A Study In Scarlet Women

by Sherry Thomas

  “And he is amenable to it?”

  “Our agreement is that I will wait until I’m twenty-five. If by then I still haven’t found anyone I wish to marry, then yes, he will sponsor my schooling.”

  Livia was flabbergasted. “I can’t believe it.”

  “He gave his word as a gentleman.”

  A man’s word was no trifling matter, so Livia shook her head. She supposed she must believe now that Sir Henry had made a serious promise. “But it’ll be a long time before you turn twenty-five, almost eight years. Anything could happen in the meanwhile. You could fall in love.”

  “That’s what Papa is counting on, no doubt. But romantic love is . . . I don’t wish to say that romantic love itself is a fraud—I’m sure the feelings it inspires are genuine enough, however temporary. But the way it’s held up as this pristine, everlasting joy every woman ought to strive for—when in fact love is more like beef brought over from Argentina on refrigerated ships: It might stay fresh for a while under carefully controlled conditions, but sooner or later its qualities will begin to degrade. Love is by and large a perishable good and it is lamentable that young people are asked to make irrevocable, till-death-do-we-part decisions in the midst of a short-lived euphoria.”

  Livia’s jaw hung open. She, too, had doubts about love and marriage, but they centered largely around her fear of coming across as arrogant and off-putting to potential suitors—and on whether she’d be able to choose better than Lady Holmes had. It had yet to occur to her to form large-scale judgments on the entire system.

  “But what about the Cummingses? They’ve been married thirty years and they’re still happy with each other.”

  “And there are the Archibalds and the Smalls, too. But we mustn’t be sentimental about the success of those marriages. We must look at it mathematically, the number of long-term happily married couples in proportion to all married couples. By my estimation that comes to less than twenty percent among our acquaintances. Will you bet on that kind of odds?”

  Livia blinked several times. “I take it you won’t.”

  “Those wouldn’t be bad odds at all if we were at a horse race. And they aren’t such terrible odds if we consider that the prize is decades of contented companionship. My problem lies with the stake I’m required to put up: my entire lifetime. Not to mention, unless I bury my husband or divorce him, I can play only once. And of course if I were to divorce my husband, my parents can never show their faces anywhere again—I’ll have effectively done them in, too. So, no. Given the exorbitant costs and constraints, I am not willing to take this gamble.”

  She tugged at Livia. Belatedly, Livia realized that they’d come to a stop some time ago and that she stood in the way of an oncoming dogcart. She allowed Charlotte to guide her to the edge of the dirt lane and nodded mechanically at the village doctor who drove past, tipping his hat.

  “I take it you plan to wait for your twenty-fifth birthday, then thumb your nose at society and go to school,” she said, when they resumed walking again.

  “More or less. Papa asked me to make a good-faith effort to let a man sweep me off my feet and I’ve agreed. But I don’t know why he thinks I’ll weigh contributing factors differently when I’m off my feet. Sometimes I feel I must conclude that Papa doesn’t know me at all.”

  That was a deduction that needed no comment. It was Livia’s opinion that Sir Henry still viewed Charlotte as an amusing oddity—or at least still hoped she’d return to being such if he ignored her radical thinking long enough. And it certainly didn’t help matters that Charlotte looked as she did, so emphatically, and one might even say extravagantly feminine, all rotundity and softness, not a sharp angle anywhere.

  “Well,” said Livia, “I’ve heard that kissing does affect a lady’s thinking.”

  “I’ve been kissed. It’s very nice, but I—”

  “What? Who kissed you? When? And where?”

  “It was several years ago. But I’ve pledged to never divulge the gentleman’s name—which means I also can’t tell you where the kiss took place, since that would narrow the list of likely candidates.”

  Several years ago? Charlotte would have been only thirteen or fourteen at the time. “You never said a thing!”

  “You never asked.”

  “I—” Livia decided she had better shut up before she blurted out that she could scarcely have wondered whether Charlotte was kissing boys when she had half suspected Charlotte had been sent from Mars to investigate the cultural observances of Earthlings. “How did it happen? Did it take you by surprise?”

  “Not at all. I set it in motion.”

  “Charlotte! Were you in love?”

  “No, I wanted to know what it felt like.”

  “But how did you pick the boy? Surely you didn’t draw a name out of a hat.” Livia gasped. “Or did you?”

  “I didn’t do that. But I can’t reveal the circumstances that led me to choose him, since that would also give clues to his identity.”

  Livia tried a few more times, but Charlotte remained amiably tight-lipped. Livia gave up. “Look at you. You had a ‘very nice’ kiss—and you’ve got a plan of action for your life. That makes me feel completely aimless.”

  “Usually one feels aimless because one isn’t sure yet what one wants—until one does, a proper strategy can’t be formulated.” Charlotte studied Livia a moment. “But in your case, it’s possible you know exactly what you want, but you’re afraid to want it, let alone pursue it.”

  Livia swallowed. She didn’t ask Charlotte what or how she knew; she didn’t say anything at all. They walked in silence the rest of the way.

  As they approached the house, Livia wrapped her arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. “What if everything Papa promised was only to mollify you temporarily? It gives me no pleasure to say this, but our father isn’t terribly farsighted—he’d be happy to postpone a problem for another day, let alone another eight years. What if when the time comes, he reneges on his word?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet, in any case—I’ll have plenty of time to consider my response.” Charlotte took Livia’s hand in her own. “But if our father should prove a man of his word and sponsor the necessary education and training for me to earn a living, will you allow me to do the same for you in return?”

  Livia squeezed Charlotte’s hand, suddenly close to tears. Charlotte seldom initiated physical contact—this was as solemn an offer as the queen could make standing in the middle of Westminster Abbey.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, please do.”

  She allowed herself to be briefly carried away by visions of this impossible future, two sisters, united in a most gratifying independence. Would they have a little cottage? Or a nice, spacious suite of rooms at the girls’ school that Charlotte would direct? She could see them sipping tea together on Sunday afternoons, Charlotte with a plate of her beloved plum cake in front of her, looking out to a small garden reserved for their private use.

  It was a more appealing future than any she’d imagined yet.

  But pessimist that she was, she couldn’t let the occasion pass without a word of caution. “Remember, Charlotte, Papa doesn’t like women. He’d feel a lot more hesitation breaking his word to a man—but you aren’t a man.”

  “He had one fiancée who jilted him because of his character flaws. And the woman he married to spite the fiancée dislikes him because he used her with little regard for her feelings. What reason does he have to dislike all women? Does he disdain all men because his father was an ass and his solicitor made a soup of his affairs?”

  “By your standards it isn’t rational, I know. But you can’t expect to be treated rationally when you are a woman, Charlotte. I can’t explain why—that’s just how it is. And you must learn to accept it.”

  Charlotte was quiet. Livia thought that perhaps for once, she’d put some sense into her little sister’s he
ad. But as they walked back into the house, Charlotte turned to her and said, “I will try to understand why. But I will not learn to accept it. Never.”

  Livia had long suspected that Sir Henry would not hold to his promise. And yet when it happened, when he broke his pledge, she was far angrier than her sister.

  “It’s unconscionable, what he did. To lie to you so baldly, to ask you to act in good faith when he hadn’t the slightest intention of upholding his end of the bargain—” She sputtered, unable to go on.

  Charlotte sat at the edge of their bed, the slow tapping of her fingertips on the bedpost the only sign of her agitation.

  After a long minute, Charlotte said, “My timing was less than ideal. I didn’t know it before I spoke to him, but Lady Amelia Drummond was found dead this morning. Papa was in a minor state.”

  Livia’s hand came up to her throat. “Oh.”

  Charlotte played with a bow on her skirt. “This isn’t to say that he would have kept his word otherwise. If he meant to keep his word, he would have, whether or not Lady Amelia still breathed. But had there been any vacillation on his part, any remote chance that he might have changed his mind at the last minute . . . as I said , my timing wasn’t ideal.”

  “Will you ask him again?”

  “Do you think that would be any use?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Livia was fuming again. “Please tell me you won’t swallow this appalling deceit. Papa will feel no remorse. He will only be endlessly smug that he got away with this kind of disgraceful chicanery.”

  Charlotte wrapped her hands around the bedpost. If it were Livia, she’d be imagining the bedpost to be Sir Henry’s throat. But Charlotte retained her usual tranquility as she replied, “No, I won’t let it pass without a suitable response.”

  “Good!” cried Livia. Then, a little less certainly, “But what kind of response would do the trick? How can you both punish him and still extract the necessary funds for your education?”

  “I have an idea. I will think about it.”

  “Can I be of help?”

  “It’ll be best if I handle it myself.”

  Livia was taken aback. “You aren’t going to—you aren’t going to put arsenic in his tea or anything like that, are you?”

  “No, of course not. Besides, his death would offer no financial advantage to us at all. That’s when his creditors will pounce. Mamma will have to sell the house to satisfy them and I will not receive a penny for my education.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

  A chill ran down Livia’s spine: Her sister could be ruthless in her own way. “Will you at least tell me when you’ll implement this diabolical plan of yours?”

  “Soon. Within weeks, I should think.”

  Livia took Charlotte by the shoulders. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  Charlotte’s lips stretched into a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Would that someone had given Papa that warning.”

  In the following days, Livia pestered Charlotte for more details about The Plan. But Charlotte only smiled, shook her head, and carried on as usual. It was the Season, with its attendant rounds of afternoon garden parties and evening dances. The whirl of merrymaking, however, had long ago lost what little appeal it had for Livia: The ultimate purpose of this yearly assembly wasn’t fun and games; it was for unmarried ladies to find husbands and married ones to jostle for social prominence.

  Livia wouldn’t say she’d never met any gentlemen who appealed to her. But those of lofty enough qualities to interest her never seemed to be interested in her. And those who did bother to pay attention to her failed to spark the least reciprocal warmth on her part.

  A sorry outcome, to say the least. After Charlotte’s thoroughly unromantic analysis of the institution of marriage, Livia had been on guard against runaway emotions that might lead to regrettable choices. But this resolute lack of runaway emotions was dispiriting in its own way. One ought to fall in love at least once, oughtn’t one? If only to understand what Elizabeth Barrett Browning had meant when she’d written, The face of all the world is changed, I think / Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul.

  Yet this common, practically universal experience evaded Livia everywhere she went. And of course for her mother, Livia’s failure to garner a single proposal in seven and a half Seasons was a shameful burden to bear, a burden that Livia must hear of weekly, sometimes daily.

  Lady Holmes’s latest tirade lasted the entirety of their ride home—they were alone in the carriage, it being Charlotte’s afternoon at the Reading Room of the British Museum, and the brougham was stuck in one of London’s horrible traffic logjams that took an hour to clear. Livia was exhausted by the time she escaped to her room. She feared she was coming dangerously close to the point when she would begin to encourage anyone, anyone at all, with a matrimonial interest in her—to get away from her mother, if nothing else.

  If Charlotte would only succeed somehow in her endeavor. But every passing day sapped Livia’s confidence that any good would come of Sir Henry’s betrayal, that Charlotte would somehow rise triumphantly, phoenixlike, from the ashes of her hopes.

  The sound of metal tires coming to a stop drew her to a window. Charlotte usually walked home from the British Museum and the hour for ordinary calls was well past. Who could be pulling up to their front door?

  An unfamiliar town coach disgorged Charlotte, followed by . . . what in the world was Charlotte doing with the Dowager Baroness Shrewsbury? Lady Shrewsbury was the last person who would set foot in the Reading Room, so Charlotte couldn’t possibly have met her there. And even if she had, ever since Charlotte had turned down a marriage proposal from Lady Shrewsbury’s son, Lady Shrewsbury had been chilly toward the Holmeses, finding it an outrage that a girl from a family of lesser pedigree and standing had decreed her Roger to be not nearly good enough.

  From her vantage point, Livia hadn’t been able to see Charlotte’s face properly, but something in her posture didn’t feel right. Livia opened the door of their bedroom, but there was no indication that Charlotte was coming upstairs. What could Lady Shrewsbury possibly want with Charlotte?

  Below, her parents were headed for the parlor, exchanging whispered words with each other, sounding just as baffled as to Lady Shrewsbury’s presence: After all, Roger was now married—all the baroness’s sons were married—so she couldn’t have good news to announce involving Charlotte and any kinsman of hers.

  They entered the parlor. Lady Shrewsbury’s voice called firmly for the door to be closed. She also instructed the footman that there would be no need for tea. Livia’s heart dropped a few rungs. What was going on?

  She took a deep breath, tiptoed down the stairs, and sidled as quietly as she could to the door of the parlor.

  “. . . an absolute disgrace. What girls these days think I have no idea. To turn down Roger’s proposal, only to indulge in a shameless affair with him six years later—as an unmarried woman, no less!”

  Livia covered her mouth. Dear God, no. This couldn’t possibly have been Charlotte’s response to Sir Henry. Lady Shrewsbury raged on, her words sloshing in and out Livia’s hearing, a tide of undifferentiated syllables, carrying no meaning except wrath and ruin.

  At some point Lady Shrewsbury stopped and Sir Henry spoke, his words too soft for Livia to hear. Lady Shrewsbury laughed derisively. “Keep it from spreading? No, my good sir, that horse has bolted the barn. By dinnertime tonight everyone in London will know what your daughter has been caught doing today. But even if that weren’t the case, I would make sure that she is shunned from every respectable drawing room in the land. Her conduct is beyond the pale and no good family should tolerate any association with a girl of such abominably loose morals.”

  “My daughter has committed
an unforgivable sin,” said Sir Henry, his voice tight yet defeated. “But has your son fared any better? No gentleman would take up with an unmarried young lady from a good family. Does he not share some of the blame?”

  “He does.” Lady Shrewsbury sounded as if she were speaking through a mouthful of sand. “And he will hear from his wife and myself. But men are creatures of unbound lust. It is the duty of good women to keep them in check. For your daughter to lure my son from home and hearth, for her to—”

  Livia turned and ran back upstairs, so that she wouldn’t kick in the door, grip Lady Shrewsbury by the front of her bodice, and start screaming. What luring of her son from home and hearth? Roger Shrewsbury already kept a mistress in St. John’s Wood. Had kept a string of mistresses there over the years, one of the reason Charlotte turned him down.

  In the room she shared with Charlotte Livia paced, her footsteps heavy and frantic. She sat down for a while, rocking back and forth at the edge of a chair, before leaping up to pace again. When Lady Shrewsbury drove off in her carriage, she rushed downstairs, only to find the parlor door still closed and her mother shouting inside.

  Ever since she’d been waiting for Lady Holmes to stop yelling.

  At last a small silence fell. Lady Holmes trudged to a chair at the far end of the room and sank into it with a graceless whomp. Charlotte sat, very primly, with her hands folded together in her lap. Her face was splotchy with Lady Holmes’s hand marks and her coiffure appeared slightly askew, as if missing a few pins that would have better kept it in place. But otherwise she looked calm and collected, not at all like a woman about to be shunned by everyone she’d ever met.

  Did she understand what had happened?

  Or had this been her plan from the very beginning?

  Sir Henry spoke for the first time since Lady Shrewsbury’s departure. “Is this what you intended, Charlotte, to bring discredit and reproach upon the entire family?”