A Study in Scarlet Women (Lady Sherlock #1)(9)
Livia was half envious of this response her little sister evoked from the gentlemen and half . . . mournful. Who was this girl swaddled in flounces, who put honey on her face and coconut oil in her hair? What had happened to the Charlotte Livia remembered, that noted odd duck who was the only person with whom Livia felt comfortable, the only person Livia trusted?
And then, the day before they were to leave for London for their first Season together, Charlotte said to Livia, “I spoke with Papa today.”
They were walking in the fields on the outskirts of the village. The day was sunny but still cool. The countryside was a fresh, sparkling green. And Charlotte’s cream-colored dress, dainty with lace and passementerie, offered an impossibly pretty contrast against this backdrop of brightly lit nature.
Livia was feeling downhearted at the likelihood that the new Charlotte would swim in proposals by the end of the Season. Livia’s chances on the matrimonial mart were nowhere as favorable. She was a misanthrope—rare was the man or woman who didn’t deeply disappoint her. That was bad enough for a young lady, but to make matters even worse she was a misanthrope who didn’t know how to pretend not to be one.
If Charlotte were to accept a proposal, Livia would be left all alone at home.
She sighed. “What did you and Papa talk about?”
“Do you remember the day we met Mr. Cumberland? I said I didn’t want to marry.”
“You told Papa you don’t want to marry today, right before we are to leave for London?”
“No, I spoke to him the day after we met Mr. Cumberland.”
Livia blinked. That would have been five years ago.
“I told him I did not think the institution of marriage would suit me very well. I said I wished to look into other means of livelihood.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said that he believed I was too young to make any permanent decisions. He encouraged me to look into aspects of being a girl that I hadn’t explored at the time—fashion, etc.—to experience more fully the traditional path for a woman before I rejected it altogether.”
This sounded shockingly reasonable and wise—Livia could scarcely believe they were talking about Sir Henry.
“I did as he asked. As it turns out, fashion is rather enjoyable. And so is talking to people—amazing how much they’ll tell you if you only inquire. And I imagine there should be something interesting to a London Season as well. But none of it changed my mind about marriage, since none of it changed the economic and political equation that is marriage. I do not like the idea of bartering the use of my reproductive system for a man’s support—not in the absence of other choices.”
Livia’s eyes bulged. The old Charlotte had never gone anywhere; she’d been but reupholstered in fine muslin and a jauntily angled hat! Livia was ashamed that this simple camouflage had fooled her completely.
“And you told him that?”
“That he already knows. What I told him today was that I’d settled on a choice of career: I believe I will make a fine headmistress at a girls’ school. If I achieve that position at a reputable school, I can earn as much as five hundred pounds a year.”
Livia sucked in a breath. “That much?”
“Yes. But I cannot become a headmistress overnight. I must attend school, undertake the required training, and then work my way up the ranks. I asked Papa to foot the expenses until I can pay him back.”
“And he is amenable to it?”
“Our agreement is that I will wait until I’m twenty-five. If by then I still haven’t found anyone I wish to marry, then yes, he will sponsor my schooling.”
Livia was flabbergasted. “I can’t believe it.”
“He gave his word as a gentleman.”
A man’s word was no trifling matter, so Livia shook her head. She supposed she must believe now that Sir Henry had made a serious promise. “But it’ll be a long time before you turn twenty-five, almost eight years. Anything could happen in the meanwhile. You could fall in love.”
“That’s what Papa is counting on, no doubt. But romantic love is . . . I don’t wish to say that romantic love itself is a fraud—I’m sure the feelings it inspires are genuine enough, however temporary. But the way it’s held up as this pristine, everlasting joy every woman ought to strive for—when in fact love is more like beef brought over from Argentina on refrigerated ships: It might stay fresh for a while under carefully controlled conditions, but sooner or later its qualities will begin to degrade. Love is by and large a perishable good and it is lamentable that young people are asked to make irrevocable, till-death-do-we-part decisions in the midst of a short-lived euphoria.”
Livia’s jaw hung open. She, too, had doubts about love and marriage, but they centered largely around her fear of coming across as arrogant and off-putting to potential suitors—and on whether she’d be able to choose better than Lady Holmes had. It had yet to occur to her to form large-scale judgments on the entire system.
“But what about the Cummingses? They’ve been married thirty years and they’re still happy with each other.”
“And there are the Archibalds and the Smalls, too. But we mustn’t be sentimental about the success of those marriages. We must look at it mathematically, the number of long-term happily married couples in proportion to all married couples. By my estimation that comes to less than twenty percent among our acquaintances. Will you bet on that kind of odds?”