A Mad, Wicked Folly (17 page)

“It might be to you. You’re a man; you can do as you
wish, Will. Women cannot.”
“Rubbish. That doesn’t have to be so.”
“It’s very difficult.” I shot him a look of irritation.
“So why should that stop you from doing what you
want?” He sounded agitated, almost cross with me. “What
would you rather be? Free, or trapped in a place where it
isn’t difficult?”
“Who says I’m trapped?” I could feel the tension
returning between us, taking us back to the place where
we both started. I was almost sorry I had brought him to
see
A Mermaid
. Here he was judging me once again, when
he truly knew nothing about me.
“Don’t let’s quarrel in front of her.” I backed away from
him and started to walk down the hall, leaving Will standing by himself.
“Wait.” Will came up behind me and said quickly,
“Vicky, I wasn’t trying to argue with you. Will you slow
down?”
I stopped and glared at him.
“I’ve known you for only a little while yet I’ve seen that
temper of yours come out lots.” People were beginning to
stare, so Will lowered his voice. “You’re happy to cause
a ruck over some things, but it seems to me not when it
counts most.”
“Cause a ruck? How dare you!”
“I don’t mean that in a bad way. You told me yourself,
your parents won’t let you draw. That isn’t fair. And what
about the RCA’s daft rule of only a few women each term?
Instead of accepting all of this as ‘oh, well, that’s just the
way it is,’ you should be doing something about that.”
I snorted. “And how could I do that, Will? Barge in
and demand justice? You’ve been reading too many penny
novelettes.”
“The suffragettes are doing that very thing.”
“What is my life to do with you? We have a business
arrangement between us, William Fletcher, and don’t you
forget it.” I knew from the look on his face that my words
had stung him, but I didn’t give a fig.
He nodded, his face suddenly serious. “Please yourself.”
We walked out of the building, but we really weren’t
walking together. It was as though we were both simply
heading in the same direction.
“Here.” Will pulled a bundle of papers folded in half
and tied round with rough twine from his jacket pocket.
“It’s my first chapter. See what you can come up with for
illustrations and we’ll talk it over next Thursday.”
I took the papers. Our fingers touched briefly, and without another word Will left.

ELL, HOW DID
it go with your art
model?” Sophie asked me that night as
she helped me get ready for bed.

“He’s pigheaded,” I said. Even hours
later I was still in a foul mood from my row with Will.
“What boy isn’t.” She smiled at me in the mirror.
“He has an extra measure of pigheadedness, then.” I

picked up my jar of face cream and then plonked it back
down again, too irritated to care about my complexion.
“All right then, what about the mural?”
“I loved that! I had no idea how much art the WSPU
used and how they used it. Truly the mural is amazing. I
think I want to be part of what they are doing.”
“I’m glad. I’m happiest when I see young women fighting for the right to vote.”
“Have you been going there long?”
“I started in Huddersfield up north, where I’m from.
Dora, the woman who taught me to sew, told me about the
WSPU. I went to a meeting with her there and I bought a
pin. But when I came down to London to seek a position
as a lady’s maid, I was daft and wore it to an interview. As
soon as I sat down, the lady of the house saw the pin and
asked me to leave.”
“That’s so unfair!”
“That’s the way it is.” Sophie shook her head. She
picked up my silver hairbrush and began to brush my hair.
“So many women of the older generation are the same.
They think life is never going to change and they either
like it the way it is or they think they’ll just put up with the
struggle.”
She set the brush down and pulled the edge of her skirt
forward, and I saw the enameled badge she was wearing the other day pinned under it. Up close I saw it had
an angel blowing a trumpet with a scroll at her feet that
read
Votes for Women
. “Even if no one else can see
it, I know it’s here.” She folded the skirt back and patted
it. “Dora and the WSPU made me believe I could be more
than just an orphan, and that’s helped me change my life.
I’m happy you’re of the same mind.”
In the next few days I was the dutiful daughter. I did
my mother’s bidding, attending Miss Winthrop’s, going to
the church charity on Saturday, and arranging my trousseau with Sophie every afternoon.
But the mornings were mine. I worked as soon as the
sun rose in the sky. During the hours before breakfast, I
could work on my college submissions and Will’s illustrations uninterrupted and without anyone knowing about it,
as long as I had sufficient sunlight and didn’t have to turn
on the lamp. I worked on Will’s story illustrations, and,
from memory, finished the sketch I had started of his face.
I even started a study of my own hand to demonstrate my
grasp of anatomy.
I would draw until Emma knocked on the door with
my cup of chocolate. Then I hid my art materials, taking
care that not a pencil shaving or a stub of charcoal was left
out. Everything went back into a hatbox, which I shoved
deep into my wardrobe where no one but Sophie would
ever look. I also had to make sure that not a spot of ink or
smudge of charcoal remained on my hands. Ink was ever
so hard to get out, and I had to scrub my fingers with carbolic soap and a pumice stone till they were nearly red raw.
I had been right: Will’s story was brilliant. My brother
Freddy and all the tuppenny novelette publishers in London
would be lining up to publish it. In the first installment,
Will introduced Robert Hoode as a politician working to
change the labor laws but to no avail. I drew Hoode standing in the House of Commons giving a passionate speech
while his peers ignored him. I drew some politicians yawning, some laughing, and some sleeping with their heads
lolling to one side. I drew a group of men playing whist
and another group tucking into a large meal of roast goose.
I used diluted ink to wash the room in basic tonal elements
but then I used my dip pen with a fine nib to pick out the
decorative architecture of the House of Commons and the
angry expression on Hoode’s face.
I liked the work so much that I wanted to include it in
my submission to the RCA. So I did several preliminary
sketches in my book first, and then a final illustration on
its own to give to Will when we met again on Thursday.
On Sunday after church, my parents and I went to
Freddy’s for tea. Rose had not come to church, as she had
begun her confinement. She had grown huge as a draft
horse in the ten days since I had seen her last; it was
impossible to imagine her having a child that large. My
father looked appalled and avoided her completely, choosing instead to drink his tea quickly and insist that he and
Freddy leave for the Reform Club earlier than they usually
did. Rose did not appear to notice the snub, but I was angry
with my father. As much as I disliked Rose, she was not at
fault for getting so fat. Surely having a child grow within
you was bound to wreak havoc with your figure. Then I
started thinking on how that might be me in not such a
long space of time. I wasn’t stupid. I only hoped that I could
put a baby off until I had finished college. But how could I
do that? Nature would certainly take its course.
And so I was feeling quite gloomy all round. When my
mother and Rose went up to inspect the nursery, I declined
to go. Instead I sat with Charlotte in the window seat,
reading
The Tale of Peter Rabbit
to Charlotte. A policeman
walked past the window then, swinging his stick, and my
mind leapt to Will.
I felt badly about what had happened between us
in front of
A Mermaid
. A boy had never spoken to me so
frankly before, and it quite took me off guard. Telling me
that I wasn’t willing to fight for what was important? He
had no idea how hard I had to work to put pen to paper
without my parents knowing it. Why Will bothered to say
such things to me I couldn’t fathom.
But why I cared at all was even more of a mystery to
me. As I’d said, we had a business arrangement. That was
all.

IT WAS RAINY
and gray and foggy on Monday, and there
was little light to work by, so I stuffed a petticoat into the
crack under my bedroom door and turned on a lamp. But
I was too tense to really concentrate; I was worried one of
the servants would see the door stopped up and make a
comment. So I gave it up as a bad job and climbed back into
bed feeling very cross.

I swear the sky brightened the very minute Emma
knocked on the door with my morning cocoa. But then
there was no time to spare for drawing. Sophie, Mamma,
and I went off to Liberty on Regent Street straight after
breakfast to choose material and sundries for my trousseau. To add even further insult to injury, I would have to
endure Miss Winthrop’s after we left Liberty.

“Victoria will need an automobile coat, an excursion suit,
and several lingerie gowns for her at- homes,” Mamma said.
We were standing in the dry goods department at Liberty,
surrounded by bolts of cloth, froufrou lace trim, and whimwhams of all sorts. The sharp scent of starch, sizing, and
cotton made my nose clog. “What color do you suggest for
her engagement ball gown? Something in pink, perhaps?”

Pink was my mother’s favorite color and my least. I
must have looked dismayed because Sophie waded in with
a suggestion. “I think Miss Darling would look smashing in
a sunny yellow mousseline de soie.”

“Yellow?” My mother looked doubtful. “Yellow is not
very chic, Cumberbunch.”
Sophie pulled out a wooden spindle that was hung with
a daffodil-yellow material. She held a swatch of the fabric
to my face. “You see, saturated colors—deep yellow, blue,
orange, green—suit Miss Darling well. Pastels wash her out
a little, I find. As far as fashion goes, you want your daughter to set the trends, not follow them. She’ll be beautiful in
yellow; no one else will be wearing it, but soon everyone
will want to wear the color because of her.”
My mother regarded me, head to the side. “Hmm, I do
take your meaning, Cumberbunch.”
I stood against the wall, chewing at my nails, frustrated
and bored beyond endurance. A morning going through
my wardrobe with Sophie was one thing, but this fashion
bacchanal was taking up precious time.
“Victoria, stop biting your nails, and do pay attention!” Mamma frowned. “She has no head for fashion,” she
remarked to Sophie.
“It’s not that I don’t have a head for it, Mamma, it’s that
I’d rather be doing other things.”
“Like what?” she snapped.
Sophie shot me a warning look.
“Uh, Miss Winthrop’s. Yes, I’m having such a lot of
fun there.” A little note of sarcasm crept out, despite my
attempts to quell it.
“Honestly, you have plenty of time. Now, Cumberbunch,
Victoria will be wearing my coming-out gown for her
debut, and my wedding dress as well, so I suppose you
can work on altering those at home on Bailey’s sewing
machine. But she’ll also have to have waists and skirts for
everyday wear.” Mother sighed. “I know this is such a lot of
work, so do say if you are feeling pressed.”
“Not at all, madam. We can purchase made-up shirtwaists and even lingerie gowns here.”
It seemed Mamma purchased the whole of Liberty.
Finally, after another hour, we left the shop. But the interminable day drew on at Miss Winthrop’s; she had decided
to add a new dance, the mazurka, to our repertoire. This
time I trod on my own foot during the crossover step. My
partner’s face went pink with the effort of trying not to
laugh. Honestly, all these dances were the most impossible
waste of time. And the step patterns were mind-boggling
and quite gave me a headache.
Our teacher divided us into groups and had one dance
while the other watched. I was in the second group. The
dance Miss Winthrop chose was the one I dreaded most
of all: the quadrille. The quadrille struck fear into my
heart more than any other because I could not blag my
way through the steps by skipping and hopping as I could
in the waltz and the polka. The quadrille was done by a
group of four couples that made patterns within a set space
upon the floor. If one went wrong, then the whole pattern
collapsed. Worst of all, a dancer going wrong would be
stranded in the middle of the figure, looking daft as her
fellows cavorted around her and her forsaken partner continued on alone, arms in hold as if escorting a ghost dancer
around the floor, for one never stopped in the middle of a
dance if one could help it.
I felt quite sick watching the girls dance. They all knew
the steps perfectly and were able to make the intricate patterns the dance demanded. They glided through the little
hops in place and the slides and twirls from one partner to
the next when the music changed. They looked so delicate
and feminine, taking tiny little measured steps across the
floor, shoes poking out whimsically from underneath their
skirts.
I just knew I would make a fool of myself at the ball. I
knew I’d be the one to go right when I was meant to go left,
bumping into the other dancers. And then poor Edmund
would be lumbered with me, dragging me around the
dance floor as if I were a sack of coal someone had handed
him to dance with as a jest.
As predicted, I was perfectly awful when it was my
group’s turn. It seemed as though the girls had decided in
advance that they would just ignore me, and they danced
the entire figure around me. I must have looked like a stray
dog trying to get someone’s attention. I saw Sophie sitting
along the wall with the other maids, a dismayed look upon
her face.
Miss Winthrop took me to one side after the dance
and told me I’d have to have private tutoring if I did not
improve soon. I think she took it as a personal affront that
one of her students would have such a poor showing at the
season’s balls.
“You’re making very heavy weather of that dancing, if
you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Darling,” Sophie said
when we walked out of the dance studio. The sun was
beginning to come out and a wind was freshening. I felt as
though I had been released from prison.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for dancing, Sophie. I’ll be the
most terrible flop.”
“You don’t know how lucky you are to get an invitation
to such things.”
“You go in my place, then,” I said.
“Me, go to a ball? Chance would be a fine thing. I’d love
to go.” She had a dreamy look on her face. “All the beautiful gowns and lovely people. Dancing the night away with
handsome men . . .”
“You wouldn’t like it if you danced like a cart horse,
like I do.”
“You’d be all right if you paid attention to your instructress. Half the time you’re away with the fairies. I’ve seen
you. Looking out the window when you’re meant to be
looking at the teacher. And what was that you were saying to your mother? About you loving dancing? You nearly
gave it away.”
“I’ll never get it,” I said gloomily. “And then I’ll have to
come to extra classes, which means less time spent on my
artwork.”
Sophie heaved a sigh of exasperation, grabbed my
hand, and pulled me off the street and into a little public
square behind a wrought iron fence bordered by beds of
daffodils. “Oh for goodness’ sakes, your whinging is driving me barmy. It’s not difficult.”
“How do you know?” I said, following behind her.
“I’ve been watching.” The park had a square of grass,
which Sophie made a beeline for, stopping in the middle.
She took my hands. “I’m the bloke. Come on now. We walk
about side by side, arms crossed; marching around the little square, see? And now we go back to the spot where we
started. Now you weave in and out with the other ladies.”
She pushed me forward, and I made the little pattern.
“Sophie, this is silly. People are looking!”
“Let ’em look. You want to learn, don’t you? Now come
back, and we march about arm in arm once and then you
do the little pattern with the ladies again. Ba, bum, bum,
bum, ba, ba,” Sophie sang out as I wove the pattern in the
middle. “See, you’re doing it. You’re dancing. Now come
back here, and we turn to each other and do that little jig
step. Step, one two, hop, one two. Now go out and make a
star with all four ladies.”
I felt quite foolish holding my hand out to imaginary
ladies and marching around, but I began to get the idea of
the pattern, and as Sophie said, it really wasn’t that hard.
“Bum, ba, bum! Now back to me, and we hold each
other and skip around the circle.” Sophie and I dashed
around the circle, facing each other in a waltz hold, giggling our heads off. Several nannies with perambulators
and some children sitting on nearby benches laughed and
clapped out a beat for us. Two little children, a girl and a
boy, ran forward and skipped around with us. “Now the
blokes make a star.” Sophie trotted into the middle and
held out her arm to the little boy, the other tucked neatly
behind her back. “And then we go around the circle again!”
All four of us skipped about the circle. The little girl and
boy danced together.
“Now we turn to each other and bow.” Sophie stuck out
her leg toward me and bowed low; I curtsied deeply. The
children watched us and then did the same.
“Again!” the little boy called. So we did the whole
thing again. And then again, and then once more. Finally,
exhausted, we called the cotillion a success.
“See?” Sophie said, after we said good-bye to the children and made our way back to the street. “It’s not so hard.”
Her eyes glittered with merriment. “Tomorrow we’ll give
the polonaise a whirl, shall we?”
“Thank you, Sophie. As ever, you’re my lifesaver.” For
a moment, I thought about confiding in Sophie about Will
and the way I felt about him. I missed confiding in someone, and whenever I was with Sophie I was reminded of
my friendship with Lily.
But as lonely as I felt, and as much as I liked her, Sophie
was my lady’s maid. Even though I called her by her
Christian name, she wasn’t my friend.