What was happening? Was she really going to London for a season? To be presented at the palace? And was this shark of a woman really glad for her? Did Mrs Overhill think a London season might help outweigh the factories?
Something even more than excitement began to wriggle up from Sophie’s toes. The world she’d read about in the English papers, in Country Life. All of it hers for a season. Malcolm would come to England too, of course, with his mother, to escort them to balls, to parties; it would be quite proper if she were chaperoned, for Miss Thwaites would surely come as well … She took a scone absent-mindedly, then took a bite and swallowed it. ‘That’s so kind of you …’
A purse of the lips from Miss Thwaites silenced the speech of gratitude.
Mrs Overhill didn’t look at her. This battle was with Miss Thwaites. The parchment teeth were shown briefly again. ‘But I was forgetting. The daughter of a tradesman can’t be presented at St James. A pity. Malcolm was invited to parties all through the season, of course. Such an exciting time — balls, breakfasts, pheasant shooting, the regatta. So sad that dear little Sophie won’t be able to go to any of them. There really isn’t much point in travelling, is there, if one isn’t received when one gets there? Of course in a few years, as Malcolm’s wife …’
And after the factories have been sold, thought Sophie. She glanced at Miss Thwaites. Was this true? Was the English upper-class world denied to her unless Mr Higgs sold his factories?
‘Sophie will stay with a cousin of Nigel Vaile, Earl of Shillings, at the earl’s country seat. His lordship is an old friend of Mr Higgs.’ Miss Thwaites spoke as calmly as if she were announcing that they would be revising French grammar this afternoon.
Mrs Overhill’s mouth hung open, as though inviting the fly to enter. Sophie’s scone crumbled into her lap. Was Miss Thwaites serious? Did Dad really know an earl? An earl who’d let a Sophie Higgs visit his family?
Impossible. But there was Miss Thwaites, brandishing her teapot. ‘Do you know the Earl of Shillings, Mrs Overhill? One of England’s oldest families, I believe.’
Sophie brushed the crumbs off her skirt, hoping the butter hadn’t left a mark. She stared at Miss Thwaites, this suddenly new Miss Thwaites, holding the teapot as though it were a sword and she were Horatius guarding the bridge at Rome. Guarding me, thought Sophie. And Dad. This was the woman who had fought for the vote for women, who had sailed across the world rather than stay within the familiar genteel poverty of her family.
‘I am not acquainted with …’ Mrs Overhill looked as though Miss Thwaites had slapped her face with a dead fish, as though she wanted to accuse Miss Thwaites of lying. But even Mrs Overhill couldn’t do that.
‘The earl’s cousin — a lovely woman, I gather — will take care of everything before Sophie’s season begins.’
‘Her … season? Miss Thwaites, you don’t seem to understand.’ Mrs Overhill tried to marshal her social forces. ‘There can be no question of Sophie … dear sweet little Sophie … being presented at court.’
Miss Thwaites smiled. ‘His lordship believes it can be arranged. So much depends on knowing the right people, doesn’t it? If Malcolm is going abroad again, I am sure he will receive cards too. To some of the balls, at least. A colonial doesn’t have the same entrée into society as a friend of the Earl of Shillings unless he has similarly high connections.’
Mrs Overhill’s cheeks were purple. ‘Malcolm is needed at home. It is not … convenient for him to travel again so soon.’ She still seemed incredulous. She’ll call for her copy of Debrett’s and the Landed Families of Great Britain as soon as she gets home, thought Sophie, to make sure the earl exists.
He did exist, didn’t he? He hadn’t just been conjured up from Miss Thwaites’s anger? But Miss Thwaites wouldn’t lie, not least because the existence of an earl was so easy to check.
This was impossible. Wonderful. Real.
‘When Sophie returns,’ said Miss Thwaites, too gently, ‘we might … discuss … a possible engagement.’
Mrs Overhill stood up, still fanning. ‘You will excuse me. The flies are so bad this afternoon.’
She is making it sound as though the flies are only at our place, thought Sophie, trying to focus on standing up politely too. She wanted to laugh, to hug Miss Thwaites, to dance around the room. But ladies didn’t.
Was she really going to England? To stay with an earl? It was like something out of a novel, East Lynne, that was it: the poor disgraced heroine who had run off with an adventurer was the daughter of an earl.
Miss Thwaites stood too. ‘Thank you so much for your kind visit, Mrs Overhill. Your husband must be wondering where you are. Bates,’ as the butler appeared, ‘do show Mrs Overhill to her carriage.’
‘Mr Overhill is not —’ Mrs Overhill stopped.
He isn’t at home, thought Sophie. He’s with his mistress in Melbourne. She’d overheard the Overhills’ footman gossiping. Nor could the Overhills now pacifiy their creditors. Game, set and match to Miss Thwaites. And Mrs Overhill knew it.
She managed to wait until Bates had closed the drawing-room door. ‘Miss Thwaites, can I really go to England? To stay with an earl?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Of course!’
‘Even without young Mr Overhill?’
She had read about love in novels. What she felt for Malcolm was exactly what they described. Her heart raced when she saw him. In church she had to force herself from staring at his neck in the pew in front. She even dreamed about him.
And she wanted to go to England. To stay with an earl, be introduced by his cousin …
Why shouldn’t she have both?
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
Miss Thwaites hesitated. ‘His lordship’s overnight wire only came this morning. Your father and I wanted to discuss it further before we talked about it with you.’ Her gaze met Sophie’s. ‘I let Mrs Overhill anger me, and said more than I should have. Now I have made her an enemy. It wasn’t well done.’
‘She deserved it.’
‘I … I suggested to your father last year that you should spend some time in England, that I should accompany you. But he felt …’
He didn’t want to lose you, thought Sophie.
‘He didn’t want to lose you,’ said Miss Thwaites. ‘But after young Mr Overhill asked for your hand in marriage he reconsidered.’
‘He wants me to marry someone who’ll take over the business. Or oversee a manager, at least.’
‘That’s true,’ said Miss Thwaites slowly. ‘But don’t underestimate him. He really does believe you are too young to marry. Your mother was so very young when they married …’
‘But … but they were happy, weren’t they? He loved her!’
‘Yes. He loved her.’ Miss Thwaites shook her head. ‘I’m not putting this properly. Both your father and I would like you to grow and learn a little more before you decide on your future. No official engagement.’
‘But we have an Understanding,’ said Sophie stubbornly.
‘If that is what you wish.’
That was enough. England, she thought. An earl! She grinned at the memory of Mrs Overhill’s face. ‘Miss Thwaites, how does Dad know an earl?
Miss Thwaites hesitated. There is something she’s not saying, thought Sophie. ‘I believe your father and the earl were in the army together. His lordship hadn’t come into the title then. It was long ago, Sophie. Before your father came out to Australia.’ Miss Thwaites changed the subject. ‘A year abroad is exactly what you need.’
‘I … I don’t even know what to call the cousin of an earl. Is she Lady Shillings?’
Miss Thwaites paused, slightly uncomfortably again. ‘His lordship neglected to tell your father the name of his cousin. But the cousin of an earl does not necessarily have a title. His cousin may be “the Honourable”.’
‘Like you?’
‘A little more honourable, perhaps.’ Miss Thwaites’s voice was dry. ‘I gather from his lordship’s
letter that his cousin often has young girls staying with her for instruction before the season. It is something of a … hobby … with her.’
‘Hobby’ suggested that this interest might be anything but. Did the cousin run an informal finishing school? Would she be paid for the friendship she appeared to be offering? Just like Miss Thwaites is paid to love me, thought Sophie.
Corned-beef money, once again. Suddenly — if it was — she didn’t want to know.
Better to pretend she would be staying at an earl’s house because Dad had somehow befriended him during the war. All men were comrades in war, weren’t they? Staying at an earl’s castle would rub out the stains of a meat-packing business. It would give her the status to become a proper Mrs Malcolm Overhill, who could say at luncheons, ‘… when I stayed with my father’s friend the Earl of Shillings …’ She was doing this for Malcolm as well.
She hoped he’d see it that way.
‘When do we sail?’
The shadow in Miss Thwaites’s eyes grew deeper. ‘Your father has suggested you sail in the care of Mrs Philpott. You met her at dinner here this year, if you remember.’
A faded woman who talked of children, cooks who couldn’t make a soufflé, and the difficulty of getting nannies with the right accent so the children didn’t pick up Australian vowels. ‘Not you? Why aren’t you coming?’
‘You will scarcely need me as a chaperone in England. His lordship has also … suggested … that there is no need for you to bring a maid from Australia. His cousin will arrange for someone to attend you.’
Sophie tried to gauge Miss Thwaites’s expression. How was she supposed to dress on board ship without a maid to lace the stays, do up the buttons, iron her clothes and set them out? She tried to imagine her hair undressed all the way to England …
‘Mrs Philpott’s maid can attend to you both, with the help of the stewardess,’ said Miss Thwaites, as though echoing Sophie’s thoughts — almost as though convincing herself too. ‘I have been too … lax in many ways, I know. A lady’s maid who knows how to do things properly will make English life immeasurably easier for you.’
A French maid, perhaps, thought Sophie. I will be Miss Sophie Higgs, ten thousand miles away from corned beef, with a French maid, and having dinner with an earl.
Miss Thwaites rang the bell. ‘Annie, fresh scones, please. Mr Higgs will be back for luncheon today. And sandwiches, the ones with the strong cheddar cheese. And fresh tea. Indian, not Chinese.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Sophie waited till the maid had left the room. ‘Miss Thwaites, thank you. I have to thank Dad too. It is the most wonderful thing in my whole life.’
There was doubt in Miss Thwaites’s eyes. ‘I hope so.’
Chapter 10
Look how men sit, with their legs apart. It is a gorilla pose yelling: ‘Look at me, I challenge you.’ A well-bred woman must find another way to assert dominance.
Miss Lily, 1913
The ship creaked below them, reminding Sophie it was a ship, despite its size. Mr Jeremiah Higgs was a tiny man, even in his black top hat, but his energy made the stateroom seem small.
He was prowling now, despite his limp. Making sure the water closet flushed, the bed was soft, counting the gold-edged chairs in her sitting room, checking that the basket of fruit on her table had a pineapple among its colourful contents, hefting the five-pound tin of chocolates in case it was short in weight.
‘What do you think? Is she going to be all right?’ It was the hundredth time he’d asked it, thought Sophie with affectionate exasperation. As though Miss Thwaites would suddenly say, ‘No. Those chocolates are clearly only four pounds two ounces. She should stay home.’
‘We need to go, let the stewardess unpack her cases. Didn’t you hear them call “All ashore”?’ Miss Thwaites looked at him sympathetically, as though she knew what he was feeling.
Mr Higgs snorted. It was a snort that said that if he wanted the ship to linger another twelve hours and wait for the next tide so he could say a proper farewell to his daughter, he could arrange it. Which he probably could, thought Sophie.
‘Where is Mrs Philpott’s maid, I’d like to know.’ He looked around, as though expecting her to appear from the wood panelling. ‘She should be helping Sophie as well as her mistress.’
‘Second-class cabins are down another gangway. I told her I don’t need her for a while.’
He blinked, his eyes suddenly bright. ‘We should have arranged a maid just for the voyage over. Anything you want, little girl. Don’t you stint yourself over there. A car, a driver, an ermine cloak. Diamond tiara.’
‘Not a tiara,’ said Miss Thwaites quietly.
Mr Higgs ignored her. The white in his hair had spread. He is getting old, Sophie thought with a shock. ‘You’ve got the draft on Barclays Bank. Contact Mr Slithersole at our London office if you want anything.’
‘I know.’ She gave him a quick hug, which lengthened. It was only when she pulled back from the smell of bay rum and hair cream that she realised how much she would miss him, miss Miss Thwaites, Thuringa, even the house in town. Marrying Malcolm would have only meant moving next door. This was …
Something of her own — not the same parties and shopping trips of Miss Sophie Higgs of Thuringa, or even the new ones of a Mrs Malcolm Overhill. This year was what she’d make it, alone.
She looked around the stateroom: a pink and grey striped sofa, a dark wooden sideboard, a matching dining table adorned with the fruit and chocolates from her father, as well as a basket of frangipani. She crossed over to the table, and read the card again.
Bon voyage. Love, Malcolm.
He hadn’t come to Sydney from Warildra to see her off. It had only been a fortnight since Miss Thwaites’s announcement, her father somehow wangling the first-class staterooms for herself and Mrs Philpott. There hadn’t even been time for a letter to come from the earl’s cousin in England, only a series of wires confirming when and how Sophie was to arrive. The lack of a letter — or a series of letters in the tradition of detailed feminine correspondence — clearly made Miss Thwaites uncomfortable. Mr Higgs, on the other hand, lived in a world of wires and quick decisions. And it seemed that speed was necessary if Sophie were to be prepared for next year’s season.
At least Malcolm had sent the flowers.
A whistle blew, somewhere above them; a voice in the corridor yelled, ‘Final call! Final call! All ashore that’s going ashore. All ashore!’
‘Come on.’ Her father grabbed her hand. She followed him, fast despite his limp, out into the corridor, up a short flight of first-class stairs, Miss Thwaites behind them. The deck was crowded, with second-class and steerage passengers too, the only clear space leading down to the gang plank. He hugged her. ‘You have a good time over there, you promise? All the frill-frolls and good times you can. Be happy, Sophie love.’ All at once he looked strangely earnest. ‘Promise me that you’ll be happy.’
‘I promise.’ She had to wipe her eyes.
Her father hugged her again fiercely, his fingers digging into her stays. Miss Thwaites pressed her cheek to Sophie’s, smelling of gardenias and rice powder.
Then they were gone, leaving a space that felt bigger than the ship.
She watched them walk down the gang plank — father and governess–companion waiting for her charge to return — pause halfway and wave, then make their way through the crowds to the edge of the dock. Water lapped hot and oily between them and the ship.
She managed to wriggle through the crowd to the rail. She reached into her coat pocket for the streamers the steward had given her and threw one out towards the dock. It fell short. She tried again, this time using the overarm bowling she’d seen cricketers use and hitting the woman behind her on the chin. (‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, excuse me …’)
By the time she had finished apologising her father had caught it. A thin paper streamer linked them.
Another whistle, higher and longer now. The engines thudded under
her feet. The streamer grew taut. They were moving.
She watched as the streamer grew tighter, to a long thin string. Then it broke. All around her streamers were snapping to hang limply against the rail. People were waving. She wondered how many others were crying too, but she didn’t want to look away to see.
Then they were gone. She could have run to the end of the boat to try to see them again, but it wasn’t done. Besides, Dad would be bustling Miss Thwaites back to the carriage, barking at Rogers if he were a second late opening the door, to hide the fact that Miss Thwaites would be crying too.
The ship glided past the rocks and green-clad promontories of Sydney Harbour. Suddenly she felt scared that she would love English trees better than straggly gums, that what had been the heart of her might change. She stood on the deck watching the coast turn blue then grey, then vanish till all she could see was a wrinkle of sea becoming sky.
Chapter 11
The way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, unless of course it is with a bayonet. But good food helps most situations.
Miss Lily, 1913
ENGLAND, 1913
A railway roast potato, looking crisp but actually soft when Sophie prodded it with her fork, six slices of brown meat, brown gravy over drab-coloured Brussels sprouts … even the soup was brown: brown Windsor soup, the same colour as the drains when a stall was washed out at the Agricultural Show back home. The world beyond the windows glided in drabs of orange and red, with sudden shocks of gold when the stubborn English sun allowed itself a moment between clouds.
Mrs Philpott sat opposite her on the train, eating with the dedication of a woman who rarely dined without children vying for her attention, whose cook back home could stuff a shoulder of lamb but never had time to make brown Windsor soup.
Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies Page 7
