"She also has connections which enable her to place young ladies in respectable situations. It is an excellent opportunity, Marianne, and I can go to my rest – my nightly rest, I mean – with greater peace of mind, knowing you will be in her care."
"It is very kind," Marianne murmured.
"You might accept a position as companion, if the establishment were of the best quality. And, as I have reason to know, your accomplishments qualify you to instruct the young. Then there is your music -"
"My music," Marianne repeated, visibly startled.
"Yes, you play quite nicely. Eventually you might hope to set up as a music teacher, if you are very frugal and save your earnings. That would be pleasant, would it not? Your own rooms, where pupils could come to you?"
"Oh, certainly." Again Marianne bent over her sewing. Unseen by Mrs. Jay, she let out her breath in a sigh of relief. She would not have been at all surprised to find that Mrs. Jay had been reading her secret thoughts; often in the past, when she had meditated some improper act, the vicar's lady had seemed to know precisely what she intended – and had, of course, forbidden it.
She would certainly forbid Marianne to develop the plan she had formulated after the first shock of her father's death had passed and she had realized she was on her own. The girl was not above dramatizing the tragedy of her situation; references to poor orphans and cold, cruel worlds were romantically thrilling; but in fact Marianne was more pleased than intimidated by her freedom. She had the careless self-confidence of a young person who has never been hurt or deprived, and she yearned for excitement. Of course it was sad about poor dear Papa, and seeing her favorite ball dress carried away had been exceedingly painful; but now she could carry out the daring scheme that had oft occurred to her when, angered by some small punishment or frustration, she had vowed to run away from home and seek her fortune. She did play the piano well, and her singing voice had been much admired. The preceding fall, when a well-known mezzo soprano had visited Ripon – had not several gentlemen assured her that she sang the Che faro with much more feeling than did Madame Belledame?
Daunted, at first, by Mrs. Jay's suggestion, Marianne soon realized that the plan would provide no real obstacle to her ambition. The lady who managed the boarding house could hardly chaperone every single one of the respectable young ladies every hour of every day. Once she was actually in London…
A dazzling vision filled her imagination: an elegant theater, marble-columned without, red plush and gilt within; distinguished patrons in formal evening dress, the ladies glittering with diamonds; the Royal Box – and on the stage, the focus of a hundred footlights, she herself (pale blue satin and pearls, ostrich plumes in her hair) bowing, as thrown blossoms littered the boards around her and the applause deafened her, and the Prince of Wales leaned forward, the Garter ribbon across his breast…
Her needle continued to flash in and out, sewing the black braid in a complex scrollwork; but she had learned, long since, to carry out work of this sort while her imagination soared free. So absorbed was she in her fantasy ("Ah, Miss Ransom," the Prince exclaimed, tears moistening his beautiful eyes, "never have I heard…") that she scarcely heard Mrs. Jay's voice extolling the advantages of the genteel boarding house.
The poor lady had her own vision, and it was, needless to say, considerably more realistic than Marianne's. All she dared hope for her darling was a comfortable small apartment, with a genteel pianoforte and genteel students, a canary bird, and perhaps a genteel kitten. Marianne did not notice when Mrs. Jay suddenly stopped speaking, nor did she observe the older woman's pallor.
Later that evening, after they had retired to their rooms, Mrs. Jay unlocked a small cabinet and took out a dark, sticky-looking syrup. She stood holding it for a few moments, an expression of distaste on her face. The doctor had pressed the laudanum upon her in spite of her insistence that she would never resort to drugs. If God chose to afflict her, she would bear the pain. It was not pain that weakened her resolve, but her determination that Marianne should not have worry about her godmother added to her other troubles. Her hand was quite steady as she measured out a careful dose. It was a sin, no doubt. If so, she would suffer the consequences.
CHAPTER TWO
Fortunately for Marianne, darkness was well advanced when the North Britain express pulled into King's Cross Station and she got her first look at the city she had dreamed of with such romantic hopes – fortunately, because night hid the soot and dirt and concealed the most wretched victims of a great nation's indifference.
She had resigned herself to being accompanied, knowing full well that Mrs. Jay would never allow her to make such a long journey unchaperoned. It had not been an easy task to find a traveling companion, for the residents of Wulfingham seldom had occasion to visit London. Mrs. Jay had finally been forced to extend her inquiries as far as York. Here she had found success, in the form of Mrs. Wackford, the wife of a schoolmaster. The school was known for its strictness, even in an age when education was not supposed to be fun. It had an excellent reputation among parents who were not at all amused by Mr. Dickens' savage satires on Yorkshire schools, being particularly popular with those who served the Queen in the jungles of the East. Mrs. Wackford was journeying to London to meet two such unfortunates, sent from India by their widowed papa; and as soon as Marianne set eyes on the lady she pitied the unknown children with all her heart. The schoolmaster's wife looked like a tall thin knobby iron column. Rusty ringlets, as rigid as sculptured bronze, lined the rim of her black bonnet. The only muscles on her face that moved were the ones necessary to open her mouth the barest slit when she was obliged to speak.
Marianne never knew whether Mrs. Wackford took an instant dislike to her personally, or whether she simply disliked everyone on principle. Certainly she displayed no warmth toward anyone they encountered, not even toward Mrs. Jay. That good lady had arisen at two A.M. and had endured the uncomfortable ride into York with her goddaughter; but not even the laudanum, which she had been taking regularly, could make this final parting endurable. After a quick, desperate embrace she fled, knowing she would betray herself if she stayed. Billy, who had driven the hired carriage from Wulfingham and carried Marianne's modest luggage into the station, lingered just long enough to give Marianne a most improper wink and press a small packet into her hand.
Marianne bit her lip hard and managed not to cry. Excitement had prevented her from sleeping the previous night, and she was bewildered by the new sights around her. She had never traveled by train before; the echoing station with its noisy crowds and snorting steel monsters was terrifying. She was not given time to indulge in tears. With a sniff and a jerk of her head, Mrs. Wackford indicated a nearby carriage.
The novelty soon wore off and was succeeded by tedium. Mrs. Wackford had a "Ladies Only" sign tacked on their compartment, so there were no other travelers to entertain them; for all the other ladies seemed to be accompanied by gentlemen. The only thing that cheered Marianne was Billy's gift – a twopenny's worth of bulls' eyes, rather squashed and dusty-looking, but recalling the sweets they had so often shared. She might have wept then, but seeing Mrs. Wackford's outraged glance at the grubby little offering, she was moved to mischief instead. Leaning forward, she proffered the sticky sweet and said demurely, "Do have one, ma'am."
This gesture effectively ended any possible communication between the two. Marianne dozed and woke and looked out the window and dozed again. The sky was cloudy, and it soon began to rain. Even her fertile imagination was daunted by the dreariness inside and out, and for the first time she began to entertain doubts of the future.
If the station at York had awed her, the magnificence of King's Cross made her wish she were back in Mrs. Jay's cozy parlor. The noise, amplified a thousandfold by the lofty ceiling, made her head ache. Everyone in London seemed to shout, and everyone except Marianne herself seemed to know where he was going and was in a great hurry to get there.
In an alarming foghorn bellow Mrs. Wackford
summoned a porter and started out along the platform, shoving and pushing with as much abandon as the others. Marianne followed. She was glad to collapse into the cab, although it smelled like musty straw inside. Followed by the heated comments of the porter, who clearly felt that he had been inadequately compensated for his efforts, the cab creaked out of the station and onto the city streets.
Tired as she was, Marianne could not resist peeking out the window. Accustomed to the darkness of country lanes, she was dazzled by the gas lamps that illumined the main thoroughfares, and was amazed to note that though the hour was late the streets were crowded with people.
"How elegantly ladies dress here," she exclaimed.
Mrs. Wackford leaned forward to look. It was not difficult for her to pick out the particular "lady" who had roused Marianne's interest; her gaudy red satin skirts gleamed like stained glass in the lamplight, and her pelisse was thrown back from her shoulders, displaying a broad white bosom and the flash of what Marianne had naively believed to be diamonds. As Mrs. Wackford stared, a man in evening dress strolled up to the red-satin lady, doffed his top hat with a flourish, and offered her his arm.
Marianne felt herself pulled away from the window and shoved back into her corner.
"That," said Mrs. Wackford, "is no lady. I am responsible for you, miss, until we reach your boarding house, so I must insist that you pay no attention to such – er – persons."
"Is it a fallen woman?" Marianne asked, breathless with excitement.
Her companion gasped. "What is the world coming to? A modest young woman of my time would never have asked such a question!"
Marianne subsided. She did not dare move out of her corner, but by craning her neck she caught occasional glimpses of shop windows displaying a luxurious assortment of goods, walls placarded with garish signs advertising pills and potions, corsets and coal scuttles, and more people than she had ever seen gathered together in one place. She did not see the beggars and the pickpockets, and she failed to recognize the harlots.
Eventually the cab turned off the brightly lighted street and passed into a quiet area of small houses.
"At last," said Mrs. Wackford, as the cab came to a stop. "Make haste, Miss Ransom, if you please; I have still some distance to travel and the hour is late."
Marianne was glad to oblige. Much as she dreaded the strange faces and places awaiting her, nothing could be more unpleasant than the company of Mrs. Wackford.
The house before which they had stopped was one of a row of similar structures, tall and narrow, each separated from its neighbors by a slitlike passageway. A flight of steps led up to the front door. The door opened; a form was seen silhouetted against the glow of lamplight within.
"Is it Miss Ransom?" a voice inquired.
Marianne could see nothing of the speaker except her outline – that of a stout, short lady wearing a frilled cap of such extravagant proportions that her head resembled a cabbage – but she liked the sound of the low, pleasant voice. She started to reply, but was forestalled by Mrs. Wackford, still in the carriage.
"It is. You, madam, are Mrs. Shortbody? Then, madam, I have fulfilled my responsibilities and I bid you good night. Driver, we will proceed immediately to the Tavistock Hotel."
" 'old your 'orses," the driver replied. "I'll just 'elp the young lady wif her boxes."
"Thank you," Marianne said.
The driver grinned broadly at her, displaying brown, rotting teeth.
"There won't be no change out o' 'er," he said cryptically. "You go on, miss; I'll just take me time 'ere."
Marianne started up the stairs. Mrs. Wackford's furious criticisms of the driver formed a loud background accompaniment, though it had no perceptible effect on its object.
Mrs. Shortbody stepped forward as Marianne reached the top of the steps and held out both hands. Her grasp was warm, and her face, framed by the frills of her cap, was as smiling and pleasant as her voice.
"Welcome to London, my dear." Marianne burst into tears.
As was to be expected, the seats inside the omnibus were all taken. There was room on top; but no lady ever attempted to mount the perpendicular iron ladder to that lofty region. If her long skirts had not prevented such an exercise, the possibility of exposing petticoats and pantalettes to the bold gazes of men below would have been unthinkable.
If it had been raining, even chivalry might not have prompted any of the men to exchange their inside seats for a place on the unroofed top of the bus. Fortunately for Marianne the day was fair, and one young man – a clerk on an errand, to judge by his neat but shabby attire and the large parcel he carried – was susceptible to melting turquoise-blue eyes. Marianne was not unaware of the charming picture she presented, slim and pathetic in her black gown, a few tendrils of sunny hair escaping the confines of her black bonnet; and it is to be feared that she allowed her eyes to linger on the young man's face for an instant before lowering them in modest confusion. An instant was all that was required. The young clerk leaped to his feet and bowed Marianne into his vacated seat.
Marianne relaxed as much as the hard wooden bench would allow and pushed her curls back into place with her gloved hand. It would be at least half an hour before she reached her destination; time to collect her thoughts and complete her plans.
She could hardly believe she had been in London only two days. The quiet country village from which she had come seemed like another world, and she felt herself quite a different person from the simple girl who had wept with weariness and nerves at the first kind word.
The omnibus made slow progress. Traffic was heavy, and if there were rules of the road, no one paid the slightest attention to them. Heavy drays, pushcarts and wagons, hansom cabs and carriages contended with pedestrians for the right-of-way.
A young man tossed a handful of bright-purple papers in through the window. Most of the passengers ignored them or brushed them irritably aside; but Marianne picked one up. She was intrigued by this form of advertising, quite unknown and indeed unnecessary in Wulfingham. This handbill told the pathetic yet encouraging story of a young man of Exeter who had been "effectively cured in a single night of insanity by swallowing the whole contents of a thirteen-penny-half-penny box of Number Two Pills."
Marianne of course believed every word of this. She marveled at the wonders of modern medicine and decided that perhaps the Number Two Pills might help Lady Verill. Next time she wrote Mrs. Jay she would mention them.
Yes, London was certainly a marvelous place! The city still frightened her a little; it was so very large and so exceedingly dirty. Dust and mud she was accustomed to, but the sticky soot that clung like oil to her clothing and skin disgusted her. However, the people were very kind, quite unlike the picture she had formed from the warnings of her friends back home. She had gotten the impression that Londoners were too busy to be civil or helpful to a stranger. She had certainly not found it so. Everyone had been most pleasant, especially the gentlemen.
Of course, she reminded herself, she had as yet seen only a minute fraction of the population. She had spent the preceding two days settling in, getting acquainted with her landlady and the other young ladies, and – somewhat surreptitiously – collecting as much information as she could about the city. Her complacent smile faded as she remembered some of the things she had said and done. Yes, she had changed – and not for the better. She had not told any out-and-out lies… But that was equivocating, and Marianne knew it. Her silence had been a form of lying, her efforts to discover what she needed to know had been sly and lacking in candor.
Yet what else could she have done? If she had told Mrs. Shortbody what she intended, her landlady would have forbidden it in no uncertain terms. Mrs. Shortbody's genial face and round, comfortable figure had led Marianne to hope that her views would be more liberal than those of her old friend, but to her disappointment Mrs. Shortbody was just as narrow-minded and old-fashioned as Mrs. Jay, especially in her opinions about the theater. After all, the Queen had attended inn
umerable theatrical performances before her husband's death sent her into the voluntary retirement from which she had not emerged for years. She and Prince Albert had even acted themselves, in the privacy of the royal parlor. Mrs. Shortbody had admitted, in response to Marianne's adroit questioning, that she enjoyed a good performance of Shakespeare as much as anyone. However, she had added, most actors and actresses were people of immoral habits – not the sort one would ever invite into one's home.
Marianne did not remain gloomy for long. She assured herself that she would tell Mrs. Shortbody the truth as soon as she had secured a position as a singer; and surely, when the good lady saw how thoroughly respectable the situation was, she would accept it. ("My dear Miss Ransom, if I had but known… You were right, and I was quite wrong.")
Such pleasant visions, including the now classic daydream of the Prince of Wales bowing with tears in his eyes, occupied Marianne quite happily until she reached her destination. She would have missed the stop if the driver had not descended from his high seat to throw open the door and announce, "The Strand," as he nodded benignly at her. Unaware of how remarkable this behavior was, Marianne thanked him prettily and accepted his hand as she descended.
Though the theater she had selected was not far away, it took her some time to find it. Finally she stopped a constable and asked directions.
The facade of the Imperial Theater was all she had ever imagined. It had been recently remodeled in the latest classical mode, and the soot of London had as yet made comparatively small impression upon the Corinthian columns and the modestly draped caryatids. The lobby, with its massive bronze chandeliers and thick plum-colored carpeting, was as imposing as the exterior. Seeing no one about, Marianne pushed through the doors leading to the auditorium.
Later she would realize what a fortuitous chain of circumstances had conspired to lead her, unquestioned and unhindered, to the stage of that most prestigious of theaters. A rehearsal had been called for that morning, and she happened to arrive just after the doors were opened and just before the cast had assembled. The humbler employees were occupied with various errands, so the vast auditorium was unoccupied. The stage was alight and waiting.
The Wizard’s Daughter Page 3