“The wife wants me to offer you a place here,” he was saying. “This could be your home for the foreseeable future.”
Despite my feelings for Edward, it was a kind offer, and I said as much.
“Don’t think you won’t earn your keep,” he went on. “Prunella’s been having trouble keeping nannies. With two sets of twin boys plus little Bess, she’s run off her feet. You can be the help, and when the children are older we’ll promote you to governess, in exchange for room and board. Your dear father saw fit to tie my hands by giving the dowager’s cottage to Miss Wiggins for as long as she lives, otherwise I could have offered it to you. The old governess is too long in the tooth to be of much use to me, and yet I can’t turn her out.”
In others words, I would work like a servant for little monetary reward, I thought, but bit my tongue. I had promised Hari I would be the very model of propriety. “I don’t know what to say, Edward.” That was the truth.
“Don’t get any fancy notions in your pretty little head, now.” He turned our path back towards the coach. “You’ll not live like one of the family, attending dinners, parties, and such, and your room will be on the top floor, in the attic, not your old room on the second floor—Bess has that.”
My smile froze on my face. Nothing about Edward’s offer even remotely appealed to me. I’d take marriage, even to an old senile man, over Edward’s ungovernable children any day.
“Thank you for the offer, Edward,” I said, stepping into the coach. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“Better hurry! You’re not getting any younger,” he added as he shut the door.
As we pulled away from the gardens, I looked back at the house where I had grown up, as it receded into the distance. I could never stand to live as the beholden relative in a house that had always been mine, and I blinked back a few unexpected tears. The sight of Wiggles’s cottage a few minutes later calmed me, and I quickly descended from the coach and went to her door.
“Charlotte, how lovely to see you,” she said, welcoming me in.
“It’s been too long, Miss Wiggins.” I presented her with a large jar of strawberry preserves I had pilfered from the kitchens.
Wiggles’s eyes lit up as she took the gift. “Charlotte, dear, I think it’s high time you called me by my Christian name, Hortense.”
She had changed since I last saw her. Age had begun to turn her bright blue eyes to a milky grey and her soft, dark hair to a salt-and-pepper brown. The port-wine stain on her right cheek—a disfigurement that had cost her all chances of a good marriage, my mother had often said—had largely faded from existence.
The cottage was as cozy as only a spinster could make it. Framed embroidery and needlepoint samples hung on the walls and a colourful quilt covered the settee. True to her vocation, Wiggles had a well-stocked bookshelf that ran the length of one wall and a large globe that stood on a pedestal in a corner. I recognized Gulliver’s Travels, Pride and Prejudice, and Great Expectations. These were the books that I had loved so well growing up.
The intoxicating aroma of fresh baking hung in the air, and my stomach groaned with anticipation. A perfect tea had been set on the small wooden table: chocolate biscuits, scones, preserves, tea, clotted cream, sugar. A stickler for etiquette, Wiggles had drummed the fine art of formal tea service into Hari and me.
“Hari sends her very best, but she has an appointment with her doctor in the city today. She said she’ll be up to see you again as soon as she can.” It was a lie, and I suspected Wiggles knew it. If she was hurt, she didn’t show it.
We sat at the table and Wiggles poured our tea. “What are you reading these days?”
“I’ve nothing new at the moment. Perhaps I can borrow something from you. You know how I love a great adventure story.”
“Of course,” she said, looking thoughtful. “You remind me of your father. He was always reading that sort of thing. He was a bit of an adventurer himself, wasn’t he?”
Papa loved investing in new inventions. Nothing seemed to excite him more than to underwrite the development of some new labour-saving mechanism or other.
“Mama often said she dearly wished he would live as a gentleman should, but he swore he would die of boredom.” I sighed and set my teacup down. “But look where it got him.”
My mind drifted back to that unhappy time. Papa had put money towards developing a steam-powered tricycle. He was riding it when it blew up. He was hit in the head with shrapnel and spent a month with dreadful headaches and vertigo. I helped tend to him, but when he finally emerged from the sickroom, he was not the same person, either in mind or body. He could not remember things that should have been fresh in his memory. He began to live in the past, as those were the only memories he had easy access to. His judgement was impaired and he became an easy target for all sorts of unscrupulous charlatans and fraudsters.
Wiggles didn’t respond. “Enough about the past, let’s talk about cheerier things. What have you been up to lately?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have much to report. No new marriage offers and no plans if I don’t receive one. I expect I’ll have to persuade Charles to support me until my dying day.” I said it with a forced laugh. I didn’t want her to pity me, and I didn’t want to inform her of Edward’s offer. How could I tell her that the idea of a governess position filled me with dread?
She paused for a moment, then said, “The question of your future is one of the reasons I wanted to see you today. There is a new movement I’ve heard of. The Columbia Emigration Society. They’re sending ships of unmarried women—brideships, they’re called—to the colonies. They have some very distinguished backers for the plan.”
I almost choked on my tea. “Is this what happens to women who can’t find a husband here? They’re sent off to the colonies like the shiploads of transported convicts and political prisoners bound for Australia?”
“Not quite, Charlotte.” Wiggles offered a small smile. “The idea is to give the women a chance to marry or live independently in the colony of British Columbia, where there is more opportunity. It’s for the poor, the unemployed, and impoverished gentlewomen.” She pressed a pamphlet into my hand. “There’s to be an organizational meeting at the London Tavern. You should go.”
I glanced at the paper. “That’s Charles’s club. They don’t let women in, and besides, Hari and Charles want me respectably married, not travelling to the colonies in search of a husband.”
Wiggles set down her cup gently. “There’s precious little here for women like us, Charlotte.”
I winced at the truth of her statement, but I didn’t see how this brideship plan changed anything for me. Charles and Harriet would never hear of it.
Wiggles used the table to push herself to her feet and shuffled over to a locked cupboard in the tiny sitting room. Taking a key from a chain around her neck, she unlocked the door and withdrew a blue velvet box. With great care, she set the box on the table, released the metal clasp, and flipped open the lid. I gasped. Inside was a necklace, a single emerald hung by a gold chain. I gingerly picked up the necklace and held it to the light. The colour was stunning—sparkling chartreuse in natural light but more of an absinthe colour when I returned it to the box. I would never have expected that Wiggles would own anything like this.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
“It was my mother’s—an engagement present from a wealthy, much older man. He died two weeks before they were to be married. She cared for him deeply and was still in grief when her family pushed her to accept an offer from my father, a country pastor. Theirs was not a happy marriage. After my father died and she was on her deathbed, she passed the necklace on to me. She knew I would never marry.” As she spoke, Wiggles unconsciously stroked the side of her face, where the bright red splash of a birthmark once dominated. “It’s the only thing of my mother’s I have left. I was close to selling it before I found work with your family.”
“I’ve never seen you wear it,” I
said.
“On what occasion would I ever wear something like this? I spend my life in this tiny cottage or at the church in town. Jewels are not de rigueur.” She laughed, but it was hollow. “Besides, I’m just a governess. I will never be anything more.”
I had always seen Wiggles through the eyes of a child—she was my adored, devoted governess. It never entered my mind that she might have wanted something else for her life. Perhaps she and I were more alike than I realized.
“Do you remember our lessons on ancient myths? The word for emeralds comes from the ancient Greek smaragdos.”
“Green stone,” I said.
“That’s right. The Egyptians thought they signified something. Do you remember what?”
In the deep, dark recesses of my mind, there was a spark of light. “A sign of rebirth?”
“Very good, Charlotte.” She slid the box towards me. “I want you to take the necklace.”
“I can’t possibly! I would never dream of it.”
She closed her hands over mine, as if to hold me still and make me focus. “You must take it. I have no one to pass it on to. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Sell the emerald when you get to the New World. Use the money to make your own path and live the life I never had.”
I felt tears well up. The bond I felt with Wiggles touched me deeply. Perhaps we had found something in each other that had been missing in our own lives. She was the doting mother figure I never had, and in turn I was her only family. The thought made me open my mind to what she was proposing. For one brief moment it felt as though a door had opened, and I caught a glimpse of another world. It was an untamed place full of light and colour and as different from the streets of London as I could imagine. I briefly saw myself there, living as an independent woman. But just as easily as it opened, the door swung shut. I had no skills or training, and even if I did, no one would hire a gentlewoman. It was not to be. I had obligations to live up to, and life had suddenly become full of urgency and uncertainty. I pulled my hands from beneath hers to dab the corners of my eyes.
“At least go to the meeting and hear about the plan,” she said. “They’re letting women attend just this one time. Give it a chance.”
I didn’t want to spoil Wiggles’s dreams for me. Not yet. As much as I loved and respected her, a future in the colonies was her fantasy, not mine. I had no real interest in sailing to the other side of the earth and starting a new life, but I would leave that news for another day, a day when I was betrothed and could return her beautiful necklace. Of course, that would depend on Hari’s plan working.
Chapter Seven
As I left Wiggles’s cottage, it began to rain, but by the time I arrived at Dr. Randolph’s, the deluge had abated to a fine drizzle that coated the streets with a slick film. When Hari emerged from the building, she was leaning heavily on the doctor, and his arm moved to her waist as he guided her to the coach.
He was a slim man, pale, with intense dark eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache. Handsome, I thought, but there was an aura of vulnerability about him. Before he closed the door against the damp, late-afternoon chill, he took Hari’s limp hand and pressed it to his lips, holding it for some time before letting go.
I hoped his attentions meant there was good news, but Hari wasn’t smiling. She slumped against the cushioned seat of the coach and closed her eyes. I had thought to tell her about Wiggles’s idea, even as I discounted it, but her expression made me think twice.
“How did it go?” I asked tentatively.
Hari just shook her head.
I remembered George’s thoughtless comment at the party about her responsibility to give Charles children. She must be under so much pressure, I reasoned, and I certainly wasn’t helping.
“I hope you know that if there’s anything you need, you just have to ask.”
“I’m fine, really, Charlotte. It’s you that we have to worry about.” She straightened a little. “I’ve been thinking that I should send George a note—an expression of regret that there was a misunderstanding between the two of you. Something conciliatory.”
“A misunderstanding?” I was ready to protest, but the world-weary look on Harriet’s face stopped me.
Harriet sighed. “If he thinks you might publicly accuse him of wrongdoing, he’ll go on the offensive, do everything he can to destroy your reputation and limit Charles’s political power. But if we appease him, he won’t feel threatened and may just let the whole thing drop.”
The carriage continued its creeping progress through the winding, congested streets of town, but my mind would not quiet. I knew what she said made sense, but the very thought that we should have to be the ones to come grovelling to him made my skin crawl. I couldn’t stop Hari from sending a note to him, but I was certain I would never put my signature to it.
“George is a bully,” I said. “And the only way to control a bully is to stand up to him. If he senses weakness, he’ll be emboldened.”
“Will you leave this to me?” Hari’s jaw was tight.
“Can’t we at least discuss—”
The coach came to a skidding stop, vaulting me forward, and I put out my hands to brace myself. A high-pitched shriek cut through the air.
“What on earth?” We peered out the side window to see a horse sprawled on the damp ground in front of our coach. The carriage on the other side of the street must have skidded on the wet stone and dragged the horse off its footing. The poor creature had run into a wooden lamppost and broken its leg. In spite of its injury, the horse was desperately trying to stand, crying out in fear and pain, its eyes white with panic.
Harriet uttered a soft cry and covered her mouth with her hands. I desperately wanted to help the unfortunate animal, but as I reached for the door handle, a man stepped forward with a pistol.
“No!” I cried.
It was too late. In one swift motion, he had fired his pistol at the horse’s head. A sticky-sweet smell filled the air as a dark mixture of blood and brain matter began to ooze from the shattered head of the horse onto the cobblestone streets.
I sat back, fighting an urge to cry. A beautiful creature lost in such a terrible accident.
Harriet turned away, her handkerchief pressed against her nose.
Her footman’s head—a ruddy, deeply lined face topped by a brown derby hat—appeared at the side-door window. “I’m right sorry you had to witness that,” he said. “Not a sight for ladies. Sit back ’n’ keep warm, the coachman’ll get us out of here in a jiff, soon’s they clear the road.”
Harriet nodded, and he touched his hat and disappeared from view.
I couldn’t watch. In an attempt to block out the sounds and smells as they carried out their task, I focused my attention on the view from the opposite side of the carriage. It was a vast town house, its windows elegantly appointed with rich brocade tapestries. Inside I could see a young woman and three little boys seated at a great oak table laid with a silver tea service and candles. This was clearly the city home of someone, as Hari would say, in the first circles.
I nudged her and pointed to the window. “Do you know who lives here?”
She shook her head, but just then, a new figure entered the room. Harriet gasped. The man was unmistakable. It was Charles.
“Isn’t he supposed to be at his hunting lodge?” I asked.
She didn’t answer, but remained focused on the scene before us. The children were looking adoringly at their mother as she poured tea and offered cakes, while Charles, dressed in formal attire, watched the elegant family with clear admiration. A casual observer would have easily assumed he was the children’s father and the lady’s husband.
I studied the woman. I had seen her before. The carriage jerked forwards, and Harriet fell back against her seat.
“That’s the young widow who was at your party, isn’t it? Charles was talking with her. Why would he be having tea with her?”
“There are four perfectly good reasons, actually,” Hari said in a resigned voi
ce. “The first is the vast sum of money Mary Sledge happily inherited from her late husband, and then there are sons one, two, and three.”
With a shaking hand, she removed her gloves and searched through her velvet handbag, withdrawing a small green vial. Unstopping it, she dropped her head back and swallowed its contents. I couldn’t read the label, but whatever was in the tiny glass fingerling had an instant effect on Hari. Her shoulders relaxed and her gaze lost its focus.
“Surely Charles isn’t having a… romantic assignation with this woman. He wouldn’t be sitting with her whole family.” I shook Harriet’s arm. “Hari, you must tell me what’s going on.”
But she ignored me, burying herself in her wraps and closing her eyes.
My mind ran over the possible explanations for what I just witnessed. Was Charles having an affair? Not when he was so concerned about his public image, surely. Was it money? He seemed to have ample income. Well on the path to success, he would no doubt be in cabinet soon and possibly prime minister one day. He was a man who was ruthless when it came to his ambition and wanted nothing short of perfection from everyone in his professional circle and, of course, Harriet. I thought she was living up to his demands, but she seemed to know something that I didn’t. But why would he risk it all?
What she achieved through her marriage to Charles was an unattainable dream, according to the gossips. Many expected that Charles would choose money or status over beauty, but he hadn’t. Harriet had no dowry, like me, and said it was love and mutual respect that drew them together. But now a new thought occurred to me. Had Charles expected to inherit our estate instead of Edward? Was he now after the widow’s money? But then, what did the widow’s sons have to do with that? I pulled anxiously at the rug over my lap as the carriage brought us closer and closer to home, but instead of a refuge, Charles’s estate now felt like a hostile environment, full of traps and pitfalls that had to be avoided, if I could just figure out what and where they were.
Chapter Eight
The Brideship Wife Page 4
