Author of Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Historical, Women's, and Contemporary Fiction
Spitfire Girl in Queen Victoria’s Court
Spitfire Girl in Queen Victoria’s Court
“It will be very dull when I shall . . . live only in trying to do, and to be, as other people like. I don’t see any end to it. I might as well never have lived.”
Molly Gibson in Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1865 novel, Wives and Daughters.
CHAPTER 1
By the magistrate’s whiskers, my mother had given me leave to visit a most mysterious neighbor—our newest neighbor. A woman, though young, who held a secret all girls my age desired to know. With everyone at my household away for the day, I strolled to Mrs. Kilrush’s row house door late one spring afternoon in 1843 and rapped on it several times. Now is my best opportunity to pursue her secrets under the guise of a more innocent pretense.
When the door opened, my mouth did as well, but no sound uttered forth.
“Ah, you’re Mrs. Wimpole’s daughter from a few doors down.”
I smiled. “Top of the morning to you.”
“Oh, you know that Irish expression, do you now? I’ll give you the answer then … and the rest of the day to you.”
“I would love to see Ireland someday.”
Mrs. Kilrush flipped her hand. “Not these days. There are terrible times afoot and worse to come. You mark me words.”
Having relocated from their homeland three weeks since, she dubbed the destitute Hunter Street neighborhood a far better place to live than any she had known.
“My mother said you requested some assistance.” I stretched a hand toward her home’s interior. “May I?”
“Come inside, please.” She stepped aside, opened the door wider, and gave me leave to stride into a house as minuscule as my own—one main room to serve as living room, kitchen, and dining room—and three tiny bedrooms.
Tables occupied much of the floor space, laden with various cloth and sewing accouterments. She earned extra money by making clothing. Her husband could not obtain employment when first they arrived, because many Londoners despised the Irish. He took to self-employment as a tosher and combed the London sewers for lost treasures—such as gold, silver, and copper coins.
Mrs. Kilrush handed me an open missive. “I must admit something pretty darn hard to own up to, but the truth is … I’m desperate for help.”
I batted my eyes. “Of course. Anything, ma’am.”
“Neither me husband nor I can read much. I’ve received this letter from a neighbor where we used to live. Your mother said you and your father are the best readers in the neighborhood. Can you be a dear and tell me what it says?”
I reached inside my apron pocket, removed my rimless, round-eyed spectacles, and slipped them on. Holding the paper within a few inches of my nose, I scrutinized the letter.
“How old are you, Charlotte?”
I eased the paper away. “Sixteen.”
“And you’re wearing spectacles?”
I laughed and removed them. “An accident. I spilled lye in my eyes four years since.”
She laid a hand on my cheek. “You poor darling. Ruining your eyes at the tender age of twelve.”
“I can still see at a distance.” I slipped on the spectacles and inched the paper closer. “It says here, a Mr. Fitzsimmons removed your parents from their house.”
“Oh, my.” She raised a fist and bit it. “It’s happening.”
“What is happening?”
“The money-grabbing landlords are evicting the tenants, and it’s because times are tough. People may starve for the lack of a decent potato crop, and they come along to make matters worse.”
Pulling off the spectacles, I handed the letter back to her. “At any rate, the neighbor says your parents are not in a bad way. They moved in with your sister Michaela.”
“Good sweet-hearted Michaela. I ought to have known she’d have helped Mama. Thank you, Charlotte.”
I opened my mouth to ask one of my burning questions, but nothing issued forth.
Mrs. Kilrush snatched a strip of yellow muslin from one of the tables and handed it to me. “Your mother said she could use a little yellow in her latest sewing endeavor.”
The muslin dangled from her outstretched hand, but I did not seek that favor. I want the knowledge she held in her head—the knowledge that would set me free, put me at ease, and stop the ground from shaking beneath me. I yanked my hand away. “I have no money to pay you at the moment.”
She thrust it into my hands and closed hers over them. “It’s all right, Charlotte. I’m giving it to her.”
I tried to tug my hand free. “Oh, no. She will gladly pay you for it.”
She squeezed my hands harder. “Take it. It’s for reading me letter. I am now comforted to know me mother and father are doing fine.”
I offered her my sweetest smile and drew the muslin closer. “Thank you, Mrs. Kilrush. She will be grateful, I am certain.”
Withdrawing her hands, she scrutinized me for the longest time.
I endeavored to read her face but could not decipher a clue. “What is it, ma’am? You appear quite content.”
“I wonder about you, Charlotte. You’re quite a splendid girl, you know. Every time I see you, you’re running an errand for someone else.”
I could not keep a grin from stretching my face and glanced at my feet. “Oh, I mind not.”
“Are you a writer too?”
I giggled. “I understand well enough my family is known as the literary Wimpoles of Hunter Street, but it is my father’s doing. He wants at least one of his sons to become a writer and has gone so far as to name my younger brothers after famous authors. Fenimore is named for James Fenimore Cooper, John for the Scottish novelist John Lockhart, and Shelley for the great poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. He makes them pen stories, and they come to me for assistance. However, Father would never tolerate a daughter for a writer, as he despises women authors.”
“What of Shelley’s wife?”
“Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley?”
“Didn’t she pen something?”
“The novels Frankenstein and The Last Man. I can understand a woman can write as well as a man, but unfortunately, my father cannot fathom it. I always deemed it would serve him right if I became a namesake for some famous ‘Charlotte’ writer yet to be.”
“Who are you named after, then?”
“My father’s mother, Grandmother Charlotte Wimpole.”
She touched my nose and let loose a giggle. “I’d say you’re smart enough to be a writer.”
I need to stop procrastinating and beg her privilege. She seemed amiable enough, and being so young, she would very likely tell me what I needed to know.
I bowed my head and swung my arms as my face flushed with increased temperature. “Thank you for saying so, but I must give my father the credit because he insisted on my enrollment in the Soho Church of England’s School for the Poor.”
“You attended school now, did you? Among the poor, I thought only boys attended school in England.”
I stretched the muslin, pretending to examine it and realized we had digressed. The timid notion popped into my mind that asking Mrs. Kilrush may have been a big mistake. I should simply forget the whole matter. “My father persuaded the school. He does believe a better education will attract a better class of suitor for my future marriage.”
“He’s always in control of your life, then … and you find it somewhat unsettling.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Just so.”
“And though your three brothers are younger, you tend to do their bidding with the full support of your father.”
How did she know me so well? I nodded. “Have you a Gypsy’s crystal ball?”
“He wants you to marry and have children?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Has your father had the conversation with you about coming out?”
“Not yet, but I know it will happen by and by. I am seventeen in June.”
“I can see in your eyes you want something more than marriage.”
How can she see that? “But in London, a young girl’s future is already planned, is it not so? Is it not every woman’s ambition to marry and have children?”
I realized the moment the words flew from my mouth I ought not to have steered the intercourse in that direction. My eyes darted aside. “Pardon me, Mrs. Kilrush. Please forgive my last remark.”
She beamed. “It’s all right, Charlotte. I’ve settled it after six years of marriage.”
I hesitated but knew the moment had grown ripe for my intrusion into the world for which I so desired to obtain familiarity. “Why do you not have children?” My hand wanted to smack my brow, but I halted it. That is not the question I needed to know. Why am I so afraid to ask it?
“Oh, well, that’s a story, I can tell you. You see, Charlotte, me dear, we keep kissing and kissing, but nothing ever happens.”
“Whatever do you mean? I thought you had to do more than kiss. Do not you and your husband ….” I had finally sprung the cat from its bag. Once free, I could pursue it.
She slipped an arm round me and started walking towards the front door. “I’ll not tell a fib. Yes, me husband and I surely do more than kiss. It’s God who’s not cooperating.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I do not mean to pry.”
“Oh, yes, you do. I understand the curiosity of a sixteen-year-old girl.”
This is it. I may never have the opportunity again. I halted and spun round. “Perhaps you can tell me what it is like to lie with a man?”
She jerked her arm from round me and widened her eyes as a knock sounded. Turning her eyes off me, she sauntered towards the door. I followed. A twelve-year-old girl of a higher social station loomed in the door frame, bouncing up and down.
“What is it?” Mrs. Kilrush asked.
The girl swiftly shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Oh, please! Where is Charlotte Wimpole? There’s a note posted on her door saying she is here.”
I stepped from behind the woman and peered at her. “My father is at his clerk’s position, my mother is on errands, and my brothers are wandering about earning extra money.” I gaped at the girl. “Whatever is the matter?”
She whipped her hands to her face. “Come quick! It is your brother Shelley. He is in a bad way.”
Mrs. Kilrush and I stared into each other’s eyes. I broke it off and dashed through the doorway.
