A Trip to North Yorkshire

Introductions

     Sitting in the drawing room, I muster up the strength to put on a tense smile. "It's - it's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Clarke. We've been . . . looking forward to this."

      She turns her little, tight face to me. "It's nice to have some company." Small talk seems almost inappropriate after having seen her spewing tears only about half an hour before.

     Her maid, Beatrice, has fetched some sandwiches and tea, which Rose has been quietly sipping next to me and which I have not touched. William has retired to his bedroom to digest the news. The drawing room boasts far more wealth than our home in America, with rich, embroidered velvet cushions, ornate tables, and a fantastically large arched window on the wall across from me, looking out on a lush side garden spotted with stout cherry trees and sun-warmed branches. The room itself is a considerably sized square, and Mrs. Clarke compliments it's pale blue color with a matching dress complete with ruffled hems and classic details. Their house reeks of money.

     During our silent pause, Mrs. Clarke tries to regian her composure. She sits up, sniffs, and pushes a damp strand of hair from her face. "I hear you've come to join us for the same reason we moved here. For wealth, and to avoid . . . that disrespect we got in America. Well, I'm sure you'll be just as successful during your season as Margaret was. She's all married off and living in London."

     I wince inwardly. I will not be moving to London with any husband. Rose may be. 

     There is another moment of silence before she adds, "I wrote your father about Mr. Clarke."

      I nod, and then she continues, "Unknowing of this awful occurance, I had planned your first season banquet - for tonight. I'm sorry you're so unprepared, but I'm afraid we'll be entertaining guests this evening."

      The silent Rose sits up a little straighter, and I curse inside my head.

       "Beatrice, will you show these girls to their rooms? Ladies, there are clothes upstairs. I suggest you ready yourselves, and my apologies." 

     With this abrupt dismissal, I find myself walking up a curved, wooden flight of stairs with Rose, following a plump servant woman and wondering what i've gotten into. 

     Beatrice, flushed and huffing, shows me into a small room with simple yet elegant furniture, a four-poster bed, and blue bedding, lace doilies scattered about, and periwinkle floral wall paper. James has already carried my stuffed trunk of clothes and books up, and it rests in a meticulously dusted corner. Rose is led to another small room adjoined to mine by a curved wooden door, hers identical but with a creamy, butter yellow color for her bedding and wallpapering. I can tell that she's pleased, but she would have been happier if we had not received the unsettling news of Clarke's death.

     I nod to Beatrice. With a "M'lady," she turns, shuts the door quietly behind her, and proceeds downstairs. 

     Rose closes the connecting door and begins rummaging through the assortment of fine dresses Mrs. Clarke supplied us with in her bureau, and I hear her trying them on. I begin unpacking my trunk, hanging clothes up in the bureau next to the gowns from the Clarkes, and stacking books up on my nightside table. I position a rectangular portrait of Rose and I when we were young, which Mother had painted for us years ago. All this is interrupted periodically by Rose's gibberish, "How many gentlemen will show up tonight?" and "Do you think lavender or silver suits me better?" I respond with appreciative grunts. 

     When I'm done, I pull out a few of Mrs. Clarke's dresses. I decide on a simple dark blue one, pulling off a paper attachment reading "Paris". I strip off my old red skirts and use a washbasin in the corner to give myself a much-overdue cleansing. Once I'm dry enough I pull on the new dress, for jewelry wearing only a silver necklace I wore from New York. Mrs. Clarke has supplied me with some black shoes, and I pull my hair back. There. Acceptable for a banquet, but not enough to attract     any male attention.

     Sitting on my bed now, I begin to wonder Mr. Clarke's reason for suicide. Was he upset with his situation? Not rich enough? Something tells me not - the Clarke's earned a surplus of wealth from Margaret's marriage. Was he put up to it, then? Was he drunk?

     Interrupting me, Rose bursts in. "Alice, it's five o' clock. The dinner should be beginning soon." I smile at my sister, thinking inwardly how silly she looks in a frivolous purple gown with unnecessary tiers. "It's the newest fashion," she explains hurriedly.

     As if she's heard us, Mrs. Clarke appears outside the ajar door. She's remarkably pulled together for someone who's lost her husband hours ago. Her face, though, is still pinched and bloated. "Girls, I won't be joining you tonight, but I hope you have a nice time. William is recovered enough to welcome the guests, and you should go down." She pauses momentarily, as if nervous, and then says, "I'm sorry this came up so unexpectedly. It's hard on us all." The tiny woman silently steps away, moving down the hallway and disappearing behind a white door. 

    "Shall we go down, then?" I ask Rose reluctantly, and she nods. The night has begun.