The Girl in the Mask (3 page)

After an interminable length of time, and several sheets of closely written paper, my father at last put down his pen. He shook sand over the paper to dry the ink and with great deliberation folded the sheets. With the help of a candle, he melted red wax, dripped it and then pressed his ring into the liquid to seal it. He put the letter to one side, dusted his fingers with a lace-edged pocket handkerchief, and then at long last he looked up.

His features were sharp, aquiline, and his eyes were ice cold, somewhere between blue and grey. I met them for a moment, and then dropped my own, my breathing unsteady. He always confronted me when I was weak. I understood, with sudden insight, what I hadn’t comprehended as a child: that this was deliberate. I connected standing in his office with weakness, dizziness, and fainting. He’d gained a strong hold of fear over me. I felt a surge of hatred for the man who had so cruelly dominated my early life.

‘First of all, Sophia, I would like an explanation of where my steward is.’ His voice was quiet and menacing.

‘He was cheating you, father. He put up our tenants’ rents and … ’

‘I didn’t ask you how he ran my estate. I enquired as to his whereabouts.’

‘I … don’t know,’ I confessed.

‘I see. But he is demonstrably not here.’

‘No, father.’ I squirmed under his incredulous gaze.

‘In fact, I understand he is no longer in my employ? Dismissed under your orders?’

‘I wrote to you! I tried to explain to you how he … ’

‘Yes, you did. And I wrote back and said I was happy with the man. And yet he is gone. I assume you forged my signature?’

I hung my head, feeling my face flush hot. ‘But, sir! Since then the accounts for the estate have made such improvements … ’

‘I do not desire to hear justifications. You’re a girl. Your head is too weak for such matters. Then there is the governess I employed to teach and chaperone you while I was gone. She was to instruct you in watercolours and fine embroidery. I assume she went the same way as the steward?’

‘She had nothing more to teach me, sir, and I needed to finance … ’

‘Silence!’

I halted abruptly, a wave of giddiness threatening to overwhelm me. Breathe, I reminded myself. Stay calm.

‘I have found no examples of your watercolours in the house.’

‘Sir, I … ’ I thought of my botched attempts and squirmed again. ‘I have no aptitude,’ I finished lamely.

‘I see. So instead of applying yourself, you gave up?’

I judged it wisest not to reply.

‘And embroidery? And fine stitching? Where are your pieces?’

I shook my head miserably. I hadn’t done any pieces worthy of display.

‘I understand that you have been studying with your cousin?’

‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, hoping that with this at least, he had no fault to find. I had not been lazy in the past years. Far from it.

‘You have been learning Latin, Greek, and mathematics?’

I nodded, suddenly less confident of his approval.

‘Can I remind you, Sophia, that your business in life is the getting of a husband? And that in order to achieve that ambition, it is requisite that you show some, if not all, of the accomplishments expected of a young lady of birth and breeding?’

I felt inclined to retort that I didn’t desire to get a husband, now or ever, but I bit the words back, knowing they would anger him.

‘In what way do you feel that Latin and Greek will assist you in attracting a man of sense, Sophia? A prospective husband does not wish to marry a
scholar
. A female scholar—hah! A true oxymoron! Any man would find such a woman repellent. They invariably die despised old maids.’

‘Yes, father,’ I whispered. His words buzzed in my head. I knew that somewhere deep inside I was angry at the way he reduced my life to the petty and the domestic, but I was too busy fighting the heat and the weakness in my body to argue.

‘The most serious matter of all is that you dispensed with a chaperone. You’ve been living alone with a young man, and have spent your time in wild and unsuitable pursuits, scandalizing the entire neighbourhood.’

‘No, father … ’ I whispered weakly. He reached under his desk and pulled out a sooty bundle. He shook it out distastefully, and with a lurch of horror I recognized my breeches and jacket. ‘The chimney always was your favourite hiding place, Sophia. You should never make the mistake of thinking me stupid. You will be punished for this. Do you understand that you deserve the severest of punishments? Do you?’

The heat and the hunger finally overcame me, and the room spun around me. I lost my balance and sank thankfully into oblivion.

I came to with a shock, the acrid fumes of my aunt’s smelling salts under my nose. I pushed them feebly away, retching with disgust. They were removed, and I sat up, more dizzy and sick than ever. My father continued speaking, as though there had been no interruption: ‘As you have rendered yourself utterly unmarriageable in this part of the country, Sophia, I have no choice but to take you elsewhere, where your shocking conduct is unknown. Your aunt has advised me, and has also kindly agreed to be your chaperone. Perhaps she will succeed in teaching you decorum where your governess failed. After that it will be the task of your husband to school your wild behaviour. The London season is over now, so I have taken a house at the Bath. We were extremely fortunate to find one as the season is now under way there. A superior house too! The previous tenant died a few weeks ago, leaving an unexpected vacancy. We leave here in three weeks’ time.’

‘A resort of the very
highest
fashion,’ murmured my aunt.

‘Thank you, Amelia. I believe we can now dispense with the pleasure of your company,’ said my father coldly. My aunt left the room, flustered. Father waited until she’d closed the door to speak again.

‘Please, father,’ I begged him as soon as we were alone. ‘I don’t wish to be married. I can behave, I promise. I would so much prefer … ’

‘Nothing could be of less interest to me than your wishes,’ he interrupted, his voice icy. ‘Your punishment,’ he stated. I waited in dread as the silence drew out. I was so ashamed of myself for fainting, but I knew if he whipped me, I would do so again. I felt so ill. ‘Your horses, which you were not authorized by me to purchase, will be sold. Your collection of unsavoury and unsuitable books, likewise, will be burned. You will perform this task yourself tomorrow under my supervision.’

I gasped in shock. He had fastened unerringly upon the two things that mattered most to me. ‘Please, no …’ I begged. ‘Take the books away, but please, please, do not burn them!’

‘They will be burned,’ he repeated. ‘Books are bad for the female brain. They overheat and overexcite it. The subject matter you have selected is moreover highly indecorous, and not even suited to married ladies.
Poetry!
It has a most disturbing effect. Salacious
plays
!’ He shuddered. ‘Even worse! In future, you will restrict your reading to sermons and religious discourses. If you prove yourself more sensible of your role as a young lady, I may eventually allow you the occasional history. And if, Sophia,’ he paused, stood up and drew himself up to his full height for effect, ‘I say,
if
you disgrace me in any way at the Bath, I shall not hesitate to punish you much more severely. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, father,’ I whispered.

‘You may go. You will keep to your room except at mealtimes.’

I turned and fled. I’d rather a thousand times he’d beaten me than inflict such punishments.

The following morning was the worst experience of my life. The day began quietly enough with breakfast. My father read the newspaper and exclaimed over it, reading passages out loud to us.

‘This will serve the damned Whigs right!’ he swore, slamming his fist onto the table. ‘Setting some blasted German puppet-king on the English throne instead of a true Stuart. Listen here, Amelia! There were riots in London on the first anniversary of the death of Queen Anne … ’ He read on in silence, before muttering: ‘Constables injured, property damaged, fires started. Whatever next?’

Aunt Amelia was studying her plate with great interest, and only assented half-heartedly. I made no response at all. I knew there had been a new king crowned last year, King George the First, but nothing more. My mind was occupied instead with my punishment and dread of the projected journey to Bath.

I didn’t have long to wait. Breakfast was scarcely over when my father ordered the head gardener to have a bonfire lit. Once it was burning fiercely, he made me carry all my precious books to it. I begged, I pleaded. I even wept, but he was unmoved. In fact, I’m certain he enjoyed my distress.

He stood over me, a look of smug satisfaction on his face as he compelled me to put one much-loved book after another onto the fire. The plays of Wycherly, Congreve, and Aphra Behn, even the new one which I’d only half read, all followed one another into the flames. The poetry of Pope, Dryden, Shakespeare and others followed swiftly after. As each beautiful volume curled, blackened and was consumed by the greedy flames, I recalled the sacrifices I’d made to buy it; doing without new clothes, shoes or fires in my bedchamber. Many small hardships that had meant I could save enough of the small household allowance Father had left us to collect the wonderful stories, plays, and poems that were now being destroyed. I felt the pain of each loss like a physical blow.

After that, I was permitted to say farewell to my two horses: my hunter and my hack. I stroked them and hugged them, whispering words of affection and apology, knowing I would never see them again. It almost broke my heart.

I vowed then and there that I would be avenged. It would be my only aim and ambition. The only matter to be resolved was
how
, and I hoped time would provide an answer.

The chaise lurched down into a huge dip in the road and swayed violently. I caught at the strap to steady myself, certain that we were to be overturned this time. Miraculously, the carriage righted itself and continued its slow, lumbering progress towards the Bath.

I’d never travelled post before. Sitting still in such a confined space was driving me to desperation. I cast a jealous glance out of the chaise window at my father who was riding on horseback beside us. His manservant was armed with pistols, mounted on a second horse and rode a respectful distance behind. To ride would have been an adventure. This was intolerable.

I’d begged and begged to be left behind this morning to no avail. ‘If I
must
go, might I at least not ride?’ I’d asked at last. My aunt had given a small scream of horror and a thunderous expression had descended on my father’s face. ‘I thought I’d told you,’ he said awfully, ‘that these signs of wildness and ill-breeding in you will not be tolerated. Your suggestion is highly indecorous.’

How I hated that word ‘decorum’. It was synonymous in my mind with dire boredom and restrictions. I’d had to endure a long lecture from my aunt on the impropriety of females riding on long journeys. ‘Only think of the state you would be in after the first few miles!’ she exclaimed as the chaise swayed and bumped. ‘Hair tangled, habit muddied, and a spectacle to every yokel who wishes to eye you on the public highroad.’ She fell silent for a while, before finally adding, ‘Besides, you would find such a long ride quite exhausting.’

‘Aunt, I’m never tired,’ I told her. I glanced at the book of sermons my father had placed beside me in the carriage and gritted my teeth with anger. Even if I’d been able to swallow my pride and obey him, even if they had not been mind-numbingly dull, it was impossible to read while the chaise pitched and rolled like a ship on the high seas. ‘Is there not a better road we could have travelled on?’ I asked in exasperation.

‘This is the main road from Devon to London, Sophia,’ she replied with a titter.

‘Good Lord, are all the roads in England so dreadful?’ I asked.

‘I haven’t travelled on them all,’ she replied unhelpfully.

‘What fun it’s going to be, Aunt Amelia, for me to spend several months in a city house with such delightful relatives as you and father,’ I remarked. ‘I imagine the conversations will be scintillating, don’t you?’

My aunt glanced at me, looking flustered and uncertain as to whether I was being intentionally rude. ‘You are fortunate to be taken to the Bath,’ she replied at last. ‘It’s a place of the very highest fashion, the very best company, and it would be any girl’s dream to spend time there.’

‘Any
other
girl, perhaps,’ I replied. ‘What makes you suddenly so keen to take charge of me, Aunt? I seem to remember there was a time when you’d rather eat slugs.’

Aunt Amelia gave a stifled shriek and stuttered: ‘I … what nonsense! Slugs indeed! I … I have always cared for you … but, my husband, you understand … ’

‘Not a word, I assure you,’ I told her. ‘What was that about your husband?’

‘My
late
husband,’ said Amelia, a reproving note in her voice, ‘was ill before he died and couldn’t have supported the noise and disruption of a young person in the house … ’

Her voice trailed off, and she failed to meet my eye, instead dabbing at hers with a scented pocket-handkerchief. I felt sure she was lying. Such interest in my welfare after having ignored me for years was odd, to say the least.