Shakespeare’s cliff

Chapter 1: Sarah, 1897
Why does my father hate me? A question I’ve asked myself a million times. Because my truculence and ready retorts infuriate him? Because I’m a girl, a nuisance to a man with six sons already, and I lack the beauty to entice a wealthy husband? But, no, those explanations won’t do. He gave me away when I was a tiny baby, before he could assess my looks or my character. Only one answer makes sense. He handed me over to his employer to raise because I killed my mother.
‘Killed’ states the case too strongly. Caused her death is more accurate. How is unclear. Neither Father nor Mrs Kesby will tell me. But their resentment simmers below the surface and curdles every interaction. Both must have loved Mother dearly and blame me for her loss.
And so this summer, as every other season since I learned to read, I have escaped my drear, loveless existence by immersing myself in stories. But this summer I have made a point of choosing books which would earn my guardian’s disapproval—novels filled with derring-do and dastardly deeds, villains vying for a dowry, and drawn swords at dawn, declarations of undying love, and at least half a dozen marriage proposals.
How I wish 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 August afternoon, I carry the basket of books. 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.’
I refrain from pointing out her lack of 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 indulges in a new hat every season. This summer’s confection, a monstrosity of dark green straw with black ostrich plumes, veils her eyes with a net. 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 aged ten.
As it is not a market day, the square is devoid of stalls. On the corner of Castle Street, frowned upon by the fortress high on the cliffs, a motley 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 a 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 more letters on the subject than any other, not only to The Englishwomen’s Domestic Magazine, but to such august 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-four inches would have to endure severely tight lacing to reduce it to eighteen. Unimaginable discomfort. Mrs Kesby locked me into a pair of stays at age seven, only removing them for baths. Thus, my waist never grew larger than eighteen inches and I did not undergo enforced reduction. Another example of Mrs Kesby’s benevolence.
When we approach the library, a dark-haired young man in workmen’s clothes loiters outside. Though not tall, he has an upright stance. Despite his shabby attire, there is something entrancing about his tanned skin and black hair. Thread a ring through his ear and voila!—a pirate from one of my novels. A different sort of young man from those on Mrs Kesby’s list. For a brief moment, our eyes meet. I feel a little unsteady.
He follows us inside and hovers nearby while Mrs Kesby returns her books, glancing my way now and then. After handing in my books, I turn to discover him gone. How strange to enter a library without books and leave having borrowed none. He intrigues me. An image of him persists in my mind on our 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. He doesn’t understand me as a parent should and only finds fault. I dread his scrutiny and his inevitable criticisms. 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 to Mrs Kesby, and I resent her for my upbringing. My education at home means I have no friends. 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. I want to join the women’s suffrage movement and make a difference to this world. To talk and exchange ideas. And I want to laugh and have fun. But this truth would earn me a scolding for my ingratitude, and a lecture on the benefits of my upbringing.
‘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’m becoming 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, I’m forgotten. Thank goodness.