Better Than Byron

Meeting the Master

I

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

-Lord Byron

London, 1817

At the Thurlow Academy for Young Ladies, Margaret Doria Vickers, the spectacled headmistress, began putting away her painting-things as the clock in the hall struck twelve. The proprietor of the establishment would be arriving in another half hour, and it was her solemn duty to receive him. Margaret's head was not overflowing with fantasy, so she did not feel the urge to ornament herself abundantly. Her dress was a flowing, grey, high-waisted morning-gown of the humblest appearance.

After storing all of her supplies back into their designated places, she glanced at herself in the mirror on the wall, as even the most sensible of women have a touch of vanity in them. Her straight chocolate hair was arranged in a tight bun with a straight fringe covering her large forehead. She wore silver metal spectacles, round as moons, and her complexion, though sallow, was not altogether contemptible.

She did not pluck her eyebrows to fine arches, but kept them in long, thick bands over her large and softly lit black eyes, which were occasionally illuminated by flickers of delight. Although the expression contained within them could be sweet, she was rather tight-lipped, her nose was irregular, and her brow intellectual – she was a bluestocking, as some called strong-minded women with an appetite for scholastic pursuits. Margaret Doria Vickers was no great beauty, but at least she was perfectly indifferent to the deficiency of conventional charm in her looks.

She glimpsed the mantel-clock. It was ten past twelve. What would she do until Mr. Thurlow arrived? She paced the room restlessly, when finally one of the maids of the establishment popped her head into the parlour and announced the master's arrival.

"Very good, Maria," she nodded. "You may send him in. I am ready to receive him." Miss Vickers was a very strait-laced person, and when Mr. Thurlow entered, he was somewhat amused by her determined look of sobriety. A more proper lady could not be met with in all of London.

As to Mr. Thurlow, he was a tall, lean gentleman of thirty who had rather the appearance of an aristocrat. I will not say that he was handsome, for the word generally lifts the reader's imagination to the very height of exaggeration; so I will venture to describe his features as best I can without embellishing them. He had rather theatrical lineaments, and a patrician's air and address, but then there was something almost rebellious in the expression of the sharp, dark eye, and in the mould of the wide and flexible mouth. She perceived something inconsistent and emotionally loose in him – as though he were constantly leaping from one emotion to the other, uncertain of which to project, and with what amount of force.

And yet, as dissimilar as they were in essence, something in their eyes indicated that they were carved out of the same stone.

Margaret curtsied, receiving a curt bow in return. "Welcome, Mr. Thurlow," she said with a subdued smile. "How did you find your journey to London?"

"Exceptionally displeasing, Miss Vickers," he retorted with a bare disregard for common civility. Yet there was no crudeness in his tongue or manner – he was a thoroughly polished man, and the only offsetting thing about him was that he appeared to scorn his own polish. He seemed to delight in contradicting himself.

"How do you like the school, sir?" Margaret posed quietly.

"What? Oh yes, the school! It is a pretty place," he replied sardonically.