The visit with the widow had been a campaign-donor call, Harriet told me the next day. She came to my bedroom rather late in the morning, still looking peaked. “With everything on my mind, I completely forgot that Charles had some business to take care of before he left for the lodge.”
There was something about the casual way she spoke that left me doubting I had heard the whole truth, but I sensed she needed me to accept her answer and let it be for the time being. When she was feeling better, I would sit her down and make her tell me what was going on and see what I could do to help.
Harriet turned her attentions back to my problem. “Jane has already been let go,” she said, then placed a piece of paper in front of me.
“What’s this?”
“A very carefully crafted note to George for you to sign. I want it delivered today.”
“Delivered by whom?”
“By you.”
“No, Hari! I never want to see that man again, ever.”
“To make this work he needs to see that you are not a threat, that you are genuinely making a peace offering.”
She was right as usual, but I could barely stomach the idea. I went over to my writing desk, and as I rummaged through it looking for pen and ink, I spotted the brochure Wiggles had given me. The date of the meeting was today, I realized. If I decided to go, I could put off the dreaded visit to George until after.
I paused, my pen hovering over the paper I was expected to sign, feeling somewhat of a traitor to myself. I once fancied that I had some of my father’s independent spirit in me, but I doubted that now. I imagined the sort of women who would be attracted to the brideship resettlement scheme. They would be bold and adventurous, not afraid to stand up to the “Georges” of the world. What kind of life would await them? I sighed and reluctantly signed the bottom of the fine, elegant paper, applying my red wax seal before tucking it into my bag.
I told myself that I couldn’t seriously contemplate resettling in the colonies because Hari and Charles would never hear of it, but there was more to it than that. Hari was the only family I had left, and I couldn’t bear to leave her. The more I ruminated about it, the more I could see that she was going to need my support in the coming months. I had always depended on her, but perhaps the time had come for her to lean on me. I would be the one to take on the role of the big sister for once. But after Wiggles’s selfless gift of her most prized possession, I felt obligated to attend the Columbia Emigration Society meeting as she had asked. I will at least go through the motions so that when I return her necklace I can honestly say that I gave her idea some thought.
It was unusual for me to set out for London two days in a row. I seldom came to the city—its charms were lost on me—and when I did, I was rarely alone. But today my shoes made a lonely echo on London’s cobblestone streets as I stepped out of the carriage across the street from Charles’s club. A watery sun broke through the clouds, gracing the grand white marble building before me with elegant light. I had to squint and lower my eyes as I advanced towards a group of men making their way up the steps to the front door. Despite my firm resolution that this venture wasn’t for me, a heady exhilaration filled me at the thought of thumbing my nose at society’s rules about ladies requiring escorts.
I felt a hand firmly grip my arm and pull me sharply to one side. A man hissed in my ear, “What in blazes are you doing here?”
I wrenched my arm away and looked up at my accoster. It was George. Bile rose in my throat at the smell of him, the touch of his hand. “Mr. Chalmers! Why are you here?”
“Are you planning to make trouble for me at my club, of all places? I will make you very sorry if you even try.”
“I’m attending a meeting. Women are being admitted to the club just for today.” I remembered the letter. I opened the drawstring on my purse and pulled the sealed paper out. “This is for you. We have to come to some sort of agreement about what happened… settle things once and for all.”
“What is this? Some sort of legal summons? I won’t accept it, I tell you.” We were attracting some curious glances from the group of men lingering by the door. “Get away from me.” He began to pull back from me, but I tried to push the letter into his coat pocket. I just wanted to be done with this man, for Harriet’s and my sakes.
“Just what do you think yer doing, little missy?” a new voice said.
I dropped the letter as I spun around to see a bearded policeman looking me over.
“Unaccompanied ladies ain’t welcome here,” he said. “Ply your trade in the back alleys like the rest of ’em.”
He picked up the letter and handed it to George. “This looks like it belongs to the gentleman. Here you go, sir. Sorry you were bothered by the likes of her.”
George took the letter and almost stumbled in his haste to get away. The policeman gripped my arm and leaned in on me. The sharp tang of chewing tobacco made me recoil.
“I’m here for the meeting. I have every right to be here.”
“Ah, it’s yer rights yer after, is it?” He put his sweaty, black-whiskered face too close to mine. “You don’t look the part of a working woman, you’re too well dressed. You’re not one o’ them women’s rights types, are ya, trying to force your way into places where you’ve no business? You get yerself home, lass, before I’m forced to arrest you for trespass.”
After everything I had been through in recent days, this felt like the last straw. I searched for my pamphlet and waved it in his face. “I have legitimate business. You can’t stop me.”
I backed away but lost my balance, falling backwards off the low curb and landing hard on the cobblestone street. Two well-dressed young women in large bonnets, clearly out for an afternoon stroll, giggled behind lace handkerchiefs while their male partners strained for a better view. A burning flush crept from my chest to my cheeks. The last thing I needed was to be at the center of more gossip. I struggled to untangle my skirts when a man stepped forward from the gathering onlookers and offered me his hand. “Charles Dickens, at your service.”
One of the young women gave a small gasp, and a hushed silence descended on the crowd. In the moment, I forgot myself, so entranced was I at the prospect of England’s favourite author standing before me. I wanted to tell him how much I adored him and that I had read Little Dorrit ten times at least, but I simply stared. I was glad that Hari wasn’t with me. She often adopted her husband’s opinions on social issues, and I had heard him refer to Dickens as “a bloody socialist who pandered to the uneducated masses.” I cared little for Charles’s politics.
“Are you all right?” Dickens asked as he pulled me to my feet. He was dressed in a long black frock coat with a flowing neckerchief tied loosely under a high-point collar. He was handsome in his own way, a soulful artist with long hair and dark, searching eyes.
“Yes, thank you.” I let out the breath I’d been holding. Hopefully any gossip would be about him, not me.
He addressed the policeman. “Unescorted young women are welcome, even encouraged, to attend today’s meeting. It’s their future we’ll be discussing.” He raised his voice and turned to face the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, step inside with me and be witness to an historic event: the launch of the brideships destined for the far-off colony of British Columbia.”
There was a smattering of applause and a rush for seats. I was swept up in the crowd, propelled forward through venetian-glass doors into the grand ballroom. Ladies were only admitted into the spectators’ galleries on each end of the vast marble-pillared room, and I had to squeeze my way into a seat at the very back, but I was relieved. From this obscure corner, I wouldn’t attract attention, and I could still see the head table and hear much of what was said. My fluttering stomach soon settled, and I cooled my flush by fanning myself with the speakers list that had been placed on the chair.
“That’s wha’ I heard, Gertie,” one of the ladies in front of me was saying to the woman next to her. They both looked to be about my age, but their cl
othes, rough calico cotton dresses with matching bonnets, told me they were working class. “There’s hundreds o’ thousands more women than men in this country ’cause o’ the wars and such. So I ask you, how’s a lass to find a husband when she’s not a fancy-looker and has no money?”
I found myself nodding in sympathetic agreement. Not to mention when she’s the centre of a scandal, I thought.
A hush fell, and I recognized the Lord Mayor of London, William Cubitt, as he rose to speak. “Gentlemen, and, ah, ladies, we are here to discuss a bold proposal to send shipments of marriageable women to the colony of British Columbia. This plan has the strong endorsement of Mr. Charles Dickens and, I say, what could be better than to support our fellow countrymen who are facing great hardship as they carve a foothold for the empire in every corner of the world?”
Several of the soberly dressed gentlemen in front murmured, “Hear! Hear!”
The mayor took his seat, and a dandy in a yellow-striped knee-length coat with a ridiculously large handlebar moustache stepped to the front of the room. I resisted the urge to giggle at his dress. He proceeded to read a letter from a Reverend Lundin Brown, whose congregation included the gold prospectors in a town called Yale. Reverend Brown was “appalled by the number of illicit relationships conducted with both Native and white women” and said that frontier prostitution would “ultimately ruin religion and morals in this fine country.”
Two very different pictures were emerging here, one of a land of lonely upstanding men in a fruitless search for good Christian wives, and the other? Not so charitable. I wondered at the truth of it. How would these women get on in such a society? Would they be the recipient of many worthy offers, free to take their time and choose carefully, or would they be forced to fend off endless unwanted advances? I suspected the answer would be somewhere in the middle. But the New World offered hope for a better future, and there was a stir of excitement in the crowd as the bishop of Honolulu spoke with passion on the need for British women to emigrate to all regions of the far-flung empire.
I tried to imagine what life would be like in a colony on the other side of the world. It would be a physically rigorous existence, I expected, where ladies dressed for a day of riding or hiking, not social calls. I briefly saw myself striding out in a long split skirt with high boots, my corsets a thing of the past. But in truth, the more I listened to the speakers, the more assured I was that my place was in England with Harriet. I was not made for this sort of thing. While the other ladies were clapping with enthusiasm, I shrank back. The concerns being discussed were for a world completely foreign to me. Why should I care about North America and the problems there? I had enough to worry about right here.
There was a buzz from the crowd as Charles Dickens stood to speak, and he held up his hand to quiet the crowd.
“Let us send those confined to working in cotton mills and workhouses. Surely some of these women would have better lives in the colonies with a chance to marry and raise good Christian families.”
“But what should we do with our upper-class old maids?” someone shouted from a far corner of the room.
A roar of laughter went up, and I sank deeper into my seat.
Another voice responded, “Send them to the lonely gold miners too!”
The cheers grew even louder, and a few men tossed their hats in the air.
The chairman stood up and demanded order. Banging a gavel, he introduced the next speaker, Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts. I knew that name. Miss Burdett-Coutts was the talk of all the society pages in the broadsheets. At age twenty-four, she had inherited the vast fortune of her grandfather’s bank. It was said she was blessed with high energy and a serious mind and that she had dedicated herself to a life of philanthropy. If I had such a fortune, I thought, I would see to it that Harriet and I were always comfortable and safe. Perhaps I could even convince Edward to sell our estate back to me.
I strained for a better view as Miss Burdett-Coutts rose from her seat at the head table. She was an elegant woman, wearing a green silk day gown with pagoda sleeves and the very latest fashion of a slim-fitted skirt.
“Gentlemen,” she began. “I propose we send two ships of impoverished single women, of varied classes and backgrounds, to the colony of British Columbia with the express intent of providing our lonely sons with good Christian wives. I will fund this project with a gift of fifteen thousand pounds.”
Three cheers went up from the assembly, and the two women in front of me jumped to their feet and hugged each other. I slouched in my seat. Would life be better for these women in the colonies? Charles Dickens, a man I greatly admired, seemed sure of it. But I had seen firsthand what could happen when a man feels he can do as he wishes, sure that the law won’t touch him. I couldn’t imagine what liberties he would take in a lawless land. No, everything I heard here today confirmed that this wasn’t the path for me. I would tell Wiggles as much once Harriet found me a suitable staid Englishman to marry. I just hoped that I hadn’t made matters worse with George and that the letter would smooth everything over.
Chapter Nine
A week after the party, the house was a hive of activity as preparations were underway for a dinner with Lord Ainsley. Charles was due back from his hunting lodge that day, and as much as Harriet denied it, I knew she was just as anxious as I was to see what kind of mood he would be in. George had not yet responded to our letter, but we sensed no gossip at church on Sunday. I hoped it was a good omen, that he had been placated by what he had read.
The one solace was the weather. Spring had reasserted itself once again. May was out in all its glory, and I sat on a rug in the garden in the warm afternoon sun with Little Dorrit. I’d had an inclination to reread it after meeting Charles Dickens. My experiences of late had opened my eyes to many things, and I found new meanings in the narrative. I was startled when something warm brushed my arm. I dropped my book just as a small ball of fur darted across my lap and began nipping playfully at my fingers.
“A puppy!” I cried happily, scratching its ears. “And just who might you be?”
“Belle. A little gift I brought back for Hari.” I looked up to see Charles coming towards me. He must have just returned. “She’s a Pekinese. I want you to train her. I won’t have any puddles on the carpets.”
Charles was always keeping up appearances, and these adorable dogs were all the rage after the Chinese Dowager Empress Cixi gave one to Queen Victoria to cement relations between our two countries.
“I’d love to train her,” I said. “I’m good with animals. I always trained the dogs on our estate when I was a girl.”
I smiled, expecting Charles to leave having entrusted the pup to my care, but he remained where he was. “Did you have a nice trip?” I asked uneasily.
“Never mind my trip. I had expected that you and George would have announced your engagement by the time I returned. Didn’t the two of you wander off at the party? I should have thought a little private tête-à-tête would have moved things along. Lord knows I’ve done everything in my power.”
So George hadn’t spoken to him. That was good. But how could I get Charles to stop pushing for the marriage? I decided to be partially honest with him. “I don’t think he’s really all that keen on me.”
Charles took a step towards me. “I thought Harriet explained this to you. I need to be in George’s good graces if I’m to get into cabinet. He rewards those who treat him with deference and respect. He lets everyone else wallow in political oblivion. It would be best if he and I were related through marriage. Is that too hard for you understand?”
“I understand,” I choked, determined not to let my inner fury show. Was Charles so desperate for political favours that he would use me as a pawn in his grand plan? Belle sensed the tension between us and did what puppies do. She nervously urinated on Charles’s shoe. He gave me a look that suggested I was to blame for the dog’s indiscretion and stalked off.
I let out the breath I had been holding. I was quite
sure Charles could not convince George to marry me, and if he tried, what would George say? I cringed at the thought of the story that he had threatened to tell. I knew whose version Charles would believe, but what I didn’t know was what would happen to me. I held the puppy close and prayed that Harriet wouldn’t be punished for my trouble.
When I returned to the house with Belle, I found Harriet in the small family parlour. One look at her agitated pacing and I could tell she was in a mood. Perhaps it was better I not mention my conversation with Charles just yet.
“Why Charles thought a dog would please me, I have no notion.” She dabbed her cheeks with one of her elegant white lace handkerchiefs.
“Are you feeling all right?” I asked, reaching up to touch her forehead.
She pulled away from me. “I’m fine.”
I looked closely at her face. Not fine, I thought. Sallow skin, dark circles under her eyes.
“Are you sure? Do you need to go back to the doctor?”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow, but never mind about that now, Charlotte.”
“Has Charles said something?”
“He’s done something. He has invited that ridiculous widow, Mary Sledge, and her three children to supper. He just told me.”
“First the tea with her and now this. Hari, something’s going on. You have to tell me. I can help. Please.”
“I don’t know for sure, but I can guess,” she said, her voice weak. “I’ll bet it’s no coincidence that Charles’s uncle is the guest of honour tonight.”
“Charles wants Lord Ainsley to meet Mary?”
“It’s not about Mary; at least I don’t think so. It has to do with her children.” She said no more, as a housemaid came in to light the candles and fire. After a few moments, she spoke in her usual calm, authoritative voice. “Charles has asked that you be seated here in the family parlour to supervise Mrs. Sledge’s children. Since we have no governess, someone needs to keep an eye on them and help them with their meals.”
The Brideship Wife Page 5
