So there it was, a quick peck on the lips as they said goodbye; both the giver and receiver were giddy for hours afterward. This routine continued for weeks until the one quick kiss turned into two, and the two into three, and within a few more weeks, the kisses grew longer and more passionate.
By this time, both the Crowley and Archer families were well aware of the relationship between their children. They had discussed the situation, unbeknownst to either adolescent, and had decided that the match was unacceptable. A Crowley and an Archer could never marry; both families understood the realities of the harsh, cruel world.
Consequently, Mrs Crowley had a talk with her daughter, and Mr Archer had a talk with his son. They knew better than to forbid any union between them; if given an ultimatum, the teenagers would no doubt choose love over family. Instead, they both encouraged their children to refrain from any physical intimacies until such time that they would earn approval in God’s eyes.
Although Mrs Crowley and Mr Archer had the same intention, they gave very different speeches to their children. Mrs Crowley spoke a lecture to her daughter about what “nice girls” were supposed and not supposed to do. “Nice girls” stayed “nice” until they were married. It was fine to have gentlemen suitors before they were wed, but they must be careful to never give too much to the man before his intentions were known. Even then, “nice girls” must wait until after they are married, lest the man break his promise. If a “nice girl” was ruined before marriage, no man would ever express interest in her ever again.
“Ever again, Mabel. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.” Mabel was sufficiently frightened; Rose Crowley had succeeded. Mabel would never want to ruin her reputation and brand “spinster” across her forehead.
It was decided that Charlie’s “talking to” was far more important than Mabel’s. A man’s role in such situations was the dominant one, and he needed to understand the consequences of his actions. Nice girls rarely instigated such familiarities, and never pressured the man if he didn’t want to continue. Mrs Crowley had been very clear—Mabel was a nice girl, and she intended to keep her that way.
Mr Archer’s task was, therefore, to convince his son that entering into any physical relationship with Mabel would be a mistake. As Charlie was a seventeen-year-old boy, his father had his work cut out for him. Still, after a very long evening of “man-to-man talk”, Mr Archer had successfully conditioned Charlie’s mind to believe what he had been told: If Charlie were to take his relationship with Mabel to a higher level, she would undoubtedly use her feminine tricks to trap him into a marriage. She would claim that she was with child and, whether such claim was true or not, Charlie would be forced to marry her. Once married, Charlie would be forced to provide for his demanding wife and snivelling children; his needs and wishes would never be fulfilled. All the goals he’d held in his heart all his life would never be realized. Charlie’s life would be over, all because he wanted a little extra time with Mabel in a haystack.
Needless to say, Charlie was more than convinced that he should refrain from any physical contact with Mabel besides an occasional kiss.
As the months progressed, Charlie and Mabel found it increasingly difficult to restrain themselves. Nearly every time they were alone, opportunities arose in which it seemed absolutely necessary for them to become intimate. When it was raining, they would seek shelter in the barn, and the haystacks were ever so inviting. When the sun shone, they would spend time in the great outdoors, only to notice how attractive each other looked amidst the beautiful scenery and sunlight; it was essential that they find a private place behind a tree to express their compliments, in nonverbal ways.
In the frequent romantic encounters, it was almost always Charlie who stopped and suggested that they should focus on another activity. It wasn’t that Mabel was loose; but before the “point of no return”, so to speak, Charlie would hear his father’s words in his ear and, as difficult as it was sometimes, restrain himself.
Charlie and Mabel were so deeply in love, and Mabel was under the impression that Charlie wanted to marry her just as much as she wished it herself. Marriage was never expressly discussed between the pair, however. It was just assumed that after their graduation from King’s, they would wed. Mabel, in all her marital fantasies, never thought about where they would live or what they would do, or any of the other details of married life. She knew she would become Mabel Archer, and that was enough for her.
It was the week before graduation, and despite the fair weather, the two found themselves in the comfortable shelter of the barn, their limbs entangled. As tempted as always by the kisses and caresses, the two carried out the routine that had confined them for months. Mid-kiss, Charlie would abruptly distance himself from Mabel and sigh and close his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” Mabel would ask, naturally thinking she had done something wretched to cause the change in his behaviour.
“The usual,” Charlie would reply.
This week, however, Charlie’s passions overwhelmed the judgement in his head. He continued to kiss Mabel, suggesting that although she looked lovely in green, it might be necessary to part her from her flattering dress. They’d loved each other for so long, and they were adults; there couldn’t be any harm in physically expressing their love as adults did.
Usually, it would be expected that Mabel would get carried away by the emotions of the situation and Charlie would rationally talk her out of her impulses. However, in all the years in which the pair had been in each other’s close company, Mabel’s behaviour had affected Charlie’s, and vice versa. This particular week, just before their graduation into adulthood, Mabel and Charlie switched approaches. As Mabel logically contemplated the suggested temptation, Charlie became overwhelmed by his passions. Motivated by the mere idea that he might complete his transition to manhood earlier than he anticipated, Charlie became excited beyond words. He began kissing Mabel frantically, as if he could lose this never-to-be-repeated opportunity if there were a split-second that his lips weren’t in contact with her skin.
Mabel hardly noticed the kisses, but merely swatted the distracting advances away as she would a bothersome fly. Once she had made up her mind that she did not want to progress any further with Charlie, she took his head with both hands and forced him to meet her eyes.
“Charlie,” she said, in the same calm tone he typically used when starting a lecture with her. With each word, she shook her hands a little, creating unintentionally odd facial expressions with his cheeks and lips. “I don’t want to.”
Charlie didn’t need to be told twice. He rolled away from her and stretched out on his back on the haystack. He groaned and covered his face with his hands, but he never intended to pressure Mabel to change her mind. For a moment, Mabel doubted her decision, but the moment passed quickly. Soon she was on her feet and brushing the straw from her clothing.
“Come on, Charlie! There’s hours left in the day still. It’s rather nice out!” Mabel pinned her hair up and fastened her hat.
Charlie folded his knees up, but gave no indication that he would start up to his feet any time soon. Mabel bent down and tugged at his arm, but he didn’t stir.
“I can’t. I need to stay here a bit,” he finally divulged.
“Whatever for? There’s no work to be done. It’s a fine day out.” Mabel was started to get annoyed. Was he so cross with her because she’d stopped him?
Charlie lifted his left arm up from his face and raised an eyebrow at Mabel. He looked down at the site of his problem, then back up at Mabel. She didn’t fully understand the signal. She bent down again, folding her arms over his knees and resting her chin on her wrists.
“What is it? What have you got down there—” Mabel tilted her head down and looked just below the start of his trousers, where he had looked just a moment ago. “Oh.” She glanced up at him, startled. “Oh, dear.” She looked at the stretched material again. “Oh, dear!” Quick
ly, she scrambled to her feet and brought her hands to her face. “Oh. Well, you should—I mean—I should—”
“Mabel.” She instantly ceased her babbling and looked at him. Charlie extended two fingers and gestured to the barn door.
“Right.” Mabel scurried to the door and heaved it open. It was only after she’d returned to the safe confines of her room in Westalia House that she realized she hadn’t said goodbye to Charlie.
Mr and Mrs Crowley took the train to Bruton and sat in attendance as their only daughter stood among her wealthy and bright peers, graduating from the prestigious King’s School. After the ceremony, the three Crowleys returned to the hotel accommodation that Mr Crowley had reserved for him and his wife.
They showered Mabel with compliments and the usual parental adoration after a landmark achievement. They were so proud of her; she had grown into such a lovely young lady. Mabel beamed, but her thoughts wandered. She could only imagine how proud Mr and Mrs Archer were of their son. Charlie had graduated from King’s School! What an accomplishment!
Mabel’s thoughts returned to her present situation when her mother spoke; the unexpected words caught Mabel off-guard.
“You’ve more than earned your holiday, darling.”
“What holiday?” Mabel was confused. She had never heard anything before about post-graduation plans. Wasn’t she going to marry Charlie and live happily forever more? She didn’t want to take a holiday, unless it was a honeymoon.
Mr Crowley informed his daughter that after they had packed her trunks and emptied out her dormitory, they would be travelling to Bath.
“Bath? Why? Who?” At first, Mabel was baffled, but then she thought perhaps the trip to Bath was a wedding gift. Didn’t they know she’d never leave Charlie?
“Mabel, what questions!” her mother replied airily. “Your father and I will be with you, of course. We’ll be staying for four or five months, at least; as long as the weather stays agreeable.”
“Mother, how could you!” Mabel’s voice was uncharacteristically high pitched. “I can’t go to Bath for five months. I can’t go to Bath for five minutes!” She stood, unable to communicate her emotions while sitting in the confines of the stiff chair. “You can’t go either, unless you don’t plan on attending my wedding. Can’t you postpone it until—”
“Wedding?” Mr Crowley’s jaw jutted forward in the pronunciation of the word. “Exactly—who—”
“Postpone?” Mrs Crowley interrupted her husband. While his ears burned upon hearing the word “wedding”, Rose was concerned about another word spoken by her daughter. “Just when were you planning on getting married, if I may ask? This is the first we’ve ever heard of such an idea.” When Mrs Crowley heard Mabel’s answer, she nearly fainted. The worst has happened, she thought. “As soon as possible?” she repeated her daughter’s response. “Good heavens, Henry.” Both parents stood frozen; if Mabel sneezed, they would have toppled.
“Dear Lord,” Henry whispered. “Forgive me, Lord. I hope you understand why I must murder Charlie Archer.” With a dramatic turn on his heel, he headed for the door. Both his wife and daughter tried to restrain him which, had he been as determined as he claimed, would not have stopped him. “I’ll kill him!” he kept shouting, sounding every bit as theatrical and emotional as his daughter.
Mabel finally realized the misunderstanding that had infuriated and shocked both her parents. She cleared the mistake, to everyone’s great relief. Mabel would marry Charlie quickly, not because she needed to, but because she wanted to. If they loved each other, what cause was there to wait?
“Mabel, stop this nonsense,” her mother ordered. “You can’t marry the Archer boy. He’s of a different world. He’ll marry some farmer’s daughter, and you’ll marry someone you meet in Bath, or one of your father’s business associates.” Mrs Crowley tried to calm her daughter, who had now covered both ears with her hands. “You’re a young woman now. It’s time you learned the ways of the world.”
Mabel was silent, steadying her breath. Finally, she spoke. “You’re absolutely right, Mother. I am a young woman now. It’s time I acted my age.”
“Quite right. I’m so glad you see—”
“Mother, it’s rude to interrupt. I wasn’t finished.” Mabel stood and smoothed her skirt. “I’m seventeen now, and I should be responsible enough to make decisions and live with the consequences. Therefore, I am deciding to marry Charlie Archer. If you and Father don’t approve, which I sense is true, we will run away.”
“Mabel Crowley! You’ll do no such thing!” Mr Crowley bellowed.
Mabel insisted that she would, reminding her father that she could be “just as stubborn” as he was.
“You run away with that boy, and you’re no longer a Crowley!”
“I’m so glad we understand each other,” Mabel retorted.
“I mean it, young lady. You walk out that door, and you’re cut off without a shilling! We’ll never speak to you again! Whatever trouble you get yourself into, you’ll not turn to us—we won’t give you pence for it!” Mr Crowley was bright red, spit flying out of his mouth at every consonant. He drew breath at the end; a long, audible wheeze that nearly popped his waistcoat buttons.
Mabel paused, waiting for an explosion of equal proportions from her mother, but none came. Mr Crowley had spoken enough for the both of them. Mabel bent down and picked up her purse and hat. She walked solemnly to the door and opened it.
“Mabel, do you understand the consequences of what you’re doing?” Mrs Crowley did not raise her voice, but her tone was stern. It was clear that she, too, was prepared to disown her daughter if she walked out the door. “Like your father said, if you walk out that door—”
Mabel secured her wide-brimmed hat to her head, took one last look at her parents, and walked away from the life she’d known.
Mabel ran so fast to Archer & Sons, she removed her hat for fear it would decelerate her journey. She checked the stables but found only Mr and Mrs Archer. They directed her to the house on the off-chance her visit might have had anything to do with Charlie. Hat in hand, Mabel raced up to the house and nearly tripped twice; she was so anxious to see Charlie and tell him of her liberation.
“Charlie?”
“In here, love!” Charlie called from his bedroom. Mabel had no qualms about entering the room as long as she trusted him to be decent.
Mabel ran in, breathless, a few chunks of hair blown loose by the wind. She kissed Charlie and half expected him to learn what she had to tell him from the kiss alone. Unaware that the kiss was the prelude to a celebratory occasion, Charlie continued to kiss his companion as he would have any other day of the week.
“I told them,” she panted.
“Told who what?” More kisses.
“I do wish you could have been there, though. It was such a glorious moment. And of course, it was both our announcement to tell.”
“What are you—” Charlie hadn’t been giving Mabel’s words his full attention, and he didn’t care enough to even finish his question. He removed her hair pin and grabbed a fistful of her hair as he kissed her.
After that particularly spectacular kiss, Mabel felt a little dizzy. “Oh, darling,” she whispered. “It’ll be so marvellous when we’re married.”
Charlie’s blood turned cold. Mabel leaned in for another kiss, but he stopped her at arms’ length.
“When we’re what?” His jaw had locked and he spat the final word.
“Married, of course. What did you think I said? We’re both finished with our schooling, and they were going to send me away—how dreadful!”
“You told your mother and your f-father that we were—” Now Charlie felt dizzy. He sat on his bed to steady himself. Mabel sat next to him, automatically. It was as if they were already married.
“I don’t know why you’re acting so strange. We were always going to get married. I know I made the announcement without you, but we can still
tell your family together.”
“Mabel,” Charlie started automatically. Hold on, he thought. This wasn’t a silly idea to bring powdered wigs back in style. This was serious. He didn’t have to treat her like a child anymore, now that she was playing with his life. “We were never going to get married. I don’t ever remember asking you. Tell me. Remind me. When? When did I ever speak those words?”
Mabel was shocked by his sudden anger. She stammered and couldn’t conjugate.
“You can’t remember either? Perhaps that’s because I never asked you! What were you thinking? Marriage isn’t a game you can play one week and then change your mind the next.” Charlie never had such an outburst; he was even surprising himself.
“Who’s changing their mind?”
“You’re right, Mabel. I haven’t changed my mind. I never wanted to marry you. I don’t want to marry you. In ten years, I still won’t want to marry you!”
Mabel began to cry, repeating—no, insisting—that he loved her.
“Yes, I love you, but that’s all—”
“That’s all? I love you, and I can’t just flick it off my tongue like that and pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Charlie, I’ve never loved anyone but you and I never will.” She was so miserable; every other word cracked in her throat, giving her declaration of love a pathetic, pitiable quality.
“Oh Mabel.” He took her hand. “I love you just as much as you love me, but we can’t get married. I have great plans for my life, as do you, but mine are different plans. I’m going to turn these stables into the greatest in all of Somerset. You’re used to riches and nice things and—you won’t be happy living in a barn. Always smelling like horses and flies everywhere because of the shit, and people looking down at you no matter how much money you wave in their face. You’d regret me. Then I’d be forced to work in the city with your father, and I’d lose all my dreams. I’d regret you terribly. Why can’t we just end it while we still love each other so there won’t be any pain when we look back at our memories?”
Mabel was very quiet, and until she spoke, Charlie thought that she had heard the wisdom of his words. “Can you honestly tell me that in all the years we’ve loved each other, you never once wanted to marry me?”
Of course, in moments of weakness when his heart got the better of him, he had wanted to marry Mabel. If he admitted this, he knew he would be admitting defeat. They ran in different circles; this would always be the case.
“Yes,” he lied.
Mabel refused to believe him. She reminded him of all the times he’d held her in his arms, kissed her, and swore to the heavens above that he loved her. The kisses—Mabel struggled to catch her breath as she realized the truth. Her mother had been right; if Mabel had given herself to Charlie, he wouldn’t have married her. She was a ruined woman. All the kisses she should have held back—all the kisses that “nice girls” wouldn’t have given—
“You kissed me! You promised you loved me!” Mabel couldn’t bear it. Charlie had to marry her. She’d given up her entire lifestyle for him; she’d left her family!
Again, Charlie insisted that his love was true, and again, he protested her insistence of marriage. “Why do you think I never tried to take you to bed? I didn’t want to have to marry you.”
Mabel couldn’t believe Charlie had said something so crude. Finally, everything he had said started to sink into Mabel’s heart. He wanted nothing to do with her. She was ruined.
The broken-hearted young girl stood up from the bed and, hat still in hand, started for the door. Charlie couldn’t stand to see her leave like that; if only the last thing he said to her was something kind instead of cruel. He followed her out of his room, down the hallway and through the kitchen.
She was almost out of the house; he had to do something! He took her arm and turned her round to face him. He kissed her, one last time, but it didn’t last long. Mabel struggled and pushed herself free from his grasp. She pursed her lips together and spat out her disgust and hatred for him. Charlie didn’t wipe it from his face; he was in shock.
Mabel ran out of the house and positioned her hat on her head. Her hair was no longer piled on her head, and Mabel supposed that her hair pin was still in Charlie’s room, but she dared not go back for it.
Mabel walked quickly back to the hotel in town, with only the hope that her parents would forgive her and accept her back into the family.
Of course the Crowleys forgave their daughter, and the three of them enjoyed a long holiday in Bath.
It was a magnificent city, combining the modern technologies and bustling atmosphere with calm, peaceful parks and relaxation spas. Under different circumstances, Mabel would have enjoyed herself immensely. The Crowleys had rented an entire floor in a newly built council house in the heart of the city. The flat was impeccably decorated and well cared for by the live-in maid Katie McGee. She was plump and broke into a sweat easily, but seemed appreciative of her job security and treated the Crowleys with the same competence and reserved affection she treated each tenant who lived in the third-floor flat of Wallis House.
Mr and Mrs Crowley enjoyed the therapeutic, healing waters of the numerous hot springs and spas in Bath. They paid little attention to their daughter’s unhappiness. All girls experienced broken hearts in their youths; they recovered and married better men shortly afterwards.
Mabel heard her mother and father talking about her after they thought she was sleeping. They were glad that she was separated from Charlie; he was the wrong sort. They had taken her to Bath purposely so that she would be exposed to young, or not so young, men of proper breeding, class, and wealth.
Mabel was determined to prove her parents wrong. They didn’t understand her suffering and heartache if they thought she could easily cast her feelings aside and marry the first available wealthy man who paid her any attention. She would never marry. If she couldn’t marry Charlie, she would hold the love for him in her heart forever. Then maybe they’d understand.
Mabel had never tried to be stubborn, for in her short life there had never been any need. However, in the months that followed, she proved to be very stubborn indeed. She wore a glum face during every meal, disobeyed her mother’s orders and wandered in the streets after dark. She took a guilty pleasure in knowing that her parents were worried, pacing the floors until she returned; unbeknownst to the infuriated Crowleys, Mabel never roamed very far. She stayed close to the electric streetlights and never talked to strangers. Often she was bored, keeping a close eye on the time so that she wouldn’t prolong her return any longer than was necessary—meanwhile, Mabel’s parents fumed and raged, demanding to know where she’d been and what she’d done. Always, Mabel would refuse to grant them answers and would lock herself in her bedroom until morning.
“That mulish girl! Rose, I’m at my wit’s end! I’ve no more patience with her!”
Henry Crowley was screaming at his wife, but Rose, used to her husband’s emotional tirades by now, sat very calmly in her dining room chair. Henry, who had long since abandoned his breakfast, was pacing back and forth, listing all the privileges he’d provided for Mabel, and all the ways in which she could have shown her gratitude, but chose not to.
Fortunately for Mabel, she was not present during this latest outburst. She’d left the flat early before breakfast and rode an electric tram to the east side of the city. Had Mabel remained throughout breakfast, Henry might have completely lost his temper, thrown her over his knee, and given her rump a fierce walloping.
Rose looked at her husband’s breakfast plate. The toast had two bite marks in the corners, the bacon lay glistening on the plate, and the eggs had remained uneaten for far too long—they were beginning to coagulate. Steam no longer rose from his teacup; the porridge was starting to clump. Would he ever stop his ranting? If he waited any longer, his entire meal would be inedible, and Katie would need to cook him another breakfast. If he took the time to eat a second breakfast, Rose would be late leaving the
flat and therefore late for her appointment at her luxurious bath-house.
Oh dear, she sighed to herself. She continued to nibble at her own plate of food and refocused her attentions to her husband’s conversation. After all, he would want her feedback—no, her agreement and support.
“After all we’ve done for her, and this is how she repays us? We’ve arranged introductions with half the wealthy bachelors in Bath. Has she ever met with any of them more than once?”
“No, dear,” Rose answered.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what to do!”
Rose supposed that Henry really didn’t know what to do; after all, if all he could think to say was the same statement twice with different emphasis, he must be at a loss. She decided to help her poor floundering husband. Rose outlined possible options of how to deal with Mabel: threatening, immovable sternness, physical force . . . Henry continued his heated monologue as if his wife had never spoken; her suggestions were ludicrous and he didn’t appreciate her ridicule.
“I’d send her away if I thought it would do any good. But look at her now—she’s away and she’s putting us through H—”
“Henry!”
“I don’t know how to deal with her behaviour. All her fits and fancies—she’s your daughter.”
“Actually, darling, she’s your daughter. Those ‘fits and fancies’ are exactly like the ‘fits and fancies’ you have all the time. Just the slightest thing sets you off—you know, I do believe you’re worse, darling.” Rose wiped the last remnants of porridge from her thin lips and took a bite of dry toast. She could tell from Henry’s face that he did not like her comments. She decided to internalize her other thoughts, as they would no doubt anger him further. Mabel is Henry’s daughter, no doubt, she thought. And if Charlie’s temperament was at all like mine, perhaps Mabel had met her match.
Mabel had enjoyed breakfast at a quaint tea shop in the eastern part of Bath. A small bowl of porridge and a cup of tea; Mabel wasn’t very hungry. She had other things on her mind. Earlier that week, Mabel had overheard a conversation while on the tram. She enjoyed her rides on the tram. They were new and clean, and she liked to look at and listen to her fellow passengers.
A woman and her daughter, sitting across from Mabel, were talking quietly. Mabel surreptitiously listened in while thinking of her and her mother’s own conversations. The pair appeared wealthy, dressed in the latest fashionable hobble skirts and broad-brimmed hats. However, the nature of their conversation betrayed their exterior.
“Dear, you simply must accept Mr Denton’s proposal.”
“Mother, I don’t love him. He’s old and dull. How could I marry someone so dreary?” The girl was blonde, not very pretty, and slightly resembled Astrid Clark. She looked as if she had already passed her twentieth year and couldn’t afford to turn away suitors.
“He brings in nearly twenty thousand pounds a year! That’s nothing to sneeze at! I’m sure with that sort of money, you’ll find some way to make yourself happy.” The well-intending mother reminded her daughter that these opportunities didn’t present themselves every day. She could consider herself lucky that Mr Denton was interested, especially at her age. If she refused him, she might never receive another offer of marriage. “You don’t want to end up an old-maid schoolteacher, like Aunt Pauline, do you?”
The words echoed in both the daughter’s and Mabel’s ears. An old-maid schoolteacher. How dreadful! The daughter shook her head rapidly, and when she exited the electric tram, Mabel was left with the impression that she would accept Mr Denton’s proposal of marriage.
This eavesdrop gave Mabel much to consider. If she was determined to prove her parents wrong and become an old spinster, perhaps she should adapt her behaviour to that of typical old spinsters. Mabel had made up her mind: she was going to become a school teacher!
Mabel took the tram to the east part of town—this was the morning of Henry Crowley’s outburst—intent on finding out what steps were necessary in order to carry out her master plan. While exploring the area, she’d found a number of schools; one in particular caught her attention: Kingswood School. Although there was no affiliation to King’s School in Bruton, Mabel was drawn to the similar name, recalling her fond memories with Charlie.
Kingswood School was architecturally flat, in exception to the usual peaks of roofs. There was a single column in the centre that reached for the sky; it resembled a castle’s square turret. With little imagination, Mabel could envision royal guards peeking out from the embrasures of the battlements.
Mabel spent the morning conversing with Headmistress Racine, a picture-perfect schoolteacher spinster. Mabel told her of her desire to be a teacher and asked what she might to do realize this goal. Was there training? Was experience needed? Both were preferred, but Mabel seemed so anxious to start her academic career and she’d made a good impression. Headmistress Racine offered her a teaching position on the spot.
“Of course, you’ll have to work your way up the ladder, so to speak,” Headmistress Racine said. “You don’t have the typical qualifications that the majority of our instructors have. This is a prestigious academy.” She lifted her nose in the air and listed some of the well-known families who had enrolled their children in the school. Patrick and Imogene Wallace sent both their sons; the Widow Strenford sent her son; Mr and Mrs Ernest Christophe sent all three daughters . . .
“And,” Miss Racine lifted her upper carriage as she prepared to speak the saintly name, “Mr Hartley—Mr Theodore Hartley himself—will be enrolling his daughter in the infant class next term.”
Mabel’s eyes widened. She had heard of the name Hartley, but she didn’t know the affluent family was living in Bath. The headmistress informed Mabel that she’d be filling a primary teaching position. Since it was an exclusive private school, there were only a few students per grade. Mabel would be in charge of the youngest children, teaching those in the infant class and the one above.
Mabel signed the employment papers presented to her by Miss Racine then hopped on the nearest tram and rode back to her rented flat. For the first time in months, she smiled.
“Father, I can’t wait for you to meet Miss Crowley. I simply can’t wait!”
Four-year-old Irene Hartley waltzed into her father’s study—without knocking, of course—and twirled in a circle in front of his desk.
Theodore Hartley smiled at his little girl and felt the wrinkles around his eyes deepen. She looked so adorable, so happy. For nearly a month, she’d returned home from school bursting with enchanting stories and tidbits about her teacher, Miss Crowley. It was Irene’s first year in school, and Theodore wished her to always enjoy her teachers, to always be so innocent and cheerful. He wondered how many of Irene’s teachers he’d be fortunate enough to meet. Theodore was getting on in years—on the wrong side of fifty—and he hoped he’d live long enough to meet many more Miss Crowley equivalents.
Irene’s dark hair was pulled back at the crown, secured with a pink ribbon and curled at the ends past her shoulders. Her square jaw mirrored her father’s, and her eyes and nose crinkled whenever she sported her ear-to-ear grin.
Theodore pushed his chair back from his desk and patted his lap. Irene skipped round to the other side of the desk and hopped onto her father’s knees. She wrapped her arms about his neck and squealed, “She’s just lovely!”
Theodore leaned his head back and let out a hearty laugh, one that closely resembled a “Ha, ha!”
“I know she’s ‘just lovely’! That’s all you’ve been saying for weeks!” Theodore rose from his chair and lifted Irene into the air.
As they left the study and walked through the house to the main living room, their entrance was preceded by the “Ha, ha!” of the elder and the girlish giggles of the child. Theodore tossed Irene into the air—only a couple of inches, but it felt much higher to Irene—then caught her and tickled her ribs. The play was repeated and repea
ted, and the laughter grew louder and louder; it wasn’t long before baby Harriet was disturbed by the noise.
Mrs Hartley sent a maid to attend to the baby, and then returned to the living room to scold her husband and daughter. They took their punishment very seriously, wearing long faces and staring at the floor. After the brief reproach was finished, Theodore and Irene—in a contest to see who could make the most sorrowful face and the most miserable frown—slowly turned their faces towards one another. The instant they saw what silly facial expression the other wore, they burst into a new fit of laughter. Even louder than the first, Mrs Hartley was forced to leave the living room again and personally soothe the cries of her second child.
“I say, Mother,” Mr Hartley said to his wife, once she had returned from the nursery. “Do you know who we’re meeting tonight?”
Mrs Hartley, every bit as sharp as her husband, took her cue and played her part flawlessly. “We’re meeting someone? I thought we were going to have a quiet evening alone.”
“Mother!” Irene, who had tired herself out from laughter and collapsed on the sofa, somehow found the energy to sit up straight.
“Alice, you forgot? We’re having a dinner guest. A Miss Crayton—Claythorne—Crenna—what was the name again?” Theodore snuck a wink at his wife before turning to his daughter for the answer he already knew.
“Miss Crowley!”
“Crowley? Who is that? I’m sure I don’t know.” Alice Hartley tapped her fingers on her chin. She pursed her lips together to hide her amusement as she saw her daughter squirm with frustration.
When Mabel arrived at Emerson House, Theodore Hartley’s grand estate, she nearly lost control of her bowels. She held onto the iron gate with both hands and pressed her face in between the bars. The three-storey mansion was surrounded by perfectly groomed topiaries, flowers of all varieties, and willow trees to provide shade near the outdoor furniture. Cherub statues and a multi-leveled pond-turned-waterfall were combined to make a welcome display, water shooting from a fountain up into the air and never feeling the pressure of gravity.
A garage had been newly built to the right of the house, and the chauffeur was polishing the hood of an automobile. Mabel had only seen a horseless carriage twice before, never close up. The Model-T Ford was every bit as strange and grand as it seemed in the photographs she’d seen. She couldn’t see in detail whether or not it was English or an imported United States model. Mr Ford made the automobiles in America; the factory in Trafford Park only began assembly earlier in the year. How could Mr Hartley truly own an automobile? Perhaps her eyes were playing tricks on her.
Before Mabel could take in a longer look of the beautifully manicured lawn or the turrets or the royal balconies on the second and third floors, the gatekeeper approached her. He was a silver-haired man who had most likely held his job for decades.
“Miss Crowley, I presume?”
Mabel nodded, and the man opened the gate to allow her on the premises. She followed him up the long dirt path that used to support horses and buggies but now made way for the automobile. Once they had walked up the steps to the front door, the gatekeeper knocked the brass lion head doorknocker twice. He bowed to Mabel then returned to his domain. Not two seconds later, the door opened, and the footman stood on the other side of the threshold.
“Miss Crowley, welcome to Emerson House. If you’ll be so kind as to follow me, I’ll escort you to the sitting room. Mrs Hartley is expecting you.”
Mabel made motion to remove her hat, as the parlour maid was standing beside her. The footman started his escort to the sitting room, and Mabel felt forced to follow him quickly before removing any outer articles of clothing.
On the long walk through the front parlour, Mabel noticed the exquisite furniture cleverly disguised as coat and hat hangers. She caught her reflection in one of the mirrors and realized it must look terribly impolite that she was staring around the room. The walls were lined with ornately framed portraits and photographs; by the looks of them they outlined the Hartley family history. Nearly ten portraits looked as if they were from a different historical period. Mabel didn’t want her gaze to linger for too long, so she tried to tear her eyes away from the pictorial family tree.
“Mrs Hartley, your guest has arrived,” the footman announced once he had reached the entryway to the sitting room. “May I present Miss Crowley.” With a slight bow to Mabel and a larger bow to his mistress, the footman exited the room.
Mrs Hartley stood dramatically from the burgundy chaise longue and extended her arms. She crossed the room to her stunned guest and took her hands gently.
“I’m so pleased to meet you. Irene has given you a glowing recommendation,” Mrs Hartley said, her sweet, shimmering voice announcing her authority as mistress of the manor. “Please.” She gestured behind Mabel.
Mabel stood still for a moment, under the spell of the beauty of her hostess. Mrs Hartley’s petite facial features came together in the centre of her delicate face, and her light hair was curled in the front and swept up the back, braided and coiled. Her dress was tight fitting in the bodice and sleeves, then gently billowed down to the floor. It was dark green, looking every bit as stylish as the photographs Mabel had seen in magazines. She wondered if Mrs Hartley had travelled to Paris and had the dress tailor-made.
Mrs Hartley, the epitome of elegance, didn’t want to call attention to Mabel’s obvious ignorance in etiquette. She hadn’t removed her hat, hadn’t loosened a button of her coat; didn’t she see Liza waiting?
“Liza,” Mrs Hartley addressed the parlour maid and extended a hand to her guest.
Liza approached Mabel. Mabel finally understood and hoped that she hadn’t embarrassed herself beyond repair. Quickly, she extracted her hat pin and lifted her hat from her head.
As Mabel removed her gloves and coat and handed the garments to the obliging Liza, Mrs Hartley took the opportunity to look over her guest. Mabel had worn a broad-brimmed hat with a thick blue ribbon swathed round the crown. Lighter blue ostrich plumes reached from one end to the other, and although it was a perfectly suitable hat, it was clear that she’d purchased it earlier in the year.
Mabel wore a traditional hobble skirt—light blue—with darker blue accents and a white collar and trim on the sleeves. She was prettier in the face than most schoolteachers Mrs Hartley knew, and younger, too.
She’s pretty enough, Mrs Hartley thought. Why has she not married? Mrs Hartley made up her mind that Mabel was a darling girl who, since she was between five and ten years her junior, needed guidance.
“Mr Hartley? Irene, dear!” Mrs Hartley called, once Liza had exited with Mabel’s outer garments.
Perfectly on cue, as if they were hiding just behind the wall and waiting for their summons, Mr Hartley and Irene sauntered into the sitting room. The former was dressed in rich textures; it appeared as though he had never before worn these particular articles of clothing, and also that he was incredibly comfortable in those luxurious clothes. Little Irene wore a sparkling white dress with a crisp, broad square collar. It was very clear that she belonged in high society.
“So, this must be the legendary Miss Crowley.” Mr Hartley took Mabel’s hand, and Mabel tried hard not to blush. He was much older than his wife—at least twice as old—but he seemed to be in perfect health. He had enthusiastic energy, entertained his dinner guest with lively stories, and never tired of playing with his darling daughter.
Irene was a perfect angel and wore an impish grin throughout dinner, as if she was the successful matchmaker of three lonely souls. In the company of Irene’s creators, Mabel tried to settle on which parent the child most resembled. She seemed to be a perfect blend of both: her father’s jaw and colouring, her mother’s smile, nose, and waif-thin structure. Mabel wondered what a daughter produced by she and Charlie would look like.
After dinner, Mrs Hartley took Mabel to the nursery and introduced her to the newest member of the Hartley family: eighteen-month-o
ld Harriet. Only an infant, it was clear that Harriet Hartley took after her father. Her broad nose matched his, and her chin hinted that it would someday grow into a strong, sturdy jaw.
During the post-dinner digestion, the Hartleys and Mabel sat near the bright fire in the sitting room. Mr Hartley discussed his family history, for he knew Mabel was too polite to ask.
Mr Hartley inherited his fortune from his father, who was a main instrument in the railway age of the previous century. In addition to the obscene wealth from his father, Mr Hartley owned properties in eleven cities: London, York, Brighton, Cambridge—an overwhelmed Mabel lost track when he rattled off his assets. Mr Hartley rented out his homes and buildings, and the constant influx of income could have very possibly secured his great-grandchildren’s futures.
The Hartleys recently moved to Bath from Hertfordshire, slightly before Mabel’s holiday with her parents began. For reasons not elaborated, they indicated that the move would be permanent. Irene looked forward to two years of schooling under Mabel’s direction.
Mabel’s call on the Hartleys lasted quite long, but not long enough to be considered rude. When it felt the right time to depart, Mabel—and her hosts—walked through the hallway to the front door. Liza helped Mabel into her coat, and Mabel adjusted her hat in the mirror provided. Mr and Mrs Hartley insisted that George, their First Footman, escort her home. It was dark outside, and it wouldn’t be proper or responsible to let Mabel see herself home.
“This way, Miss,” George said as he led the way to the garage. Mabel held her breath. George held his hand out to the timid lady and helped her climb into the back seat of the Model-T.
Once the engine started, Mabel clung to her seat, staring wide-eyed at her driver. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she murmured. George chuckled and assured his passenger that the automobile was “quite safe” and that he was an expert driver.
It was a short drive, but when George helped Mabel out of the back seat, she was shaking. She could barely stand, and quietly asked if George wouldn’t mind seeing her to her room.
“Of course, Miss.” A true gentleman’s servant to the end, he walked the wobbling Mabel to her room, unlocked the door for her, and closed the door behind him as he left. He was used to this reaction from first-time passengers, but he knew from his fellow servants’ gossip that evening that he had not seen the last of Mabel Crowley.
1912