The Heiresses (3 page)

“Professor Halesworth, despite your famous relation’s call to the city, I must object. This is all very sudden. Erato’s study—”

Uncle Henry simply waved a hand to interrupt. “She has completed all her examinations and has only a short time left here. I think we all know she has reached the limit of your instruction.”

“Well, I…” Mrs. Burley opened her mouth in shock at what she’d just heard. But then she closed it again. Everyone in the room knew it to be true. Ro had been reading independently for some time now, guided mostly by her uncle, and was hoping to study medicine at the university after she was finished with her Hayfield Abbey schooling. There was a pause while Mrs. Burley gathered her thoughts. “This is all
very
sudden,” Mrs. Burley said, finishing with a huff.
“Very sudden indeed.”

“Yes, it is very sudden,” Uncle Henry replied shortly, and Ro knew he had reached the end of his tolerance. “But it is also necessary and would be far easier if you would stop flapping about and making far more fuss of it than need be. I will, of course, pay the remainder of the term’s fees.” He was not the most patient of men and he could not bear dialogue to no effect. Not when he knew he could be otherwise better employed, busy classifying new species of plants, or up to his armpits in a jungle somewhere.

Mrs. Burley’s hand rose to her throat. “I am sure after the … situation … has passed, Erato will be able to return to her studies. As you know she is an exemplary student and—”

Uncle Henry rose. “Yes, yes. We shall see. Now, Ro. Go and collect whatever is necessary. You will know what you need. All your silly flibbertigibbet bits and pieces, I expect. Ribbons and kirby grips and so on. Off you toddle.”

And so, just like that, off Ro toddled. Leaving Hayfield Abbey behind forever.

Oxfordshire

“I’m home!” Clio announced as she kicked off her dirtied shoes and entered the warm, inviting, ivy-clad cottage in only her stockinged feet. “You’ll be pleased to hear Mrs. Thrapp’s foot is coming along splendidly. I don’t think it will need bandaging at all next week. She gave us a lovely loaf of bread, but I managed to drop it in a puddle when a motorcar sped past and…” Clio paused now, inside the kitchen. Her mother’s expression was anxious and her face pale as she sat at the table. “Why, whatever’s the matter? Are you feeling sick again? But you looked so well before I left.”

Her mother shook her head, silently. “It’s not that, Clio dear. There was a visitor. While you were out.”

“A visitor?” Clio didn’t think much of it. They often had visitors—with a father who was a vicar, this had been a normal occurrence ever since she could remember and had continued even after his death last year, when the pair moved out of the vicarage. Despite the fact that there was a new vicar, people still knew they could always come to the Silsbys’ home for help, or something as simple as a pot of tea and a kind word.

There was a pause before her mother continued. “You said you saw a motorcar? That was the lady who was here.”

Clio glanced over at her. “Oh? I’ve seen that car before. Did she know father somehow?”

Her mother cleared her throat before continuing. “It seems she is your aunt, Clio.” Her mother said the words so softly the girl barely heard them.

Clio had been fussing about the kitchen, putting bits and pieces away. But now she stopped dead and turned, a saucer in her hand, her mother’s words ringing loud and clear in her head. “My aunt? I have an aunt?” She could only be referring to Clio’s family by birth. Her father’s sister, Clio’s only aunt, had died the year before her father.

“So it would seem. I did know, vaguely, that you had one. But your father … well, I had no real details to give you..…”

Clio stepped forward, closer to her mother, and put the saucer carefully down on the wooden kitchen table in front of her lest she drop it. She knew what her mother was referring to. It had always been obvious that she was not her mother and father’s true child. They were both fair and Clio’s dark brown eyes and almost jet-black curls suggested far more exotic origins. Clio knew as much about her real family as her mother did. That there was a baby. The baby needed caring for. A baby was much wanted by the childless couple. And, subsequently, the baby was much loved and cosseted. And that was that. Clio doubted if her mother had asked too many questions. Over the years, Clio had not asked many questions herself. It was not in her nature to be inquiring and she had found it displeased her parents to be reminded of how she had come into their lives.

Clio paused before asking the obvious question. “What did she want?”

In front of her, her mother coughed a deep, chesty cough and took a sip of water, the glass shaking slightly in her hand, before continuing. “As it turns out, she would like you to attend a meeting. In London.”

*   *   *

Clio had been worried about one thing or another for almost every second of her train journey. First, there was her mother, who most definitely looked worse this morning than she had for several days after a long, sleepless night spent coughing. Clio had begged to be allowed to stay and nurse her, but her mother would hear nothing of it. This aunt, who Clio had never heard of before, let alone met, had requested her presence in the city and it seemed her mother would have her go, so go she must. In the end, Clio had convinced herself that the journey might be worthwhile, hoping that there might be money on the other end that could buy the services of some sort of fancy city doctor. As it was, they could barely afford to call the local doctor when he was needed.

It would take two trains to travel to London and Clio was now on the second one. The first train did not take on many passengers and she had shared a carriage with only one older gentleman and two younger gentlemen, which had made her slightly uncomfortable. She needn’t have worried, however. The two younger gentlemen did not acknowledge her presence at all. They spent the entire journey arguing about some man called Scopes. Clio had assumed he was a friend of theirs. Both men had alighted from the train after a few stops, leaving their newspaper behind. When Clio was sure they were gone, she had scooped the newspaper up for herself. What a fool she had felt when she read that Scopes was not a friend of theirs at all, but a man named John Scopes. He had been teaching evolution in a place called Tennessee in America and was now on trial. Clio blushed furiously, feeling as if she had already been found out, even before she had made it to her destination. She was not one for the city and preferred the slower pace of country life. In fact, she had been to London only a very few times before. Flustered by her ignorance, she had folded the newspaper and placed it on the seat beside her. But she could not stop thinking about Scopes and what her father would have had to say about him. Because of her distraction, she had almost missed her stop to change trains.

Now, as the second train continued to slowly make its way to the city, it became more and more crowded, the seats filling up until every last one was taken.

With every girl of around her own age that she saw, Clio became more disheartened. The girls here looked so different. At home, no one wore skirts that swished and brushed their knees, or had their hair bobbed. Clio had thought she looked smart when she set out this morning, in her best green woolen suit and her black, well-shone shoes with their small heels clicking against the train platform. Anyone in the village could have seen that she was going somewhere special. But now, far away from the hedgerows and thatched cottages she knew so well, she realized she looked all wrong—more like the older women, with all their sensible longer skirts in durable fabrics and dull colors. Any person on this train who glanced at her for even a second would see how hard she had tried, dressing for this outing to the city, and could guess that her usual existence involved much cleaning, washing, and preparing of food. Not like these other fabulous creatures surrounding her, who seemed gay and carefree, chattering away to each other. She was sure they existed only to flit from party to party each evening and to look glamorous behind shop counters and typewriters during the day. As she sat, her head dipped, Clio tried to fool herself into thinking she didn’t really care. What was important now was meeting her aunt and seeing if it might be possible to help her mother’s slowly deteriorating lungs. Not to mention returning home as fast as possible. Hopefully even by this evening.

*   *   *

In Belgravia, Clio placed her small case on the pavement and fished the piece of paper out of her coat pocket for what must have been the five hundredth time. She read the address her mother had written down for her: 32 Belgrave Square. If the directions she had been given were correct, she should only have to cross the next street, turn left, and there Belgrave Square would be. Her heart beating wildly in her chest, she began to worry about her imminent arrival.

It had been a long walk from Paddington Station—almost an hour—much farther than Clio had thought. Her mother had told her to hail a taxi, but Clio could not find the courage to do so and did not want to waste the money. Twice, she became lost and had no choice but to ask for directions. She had never asked a stranger for directions before. At home, she knew everyone—if she met someone on the street, invariably she would know their mother, father, grandparents, siblings, and all their troubles besides. Here, she knew no one. Everyone moved past her in a blur—they walked so quickly and with such determination. Clio squared her shoulders. She should only have to make one last turn to the left, just up ahead, and she should find herself at Belgrave Square. Clio took a deep breath, picked up her case, and set off once more.

Amazingly, she found she was right. However, as Clio entered Belgrave Square itself, she wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved or more wary of what was to come. Finally, she found herself at number 32. The town house was awfully big and awfully grand, towering above her. Staring upward at its many floors, she blindly placed the no-longer-needed piece of paper with the address on it into her coat pocket. As she did so, she felt something else in there: the small embroidered heart her mother had given her just this morning, before she had set off on her journey. She hadn’t entirely understood its meaning, but her mother had said she had been asked to bring it today and that was all that mattered. Now, standing beside the entrance, with its large, ivory-colored columns with their ornate tops, Clio was suddenly unsure of whether she should ring the front doorbell, or take the stairs beyond the spiked iron railings on her left that led to the trade entrance down below. But no, she had been invited here to visit her aunt. She must be brave, climb the three steps up toward the neatly trimmed boxwood trees in their smart iron planters, and ring the front doorbell next to the glossy black door.

Clio took yet another deep breath, which made her slightly lightheaded, and stepped forward, clutching her case tightly in her left hand. She rang the doorbell far more decisively than she would have thought possible, surprising herself. And then she waited for the inevitable. When a maid finally opened the door, she caught a glimpse of the interior of the town house—so lush and superior, with its wealth of marble, shimmering upholstery, and gleaming surfaces, that it all made her feel momentarily dizzy, as if she were in the middle of a dream. Finally, she managed to speak up. “I’m Clio Silsby,” she said. “I believe my Aunt Hestia is expecting me.”

London

Thalia caught the early train into London from Kent. When she alighted at Victoria Station, there were still several hours before she was due to meet this strange aunt, who had appeared, seemingly, from the shadows. Arriving early was, of course, exactly how Thalia had meant things to happen, but now that she was actually in London, she was unsure just what she was going to do with her time.

As she made her way outside the train station, Thalia tried not to stare too wistfully at all the fashionable young women around her. She couldn’t help herself, however. It was difficult not to run up to every second girl her age and beg them to tell her where she had purchased that stunning boxy dress with its stylish ecru lace trim, or the exquisite knotted rope of green glass beads. She knew she didn’t look terrible—no one was going to stop and stare or point—but dressed in the latest fashions she was not. This much was obvious.

It had taken her an age to choose her outfit the previous evening. She had laid the items that could be paraded in public without complete shame on her bed and set about trying to assemble something passable. It hadn’t been an easy task. The few items that would at least not have everyone in the city pitying her had been begged, borrowed, or stolen from the much more fashionable Lydia, her brother James’s fiancée, on Lydia’s very few visits to Lintern Park (most likely the ones she could not avoid). Thalia had finally opted for her black shoes with the three straps and the smart little heel, a gray check skirt, and a cream silk blouse with a large black bow at the neck, which Lydia had given, swearing it had never fitted her properly. (Thalia had guessed that she was lying and that it was sheer charity, but she couldn’t be too choosy.) On top went her dove gray wrap-over coat, a hand-me-down from Aunt Elizabeth, which was presentable, though a little on the large side. Her hat, however, was hideous—the brim far too wide to be fashionable. No matter how she had adjusted it in the mirror, there was no getting past the fact that it was truly ugly, though she knew full well it would have to do as she had nothing else.

Thalia would have been embarrassed to admit to any of the girls now passing her by (and she was sure they were all staring at her hat) how long it had been since she visited London. There had been one trip, last year, to meet Aunt Elizabeth’s older sister, Lady Hemingford, for tea at the Dorchester. That meeting had cost Aunt Elizabeth weeks of planning and worry before she found the courage to attend, so scared was she to leave the comfort of her bedroom. Even when she had finally decided she must attend, she had tried to cancel the meeting at the last minute. It had taken Lady Hemingford’s absolute insistence that the two sisters meet as planned. There had also been numerous trips every year when Thalia was younger, before Uncle Clarence’s and Aunt Elizabeth’s oldest son, Hugh, had died in the Battle of the Somme when she was eight years old and Hugh just turned eighteen. Before then, even though she was not her uncle and aunt’s child by blood, she was the only girl and, as such, Aunt Elizabeth had enjoyed dressing her up and parading her in the latest fashions (not that Thalia had cared—back then she was far more interested in clambering Lintern Park’s iron gates to perch on top of the stone urns). But on Hugh’s death, Aunt Elizabeth had retreated into herself, rarely exiting her rooms on the second floor of the vast house.