Not a Gentleman

By Tintinnabula

Chapter 28

The Symposium

Once back at the hotel, a quick trip to the dressing room convinced Margaret of the source of her unease. She returned to the bedroom, took her husband's hands in her own, and smiled.

"I am not unwell, John. It's just that—"

Jane had popped into the room, but left just as quickly, once Margaret targeted her with a withering glare. It was difficult to talk about personal things with a servant continually underfoot. It had been so much easier under her father's roof, where Dixon attended almost exclusively to Mama.

"It is just my monthly," Margaret continued in a softer voice. This did not have the effect on John that she expected.

"You must get into bed and rest," John said immediately. "I will send Jane for a hot water bottle." The servant entered the room again, although she had not been directly summoned. Clearly she had been listening at the door. Jane was summarily sent on her way by John, with a short list of objects to be obtained from the hotel staff. Apart from the water bottle, there was need of extra blankets, pillows, a pot of oolong tea, well-sugared, and biscuits. Plenty of biscuits.

John led his wife to the bed, pulled back blankets and top sheet, and fluffed the pillows that had somehow become inadequate in number.

Margaret stood her ground and did not immediately climb in. "I think you misunderstand. I am quite well."

"Your body seems to be saying otherwise." John's expression was an amalgam of concern and frustration. "Let us not argue, love. We have talked about this. It is important that we take care of your health." He unlaced her boots and helped her out of them, then gathered a wrapper from the adjoining room.

"Let's get you ready for bed," he murmured, as he saw to the many buttons on the back of her bodice.

"John, please," Margaret began, but he was indefatigable. Soon she was in the bed, and he sat at its base. He pulled back the blankets to expose her feet and massaged them gently.

"How is that?" he asked.

"Quite nice," Margaret replied, "But I do not understand why my feet would require such fastidious attention." He did not seem to hear the tone of frustration in her voice. Instead he fussed with the pillows and used one to prop up her feet. And he did not stop fussing until Jane returned a porter with her. Both were laden with the goods required to care for an invalid. She took over from him, as a servant should, a knowing smile upon her face.

Jane placed the pot of tea on the nightstand next to Margaret, and placed a towering pile of biscuits on a plate beside.

"John, as I am being treated as an invalid, I must ask—where is the caudle?" She did her best not to smile as John looked at her in alarm.

"Shall I call for some? Is that what you require?"

"No, John. I do not require caudle, or gruel, or even biscuits. I am perfectly well. Can you not see that?"

John's brow wrinkled. "I am only doing what I have been taught."

He turned away from Margaret and Jane and muttered something as he began to pace the room.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?" Margaret asked. Clearly the gears in John's great mind had been set turning. And clearly there was something here she did not understand.

"I was just thinking aloud. This changes our honeymoon plans. If you are to be abed for the next ten days—"

"Ten days?!" Margaret could not contain her incredulity. And she tried her hardest not to laugh, as it was clear her husband spoke earnestly. "My darling, why on God's green Earth would I need to be confined for ten days?"

"Fanny always is. In fact…"

"'In fact' what, John? Does Fanny take to her bed for ten days every month? That cannot be so."

Jane sniggered. "It's true, Mrs. Thornton. Miss Fanny is quite poorly for almost two weeks a month. Dr. Donaldson has been called ever so many times."

"Jane, please find something to do in the next room. I am sure that there are garments that need ironing. Or something to which you can attend."

"Yes, sir." The girl left the room hurriedly, head down, at her master's emphatic words. But Margaret was sure that a smile still played across the servant's face.

"John, that cannot be normal," Margaret said after Jane had left. "I am no expert, and I have only my own experience to guide me," she paused, then added, "and that of Edith, her mother and my own. And Edith's friends…I was under the impression that monthlies lasted only a few days. Five at the most. And it is not so debilitating as you suggest. My own experience is that it is only a slight convenience. My breasts may be a bit sore and sometimes there might be a bit of cramping-"

"Are they? Are you? Cramping?" John gazed at her with a show of concern that reminded her of his attentiveness after the riot.

She smiled. "No. My breasts are only the slightest bit sore. I would hardly know today was different from any other day. Really, I am quite well. There is just a little spotting, that is all."

The relief John emanated next was almost palpable. "And all this time, I've avoided Fanny for a good third of every month. I even noted it on my calendar, so that I might be sure to work late those days."

"In red ink?" Margaret asked drily.

John laughed. "No, not in red. Just the letter "F" for Fanny. I can be discreet, you know. Even if my sister is totally lacking in that virtue."

"Did you really have no idea?" Margaret asked. "I should think your mother would not have tolerated such antics."

"As I spent most of that time of the month away from the house, I really couldn't say. Mother doesn't often put up with Fanny's nonsense. Nonetheless, my sister can wear a person down over time. You will see. She is like water eroding a rocky slope. Slowly but surely she gets her way. I did speak to Mother about the excessive doctor's bill, and over time his visits did decrease. Somewhat." He shook his head. "It's so like Donaldson to take advantage of my sister's hypochondria. We are well rid of him."

"Yes," Margaret agreed. "I wonder how Mama is doing. I hope the new doctor your mother has chosen is better at his craft."

"Agreed. If you like, I will send a telegram to check in with Mother, and will enquire after yours. I've been meaning to do so. I've never been away from the mill this long. Would you be offended if I stepped out to do a few errands?"

"Of course not, John. But would you not prefer my company on your errands?"

"I am certain you are correct about your condition, love, but please take this opportunity to rest. I did have a surprise planned for you for this evening, and I am glad I will not need to cancel."

"A surprise? Do tell!"

John shook his head. "I will not spoil it." He kissed her atop her head, and settled the blankets around her. "Rest for a couple of hours, and then have Jane dress you for a special evening."

Margaret sat on the bed. That almost counted as resting, she decided.

She had pulled a small table alongside, and had set up her writing materials, two dictionaries, the volume of de Tocqueville John had so apologetically provided for her weeks earlier, and the copy of Engels that had initiated the anger. Now Margaret got to work translating the Mémoire sur le Paupérisme and Engel's Die Lage der Arbeitenden Klasse in England.

The books were quite interesting. She finished de Tocqueville's work first, as it was the shorter of the two and she was more familiar with French than German. The author compared the people of England with a poorer European country and was surprised at the disparity between the two groups. In England, the wealthiest country in Europe, and possibly on Earth, there was a large number of the indigent, who depended on the state for their survival. This was not true of the poorer countries of Europe. In those countries, fewer were indigent, although most of the populace was poorer than the average Englishman. De Tocqueville considered this a paradox, and speculated on the possible causes for this difference.

Next, Margaret started on Engels. This was slower going, as the writing was more ponderous and the font more difficult to decipher. There were also words she had never encountered before. She was thankful for the dictionary John had provided, because the word "proletariat" appeared to be a critical term for Engels. Margaret wrote her thoughts in a journal as she read.

It was clear that the authors seemed to have two very different understandings of human nature, and the causes of poverty. Margaret considered the workers she had seen in John's mill, the weaver she had met in Spitalfields, and the many farm workers she remembered from Helstone. It seemed that both author's viewpoints had merit. Each described some facet of the modern world. She just was not certain where she stood on the matter.

Margaret's musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Margaret answered, as Jane did not appear. A porter stood in the hallway, half dwarfed by a large, pale blue box emblazoned with the words "Atelier DuMaurier." This was a surprise, and John was likely the reason for such an early delivery. Margaret tried not to laugh, but failed. Her bower bird had returned to form.

She placed the overlarge box on the bed, and carefully removed the linen twine tying it shut. She was greeted by the sweet smell of lavender as she opened the box, and layer upon layer of pure white tissue paper. The bodice she removed was magnificent, but not at all what she and Mademoiselle DuMaurier had discussed. It was black, true, but it was of the type one would wear to an elegant dinner or reception. It was not for daily wear, as it was not made of the sober bombazine Margaret had provided the modiste, nor was it trimmed in the understated braid Margaret had selected before her visit. Rather, the bodice was made of finely ribbed silk taffeta with an elegant moiré pattern. It had short, capped sleeves, that extended from an off-the shoulder neckline with a ruffle of the finest re-embroidered lace Margaret had ever seen. Tiny gelatin sequins were sewn in a scattered pattern across the lace, and they sparkled even in the daylight of the room. The rest of the gown was equally as fine. The skirt was trimmed in the same lace, in a single wide ruffle that extended twelve inches above the gown's hem. The box also contained the accessories for the ensemble: a crinoline and petticoat, lisle stockings, also in black, a shawl in fine damask-patterned cashmere, and a corset of heavy cream silk embroidered at the waist, hips, and just above the bust in stark black.

The gown and its trappings were perfect. It was simply the finest clothing that Margaret had ever seen, and even more lovely than the elegant affair Edith had worn as her wedding dress. She wondered how Mademoiselle Du Maurier had created it in so little time. It likely took a hundred hours to create the gown and associated garments. Her staff must have burned the midnight oil.

Margaret was overwhelmed, but even more so when she found a card tucked into the tissue paper that remained in the box. It read:

"My dear cousin, I hope you have guessed the importance of this day, and I hope you will accept this gift to make up for my ghastly behavior preceding your wedding. Mademoiselle and her staff agreed to clear their work calendar to make this for you in time. She was very taken with you. But isn't that always the case? The rest of your trousseau should deliver in a week or so. They are my belated gift to you. All my love, Edith."

Her cousin's contrition was evident, and Margaret remembered the many other times that the blonde beauty had tempered earlier unpleasantness with heartfelt action. Edith was a good, kind person underneath the air of classism that clung to her like a fine, exclusive perfume. Margaret regretted her earlier bitterness toward the woman, as well as the fact that it had taken such a gift for her to realize Edith's true nature. She promised herself that she and John would pay a formal visit to Edith and her husband before they returned to Milton, and that she would be much more patient in the future. Her cousin—and friend—deserved at least that much.

But what was the event to which her cousin had referenced twice now?

Today was the eleventh of October. Margaret counted backwards and realized that her wedding had taken place on a Saturday three months earlier. And if Edith had remembered, surely John had, as well. Her bower bird would likely be showering her with a gift or two, and possibly quite soon, as he had not said how long he would be gone.

Margaret bit her lip and looked around the room. Of course, she had no gift for him. But there must be some present she could arrange.

She went into the adjoining dressing room, where she found Jane fast asleep in an armchair, piles of laundry nearby, some ironed, but most in disarray.

Margaret spoke loudly enough to wake the girl. "Jane, please run down to the stationer's on the next street and fetch the following…oh, let me write it down for you." She left the room and returned with a hastily scribed list.

Jane returned from the shop quicker than Margaret expected, and her mistress set to work right away. It was not Margaret's best effort—how could it be in the time she had allotted herself? Nonetheless she hoped John would like it. The young Mrs. Thornton rose from her place at the desk, placed several pieces of paper into the folder Jane had purchased, and then called for the girl.

"Jane, is my bath ready? And would you be able to arrange my hair the same way Edith did the other day?"

She hoped John would be pleased with her efforts.

John returned an hour or so later, and emitted an audible gasped when he saw his wife. She giggled in response, indicating that she was aware of her power over him.

"You said you had a surprise for tonight," she said, her eyes glittering with mirth.

"I did indeed." He motioned with his hand for her to turn around, and she obliged. "Is this your surprise?" he asked.

"No, it is Edith's. She remembered the date, and sent this as a peace-offering."

"Remind me to thank her. You look stunning, my love. I think you are the most beautiful creature I have ever met."

Margaret blushed. "You cannot think so. Perhaps if I were blonde, and willowy."

John shook his head. "No. You are perfect as you are, my love." He removed his frock coat, but carried it with him as he left the room. "Give me just a few minutes to get ready, and we'll leave for dinner."

He prepared quickly as possible, given that he needed to bathe, and to shave, and to find something to wear that was at least somewhat comparable to his wife's fine attire. He settled on his finest wool suit (the same he'd worn to their wedding), along with a sapphire blue ascot and blue and gold silk damask waistcoat. He did not match his wife's elegance, but really, there was no need to do so. She would shine tonight, as she did wherever she went, he would willingly play the role of dull, rocky satellite in her orbit.

John's lesser astronomical status did not prevent a broad smile from lighting Margaret's face as he reentered the bedroom. He had not seen a smile this great in months, it seemed.

"John, I have not seen that waistcoat before. It is lovely. And your cravat is the perfect match for your eyes." She stood on tiptoes to kiss him. The light touch of her lips set his senses afire, and made him wish that he had not planned a special evening outside of their room.

But given her current unwellness, perhaps it was for the best that their night was to be filled with entertainment, and not intimacy. The drunken utterances of the other mill owners had suggested to him that ones wife was off limits at her time of the month. And while it was true that those fools knew quite little and spoke more than they should about almost every subject, perhaps they spoke wisely this once. He would not want to harm Margaret, or her chances of bearing him a child.

"John, what are you thinking of? Is my kiss not pleasing to you?"

He pulled her close and kissed her firmly and passionately in response. "Never think that," he said, finally. Then he reached into the inner breast pocket of his frock coat to pull out a small, velvet drawstring bag.

"Before we go," he said, "I have something for you." He emptied the contents of the bag into her hand, and smiled as she gasped, this time.

"Magpie!" she exclaimed, as she examined the jet necklace she'd admired that morning. "You spoil me, John."

"Let me," he said, as she attempted to fasten the necklace around her neck. He carefully fastened the hook into its safety clasp, then stood back to admire her.

"It suits you," he said finally.

"I have something for you, too," Margaret said, "although I am afraid it does not approach the consequence of this gift."

"Oh?" John raised an eyebrow and looked at her expectantly.

"It is not jewelry, I am afraid. I do think you need a pair of cufflinks to match that cravat. But it would not have been a surprise if I'd asked you for the money."

"I have been remiss," John replied. "We will see about giving you a proper allowance once we return to Milton."

She nodded, as she picked up her reticule and the folder in which she'd secreted her gift. "I will show you your gift over dinner. Is that acceptable?"

John gave Jane the night off, although from what Margaret told him, it sounded as though the girl had taken the afternoon for herself, as well. He would need to talk to his mother about the best way to manage the girl once she shifted from the mill house to Fanny's new home. But that was not a matter to think about now. Instead, he did his best to enjoy his wife's company.

He refused to tell Margaret where they were going, although they did not travel far in the hired brougham. Instead, John enjoyed the various expressions that flitted across her face: impatience, the smallest smidge of frustration, but most of all, happiness. And her laugh when they arrived at their destination was not the forced, crystalline one that he'd heard a few times over the past month. Instead it was the low, throaty sound he remembered fondly.

Her excitement was palpable when their carriage pulled in front of the renamed Gore House. The stucco-covered wall bore large, golden letters that announced the delights that awaited them. They were quite visible in the glare of the many gas lights that illuminated the wall.

"Soyer's Universal Symposium," Margaret breathed the words aloud and laughed again. "Oh, John!" Her smile was infectious.

He smiled and they passed through the gate into a rather unremarkable garden. There were box shrubs, trimmed into a series of low, formal hedges that led the way to the well-known house. Although he was a resident of Milton, even John had heard of Gore House and its past resident, a leading light of London society. Before her debts had forced her to flee the country, the excellence of her house had been described in every paper in the country.

Therefore John was surprised at what he observed next.

The pair was greeted outside the front door by servant dressed in livery that might be appropriate for a medieval court. He looked more jester than attendant, really, in the satin silk he wore, with breeches that were fashionable eighty years prior. The man bowed after taking the ticket John presented, and open the door with a flourish.

"This is the Le Vestibule de la Fille de l'Orage" pronounced the attendant in French that even John, a non-speaker, could tell was fractured. "The hall of the daughter of the storm." The attendant pointed to a fresco on the near wall, which showed a classically-clad woman emerging from a storm. The fresco had been painted in haste. This was evident from the rough work. But it was not the most jarring sight in the room.

John looked up and saw an immense plaster hand, painted in flesh tones and suspended from the ceiling. It held a forked and gilded lightning bolt. And on the far wall was an even more arresting sight. A series of simple gas lamps, unhooded by glass, covered the wall. They dimmed and brightened rhythmically, announcing in bold letters the words, "Soyer's Symposium."

John sighed. Surely one's reputation should be advertisement enough for any business.

"If this is the room of the daughter of the storm, whose arm is that?" Margaret asked, pointing to the monstrosity.

"It is Jove's. Some call him Zeus," the attendant said, knowingly. "He is the Roman god of lightning and thunder."

"Is this Olympus, then?" Margaret asked, as she looked around the room decorated entirely in cerulean blue and silver. John was suddenly very glad his own waistcoat was woven in gold in addition to blue. Still, he cringed inwardly.

The attendant did not respond to Margaret's query. Perhaps the did not know as much as he thought he did. He guided them out of the room, instead. "As you are dining in the house tonight, you will have your choice of rooms. Allow me to give you a quick tour and you can decide on your table."

"That is quite kind," Margaret said.

The attendant led them through a series of rooms, each more outlandish than the last.

"I do not think this will work," Margaret said as they looked into the room decorated as an ice cave, complete with stuffed fox and large, carved blocks of ice that served as oversized icicles. Ice, John noted, was prohibitively expensive at this time of year. He wondered how Soyer was turning a profit given the expenses he must have generated.

"Brr…" Margaret continued, "I feel cold just looking at it."

The Italian room, decorated with lattice and vines, and leading out onto Venetian bridge, did not suit either. It was too loud, due to the several inebriated customers, who lounged on the room's elaborate rococo furniture.

The attendant suggested they examine the upstairs, and he led them to a very wide staircase, almost as wide as the one at the millhouse. However, unlike his mother's rather sedate taste in furnishings, this staircase boasted a mural that contained all manner of mythological beasts, and all done in a rather slapdash manner. It was all a bit overwhelming, John decided.

"How sparkly!" was Margaret's comment when they visited La Salle de Noces de Danae. This large, rectangular room decorated with floor to ceiling draperies in deep blue. (And of course they were blue, John thought. The house appeared to have a theme.) The ceiling was perforated, allowing the smallest beams of gas light to illuminate the room. A number of small, silvered globes hung from the ceiling, causing the tiny beams of light that shone through the dropped ceiling to bounce onto small bits of silver foil scattered on every wall.

"Margaret," John said softly enough that the attendant would not hear. "This is not what I expected. I suggest we go. I am sure there is another restaurant that will suit. Or we can go back to the hotel—"

Margaret regarded him, curiosity evident in her expression. Then she responded to him in a voice that was equally quiet, but somewhat more gentle.

"John, I do not think you realize how happy you have made me today. Darling, I do not want to leave this place. I find it…delightful. Let us find someplace quiet to sit, and I will tell you all about it."

They followed the attendant into still another room. This one, he announced, was the goddess Flora's retreat. It was less gaudy then the others, filled with flowers and candlelight, and quite empty of diners. Apparently Soyer's typical customer favored the flamboyant. Perhaps the chef knew his audience, after all.

"This will do," John told the attendant who then listed for them a long succession of dishes from which they might dine, and a list of wines that seemingly represented all of Europe.

Husband and wife ordered food and drink, and finally he and Margaret were alone.

"You seem upset, John. What is the matter?" Margaret asked as she placed her hand on his.

John struggled to find the words. "I want the best for you," he said, finally. "And this is not the best. It is a fever dream of monstrous proportions."

"It is certainly not Paris, or Venice, or Greece," Margaret agreed, "But really, is it meant to be? I think our chef has a playful sense of humor, and wants his guests to be surprised and shocked at their surroundings. I think he is trying to show some of the same wonders displayed in the Exhibition, but in a rather simplified way"

"Yes, I can see how guests might be shocked," John said grudgingly. "But it is all so excessive. Classical Greece surely was not like this."

Margaret giggled. "I am sure you are right. I wonder what Papa would think of this place?"

"I do not know," John said.

"I think he would be happy that our attendant had learned about Greek gods and heroes. Even if he only learned the largest details. You did not witness this, but it gave Papa great pleasure when his Sunday students learned even a lit bit about church architecture. The smile on his face…" Her expression became wistful, but John noted that this was a different kind of wistfulness. He also realized this was the first time Margaret had spoken of her father without weeping.

"This is a very silly place, to be sure," she continued. "But John, I am glad that I am able to appreciate it. I do not think that even last week I would have seen the humor of this place. But you have cured me. I am not so sad anymore."

He wanted to kiss her, but of course, could not. Not in such a public place.

"I see," he said instead.

She dazzled him. The darkness of her gown set off the ivory glow of her skin perfectly, and when she moved slightly the tiny sequins bordering her decolletage sparkled alluringly. The cabochons of the three graces seemed to pay tribute to her own beauty, as they accentuated the elegant, slender neck that he longed to caress. But her face was the most beautiful part of her. Not just her features, which while not classically beautiful were so pleasant together. It was her expression of happiness that was most alluring.

"Today was a wonderful day," she continued. "It is a wonderful day. I learned so much this morning in Spitalfields. And tonight—again, I must tell you how delighted I am."

"What did you learn this morning?" John queried, taking her hand.

"More about you, and the mill. And what makes you tick. Although clearly you are not a timepiece. And while you were gone, I started my translation."

John raised an eyebrow.

"You remember," she continued. "The de Tocqueville book you gave me, and the other. I have learned some things."

"Oh? Would you care to elaborate?" He immediately regretted the offer, given the tenor of their past conversation on this topic, but Margaret did not disappoint.

"Well, yes, but my opinions are not yet formed. But once I have finished translating, I should like to share my thoughts, and hear yours, as well."

Dinner was served, and John was pleasantly surprised that the food matched the chef's reputation. A rissole of lobsters, shrimp, and oysters was followed by a potage froid served with mustard and watercress salad. Then came a fillet of beef served with sea kale, endive, and potatoes Lyonnaisse. Finally, for desert, several dishes arrived: a gateau mille feuille, crème bavaroise, and beignets soufflé with frangipane.

John noticed a change in Margaret's affect as dinner neared its conclusion. Her wide smile dimmed as after dessert was cleared and coffee served. It was more tentative than any other expression that had graced her face that evening, and John wondered as to its source. The small folder she placed on the table answered his questions.

"My gift to you, John," his wife said softly. "I know it is not much."

"Nonsense." John opened the folder and examined its contents with his typical attentiveness to detail. "I did not know you were an artist, Margaret."

His wife blushed, and he was thoroughly enchanted by her modesty.

"Yes, I was instructed in watercolors when I lived with Edith. And charcoals. But these are pencil, and not so good, I think. I wish I had spent more time on them."

To John's eye, they were quite good. But they were not the typical, ladylike landscapes, or the simple drawings of flowers that were to be expected of any accomplished young woman. These were abstractions of geometric forms and flowers, some with arabesques, other with a delightful repetition of forms. Each drawing had several lines of symmetry, allowing the pattern displayed to repeat itself. Others tessellated, and clearly had required some skill with ruler and pencil to create.

"They are designs," she elaborated. "As you can see. I thought that since you will be producing printed cottons when you buy up Kirk's business that I might share some ideas I have."

"Oh? Do tell." They really hadn't talked much about the former magistrate and the business he would soon be putting up for sale. But after the conversation with Henry and Captain Lennox, it did seem likely John would soon have the investors needed to take on such an expansion.

"Well," Margaret's face grew animated, "Do you remember the printing machine on display at the Exhibition?"

"Was it near our display? I think there were several. But these designs… well darling, while they are lovely, they are much too elaborate for roller printing."

"Yes, I know. I looked at those machines most closely."

"But those are what we will be using when we purchase Kirk's machinery."

This machine was huge—

John laughed. "Weren't they all?"

"In a different way." She lifted herself from her chair as she extended her arms. "It rather hung in the air." Her eyes sparkled as much as the spangles on her dress. "Could we go back to the exhibition so I that I may show this other machine to you? It is the invention of a Frenchman, I think. It was most exciting, John!"

"Yes, love, certainly we can visit again. It would be a good idea, as there are some things I should check on before the closing. Although I had gotten the definite feeling that you did not want to return to the Exhibition, Margaret."

"That was before we visited Spitalfields."

"Spitalfields? And what does silk weaving have to do with all of this?"

"Not weaving, John. The Ragged School. I think we should have one at Marlborough Mills. To give the future hands a foundation in reading and arithmetic. But also to give the young ladies a trade."

"You've lost me, my darling." John did his best to hide his feelings. A Ragged School was not something the mill could support, but he could not tell Margaret this. Not now.

"I will explain more when we visit."

John heard the enthusiasm in her voice, saw the excitement in her gestures and the continued light in her eyes. Here was his Margaret returned to him, the happy, enthusiastic woman he had married.

How could he deny her?

"Yes, of course. I will see if we can visit tomorrow, darling."

Author's note:

This was a fairly long chapter, and I hope that although John is played for a fool for a good part of it, that I still portrayed him realistically. All of us are presented with ridiculous or trying situations from time to time. I think it is how we respond to such situations that shows our true character. I think also how one responds to someone who has been humiliated also shows ones character. Hopefully, the way I portrayed Margaret shows her compassion. I do not think she would mock her husband, or anyone, if she found they were lacking in information, or had made a poor decision. (Fanny might!) But I do think Margaret would have enjoyed Soyer's Symposium, despite Edith's previous warning.

Thank you to everyone who has been kind enough to stick with this story, and thank you especially to those of you who take the time to review. As I have written before, your words mean a great deal to me, and motivate me to continue. As I mentioned last time I wrote, I will be alternating posting chapters for this story and the other one I am working on. Expect the next chapter of The Lace Curtain in two weeks' time, on Sunday, January 23.

Historical Notes:

On Menstruation:

John's attitude toward menstruation is so different than our attitude today, that it perhaps seems unrealistic. Today menstruation is not considered something to hide and it is openly discussed. This was not the case during the Victorian era (and the majority of the twentieth century, too!). Researchers have had difficulty studying the topic of menstruation in the 1800s because it was discussed so little. However, the existing information indicates that there was a class-based dichotomy in the way menstruation was treated. In an 1869 presentation to the Anthropological Society of London, one Dr. James MacGrigor Allen told his audience that during menstruation women were "are unfit for any great mental or physical labour. They suffer under a languor and depression which disqualify them for thought or action, and render it extremely doubtful how far they can be considered responsible beings while the crisis lasts. Much of the inconsequent conduct of women, their petulance, caprice, and irritability, may be traced directly to this cause."

As late as 1891, Dr. John Harvey Kellogg (physician, nutritionist, health activist, inventor of a certain breakfast cereal you may have eaten) wrote that a young woman should be "allowed to yield herself to the feeling of malaise, which usually comes over her at this period, lounging on the sofa or using her time as she pleases."

There is an engraving called "The Invalid" by George Goodwin Kilburne from the mid 1800s (probably between 1855 and 1860, as Kilburne did an apprenticeship in engraving during that time, before switching to watercolor painting) that shows a woman in this "state of malaise," and attended by her servant. She is wearing a wrapper—you can tell by the buttons down the front of the bodice. (This engraving makes me think of Fanny lying on the sofa after the riot, being fanned by Jane. I have printed out a copy of it for inspiration, along with several fashion plates from this time period.)

In contrast to the authoritative views of doctors and health reformers, most Victorian women did not seem to spend their "monthly" time resting. The National Museum of Civil War Medicine has an interesting article about attitudes toward menstruation during this general time period. Per this article, diaries of the time show that most women went about their typical duties. Of course, these would have been women from less wealthy families than the Thorntons. Servants were not given any dispensation from their work. One might think that the fact that servants worked through the entire month might have caused John to question Fanny's need for ten days of nursing care each month, but the way I see John, he probably did not want to think about it (like most people of the time), and furthermore, was happy to have a reason to avoid his annoying sister.

The prevailing common wisdom of the time was the medical lore that had been passed down since the ancient Greeks: there were four body humors that needed to remain in balance: black bile (Melania chole in Greek, from whence the English word melancholy arises), yellow bile, phlegm, and blood. Menstruation was therefore the body ridding itself of excess blood. If this blood were not lost each month it was thought to stagnate within the body and cause disease. For this reason, women were told to be careful to avoid doing things that might stop the flow of blood. This included things like getting chilled, or bathing. And sex was not generally something participated in during this time of the month.

I think the lower classes' attitude toward menstruation would be shared by Margaret, given how logical and sensible she is. I also think that even Edith might have balked at the idea of confining herself for several days per month. It might have been fun at first to be waited on hand and foot, but it would wear after a while. Not only that, but confining oneself in such a predictable way would advertise to all the very intimate goings-on of ones physiology. That is hardly the way to behave if it is important not to discuss menstruation.

On the Claudle:

Different cultures have activities and foods they associate with illness and childbirth. For many years, "claudle" was a food primarily associated with childbirth, but also with illness. Claudle varied over time, but was sometimes a drink like eggnog that was intended to provide nourishment to an invalid. After childbirth, women visiting the new mother would be served cake and claudle, so it had a very feminine connotation, as well. Margaret asks for claudle out of annoyance, and for the same reason she mentions "being confined" earlier in the conversation. Confinement referred to a certain amount of time after childbirth where a woman could not leave her home. Depending on religious and cultural traditions, at the end of her confinement (40 to 100 days), a new mother might go through certain rituals to allow her to join society once more. To my mind the word confinement and its associated rituals seem to associate childbirth with impurity. Note that until very recently (twenty years ago?) obstetrics professional used the abbreviation EDC, which stands for "Estimated Day of Confinement." That has since changed to "Estimated Day of Delivery (EDD)."

On the Symposium:

The Gastronomic Symposium of All Nations, which Edith alludes to in a previous chapter, was a restaurant that opened near the Crystal Palace to take advantage of the large crowds of tourists coming from the Great Exhibition.

Alexis Soyer was this restaurant's creator and is considered to be England's first celebrity chef. Trained as a French chef, he was employed by numerous aristocrats in England before gaining notice as the chef of the Reform Club in London. During his time as chef of this men's' club, he made up to £1,000 a year (which would be worth about £145,500 today). Like modern celebrity chefs he wrote numerous cookbooks and lent his name and image to products and causes. For instance, he developed a mobile kitchen that was used to feed the starving during the Great Famine in Ireland, and he also fed impoverished weavers in Spitalfields. Soyer also developed a portable cookstove. Later, he worked with Florence Nightingale during the Crimean war. His job at that time was to set up appropriate dining for the soldiers. He was successful at all of these endeavors.

The Symposium, however, was not a success.

The Symposium was located at Gore House, across the street from the Crystal Palace, and about 150 yards to the east of where the Royal Albert Hall now stands. Soyer hoped to capitalize on the many visitors to the exhibition by offering international cuisine, in contrast to the British foods offered at the cafes in the Exhibition. The restaurant did have many customers (up to 1,000 per day), and grossed £21,000 (over £3,000,000 today) over its five months in business. Despite this, Soyer ended up losing £7,000 (about £1,000,000 today) on the venture. His restaurant closed on October 14, just as the Exhibition did.

My description of how Gore House was decorated during the Symposium is accurate to writings of the era, and comes in part from the book, Memoirs of Alexis Soyer. Interestingly, although this book was marketed as a memoir there is some evidence that it was ghost written for him, as although he spoke English, he could not read or write. The description of the interior is written in somewhat mocking tones, so I think this also supports the thesis that he did not write this book, and simply signed his name to it. Also of interest is that Soyer's secretary, who reportedly wrote the book, ending up suing Soyer due to the chef's financial mismanagement of the restaurant. Before the Symposium opened Soyer was a wealthy man, who had licensing arrangements with soft drink vendors and other companies. He had also authored (dictated?) several well-received cookbooks. The Mrs. Beeton's cookbook I referenced in an earlier chapter apparently plagiarized quite a few recipes from Soyer's books.

Soyer was good at self-promotion (first person to put his name in lights?) but he was not the most astute businessman. Apparently he was also somewhat gullible, and tended to sign onto business ventures that could not make money. He was offered the opportunity to run the concessions at the Crystal Palace, but turned it down to open the Symposium, instead. The company that ended up running the concessions was the Schweppes Brothers; this company still produces ginger ale, worldwide.

Apart from financial mismanagement, there are a couple of possible explanations for the early closure of the Symposium. One was elitism. Soyer wanted people from all backgrounds to be able to dine in his restaurant and offered meals at different price points to allow for this. His memoirs lists the price of a ticket for two to the Symposium as a guinea and a half (a little over £1.50 in 1851, and worth about £218 in today's currency.) This was not cheap, but not prohibitive for an upper middle class family. It is the ticket John would have bought to dine within the house.

The hoi polloi could dine for a much lesser cost at an enormous 350 foot long table, in an outdoor pavilion, for a much lower cost. There were several bars with alcohol available, which led to rowdiness and calls from the police.

Not all of London's elite would have been happy rubbing elbows with the lower classes, or even the middle classes. To make things worse, as I describe, the refurbishment of Gore House was in questionable taste, with each room redone in a different theme. One article I read compared The Symposium to Disney's Epcot Center, but I think the Symposium anticipated the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas. There was a room decorated to resemble the arctic, a Chinese room, and an outdoor ice cave. There were also activities including fortune telling and hot air balloon rides. It was, of course, derided by those in the know. Punch Magazine was one of the media sources that derided the Symposium, comparing each of its rooms to a particular London slum. Not a very subtle comparison, but apparently it had the intended effect on its target audience. The well-off did not want to dine with the vulgar and therefore, Soyer's restaurant was not frequented by London's best.

Another explanation for the early closure of the Symposium may have been that Soyer was too far ahead of his time. In 1851, fine dining really did not exist in London, at least not for women. According to Robert Hardwicke's 1858 book, "London at Dinner, or Where to Dine," At the time of the Great Exhibition, women could visit confectionary shops alone, and there were some coffee houses where men could take women. There also were many private clubs that offered excellent meals for men, but if a man wanted to dine with his family he typically had to engage a private room at a hotel, as John did a couple of chapters ago. However, by 1858, well after the closure of the Symposium, women could dine in London at Epitaux's, in Pall Mall, and at Verey's, in Regent Street. Additionally private dinners with the most attentive wait staff could be had at the Albion or the London tavern. It is not clear from Hardwicke's book whether these establishments permitted women in 1851, however. I am guessing the answer is no.

The entrees I chose are from Soyer's cookbook "The Gastronomic Regenerator." (Seriously, that is its title.) It is a cookbook he wrote in 1847, collecting about 2000 recipes he had developed before or during his time at London's Reform Club. The book lists a great many princes, dukes and other nobles among his patrons, and suggests how influential Soyer was as a chef, regardless of his taste in household decoration.

Thank you to Kloot on AO3 for giving me some additional information about Manchester museums in the 1850s being open to the public. I live about 4,700 miles from that beautiful city, and I have only visited England once. As a result, all of my research is remote. I appreciate it when someone who lives in the place I am writing about shares their knowledge!