A Sense of Belonging
Shakespeare’s cliff
Chapter 1: 1897 A summer of elegance and wit. Derring-do and dastardly deeds. Villains vying for a dowry, and drawn swords at dawn. Dashing dragoon officers declaring undying love. A half-dozen marriage proposals. I have made a point of choosing novels which would earn my guardian’s disapproval. 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. As Mrs Kesby and I leave the manor for the library, I carry the basket packed with the morally improving titles on top hiding 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. The 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’t be so on the return. ‘Sorry, I forgot to pick it up. But don’t worry, my hat will protect me.’ ‘That ridiculous boater scarcely qualifies as a hat and 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 and barrows. On the corner of Castle Street, frowned upon by the fortress high on the cliffs, a motley group of women hold placards and banners with the slogans ‘Women’s suffrage’ and ‘Votes for women’. Mrs Kesby tuts. ‘Disgraceful. Their menfolk should keep them home 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. ‘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 for the kindly motive of avoiding undue pain. A girl who has spent fifteen years without stays and whose waist has thickened to a stout twenty-three inches would have to endure severely tight lacing to reduce it to sixteen. Unimaginable discomfort. Mrs Kesby locked me into a pair of stays when I was seven, only removing them twice a week for baths. Thus, my waist never grew larger than sixteen inches and I did not undergo enforced reduction. Another example of Mrs Kesby’s benevolence. As we approach the library, a dark-haired young man in workmen’s clothes loiters outside. Though not tall in stature, he has a muscular build and an upright stance. For a brief moment, our eyes meet. I am instantly attracted. 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. I feel breathless and a little unsteady. He follows us inside and hovers nearby while Mrs Kesby returns her books, glancing my way every now and then with a sparkle in his eye. 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. But as we tuck into our lamb chops with mint sauce, he addresses me. ‘So, Sarah, how are you filling your time now your schooling has finished? Something productive, I trust.’ 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 or 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, instead of Mrs Kesby’s dull friends. To talk, to exchange ideas, to laugh. To have fun. But this truth would earn me a scolding from you 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. Father’s attention is always unwelcome. As a young child, I accepted without question the world as presented to me. Only with age did I realise the abnormality of my upbringing. How difficult and strained my relationship with my father. He doesn’t understand me as a parent should and only finds fault. I dread his scrutiny and his inevitable criticisms. |