A Lady's Guide to Fortune-Hunting(4)
‘Are you quite sure that you understood Aunt Dorothy’s letter correctly?’ she whispered now, finally taking heed of Kitty’s repeated rebuke not to share their private business with the entire carriage.
‘How else could it be understood?’ Kitty hissed back, not a little irately. She sighed, calmed her voice, and explained again with a passable imitation of patience. ‘Aunt Dorothy knew Mama when they both worked at the Lyceum Theatre. They were very close – Mama used to read her letters aloud to us, do you remember? I wrote asking for her help, and Aunt Dorothy has offered to introduce us to London society.’
Cecily harrumphed.
‘And how can you be sure that Aunt Dorothy is a respectable woman, with good Christian morals? We might be walking into a den of iniquity for all you know!’
‘I must say, I do not think the time you have been spending with the vicar has done you any good at all,’ Kitty told her severely. Privately, though, she too harboured a few fears about Aunt Dorothy, though Mama had always insisted she was very respectable. But it would do no good to confide in Cecily, when Aunt Dorothy truly was their only option. ‘Aunt Dorothy is the only person of our acquaintance with a residence in London. Papa’s family are all on the Continent now – not that they would have helped us anyway – and she was kind enough to pay for our travel, too. We cannot turn up our noses at her aid.’
Cecily still looked unconvinced, and Kitty leant back into the seat with a sigh. Both of them would have preferred Beatrice to accompany Kitty on this mission, but at the end of Aunt Dorothy’s letter had been a clear instruction: Bring your prettiest sister. And as Beatrice was currently – by her own admission – half girl, half forehead, and Cecily was the possessor of a sweet prettiness very much contrary to her sulky nature, she was the obvious choice. That she was also a complete bore, Kitty hoped would not matter. Kitty comforted herself with the thought that Beatrice was a far better person with whom to leave the management of the house and the younger girls, under the watchful eye of the vicar’s wife. If it had been Cecy in her stead, by the time they returned there would be no house left to save.
‘I still think our efforts would be better spent finding honest, gainful employment,’ Cecily was now saying. ‘With my education, I would make a very fine governess.’
There was a pause while Kitty considered the horror of placing the responsibility of the family’s finances in Cecily’s hands.
‘Be that as it may,’ Kitty said in a low, careful voice, ‘the going rate for a governess is not more than five and thirty pounds a year. Not nearly enough, I’m afraid. My marrying someone rich really is the quickest way out of our mess.’
Cecily opened her mouth – presumably about to utter another judgemental but entirely useless comment – but before she could they were interrupted by a small boy in the forward seat telling his mother loudly, ‘Mama, we’re here!’
And sure enough, peering out of the window, they could see London’s great sprawl on the horizon, long plumes of smoke trailing into the sky above it like beacons. Kitty had heard so many tales of London, which had been spoken of wistfully by her parents like a great friend they had lost. They had told her of its height and breadth, of its beauty and regality, of its bustle and opportunity – the queen of cities, they had called it. Kitty had long desired to see it for herself, this alien country that seemed to be the first love – and real home – of both her parents. And as they began to trundle through the city in earnest, her first impression of it was … dirty. With soot everywhere, smoke billowing from chimneys high above, horse droppings left in the street. Dirty and – and messy, with streets crashing into each other rudely, before zigzagging off in another direction. Buildings teetering at bizarre angles – buildings that were not always square, or rectangular, but haphazardly drawn, as if by a child. And it was bustling, yes, but loudly – so loudly! With the incessant sound of wheels and hooves clacking over pavements, yells from street peddlers, and a sense of hurry hurry hurry all around them. It was loud, and messy, and dirty, demanding of attention and respect and so very—
‘Magnificent,’ she breathed. ‘Cecily, we’re here at last.’
At Piccadilly, they swapped the stagecoach for a hackney cab, which took them to Aunt Dorothy’s residence on Wimpole Street. Kitty could not yet tell the difference between fashionable and unfashionable boroughs in London, but was pleased that, though Aunt Dorothy’s street was not nearly as grand as some of the lofty mansions they had passed, it seemed sufficiently well-to-do to spare her any blushes. The cab halted in front of a narrow town house, squashed in between two others, and after Kitty had parted with a precious coin, they walked up the steep steps, and knocked. The door was answered by a housemaid with bright red hair – how thrilling to see that Aunt Dorothy had actual servants – and they were taken up to a small parlour containing their honorary aunt.
Despite Kitty’s careless dismissal of Cecily’s doubts on the journey, she had harboured a secret fear that they might be greeted by a heavily made-up female, complete with a comical wig, a bawdy laugh and damp petticoats, which would not at all do for what Kitty had in mind. She was relieved, then, to see a striking woman of fashion within, her generous figure encased neatly in a morning dress of dove grey. Her brown locks were uncovered, but the informal style suited her – there was a cunning glint to her eye which woul ill-suit a sedate bonnet or widow’s cap. Aunt Dorothy rose from her chair. She stood still, surveying them for a moment from under dramatically dark brows. Kitty and Cecily held their breath, both quite uncharacteristically nervous. Then – a smile. She held out two bejewelled hands.