The Linnet Bird: A Novel

by Linda Holeman

AFTER THAT FAITH AND I spent more and more time together. I sensed she found it difficult to fill her days. She sometimes sent a note to the library telling me she would be coming in—her father was a member—over my lunch break, and we’d sit at my desk, behind the screen, to eat whatever she produced from her bag with the simple meal Nan had packed for me. Other times we simply walked up and down Bold Street for that half hour, arm in arm, glancing in the shop windows, neither of us particularly interested in the wares. It was more enjoyable to talk.

  I grew to be comfortable with her during our time alone, mainly because with me she dropped her mindless chatter—obviously kept for the rest of company. Instead, she spoke of interesting topics—

  politics and her views on the Whigs, history, literature, the art movement, and so on, and asked my opinion and wanted to hear what I thought. She was clearly more well read and knowledgeable than she cared to let on in the presence of others; because I worked in a library it was obvious that she considered me of a different mind-set than her society friends, whose concerns ran to fashion and gossip. And, realizing, after that first evening of becoming acquainted, that Faith didn’t seem interested in asking any more about my past—or, actually, my present—I relaxed.

  Eventually I began to see that Faith, in order to conform to what was expected, was careful to keep her true self hidden most of the time. I also realized that she sensed this same careful cover in me, although the genesis of our similarity could not be compared. But for all of this I felt a begrudging admiration, as well as a growing sense of friendship.

  SIX MONTHS AFTER our first meeting—it was a wet day in early June, and the rain had been coming down heavily for hours—Faith was in the sheltered portico of the Lyceum when Shaker and I stepped through the doors. She’d obviously been waiting some time; the hem of her skirt was dark, thoroughly soaked, and tendrils of deep red hair, curled by the moisture and bright with beads of rainwater, escaped from her bonnet.

  “Linny, I’d like to invite you as my guest for dinner. Right now. I know we don’t have a chaperone, and it’s early, but could you come? I’ve booked us a table at the tearoom on Lord Street.” Her voice was even more breathless than usual, which I attributed to waiting for me. Later I knew it to be something else.

  I looked at Shaker. Obviously the unexpected invitation didn’t extend to him.

  “I know you don’t think it proper, Mr. Smallpiece—two ladies dining on their own—but I assure you my parents have allowed me to come out. In fact, my father has just deposited me here. I’ll see that she gets home safely afterward,” Faith told him. “I’ll hire a carriage. And we won’t be late. I just . . . there’s something I’d like to discuss with her.”

  “If she cares to join you and your parents have conceded, I will grant her permission,” Shaker said, bowing slightly. When we were away from Whitefield Lane he slipped into his role as my guardian quite seamlessly.

  “I’d love to, Faith,” I said, meaning it. Her friendship had grown important to me. It was the only one I had, apart from my relationship with Shaker. And more and more I felt the weight of Shaker’s obvious feelings for me too heavy, taking the shape of a burdensome yoke as opposed to a light cloak. I knew he was having difficulty having me so near, both at work and at home.

  I now worried when I felt his breath on my cheek as he leaned too close in his room in the evenings, pointing out the work I still copied for him. I worried as I passed him a plate at dinner and his trembling fingers touched mine for longer than necessary; I worried at the pressure of his thigh against mine as we rode to and from work in the crowded carriage. I accidentally overheard him, late one night, quietly abusing himself as I silently passed his closed door and felt pity for him, and anger at myself for the suffering I caused him. Had he been another sort of man, I might have simply come into his room when his mother was asleep and allowed him to use me to relieve himself. For me the meaningless physical act would have created no more thought or sensation than a fit of sneezing. But then, had he been another sort of man, he would have claimed me months ago, whether it was at my bidding or not. And I also knew that he wanted more than a quick poke. It was clear to me, and had been from the first week of knowing him, that Shaker Smallpiece was not of the nature of most men; he would not take a whore or a woman outside of wedlock. I believe that until the time he met me he had accepted his celibacy with a studied grace. I had ruined that.

  Many nights now, as I fell asleep, I tried to think of a way to not hurt him when he eventually must speak of his desire, for I knew he would not be able to withstand it much longer without some form of expression.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AFTER FAITH AND I BID SHAKER GOOD-BYE WE HURRIED ALONG, laughing as we attempted to stay under her bobbing umbrella. As we passed a deeply recessed doorway I saw a little girl huddled there, head covered with a thin, torn shawl. There was a bulge under the shawl at her chest that I took to be a sleeping baby. I stopped as Faith kept going.

  She looked back at me. “What are you doing, Linny?” she called.

  I dug in my reticule, glad I had a few pennies. I held them out to the girl and as her bare arm came from under the shawl, Faith was there, scolding over my shoulder.

  “Don’t give her anything, Linny,” she scolded. “Don’t encourage them to come up here begging.” Her voice rang with contempt and yet I heard pity behind it.

  The girl’s arm hesitated, halfway between her own body and my hand with the coins.

  “Do you have a baby there?” I asked. She looked to be eight or nine.

  She nodded. “Me bruvver,” she said.

  “Do you have someplace to go?”

  She nodded again. “But me mam’s got a customer in the room; she sent me out till she were done.”

  Faith let out a tiny screech. “Heaven help us. Come away, Linny.”

  “Do you have any more spare coins?” I asked Faith, made bold by the shivering of the child, the stillness of the very small hidden baby under the shawl.

  Faith opened her reticule and pulled out a coin. “That’s all,” she said defensively, as if I were accusing her of something. In her face I saw compassion but also fear.

  I gave the coins to the girl, and as her hand closed around them, she pulled back into the recess of the doorway.

  “Now hurry, we’re getting soaked,” Faith said and started to run. I hurried after her. The wind coming from the Mersey raced ahead of us, creating ripples on the surfaces of the puddles. Faith jumped over them as if she hadn’t a care in the world, but I was suddenly heavy-hearted.

  We arrived at the tearoom breathless, chests heaving from our run. Faith shook her bonnet like a wet dog, and a table of matrons near the door frowned. Faith laughed at their dour expressions, surprising both them and me. It was bad enough we had arrived unchaperoned, but to create a display was, I knew well by now, in breach of all etiquette.

  As we were seated with our menus I tried to push away the image of that tiny pair in the doorway and what memories it brought back for me. “Faith? What is your opinion of that girl, the little thing with no hope for a future?” I asked.

  “Opinion? Well, obviously the rich and poor—like good and evil—will always exist, won’t they? It’s as the Reverend Mr. Thomas Malthus expounds with his fears of overpopulation. The constant tendency of populations to grow faster than the means of subsistence is quite evident. That urchin, along with her mother—who contributes to the great social evil—must be accepted. My father, only last year, read Malthus’s Essay on the Principle of Population and was quite fond of quoting from it often. Poverty and inequality are part of the God-given order of the universe, after all. It’s a comfort to know that there is nothing to really be done.”

  “What if one were to try and change that order?”

  “For one or for all?” she questioned, but then the well-dressed server came, and we made our choices and gave them to him. Faith leaned her elbows on the table, cupping her face in her hands. She was delightfully
unladylike at times, while I stiffly attempted to retain an exacting decorum in public at all times.

  “Let’s talk no more of the unpleasant aspects of life,” she said. “I have the most marvelous thing to tell you, Linny, and you must just listen, because you may think me mad at first. And, by the way, I do not have my parents’ permission to be here and was daring enough to come to the library on my own. They believe me to be reading in my room.”

  I smiled as she confessed what she imagined to be a daring escapade. I thought of the roast lamb with mint sauce I had ordered. And Apple Hedgehog for dessert. I knew that the few pennies we had given to the girl would buy her a hot jacket potato, perhaps two, if the stall keeper was in good humor.

  “It’s this. I’ve decided I simply must go to India.”

  “India? What—”

  She held up her hand. “Just listen, remember? As I told you, ages ago, it’s something I’ve been thinking of.” She fidgeted with the lace edge of her napkin. “My life feels stalled, Linny. I’m filled with . . . ennui, I suppose. I have my moods . . .” She stopped, her eyes suddenly blank, as if seeing something inside her skull.

  “Moods? We all have moods, Faith,” I said, but she didn’t appear to hear me. In the next moment she shook her head and focused again, a big, tight smile pulling her lips back from her teeth. It was almost a grimace.

  “And my father says I can go, as long as I have someone to accompany me,” she continued. It was as if she wasn’t aware of that lost moment. “Of course there will be a number of chaperones on board ship, married women going back to their husbands after bringing children home for schooling, or simply from a visit, but he won’t hear of me going off without a companion.” Her words were rushed.

  “I have to interrupt,” I said when she paused for a breath. “Why are you so interested in India?”

  Faith looked around the slowly filling room, then waited as the server set down our bowls of leek soup floating with morsels of parsley dumplings. When he had left, she lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “To be frank, Linny, Liverpool has so little to offer in the way of interesting men.”

  “But what of Mr. Beck? Gerrard. He seemed very pleasant. I sensed—”

  She dismissed my words with a trifling wave of her hand. “Oh, he decided to take a job down in London. We parted ways a few weeks ago. I suppose I forgot to mention it.” But there was a hint of desperation about her voice that belied her flippant attitude. “And as I said, thinking about it, the choice of suitable escorts in Liverpool has become thin of late.”

  I thought of all the men I had known in Liverpool. She was probably right, although our opinions were based on quite different impressions.

  “In fact it’s becoming quite distressing. I’m sure you don’t mind if I speak so openly about my . . . difficulties.”

  I knew, by various things Faith had said, that she was almost twenty-one. Her time for finding a husband had come and was almost gone. She had another year left, at the most. I nodded.

  “And although you’ve still time, I don’t imagine you’ve had the opportunity to meet too many eligible young men.” She took a small spoonful of her soup. “First nursing your father, and . . . now. Your life with your aunt and cousin. It’s not terribly exciting, you must admit.”

  I didn’t reply, but she didn’t appear to notice.

  “So I’ve decided that I must go to India to meet a suitable man.” I noticed her upper lip had the tiniest quiver as she attempted a gay smile. “If you were to join me, Linny, there’s a very good chance you would meet somebody as well.”

  My mouth remained open, my spoon partway between the soup and my lips. I closed my mouth and lowered my spoon. “Join you? Did I hear you correctly, Faith? Do you mean join you in traveling to India?”

  “Yes. Couldn’t you just imagine—‘the delightful Miss Vespry and the enigmatic Miss Smallpiece, both late of Liverpool, arrive in Calcutta in the gentle breeze of the cool season.’ It sounds like a yellowback novel, doesn’t it?” She had grown ever more excited, her voice quite loud now.

  I put one finger to my lips to remind her that others were watching. “India, Faith? It’s too much—too much for me to even imagine. I must have time to think, to—”

  “Oh bother, Linny,” she interrupted. “What is there to think about? Wouldn’t you rather have an adventure than sit behind that screen at the library? And again, it’s almost certain you would meet someone suitable.”

  I decided the truth—for this one moment—would be best. “Although India sounds outrageously exciting, if you must know, I’m not particularly interested in marrying right at this moment,” I told her. Or ever.

  Now it was Faith’s turn to open her mouth in surprise. Then she snapped it shut. “What do you possibly mean? What else is there for women like us but to marry well?” she asked, confused. “What else?”

  I had no answer. “What about Celina? I’m surprised you wouldn’t have asked her to go with you.”

  “Celina isn’t interested. We did discuss it, briefly, but she knows her heart already belongs to another. Even if it isn’t reciprocated.” She widened her eyes. “You know of whom I speak. But she remains hopeful and just has no interest in leaving England.”

  I realized at that moment that Faith must have solicited all of her unmarried friends. I was the last, her final, desperate hope.

  “And your family agrees to send you?”

  “Oh, yes. At least Father does. Mother is less certain, but Father thinks it’s a fine idea. He has a number of friends who work for the East India Company’s civil service—and understands these things better than Mother. Actually Father is intending to travel to Calcutta late next fall, but I don’t want to wait that long.” She hesitated, then continued. “It would be the wrong time to arrive if I waited for him. The best time of all—the season for entertainment—is the cool season. If I wait for Father it will be the end of the season and that won’t do me any good at all. Dear friends of Father and Mother’s—Mr. and Mrs. Waterton—have extended an invitation to host me and a companion. We could stay with them as long as . . . as necessary.”

  I knew she wasn’t finished by the way she played with the engraved handle of her knife.

  “I do believe that Mother would prefer I didn’t marry, although of course she would never admit to that. But I know how she depends on me. She’s not well, you know, and I have only two brothers.” I thought back to the events at Faith’s home, remembering Faith’s pale, oddly bloated mother.

  “So I think Mother envisions my caring for her for as long as she needs me—which I feel would be until her last breath. And well meaning as my mother can be, and not disputing that I do care about her—with all my heart—the idea of growing old as a spinster in that house, fussing over her, is not how I see myself. I want a chance at my own home, Linny.”

  In the moment of silence that followed, I almost heard the unspoken before it’s too late.

  “The British men in India outnumber women three to one,” she went on. “And there are all sorts of events—luncheons and dinner parties and balls and soirees—it would be impossible not to find someone. And although India might not be the place one wants to live out one’s life, there are all sorts of reasons to come home again. Oh, say you’ll think about it, please, Linny.” She reached across the table and I took her hand.

  She lowered her voice. “I don’t want to insult you,” she said, “so please don’t be offended. It’s not difficult to understand your situation, and I know that if you were to say you’d come with me, my father would pay for a round-trip ticket as well as a suitable wardrobe and anything else needed. He would, of course, clear it with your cousin, as he is your guardian. And once we’re there we would stay as guests in the home of the Watertons, who are more than happy to entertain young women from home, full of the English news they’ve been missing.” She stopped to take a breath, then rattled on.

  “I’ve been finding out everything about it. The journe
y can take anywhere from four to five months, depending on the weather. It would be terribly exciting, sailing away, around the African cape. The sights one sees! Sometimes the ships have to drop anchor at strange places, if the ship is blown off course. And the last port of call before Calcutta is Aden. Did you know that the natives at Aden have shocks of red or yellow hair? Why is that, do you think?” Her voice rose again. She appeared unable to control herself, throwing her hands about. Diners at other tables were once more surreptitiously watching, and I saw several speak behind their hands, their eyes on Faith.

  “And in the warm waters of the Indian Ocean there are whales and porpoises that leap alongside the boat, as if performing for the passengers. Imagine, Linny!” In the next instant she slapped her hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she said from behind her palm. “I can tell by your expression that I have insulted you with my overly forward offers with regards to finances. I’m too impossibly brash, I know that. Father suggests that’s why no—” She stopped.

  But Faith had misinterpreted my expression.

  Unexpectedly, and for the first time in my life, I understood the meaning of seduction. For if Faith Vespry was attempting to seduce me with her words, she had succeeded.

  Over our soup, she touched the dead dream, the one I had so carefully buried all those months ago along with my wee Frances. She had touched it, and it left me weak and trembling. It wasn’t offense Faith was seeing on my face, but awakening and hunger.

  THE MOST DIFFICULT ASPECT of leaving Liverpool—no, perhaps the most difficult thing I had done in my adult life—was telling Shaker I was leaving. I asked him to walk with me, a sunny Sunday a few days after my final discussion with Faith on our plans. Shaker and I wandered along a wide dusty road lined with hedgerows just outside of Everton. A large spreading elder grew near the side of the road, and I stopped there, in its shade, and told Shaker about Faith’s invitation and how I wished to go. I told him that Mr. Vespry, after receiving Shaker’s permission for me to accompany his daughter, would make every necessary arrangement for me to travel to India with Faith, and to be hosted while there.