by Carol Hedges
Obviously, it is regrettable that he has sustained the attack you describe, but I am sure, with your expert help, he will recover. I enclose a bankers' draft for the cost of his treatment and take the opportunity to express my gratitude for your offer to look after him ‘for old times’ sake’.
I am about to embark upon a series of sermons on the Laws of the Prophets which I hope to publish, so I will be fully occupied for the next few months. Thus, even if I desired it, I should be unable to lodge the boy at Bishopthorpe.
Yours,
In His Name,
Wm Grizewood
Reading the letter over his evening glass of port, Daisy’s father recalls the stern faced, aesthetic young man who once shared his rooms at College. He always wore fustian black, and spent many hours studying the bible or on his knees by his narrow bed.
He tries to recall Grizewood smiling, sharing a joke, getting drunk, flirting with the college skivvies. He cannot bring to mind a single instance.
He also remembers the tall black pillar of a newly ordained clergyman who officiated at his marriage. The wedding sermon was all about the sin of adultery and the fiery pit of torment awaiting anybody who strayed from the marriage bed.
Thinking back, he wonders why he is even remotely surprised at the man’s response. Lawton crumples up the letter in disgust and goes to find his wife. A guest bedroom must be prepared and a private nurse engaged. He, at least, is not prepared to turn his back on a fellow human being.
****
Letitia Simpkins feels that the world has definitely turned its back upon her. She barely left the house after Mama’s death, and she has barely left the house since Mama’s funeral. Any thought that Mama’s absence might lighten the domestic load for her has been brutally quelled.
The two servants who took turns to care for Mama, supplementing their duties with housework and waiting at table have been let go. Her father does not see it as a necessary expense to pay for services that can be performed (for free) by Letitia.
She is now expected to rise at dawn, light fires, fetch and carry water, supervise the cook, dust, sweep, sew and darn, aided by the remaining servant, for whom the words lazy and skimps might have been invented.
By the end of the day she is so weary that she has frequently fallen asleep over her supper. As a consequence, her clothes are beginning to feel loose, and her wrists protrude from her sleeves like two sticks. If she holds them to the light, she can see the delicate blue tracery of her veins.
Her unhappiness is compounded by the presence of Mrs Briscoe who, having buried two husbands, turns up regularly to instruct Letitia on the correct way to comport herself during the mourning period.
All, from clothes to table settings, comes under her basilisk gaze, and in all, Letitia is found wanting. Every morning Mrs Briscoe arrives on the doorstep bright and early to march the boys to school, returning a short while later to instruct and oversee Letitia in her domestic duties. She then leaves temporarily to march the boys back at the end of the day.
Most evenings Mrs Briscoe stays on to dinner, poking the food with her fork and tutting. After dinner, she and Papa adjourn to the parlour, where she reads aloud to him from the newspaper - a task she apparently always performed for husbands one and two.
The pleasant and instructive visits to the Regent Street Ladies’ Literary & Philosophical Society seem a distant memory. The outside world seems a distant memory. There is nothing in Letitia’s life now that she recognises. The joy of it has run out as quickly as it gathered.
Letitia pauses outside the parlour door which unusually, has been left ajar. She leans against the door jamb, bone weary and despondent. She sees her papa and Mrs Briscoe sitting side by side on the sofa. Mrs Briscoe is speaking. It takes Letitia few seconds to realise whom she is talking about.
“Really, it is a most unfortunate situation. The girl has barely learned sufficient to equip her for a useful life. I do so sympathise with you, my dear friend. That mauvais quart d’heure in between school and marriage is always difficult.”
Her father snorts.
“It was Susan’s whim to send her to the boarding school in the first place. She thought mixing with a better class of girl would help her find a husband. As if any self-respecting man will marry her. She hardly has the looks to attract a suitor. And I cannot offer a dowry - there is the boys’ schooling to pay for, and then their university fees. They must have the best start in life.”
“I do so understand. And of course, you are quite right. But as I wrote in my little pamphlet: How to be Happy Though Unmarried, there are many things a girl can do. The poor are always with us, so there is plenty of charity work.
“And there is no household task that any girl should deem beneath her position to perform, as I have frequently reminded Letitia. All these useful occupations will enable her to pass her days in dignified tranquillity.”
Letitia’s eyes brim with tears. She does not know what hurts more, to hear her own father admit her lack of beauty, or to understand that he does not care what happens to her in the future. Mrs Briscoe’s next remark, however, causes her to breathe in sharply.
“Has she had any more letters from those vile Women’s Rights creatures?”
“Not for a while.”
“I am so glad you managed to intercept them, my dear. A parent must be vigilant at all times. One tiny slip, and a girl’s reputation is gone, never to return.”
“I have locked them away safely, never fear. And I have instructed Mary to make sure the post in and out of the house is always placed directly upon my desk.”
Mrs Briscoe leans forward, placing her hand on his.
“It is no more than your duty as a loving caring father. And now that you are a widower - though hopefully not for too long, you must be even more vigilant on your daughter’s behalf.
“A young girl’s true sphere is in the home, and there she shines brightly. Skill with her needle is the only accomplishment she needs.”
Letitia has heard enough. Setting her jaw firmly, she goes straight to her father’s desk. The rolled top is locked, but she knows where he keeps the spare key. It is the work of a moment to unlock the desk and liberate her letters, which have been stuffed into a pigeonhole together with a lot of unpaid bills.
Tucking them into her apron pocket, she tiptoes past the parlour door and hurries up to her room. She has never forgotten Sarah, nor the other friends she made, and the hope they gave her for a better future.
Now it appears that Sarah and the others did not forget her either. Letitia lights a candle and takes up the first precious envelope. It has been opened, as have all of them, but she is beyond caring. She extracts the folded piece of writing paper and begins to read.
****
There is nothing like a bright May afternoon, with the sun darting its rays cheerfully down and all the enchantment of a beautiful day, to bring out the open carriages and the fashionable ladies. Let clerks go to their counting-houses, and queens to their parlours, the elegantly attired head for that exclusive shopping thoroughfare that is Regent Street.
Here the brilliantly ever-shifting scene is almost dizzying in its confusion. Tight-waistcoated flâneurs lounge languidly in front of gaily decorated plate-glass windows, watching and being watched, for there is always a dual purpose in everything that these society people do.
Not everybody is here for the shopping and the spectacle, though. Walk towards the top of Regent Street, crossing Oxford Street - if you are lucky, the road sweeper will go ahead of you to clear a path through the dust and filth.
Walk on until you are in sight of All Soul’s church. There you will see a group of respectably dressed young women standing outside a building. They are handing out copies of a leaflet, entitled Women: Education is your RIGHT!!
Their actions are receiving mixed responses from people passing by. A tall, top-hatted city gent swats them away as if they were so many flies. A couple of boys snatch some leaflets, and then proceed to ma
ke paper boats out of them. Two young women stop, accept a leaflet, skim read it, giggle and hand it back.
Eventually the group is approached by a patrolling constable who folds his arms and regards them sternly.
“Ladies, I have received a complaint about you and I must ask you to desist from your current actions,” he tells them.
“Really? Who has lodged this complaint?” demands one of the group (Carrie Bradstreet by name, writer of pamphlets by occupation).
“I am not at liberty to say,” the constable replies. “I can only divulge that the complainant believes your behaviour is inflammatory and may lead to a breach of the peace.”
“Do you have a daughter, officer?”
“Whether I have or not, is none of your business, miss.”
Unabashed, Carrie hands him a pamphlet.
“Please give her this, with my best regards. I am sure you would like her to have a happy life, and without a proper education, that is almost impossible.”
Taken back by her boldness, the policeman stuffs the pamphlet into his jacket pocket without thinking.
“Now then, I must ask you to cease pestering members of the public, or I shall have to take further action,” he says.
Carrie makes an expansive gesture with one arm.
“Officer, do you see all the men with sandwich boards, the beggars, the street entertainers, the costers and coffee sellers .... is it your intention to take ‘further action’ against them also?”
The policeman rolls his eyes.
“They are engaged in legitimate selling enterprises, miss.”
“And so are we.”
“Oh really. And what, may I be so bold as to inquire, are you selling?”
“We are selling a vision for the future. A dream that must and will come true. A hope that one day all the young women and girls of this country can stand intellectually shoulder to shoulder with their brothers.”
And having delivered her speech in a ringing voice, Carrie squares her own small but determined shoulders, and looks up at the policeman, as if daring him to contradict her.
“Now see here, miss ...” he begins, but he is suddenly interrupted by a cry of triumph that causes them both to turn towards the building behind them.
It is Sarah Lunt, and in her hand is a piece of paper which she waves aloft.
“A letter!” she cries.
Carrie immediately hurries towards her, to be joined seconds later by the rest of the group. They crowd round Sarah, who holds up a hand for silence.
“I have just received a letter from Letitia Simpkins. You remember how worried we all were when she suddenly disappeared and I had no reply to my letters to her home? Well, here is the reason. She writes that her mother has died.”
A murmur of sympathy runs around the group.
“Ah, but even worse, her father has kept back our letters from her so she never knew of our concern for her situation. Indeed, she thought we had abandoned her completely, poor thing.”
The sympathy is replaced by indignation.
“Why should he do such a thing?” one of the group asks.
“Apparently, ladies, we are dangerous radical feminists!”
“If wanting women to have access to the same education as men means being a dangerous radical, then so be it. I wear the badge with pride,” Carrie says.
“But even that is nothing compared to what her life has become. Letitia says that since her mother’s sad death, she can only go out for short periods, and is accompanied whenever she does by a female friend of her father who sounds, I have to say, like a most unpleasant person.”
Sarah shakes her head.
“I do not understand it all clearly. But I simply cannot bear to think of her, or anybody wasting their life and potential in this way.”
“This is grave news indeed. I had high hopes that she might be amongst the first to take the Cambridge Junior Locals - her mathematical and classical knowledge was formidable as I recall,” Carrie says.
“We must put our heads together,” Sarah says. “Slavery has been abolished in the colonies so there is no excuse whatsoever to practice it here in London.”
“Amen to that. Let us talk about it over a cup of tea - I see our police officer has departed, so I presume we are not going to be arrested after all.”
“We have much to talk about indeed,” Sarah says. “I have rarely read anything that has made me crosser! I cannot believe that in any so-called civilised society, a young woman has to resort to guile and deception to live her life. It is not to be tolerated.”
****
Meanwhile a short distance away in a pretty Belgravia parlour, Margaret Barnes Baker, wife of Richard Barnes Baker is also practising guile and deception - though as she is the wife of an MP, maybe guile and deception are rather too strong a description - let us call it social politics instead.
Seated next to her on the rose patterned sofa is handsome young Digby Barnes Baker, scion, possible future MP and dandy about town. He is being gently probed about the recent ball. The crashing about coming through the ceiling is from Africa, who is applying the same noisy enthusiasm to tidying her drawers as she does to everything else.
“I thought the supper was particularly delightful,” Mrs Baker murmurs. “One really cannot go wrong with cold chicken and champagne. And the trifles looked quite delicious,” she pauses. “Did Daisy Lawton enjoy them?” she asks innocently.
“Think so. Ate two platefuls,” says young Digby, who is not a habitual pronoun user.
“Really? Well. I do like to see a young lady with a healthy appetite. So many modern girls just pick and poke at their food nowadays. Scared of losing their figures.”
Digby says nothing. He remembers Daisy as a pretty, lively girl (or ‘gal’) but his priorities were more towards making sure his pocket flaps, coat revers and the colour of his gloves had been noticed by his sartorial rivals.
“I am so glad you like her, dear. As you know, her Mama and I went to school together when we were young and it gave us both great pleasure to see our children getting on.”
Again, Digby says nothing. He cannot imagine either of his parents as young and is sure it is some myth put about to spoil his fun as in: when your father and I were young we never...
“Your father and I are anxious that you should start thinking about settling down - a young man about to enter Parliament ought to have a wife. It sits better with the electorate. Daisy Lawton comes from a good family and will bring with her, according to her Mama, a considerable dowry.”
Ah. Now Digby sees where Ma is coming from, but he keeps his handsome face strictly neutral. He knows he can have the pick of the girls - indeed he has already plucked several, though not the sort his parents would approve of.
“We are thinking of holding a little dinner party - we owe invitations to several people. I shall invite sweet little Daisy. And can you run through your friends and invite somebody suitable to sit with Africa? I’m afraid her dance card was not very full at the ball and I promised her mother I would do my best for the poor girl?”
“See what I can do, Ma.”
Mrs Barnes Baker gives him her most radiant smile.
“You are a good boy, Digby. I’m sure you will do very well when you enter the House. Now, what have you got planned today?”
“Oh, meeting some chaps at the Club, seeing my tailor and my barber, that sort of thing.”
“Well, have a splendid time, dear - don’t forget your father is expecting you at five, and you are to dine in the Members’ Dining Room. He is going to introduce you to some of his more influential friends who can help you win your seat.”
Digby Barnes Baker, fashionable man about town and (maybe) future MP rises, bows gracefully and saunters out. At his mother’s summons, he has come hot foot from his rooms in town and there is a little something he needs to go and sort out - although he is hoping she will have sorted herself out and left by the time he returns.
On his way back, he thinks
about Daisy Lawton. She seemed a nice gal. Lively manner. Pretty face. But would he like to come home to her every evening, to wake up with it on the pillow next to his? He noticed several men eyeing her up appreciatively at the ball. She is definitely a catch - as his mother would say.
Still ...
Digby reminds himself that even if he were to marry Daisy Lawton, he wouldn’t have to be home when the House was sitting late. Indeed, most of his married friends who’ve moved out of town have kept on their bachelor quarters for when they need, or want to stay overnight. On the whole, it seems a satisfactory arrangement.
But ...
Does he want to be tied down right now, when the world of pleasure has just opened its arms and welcomed him in?
Digby is known among his pals to be a bit of a gambling man, never one to refuse a bet or a challenge. He takes a coin out of his jacket pocket and flips it into the air. Heads, he stays single. Tails, he goes after the Lawton girl.
The coin arcs, silver in the dim carriage light, then lands in his open palm. He glances down. So be it.
****
Totally unaware that her future is being decided upon the spin of a coin in a hansom, Daisy Lawton is on her way to visit her best friend Letitia. She is dying to tell her all about the ball, and she is sure Tishy is dying to hear all about it.
Reaching Tishy’s street, she is surprised to see the blinds of the Simpkins house drawn down, and a black ribbon bow on the door knocker. There has been a death in the family. How did she not know? Her heart misgives her ... Tishy? Oh no, surely not! She hurries to the front door and beats out a most unladylike tattoo.
The door is opened by a most unpleasant looking woman in black. She doesn’t smile or curtsey a greeting. Daisy is not used to rude servants, but she has had lessons on dealing with them from Mama, and there is a first time for everything.
“Is Miss Letitia Simpkins at home?” she asks in her best ‘society’ voice.
The woman is clearly taken aback. She glances over Daisy’s shoulder, her cold pebbly eyes taking in the carriage and the groom. Her face changes subtly.
