Dear, dear. Suddenly Sophy’s irrepressible humour came into play. Whatever would Miss Bainbridge do if she knew that one of ‘her girls’ was capable of thinking such things? Expire on the spot, most likely, or certainly indulge in a ladylike fit of the vapours.
Sophy glanced round the crowded refectory where excited girls were running hither and thither or clustered together in chattering groups, their faces alight with the anticipation of going home for Christmas.
She wasn’t like any of these girls, she was different. Not just because she was an orphan, but deep inside, in her heart and mind. From when she’d first set foot in this place with Patience, Miss Bainbridge had taught them that a woman’s place in life was to be a decorative and useful asset to her husband. Furthermore, expensive objects were to be coveted, representing as they did, symbols of status and lifestyle. Miss Bainbridge had been adamant that gentility and morality were one and the same, and a woman’s identity lay firmly in the man whose wife she was. A woman, any woman, rich or poor, could only be happy fulfilling her sacred role of pleasing her husband in everything. These were the precepts Miss Bainbridge and her team of spinsters drummed into each girl from her first week at the school until her last, and it was true to say that all her classmates, even dear Charlotte, accepted such pri nciples without too much trouble.
Sophy frowned, turning to gaze out of the window which overlooked the square of lawn and neat flowerbeds which was the girls’ exercise area when the weather permitted. Today, with only ten days until Christmas, the lawn was buried under an inch or two of snow which had fallen during the night and frozen, creating a scene which looked as though it had been painted in silver. But Sophy wasn’t seeing the garden or the mother-of-pearl winter’s sky above, she was remembering passages from the book each girl leaving the school had been presented with two days ago:
The Manual of Home-Making and Fine Etiquette
.
A wife and mother, the book had stated, was called upon to be agreeable at all times, and any talents she possessed should be developed for the edification of her husband and sons. As she packaged the dinner to please her husband’s tastes, with skill and care, so she should package herself and particularly her intellect to avoid being too clever in the company of her menfolk. The purposes of a woman’s intelligence should be limited by the expectation of her husband. A husband would not bring his problems home with him to be discussed with his wife, but wives, nevertheless, with gentle intuition, were to understand that such problems existed and do all they could to mitigate them.
She had read that bit out to Charlotte, half-choking on the words, and Charlotte had looked at her strangely. ‘But everyone knows men don’t like clever, opinionated women,’ she had said reasonably. ‘That’s all it’s saying.’
‘And you think that’s right? That women should pretend to be stupid, or at the very least less intelligent than they are?’ she’d asked hotly.
Charlotte had shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose so, but does it matter?’ she’d answered, before leaping up as the dinner gong had sounded, at which point the conversation had ended.
But Sophy had thought about it several times since and now she sighed deeply. It
did
matter. Of course it mattered. Another passage in the book had stated that should the man of the house come home in a fractious mood or appear unreasonable or even tyrannous, then the wife’s course was clear. She must bear all things with a meek and quiet spirit and thus spread the balm of her humility and gentleness over troubled waters.
Reverence your husband
, the manual had stated,
and remember at all times he is the breadwinner and his authority is not to be questioned. Your reward will be the knowledge that you have done your duty to the best of your ability. And this same duty,
the passage went on,
also applies to the ‘private’ side of marriage. A husband’s needs must be accommodated without complaint.
What these needs were, the book hadn’t explained, and none of the girls in Sophy’s year had any idea what they consisted of. Belinda Wynford had said she thought if you kissed a boy on the
lips it made a baby – but when Charlotte had commented that couldn’t be true because what about male cousins and brothers? – Belinda had admitted she didn’t know. It was all very confusing. And Amelia Middleton had caused them all to become silent when she had whispered that her eldest sister who had been married for some years had told her there was a personal side to marriage ‘in the bedroom’ that was highly distasteful and far too embarrassing to talk about, and if she had known what it entailed she would have chosen to remain a spinster all her days.
‘Sophy, dear?’
A gentle hand at her elbow caused her to come out of her reverie and glance up into the sweet face of her favourite teacher, Miss Bainbridge’s sister. It wasn’t just that this Miss Bainbridge taught dancing and drama, her favourite subjects, but she was the only teacher to unbend enough to call the girls by their christian names.
‘I understand you are travelling by the stagecoach to Sunderland where your uncle is meeting you? It is due in five minutes so I suggest you go downstairs and wait in the vestibule.’ Primrose Bainbridge smiled into the face she likened to that of an angel. She had said the same to her sister once, and her sister had come back with the remark that no angel had eyes the colour of Sophy’s, nor her mass of Titian, flame-coloured hair either. Which was probably true. Primrose had always tried not to have a preference for one pupil, but she had failed with Sophy. And to see the girl when she was reading poetry or dancing or acting in one of the little plays the school put on was sheer delight; she had a natural talent the like of which Primrose had never come across before. She would miss this girl. She now pressed a little box into Sophy’s hand, saying, ‘This is just a small memento to remind you of the happy times we’ve had in class, my dear. Think of us sometimes, won’t you?’
‘Oh, Miss Bainbridge. Thank you, thank you.’ For the second time in as many minutes Sophy was close to tears.
‘Now get yourself downstairs and make sure the coach driver provides you with a rug for the journey; it’s very cold.’
‘Yes, Miss Bainbridge.’ Sophy picked up her valise and then on
impulse leaned forward and kissed the teacher on the cheek before making her way out of the refectory. She left Primose Bainbridge staring after her with moist eyes. Yes, she would miss Sophy Hutton more than a little. Her classes wouldn’t be the same from now on.
For once the coach had been a little early, and after Sophy had climbed aboard and wished the other three occupants a good morning, she settled back in her seat by the window and opened Miss Bainbridge’s box. It contained a small silver brooch in the shape of a ballerina, and she immediately pinned it to the lapel of her winter coat, her heart full. She felt as though she was leaving her home and travelling into alien territory, rather than the other way round, which perhaps wasn’t too far from the truth.
It wasn’t only the school she would miss, she had enjoyed living in the fast-growing, thriving town of Newcastle too. Miss Bainbridge’s establishment was situated in central Newcastle, and Sophy had found the life and vigour of the town fascinating. At the weekends the girls were taken in small groups to places of interest now and again, after which they had to write reports describing the background to what they had seen. She knew that the medieval town of Newcastle had grown up around the castle, the first wooden castle being built by the son of William the Conqueror, and that when in the fourteenth century a wall had been built around the town, it had constricted the growth of Newcastle for the next five hundred years. But it was the present town which excited Sophy, the noise and bustle, the wealth of churches and monasteries, the music halls such as Ginnett’s Amphitheatre and the People’s Palace, as well as Hancock Museum in Barras Bridge where the girls had had to write an essay on the large collections it housed from the Natural History Society and Mr John Hancock himself, a world-renowned naturalist. Charlotte had had the class in fits of laughter when she had – quite inn ocently – described Mr Hancock as a naturist, and Miss Bainbridge had had to explain, with scarlet cheeks, the different meaning of the two words.
Sporting pursuits were catered for by a riding school, a racquet court in College Street and a number of tennis courts and bowling
greens. There was also a swimming pool, but the young ladies of Miss Bainbridge’s Academy were not allowed to partake of anything so vulgar; however, they were encouraged to walk in the parks the town contained, two-by-two, in a long line, with a teacher at either end of the crocodile. Leazes Park and Brandling Park were nice enough, but it was Exhibition Park – formerly known as Bull Park because bulls had once been kept on this part of the town moor – that Sophy liked the best. An exhibition had been held there for Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee nine years before, and at this time the reservoir had been turned into an ornamental lake, with a bridge over it. According to Miss Bainbridge, who always relayed the history of everywhere they visited, no matter how many times they had been before, the bridge was a reproduction of the Old Bridge which had spanned the River Tyne at Newcastle for upwards of five centuries. Sophy didn’t care so much about that, she just enjoyed watching the wildlife on the lake and the families with small children playing by the edge or sitting having picnics on the grass.
She would find it hard to settle in the small confines of Southwick after the bigness of Newcastle, she thought, as the coach trundled its way southwards through the mucky streets made slushy by the wheels of carriages, carts and horse trams. She had never felt overwhelmed by the size of the town; on the contrary, she had embraced it wholeheartedly, feeling as though she belonged somehow. Of course, she had never visited the areas such as Sandhill or Pipewellgate, slums which held such grotesque squalor there had been talk of clearing them for years. One of the housemaids Miss Bainbridge employed lived in Pipewellgate, and although Gracie was always as neat as a new pin, she lived in a house which contained eight other families and was right next door to one of the slaughterhouses. Charlotte, who inevitably returned to school after the weekends with a generous amount of chocolate and sweets from her doting parents, always made sure Gracie went home with most of the confectionery.
It began to snow again when they reached Gateshead, thick starry flakes falling from a sky which had turned from mother-of-pearl
to an ominous pale grey. One or two of her fellow travellers expressed anxiety about getting home safely, but Sophy wished the journey could continue for ever. She wouldn’t mind if they got stuck somewhere. Anything was better than the vicarage and her aunt. And the kitchen was no refuge now. Bridget and her parents had been replaced by a cook, Mrs Hogarth, who was as thin and disapproving as her aunt, and a maid called Molly who seemed a bit simple and wouldn’t say boo to a goose. A man from the village came once or twice a week to see to the garden and any odd jobs, which had meant Patrick’s mushroom house and his lovely greenhouse were sadly neglected, although the vegetable patch still produced vegetables for the household and the fruit trees yielded a good crop each year.
Fortunately, just after she and Patience had gone away to school, John had started work in the office of the Wearmouth Colliery and had now risen to the position of Under-manager. Matthew had been studying at law college but had left in the summer and was now training to be a solicitor with a very respectable establishment in Bishopwearmouth.
When Sophy was home from school she was expected to work for her keep, although she now ate with the family in the dining room rather than taking her meals in the kitchen with the servants. Her sleeping arrangements had changed too. She occupied a corner of Patience’s bedroom, a narrow single bed having been moved in there once she was well enough to leave the guest room.
All this left her in no-man’s-land inside the vicarage, emphasising, as it did, that she belonged neither in the servants’ camp, nor wholly within the family circle. If it wasn’t for John, Matthew and David, and – to be fair – Patience, too, these days, her life would have been unbearable, because her aunt never lost an opportunity to belittle her and make her feel the poor relation. Not that she minded working hard at any number of household jobs, she didn’t, but she did mind that her aunt talked to her as though she was less than the dirt under her shoes. She was sure the writer of the manual in her valise, had she been asked to comment on the situation, would have advised displaying a sweet and submissive spirit
to her aunt as befitted a well-brought-up young lady, and that was probably right and proper. She just didn’t think she could do it – even to keep the peace. She didn’t
want
to do it. She wanted— oh, all sorts of things, but mainly to escape the confines of the vicarage and that of the village also.
The coach stopped at an inn in Washington, a large colliery village west of Sunderland. The travellers were told it would be the last stop before they moved across country to Sunderland, which was the most tedious and difficult part of the journey due to the fact they would be using country lanes and narrow by-roads. The coachman advised everyone who was continuing with him to partake of a hot toddy to keep out the cold. The journey from Newcastle to Washington had already taken an extra half-an-hour longer than usual, due to the worsening weather, and he couldn’t guarantee that the next leg wouldn’t be worse.
Everyone trooped obediently into the inn parlour where Sophy tasted the first drop of alcohol of her life in the form of the innkeeper’s rum toddy. She didn’t like it but she sipped it slowly and found it warming, and she was glad of it once they began the journey once more. The snow was coming down thicker than ever and the poor horses, their heads down, plodded laboriously through what was fast becoming a full-blown blizzard.
Twice the coach driver and a youngish man who had joined their party at Washington had to dig the wheels free, and all the time one of the passengers, a middle-aged lady who reminded Sophy of her aunt, lamented the fact that she had not made the journey by train. Everyone else silently lamented that she hadn’t done so too.