by Amelia Smith
I knew so little when I arrived that I wonder how I came so far. It was only chance, a chance I cursed at first. It is strange to think of it after so long. I must be growing old at last, or allowing myself to think like an old woman, which I never could do until last summer.
I loved Bereford at times, but I was always anxious to please, always at the ready, waiting for him. After he died, I mourned, and I let myself go. Madam had always warned me against letting myself go. I think she must be in the grave, too, if there is any justice in the world. She was not a young woman when she found me.
I am running all out of order. I should start at the beginning, as if this will be my memoir. I was born in H--shire. My father was a labourer on a large estate, and my mother was from the town. They had five more children, after I was born. Two died in infancy, and the last was sickly, so sickly that they took him to see a physician who demanded fees they could not dream of paying. Until I returned, I had always hoped that he lived, and wondered if there were more children, after I was sent away.
I was twelve years old and a woman by some people’s reckoning, by my own estimate at the time, as well. Looking back, I can see that I was only a child. I heard hushed voices below when I was supposed to be sleeping. The next night, a man came, a merchant, who said that his wife needed a girl to help her.
They sent me away with him, believing that I would be a maid of all work in a merchant’s house, but no sooner had we arrived in his house, in the town, than he announced that he was going to Paris to purchase porcelain for his shop. His wife ranted at him, and he laughed in her face, slapped her, and bundled me into a wagon in the dead of night.
He did not ill-use me at first. He might have wished to keep me on as a mistress, but he must have feared his wife. I travelled all the way to Paris in the back of that wagon and on a ship and in other wagons, following at his heels, playing the part of maid and mistress to him and crying all the while for my lost home. He said that he would be pleased with me, if only I would stop my sniveling. I only cried the more. I could not help myself. That is what I mean when I say that I was only a child, then.
The merchant, my first master, was decent sometimes, but he had fits of rage when he gambled and lost, or when he drank too much, as many men do. We had been three months in Paris when he went out one night, leaving me alone in the small apartment with the boxed porcelains and imitation jewelry he had bought for his Hereford shop.
He returned, purple in the face from drink and shouting…
Hyacinth shut the book and gathered her breath. Her grandmother’s youth had been a horror. She could hardly face it, but she knew that Grandmother Miller had survived it, and come to prosper. She steeled herself to read on.
I woke the next morning in the alley behind the apartment, my face swollen with bruises. I tried the door, but he had taken my key. I did find a small sack of coins tucked into my bodice. Perhaps he felt some remorse. I do not know.
I waited for three days, but he never returned to the apartment, and I gave up. I spoke only a little French. I did not know what I would do, how I would survive. I begged for employment at restaurants and cafes, and, at last, at the theatre. Seeing my battered face, they turned me away, but I came back every day, asking only to sweep the floors and be given a place to rest and a bit of bread in return. That is where Madam found me.
I am tired, even thinking of it, of those years. Madam saw me at the theatre. She tested me, tormented me, then she took me under her wing. When she discovered that my misadventures had left me without the usual diseases of my profession, she brought me into her house, and spent years preparing me to pass as a lady of breeding, to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Those were happy years, nearly six long, well-fed years in the best brothel in Paris, but I know that Madam got her money’s worth for me in the end.
Hyacinth could not bear to read more, not yet. She closed her grandmother's diary and hid it again. She snuffed the candle and lay down to sleep, with the dark story of her grandmother's life turning in her mind. She would redeem that memory. She would. Somehow, she would redeem all that suffering.
#
She woke in the morning determined to visit Mr. Butler at once, but Aunt Celia announced that they would go to ride in Hyde Park immediately after breakfast.
“But Aunt Celia,” Hyacinth said, “I hardly ride at all.”
“All the more reason,” Aunt Celia said briskly. “You'll learn, and it will stand you in good stead. Besides, I've already ordered riding horses from the livery stable.”
Hyacinth sighed. She would try again in the afternoon.
Hyacinth enjoyed the ride, despite herself. It was a rare, sunny morning, and the park was quite beautiful. Her aunt introduced her to one lady after another: mamas, she said, of suitable gentlemen, and in some cases their sisters. Their grey-haired sisters.
Long before they turned their horses back towards Bloomsbury, Hyacinth had lost track of who was who and whose son was a Sir Pently and whose brother was a knight, never mind their names. On the way back to Aunt Celia's house, she looked at the streets, long rows of brick buildings without an inch between them. It was all very different from Gibraltar. Here and there, she saw signs, indicating the names of the streets. Idly, possibly just because they were something to read, she started looking at them. And then she saw it, a small, unassuming sign on the side of a building.
“Lincoln's Inn Field,” it announced. Hyacinth sucked in her breath. Over the heads of the crowd, she could just see the field.
“Are you all right, Hyacinth?” her aunt asked.
“Fine,” Hyacinth said. She had fallen behind, and urged her borrowed mount forward. “I'm fine,” she said as she came up next to her aunt, “it's just that I'm a little tired. Do we have much farther to ride, until we get back to the house?”
“Not at all,” Aunt Celia said. “Less than a mile.”
Hyacinth tried not to show how much that news cheered her. She wanted to look back, to see that the sign was still there.
“I'm glad,” she said, instead. “It's a lovely park, but I'm not used to riding.”
Aunt Celia frowned. “You will have to get used to it. I will have to give you lessons, I see. We will go again tomorrow, earlier, before the fashionable world arrives in force.”
“Yes, Aunt Celia,” Hyacinth said. “I'm sure that would be lovely, and I would like to learn to ride better.”
She cast a last, darting look over her shoulder and began to pay closer attention to where they were going. Less than a mile. She could walk that, and back, in the time it took Aunt Celia to arrange her hair.
#
But Aunt Celia foiled her. They rode past the Lincoln's Inn sign the next morning, Saturday. On Sunday, they walked to a fashionable church, and sat idly at home the rest of the day. Mr. Butler would not be there, so it would have done her no good to slip out then. Monday began with a ride and then there were visitors, calling one after another, chatting endlessly about the coming week's social engagements, who was in town, whose grandchild had been born, and of course whose dresses would be the talk of the season. Tuesday was nearly as bad, but there was no ride in the park, so that they could save their vigor for the soirée that evening.
“I think I'll go take a rest,” Hyacinth said after breakfast.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Celia said. “You can't be tired. I'll have the carriage brought around and we'll go to Mrs. Benoit's to see how your gowns are coming along. The Spencers are having a ball on Saturday.”
Hyacinth just nodded. It had been almost five days, including Sunday, since she'd gotten the package, and she hadn't even had a chance to send a note to Mr. Butler. The notion that she couldn't escape for an hour irked and baffled her, and surely it would make no sense to a man who worked, who had actual business to attend to.
#
In the late afternoon, Aunt Celia at last decreed that they could have a rest before supper.
Hyacinth hurried to her room an
d rang for Maria.
“I must escape,” she said. “I only need an hour or so. Do you think you can keep Aunt Celia at bay?”
“But you cannot go alone!” Maria said. “The streets, they are too dangerous.”
“It is only a mile.”
“To where, this Lincoln's Inn?”
Hyacinth nodded. Maria mused.
There was a knock at the door.
“Hyacinth?” Sophie ducked her head in. Seeing Maria there, she bit her lip.
“Yes, Sophie, what is it?”
Sophie hesitated.
“It's all right, Maria won't mind.”
“I'll go... downstairs,” Maria said.
Hyacinth beckoned for Sophie to come in, and Maria bustled out.
“It's just,” Sophie said, glancing nervously towards the door. “It's just that with Mama resting, I thought maybe we could go to the lending library. We could go out through the mews.”
Hyacinth closed her eyes to think, then looked directly at her young cousin, so hopeful.
“Maria says it's not safe to go alone,” she said, “and probably even more so for you. I, at least, was used to the streets in Gibraltar.”
“I know the way,” Sophie said, hopefully.
“Perhaps we can go together,” Hyacinth said, “and ask your mama's permission.” It was bad enough to resort to sneaking out through the mews for herself, but if she did it alone she would only be an ungracious guest. She would not endanger Sophie, too. She let go of the notion of seeing the solicitor. She would just send a note along from the lending library.
“What errand would she countenance?” Hyacinth asked.
“She likes if I go buy ribbons,” Sophie said.
“Then we will go buy ribbons,” Hyacinth said. “Where are the ribbon shops, and where is this library?”
“It's just a few streets over,” Sophie said, gesturing vaguely. “There are some shops near there, too.”
“Do you think one of the other servants, or Maria, would come with us?”
Sophie considered. “Joseph the footman, maybe.”
“Very well,” Hyacinth said. Whatever guilt she felt at the subterfuge wouldn't stand in the way of a small venture on Sophie's behalf. “Let us get permission to go shopping.”
#
In the end, Maria and Joseph the footman chaperoned the two young ladies. Joseph was a pleasant enough looking young man, with blond hair and a vacant expression in his eyes. He was, Hyacinth had concluded, devoted to Sophie in a way that might have been alarming if he weren't so gentle and dull-witted. Maria seemed to like him well enough, and they talked at length about Harold the coachman as Hyacinth and Sophie walked ahead.
They were walking, Hyacinth observed, in the general direction of the Lincoln's Inn Field signpost.
“Here we are!” Sophie announced proudly. They stood in front of a tidy modern townhouse, only steps away from the Lincoln's Inn sign.
Hyacinth and Sophie entered the building and walked up the stairs to a cozy, well-lit room. A thin-haired gentleman sat behind an impeccably tidy desk, going over a ledger. He looked up as they entered.
“Miss Talbot,” he said. “I think you've grown a foot since last summer.”
Sophie blushed. “Not at all. Mama says I will be too tall.”
“Nonsense,” the man said genially. “And who is this?”
“Oh!” Sophie said. “This is my cousin Hyacinth. She's just recently in England. She loves to read, too.”
Hyacinth nodded.
The man stood and extended his hand to shake hers. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Talbot's cousin!” he said, as Hyacinth shook his hand. “I'm Mr. Benchley, proprietor of this library. Would you care to become a member?”
Sophie realized that she'd been remiss in her introductions. “My cousin is Miss Grey,” she interjected. “She's from Gibraltar. She has Latin and Greek, as well as French and Spanish.”
Hyacinth sighed.
“Do you?” the librarian asked.
“I do,” Hyacinth admitted, “and I'm sure I would love to become a member of your library.” Sophie had hurried over to a shelf of new novels. Hyacinth would have chosen something different to read, but she had other things to attend to.
“Sophie?” Hyacinth said.
Sophie looked up eagerly. “Isn't it wonderful?”
“Yes, it is, but I have a small errand near here. If I leave Joseph here with you, would that be all right? Maria and I will be able to return in half an hour, I think.”
Sophie was so distracted by the wealth of stories in front of her that she was only barely paying attention.
“Yes, that's fine,” she said.
“And Mr. Benchley,” Hyacinth said, “I trust you will also make sure my cousin finds something suitable. Not too frivolous.”
He smiled, and she felt assured that Sophie would be safe enough with the two benign gentlemen to guard her.
On the landing, she briskly told Joseph to keep an eye on Sophie – a superfluous instruction, since he was so transparently fond of her – and took Maria's hand.
Maria looked anxiously behind her.
“Will she be all right?” she asked.
“I'm sure she will,” Hyacinth said, wishing she could say the same for herself. Aunt Celia would have her head if Joseph said anything about their multiple clandestine stops on the way to ribbon shopping. “We must hurry.”
#
Hyacinth was glad, for a change, of the crowds on the streets. Whenever she sighted someone who looked like they might possibly know her aunt, she ducked her head to the side. Fortunately, they reached Lincoln's Inn Fields without incident, and found the solicitors' offices.
A clerk answered her knock at the door.
“Miss Grey,” she said. “Miss Hyacinth Grey, to see Mr. John Butler.”
“Junior or senior?” asked the clerk.
“Senior, I believe.”
“He’s busy.”
“He said I was to come any time,” Hyacinth said.
“Did he? We’ll see about that.” The clerk waved them in. “I’ll show you to the parlor,” he said. Hyacinth and Maria followed him to a sunlit front parlor, where he left them without a word.
Moments later, a small, older gentleman with a trim white beard stepped in.
“Miss Grey,” he smiled broadly. “I am so pleased that you have come at last.”
“Thank you, Mr. Butler,” Hyacinth said hesitantly. He had a very pleasant face, but quick eyes, too.
His face fell when he saw Maria. “Is this your only escort?” he said worriedly.
“Maria is my maid,” Hyacinth said. “She's come with me from Gibraltar. My aunt, who I am staying with, is... was unable to come.”
“Unable. I see.” He nodded.
“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Hyacinth said.
“That's all right. It's London. Most people are in a hurry.” He opened the door again. “Come this way.”
Mr. Butler led Hyacinth up the stairs, with Maria trailing behind. “You’ve been a long time getting here,” he said as he opened his office door.
“Yes,” Hyacinth said. “It's my aunt. She keeps us busy with social calls, and...” Hyacinth looked over her shoulder down the hall.
“Come in,” Mr. Butler insisted, ushering her into the office. “Respectable ladies never did approve of your grandmother. But that is not my concern, or yours.”
Hyacinth nodded. She wished that she didn't have to worry about her aunt's approval, either, but she did. She would have to see what waited for her here. Maybe then she would be able to declare her independence. It was a slightly terrifying prospect.
Mr. Butler's office reminded Hyacinth of her father's world – a more reassuring world than all her aunt's social calls. Here, with men bustling up and down corridors, shouting about dossiers, she felt that she could ask what the rules were, that no one would think ill of her for not knowing all those rules already. Even if her grandmother had been part of the de
mi-monde, her solicitor was not.
“Your grandmother,” the solicitor said, “was very firm in her wish that you have exclusive control over your inheritance, and that includes keeping a tight lid on any details regarding the properties in question.” He paused as he searched the shelves for a box of papers.
“I’d advise you not to disclose any information to anyone until you’re firmly decided about how you will dispose of the property. Much of it would be protected by a trust, but if you do marry, nearly half will be under your husband’s control. Your grandmother would have liked it otherwise, but we could not manage it.”
“What half would that be?” Hyacinth asked .
“Principally the estate,” the solicitor said.
“Estate?” Hyacinth asked. She’d understood that her grandmother had owned a cottage, not an estate.
Mr. Butler took the folio to a long table in the middle of the room. He stacked a few other papers together to clear space for it, then set it in front of Hyacinth.
“Here we are,” he said. “You should sit down.” He gestured to a stool near Hyacinth, which she shifted into position in front of the folio. Maria waited awkwardly by the door. “Your maid may wait in the hallway,” Mr. Butler said. “There’s a chair in the nook opposite.”
Maria nodded and bowed out. Hyacinth could just see the edge of her skirts through the door, which stood ajar.
“I like to keep the door open,” Mr. Butler said. “It’s harder to press an ear to it.” He pulled out a sheaf of documents.
“Now, if you’ll sign here,” he passed her a paper, “that is a declaration that you are the Miss Hyacinth Grey, daughter of Horatio and Violet Grey, nee Miller, born the seventeenth of April, 1784, in Portsmouth. Do you swear that to be true?”
“I do,” Hyacinth said, “but how do you know that I am who I say I am?”
“You’re the image of your mother,” the solicitor said. “We all grieved at her passing. It seems like it was only yesterday that she was here, too.”
“It seems a very long time ago, to me,” Hyacinth said. It was so strange, that this stranger had known her mother well enough to remember her after so much time had passed.
