March went out like a lamb, and the last batch of Elizabeth's fabric came into the shop. On our last afternoon in Godersham, the ladies – me included - all piled into Mr. Fale's open-aired carriage (the name for which I still hadn't mastered; barouches, phaetons, carriages, uhg, too many terms!) and went into town to fetch it. The roads were a mess of mud, or else we would have walked.
It was my first time off the Gale property. Not that I was a shut-in or anything, it's just that between my aversion to water and my newfound fear of the snow, it seemed wiser to stay inside where there was company, food, and a good fire. So I spent a lot of the trip huddling down into the brown jacket and the blue calico dress, which we had just finished trimming the night before, and marveling at the way the countryside was pushing up into green, fresh life. I shaded my eyes and wished I had sunglasses, or failing that, one of the ridiculous poke bonnets that all of the other women were wearing.
The trees that had been black and skeletal when Francis and I had first come down this road were now light brown, their bark drying out, their fingers covered over with tiny green buds. The snow had melted down into tiny wet patches and vast glittering puddles bordered with tentative shoots of hopeful grass.
I took deep breaths of the still sharp air, swallowing the scents of life and water and green, the wood smoke on the breeze and the rich scent of barnyard upwind. My lungs did not catch, my sickness long gone, and my hand, still hidden in my glove, did not ache in the sunlight. The world around me was fresh, reborn, alive, and I couldn't help but feel the same, warmth deep in my belly. The numb, angry, miserable person I had been the last time I had passed through this landscape, as cold and grey as the world had been around me, had changed to match the new season. I felt like I was awake again, for the first time since I'd boarded that awful plane.
I reached with my left hand and laid it over Margaret's. "I'm glad you're my friend," I whispered to her, and felt a funny little twist in my guts when she smiled back. It was a ridiculously sentimental thing to say, but it's what I was feeling in the moment.
The town of Godersham, when we arrived, was far smaller and a great deal more quaint than I had expected. Frankly, I wasn't sure what I had been hoping for – towering Victorian brown stones? Tumbledown medieval cottages? A combination of both? But the city was paved, the houses neatly aligned and leading in procession to a church on one end, and a square with shops on the other. We dismounted in front of the fabric shop, and filed inside. Elizabeth bustled importantly over to the clerk and they began inspecting the bolts that had been brought in, speaking loudly and excitedly about the upcoming nuptials, less, I think, for the benefit of the clerk and more to rub it in with the other ladies in the shop.
Women could be vultures, I knew, and I couldn't help but laugh at Elizabeth's vicious enthusiasm. I wandered away to browse through racks of silks and cottons that I could never afford to own in this age, and could never do anything with if I had the money to buy them. I marveled at the intensity of some of the colors. In my mind, the past was painted in pale watercolors. I'd always imagined that modern technology was what gave us such a saturated spectrum of fabric, but I could see that the clothing had been just as vibrant in 1806 as in the twenty first century. Considerably less neon, though.
Margaret found me staring at the ribbons lined up on their spools on the shelf.
"It's funny," I said. "I've never been a girly-girl."
Margaret snorted, a distinctly un-delicate mode of conveying disbelief that I was pretty sure she had picked up from me. It was endearing.
"I mean, one of those girls who curls their hair and paints their nails and wears lace. I liked the way I used to, er, dress. But I'm standing here, now, and I can't help but covet the pretty ribbons and the delicate lace. My hair is longer than it's been in ten years, and I actually want this stuff. It's freaking me out a little."
"Women are naturally competitive creatures," Margaret said, indicating Elizabeth's loud exclamations with a chin jerk and a grin. "Your field of competition has changed, but not the game, Miss Jessie. We all regard each other as potential rivals for our livings, for our husbands. Even if there are some of us who have no desire for it." She reached out and started inspecting the spool right in front of her, the same shade of blue as my dress.
I narrowed my eyes sharply and studied Margaret's face. No, she hadn't meant what I ... I hadn't heard what I thought I had.
I hadn't told Margaret about Miss Martin, or my own personal proclivities towards sexual preferences back in the twenty first century. I hadn't told her where I was from, or when. So no, there was no reason for me to think that... no.
Margaret Goodenough had not just come out to me.
Margaret didn't even know what "out" meant.
I was just being... stupid.
Grafting my desires, the way I missed being out of the closet myself onto her.
It meant...
It meant absolutely nothing.
* * *
The next morning, the trunks were packed. I folded my jeans, my tee shirt, my other dress and my ID cards into a bundle. Then Mrs. Goodenough, Rose, Margaret and I began our tedious journey back to Bath.
As we traveled, Rose regaled me with the history of the town, its start as a pagan place of worship, the health benefits of the spa, the social circles that it drew. Bath was a fashionable place to be ill, and I quietly resolved not to go anywhere near the swirling cesspools of brewing disease that had to be the bathing rooms, no matter how much anyone tried to persuade me. I knew for a fact that there would be no chlorine, no water filters, no bleach, and no hygienic change rooms. As if I was going to sit in the water with a person with open sores, or syphilis, or consumption. It was a wonder that people got better in Bath at all, and not more ill. Perhaps the spring was magical, like the ancient Romans believed, after all.
Godersham and Bath were practically on opposite ends of the country. England wasn't that wide, when you take into account that the whole of the United Kingdom would be dwarfed in Ontario, my home province, let alone the entirety of Canada. Yet, by carriage it still took us the better part of the week, resting at inns when we came to them and sleeping crunched together in a single room to save money. I always slept on the colder outside, Margaret beside me. I gave into the temptation to touch one springing curl at the back of her neck on the second night, but quickly drew back when she sighed in her sleep.
God, what was wrong with me?
Margaret was quick, and sweet, and a freaking great listener, but beyond that she had someone she loved at home. And she certainly wasn't out, not the way I knew it. It wasn't as if I could drag her off to the dark corner of a bar and run my hand up her arm and hope for the best. And I couldn't even, you know, straight up ask her on a date.
Margaret as a person, in all the small intimate ways that you find out about when you're spending time with someone with intent, was still a mystery to me. I knew she preferred wildberry preserves over clotted cream, and just a very small dash of milk in her tea, that she wore more dark olive and plum than the more pastel shades that unmarried women were supposed to be confined to, and she wore muslin caps indoors mostly avoid having to brush out and style her hair in the morning. She wrote between the dawn and when the second person in the household woke and always came to breakfast with a wild grin and flushed cheeks.
Maybe when we got to Bath and the weather was better, Margaret could open the windows and I could sit beside her while I was hunched over an embroidering frame, and we could both smell the flowers as we--
Great. Now I was doing the baby duckling thing again; the first person to treat me with any compassion after I lost the first becomes the new object of my ridiculous domestic fantasies.
Margaret Goodenough was not going to be my Francis rebound. She was not.
I rolled over and wrapped my arms around myself and didn't get any sleep at all that night. The next day I napped in the carriage, and made a point of not touching Margaret. We ate dinner at yet another inn and I kept my grabby hands to myself and during the next day I marveled how the world got greener and greener the further west we drove. By the time we made it to Bath the forest climbing up the hills that closed in the city on all sides was bright, sunny green, casting lime and emerald shadows over the yellow sandstone walls of the buildings, the walkways, the roads. Bath was a marvel of uniformity, long clean lines, straight thoroughfares that all led up to the top of a hill where the Circus, a roundel of the most important homes faced one another across a circular park and through the branches of a thick ancient oak.
The death of Mr. Goodenough had removed the family from their home in that area, and the driver turned away from the road that led up to the Circus, affording me just one quick glance of the mighty tree, the stately houses, and down to Cheap Street. A serving man met us at the door, a maid had tea ready, and that was the entirety of the Goodenough household.
As I did my one-handed best to help the maid lug the trunks up to the family bedrooms, I looked around at the sparse furnishings, the quality of the drapery and decorations. All the money they had, it seemed, went towards keeping their wardrobes up to the level of outside expectations, the staff shod and fed, and food into their own bellies.
I was put into the maid's room with her – a Miss Brown, this time. There was room enough for two trundle cots and our sparse things. Miss Brown took care of the household chores in terms of cleaning, tea-making, and some of the more arduous food preparation, like making preserves, going to the shops, and maintaining the kitchen garden. Mr. Thomson the manservant ran errands, drove coaches, served at the table, and did the sorts of repairs and business that were considered out of style for a woman. Once a week an outside cook came in to make Sunday dinner for family and staff alike.
Already I could see myself spending more time in the kitchen, and looked forward to it. Mrs. Goodenough surely would appreciate not having to do most of the kitchen duties herself, and despite my injury, I was learning to become rather more dexterous with a knife in my left hand.
I only wondered how it was, exactly, they were going to be able to afford having another person in the house. Luckily, unlike Miss Brown and Mr. Thomson, Francis and I worked it out so I wasn't going to be drawing down wages in return for the favor of not kicking my ass out onto the street, alone and without protection. So the only expense I was going to incur was food. I resolved to more than make up for this by being the companion that Francis said the Goodenoughs needed: the friend who shared in the chores and brought smiles to faces and could act as chaperone and confidante and, in the case of Margaret, sounding board.
On our first night in Bath, I scrounged together enough leftover cold meats, a pot of mustard, cheese and bread to completely screw with the timeline and introduce open faced ruben melts to the household (which required careful use of the bread oven and a steady hand with the paddle), and realized that I was going to have to learn how to bake bread and make pasta. I'd yet to have a good bowl of spaghetti anywhere, and my realization was followed by a sudden craving. Crap.
After dinner, the Goodenoughs went their separate ways, quite sick of each others' company after being crammed together in the carriage, and Margaret and I had the minuscule parlor to ourselves. I poured her an indulgent tot of sherry and Margaret said, softly, "It is not, perhaps, what you expected?"
"No," I admitted. "But I get it. Money's tight and none of you are making any."
"Rose and I tutor, where we can," Margaret admitted, but she was still cringing, a little. "It is... not embarrassing, but perhaps slightly uncomfortable, knowing how we used to live, which circles we have in the past been acquainted with." Margaret made a disparaging sound. "We should have moved to this house sooner, but my mother would not hear of it. It ... ate into a great deal more of our savings than was wise."
"Don't be embarrassed, Margaret," I said. "I really do understand."
I mean, the student ghetto hadn't been my favorite place to live, either.
Margaret set down her tea cup and picked up a leather-bound sheaf of loose leaf paper from under her chair. "I," she began, then stopped and took a breath, and started again. "I would be honored if you would read this."
I reached out and took the pages. "What is it?" I asked.
"A manuscript."
I eyed her, wondering if this was her attempt to use my knowledge of the future to better her chances of getting published, or if she was just genuinely interested in sharing it with me. For the moment, it seemed to be the latter. I untied the side of the folder, and lifted away the leather cover.
The first page was blank except for two neat, clear words written in black ink by a steady hand:
Letters Across the Sea
"Will you read it?" she asked, and for the first time I saw her bite her lip, and display other outward signs of nervousness: fidgeting fingers, a slight blush. This really meant something to her. "I... I am aware that it requires revision. But after all of our, ah, conversations, I think perhaps you will have a greater understanding of what I am attempting to achieve. I would very much treasure your opinion of it, if you will forgive that I have only just finished it and not had the opportunity to go back and rewrite."
"Of course I will," I said, leaning forward to take the folio. She turned her face to mine and I realized, with a sudden, gut-deep jolt, that I was close enough to kiss her. It would be easy; all I had to do was lean forward. I blinked hard.
Margaret's smile slid away, as if she, too, suddenly realized how close we were sitting, how we were breathing each other's air. I dropped my eyes to her mouth, open slightly, lips parted and ready. Plush.
No.
I stood up, quickly, and grabbed the manuscript.
"I'll read it," I said. "Tonight. Right now. Yes." And fled the room with far less dignity than I would have preferred.
* * *
I didn't want to annoy my new roommate, so I took the manuscript into the kitchen. There was a wooden chair beside the fireplace. I stoked up the embers, put a kettle of water on the rail above the fire to keep the room from getting too dry, and tried to settle down to read.
I was too agitated, shot up out of the chair and put the sheaf of papers on the butcher block and paced in a circle. Jesus. Jesus. Three more seconds I might have kissed her, kissed Margaret Goodenough, and why? Why?
Because I was lonely? Desperate? Because she was as close to Francis as I was ever going to get? Because I still suffered from this strange sort of PTSD Stockholm thing about him? Because I think she had come out to me while we both were feeling up ribbon? Because she was a woman alone in a world that didn't get her, and so was I?
No. No, I was being stupid. I was being horny and stupid and lonely and I was not. I forced myself back into the chair, breathing deeply and running my hands through my hair until I was calmer, and the light of the fire was high enough to read by. I grabbed the manuscript and opened it up.
At first, I didn't understand why the story was so familiar.
It was told through letters, a brother and a sister corresponding back and forth about the daily toil on a ship that carried mail and passengers between Cardiff, Wales and St. John's Newfoundland. About travels, romance, marriage, and woe. There was a section about a woman on board the brother's ship, who had appeared so suddenly in the book I wondered if it was a new addition Margaret hadn't managed to go back and insert yet, or if it was meant to be a plot twist. It seemed that the sister was no anxious for her brother, who, it seemed, to be falling in love with his passenger so far away, and whom the sister couldn't caution him against.
And then, the sister too was in romantic danger. Here was the overly flattering, over-dressed terror of a man that every lady feared, only made buffoonish, embarrassing, safe. Margaret had recreated him in such a way that his faults were obvious and self-condemning and hilarious. This was Mr. Lewis, the tyrant of London, the man I had barely, through the intervention of Francis and a kindly Reverend, escaped a marriage with. Only he was a clown, all his anger and threat reduced to pathetic self flattery. I had told her all about what had really happened, and she'd put it here, on the page, but softened it. Showed for the childish, entitled ridiculousness that it was.
And then, somewhere around the midpoint of the book, the letters stopped. The novel was suddenly written in the third person. Margaret had changed tack, decided to ditch the letters and simply tell the story.
Like the clacking of a clock, gears and pulleys fell into place and suddenly the whole of the story opened up for me. The reason I hadn't recognized it before, despite the names, was because the plot was different. In the epistolary version, there was no Mr. Coopers hounding Mary, no threatening catty Evangeline to rival the engagement of Jane to her brother. The seaman brother took on a personality, returned to land and sought out his sister. He was now recognizable as William, who had refused to participate in the mutiny and fled press gangs. There were wind-swept coast lines and dark cottages, whispered oaths and ghost shawls, scenes that I had watched unfold before, dialogue that I knew in the way that everyone knew famous, quotable lines.
This was a story I knew. This was, unmistakably, The Welshman's Daughters.
And here was a note about women being self sufficient, here was an added line where Jane mourns the dependence upon marriage that a woman in her place in society feels; here some dialogue about how if only womanly affection held the regard and respect of the poets as romantic. All over the manuscript I saw these notations, scribbled corrections, hastily jotted half-scenes that did not match the epistolary form of the first draft of the novel.
I thought of evenings spent in conversation with Margaret, her thorough and thoughtful questioning, of mornings coming to breakfast with ink splattered on her finger tips, graphite smudges on her hands and cheeks.
I saw myself scattered throughout the manuscript, feminism and the women's liberation movement sprinkled like confetti in between the lines, a commentary on morality and religion and the importance of affection in marriage edited onto every page. Every night time conversation we hand, where I had tried so hard to hide who I was and where - when - I had come from while not compromising my own morals, was screaming back at me in Margaret's elegant looping hand.
And there, too, was so much of whatever it was bubbling up between Margaret and I in between every line of the rewrites. There was the fear of being caught, the longing that was barely understood and only covertly acknowledged, there was the way she had touched my ruined hand and the way I had wound one gold-blonde curl around my finger when I thought she was asleep. There was the fucking kiss.
But it wasn't Jane and Mary kissing, I saw that now. It wasn't Jane and Mary. They weren't even particularly clever replacements for our own names.
I closed the leather cover carefully and leaned my head back on the chair and stared up into the darkness that pooled in the corners of the ceiling.
Fuck, I thought. What have I done?
*
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