A Study In Scarlet Women (4 page)

(It was around the same time that Bernadine's nursemaid was let go and the task of keeping an eye on her fell to her sisters, whose governess was also relieved of her duties, with Lady Holmes declaring that the girls were old enough to not need one anymore.)

Livia, already disillusioned with her parents, became even more
so: If they must make a mockery of their marriage, couldn't they at least be responsible stewards of their finances?

“Henrietta was careful,” said Charlotte. “Remember when she and Mamma went on that two-day trip to visit Mamma's sick aunt—or so they said? I found punched tickets from their journey and the destinations weren't anywhere Mamma had relations. But Mr. Cumberland mentioned all those places today—locations for his family's holdings. That's what Mamma and Henrietta did—they investigated those holdings on the ground, to make sure they were in sound shape.”

“Huh. I didn't give Henrietta enough credit.”

“Henrietta has always been clever where her own interests are concerned.”

“But she's still marrying an idiot,” Livia flopped back down on the bed. “Though I suppose it's better to marry an idiot than someone who thinks you're an idiot.”

Charlotte's attention returned to her cake. Livia stared at the ceiling, swarmed by pessimistic thoughts. She was startled when Charlotte spoke again, as much by the fact that Charlotte wished to continue their conversation as by Charlotte's actual question.

“You won't marry an idiot, will you?” asked Charlotte.

“I certainly hope not,” Livia answered glumly. “Or at least with my eyes open if I do. What about you?”

“I don't want to marry.”

“But how will you live? You know there won't be enough money to keep us as spinsters.”

“I can earn money. If I were a boy, and there were no money in the family, wouldn't I be expected to have a profession?”

“Yes, but you aren't a boy. Mamma will have a fit at the idea of one of her daughters . . . working.”

“Mamma doesn't need to agree.”

Livia sighed. “You're deluding yourself if you think Papa will.”

She was unsentimental about Sir Henry, since Sir Henry had no use for her. But Charlotte was his pet—he was vastly amused by her combination of great intelligence, great oddity, and great silence. He regularly took her for walks, just the two of them. He bought contraband sweets for her. And he read her his favorite poems and was tickled that she could immediately recite them back to him.

“What makes you think he won't?” asked Charlotte.

“The same reason I think he'd fly into a rage if he found Mamma having an affair. He might appear congenial, but he isn't at all liberal in his thinking. Keep that in mind.”

Charlotte nodded, looking rather sadly at the empty plate before her.

It was the last time Livia saw Charlotte consume such a quantity of cake—or of any comestible, for that matter—in one sitting.

The next few years brought a slew of unforeseen changes on Charlotte's part. For one, she began to take an active interest in her wardrobe—studying fashion plates, trying on different combinations of petticoats and stockings, accompanying Lady Holmes to browse selections of lace and feathers.

By extension, she paid far greater attention to her figure and stopped eating until she couldn't swallow another bite. The day she asked for a second helping of carrots and then forewent pudding at the end of the meal, Livia drew her aside and asked whether she was ill. Charlotte shook her head.

Much to Lady Holmes's relief, her youngest child also exerted a heroic effort in the direction of small talk. Instead of startling and discomfiting visitors with such comments as “I see you no longer write in your journal” or “I'm sorry the trip to Bath wasn't as successful as
you'd hoped it would be,” she learned to smile, nod, and chat about the weather.

This last was not accomplished without trial and error. In the beginning she had a tendency to correct old squires' exclamations of “We haven't had so much rain since I was a boy in short breeches” by quoting concrete records from the parish registers, which demonstrated that there had been far greater precipitation a mere five years ago. It was after a fair bit of practice and no shortage of awkwardness that she at last grasped the point of all that persiflage, which was merely to avoid the silence of people having nothing to say to one another.

The uncomfortable silence, in other words. But since there was no such thing as an uncomfortable silence for Charlotte, it was as difficult for her to understand as it was for a man with vertigo to master the Viennese polka.

Sometimes, as Livia stood beside her, perspiring on her behalf and making every attempt to convey the correct response via telepathy, it struck her how much Charlotte resembled a foreigner who found native customs baffling and, on occasion, patently ridiculous. One time, in the middle of reading a magazine article about the possibility of life on Mars, it occurred to Livia that Charlotte was more akin to an interplanetary alien: It wasn't only the habits and conventions of the English she found perplexing, but that of all humanity.

But eventually Charlotte cleared that hurdle. She not only learned the stark difference between asking after an old lady's cold versus her problem with incontinence, she became adept at navigating these formerly treacherous shoals, even though Livia could tell, at times, that she was herding a situation through an internal algorithm, trying to generate an appropriate response.

But overall, her transformation appeared complete. The little girl who insisted on wearing the same dress year in and year out had been
replaced by a young lady in ruffles and plumage. Instead of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
, she now read
Burke's Peerage
and
Cornhill Magazine
. And while she never slimmed to an elegant svelteness—she retained a hint of a double chin and the buttons of her bodice always seemed in danger of popping open—her tendency toward plumpness worked very well with her wide eyes and rosy cheeks.

She wasn't beautiful, but she was darling. People responded to her the way they would a nursery rhyme character all grown up and come to life. Boys and young men became tongue-tied, their eyes busily darting from her pink, pillowy lips to the firm rise of her breasts.

Livia was half envious of this response her little sister evoked from the gentlemen and half . . . mournful. Who was this girl swaddled in flounces, who put honey on her face and coconut oil in her hair? What had happened to the Charlotte Livia remembered, that noted odd duck who was the only person with whom Livia felt comfortable, the only person Livia trusted?

And then, the day before they were to leave for London for their first Season together, Charlotte said to Livia, “I spoke with Papa today.”

They were walking in the fields on the outskirts of the village. The day was sunny but still cool. The countryside was a fresh, sparkling green. And Charlotte's cream-colored dress, dainty with lace and passementerie, offered an impossibly pretty contrast against this backdrop of brightly lit nature.

Livia was feeling downhearted at the likelihood that the new Charlotte would swim in proposals by the end of the Season. Livia's chances on the matrimonial mart were nowhere as favorable. She was a misanthrope—rare was the man or woman who didn't deeply disappoint her. That was bad enough for a young lady, but to make matters even worse she was a misanthrope who didn't know how to pretend not to be one.

If Charlotte were to accept a proposal, Livia would be left all alone at home.

She sighed. “What did you and Papa talk about?”

“Do you remember the day we met Mr. Cumberland? I said I didn't want to marry.”

“You told Papa you don't want to marry
today
, right before we are to leave for London?”

“No, I spoke to him the day after we met Mr. Cumberland.”

Livia blinked. That would have been five years ago.

“I told him I did not think the institution of marriage would suit me very well. I said I wished to look into other means of livelihood.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that he believed I was too young to make any permanent decisions. He encouraged me to look into aspects of being a girl that I hadn't explored at the time—fashion, etc.—to experience more fully the traditional path for a woman before I rejected it altogether.”

This sounded shockingly reasonable and wise—Livia could scarcely believe they were talking about Sir Henry.

“I did as he asked. As it turns out, fashion is rather enjoyable. And so is talking to people—amazing how much they'll tell you if you only inquire. And I imagine there should be something interesting to a London Season as well. But none of it changed my mind about marriage, since none of it changed the economic and political equation that is marriage. I do not like the idea of bartering the use of my reproductive system for a man's support—not in the absence of other choices.”

Livia's eyes bulged. The old Charlotte had never gone anywhere; she'd been but reupholstered in fine muslin and a jauntily angled hat! Livia was ashamed that this simple camouflage had fooled her completely.

“And you told him that?”

“That he already knows. What I told him today was that I'd settled on a choice of career: I believe I will make a fine headmistress at a girls' school. If I achieve that position at a reputable school, I can earn as much as five hundred pounds a year.”

Livia sucked in a breath. “That much?”

“Yes. But I cannot become a headmistress overnight. I must attend school, undertake the required training, and then work my way up the ranks. I asked Papa to foot the expenses until I can pay him back.”

“And he is amenable to it?”

“Our agreement is that I will wait until I'm twenty-five. If by then I still haven't found anyone I wish to marry, then yes, he will sponsor my schooling.”

Livia was flabbergasted. “I can't believe it.”

“He gave his word as a gentleman.”

A man's word was no trifling matter, so Livia shook her head. She supposed she must believe now that Sir Henry had made a serious promise. “But it'll be a long time before you turn twenty-five, almost eight years. Anything could happen in the meanwhile. You could fall in love.”

“That's what Papa is counting on, no doubt. But romantic love is . . . I don't wish to say that romantic love itself is a fraud—I'm sure the feelings it inspires are genuine enough, however temporary. But the way it's held up as this pristine, everlasting joy every woman ought to strive for—when in fact love is more like beef brought over from Argentina on refrigerated ships: It might stay fresh for a while under carefully controlled conditions, but sooner or later its qualities will begin to degrade. Love is by and large a perishable good and it is lamentable that young people are asked to make irrevocable, till-death-do-we-part decisions in the midst of a short-lived euphoria.”

Livia's jaw hung open. She, too, had doubts about love and marriage, but they centered largely around her fear of coming across as arrogant and off-putting to potential suitors—and on whether she'd be able to choose better than Lady Holmes had. It had yet to occur to her to form large-scale judgments on the entire system.

“But what about the Cummingses? They've been married thirty years and they're still happy with each other.”

“And there are the Archibalds and the Smalls, too. But we mustn't be sentimental about the success of those marriages. We must look at it mathematically, the number of long-term happily married couples in proportion to all married couples. By my estimation that comes to less than twenty percent among our acquaintances. Will you bet on that kind of odds?”

Livia blinked several times. “I take it you won't.”

“Those wouldn't be bad odds at all if we were at a horse race. And they aren't such terrible odds if we consider that the prize is decades of contented companionship. My problem lies with the stake I'm required to put up: my entire lifetime. Not to mention, unless I bury my husband or divorce him, I can play only once. And of course if I were to divorce my husband, my parents can never show their faces anywhere again—I'll have effectively done them in, too. So, no. Given the exorbitant costs and constraints, I am not willing to take this gamble.”

She tugged at Livia. Belatedly, Livia realized that they'd come to a stop some time ago and that she stood in the way of an oncoming dogcart. She allowed Charlotte to guide her to the edge of the dirt lane and nodded mechanically at the village doctor who drove past, tipping his hat.

“I take it you plan to wait for your twenty-fifth birthday, then thumb your nose at society and go to school,” she said, when they resumed walking again.

“More or less. Papa asked me to make a good-faith effort to let a man sweep me off my feet and I've agreed. But I don't know why he thinks I'll weigh contributing factors differently when I'm off my feet. Sometimes I feel I must conclude that Papa doesn't know me at all.”