“It must be worth it or no woman would ever marry and humanity would die,” Rita said soberly, then waited for Andrea to say something.
Andrea continued to look mournfully out at the bleak courtyard and the gray clouds in the sky. Rita was about to ask Andrea if she had heard her, when a rapid firm knock sounded at the door.
Both girls recognized Miss Whitecott’s rap, and immediately rose to their feet. Out of habit, they scanned the room to see that all was in order for what they assumed was one of Miss Whitecott’s surprise inspections. Quickly, Andrea smoothed the wrinkled coverlet on her bed as Rita answered the door.
Both girls stood erect as the pencil-thin woman with her hair fixed in a tight bun entered the room. Her look of disdain pervaded the space as she gave the room a superficial glance out of habit.
Eyeing the unopened book on Andrea’s desk, the woman cleared her throat. “You girls used to be the best students in your class,” she began. “Thus far this year, out of the eighteen girls, you, Miss Langford, are ranked eighth and you, Miss James, have fallen to fifteenth.” She paused, deliberately waiting for the girls to think on their offense before she continued. “If your grades do not begin to improve, I shall be forced to write to your fathers.”
“Miss Whitecott, what can a girl like me hope for in life if she doesn’t marry?”
Had Miss Whitecott been more astute, she might have understood the connection between Andrea’s fallen grades and her question, but the woman looked for no correlation. “Women continue to live with their parents until a time comes to marry. If not, I should imagine most become governesses or lady’s companions. Or I suppose in your case, you might aspire to becoming a shopgirl or an actress like your mother.”
Andrea James knew all too well that Miss Whitecott looked down on her inferior lineage, so she was not overly surprised by her answer.
“Is bookkeeping for a business the same as it is for household accounts?” Andrea asked, ignoring the woman’s disdain.
“I suppose it is the same principle, but I should think it would be more complicated.”
“Miss Whitecott, would you arrange a tutor for me—one who is well-versed in bookkeeping. I shall write my father tonight to inform him of my grades and to ask him to send funds for the tutor.”
“I’m glad you are taking this matter seriously, Miss James. I trust both of you will show improvement on your next marks.”
“Yes, Miss Whitecott,” the girls said in unison.
After the woman had gone, Rita eyed Andrea suspiciously. She knew that Andrea did not need a tutor—if her friend would bother opening her books in the afternoons rather than stare out the window, she would easily bring her grades up. Rita could not count the number of times that Andrea had not done her schoolwork and claimed in class that she did not understand how to do it.
“Andrea?”
She had returned to her perch and stared fixedly out the window again. Rita doubted that she heard her. She had seen that same blank look, brought on by desperation, many times in the last weeks and despite her efforts to reach her, Andrea had become oblivious to everything but the letters she had read in her father’s library.
“If I had been a son instead of the daughter, my father would not need to arrange a marriage to assure his business lives on,” Andrea said in flat tones, as if she were merely speaking her thoughts aloud. “The James Common Shipping Company should be mine and nobody else’s. What right does that foreigner have to the company my father built?”
“But you can’t run it.”
“Why not? What part of the business am I not capable of?”
Slowly, the plot evolved, and Rita was helpless to talk her friend out of it. Andrea was determined to show her father that she was capable of taking over when he died. She was determined to learn what she had to in order to involve herself in the shipping business.
Andrea smiled for the first time in months. The thought of running one of the most far-reaching companies in all of England gave her purpose.
5
Andrea dismissed her maid as soon as she entered her bedroom door. She had expected the tears to come immediately but found rather than being tearful, she was angry. She heard her parents arguing behind closed doors over the betrothal. The man was due within the week and still no one had told her. She did not know if her mother was just now finding out or if she had known for a while.
Intentionally forcing her outward appearance not to reflect her inner turmoil, Andrea sat at her vanity mirror and removed the pins from her hair. As she caught the reflection of the dignified young stranger in the mirror, she wondered what she had done wrong that her parents would betray her. She had always done exactly as they asked and in return, she was to marry advantageously. All her life, she had been groomed to become the perfect wife—no one could doubt that. She only wanted one season—it was all the beautiful young woman in the mirror would need. Her fashionably pale skin had lost its normal blush from the anxiety choking her. As she brushed her golden blonde hair, she contemplated her features. She had never been overly fond of her looks because her face brought unwanted stares from men. She had large pale blue eyes with the ring of darker blue around the edge and a dark thick fringe of eyelashes that seemed to draw one’s gaze to her eyes. Since childhood, her mother had insisted her lady’s maid pluck her brow to shape it perfectly. Her nose was perfectly straight, perhaps slightly smaller in proportion to her large eyes and full mouth.
Trained to be the perfect wife, she knew how to run a household and could converse intelligently on a myriad of subjects but she would never consider contradicting her husband or a guest. She felt it was always best to feign ignorance on political topics, although in reality, she always tried to keep abreast of such matters. If she could not avoid speaking of religion altogether, she would take the position of the government.
Moreover, she reluctantly resigned herself to endure her marital duties—if she must wed.
As she looked into the mirror, she expected to see the usual placid expression she usually wore, but today something else was there. Was it coolness? Was it because for so many years she had resolved herself to the idea of marrying for gain, that she was incapable of thinking of marriage in any other way?
She remembered overhearing girls at school claiming they were in love, but to Andrea, love was not a tangible thing. She was not even sure love existed. Some girls at school clung doggedly to the idea that they were in love, while others loved capriciously. She remembered one girl giggling to the others how Simon was last week’s love.
No, there were those who married for an imaginary emotion called love and then there were those, like Andrea, who married for gain. At least a title and the respect that it garnered, would be something real. To not believe in love, somehow made it all easier.
She simply had no tears. Curious.
Andrea took her sketchpad in hand and began sketching what she saw—a younger version of her mother—well, not quite Lillian. Even with no smile, Andrea’s features appeared more delicate, her mouth softer, her eyes less…. She wasn’t quite sure what made her eyes look different. Maybe they were less jaded, perhaps.
When she finished, she was amazed at her drawing. There could be no doubt it was Andrea in the drawing but, it was not the expressionless young woman in the mirror. Before she had time to analyze the difference, a knock sounded at her bedroom door. She quickly slid the sketchpad into the drawer of her vanity and went to the door to answer it.
“I saw light coming from under your door. I just thought I’d say goodnight,” Lillian said as she had hundreds of times before. Nothing amiss. Nothing to discuss.
Andrea felt unmitigated anger towards her mother’s casual manner, but she kept it well hidden. “I was just going to write a letter to Rita before I went to bed. Is there anything you wanted?”
Tell me, her brain screamed. Tell me.
“No, I-I just wanted to say good night, as I said.”
“Good night then,” she
murmured trying not to allow her emotions to show—trying to forget that barely an hour earlier, her mother and father had argued because the banns would be posted on Sunday—before her fiancé had even arrived. The engagement was to be as short as possible.
How could this happen to her? she wondered after closing the door behind her mother. The whole situation seemed like an endless nightmare that continued to get worse each time she blinked her eyes. She wished for nothing more than the ability to go back five years to that awful trip to America. She would have never gone to that ball—never given that odd, Irish-American fellow the time of day.
Well, she refused to marry him. Period.
She had had a year to figure out what she was going to do. Although she wished for a little more time, she had a plan. Dipping her pen in ink, Andrea began writing an honest, albeit berating letter to her parents, letting them know exactly what she thought of their plan to marry her off to that redheaded American and exactly what she thought of her betrothed. She didn’t mince words when she told them that she was as capable of running the shipping company as a man, more so because she loved it as much as her father. It was unfathomable that he would just marry her off and give his empire away without any thought to either one’s future. She even gave a methodical point-by-point account of what she found most repugnant about Shamus O’Shea. She didn’t know which she hated more, his appearance with his pomaded red hair, thick middle, and short stature, or the way he droned on endlessly about cotton, tobacco and warehouses.
It was after midnight when she finally finished the letter and she found that she felt somewhat better having vented some of her resentment.
Andrea took out her two portmanteaus, which had so recently been unpacked after she had returned from school for the very last time, and began filling them. Quietly, she made her way through the sleeping house to the attic and located an old trunk where her mother kept several old stage costumes. There were two costumes in particular she thought she could use. The first was a mourning dress with a veil that would hide her face if necessary. It would also come in handy to explain why a woman would travel alone. The second costume, which she donned as soon as she got back to her room, was a simple cream-colored peasant blouse and a skirt of plain dark brown. A large square of brown wool material, folded diagonally, would serve as a wrap. She slipped on the frequently muddied shoes she wore when she cut flowers from the garden. After tying her hair back with an old rag, she crept downstairs in the darkness. Every sound she made seemed exaggerated by the silence of the house. She prayed no one would hear her as she stealthily crept into her father’s study and stole the lockbox from his desk. From there, she passed into the kitchen and took the cash out of the tin where the cook kept it for the daily household expenses and deliveries. Cook would be in quite a state when she found the money gone, especially if she missed it before they discovered Andrea’s absence. Hoping it would be discovered first, she intentionally left the tin turned on its side to draw attention to the theft of its contents. In all the ensuing confusion, it was doubtful anyone would notice her disappearance until late morning.
When she returned to her room, she counted the money. There was a little more than ten pounds in the cook’s tin, but she was unable to open the strongbox to see how much was there. It was nearly the end of the month and she hoped her father had already been to the bank to get the servants’ monthly wages. Since she could not get it open, there was no way of knowing. It might be a brief respite. She put the box in one of her portmanteaus and the household money in her pocket, then quietly left the big house in Mayfair to find lodgings.
~*~
Andrea felt fortunate when she found a cab that had dropped off a pair of theatergoers only two blocks from her house.
“Where to, miss?”
“Wapping, sir. There’s an extra five shillings for you if you’ll take me to a decent lodging house and arrange a room for me for a week.”
“Wapping, miss?” the man said incredulously, running his hand through his blonde hair. “’Tisn’t the sort of place for a decent maiden to be going any time of day, much less at night—not with all them sailors fresh in from sea and all, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“That’s precisely why I want you to find civilized lodging and make the arrangements for me, sir. But I need to be near the London Docks,” she said, wishing the man would mind his own business.
Suddenly, the man’s eyes narrowed shrewdly at her. “Running away with some Lord’s silver are ye?”
The man did not miss the way she blanched and the guilty widening of her eyes.
“Maybe I should be finding a Bow Street runner instead?”
Andrea wished she had been more prepared for the man’s question, but it was too late, he had already seen her unguarded expression.
“No need for that. I didn’t steal anyone’s silver. Lady Chilson just dismissed me when she found Lord Chilson in my room. It-it was quite innocent, I assure you.”
The man laughed, but seemed satisfied. “I rather doubt that,” he said under his breath, as he climbed up on his perch. “Are you sure you want to go to Wapping? It would be safer if you got lodging elsewhere and went to the docks in broad daylight.”
“I’ve no intention of leaving my room tonight. Besides, I grew up around the docks. My father is the cooper on The Sea Vixen. In fact, I do not intend to leave the room until I hear The Vixen is moored. Lady Chilson let me go without a reference, so it’s unlikely I’ll be working as a governess again.”
“Governess, is it? I should’ve guessed by that hoity-toity air in your voice.”
Andrea let his slight go without challenge. She preferred not to say anything else if she could help it. No need to add any more lies to the ones she had already told. As it was, she had already insinuated that she was a common harlot and a wharf waif. If she continued, she would probably tell him something worse. Unfortunately, those were the first excuses to come to mind.
It was a long carriage ride but not as far as it would have been to the Surrey Docks, where her father’s ships, including The Sea Vixen, berthed. The first inn where he stopped was filled unless Andrea wanted to sleep in the common room. The second place, a small inn called the Red Hen had one room left. The driver went into the tavern and came out a few minutes later with a gruff old man who was nearly twice the size of the driver.
“See, I told you she wasn’t no whore. No, the lassie is down on her luck and just wants to stay here till her da comes home from sea.”
The innkeeper shifted his girth and peered into the hansom. “We don’t abide with no whorin’ here. We don’t abide much with unescorted wenches neither.”
“It’s only until my father’s ship docks. I’ll pay you for the week in advance.”
He put his hands on his hips. “You’re not to step foot in the common room. I will not have my patrons coming to blows and tearing the place up over the likes of you. We run a nice place here. You will come and go down the back stairs and through the kitchen. Is that understood, wench?”
“I assure you, sir. The last thing I want is to attract the attention of a drunken sailor on shore leave.”
The man let out a scoffing snort and told her the price of the room. She counted out the money for the innkeeper and the driver. “Thank you for your help,” she said to the driver.
“I have a daughter about your age. I only hope if she’s ever in need of help there will be someone to help her.”
With a heavy portmanteau in each hand, Andrea turned and quickly followed the innkeeper into the building. The man veered into the kitchen and walked past two wenches, slightly older than Andrea, and a thin middle-aged woman that the innkeeper patted on the rump as he passed.
“Cheeky bloke,” the woman said, grinning from ear to ear.
“You wouldn’t have married me if I was any other way, old woman, and you know it,” he laughed in passing.
He continued on to the back stairs and laboriously ascended the steps to he
r room. After locking the door and propping a chair under the doorknob, Andrea stripped down to her chemise and crawled into bed, listening to the hum of voices that came through the floorboards.
6
The morning fare at the Red Hen was hearty and surprisingly tasty. The pork chop was thick and seasoned well with spices that Andrea could not place. The bland egg with its runny yolk, served on top complemented it. She had never eaten a pork chop for breakfast before and was astonished that she had enough appetite to eat it all.
When the meal was finished, Andrea took the knife that had been brought up on her tray and tried to force the lock on her father’s strongbox. When that failed, she used it to pry the hinges off the back of the lid and eventually opened it that way.
Andrea giggled when she saw the money in the box. It was more than enough for her to book passage to…. Where? Where did she want to go? She had to go someplace where her father had an office. An office where she could work for her father and prove she could do the job. Liverpool was out of the question. It was simply too close to London. In a few days, news would travel to his Liverpool clerks that the owner’s daughter had run away. If she tried to gain employment there, it would only be a matter of time before her father caught up with her. Even if she disguised herself as a man, Liverpool was simply too close. She quickly eliminated the offices in India and Turkey because she didn’t know the native languages. That left the New York or the New Orleans offices. To her there was little difference. New Orleans had the advantage because it was not where her betrothed lived. Yet, the cost to New Orleans would be greater than the cost to New York. Sebastian would never think to look for her out of the country. However, until she had escaped to open seas, she needed to be cautious. She had no way of knowing if anyone had discovered her absence yet. If they had, men were bound to be out looking for her all over the city. If not, she would be as safe as any woman walking alone in Wapping. Little comfort, that.
Miles Before I Sleep Page 5
