A Woman's Lot

A radical re-draft of a first chapter from a novel set in Victorian Lancashire

Elizabeth 

Elizabeth rolled over slowly, unsure which of the cacophony from outside the sanctuary of her bedroom had abruptly ended her restless sleep.   Was it the clanging of the heavy copper pan or the clattering of best china plates?  Maybe it was the vociferous orders of her flustered mother being barked exasperatedly, or even the gentle chirping of an early morning lark welcoming the sunrise.  Perhaps the tinny clunk of an empty bucket carelessly discarded by her youngest brother as he returned from the cowshed �" even on a day such as this the usual feeding, cleaning, and tending to still needed doing.

Whichever it was, Elizabeth was now wide awake, although the same could not be said for her sister, whose familiar, gentle, low rumbling snores continued uninterrupted.  Taking care not to disturb her, Elizabeth softly tiptoed to the window, each step carefully memorised over the years to avoid any creaking floorboards.  She gently parted the heavy drapes, just a tiny bit so as not to flood the room but merely allow a bright shaft of golden sunlight to fall across the bed just a few inches from her sleeping sister’s face.  Outside she could see Robert giving the white mare a final groom, her plaited mane interwoven with sprigs of delicate orange blossom.  Elizabeth watched his strong, steady hand sweep the brush firmly across the flank, she could just make out his lips moving slightly and imagine the soft, soothing words murmured to the animal.  If only her father could employ such with her mother, then the two poor servants, inevitably awake since before sunrise, may have been able to get on with their myriad of duties without having to contend with their mistress no doubt getting in their way.

If her mother knew she was awake, Elizabeth knew she would not get a minute to catch her breath.  But for now, for this one precious moment she wanted to savour the comfortingly familiar sight of the large duck pond just to the left of her mother’s herb garden, the neat rows of lavender, basil, mint and rosemary growing as they had always done in the shade of the gnarled old apple tree that had long since failed to bear fruit but did still bear the rope and plank her brothers had once swung from.  Seeking out another memory she wanted to savour, her eyes travelled over the stone wall.  She smiled to herself excited yet nervous, joyous yet sentimental at the thought that this was the last time she would be Elizabeth Wright, standing at her bedroom window watching the young stable boy sweep each stall vigorously with a broom longer than he was tall.   Wrapping her arms across her chest, she allowed herself a few moments more of just watching, observing, noting all that was happening, the same as it did every morning.  She knew if she lifted the sash window higher the scent of sweet fresh hay mingled with the pungent, earthy aroma of that destined for the midden would drift in, but she did not want to risk waking her sister.  Not yet.  Instead she crouched down and raised her nose to the slight gap at the bottom of the window that her mother insisted was necessary to keep enough clean air in the room regardless of season.  Deeply, Elizabeth inhaled, eyes closed she savoured the memories of her childhood home.      

Quietly creeping back to bed, she pulled the crumpled linen to her face.  The dried sprigs of lavender used to keep the sheets fresh mixed with the scent of  rosewater lotion her sister was so fond of.  Another memory she wanted to store away.  She stared at her sister, hoping it would somehow be sufficient to rouse her.  It wasn’t.

“Sarah” she whispered, then waited impatiently.  On receiving no response she repeated her sister’s name a little louder only to be met with an irritated moan as a sleepy Sarah burrowed her head under the feather pillow.

“Sarah!” Elizabeth hissed more urgently, “Sarah, wake up!  It’s today.”

The indignation of the first moan was replaced with a weary sigh as Sarah emerged from her pillow and lifted her head, summoning a weak smile from behind wild tendrils of auburn hair.  She wailed as she brushed the offending locks from her face distraughtly,

 “Look at the state of my hair!  I knew Jane hadn’t tied those rags tight enough.” 

Seizing the pillow, “It’s MY wedding day Sarah! Your hair is not of great importance, not today,” Elizabeth scoffed laughingly.  Patting her head to detect how many of her ringlets had been lost during the night, Sarah merely huffed.   Her laughter faded as a sudden wave of sadness rose inside Elizabeth.  She gazed at the little sister she shared a bed with, a whole childhood with.  Despite five years and two brothers between them, she could not recall a time when Sarah had not been there, and today that was all about to change.   Elizabeth lay back down and reached out to smooth Sarah’s wild curls tenderly �" the two sisters faced each other, a mutual understanding conveyed between two pairs of eyes, one brown, one green.

“I hope you’ll be happy Lizzie,” whispered Sarah eventually, her eyes brimming with tears.  

Two frantic hours later Elizabeth Wright stood in front of the mirror admiring her wedding dress.  As she turned herself this way and that, feeling the gently swish of her linen petticoats she mused that her mother had been right - it did make her the perfect combination of respectability and beauty, and beauty was not a word often used to describe her.  Kind, yes, considerate, thoughtful, sweet, compassionate, responsible and respectable �"these were the accolades the eldest Wright child attracted, but today, with a coronet of white roses adorning the hair that may not have been as curly as Sarah’s, wearing the long golden chain and heavy gold ear-rings her intended had gifted her, today she did indeed feel beautiful.  

The door flung open and Mary Wright bustled in, an anxious mother hen searching her lost chick.  Mrs Mary Wright was a short, stout woman from whom Elizabeth had inherited her own lack of height, and was what her acquaintances referred to as a small woman with a large presence, although never within her hearing.  She gasped, clasping her plump face with equally plump hands in what Elizabeth recognised as a sign she was about to cry.  “Oh my dear.”  Smiling with a mixture of joy and sympathy, Elizabeth stretched out her hands which Mary grasped tightly as she held her daughter at arms length.  Holding back the tears only a mother can shed as she prepares herself for the inevitable transformation of her child from daughter to wife, Mary whispered “Let me look at you once more before I lose you,” her voice wavering.  Gently, Elizabeth wiped an escaping tear from her mother’s lined face, “Oh Mama you are not going to lose me,” she laughed softly.  “I will be living but a few short miles away, and Peter and I will visit quite regularly,” she added reassuringly. Briskly turning her daughter round, Mary began to make a great show of smoothing out the silk skirt of the dress whilst she vainly attempted to hide her tears.   “Yes but once you are with child you must not be making such journeys,” muttered Mary.  Elizabeth smiled warmly as the already radiating glow of happiness intensified at the thought of children, it was all she had ever wanted, but first things first.

 “Mama let me get wed first before you start talking of grandchildren.” 

Mary tugged at the sleeves, which did not require any readjustment but did provide her with a distraction from her emotional state. “Well, I for one am glad the fad of wearing white has passed, and you know what they say, ‘blue for love to be true’, she sniffed approvingly.

“The Queen wore white Mama, but I must say I think I suit blue better, and it is a much more versatile colour to be wore again,” agreed Elizabeth joining in the distraction as she already began to plan how the wedding gown could be altered to serve as a formal dress in the future.  Standing back to assess her smoothing of the skirt,  Mary continued “In my day a girl only wore white if she had nothing to bring to the marriage, and you my darling girl, are bringing plenty.”   Turning her daughter by shoulders back towards her, Mary once again took Elizabeth’s hands in her own.  “Elizabeth,” Mary started, bottom lip quivering, voice faltering, “Elizabeth,” she whispered, “since I first held you I wanted nothing more than a good marriage for you, a good marriage to a good man and I pray one day you too have a daughter you can love as much as I love you.” A desperate sob escaping, she firmly spun Elizabeth back to face the mirror.  “Then you will know what a day like today does to a mother”. 

 “Lizzie are you in here?” without waiting for an answer the door once again flew open and Sarah, hair now tamed and curled with irons to if not her desire, at least her begrudging satisfaction, stood holding the bridal bouquet.

 “Oh Lizzie, you look lovely, almost as beautiful as the Princess Alexandra.” she gasped referring to the recent royal wedding between the Prince of Wales and Princess of Demark.  Silently taking the fragrant bouquet of white roses, orange blossoms, and trailing greenery, Elizabeth mentally noted the ‘almost’: As the prettier of the two Sarah was the one whose appearance usually garnered compliments �" her cascading curls with golden coppery glints, sparkling, cat-like emerald eyes, smooth, fair skin which she insisted (unnecessarily in Elizabeth’s opinion) on enhancing with a dusting of powder.  She was a natural beauty whereas Elizabeth, with her plain brown hair containing only a hint of a wave, slightly plump cheeks and a nose she always believed belonged to someone else’s face, was usually considered a sweet girl with a pleasant nature.  But she would let nothing mar today.  So beaming at her sister and mother before taking in one last look in the mirror, Elizabeth reminded herself that today she was marrying the boy she had loved since childhood; the boy who had grown into a man so handsome, so witty, so charming she once feared he would outgrow his childish affection for her and take his heart elsewhere.  But loyal Peter had remained as enamoured with Lizzie as she with him.  

 “Are the women of this house determined to make an old man lose his senses?” boomed Richard Wright from the bottom of the stairs. 

 “Richard, is the carriage ready?” screeched Mary, discreetly wiping the last of her tears.  

 “Coming Papa,” shouted Elizabeth. 

Her arm resting in the crook of proud father’s,  Elizabeth glanced up at the large bulk of a man who had a well respected head for business, an eye that could judge the breeding potential of a stallion, and a sixth sense of when the weather was about to change.  Richard Wright patted her hand, although he kept his gaze straight ahead, unprepared for the unfamiliar lump growing in his throat as he and Elizabeth walked slowly past the farm labourers gathered to wish her well

 “Good luck Miss Lizzie,” 

 “Beautiful, he’s a lucky man’”

Surrounded by cheerful voices, beaming smiles and petals thrown at her feet by their house servants, Jane and little Sissy, Elizabeth felt as if she were a glowing embodiment of joy as she stepped into the carriage and carefully arranged her skirts, her bridal bouquet resting across her knee.   She had protested the extravagance of real orange blossom, but Mary insisted, and as she inhaled deeply the fresh, sweet, citrus aroma, she knew that scent would forever evoke this, a feeling of pure, bliss.

The towering spire of the relatively new Holy Trinity church loomed into view against the clear blue summer sky reminding Elizabeth of how her grandmother often walked her along this road and as a small girl the ever growing, far reaching spire caused her stomach churn. It took great effort as a small child to force imagined plummeting stonemasons from her mind.  But some folk believed the higher the spire, the closer to God explained Grandma Wright, although Elizabeth felt sure that God did not want his congregation to feel quite sick at the sight of one of his churches.   But now her stomach fluttered with a different sensation, and it was one she wished she could hold to for ever.  Holding out his hand her father softly asked “Ready my dear?” 

 “Ready Papa,” she stated firmly. 

Beneath the blazing afternoon sun Mr and Mrs Wright welcomed the guests, her father frequently removing his top hat to wipe his perspiring brow with one of the large white monogrammed handkerchiefs he always had about his person.  From the slightly cooler hallway, Elizabeth observed her mother discreetly angle her parasol so as to provide her husband with some modicum of shade, knowing full well if he knew his wife had done so, her father would  insist Mary use it fully for her own comfort.  That is the sort of wife I will be, Elizabeth thought to herself, one who ensures my husband’s comforts without making a fuss.  She discreetly brushed her fingers against the hand of her new husband who immediately seized them, planting a light but tender kiss.  A delicious tingle ran all the way up her arm, blossoming into a warm flush on her smiling face.  Conscious they were on show, Elizabeth dragged her eyes away from Peter reluctantly.  For a brief moment a sharp pin hovered, threatening to burst her perfect bubble of bliss, and that pin was named Sarah.  As maid of honour Sarah stood next to her with what Elizabeth detected was more than a hint of �" what was it?  Boredom?  Resentment?  Smiling at each guest, but only with her mouth, no welcome shining from her eyes, dutifully carrying out her duties but reminding Elizabeth of the new threshing machine, efficient but soulless.  Maybe she was a little melancholy, losing her only sister?  Maybe the tiniest bit envious that for once it was Elizabeth on the receiving end of such admiration?  No, what a wicked thing to think Elizabeth chided herself, Sarah wished you happiness albeit whilst holding back her own tears.  Yes, it must be that Elizabeth was now married and the two would no longer share a room, a bed, whispered secrets in the dead of night, a stub of a candle held precariously close to the page of a book their mother disapproved of and therefore needed to be read in secret.  Sarah was going to miss her, and she was going to miss Sarah, not that Sarah would ever admit to it.

Collective gasps and murmurs of appreciation filled the room as thick, juicy slices of tender venison, a wedding gift from her father’s landlord, Lord Sefton, was brought out on silver platters. Roasted to mouth melting perfection and obviously served as the grand entrée, the guests were further treated to rich, steaming braised beef, lamb delicately seasoned with rosemary from Mary’s own herb garden, plates of cold tongue and slices of roast chicken cooked the night before.  The two servants must have been awake all night, Elizabeth marvelled and made a mental note to ensure they received some of the bridal cake.  Gently Peter reached for her hand, “Are you happy my dear?”  he whispered.  “Of course, my darling,” she whispered back, but before she could return the question, the out of tune, ale loosened tongue of her brother Jimmy rang out across the crowded room.

 “In Amsterdam there lived a lad, mark well what do I say!”  Uneasily several younger members of the party caught each other’s eye, nervous smiles twitched at the lips of the few familiar with the words of the bawdy sea-shanty in anticipation at how far the impromptu entertainer would get.  A cold iron hand gripping at her insides, Elizabeth scanned Peter’s face �" what would he think?  What would he do?  But to her consternation he too was attempting to hide a bemused smile behind one of her mother’s best linen napkins.  A clouded fury crossed her father’s face and a stern glare from Peter’s father towards his smirking youngest daughter, quickly sent the girl’s attention scurrying back to her lark pie.  Elizabeth’s ears pounded with the thudding of her heart, the burning shame inflamed her cheeks and hot tears threatened to fall from her downcast eyes as her beautiful day, her perfect day precariously teetered.  Suddenly a firm, reliable voice filled the room,

 “Bit of fresh air my lad.”  The iron grip loosened,  slowly exhaling the breath she was  unaware she was holding, Elizabeth gratefully watched her eldest brother John hurriedly bundle Jimmy out the door.    “If it’s a song we’re after, Ralph, would you honour us?”  Peter invited his brother and immediately Ralph’s rich baritone filled the room with a more fitting rendition

“I had a message to send her, to her whom I loved best..”

“Thank you,” whispered a relieved Elizabeth to her husband gratefully.

 “There’s one in every family, no doubt we’ll have one our own someday,” Peter joked kindly, before joining in with his brother, their harmonies soon complemented by some of the other guests and the celebratory mood thankfully returned once more.

The few light spots of rain splattering against the window of the train to Preston soon turned into a deluge of heavy, fat splodges as they changed for Windermere.  Ominous herds of grey cloud stretched across the once clear summer skies, threatening to follow them all the way to their honeymoon destination, but in Elizabeth’s heart, the warm glow she felt each time she held out her left hand and admired the gold wedding band, was no match for a few nimbus clouds.  However, even though the rain had ceased by the time they reached the hotel, the Salutation Hotel in Ambleside was a most welcome sight.  A large white stone building sat atop wide grey stone steps on which large puddles had formed, golden moons made by reflections from the gaslights lit their way.  Elizabeth gathered up her skirts and cautiously tried to step around them, whilst Peter, seemingly oblivious, bounded up the steps causing each moon to scatter in a sea of ripples. 

 “This used to be a coaching inn in the last century,” he commented as he waved a note at the coach driver who said nothing as he dropped their trunk on the step.

 “Very in-keeping for a cart owner’s honeymoon then,” smiled Elizabeth as she took his hand, feeling the unfamiliar but wonderful cold metal of his wedding ring pressing into her fingers.

 “Good evening Sir,” said the desk clerk, a small wiry looking man with half-moon spectacles perched perilously on the end of his rather pointed nose.

 “Good evening, Mr and Mrs Leyland,” replied Peter, squeezing Elizabeth’s hand discreetly as he announced them both by their newly married status for the first time.  Would she ever tire of hearing those words?  Mr and Mrs Leyland, and only this morning she had been Miss Elizabeth Wright, it was still a surreal feeling to finally be married.  

 “Ah, our honeymooners, well may I offer my sincere congratulations on both your marriage and choice of honeymoon destination Sir.   Mabel will show you to your room and I will have someone bring up your trunk.  Now will you be taking dinner in the dining room this evening, or would you and your good wife prefer to have something sent up to the room?” asked the clerk, a most efficient but friendly man.

Peter looked nervously at Elizabeth; he had never stayed in a hotel before and was not quite sure where his ‘good wife’ would like to dine.  Sensing his   apprehension a tired Elizabeth made the bold decision to reply “I think after such a long day and journey I should like to avoid the trouble of dressing for dinner. If you don’t object Peter, she added quickly, anxious he not think her fatuous for making a decision on his behalf.  A man likes to believe himself in charge Lizzie, you’ll do well to remember that once you’re wed, and never let on that it’s the wife who is really the organ grinder, just some of her mother’s wise words of advice which came rushing back to her as she studied Peter’s face for any sign of annoyance or irritation, but thankfully there was none.  In fact Peter was merely relieved that a decision had been made to her satisfaction and actually had no objections at all.

“I am going to miss you so much, too much I imagine” Elizabeth murmured as she placed  her head on her husband’s bare chest, her fingers gently stroking the coarse auburn hair.  Peter was returning to Liverpool that afternoon to attend to his business interests, she was staying on at the hotel and her sister Sarah, Peter’s sisters Sally and Ellen, Elizabeth’s  brother John, and family friend, Henry Dean were all joining her for another week.  

 “What would happen if you missed someone too much I wonder?” mused Peter playfully as he wound her hair around his fingers.  “Would you love them more when you were finally reunited or would all that missing of them make you quite mad with grief until you forgot them?”  

Elizabeth sat herself up and rested on her arm, lightly tracing the line of auburn hair from his chest, down his stomach. 

 “I am not sure, but just in case it is the latter you had best give me something to remember you by as a precaution,” she whispered.

A knock at the door prevented him from so.  

“Mr Leyland, your family has arrived,” came the voice through the door. 

 “Thank you Mabel” Peter shouted back.  Kissing his wife on the nose he ran his fingers through her hair and whispered “You had best pray it is the former.”   With that their honeymoon was over.