A Mad, Wicked Folly (4 page)

Who were they?
“Votes for women!” the woman with the fur muff called
out, solving the mystery for me. She turned to thrust a leaflet at a passing man, and I saw that she wore a sash across
her jacket with the letters WSPU.
I knew that WSPU stood for Women’s Social and
Political Union. It was headed by Emmeline Pankhurst and
her daughter Christabel, who was so famous she had her
own waxwork at Madame Tussaud’s and her face on playing cards. All the girls at my finishing school were agog over
Christabel’s beauty and her sense of style. Certainly not
over her political views. Not at Madame Édith’s Finishing
School for Girls.
“Suffragettes!” I said. “In the flesh!”
Freddy leaned across me and snapped the window
shade down.
I flung the shade back up just in time to see the man
snatch the leaflet from the woman’s hand, pitch it to the
ground, and stamp it under his heel. Undaunted, she
shoved another at the next passerby. “Votes for women!”
The traffic snarl cleared and the cab moved forward.
I turned to Freddy. “What are they doing in front of
Parliament?”
“Never you mind.”
“Oh, come off it, Freddy!”
Freddy sighed. “They picket Parliament every day
demanding the vote, leafleting, fixing their ruddy propaganda to the railings, and mucking things up. Christabel
Pankhurst and her cursed mother have led their merry
band of suffragettes into all sorts of shenanigans, as of late.”
He grimaced. “They do it for attention, to grab newspaper
headlines. But not for much longer. You see the chaos they
cause—traffic and all sorts. The prime minister is going to
put a stop to that nonsense soon enough.”
I pressed my cheek against the window of the cab,
eyes straining to keep the spectacle in sight for as long as
I could. The cab turned a corner, and the suffragettes vanished from view. I sat back. “They meet there every day?”
Freddy looked alarmed, sensing looming disaster.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to join them.”
My fingers began to itch as they always did when I saw
something that I wanted to draw. “I have no plans to join
them. But I’d love to draw them.”
My brother muttered something under his breath. I
couldn’t hear what he said exactly, but it was something
along the lines of
here we go again
.

REDDY ESCORTED ME
home, and I begged him
to come inside so as to dilute some of Mamma’s
anger toward me.

Freddy stayed for tea. Our mother was too
civilized to chastise me in front of him, but she eyed me
above her teacup, pinky crooked somewhat accusingly in
my direction.

Finally, Freddy made his good-byes. I sat nervously
while Mother saw him to the door. Freddy leaned in to kiss
her cheek and then paused. I couldn’t hear what he was
saying, but from the look upon her face she didn’t like it.
She closed the door behind Freddy and walked back into
the sitting room.

“Do you want to explain yourself?” she asked in an
even tone that I recognized as controlled anger.
“I—”
“I know not what to do with you, Victoria! Undressing
in front of men?”
“It was for art, Mamma,” I said, trying to keep the defiance out of my voice. That would only lead me into more
trouble.
My mother had an artistic bent herself, but she turned
her talents to the decorative, drawing her own patterns for
needlework, painting the odd watercolor landscape for
the hallway. She could never understand what it took to
become a real artist.
She played with the pearls at her throat. “Such reckless
behavior will lead you down the path to ruin. And now, your
brother has just told me that you wish to go to art college. I’ll
tell you that your father will not allow you to attend.”
I said nothing. What could I say? My opinions, thoughts,
and desires meant little in my own home and always had.
Freddy was right. I should have known better.
“You’ve disappointed us, Victoria.” She crossed to the
credenza to look through a pile of fabric swatches that lay
there. She picked up her embroidery hoop and sank into
the chair.
“I’m sorry, Mamma. I really am. But . . . please don’t
punish me so harshly. I really want to go to art school. How
about this? At least let me apply. If I get in, then—”
“Denying you art school is not a punishment, Victoria!
It’s for your own good. What kind of mother would set her
child up for failure?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I could hold back no
longer.
My mother smacked her hoop down on the seat so hard
the bamboo cane snapped. “What you did, Victoria, was
beyond the pale. You’re very lucky that you didn’t do this
after you came out. The scandal would have been irreparable, and your father and I would have been unable to save
you. You would have been lost.”
Her blast of anger caught me so unawares that I took a
step back. My mother had never raised her voice to me in
that way. Never.
“You’ll not walk out of the door until your father and I
have decided what to do with you. I have nothing more to
say. Go upstairs.” She picked up her hoop and tutted at the
damage. “See what you’ve gone and made me do.”
As if I had the power to make my mother do anything.
If I did, I certainly would do more than make her break a
bamboo embroidery hoop.

THAT FIRST NIGHT
my father greeted me with a cold hello when I kissed his cheek. And then one week slid into
the next, and still no one said much. Dinners were silent
affairs, only broken by the occasional “please pass the
salt” or the clink of cutlery. I began to hope that this confinementandthecoldshoulder-of-muttontreatmentwould
be the extent of my punishment. Once it ran its course, I
would bring up the idea of art school again. I could bide
my time.

I had been home for a fortnight when my mother called
me into her drawing room. She sat working on her needlepoint in the window seat, squinting in the morning light.

Mamma stuck her needle into the muslin and put her
hoop aside. “Sit down, Victoria.” Her tone was the one she
used when she refused to brook any nonsense, so I knew
what she had to say would not lead to happy days for me.

I sat. I felt as though I was climbing the stairs to the scaffolding where the executioner waited to slice off my head.
I could only hope it would be swift and not too painful.

“Now, your father and I have been discussing your
prospects. Finishing school is no longer an option, so we
must accept that.”

I shifted. “Yes, Mamma.” Well, that was a relief. I could
see the executioner set down his ax.
“It’s high time you lowered your skirts and put your
hair up. You look a child with your hair dangling down
like that. I have hired a lady’s maid for you—Sophie
Cumberbunch is her name. She will arrive this Saturday.
Very highly recommended. Skills at the height of style,
both clothing and hair. Mrs. Hollingberry employed this
Cumberbunch for her daughter Joan—such a plain little
thing—but Cumberbunch was able to work miracles.”
“If she is so amazing, why doesn’t Joan keep her?”
“Joan has married down and no longer has the means
for a lady’s maid.” Mamma looked utterly scandalized. I’m
sure she couldn’t imagine a life where a woman was forced
to button her own shoes, comb her own hair, draw her own
bath.
Oh the horror, the shame of it!
It wasn’t that difficult. I
dressed myself and did my own hair. True, Mamma’s dressing ritual did require assistance, but it wasn’t a crime to
simplify one’s dress, I was sure. “Still, her loss is our gain.
She will prepare your clothing for your coming-out and act
as your chaperone.”
“Mamma,” I interrupted. “Do you think it’s wise that
I have a coming-out? After all that has happened, do you
think I’ll get one single invitation to a ball?”
My mother was outraged. “No one in my circle would
dare shun me by cutting your name from the guest list!”
“But they might! Maybe . . . maybe we could simply give
the whole thing a miss. Make an excuse that I’m unwell or
something?”
My mother looked as if I had asked her if I could cease
breathing air. “Every young lady of quality has a debut to
announce her coming-out to society. If you don’t have a
debut, you’ll soon know what it is to be a social outcast.”
I didn’t mind parties—in fact, Lily, would be home and
most likely be at many of them, which would give me a
chance to see her again—but this inevitable season of parties heralded the beginning of my life, as far as Mamma
was concerned. There was more to a debut than balls and
dresses. The reason for debuts was marriage.
Debutante balls reminded me of animals being driven
to Smithfield Market for slaughter. The executioner may
have set down his ax, but it was only to sharpen it.
Until a girl was brought out, she was invisible. Seen
but not heard. She was only to speak in social settings
when spoken to, and the response to any questions should
be kept to single syllables. The best thing a girl could do
before she was brought out into society was to become one
with the wallpaper. I was already starting out with a blot
next to my name.
“There’s no guarantee now that you’ll receive an invitation to be presented to the king along with all the other
debutantes,” my mother went on.
Even I thought this unfortunate, as I would have welcomed the chance to see inside Buckingham Palace. I’d
heard there were a Rembrandt and a Vermeer hanging
in the Picture Gallery. But only the crème de la crème
were invited to meet the king. The fortunate debutantes
each year started out with a presentation at the king’s formal drawing room. The rest of the pack were considered
second-rate. Mamma herself had not been a debutante;
however, when she married my father, Mrs. Plimpton
played Pygmalion, took Mamma under her wing and transformed her. Mrs. Plimpton had arranged for Mamma, then
a newly married woman, to be presented to the king when
he was the Prince of Wales. My mother was such a socking
success that she and Papa climbed straight up the social
ladder with barely a pause.
“I can’t tell you how humiliating that will be for your
father. If the king discounts his daughter, then what hope
does he have to be considered as a supplier?”
I pretended to be vastly interested in Mamma’s new rug.
“I have sent a letter to the Lord Chamberlain, putting
your name forward for presentation,” she went on. “The
summonses come out in mid-May, three weeks before the
next presentation. That’s not much time to unpick this
mess you’ve made. Between now and then, you must be the
picture of contrition and innocence. The first thing to do is
to get you involved in a charity. I’ve chosen for you to join
the Friends of London Churches. You’ll start this Saturday
afternoon at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square.
The charity will be helping the ladies to organize prayer
books and hymnals.”
Mamma could not have chosen a more boring charity
for me. “Is this the reason you called me in here, Mamma?
To discuss balls and lady’s maids and charities?”
Mamma looked at me in silence for a moment. “No. As
I said, finishing school is out. So the next best choice is to
see you settled. I think a steadying hand would do you
a great deal of good, and your father has agreed. He has
arranged a match for you through an acquaintance at the
Reform Club. Sir Henry Carrick-Humphrey’s younger son,
Edmund.”
And there it was. The final blow. My head was rolling
down the steps. The solution to the pressing problem of
Victoria and her bad behavior was marriage. My parents
would also be able to wash their hands of me for good. I
would now be my husband’s problem.
“So soon? Why?” I asked, stunned that my mother had
put such a scheme into action so quickly, especially before
my debut.
“I think it’s best we strike while the iron is hot.
Marriage will show you are respectable. We’ll announce
your engagement formally the day after your presentation
to the king. Before then we’ll make sure word gets round
that Mr. Carrick-Humphrey has shown interest, which will
put the idea in people’s minds that you are presentable.
The sooner you’re married, the sooner we can have this
whole business behind us.” Mamma pointed at the bellpull
hanging by the mantel. “Ring for tea, Victoria.”
I stood up and tugged the brocade fabric, my mind
struggling to make sense of everything my mother had
heaped upon me. I had met Edmund Carrick-Humphrey at
our Christmas party two years ago. I could not imagine a
more toneless creature. He was totally devoid of emotion,
and his countenance lacked any joy or zest for life. Had he
not been wearing a striped suit, his very blandness would
have faded his person right into my mother’s beige drapery. “But why him?”
“Edmund Carrick-Humphrey is eager to join your
father at the plumbing works, as he has a very strong interest in the business,” Mother replied. “His father also has
connections within the king’s household, which will help
patch the damage you caused with Hugo Northbrook.” She
looked at me pointedly.
“So this is a business arrangement?”
Mamma flicked her fingers. “Such a union would be
very fortuitous for both families, particularly in light of
the fact that your brother has removed himself from the
business. Your sons will inherit, and your father’s legacy
will be assured. You should be happy you have any prospects left, my dear. A scandalous woman is not something
most men would want, but Edmund Carrick-Humphrey
has agreed.”
“Oh, how jolly lucky for me,” I said. “If my pickings are
so thin on the ground, then why not leave me to find my
own way? Surely I have sense enough to be able to choose
my own husband, Mamma.”
She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I can quite
imagine the sort of husband you would end up with. I’m
sure you’d go the way of Joan Hollingberry. Her poor parents are so humiliated. A clerk! Fancy that. He doesn’t even
possess a tailcoat. Comes to dinner wearing a tweed jacket,
as though dressed for a country shoot! No. Your father has
worked very hard to rise from nothing, and he’s not about
to see his efforts go to waste over your passing fancies.”
Papa had started out as a foreman in a pottery business in Lambeth, but he had anticipated that the flush
toilet would be in high demand in the years to come. With
money he’d saved, he purchased a small concern that
made pressed-clay toilets. He sank every penny he had
in a design he invented called the dreadnought, which
prevented smells from coming back into the room. He’d
forced himself to live a meager existence until the business began to pay. He didn’t marry my mother until he was
thirty-two. She had been the pressed-clay kiln owner’s
seventeen-year-old daughter. My father was immensely
rich, more so than the many aristocrats who looked down
on people like my parents, but Mamma liked to pretend
that we weren’t parvenus ourselves, still wet from the middle-class pool.
“I don’t have passing fancies—”
“I beg to differ. This art-school desire of yours is a
five-minute wonder, my dear. Here today and gone the next.”
“It is not—”
“I’ll hear no more about it. We will be entertaining Sir
Henry and Lady Carrick-Humphrey, their daughter, and
Edmund, who is home visiting from Oxford University,
tomorrow evening.”
“And if I say no?”
“If you say no, then you will make a life with my aunt
in Norfolk.”
“With Aunt Maude?” My voice squeaked in alarm. My
widowed great-aunt lived a near hermit’s existence in
Norfolk. The house was dark as pitch and cold as death,
and she detested art, books, and joy of any kind. Worse,
she owned four smelly old Yorkshire terriers that piddled
on the carpets, shed hair everywhere they walked, and
bit everyone but my aunt. Every time I visited, my mother
bade me read the Bible to her aloud. Aunt Maude always
chose the passage about Jezebel, smiling smugly at me all
the while.
“Yes, she has need of a companion—someone to read
to her and fetch her things and such. Don’t look like that.
You’re lucky we are giving you a choice, Victoria.”
“It’s not much of a choice!”
“I am sorry, but you must lie in your bed as you’ve
made it. Your father is not a man to deal with when he’s
been thwarted, as your brother can attest. He has no stomach for nonsense. He is not prepared to support you if you
don’t marry. He has a horror of spinsters.”
“So I either marry a man I don’t know or like, or go live
in deepest darkest Norfolk, shut away like a cloistered nun
never to be seen again? Times are different now, Mamma.
Women can marry for love. It’s not like in your day.”
“How would you live if you do not
fall in love
, then?”
“Other women work.”
“Not women of your standing. No one would hire
you. And no one in polite society will accept a woman
who earns her own money. Should you like to be a charwoman and scrub outhouses? Because that’s the life you
will have.” She looked up, and her eyes softened. “I am
in agreement with you. I should not like to live a lonely
existence as someone else’s companion. Can you not see
how I am trying to protect you from a life of penury and
loneliness?”
“But if I was allowed to go to art college, then I could
earn my own living!”
“Who put that idea into your head? Those ridiculous
bohemian artists in France? What makes you think you
have the talent to earn money as an artist? Who do you
think you are? How preposterous . . .” Mamma stared down
at her sewing for a moment. For a moment I thought she
was going to cry. But then she picked up her scissors, and
angrily began to rip out the perfect stitches that outlined a
bouquet of sweet peas.
Her lack of faith in me, in my talent, hurt. I couldn’t
bear to hear any more. “I don’t care for tea, Mamma,” I
said faintly. “I don’t feel at all well. May I be excused?” Not
waiting for her answer, I stood up and left the room.
Mamma’s words followed me, floating over me like a
dreary cloud, as I trudged up the stairs to my room.
Who
put that idea into your head? What makes you think you have
the talent to earn a living as an artist? Who do you think you
are? How preposterous. Preposterous. Preposterous.
When I reached my room I threw myself on the bed
and screamed into my pillow for all I was worth until my
throat ached. I wanted to weep with rage and humiliation.
It was as if that awful little whisper inside of me had been
given a voice, and it was my own mother’s. Just thinking
about it set it off:
If your own mother doesn’t think you have
talent, then who does?
Mamma was right. Who did I think I was? How ridiculous it was of me to think that I was not like other girls.
What a jest! I was exactly like other girls. And like other
girls, my life was not mine to call my own; rather it was
one that would be handed over to the next responsible
party as soon as possible.
I heard a creak of the floorboards. I jerked my head
up and saw our maid, Emma, in the doorway, shifting her
weight from foot to foot. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to
bother. But you have a letter.” She held a silver salver in
her hand.
“That’s all right, Emma.” I sat up. Another story of mad
behavior to report to my mother. That’s what I got for failing to close the door.
Emma crossed the room and held the salver to me. I
took the letter and Emma bobbed a curtsy, turned round,
and scurried out, the ribbons of her white cap and apron
trailing behind her.
I recognized the penmanship, the broad loops and
swirls made with such confidence, the pen pressing just a
bit too heavily. The letter was from Bertram.
Thank goodness!
I tore the envelope open eagerly and unfolded the
page.