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Chapter 4: A Meeting With The Wards
“Estelle, Amanda, here is the gentleman I spoke to you of.” Harwell Tusker’s tone was brisk. He had never developed the art of conversation beyond the needs of the immediate with myself or with his wife; I hardly expected him to have managed to acquire it for the benefit of communicating with his two wards. “I’ll leave you to talk. Things to do,” he said as he left us.
The two girls stared at me, aware that they knew me from somewhere but uncertain of where. I hardly expected them to remember our encounter on the train and I saw no reason to dispel their confusion.
Both were dressed for the warm summer’s day with loose smocks of linen in the style favoured by those of an aesthetic disposition, their hems embroidered with flowers (in Amanda’s case) and animals (for Estelle). Their arms were bare: Amanda’s slightly puffy and covered with fair, downy hair; Estelle’s more muscular and tanned. Both wore their pale-blonde hair loose, hanging down to their shoulders.
Estelle cocked her head to one side. “Have we met before, Sir?”
“Yes, we have,” I responded shortly, leaving her to consider when it might have been.
The simple response evidently bothered her. “Then, Sir, you have the advantage of me.”
I assumed that her reaction was intended to provoke an explanation but I continued to hold my confidence. “Yes,” I said, “I believe that I do.”
Throughout this exchange Amanda had looked uncomfortable as though anxious that our discussions should not take on an argumentative aspect. “Please, sister,” she interjected, taking on the role of peacemaker, “it is of no consequence. Let us hear what the gentleman has to say.” She turned towards me. “Uncle Harwell tells us that you have something to say to us.”
“Indeed,” I responded. “Please sit down both of you. Your uncle has asked me to help with ensuring that you make the best possible match as you choose your partner for life,” I turned to look squarely at Estelle, “of whichever gender you believe to be appropriate.” Estelle blushed and looked towards the floor. “Now you may not think this an urgent matter but let me ask you, is this is a matter to which you have given any thought?”
I turned towards Amanda. Her stuttering response told me rather more than her words. “Well, err, perhaps.”
“Of course,” Estelle interjected. “But I suppose that you imagine girls spend all their time pondering how to land some unfortunate man or to be landed by one.”
“Quite the reverse. It is my experience that very little thought is given to how it might be achieved and that rather too much thought is given to the delights of having succeeded. What I have agreed with your uncle is to assist you with the practicalities of achieving your desires in that area. How you benefit from that will be entirely up to you.” This last statement was, perhaps, misleading but as children of the second Victorian era they, of course, had an exaggerated idea of their own freedom of action that it would do me no harm to indulge for the moment.
“Uncle suggested that your approach was rather unorthodox.” Amanda’s curiosity had obviously been aroused.
“It depends on your definition of orthodoxy,” I responded. “For example, would we consider the villainous approaches of Sax Rohmer’s Fu Manchu unorthodox? Or the deviant sexuality of American vaudeville performers?”
The two girls looked at one another in disturbed embarrassment. “What are you?” Estelle snapped.
“I am someone who needs your agreement to what is planned for you. Without your active consent, there is little chance of the success that you are entitled to expect in exchange for what you would undergo.”
“You make it sound like some sort of endurance test.” Amanda leant forward, her embarrassment at my knowing of her interests now overcome by her curiosity as to where our conversation was leading.
“That is one way of thinking of it. Let me be blunt. I think you are entitled to that. I use a range of methods involving restraint, submission and control.” I could see that Amanda was experiencing some measure of arousal at my words and that Estelle, too, was more than intellectually engaged in our conversation. “And my purpose is to enable you to acquire a husband of the standing that would provide you with a comfortable existence.”
“You talk of marriage as if it were some commercial arrangement.” Estelle’s piercing eyes showed how much she disapproved of the concept. “And as though we are in need of assistance.”
“In a world dominated by the needs of commerce, there is no reason to suppose that the marriage bed need be excluded. Also, with your background and in the absence of a dowry, I suspect that a conventional marriage will be difficult to arrange. Also, Miss Estelle, I can assure you that your own interests will be easier to pursue within a marriage that provides you with a socially acceptable framework for your life.” Estelle blushed and dropped her eyes. She suspected, correctly, that I was alluding to her interests in the Sapphic muse. “And, Miss Amanda,” I went on, “it may be that you could realise your fantasies by standing on a corner in Limehouse1 at the dead of night. I would not recommend it. You would be better seeking the fulfilment of your desires in safer waters.” Amanda looked for a moment as if she would object but the moment passed and she simply nodded her head. “Both of you will need to make your way in the world. That may be as independent, working women but I suspect that your upbringing has not equipped either of you for that life. You have both been educated and conditioned to a life of dependency, previously on your parents, now on your guardian and in future on your husbands. Without property, without influence, without an income, you need to follow a path by which these may be gained. The alternative is a harder furrow for a woman these days, I fear. And it is unnecessary. I offer both of you the opportunity to gain a position where your comfort is assured and you are able to pursue your dreams. All that is required is your acceptance of a period of residence at my property in Highgate and the whole-hearted agreement with the use of restraint and corporal punishment in line with an agreement that I will leave with your uncle.”
The two girls sat silent and open mouthed. It was exactly the effect that I had hoped for. By confronting them with the reality of their situation, they had little option but to embrace my offer as the way in which to make the best of it.
“Do you really expect us to agree with this monstrous proposal?” Estelle got to her feet. Amanda reached out to pull her back.
“I think, Miss Estelle, that when you have given it consideration you will see that it represents the best way forward for you and your sister. But, of course, the decision is yours. You will wish to discuss it with your uncle. He will let me know your decision. And, now, I will wish you good day.”
I left the two girls staring at me as I withdrew from the room and sought out Harwell. He was busy at his desk, tapping away at the sender of his personal telegraph machine. He claimed it more convenient than having to depend on the Post Office telegraph boys, finding it valuable to be able to be in immediate contact with his business associates. He used it sufficiently to have developed a fluency in the Morse code, but I fear if I had such a device the sending would be so slow and inaccurate as to negate any benefit of having it in my own home. Besides, it has been my experience that there is always a passing telegraph boy in Highgate if I needed to send an urgent message.
“How did they take it?” Harwell looked up from his sender. There was a moment’s pause and the machine started to click. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.” He turned back to the apparatus, listening closely to the dits and dahs of a response to his original message, scribbling the letters that the sounds represented onto a pad beside the machine. At length, the clattering stopped and Harwell turned back to me.
“I think as well as I might have hoped. I suggest that you leave them for the evening to their own thoughts. Provide them with a copy of the agreement after dinner this evening and suggest that they consider it before lunch time tomorrow. If all is as I suspect, you will be able to tap something out to me on that device,” I nodded towards his home telegraph, “by two o’clock at the very latest.”
It was as I anticipated. In fact, his response arrived shortly before noon. A telegraph boy knocked on my door. “Approval unequivocal,” the telegram read. “Agreements signed. Advise next steps. Thanx. H.” My pleasure at being proven correct was a little leavened by Harwell’s absurd use of the letter x but I was able to advise the telegraph boy of my reply there and then. “Well done. Please meet me at the Institute tomorrow at 11:00. I have arranged to meet with the President in the expectation of consent.”
The boy scuttled off with all the speed that I have come to expect of our diligent postal staff. The telegraph had disturbed me in the midst of a disciplinary session for Arianna which had unfortunately left her, buttocks upturned over a punishment bench, for a good half hour. I returned to my labours feeling encouraged that I would indeed be able to help Harwell Tusker’s wards.
© Freddie Clegg 2012
1 A sordid corner of the capital renowned for its Opium Dens and low-life haunts. Those unfamiliar with the geography of our Capital are encouraged to explore the helpful Map, included at the end of this tale.
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