea, just the sight of that lovely Miss Dawkins entering her chamber distressed her. In fact, the first glimpse that morning of that slender child, she vowed, looking at her hopefully with those great slanting golden eyes of hers in that sweetly smiling face, had fair sent chills through her, she moaned.

  Because the stunning ones, she’d sighed, were the devil to work with. If they weren’t being molested by members of the household after they’d finally been placed, like that poor Miss Hastings frequently was, they were turned down roundly when prospective employers got one look at their pretty faces, like that lovely Miss Robins had been for so long. And though she’d heard remarkably cheerful rumors of Miss Robins’ magnificent change of fortune just this spring, this Miss Dawkins, she’d groaned, almost upsetting her tea in her exasperation, now had a far greater problem than just a beautiful face and form to handicap her.

  But at least, she’d exclaimed, oversugaring her tea in an unconscious effort to sweeten more than her cup, she’d given the child hope by telling her it might take time. And it was only true, she told her sister, as that lady snatched the sugar pot away before Miss Lavinia could unwittingly do herself an injury by drinking pure syrup due to her distress, that in time, anything might happen.

  But for all she’d nodded at the sage Miss Parkinson’s every syllable, Miss Dawkins seriously wondered at how much more time was left to her now that she had to count her hours and her funds together, as if some giant meter were running, charging her so much per breath, so much per moment. She’d sent the lion’s share of her earnings for the past two years to Mama for safekeeping, though she knew all too well that share was scarcely enough to keep a cub in comfort, just so that poor Mama could look at the reckoning whenever her own duties became too onerous, and have some hope for the future. For though Mama’s letters claimed she lived comfortably enough with Cousin Beatrice, Victoria could read between the lines and tell that a steady diet of toads was never nourishing to the spirit, and that a dependent in that household might dine well only if she remembered to take her daily portion of humble pie.

  Richard had not contributed anything as yet to the family, but then, he was saving up for the partnership and at least his letters showed great promise. She couldn’t apply to her brother for funds, would not apply to Mama, and, Victoria thought, rising from her bed in agitation to gaze out her window at the rooftops, even her modest hopes might prove too expensive for her to indulge in any longer.

  This morning Miss Parkinson had encouraging words and some clever ideas, but Victoria knew words and ideas were not sovereigns or pence. Worst of all, enough time had passed so that they’d both known neither words nor ideas counted for anything when there was no reference of good character for an employment counselor to work with. For Miss Parkinson had at last to admit that Miss Dawkins was in the most unenviable of positions, since few sane persons would take a strange young woman into the very bosom of their family, into the entrails of their household, if that person had no avowal of good character from her last employer. For all Miss Parkinson couched it in tenderer terms, it was becoming clear to Victoria that a person without such a reference was simply unemployable.

  And it was that blithe young gentleman that ha
d accosted her this morning after she’d left the employment bureau unemployed again, and been reduced to contemplating theft because of it, who had lost her last post and that reference for her.

  The two young daughters of the Colfax family had been neither beautiful nor wayward; they were two stodgy, plump, and uninspired little girls, and though teaching them was neither challenging nor thrilling, it had paid very nicely. Blessedly, the gentlemen in their family could not have cared if the new governess had resembled a gorgon or an angel. It wasn’t due to their superior morals. Mr. Colfax was a very successful ironmonger with investments far more interesting to him than any female could be. Two sons were safely away at school, and the one adolescent youth at home, like so many rackety young gentlemen, clearly regarded governesses with such loathing that he would never note their age or physical condition. Mrs. Colfax had aspirations to the Quality, as well as another adolescent daughter who she hoped might help her achieve those aims, and schemes for the child’s brilliant marriage took up all her time. Victoria had been governess in the Colfax establishment for all of seven months and it had seemed bidding fair to become a permanent post.

  Then she had done a small favor for a friend of the young gentleman of the house and lost her position, her good name, and any chance of an unexceptionable reference for it.

  Young Lord Theodore Malverne was a noble youth, and though James Colfax was a cit, they had a commonality. Not only were they of an age, they’d discovered they shared the same cultural tastes. For they both frequented the same gaming hells, taverns, and bawdy houses. When they finally noted this amazing coincidence, they were convinced they were soul mates and spent increasingly large amounts of time in each other’s riotous company. Lord Malverne’s noble clan frowned when they noted it, but waited resignedly for the new university term to begin in the autumn and hoped the young man might lose his taste for wild oats even before then. It is doubtful Mr. Colfax noticed it more than he regarded anything going forth in his household, except expenditures, but Mrs. Colfax certainly did and was in ecstasies at how her clever boy was rising in the social world.

  Then one day, an evil day that had dawned as clear as any other, with no premonitions of disaster, a day unfortunately unmarked for her by comets or rains of frogs, young Master Colfax bearded Miss Dawkins in the schoolroom and asked a favor of her. There was nothing remotely immoral or immodest about the encounter. The only ones who noted it with any emotion were his two sisters, who were pleased at having been woken from their slumbers in time for tea, for they’d been listening to their governess read them a history lesson and they had the uncanny ability, Victoria had noted, to doze like fishes, with their small bland eyes wide open.

  Young James Colfax had a friend, he explained, and at this utterance he’d guffawed, as was his wont after any statement, and then waved his friend, who’d been hovering in the hall, into the room. Victoria had often seen young Lord Malverne running tame about the Colfax household, but had never spoken to him before and so was impressed that this young blade was at least as glib and conversational as the heir to this house was not. Charmingly, respectfully, and shyly he’d told her a tale and asked her a favor.

  The lady of his dreams was, he explained, not only modest, virtuous, and entirely lovely, but also, alas, entirely French. No matter how he sought to make his feelings clear to her, he failed, for, he’d admitted ruefully, he couldn’t get his tongue around frog-talk and hadn’t his grades this term shown it! But his best chum, Jamie, had said his sisters’ governess, Miss Dawkins, was whizbang when it came to jawing foreign language and a rare hand at knowing poetry and such too. The long and short of it was, he’d said bashfully, looking at his booted toes, just as he’d avoided her gaze all the while, could she copy out a poem in French for him, something to do with love eternal and that sort of rubbish, so he could give it to his lady and convince her of his intentions?

  It was such a small thing, she agreed of course, a trifle amused, and a little touched by his youthful amours. She would have been much less so if she’d heard what the young nobleman had said cheerfully to his boon companion as they left the room.

  For, “If this don’t bring LaPoire around to my bed, Jamie, I swear I don’t know what will!” he chortled. “Between the garnets and the poem, I’ll have her by next midweek, see if I don’t!”

  “A crown you don’t, Theo, ’cause I heard the Duke of Austell’s got his eye on her, and your paltry garnets and cat yodel in French don’t stand a chance against one look from him,” his friend claimed, and before they’d even gotten down the stairs the wager was laid, though two days later it was forgotten. For by then, of course, the female in question had bestowed her expensive favors elsewhere, courtesans being notably more prone to be more prone for mature, handsome, wealthy noblemen than for callow young swains, however noble, and who, moreover, exist on modest allowances from quarter to quarter.

  So when Miss Dawkins, having sought and discovered a tender touching little sonnet to do with hopeless love, roses, nightingales, languishing knights, and hems of virtuous ladies’ skirts, and having copied it out in her fairest hand, and signed it with encouraging best wishes, and sealed it, addressed to Lord Theodore Malverne, finally delivered it to the gentleman, she was surprised at his attitude. For he looked at it, said, “Oh, yes,” stuffed it into his pocket with a cursory thank-you, and went whistling out of the house. Miss Dawkins was a little put out by his cavalier attitude.

  But that was nothing to compare to his mother’s reaction when she met with his valet, whom she regularly paid an extra sum-to keep track of her eldest son, and discovered the missive that had been sent to him that he’d obviously been carrying close to his heart.

  “Who,” his mother demanded a week later, as she pounced on him as he was on his way out to a late dinner with his cronies, “is Miss Victoria Dawkins?”

  The young gentleman looked blank for a moment and then said cheerily, remembering, “Oh, m’ friend Jamie’s sisters’ governess.”

  “Governess?” shrieked his parent. “And what have you to do with her?”

  “Why, she’s a very good sort of female, Mama,” her son answered earnestly, frowning in surprise at her wrath and wanting to set matters straight. “Always glad to do a chap a favor. She’s devilish accommodating, actually,” he mused, and then, being a fellow of few words, at least for his parent, added three more, “Good night, Mama,” and went out the door.

  Miss Dawkins went out the door of the Colfax domicile not a day later, with a great many more words at her back. Lady Malverne, stung into a vast uncharacteristic disregard for social station, had deigned to come to the Colfax home, and while her amazed and gratified hostess poured tea and plumped pillows and tittered in nervousness and excitement at her guest, she had waved about the paper with the fateful sonnet and delivered herself of her grievances against the cozening, conniving, social-climbing villainess of a governess, a servant, who’d been casting out lures to her foolish boy. An hour after Lady Malverne left with a sigh of great vindication, Miss Dawkins left with no recommendation.

  That had been all of five weeks ago. First Victoria had gone to Mrs. White’s, a respectable lodging house in a decent area, but after a week’s time she’d realized with sorrow that it had grown quite beyond her touch. The following week she’d stayed a few streets further down the social ladder and the town, and at last, two weeks past, she’d engaged this room. She’d been aghast at her circumstances then, and now only hoped she could afford to stay on just a few weeks more.

  Now the long dim twilight of late spring was upon the rooftops of London and Miss Victoria Dawkins realized, with a little jolt of surprise, for whenever she relived those horrid moments she quite lost touch with actual time, that it had grown too dark, too late, to walk these streets in safety in search of her dinner. Only the sort of female Lady Malverne and Mrs. Colefax had taken her for would do so alone at his hour, for then they wouldn’t be alone for very long. She shrugged and turned to her tab
le; the biscuits she kept in a tin there would have to do for her evening meal, and would, she thought in an attempt to cheer herself up, be far more economical as well.

  It wasn’t quite so bad, Victoria rationalized. There were, she knew, always the charitable institutions, the workhouses, the river. No, she thought, squaring her shoulders resolutely, nothing so dramatic; there was, after all, always the possibility of seeking quite different employment, if she could only overcome her own wretched dignity. She could ask to assist some honest tradespersons, like the bakers and barrow mongers she’d seen today. There were, she told herself bracingly, avenues she hadn’t even explored as yet.

  And as for those other roads, those other proposals for employment that had so frequently been called to her, or whispered to her by males in the streets, and certain females of the district who’d offered to assist her to enter that quite different, quite old, lucrative profession that flourished here in this neighborhood, why, they didn’t bear wondering about. She knew herself well enough to realize, almost to her regret, that some things would simply not be possible for her, even the river being more possible and preferable, for there were some matters of dignity she accepted that she could never learn to surmount, even for her life’s sake.

  The worst part of all of this, Victoria thought, rising and wishing there were enough room to pace in her tiny room, was the silence. Anything, she thought sadly, would be easier to bear if one could only speak of it to someone. The last person she’d had coherent speech with was Miss Parkinson, and that was hours before, and since she didn’t wish to be bothersome or considered an object of pity, it might be a day more before she ventured back to the employment office again. Even a little caged bird’s company would be welcome, she sighed, but then, she thought, perversely cheered by the dreadful idea, she doubted she could afford the seed for it. Tomorrow, she decided, she would rise in time for Mrs. Rogers’ gruel, and try to eat it as well, and have a chat with its creator, even though she knew it would be all to do with bunions, the price of giniver these days, and what a terrible curse problems of wind were to females of a certain age.