Shakespeare cliff, Dover

The Papermaker's Daughter

​Chapter 1: The Library (Sarah, 1897)

A summer of elegance and wit, secret trysts and declarations of undying love, villains vying for a dowry, duels at dawn, and half a dozen marriage proposals. A pity none of it is real. This summer, as in every season since learning to read, I have escaped my drear, loveless existence by immersing myself in stories. But these days, I make a point of choosing books that would earn my guardian’s disapproval.
If only I could jump into their pages. In reality, my chances of meeting such heroes are nil. Plenty of regiments are stationed in Dover, but their officers do not form part of Mrs Kesby’s circle. Nor Father’s. He has no circle.
When Mrs Kesby and I leave the manor for the library on this sunny afternoon in late August, the basket of books weighs heavy on my arm. I packed it with great care so that the morally improving titles on top hide the scandalous East Lynne by Mrs Henry Wood, which I devoured in secret, cover to cover, non-stop. The protagonist leaves her husband and children to abscond with a lover, whose illegitimate child she bears. Such a plot would give my guardian a seizure.
Halfway down the hill, she comes to a halt.
‘Sarah, where is your parasol? Don’t tell me you intend to walk twenty minutes there and back with the sun full in your face.’
Such faulty logic. If the sun is in my face on the way there, it can hardly be so on the return.
‘Sorry, I forgot it. But don’t worry, my hat will protect me.’
‘That ridiculous boater offers no protection. I fail to understand the appeal of these current fashions. So masculine.’
Mrs Kesby has a habit of overemphasising certain words. She must think it sounds authoritative. As for hats, she indulges in a new one every season. This summer’s is a monstrosity of dark green straw with black ostrich plumes, and a net to veil her eyes. Her usual black parasol provides additional shade.
‘If you end up with skin like tanned leather, be it on your own head. I may say, for a sixteen-year-old, you do nothing to heighten your chances of attracting a husband.’
Mrs Kesby’s life’s mission is to see me suitably married. She’s been compiling a list of candidates since I was ten.
Since it is not a market day, the market square is empty of stalls, but on the corner of Castle Street, a group of women hold placards with the slogans ‘Women’s suffrage’ and ‘Votes for women’.
Mrs Kesby tuts. ‘Disgraceful. Their menfolk should keep them under lock and key.’
‘They’re campaigning for women to vote in elections?’ I ask.
‘An absurd notion. A woman’s role is to support her husband. His vote is hers, too.’
‘But what if she doesn’t agree with his vote?’ Mrs Kesby gapes as if I’d suggested humans could fly to the moon. ‘Or if she has no husband? What if she’s a widow, like you? Should she not be entitled to the vote her husband once had?’
‘That’s the thin end of the wedge. If women vote, they’ll be standing for parliament next.’ She steers me away as if protecting me from a contagion. ‘Don’t even look. Half of them aren’t wearing corsets.’
A devotee of corsetry, my guardian has penned letters on the subject to such esteemed publications as The Times and The Lancet. She advocates narrowing the waist early. A girl who has spent fifteen years without stays and whose waist has thickened to a stout twenty-eight inches would have to endure severely tight lacing to reduce it to twenty-four. Unimaginable discomfort. Mrs Kesby locked me into a pair of stays at age seven, only removing them for baths. So, my waist never grew larger than twenty-four inches, and I did not undergo enforced reduction. Another example of Mrs Kesby’s benevolence.
Inside the library, a pleasant smell of leather and paper pervades the cool atmosphere. Few people occupy the space, and my attention is drawn to a dark-haired young man in workman’s clothes, the sole occupant of a reading desk. Despite his shabby attire, there is something entrancing about his curly black hair and tanned skin. Thread a ring through his ear and he would look like a pirate from one of my novels—a different sort of young man from those on Mrs Kesby’s list. He raises his head as we approach, and for a moment, our eyes meet. I feel a little unsteady.
While Mrs Kesby returns her books, I study him. He is concentrating on the volume propped in front of him with the title Political Economy by W. Stanley Jevons, LLD, MA, FRS. How intriguing. Is he a working man with ambitions beyond his station? As I hand in my books, he returns his to the shelf and glances my way before leaving. An image of him persists in my mind on the walk home.
That evening, Father arrives at the manor for his regular business meeting with Mrs Kesby. Usually, he barely acknowledges me and continues his discussion concerning the paper mill during dinner. I prefer it that way. But as we tuck into our lamb chops, he addresses me.
‘So, Sarah, how are you filling your time now your schooling has finished?’
How to reply? I am suffocating. Without lessons, deprived of even my governess’s conversation, the tedium is killing me. I resent you for handing me over to Mrs Kesby, and I resent her for my upbringing. Days on my own, filled with needlework and reading Mrs Kesby’s choice of books do not match my idea of amusement. Would you care to know what I long for? To meet like-minded people my age. To talk and exchange ideas. To laugh and have fun. To join the women’s suffrage movement and make a difference in the world. But this truth would earn me a scolding for my ingratitude and a lecture on the benefits of my education.
‘I’m embroidering a tablecloth.’
He nods his approval. ‘Ah, yes. For your bottom drawer.’
‘And I’ve been helping Mrs Kesby check the mill finances. I’ll soon be a dab hand at accounting.’
He frowns. ‘That may stand you in good stead if your husband allows you to meddle in money matters. But you’re better off practising the piano. The aim is to attract a young man, not frighten him off.’
‘Exactly what I told her,’ Mrs Kesby says, ‘though I have to say she is astute with the figures.’
‘Speaking of the mill finances, Edith, what did the accountant say about replacing the old Hollander?’
With that, they forget me. Thank goodness.