Page 10 of A Study in Scarlet Women
“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?”
Livia blinked several times. “I take it you won’t.”
“Those wouldn’t be bad odds at all if we were at a horse race. And they aren’t such terrible odds if we consider that the prize is decades of contented companionship. My problem lies with the stake I’m required to put up: my entire lifetime. Not to mention, unless I bury my husband or divorce him, I can play only once. And of course if I were to divorce my husband, my parents can never show their faces anywhere again—I’ll have effectively done them in, too. So, no. Given the exorbitant costs and constraints, I am not willing to take this gamble.”
She tugged at Livia. Belatedly, Livia realized that they’d come to a stop some time ago and that she stood in the way of an oncoming dogcart. She allowed Charlotte to guide her to the edge of the dirt lane and nodded mechanically at the village doctor who drove past, tipping his hat.
“I take it you plan to wait for your twenty-fifth birthday, then thumb your nose at society and go to school,” she said, when they resumed walking again.
“More or less. Papa asked me to make a good-faith effort to let a man sweep me off my feet and I’ve agreed. But I don’t know why he thinks I’ll weigh contributing factors differently when I’m off my feet. Sometimes I feel I must conclude that Papa doesn’t know me at all.”
That was a deduction that needed no comment. It was Livia’s opinion that Sir Henry still viewed Charlotte as an amusing oddity—or at least still hoped she’d return to being such if he ignored her radical thinking long enough. And it certainly didn’t help matters that Charlotte looked as she did, so emphatically, and one might even say extravagantly feminine, all rotundity and softness, not a sharp angle anywhere.
“Well,” said Livia, “I’ve heard that kissing does affect a lady’s thinking.”
“I’ve been kissed. It’s very nice, but I—”
“What?Who kissed you? When? And where?”
“It was several years ago. But I’ve pledged to never divulge the gentleman’s name—which means I also can’t tell you where the kiss took place, since that would narrow the list of likely candidates.”
Several years ago?Charlotte would have been only thirteen or fourteen at the time. “You never said a thing!”
“You never asked.”
