by Bianca Bloom
“Your garden looks very lovely this time of year, Miss Helena,” she said, after taking a sip of tea. It seemed a tiny sip, even for such a tiny girl. Masha was certainly quick, and I reflected that I should never be called upon for help regulating her behavior in fourteen years, when she was my age.
“Yes,” I said, to Masha, quite unwilling to fake polite conversation for Dusty’s benefit. “Mother fired one of our undergardeners for drunkenness, but he was easily replaced.”
Dusty glared, and so I tried a different tack. “Thank you, Miss Masha,” I said, attempting to make my voice a little higher and more grating than was strictly necessary. “We keep several young men employed cutting beautiful flowers, deemed weeds by our savage English sense of gardening.”
At this, Dusty actually walked over and stood next to me. I rose to meet her, seeing that she was in a fierce temper.
“Miss Morton,” Dusty said, her very figure quivering in rage. “On this day, it was imperative for you to show that you could have a civilized conversation for a few minutes. In every respect, you have failed.”
Though I had a bark that was a challenge to every governess, I also had a soul – a proud one, in fact. The type of soul that was cut to the quick by such hasty comments. Though most of the older adults who came into contact with me thought me soulless, and must have imagined me to be quite unaffected by such discipline.
“Miss Dorothea,” I snapped, “You have been my governess for nearly a year. If my conversation is wanting, perhaps it is you who have failed.”
And, wincing as I turned on the awful heel of my uncomfortable and ugly blue shoes, I left the room.
It was a good job I had decided not to go to London. In fact, I had decided to go to the stables. Although I disliked riding, a horse was the most acceptable way to exit the vicinity of my mother’s immense house. And, since I had accepted that I should not be leaving forever, there was no need to write letters or to procure provisions for the journey. The steps required for leaving one’s parents’ house were rather familiar to me, as I had attempted to run away at least six times in recent years, though I had always been speedily retrieved before I had gone far from the estate.
Unfortunately, on this day it appeared that I should not even be able to leave the house. As soon as I attempted to exit the house by cutting down a back staircase and through the drawing room, I ran into my father and some guest of his, both bent over a glass case with my father’s collection of knives. The pair of them looked up at me with pleasure but without surprise.
“Ah, Helena,” said my father. “Your Dorothea must have anticipated us. I said I would come call for you when the two of you were through, but never mind that, my girl. Come have a seat.”
When my father asked, I tended to obey. Unlike my mother, he was never open to reason. That meant that although I was usually forced to listen to mamotchka, as she saw through any attempts to fool her or get around our house’s rather strict regulations, my father was the one I obeyed immediately.
That is, until it was no longer convenient for me.
“You must be Miss Morton,” said my father’s companion, bowing to me. “I am Reginald Huntington, at your service.”
As I gave the man a smile, I pondered my escape routes. He was corpulent and red-nosed, but otherwise not terrible looking. My main objection to him as a potential suitor was his age – he looked to be nearly my father’s contemporary. Although I had found “lads” my own age, the few that I met, to be complete dullards, I had no desire to be saddled with some dolt who was friends with my father.
One way out would be the sick headache, but I had rather overused that one as of late. If I were to attempt it now, surely my mother would take her own revenge by confining me to my room in a false quarantine until I felt ready to scream with boredom.
Another choice would be to try and make myself blush, remaining silent. Unfortunately, this seemed to tempt men into being yet more solicitous. They were quite skilled at convincing themselves that I was some sort of maiden in a tower who was not permitted to speak unless ten gentlemen went around making dull statements about her beauty.
No, that was not the wisest course.
The only thing remaining to me, now that the dullard had actually begun to speak, was to be my very own self – Helena Morton.
That usually scared them away quickly.
“I was saying,” he stated, “That I admire your father greatly.”
“As do I,” I simpered, looking over at my slender father, with his busy brows and his ill-fitting wig.
There were many things I did not admire about my father. For one thing, he was quite an Englishman, never having bothered to learn one jot of his wife’s language (which was now his sons’ and daughters’ language as well). For another, he had not the least appreciation for any of the arts, and chose paintings for my mother’s house based strictly on his chances of impressing his friends. “That one, it cost a fur piece,” he would say, striding about importantly, nodding at paintings with his chin. “That other portraitist lad, he wanted two hundred pounds. Two hundred? For that, I should expect a much bigger canvas, I told him that much!”
Though my father could be an idiot about various matters of high culture, paintings and literature in particular, he never minced words. It was from dear old papa that I inherited a tendency to speak my mind, and I had to admire him for it. It was bound to make a man like Sir Reginald deeply uncomfortable.
I gave it a try. “What is it that you admire about my father, Sir Reginald? Not his tendency to go about lecturing our gardeners, telling them that they ought to make every rose bed into a kitchen garden, surely,” I laughed, rubbing one of my tortured feet against my other ankle as I rejoiced in the chance to play about with the brute. He certainly hadn’t used the title of “sir” in his introductions, but he seemed like just the sort of man who would run about trying to be knighted.
The man did look uncomfortable, but he did not look beaten. “I admire the way that he has built his own fortune from the ground up,” he said. “I did the same.”
My sigh must have been audible to both the men. If I were going to have to contend with a fortune hunter, I would have preferred a man who was determined to marry his fortune. That way, he would have been forced to at least pretend to admire me deeply, and to say all the right things about making a love match.
Fortune hunters who seek their fortune through business are a million times more tedious. Because they are self-righteous, they see it as some sort of sacred duty to be direct. And they see their large fortunes as some sort of moral victory, a special slice of heaven secured by hard work and discipline.
“I never thought that I was a fancy type,” he said, and I could tell by the unattractive scars on his hands that this was true. “But I knew that I had to provide for my future wife and children, and not just be some sort of rat in the gutter.”
I tittered. “Every home in town has rats, Sir Reginald. Even those living quite near Court itself.”
At this moment, I wondered how the man had made his fortune, as he looked genuinely baffled. Ah well, stupid men have their own ways of getting rich, apparently. “How did you know that I lived in town?” he asked.
Then, perhaps noting my sour expression, he hastened to explain the situation of his various residences. “Of course, I have a country estate as well. But my business often keeps me in town. So I keep a house for that purpose.”
It was all I could do not to faint with boredom. “Sir Reginald, that oversized waistcoat that you have purchased simply screams ‘London’. Nobody in this part of the country would think of wearing something so obviously new.”
He smiled, though he was beginning to look at me with suspicion. “My tailor will be pleased. I told him I didn’t want none of the foppery. Give me clothes that are big and well done, not mincing little ribbons.”
It was something that my father might have said. Indeed, I noticed that papa nodded in agreement. “That’s right. I
n town or country, one needs clothes that can take a little work.”
Now my sigh was audible by design. “Father, it is not as if you are working at a hot stove, or in a pigpen. When you work in the country, it consists mainly of writing letters to those in your employ, does it not?”
My father was not amused. “Those letters pay for your room and board, dearest.”
He turned to Sir Reginald with a conspiratorial air. “I slave over building this place up, but what thanks do I get?”
Sir Reginald seemed quite unsure of whether to leap over to my side with a gallant defense or to try and win over my disgruntled father. “Indeed you have. It is beautiful.”
“Beautiful because mama makes it so,” I said. Though my mother had completely lost herself in what I viewed as the frippery of home-decoration, the end result was quite visually pleasing – much superior to what my father would have put in place.
Sir Reginald no longer seemed so nervous. “Miss Morton, if I may be so bold, this great estate is made beautiful by its inhabitants,” he said, getting an approving nod from my father. Poor papa, he was probably relieved that I hadn’t completely scared the suitor off.
At least, not yet.
“Alas, it is also made ugly by its inhabitants,” I said, giving him a smile. It wasn’t cruel – Sir Reginald plainly thought that he cut a gallant figure in his large waistcoat. He should never connect my comment to his own dashing self.
Under my father’s glare, I cleared my throat. “The state of the house simply depends upon the day,” I said, continuing to smile stupidly at the two of them.
Two rich men talking of slaving away. Such nonsense!
There were footsteps on the stair. Perhaps too soft for these men, with their ancient ears, to hear. But quite good enough for me, and I rejoiced in them.
“I believe that mama is coming for me,” I said. “Thank you, papa, for your views. And you, Sir Reginald.” There was no way for me to say that meeting him had given me pleasure, so I simply omitted the pleasantry.
I was nearly duly punished, though. As I emerged from the drawing room, I caught a glimpse of the person who had been walking down the stairs.
It was Dusty.
This morning, at least, she had been in league with both my parents. The tea and pleasantries had been something that she was supposed to practice with me, and as per usual, I had failed. If I could not even keep a dull lady’s face when offering tea to my own sister, I should be hopeless with any suitor, no matter how important the matter seemed to my parents. Indeed, offering Reginald and father a cup of tea had been one of my sacred duties, and I had not even mentioned the beverage. By omitting the hostess’s expected offer of tea, I had bungled the refreshments with even more reckless fervor than I bungled the conversational opportunities.
There was no excuse for my behavior. All that was left was to escape.
Walking as quickly as my stricken legs would carry me, I went out to the garden. As usual, mama was out for a walk, admiring her own roses and thinking of new designs for the space that her husband had apparently “slaved” to secure. Though she looked placid in the comforts of her garden, I was determined to disturb her peace.
“You knew that he was coming,” I said, spitting out the Russian words. “That brute. Sir Reginald.”
Touching a rosebush that was looking a tad unwell, my mother shook her head. But it turned out she was not actually denying my accusation, she was simply quarreling with my choice of descriptors. “I wish you would not do him disservice with those words, Helena. Reginald Huntington is not a brute. There are days when I wonder if it wouldn’t have been better for us to stay on Spring Street a few more years after your father’s business started to prosper. Then you would know what a brute was, and stop lobbing those words at honorable men.”
That was a dangerous path – apparently mama had no idea that I did know what a brute was, at least in my imagination, and the devils that plagued my nightmares were largely brutish Russian men. In truth, she was partly correct – Sir Reginald had not made any overtures to me that my grandmother could not have heard without blushing. Though, in many ways, I should have much preferred hearing about his desire for me to hearing about his “slavish” work and his house in town.
Besides, I should not let myself get distracted from the material point – mama had not apologized for forcing Sir Reginald on me, and that was certainly unacceptable. Apparently, she had not the least care for my happiness.
Trying to get her attention, I clung on her arm, whining at her in English. “But he is an idiot, mama. A stupid man! Why do you let papa torture me with such unsuitable suitors?”
Now she was beginning to smile. “They are all unsuitable because you will not let them suit you, Helena. Have you ever really looked in your own heart, seeking the source of these troubles?”
I had no answer to this, and simply pouted.
Mother switched back into Russian to give me her explanation. “I would keep you here for an age, milaya, if that is what you yourself wished,” she said, giving me a pat on the shoulder before pushing me aside to continue her rosebush examination. “Indeed, I love having your company, and you have spent little enough time on these grounds – though you seem to have grown accustomed to your new life quickly enough.”
Though I frowned, she continued. “We have a beautiful home, one that your father and I have moved heaven and earth to restore.” At least she wasn’t saying that she had “slaved” over anything – mama knew of serfs from Russia, and was not quite so foolhardy as to pretend that she had no choice in life but to tirelessly restore and redecorate an enormous estate. An estate which, before the renovations and all of the fuss, had appeared to bear no stain – except the stain of benign neglect and lack of fashion.
Mama would not let me become overcome by my thoughts. She clucked at me. “But you do not wish to stay with us forever, Helena. You wish to travel. Is it not so?”
My frown was instant. “Well, mamotchka, you know that I want to escape Dusty. And I would like to see more of London. And truly, more of all Europe.”
She put down one of her rose clippings to stroke my arm. “And be out of the control of your loving papa?”
Jerking my arm away, I resisted her attempt to make light of my troubles. “Yes, of course. Mama, I cannot support the way that he brings these stupid men about. Part of me believes it is only for his own amusement, which he somehow thinks that he has earned.”
She shrugged, ever the practical woman who had brought our family through a decade of poverty on a strict regimen of decent food and no dirt. “Then marriage is your only way out, Helena. If marriage is not a route you are interested in taking, then you might try to get on a bit better with Dorothea.”
“It’s not the only way, mama,” I said, trying to grab the rosebush myself before it pricked me.
“Yes?” she asked. “Do you know of an alternative for a young woman of means? If you do, please inform me.”
At this, I strode off, down the hill and toward the woods. “There has got to be another path,” I murmured to myself. “There must be!”
It was strange to me that my body, now that I was outside, seemed to lift itself up and out of its previous misery rather quickly. My feet stopped giving me quite the pain that I had felt earlier. As I walked beneath the trees, the sun was not hot on my face, and I let my hair down and allowed it to blow free in the wind.
The boys were often allowed to go outside with their tutor, Donald. He had the queer idea that exercise was beneficial to the mind, and papa embraced the idea wholeheartedly for his sons. “It shall buck them up something brilliant,” he would say, tousling their hair and he strode about the Great Hall. And yet when I suggested the same, Dusty said that it was imperative for young women to be fair, neat, and quiet, and that the outdoors was conducive to none of the objectives. If I attempted to cite a treatise indicating that physical activity was greatly beneficial to the development of a sound mind, Dusty would inv
ariably say that my ability to research scientific topics was certainly developing – and that I could further sharpen it by sitting indoors and reading.
Haughty though I might have been to Dusty, I had to admit that her remarks did not always smack of stupidity.
It felt like only a few minutes had passed before I reached mama’s meadow. Well, I thought of it as her meadow. Though our family had been hard-pressed to produce traditions that felt fitting for our grand new home, the yearly picnic to this very spot had become a favorite way to celebrate the beginning of spring. We had no Easter tradition, as mama was Jewish and papa was decidedly against his papist roots. Mama’s beautiful meadow had become the place where we all ventured to celebrate the beginning of spring, always a welcome respite from months of snow, mud, and days so short that every hour of daylight seemed to sneak by when I was sitting at a desk for my horrid lessons.
The meadow was special not only because it was an ideal picnic spot – alternately sunny and shady, depending on the preference of the picnickers – but because it was mama’s experimentation area. All of the flowers that she wanted to tell Jarvis to include in our garden were first tested in the meadow. Since many of them returned year after year, it had become an oddity of beautiful blooms and common English weeds. And, as I had pointed out to Sir Reginald, many of the plants mama referred to as “weeds” were quite beautiful, though they were generally outdone by the exotic flowers she requisitioned during her trips to town.
There was an orange one that was particularly stunning, and happened to still be blooming as I passed. I always called it a bird of paradise, though I knew that wasn’t the proper name. It simply seemed perfect suited to paradise, not to a neglected field near a great house. It seemed like the sort of flower one would find at the entrance to a secret cave on some deserted island.
With a great sigh, I took an extra moment to view the flower. Would I flourish outside of my own environment, which was dull and tedious? Hardly a day passed in our mansion that didn’t make me feel as if I might split with boredom. But I wondered whether leaving our estate would serve me. In my childhood, I sometimes found friends, but there were plenty of times I came home crying because some stupid neighbor boy had said things about mama being “unholy” or papa being “too big for his britches” – occasionally the insults were even uglier, though those I tried to forget. If I did not belong in the streets of my childhood, nor the grand house where my siblings were growing up, perhaps my true home should not be easy to find.
