Authors: Sophie Dash
“Father,” said Lottie, turning to the beady-eyed figure trailing behind them. “Can we go and see the animals? Gosh, can you
hear
them? How do the people in those far-off places tolerate them? Scales and claws – ghastly. I would have them all killed on sight. I bet they’re beastly to touch. Oh, and look! There are little canal boats. Now that is sweet. We must ride them,
we must
.”
“Not by yourselves,” replied Mr Griswell, bored and uninterested in all he surveyed. If he was not growing his finances and merchant business, he was not happy. The only time he ever seemed to show real emotion was when money was involved. At least Uncle Osbourne was not like that. Yes, he was reserved, strict and practical to a fault, but he was not as waspish or as spiteful as Lottie’s father seemed to be. Uncle Osbourne had reluctantly taken Ruth in, a skinny child, at five. He had never wanted children; he had never wanted a family. He only enjoyed his work. He thought people were too complicated and a child was an added difficulty he had never anticipated. But a poor relation – especially a young girl – in the workhouse would reflect poorly on his own status. Besides, he’d promised his brother to protect the child and it was, without a doubt, bad form to argue with a dying man. When Ruth arrived, her uncle put in place numerous rules about being quiet, about fitting in around his life, about being as unassuming as possible. Ruth was good at it, for she’d remembered all her mother had said to her in the last few days of her life: “
Never be a burden, my darling
.” And she never had.
What little money her father and mother had passed down to her went on her education, and it was a
good
education. She had made friends in the classroom and she had excelled. Beyond the academy, no one cared about how well she wrote in Latin or her knowledge about geography. No, to be a woman, one had to know the right way to wave a fan, to wear the latest dress, to
flirt
. Ruth’s face went red at the thought. Give her books, where other people did all the running around and courting: it was far easier to read about such matters than to experience them herself. Even if, at times, the prospect seemed…exciting.
She kept her gaze focused on the assembled guests, lest anyone approach her and expect her to be a real woman, to be like Lottie.
“You should stop being so shy,”
Lottie had always chided her,
“You should be more like me.”
But it wasn’t shyness, it was a constant fear, a knowledge that if she spoke up, if she tried, she’d do something wrong. And there was so,
so
much that could go wrong, especially at a large party such as this.
“I wish we were back at the academy,” she whispered to her friend.
Lottie only rolled her eyes. “You would.”
Mr Griswell ushered the two young women towards a small group who were stood a safe distance away from the performers. Flame conjurers gave the air a smoky smell, their bare feet skimming along the grass as they danced, shining with sweat, nerves like steel.
“There’s too many damned people here,” said the merchant, inclining his head towards Ruth’s uncle, Mr Osbourne, and a stout young man with them. The latter had lemon-coloured hair and an expression equally as sour.
“It isn’t decent. It’s no place for a woman, but I do not intend to stay long,” agreed Osbourne. “I have two gentlemen to pay respects to, then we go.” Business, as usual, was the order of the day.
“That’s him, that’s Albert Pembroke,” whispered Ruth, needlessly pointing to the younger man. “Do you think he will recognise me?”
Four steps away was her future husband. His belly pressed against his waistcoat and his blond whiskers stuck out from his round, ruddy cheeks. He wasn’t what one would call conventionally attractive – or attractive at all.
“He’s…he’s taller than when last I met him,” said Ruth tactfully.
“How old were you?”
“I was twelve; he was sixteen.”
Osbourne summoned his niece over with a wave as stiff as his appearance. “I had feared you would be late,” he said, guiding Ruth to stand before Albert, who gave a bashful bow. “It will not be long now, then we’ll be at the church, the deed done and everything as it should be.” The lines around Osbourne’s eyes grew deeper. “Ruth, is that a new gown?”
“It’s mine,” interrupted Lottie with a toothy smile. “Doesn’t it look lovely? I picked it out.”
Ruth’s uncle was a banker and firmly disapproved of lavish expenditure. His clients were fond of his frugal nature, as it made their own finances feel safe – as though someone who spent so wisely and dressed so poorly would never ill-treat their savings. Make do and mend was his work ethic and Ruth, as his ward, had adopted it too. Even at Miss Lamont’s Academy she had been the one to darn and mend garments for all the other girls – and allow herself to be taken advantage of.
Albert shuffled his feet and became exceedingly pink with Ruth’s approach. He went to speak, failed, and left Ruth to begin their stilted conversation. She didn’t, until Lottie nudged her sharply in the back, prompting her to gabble, “Are – are you well, sir?”
The young man puffed out his cheeks before nodding heavily, blowing air between thick lips. “I’d – yes – well, I am,” he stammered, before adding as an afterthought, “And you are well, I take it?”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Quite.”
She rustled up a wan smile, as her uncle and Mr Griswell talked politics and Lottie was swept up by another high society friend to discuss an upcoming garden tour and ball the next day, leaving the couple to themselves.
“How are you enjoying the season, Mr Pembroke?”
“I could do without all this nonsense; makes me feel ill.” He flapped towards one tall figure who drew frightened gasps from the crowd as he cradled a large, hairy spider in his hands. “If I wanted to experience another country, I would go there.”
“I rather like it,” admitted Ruth. “It’s all so pretty, like a dream or something I have only ever read about.”
“I, well, I suppose it’s tolerable, though it doesn’t match
your
tolerableness.” Albert beamed, overly pleased at his clumsy compliment. “I never like these events; they’re always too loud and the music too modern. It’s all too heathen for my tastes and anyway…”
Once Albert began talking, finding Ruth to be a polite listener, he did not stop. Whenever she tried to interject, she was cut off and ushered back into silence. Torches were lit as the sun went down and while Lottie was free to skip off and mingle with other tittering women, Ruth was left to listen to her future husband’s complaints, gripes and moans. From gout to stomach upset, there was no ailment the man did not latch on to. The pair were to be husband and wife. They had a whole lifetime to get to know one another. And yet, as another hour slowly dribbled by, Ruth felt as though she knew everything the man would ever say, think, feel and do.
It was all arranged, the match agreed, and it would please her uncle. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? She couldn’t rely on her extended family any more. She must accept it. There was no other choice. Albert kept prattling on, and on, and on, while it felt as though a fault line was growing in Ruth’s chest, her ribs, her heart. The smoke was in her eyes; that was all. She didn’t cry, not since she was little, but she was close now, stupidly close – when she’d prided herself on being stronger, better, more removed from her emotions than everyone else. It was all too much, too soon.
I do not want to be Mrs Pembroke.
She couldn’t think like that.
She wasn’t allowed to think like that.
“Were it not for Godfrey’s Cordial,” continued Albert, “I doubt I’d get any sleep, what with my—”
“The boats,” interrupted Ruth, attempting a good-natured smile that fell flat. There was a catch in her voice. “Let’s find Lottie and go along the canal, shall we? She’d be terribly disappointed if we left without doing so.”
Albert pouted heavily, as though she had asked the world and, even if he had it, he would never give it to her. When they were married, it would be different, Ruth told herself. She’d run her own home, she’d have independence, she’d have children. Albert could provide all that. It was a practical, sensible choice…that stuck in her throat like a sharp slice of apple.
“Yes, a good idea, off with you,” said Osbourne, dismissing the youngest in their party.
A resigned huff left Albert, before he said, “If we must.”
In the dying light, the canal looked molten gold. Men and women in their finery rowed themselves along the water, laughing and drinking as they navigated the reeds and narrower stretches. One intoxicated group bumped and scraped the stonework beneath a low bridge as they bobbed by, calling and hooting. The three waited for them to pass – Lottie with amusement, Ruth with concern, and Albert with sheer disapproval – before climbing into their own craft. It dipped alarmingly at Albert’s end and only Ruth’s harsh looks kept Lottie from laughing.
“It’s not fair. I think the people in the other boat are having far more fun than the rest of us,” observed Lottie.
“Or they want us to think they are,” said Ruth.
Lottie was delighted at the opportunity to perch herself in a rowboat and spoke far too quickly for Albert to keep up, and with too much force for him to interrupt. She always chattered away when trying to impress someone and Ruth was grateful that, for once, her friend made an effort on her behalf. Albert nodded along and was already sweating from the small effort it took to wrestle with the oars. Ruth let Lottie’s words fade into background; she’d had years of practice, after all. She trailed her hand in the water, spied pale lilies with petals so thick they could have been made from marzipan, and watched dragonflies dart across the ripples that marked their progress.
“Did you hear about that awful Miss Ollis, the one who left the academy before us?” continued Lottie, though no one listened. “Ran off to France you know, to become an English tutor. There was a gentleman involved, and I use that term loosely, though heaven knows who’d want her…”
It won’t be so bad,
Ruth reassured herself, as she let her gaze wonder over to Albert. When she’d imagined marriage, she’d hoped for love. Perhaps it had been childish. Her uncle would think so, and she desperately wanted to please him. After all he’d done, with how generous he’d been, she owed it to him to be grateful, to be obedient, to never be a burden…to marry Albert.
As they approached the bridge, claps and exclamations could be heard from an audience surrounding a performer. Another display, skit or creation. It was their shouts – along with a hard
THUMP
– that alerted Ruth to the fourth member in their little boat.
A snake, dropped by its keeper on the bridge, took its bearings. Thick and fat, it began to wind its way along the wood. Albert screamed. It was a high, quivering noise emitted as he bumbled back and – with a comical roll – fell into the canal. The motion jolted the boat dangerously. Ruth clung on, while Lottie scrabbled to climb behind her, sloshing water over their legs.
“Get it away, get it away,” hissed Lottie, her fan wielded like an offensive weapon. “
Do
something. Kill it, Ruth.”
“With
what
?” It was the harshest response she had ever given her friend and had they not been frightened for their lives, Ruth knew she’d have gotten an earful.
A pressure smoothed itself along Ruth’s ankle, over her skirts, winding upwards. Shock and fear kept her still as the scaled, dark green monster coiled its way towards her. She looked to Albert for help, only to find he had fled to the nearest bank, dripping profusely, not even casting a glance back. They had been abandoned. Left for dead. No one was coming. No one would help them; no one cared to.
“Albert,” she called, but he wouldn’t answer, pretended he couldn’t hear. His name felt clumsy on her tongue, as though it didn’t belong there and never would. “Albert, please!”
A heavy splash showered the two women. Strong, firm hands grabbed their craft and kept it steady.
“Hold still.” The stranger reached out and easily pulled the snake from Ruth’s gown. He draped it across his shoulders as one would a shawl. “Stay where you are. I will come back and get you.”
He moved so quickly that Ruth didn’t get a real look at him, only an impression. Tall, dark and controlled. She watched him go, unable to disobey his instructions even if she wanted to.
The man waded towards dry land and gave the creature back to its handler, who snatched it up and vanished into the mass of spectators, trailing foreign apologies behind him, before any repercussions could follow. True to his word, the stranger returned and eased the boat to a shallow stretch, bumping it into a grassy ledge. The assembled crowd cheered and Ruth felt her cheeks redden, suddenly aware that they were being watched. In fact, it seemed that many party guests assumed the entire scene had been a performance put on for their benefit. Her fear had been entertaining to that faceless, fickle lot.
God, she couldn’t do this, couldn’t be like this –
like them
– and they knew it.
Lottie was the first one to scramble back onto the grass in a sprawling unladylike manner. Her fingers were hard on their rescuer’s forearm and were hastily removed for appearance’s sake, while she muttered darkly about her ruined dress and sought to blame someone for it. Others came to help her, friends, ones Ruth did not share.
“Come on, love, let’s get you up,” said the man to the forgotten girl, slipping his warm hand into hers and pulling her to her feet. “Steady now, I’ve got you.”
And he did, for she could not have let go if she tried.
Speechless, Ruth allowed herself to be guided onto the bank, where Albert – sopping wet – was berating the nearest servant he could find for his “brush with death” and stealing away any attention or concern that might have been offered her way. And although Ruth was coasting away from the crowds, beyond sight and prying eyes, she wanted it. To escape Albert – her future – and Lottie and the awkward conversations with people who did not even care to remember her name.
A stone bench squatted nearby and Ruth was steered towards it. She groped for the cold surface. There was no one to stare here, no quips to reach her, a chance to gather herself. It was almost like solitude, were it not for the man who lingered beside her – an afterthought.