by Merry Farmer
The boy handed her a paper when she paid him, but gaped at her as he did. “’Ere, what’re you, a circus act or sumfin’?”
“No,” Elaine smiled, taking the paper. “I’m a woman on a mission.”
“Dressed like you’re wrapped in bedsheets?” the boy continued to gawp.
Elaine looked down at her clothes. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Artistic Dress movement?”
“Nuh-uh. You look like me old gran in her nightgown.”
Elaine answered the boy’s cheek with a good-natured laugh. “Every woman will be dressing this way before long,” she insisted.
“I don’t fink so,” the boy said before turning to sell another paper.
Elaine continued to chuckle as she stepped away from the boy. She paused after a few yards and set her bag down so that she could open her newspaper. Somewhere in its pages, there had to be news of Basil. He’d gone missing from society for two years. Even though he’d been back for almost a week, surely the newspapers would have written about it.
But all she could find as she scanned through the pages were articles about politics, speeches, debates, Mr. Gladstone, Mr. Disraeli—or Lord Beaconsfield as he was known now—and all the other key players in the election.
“Oh. Uncle Daniel.”
She smiled as she found an article entitled “Troubled Turpin Loses Face Again” buried deep in the paper’s back pages, but she didn’t have time to read it. A man in working class clothes swayed close to her as he passed, and in a heartbeat, he bent to snatch her bag.
“Stop!” She shouted, dropping her newspaper and grasping reflexively at her bag.
She managed to grab the thief’s arm instead, but that was fine with her. The man tried to run, but she dug in her heels and attempted to yank his arm from its socket.
“Let go of my bag, you miscreant!” She demanded, kicking his shin.
The man obeyed in an instant, then shot off through the crowd at a full run. A second later, police whistles sounded, and bobbies in black uniforms rushed in on her. Only, instead of going after the would-be thief, they cornered her as though she were the threat.
“All right, miss. You need to come with us,” one of them said, scanning her from head to toe.
“But why?” Elaine blinked at them, baffled. “I’ve only just arrived. That man tried to rob me.”
Fear closed in on her the way the officers had rushed toward her. It wasn’t so easy to ignore the way the three strange men stared at her clothes, the loose curtain of her hair down her back, the way she clutched her bag to her stomach and emphasized her uncorsetted torso in the process. If they locked her up, she wouldn’t have money for bail.
“Did she escape from Bedlam?” one of the officers asked the other.
“More likely the theater,” his fellow answered, then frowned at Elaine. “Prostitution isn’t allowed where decent people do their business.”
“Prostitution?” Elaine balked.
“And in broad daylight.” The third officer shook his head in disgust.
“Though if you tell me where you’ll be later,” the first one muttered, swaying close to her.
“I am not a prostitute,” Elaine shouted, drawing the stares of two dozen or more people around her. “My name is Miss Elaine Bond from Brynthwaite, Cumbria.” She tilted her chin up, standing straight. “I am the niece of Mr. Daniel Turpin. My aunt should be here to meet me.”
As if on cue, an older woman in stylish clothing that seemed just a bit too tight for her—who had been standing nearby, scanning the crowd coming off the trains—glanced Elaine’s way. Her brow flew up in shock, then fell as she rolled her eyes and groaned, “Oh, good heavens.”
Elaine’s memories were old, and both she and her aunt had changed in the past two decades, but she knew in an instant who the woman was. “Aunt Abigail.” Elaine burst into a smile and wedged past the policemen to meet her aunt. “It’s so good to see you again.”
She dropped her bag once she reached her aunt and opened her arms to hug the woman, but Abigail Turpin recoiled, holding up her hands and wrinkling her nose as though Elaine stank.
“Good gracious. What did that wretch of a father do to you?” she asked with a cringe.
The policemen shrugged at the situation and moved on. Elaine lost her smile. She let her arms drop to her sides. “Aren’t you glad to see me, Aunt Abigail? It’s been so very long.”
“Too long,” Aunt Abigail said, correcting her posture, but continuing to sneer as she took in Elaine’s dress. “What on earth are you wearing?”
“It’s in the style of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” Elaine said, smiling and holding her skirt out so her aunt could see. “The Artistic Dress movement will be all the rage in no time.”
Aunt Abigail made a sound halfway between a whimper and a snort. “Not in our house it won’t.” She glanced around as though secret police were waiting to take her away for a breach of etiquette. “Well, don’t just stand there. We have to get you well out of the public eye before more damage is done.”
“Oh, I’m used to it,” Elaine said, scooping up her bag and following as her aunt made a hasty retreat through the station. “People have been staring at me since I started dressing this way.”
“And when was that?” Aunt Abigail asked.
“Shortly after father died,” Elaine explained, losing some of her exuberance. “I couldn’t stand to wear mourning for more than a few months. That was when Basil showed me several books and articles about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and their manner of dress. He suggested I might find a way to mourn that would suit me rather than donning black like everybody else.”
“Black is the color of mourning,” Aunt Abigail snapped. “There is a proscribed period of time when it must be worn. Only after that time has passed is it appropriate to switch to half-mourning, then quarter-mourning. You should know this.” She turned to Elaine with a condescending frown as they crossed through the station’s doors and out to the busy London streets.
Several carriages were lined up and waiting along the curb, and Aunt Abigail marched straight toward one of the closest ones. The driver jumped down from the seat, opening the carriage door and unfolding the step for them to climb inside.
“Who is this Basil person?” Aunt Abigail asked once they were seated and secure. The carriage pulled out to begin their journey home.
“He’s….” Elaine paused. She wasn’t sure what instinct urged her to proceed with caution. Everyone in town probably knew about Basil’s return by now, but she wondered how many knew where he’d been and what he’d been doing. “He’s a long story,” she said, waiting to see if her aunt would be open to the whole thing.
“He sounds like a bad influence,” Aunt Abigail snapped. “You will not see him again.”
“You can’t—” she began, indignation sizzling through her. She swallowed her protest—all too conscious that the only reason the police hadn’t arrested her as a prostitute was because her aunt had spoken up for her—cleared her throat, and said, “Well, I’m in London at any rate.” Her aunt didn’t need to know that Basil was too. At least, not yet.
Aunt Abigail sniffed. “I had a sense that this whole thing would be an egregious mistake.” She peeked sideways at Elaine. “If you are to stay with us, changes must be made.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Elaine said, attempting to brush away her aunt’s disapproval. “I’m quite used to drawing attention. I mostly ignore it.”
“The moment we reach home, you will change into something more suitable,” Aunt Abigail said as though Elaine hadn’t spoken at all.
“What do you mean?”
Aunt Abigail glanced down her nose at her. “What were you thinking, dressing like that in public?”
“These are my clothes,” Elaine said as firmly as she dared. “They’re what I wear.”
“You will wear something else.”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“Then at your earliest convenience, yo
u will purchase new, more suitable clothing.”
“I don’t have the money for it,” Elaine admitted, a sick feeling forming in her stomach. “I don’t have much money left at all after my journey down here.” Isaac’s warning about how expensive London was loomed large in her memory, especially as she peeked out the carriage windows and saw the large buildings, stylishly-dressed pedestrians, and numerous expensive carriages. Perhaps her decision to run after Basil was a bit hasty. She could have written to him.
As her thoughts wiped the smile from her face, Aunt Abigail’s attitude changed. Her lips curved into a knowing sneer. “I see how it is,” she said.
Elaine didn’t see. She didn’t see at all. And her aunt didn’t elaborate. For the rest of the short journey, she remained silent, wondering if she would have done better to seek out help from someone other than her aunt and uncle. The trouble was, she had nobody else.
“Oh, bother,” Aunt Abigail muttered as their carriage rolled to a stop in front of a line of stately, white townhouses. “Of all the times….”
She didn’t finish her sentence. The carriage rocked as the driver hopped down and came around to open the door for them. Aunt Abigail stepped down first, but Elaine was right behind her, burning with curiosity to see where her London relatives lived.
It wasn’t the house that snagged her attention, though. A second carriage was parked out front, and as she and Aunt Abigail stepped down, a matronly woman and two younger women—one with reddish hair and a dress that was far too staid for her fresh face, and the other with blonde hair and dressed as stylishly as any fashion plate Elaine had ever seen—were climbing out of it.
“Lady Prior, what a delight to see you,” Aunt Abigail greeted the woman with a smile that seemed forced.
“Mrs. Turpin,” Mrs. Prior met her greeting with surprise. “I was under the impression that you’d be at home today.”
“My plans were altered,” Aunt Abigail answered through tight lips. She glanced over her shoulder to Elaine.
“Hello,” Elaine introduced herself without being asked. “I’m Miss Elaine Bond, Mrs. Turpin’s niece.”
Aunt Abigail and Mrs. Prior gaped at her as though she’d broken into a jig. The red-headed woman, however, looked at her with wide-eyed amazement, and the young, fashionable woman brightened with delight. For once, Elaine didn’t feel as though her appearance or odd ways were being received with shock and disapproval. At last someone—other than Basil—was gazing at her with approval and admiration.
“And you are?” she asked, needing to know who the other young women were, whether her means of asking was socially acceptable or not.
The red-headed woman opened and closed her mouth, baffled, before glancing to the older woman.
“Impertinence,” Aunt Abigail sniffed. “To think you can simply introduce yourself to whomever you please.” She sent a quick look to Mrs. Prior.
“My dear Abigail,” Mrs. Prior said, beaming with pride at the fashionable young woman. “May I introduce my cousin Vera’s daughter, Lady Henrietta Hopewell, Marchioness Tavistock.”
Aunt Abigail turned a curious shade of puce and jiggled in what Elaine supposed was meant to be a curtsy. “Your ladyship.”
“Oh.” Elaine smiled at the woman. “I suppose that is something to be proud of.” She executed her best curtsy to the woman.
Lady Tavistock laughed. “I say, you are original, aren’t you?”
“Whenever possible,” Elaine answered with a smile.
Aunt Abigail wasn’t as amused. She recovered from her bow enough to scowl and extend a hand to the older woman. “This is my friend, Lady Ursula Prior, Baroness Arlington,” she said, her teeth clenched. “And this is her daughter, Lady Lavinia.”
“How do you do?” Elaine greeted Lavinia with a smile, shifting her bag so that she could extend her hand in greeting.
The two older women looked as though they might expire on the spot, but Lavinia’s face lit up. “I’m quite well, Miss Bond,” she said, taking Elaine’s hand.
Aunt Abigail tutted in annoyance, and Lady Prior cleared her throat disapprovingly. Lavinia snapped a wary look to her mother, then let go of Elaine’s hand.
“Please excuse me, your ladyship,” Aunt Abigail glanced to Lady Tavistock, “We should go inside. Before the neighbors see us,” she finished in a whisper.
Elaine didn’t have a chance to say anything in her defense. The butler—who had been waiting at the top of the stairs through the whole greeting—held the townhouse’s door open. Aunt Abigail shuffled Elaine inside before she had a chance to look around and admire the square where the house stood.
“Have you just arrived in town, Miss Bond?” Lady Tavistock asked, nodding to the driver, who was busy taking Elaine’s bag inside.
“Yes,” Elaine answered with a smile. “From Cumbria. The town of Brynthwaite, to be exact.”
“Cumbria, how fascinating.” Lady Tavistock’s eyes continued to sparkle as they walked up the front steps. Lady Lavinia followed, seeming overwhelmed by the whole introduction.
No sooner had she been swept into the front parlor than her uncle’s voice boomed from across the hall, “Did you find her?”
Elaine turned to greet her uncle with a smile. He wasn’t a tall man, unlike Basil, and he wasn’t half so handsome either. Where Basil’s age seemed a mere number and his silver hair simply a sign of his experience, time hadn’t been kind to her uncle. The lines on his face made him look mean, and his grey hair was dull and receding.
“Good Lord,” Uncle Daniel balked when he saw her. His frown deepened to a peevish scowl. It popped wide with pure shock at the sight of Lady Tavistock. Eventually, his expression settled somewhere in the middle, though his eyes shone with thought as he studied Lady Tavistock, then Elaine. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Uncle Daniel, how good to see you again after so many years.” Elaine took the initiative and greeted him. After the way her aunt rebuffed her at the station, she knew better than to attempt to embrace him, but she wasn’t about to let his gruff demeanor put a dent in her excited spirits. She needed to make the best impression possible and to remain on her uncle’s good side if she wanted to stay in London without ending up on the streets. “Thank you so much for accepting me as a guest in your house.”
“Did she come straight off the Cumbrian stage?” Uncle Daniel demanded of Aunt Abigail in a sneering voice.
Aunt Abigail cleared her throat and nodded, seemingly humiliated. “I’m so terribly sorry, Lady Tavistock. Please allow me to introduce you to my husband, Mr. Daniel Turpin, Member of Parliament.”
Elaine bit her lip and blushed. She supposed there would be an order to things. Rose had warned her of as much. She should have listened.
“No need to worry, Mrs. Turpin. I find Miss Bond’s enthusiasm quite engaging.” Lady Tavistock turned to Elaine. “She is precisely the sort of woman with whom I would choose to be friends.”
Elaine beamed, but held herself back from spewing agreement and praise. She noted that Lady Tavistock had not said she wanted to be friends with her, only that she was the sort of woman she would choose to be friends with. Elaine wasn’t so naïve that she couldn’t see the difference.
Mrs. Prior and Lavinia, who had moved deeper into the front parlor, watched the unfolding scene as if Elaine were, in fact, on the stage. Aunt Abigail seemed ready to weep over everything. Uncle Daniel continued to wear the oddest look as he glanced back and forth between Elaine and Lady Tavistock. Prickles crept down Elaine’s back at the sharpness in her uncle’s eyes. She couldn’t explain why, but she felt like a mouse who had wandered into a room full of cats.
“If you will excuse us for a moment, Lady Tavistock,” Uncle Daniel said in a smooth, accommodating voice. “I should like a moment to greet my niece after her long journey.”
“Of course.” Lady Tavistock nodded. “We’ll just be in here.” She pointed to the front parlor.
Aunt Abigail flinched as though she’d committed a major fau
x pas. But rather than accompany her guests into the parlor, she surged toward Elaine. “This is a disaster,” she hissed.
Uncle Daniel grumbled something under his breath, then marched right up to Elaine. “What game are you playing, missy?” he demanded.
Elaine kept her back straight and her resolve firm. She’d dealt with the likes of Mr. Crimpley for years, and she wasn’t about to be intimidated by her uncle, even if they were in Mayfair…or perhaps Marylebone. She still wasn’t certain.
“I’m not playing at anything,” she insisted. “Yes, I’ve arrived in London under unusual circumstances. Yes, I’ve already breeched social etiquette. And I know, I’m dressed in an unusual style. It’s artistic,” she explained with a quick side comment for Lavinia, who was loitering near the doorway, eavesdropping. “Like the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” Lavinia replied, glancing over her shoulder to her mother, as if she would be caught and scolded like a child, even though she looked to be close to Elaine’s age. “I adore their artistry. I like Rossetti the best.”
Lady Prior overheard in spite of Lavinia’s best efforts and cut her off. With a snort, she said, “Those silly artists had their day when I was a girl. They were reviled then, and I’ll not have my daughter’s mind plagued with their scandalous ideology. Come away, Lavinia.”
“But their philosophy of nature is on the rise again,” Elaine began as Lady Lavinia lowered her head and shuffled dutifully to her mother’s side. “And soon—”
“It’s all a ploy, Mr. Turpin, can’t you see?” Aunt Abigail cut her off. Elaine was too surprised that her aunt had referred to her husband as “Mr. Turpin” to come up with a reply until her aunt went on with, “Clearly she has come here begging, dressed this way, to manipulate you into not only feeding and housing her, but to convince you to purchase an entire new wardrobe for her as well. And with Lady Tavistock come to call.” Her aunt whimpered.
