by Dilly Court
In the stifling heat of closely packed bodies, there were only the most basic facilities for personal hygiene, and the worst part of the trip for Hetty was feeling permanently dirty and dishevelled. Her clothes were grubby and she longed to wash her hair and take a bath. She missed her family and friends more than she would have thought possible, and it was only the thought of being reunited with Charles that kept her from despair in the long, dark nights when sleep eluded her.
The days were equally long and tedious with nothing to look forward to other than mealtimes. Their diet now consisted mainly of bread and soup which was thick with vegetables and fairly tasteless. After the first few days, when the weather had calmed and most of the women had found their sea legs, the main topic of conversation had turned to food. They spoke longingly of cow heel, pigs’ trotters, jellied brawn and faggots with gravy and mashed potato, of suet pudding thick with treacle and all kinds of cake and buns, but the treat they missed most of all was undoubtedly chocolate. Hetty decided there and then that, on her return to London, chocolate was to feature largely in her coffee shops. There would be chocolate cake, of course, and hot chocolate to drink, but also boxes of chocolates which might be expensive but would make ideal gifts. Gentlemen who were out to impress their lady loves would purchase them without giving a second thought to their cost. Hetty could not wait to share her hopes and dreams with Charles. With him by her side there would be no stopping her.
On the morning of the twelfth day out of Queenstown, the Ohio made landfall in America. They had arrived in Philadelphia and Hetty had to say farewell to her newfound friends. There were hugs and tears and promises to keep in touch, although Hetty knew that these would be broken the moment the women set foot on shore to begin a new life. Once the landing formalities had been completed, Hetty stood alone in the middle of the busy port, and for a moment her courage almost deserted her as she realised the enormity of what she had done. She was thousands of miles from home in a strange land, with just an address written on a scrap of paper which she had copied from one of Charles’ letters. She glanced over her shoulder at the looming shape and the tall funnels of the Ohio, which suddenly seemed like a welcome refuge, and she was tempted to run back on board to the stark familiarity of her berth in steerage. She had to remind herself why she had braved the Atlantic. She had come this far and this was her beloved’s home town. Soon it would not seem strange at all; everything would be all right once she was reunited with Charles.
She sought out a man in uniform with brightly polished brass buttons on his navy-blue jacket, and she asked directions to the nearest cabstand. Behind his steel-rimmed spectacles the man’s eyes were a warm brown and there was something in his kindly smile that reminded her of George. He tipped his peaked cap and pointed the way out of the docks to the main street where he assured her she would find a cab. Her first encounter with an American had made her feel a little less of a foreigner, and Hetty took heart. She found the cab rank and gave the cabby the address in Washington Square.
As the vehicle tooled along the historic streets, she felt a surge of anticipation and a flutter of nerves. The buildings in this part of the town were not so different from those in the West End of London, but when they arrived in the square with its tree-filled garden and elegant townhouses, Hetty’s courage failed her. She glanced down at her travel-stained clothing and she knew that she could not turn up on the Wyndhams’ doorstep looking like a drudge and smelling far from fragrant. She swallowed her pride and instructed the cabby to take her to a cheap but respectable hotel that was not too far away from Washington Square. With a flick of his whip he urged his horse into a trot.
The modest hotel was in Walnut Street and Hetty judged it to be in reasonable walking distance of Charles’ home. Having booked a room for the night, she followed the porter up several flights of stairs to her room. He placed her bandbox and suitcase on the bed, and he stood looking at her with an expectant expression on his face. Somewhat reluctantly, she took out her purse and gave him a tip. She had changed her English money for American dollars at a bank in London, but she was confused as to the value of the nickels, dimes and cents, and she knew she had over-tipped him when the porter gave her a beaming smile and left the room whistling a merry tune. She put her purse back in her reticule with a sigh. Her money would not last long at this rate; she must be extra prudent when it came to spending.
As the door closed on the porter, Hetty took stock of her new surroundings. The room was square, with a high ceiling and gas mantles on the walls, which were painted a rather sombre shade of cream. The brass bedstead was draped in a patchwork quilt and the tall window, framed with drab green curtains, looked out at rows of back yards and brick walls. Several slightly threadbare rugs were laid at strategic places on top of worn pink linoleum which had definitely seen better days. She glanced in the fly-spotted mirror on the dressing table and was shocked to see a bedraggled, pale-faced young woman staring back at her. The clock on the mantelshelf above the empty grate showed her that it was past midday. If she wanted to seek out Charles she must stop dawdling and get on with the matter in hand.
Hetty unpacked her suitcase, laying out a change of clothes on the bed, and she hung the rest of her garments in the chifforobe, hoping that the creases would drop out. Taking her soap and towel and clean clothes, she went in search of the bathroom and was relieved to find it unoccupied. She put the brass plug in the sarcophagus-like tub and turned on the taps. For the next half an hour she luxuriated in hot water and she washed her hair. One day she would have a house with just such a bathroom as this. There would be no more tin tubs set in front of the fire and filled laboriously with pans of hot water from the kitchen range. Hot and cold running water must be the ultimate luxury. Reluctantly, she got out of the bath to dry herself and dress in her clean clothes. Returning to her room, she towel-dried her hair and knotted it into a chignon at the nape of her neck. She put on her new bonnet and tied the violet-blue ribbons in a bow beneath her chin. She angled her head as she looked at her reflection in the mirror, and she pinched her pale cheeks in order to bring a little colour to them. When she was satisfied that she could do no more to improve on nature, Hetty shrugged on her cape. She picked up her reticule and left the room, locking the door behind her.
In the hotel lobby, the desk clerk took her key and placed it on a hook in front of a pigeon-hole. ‘Will you be requiring dinner this evening, ma’am?’
Hetty hesitated. ‘I – I’m not sure.’
‘No matter. Dinner is served prompt at seven; perhaps you could let me know later?’
‘Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you.’ Hetty hurried out of the building and down the steep flight of steps to the pavement. The Wyndhams must invite her to dine with them, mustn’t they? Of course they would, she told herself with a determined lift of her chin as she set off along the street in the direction of Washington Square. But once again her courage began to fail her as she approached the house with its elegant red-brick façade and imposing front door beneath a bracketed pediment. With its fluted pilasters, small-paned sash windows and white-painted shutters, the house looked to be even grander than Miss Heathcote’s mansion in Mayfair. Hetty stood on the pavement gazing up at the windows, vaguely hoping that she might see Charles looking down at her, but they remained glassily blank and cold. A frisky breeze sent dry leaves tumbling down from the trees in a shower of red and gold, and they crunched beneath her booted feet as she took her first nervous steps towards the front door. She rang the bell and waited. She was finding it difficult to breathe, and her mouth was so dry that she had to lick her lips before she could answer the prim maidservant who opened the door and enquired as to her business. ‘I’ve come to see Mr Charles Wyndham,’ Hetty said, hoping that she sounded more confident than she was feeling at this moment.
‘Mr Charles is not at home, ma’am.’
Hetty had not expected this. For some reason she had thought that Charles would be in the house waiting for her, almost as if he
had known that she would be coming. She swallowed hard. ‘Can you tell me when you expect him to return?’
‘I cannot say for sure, ma’am.’
‘But do you know where I might find him?’
‘Why, he’ll be at the bank, of course.’
Hetty was not going to be outfaced by a foreign maid and she gave her back look for look. ‘Then I will call again later.’
The maid’s impassive expression did not waver. ‘Who shall I say called, ma’am?’
‘You won’t,’ Hetty said, tossing her head. ‘I wish to surprise him.’ She turned and walked down the steps, forcing herself to go slowly and not to break into a run. She wrapped her cape more tightly around her shoulders and she crossed the road to the gardens. She found a bench situated in a position where she could sit and watch the house and wait for Charles to return from work. She had no idea of the time, and she ventured to stop and ask an elderly gentleman who was walking a rather large and hairy dog. He took a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and he peered at the face through the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘It is three o’clock, ma’am. Good day to you.’ He gave her a half-smile and walked on.
Three o’clock. Hetty shivered. The sun had gone behind a solid bank of cloud and the heaps of golden leaves on the grass had turned to bronze. She stood up and began to walk about in an attempt to keep warm. She would have liked to explore a little, but she was afraid to leave the square in case Charles returned home early. When she grew tired of walking, she sat down again on the bench with the view of the Wyndhams’ front door, and when that palled she rose to her feet and took another turn around the square. During her tedious vigil, several carriages drew up outside the house, but the fashionably dressed people who alighted and were admitted by the same prim servant were patently just visiting.
By the end of the afternoon Hetty was beginning to despair of seeing Charles. She toyed with the notion of calling at the house again, and this time asking to see his mother, but the thought of facing a stern American matron who might not know of her existence was daunting and Hetty abandoned the idea. She was tired, hungry and emotionally drained after her long wait. She had almost decided to give up for the day and return to the hotel, when a carriage pulled up outside the house and the liveried groom leapt down to open the door. Hetty rose to her feet. Her hand flew to her throat as a gentleman alighted from the coach, but although he was tall and fair-haired, she could see that he was a much older man. The likeness to Charles was striking and she could only assume that this must be his father. She hesitated, taking a step towards the road and then stopping. It would be no easier to introduce herself to him than it would have been to his wife. A sudden gust of wind whirled the leaves into bright eddies around her feet and for a brief moment the setting sun showed itself from behind a bank of cumulus.
Just as Hetty was about to leave the square, she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves approaching at a brisk trot. She glanced up and saw Charles driving himself in a smart gig with yellow wheels. He was hatless, and the dying rays of the sun turned his fair hair into a golden halo. He looked, she thought, like a Roman emperor driving his chariot to the Colosseum. She had remembered him as being very good-looking, but dressed in his impeccably tailored suit he was even more handsome. He brought the spirited animal to a halt in front of his house, and, as if from nowhere, a groom appeared to take the reins. Charles leapt down from the driver’s seat and was about to mount the steps when Hetty called out to him. She picked up her skirts and raced across the road. ‘Charles. Oh, Charles. I had almost given up hope of seeing you today.’
He seemed to freeze, turning his head very slowly to stare at her with an incredulous expression. ‘Hetty? Hetty, is it really you?’
She flung herself into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time. ‘It is me. I am here, Charles. I am here.’
‘By God, so you are.’ He held her at arm’s length, staring into her eyes with disbelief. ‘But how? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Hetty, what the heck do you think you’re doing here?’
It was not the welcome she had been expecting or the one she had hoped for. In a shattering instant, Hetty’s dream of an ecstatic reunion with hugs, tears and kisses, was smashed into a million tiny shards. She felt her lips trembling as she tried to hold back tears of disappointment. ‘I – I came to see you, Charles. You haven’t written for ages and I came to find out . . .’ She broke off, unable to continue beneath his stern gaze.
‘You came all this way on your own? What were you thinking of, Hetty?’
‘Of you, Charles. I had to know if you still feel the same way about me.’
‘Don’t cry, honey.’ His expression softened and he placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘You caught me by surprise. Of course I’m pleased to see you.’
Hetty fished a rather grubby handkerchief from her reticule and blew her nose. ‘You don’t look very happy.’
He glanced up at the house as if expecting to see a row of faces peering out of the windows. ‘Where are you staying, Hetty? I mean, I assume you have booked into a hotel.’
‘O’Malley’s Hotel in Walnut Street. I didn’t want to impose on your family, Charles. At least, not until you have introduced us.’
‘You’ve changed, Hetty.’ Charles gazed at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You’ve lost some of that cute cockney accent and you – you just seem different.’
There was a note of awe in his voice and Hetty took heart. She reached up impulsively and brushed his lips with a kiss. ‘I’ve come up in the world, Charles. I wrote to you about Miss Heathcote and the coffee shops. Didn’t you read my letters?’
‘Of course, honey,’ Charles said absently, but his attention had been diverted by an approaching carriage and he took Hetty by the arm, hurrying her back across the street into the gardens.
‘Charles, what is going on?’ Hetty demanded.
‘Sorry, honey, but that carriage belongs to my cousin Eugenie and she is the nosiest girl this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.’
‘Don’t you want me to meet your family?’ He stared at her with a perplexed look on his face. ‘Sure I do, but there’s a time and place for everything.’ He took her by the arm and started walking at a brisk pace. ‘I’ll walk you back to your hotel, dear. We’ll have dinner later and then we can talk.’
Hetty jerked her hand free and she stopped dead in the middle of the path. ‘If you’ve changed your mind about us I would rather you told me now, Charles. If I’ve mistaken your feelings for me, I’ll get the next ship home, even if I have to work my passage.’
A reluctant smile chased away his frown. ‘Don’t be so theatrical, honey. Of course I’m pleased to see you – it was just a shock to find you standing on the sidewalk outside my home.’ He slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. ‘We’ll sort it out later, but I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry now. My mother is entertaining this evening and I will be expected to put in an appearance, but I’ll get away as soon as I can and we can talk over dinner.’
There was little that Hetty could say or do other than allow him to escort her back to her hotel, but her heart was heavy and all her instincts were warning her that the signs were not good. It was getting dark now and a chill wind was making her shiver. Light pooled on the paving stones beneath the gas lamps and the leaves that remained on the branches fluttered in the breeze, making a kaleidoscope of patterns on the path in front of them. Walnut Street was congested with horse-drawn vehicles and pedestrians alike. Charles guided her through the crowds and Hetty was quick to notice that people stepped aside to allow them to pass. She stole a sideways glance at him, realising for the first time that here in his native city Charles Wyndham the third was a man of some standing. It was not just his black silk top hat, or the expensive tailored suit, hand-made shoes and silk cravat which made him stand out amongst the crowd; Charles had an air of authority and confidence born of good breeding and an expensive education. The carefree, easy-going young fellow sh
e had known in London seemed like another person. When he escorted her up the steps into the hotel lobby and gave her a peck on the cheek, she felt cold fingers of fear clutching at her heart. As she watched him leave she had the uncomfortable feeling that he could not get away fast enough. Hetty collected her key from the desk clerk and climbed the stairs to her room on the third floor with a sinking feeling in her stomach.
For a long time, she sat on the edge of her bed staring into space. This was not how it was meant to be. Charles had been almost like a stranger to her. Had she been imagining their mutual passion all this time? If his feelings had changed, hers had not. The pain in her heart was real and she wrapped her arms around her middle, rocking to and fro in silent agony.
How long she sat like this she could not tell, but when the clock on the mantelshelf struck seven she came to her senses with a start. Charles had not given her a specific time, but she must be ready for him when he called. Tonight would be the most pivotal moment of her life, she knew that very well. They would talk honestly and earnestly over dinner and she would draw the truth out of him even if it hurt. Hetty rose from the bed and went to the washstand where a china pitcher decorated with painted pansies and roses had been left standing in the matching wash basin, ready for her use. The water was cold but refreshing, and she washed her hands and face and dried them on the coarse huckaback towel. Then she stripped off her smart walking dress and changed into her newest and best gown, which Miss Heathcote’s own dressmaker had made for her, copying a fashion plate in The Young Ladies’ Journal. It had taken fifteen yards of silk and five yards of skirt lining, all purchased from Debenham’s departmental store at a prohibitive cost, or so Hetty had thought at the time, but if the shimmering gown in a delicate shade of lavender-blue had the desired effect upon Charles, then it would be worth every penny she had spent. It was still sadly creased but she hoped he would not notice.
