Not a Gentleman
by Tintinnabula
Chapter 20
Green Park
Author's note: Trigger warning for groping (although not by our main character!) in this chapter.
John did not reply. He picked up his hat, grabbed the letter from her outstretched hand, and left the room as quickly as he could, closing the door behind him with a forceful thud. He bounded down the hotel's wide staircase and across the marble-floored lobby, pushing the porter out of his way in his rush to exit the space.
He had no idea where he might go, just that he needed to walk. He moved with purpose and alacrity, and found that the crowds on the street readily parted for him as he crashed down Albemarle Street and then onto Stafford. He rushed without any care to propriety, as though he were extremely late to an appointment, or party to an emergency. The scowl likely helped, too: he found people usually moved out of his way when he was angry. And certainly he had not been so angry in a very long time.
He felt more machine than man at the moment. But steam-engines were equipped with valve that might be tapped in emergencies, allowing any dangerous build up of pressure to be released. He, on the other hand, had no such device. He felt likely to blow, to fragment into several sharp-edged pieces that might sail through the air and wound whomever they happened to encounter on their journey back to Earth.
It was for Margaret's own good that he left so suddenly, before injurious words were said. Before they wounded her.
Walking would help.
John's pace slowed slightly by the time he reached Berkley Square, but he made three circuits of the long oval, and scared at least eight nursemaids and the infants they pulled before he was calm enough to find a seat. He headed for the pump house at the center of the park, and found his glower still effective enough to scare off the three young nurses who sat there, rolling their carriages back and forth with their kid-clad feet.
John sighed as he claimed a vacated bench, and rubbed his forehead in frustration.
Fred. Who was this Fred, and why was he important enough to write to in the middle of the night?
John felt the anger within him surge forth again in a monstrous wave, and his fist clenched ineffectually. If he had stayed in the suite, it would have ended up through the plaster and lath wall, or perhaps even through the solid oak door. He would never hit Margaret, of course, but she would not realize this. She would not understand and she would be understandably frightened. She, who'd grown up in such gentle surroundings, could not possibly relate to such a display of untempered wrath. This, despite her own passionate nature.
Even now he wanted to yell.
Yes, it was better to be away until the anger abated to a gentle simmer.
But why was he so angry? Why, over a simple letter?
It was because Margaret had lied, obviously. Because she had specifically asked to visit the Spanish portion of the exhibition without explaining why. If her business with this Fred was completely innocent, there would be no such need for such a lie of omission. But there it was. She had not seen fit to tell him about someone so important to her. Because clearly Fred was important.
John turned over the letter in his hand as he examined Margaret's perfect penmanship.
F.D.
Who was he?
A lover?
The thought of Margaret in another man's arms was enough to drive John to madness. That his Margaret might sully herself in such a way should be unthinkable. Nonetheless, an image manifested, a cruel, taunting image that John could not help but examine in excruciating detail.
He saw her in his mind's eye with perfect clarity, although her lover was much more grainy. Margaret's taper arms were thrown with abandon around this Lothario's neck, her petaled lips were pressed against his, her voluptuous breasts- of course she was scantily clad, his mind would serve up the worst, it seemed- flattened against his naked chest.
John drew a ragged breath.
Such a thing was not possible. Not of Margaret.
Of course it was not possible! He closed his eyes as he banished the image from his consciousness, and allowed the reasonable part of his mind to regain mastery. Margaret had come to him a virgin, completely unschooled in the ways of love. She did not love another, and no other had loved her. This was nonsense, sheer nonsense. There must be a reason that she had not told him about this Fred, a very good reason. Margaret did not keep secrets, nor did she lie. She simply was not that kind of person.
John's thoughts were interrupted by a chickering sound. He looked up to see a squirrel scolding him. Perhaps his bench was too close to the plane tree the animal called home, for the white-breasted animal ran up and down the tree as though defending a fortress. John leaned down and picked up one of a pile of achenes deposited at the base of the bench. Perhaps that was what the squirrel wanted. He tossed the round fruit towards the tree and the squirrel jumped from branch to branch, then onto the pagoda-style roof of the pump house, where its scolding intensified.
John looked around him, and belatedly noticed his surroundings. The plane trees, majestic in their clothing of mottled, peeling bark, were just beginning to ready themselves for autumn. Vivid green was already fading to chartreuse and yellow. John realized that he should not be there alone. Margaret would appreciate such a place. She would laugh if she saw the squirrel, and she would know with much more certainty than a Milton boy the cause of the animal's upset. But more importantly than that, he should not be in such a place at all. Margaret was likely worrying about him, and wondering where he'd gone. He hoped desperately that she was not crying.
John stood as understanding dawned on him. He did not need to know. Trust was enough- it must be enough.
He quickly exited the park and retraced his steps to the hotel. He handed the letter to the concierge upon entering, a smile upon his face.
This had been a tempest in a teapot. Hopefully, his apology would quickly put things right.
John called his wife's name as he entered the suite, and noted the untouched plates from luncheon, their contents already beginning to congeal.
"Where is she?" he asked, when Jane entered from the adjoining room.
"I have no idea, sir. I've been in my room this entire time. I only just heard you."
John bolted from the room. He should have realized she would follow him.
Margaret's lower lip quivered as she looked from Jane's doorway to John, her eyes pleading. But he did not seem to hear her. He gathered his hat, plucked the crumpled letter from her hand, and stormed out of the room, his face as full of thunder as it had been that day he'd set upon Stephens.
She had not realized she'd possessed the power to make him so angry. Nor did she want such a power.
Margaret paced the room anxiously as she waited for him to return. She bumped into the writing table twice before realizing that she would end up black and blue by the time he returned. She gathered her cloak and bonnet with its veil, and quietly left the room.
In the lobby, she found the porter and enquired after John.
"He headed down Albemarle." The young man pointed to his right, and Margaret smiled appeasingly, as the porter did not seem at all happy to be helping her. John, of course was nowhere in sight. But why would he be? She'd wasted a good ten minutes in the sitting room pacing back and forth when she might have been looking for him. Margaret turned onto Piccadilly and was relieved to find that it was no longer thronged. It still contained the usual contingent of shoppers, as it would on any weekday afternoon, but the rowdy men she and Jane had encountered earlier appeared to be long gone. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. That was one less problem to deal with.
Margaret looked up and down the street and was pleased to see a familiar, tall beaver hat some distance away. The poker-stiff posture and broad back, as well as the raven-black clothing more often seen on an undertaker left no doubt in her mind that it was he. Her quarry turned into a shop and Margaret quickened her pace. In a few minutes she found herself outside of a bookseller's. But to her consternation, she found the stacks inside empty. And the shopkeeper himself was no help- he had no recollection of a dark, handsome man in a very foul mood recently visiting.
Margaret returned to the street and continued down Piccadilly. If he wasn't in the bookseller's he must be somewhere nearby-she was certain she'd seen him enter a shop in the vicinity. She peered in the windows of several, as well as an alehouse she had no right to enter and another establishment of dubious credentials. John was nowhere to be found.
Then she saw his hat again, this time four blocks ahead, near Bolton Street. He, along with a large group of people, were crossing Piccadilly to enter Green Park. She hastened to follow and soon found herself on a footpath that ran alongside the Queen's Basin. She joined the procession heading West across the park, but was unsuccessful at pushing through the crowd to get any closer to him. Still, the crowd carried her along and after a few minutes she found herself at Hyde Park Corner, where the Wellington Arch stood, along with its famous bronze atrocity.
A feminine voice, quite strident in its effort to be heard, was speaking and Margaret could not help but register her words as she continued to push her way toward John.
Despite her harsh American accent she was an excellent orator, it seemed, for the crowd laughed every couple of minutes, even when what she said did not appear to be particularly amusing.
"Eighty years ago, a woman of style could not said to be dressed unless her hair was a good two feet tall. This of course made her much, much taller than her husband or beau. And those wigs were said to be a fire hazard."
The crowd laughed, and some guffawed. "Them Frenchies were worse than us!" cried out one fustian-clad worker in the front, clearly a latent nationalist.
"Oh, but there were women of all countries who dressed just as foolishly."
Margaret looked toward the voice and was rewarded with a view of the speaker, as the young lady in question had climbed onto the base of the monument to stand between two of its Corinthian columns. Even in her Bloomer dress she was striking, although her costume did her no credit. In conventional clothing she would likely be a celebrated beauty, with scores of men eager to claim her hand, regardless of her social status. She had charisma, as well: the crowd seemed to hang on her every word, and immediately hushed when she went silent. The blonde speaker's lips curved into a small smile with this knowledge of her power. No wonder such a large crowd had gathered. She might have been the pied piper, and they the rats of Hamlin.
The Bloomer continued extemporizing. "Of course, there was also a problem with doorways, as women wore panniers that made their gowns four or five feet wide." She nodded sagely as the crowd laughed, and Margaret turned away to scan the crowd. She saw several tall beaver hats, but none attached to anyone wearing a black frock coat.
"We can laugh about the fashions of the past and how ridiculous they were, but today's fashions are just as foolish. Women wear corsets that do not allow them to breathe, or to carry a child with ease. We wear skirts that do not allow us to move, and which will burn us to death should they catch on fire. And this they do quite easily."
There was a murmur of discontent from the crowd. Margaret ignored it. A man in black stood not far from her, close to the wrought iron fence that surrounded the arch. He was hatless, his back to her, but it had to be John. Margaret pushed toward him with some effort, whispering apologies to those around her as she did so. Once again, she was glad of her mourning dress, as it seemed to excuse her foray.
John turned, just as she was about to call out his name.
Except it wasn't John.
He wasn't half as handsome. And he wasn't hers.
The stranger looked at her quizzically as she backed away, and replaced his beaver hat on his head.
Margaret bit her lip as the crowd surged around her. Apparently the Bloomer had just said something that had incited them.
"Consider any dress that does no injury to health or offers no affront to modernity-"
"Your dress is an affront!"
The young woman continued, unabashed. "I say a woman has the right to adopt such a dress. If my costume harms no one, I demand to be at perfect liberty to consult my own taste-"
"Taste, she says! I'd like to-" Margaret covered her ears at what was said next by the men around her.
Her compatriot, a dark-haired girl with hair arranged much like Fanny's, climbed upon the ersatz stage to support the blonde. This girl was even prettier than the first, Margaret noted, although perhaps not half as charismatic. "We will consult our own taste. Hear us! We will consult our own taste in the matter of decoration of our persons, and our own feelings with regard to convenience and even comfort." She punctuated her words with the umbrella she held, stabbing the air with it as though it were a rapier.
"What about our comfort?" shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.
"Your comfort? What ever do you mean?" the dark-haired girl responded.
"It makes me uncomfortable t' see you like that. Women should na be wearing trousers. Them's man's clothes. It goes agin the order of things. It's shocking, it is!"
The blond shouted back, "Why is it so shocking for women to wear trousers when men in Scotland are known to wear petticoats, and quite short ones at that?"
A murmur ran through the crowd. Apparently some of the Northerners present did not find it amusing to hear their neighbors' national dress insulted. The two girls looked at each other and jumped down from their perch. The crowd pressed in, but after some moments it was clear, at least to some, that the pair had escaped. The steady clip clop of hooves against cobblestones attested to their safe delivery.
But not all came immediately to that conclusion.
Margaret shrank against the iron fence as the crowd pressed forward, eager to give the pair their comeuppance.
"Who do they think they are? That's a war hero's monument they've tread upon, I'll have you know."
Margaret slid against the spires of the fence, but only for a moment, only long enough to realize that her cloak was caught against the sharp finials spaced evenly along the fence's length. Worse, was the realization that her movement made her visible to the men pressed close to her.
"What have we here?" one particularly unsavory specimen said. Margaret wanted to kick herself. He was at least a foot taller than her, and he might not have noticed her at all if she'd just stayed still. He pulled back her veil and the fine tulle ripped.
His neighbor laughed, and at his urging, the first tore it clean away.
Margaret blinked back tears. "Stop it!" she cried.
They refused.
"You're a pretty little thing, aren't you?" She hadn't thought the crowd could press closer against her, but somehow they did. Six men formed a tight ring around her, the faces masks of casual disdain.
She felt a hand below her chin struggle with the bow to her bonnet, and soon that silk-covered object- the most expensive hat she had ever owned- was trampled underfoot. And in a moment, the pins holding up her coiffure were gone, as well.
She tried hauteur.
"Unhand me!" She pulled herself up to her full height and set her jaw defiantly, but it made no difference. The hands kept coming for her. She felt the finials against her back, and the tear of fabric, first the silk of her reworked gown, then her chemise as the pointed iron jabbed into the fine fabrics. She felt her upper arm bruise as a large calloused hand grabbed her; her sleeve tore at the shoulder as she tried in vain to pull away from him.
She tried pleading.
"Please. I beg you. I have done nothing wrong. Do you not have sisters? Or daughters?"
"How do you think she would look in bloomers, Tom?"
Margaret felt her skirts lifted from her ankles and felt her vision begin to grow dark. She clutched the fence behind her and breathed deeply.
"Get yer hands off of her!" There was a flurry of fists and the crowd parted. Blood spattered, and a nauseating crunch that could only be the sound of bone against bone was followed by a low moan.
She moaned, as well.
"Margaret?"
She opened her eyes, and was greeted by a pair of clear, cerulean ones, the most beautiful eyes she'd ever known. She looked around and realized she was on the ground, atop her tattered cloak. The crowd had dispersed, apart from several men who lay nearby in poor condition.
"John..."
He pulled her into his arms, but not before she noticed his bloodied hand.
"You saved me."
He sighed. "Not entirely. In truth, I had very little to do with it." He refused to release her from his embrace.
A constable arrived shortly, along with a sandy-haired man she immediately recognized. Margaret pulled away from John and sat up with a start.
"You know this man?" he asked. Margaret nodded, distraught.
John helped her up and the pair moved to a nearby bench. He took the constable aside as that man approached.
"I think it may be better to conduct the interview back at the hotel. My wife is in no condition to answer questions at the moment."
The constable gazed at Margaret and nodded.
"Clearly, she has been through a lot. If it wasn't for the quick thinking of this man," he nodded at Leonards, "well..."
"We will not discuss this now," John scowled.
"Why was she in the park alone?" the constable asked.
"She wasn't," John snapped. "We were separated. And as I told you, we will answer your questions, later."
The constable assumed an appropriately obsequious expression. "Tomorrow morning at eight?"
John nodded and turned away, "Leonards, isn't it? A word."
Margaret looked on as her husband approached the former navy man. A handshake and a slap on the back from John concluded their conversation. It was not a good sign, she realized.
It wasn't until they were installed in a carriage that she asked him.
"He saved you, Margaret," was John's terse reply.
"How?"
"When I came upon him, three men were already on the ground and a fourth was flailing. I only took out one myself. If he had not been there..." Margaret paled as she noticed John's unbloodied fist clench and unclench.
"You offered him a job." It was not a question, as it was obvious that he had.
"I have no choice- it is a matter of honor. Although we'll have to move Jane to Watson's, to avoid any talk of favoritism. But that will likely make Fanny happy. She seems to be very fond of the girl."
"Oh. I see. Yes, I think Fanny will be happy." She tried to smile, and failed.
John grasped her hand in his own.
"I would tell you that you should not have been in the park, and that you should not have followed me, but this is entirely my fault, Margaret. You are not to blame."
She shook her head, but he did not see as he had turned away to stare out the carriage window.
"I might have lost you today. I could not bear that." His voice broke, and Margaret embraced him.
Any sign of weakness had disappeared by the time they reached Brown's, however. He directed the coachman to the back entrance of the building, and upon alighting, helped Margaret arrange her less-tattered cloak to cover the very torn sleeve of her gown. They took the back stairs up to their rooms.
With a minimum of fuss, Margaret was quickly installed in a bath as John gave Jane a list of tasks to complete. Margaret overheard all of it. Jane was to supervise her, keeping her in the bath as long as possible, as she needed the time to relax. In the meantime the maid should mend her dress, and no, it did not matter how it had gotten torn, nor should she bother her mistress with such questions -she would find out soon enough. John himself needed to run several errands. He would be back as quickly as possible.
Margaret sank into the fragranced water, and was half-asleep when Jane came in to wash her hair.
"It sounds like you had a busy afternoon," the girl began, the gossip in her readily ignoring the direct command from her master.
"Hmm," Margaret replied, before sliding down into the tub to fully submerge herself. More questions awaited her when she came up for air.
"He was quite upset when he came back. Where did you go?" She rubbed a bar of castile soap between her hands, then applied the lather to Margaret's wetted curls.
Somehow it was becoming easier to lie, Margaret found. Particularly to Jane. "We were going to Green Park, but we were separated. The Bloomers were there and unfortunately there was an incident. Your Leonards saved me."
Jane dropped the soap. "He did?"
Margaret nodded.
"My goodness! Look at your arm! Someone grabbed you. And your leg!" The bruise on her leg was from walking into the writing desk repeatedly, but Margaret held her tongue about that.
"You should be very happy," she said, instead.
"Let's rinse you off," the girl replied, but pride dripped from every word.
Margaret was sitting by the fire, toweling dry her hair when John returned, a paper-wrapper parcel in hand. She jumped up to greet him, and was rewarded with a frown.
"You should be in bed."
"But we are going to Edith's for dinner. I must get ready."
Her husband looked at her incredulously.
"You nearly- Margaret, you might have been-" He pulled her close and noticed as she winced. He carefully slid the dressing gown down her arms and his face darkened as he noticed the finger-print-shaped bruises on her upper arm.
"They did this to you."
"It is nothing, John. I am well. And Edith will not understand."
"She does understand, because I have already spoken to her and her husband. They will come here for lunch tomorrow, instead."
"You decided this without even asking me? She is my cousin, John."
"And I am your husband, Margaret."
"Yes."
He took her hand, and guided her toward the bed. He spoke to her softly, as though she were a child.
"There can be only one head to a family. Just as there is only one head to a factory or other business."
Margaret regarded him, wide-eyed. She had no response at first. When she dis speak, her voice was small.
"Our marriage is a business?"
"You know that is not what I meant, darling. I simply mean that we can share some decisions, but others must fall to me."
"I understand, husband." The final word was said with more bitterness than she intended. "Will any decisions fall to me?"
"Of course. The management of the household, for instance. That is fully your sphere."
"I mean decisions that affect both of us."
"The household affects both of us."
"Chicken or pork. Steak or roast. These are decisions of great import."
John sighed. "Did you not make a promise before God in our wedding vows?"
"Yes, John."
"Then I would ask that you fulfill it."
"Obey you, you mean."
"Yes."
"I will, John. I already promised that."
Margaret climbed into bed and rolled onto her side to face the wall. John climbed in next to her, and attempted to pull her close, but she did not allow it.
"I am sorry, Margaret."
"For what?" She tried not to cry and failed. The tears flowed readily.
"My eyes were opened today. It simply is not safe for you to be walking out alone- even with Jane."
"That is what this is about? My 'obeying?' Will I be a prisoner of the mill yard?"
"I cannot lose you."
"I will not come to harm."
"Because I will not allow that to happen."
Margaret groaned in frustration and covered her head with her pillow. John rose from the bed and left the room, but not before taking the key to the communicating door with him.
He poured himself a large glass of brandy and sunk into a chair in front of the fireplace. He half emptied the glass without pausing, then closed his eyes as he reviewed the conversation he'd had with his wife. Clearly, he'd chosen the wrong words. But he needed to protect her. What exactly was he supposed to have said differently?
And why did it feel like everything was spinning out of control?
Author notes: Thank you again to everyone who continues to read and a special thanks and a virtual hug to those of you who leave reviews. They mean a great deal to me and hugely motivate me. :) This chapter was pretty intense, hence the trigger warning. I hope it was not necessary for anyone, but I would not wish what Margaret went through on anyone, nor want anyone to have to relieve such a memory. In case you are wondering, I did not include such a scene gratuitously. There is a reason for every scene I am writing. (I do have a plan...) John has violent thoughts and overbearing actions in this chapter, but I promise he will be redeemed and his character will develop. Margaret needs to grow up, as well. :)
I have created a Pinterest page to store some of the images that have served as inspiration as I've been doing the research for each chapter. You can find it by typing in the following, and replacing the "dot" with a "." and removing the spaces: pinterest dot com / Tintinnabula1 / north-and-south /
In this chapter, John visits Berkeley Square Gardens, which is only a few streets over from Brown's Hotel, just to the west. On 1851 maps it is called Berkley Square, however, so that is how I have referred to it. The modern square (which is oval) is not much different from the way it was then, although some of the houses surrounding the square were bombed during World War II and others were renovated so that they look very different from the way they did in 1851. The pump house or gazebo that John sits in is still there, but it is disused. I would imagine it was in much better condition in the mid-1800s. The London plane trees are the same trees that would have stood in 1851. The baby carriages John notices are very different from what we think of as baby carriages or strollers today. You can see a couple of examples on the Pinterest page I linked. The idea of a baby carriage came about in 1733. It was devised by architect William Kent for the children of the Duke of Devonshire, and it was intended to be pulled by a goat or pony. Over time, human-pulled versions were devised. You can see an example of a human pulled version in the painting by John Wykeham Archer, and more ornate versions from this time period on my Pinterest page. In 1848, American inventor Charles Burton came up with the idea of a carriage that was pushed instead of pulled. For whatever reason, the idea did not take off in the U.S., so he brought the idea to England. He exhibited it at the Great Exhibition in 1851 and patented it in England in 1852. Queen Victoria bought several of these new push-carriages. However, at the time of this story it seems really unlikely that the carriages would have made it onto the market, so the ones John sees on the square are the type a nursemaid would need to pull behind her, like a child's wagon.
Margaret visits Green Park, which has a different layout today than it did in 1851. In 1851 there was a long reservoir known as the Queen's Basin that supplied water to the palace, a central pond and a well-tended path that led to the reservoir. Additionally, there was a house that stored the ice needed for parties, and several lodges. None of these structures remain in the park, and there are many more paths through the park today than there were in 1851. Additionally, the famous Wellington Arch is in a different location than it was in 1851. Today it stands in a traffic island, cut off from the park. But in 1851 it was within the boundaries of the park, at the western corner.
The Wellington Arch has an interesting history. It began its life as the Green Park Arch and was intended to serve as an outer entrance to Buckingham Palace. It is rather stark (and to the my eye, rather elegant) but it was intended to have much more decoration and statuary. (In other words, it was meant to fit the Victorian aesthetic.) However, due to cost overruns, the decoration, including a statue of a chariot drawn by four horses to be placed atop the arch, was omitted. Then, in 1846, at a poorly attended committee meeting, a decision was made to place a statue of the much-beloved (and still living) war hero Wellington atop the arch. This created a furore, as people thought the statue ugly and out of proportion (and I am sure many thought the way that the decision was made was quite underhanded, as well). The arch was moved in 1883-85, and the statue moved to a new location. Then in 1912, the statue now seen atop the arch, The Quadrigia, a chariot drawn by four horses, was finally installed.
In the last chapter I mentioned the Bloomers, and the reports of them passing out handbills as they strolled along Piccadilly. Per an item in The American Phrenological Journal and Repository of Science, a pair of Bloomers made their way along Piccadilly to Green Park, until "the pressure of the crowd became so great that the missionaries found it convenient to call a cab, which they entered, amid much laughter, mingled with cheering." In my story, the pair have borrowed liberally from the words of Mrs. Dexter, who had spoken to a large, mixed audience in 1851 at the John Street Institution. I also paraphrased Amelia Bloomer's words regarding Scotsmen wearing petticoats. Her exact words were: "Sir- May I be allowed in your columns to ask why the British public is so horrified at the idea of women dressing in trousers, seeing that they have for many years tolerated a number of men from the North of the Tweed in wearing petticoats, and shockingly short petticoats at that?" I have made up the part about the duo climbing onto the Wellington Arch so that the crowd can better see them. It would have been quite rude for the pair to climb onto an arch celebrating the nation's most noted hero to speechify, but they were flouting other customs and were (gasp!) foreigners, so perhaps that explains their lack of social graces :)
Thanks again for reading! I would love to know what you think. Tintin