Chapter Two

"Good evening, Harriet." The panel slid open for the first time since that afternoon.

"Father," she said, coming to the door with eyes red. "What must I do to get out of here?"

He was pleased to see so humble a response. "We have told you already, Harriet, you must be a good girl and marry Rupert Porker."

"Must – must I?" whispered Harriet.

"Yes, Harriet."

Harriet sniffed again, looking away, and pretended to wipe her clouding eyes of tears. "I don't want to marry Rupert Porker, Father."

"He is a perfectly respectable young man, Harriet, and certainly much too good for you," her father said sternly.

Harriet managed not to laugh out loud. "I know, Father. I – I have been very wicked, have I not?"

"I must say you have, dear," said Mr Stevenson, delighted at the complete change in his daughter. She knew she would have to tone it down a little for her mother, who was marginally more intelligent than her father. "But you must try to be good."

"I will try, Father, I promise," said Harriet, to all appearances bursting into tears.

Mr Stevenson was much alarmed. "I say, child, don't cry! All will be well if you marry Mr Porker!"

"Will you promise to let me out if I marry him?" sobbed Harriet with great gasps of despair.

"You know we will," said her father. "Shall I leave you to think about it overnight?"

"Yes, thank you, Father," she said gratefully, sniffing still. She waited until the panel was slid shut once more, and then danced around the room, singing to herself. Her father was falling right into her trap!

It should be said now that Harriet had never been modest. Of course, in her situation, it was hard to be. She knew she was stunning; everybody said so, and anyway, she did look in mirrors on occasion. It would have been impossible not to see it. (To do her credit, Harriet did not think much more of herself than she would have otherwise, and certainly did not place herself over anyone who, though plain, was intelligent.) And because of this knowledge of her beauty, and also of her intelligence, she was determined that if she had to marry, she would marry amazingly well. If all worked out, it was to be someone in the peerage, and as terrible as it is, should her parents have intended her for someone more handsome or intelligent than Rupert Porker, she would have hated him with the same intensity as she hated Porky, simply for not being of the peerage, and of her parent's choice.

Really, one cannot blame Harriet. No matter how low her birth in terms of the ton, she deserved to be in the spotlight. A girl with such spirited character, such beauty and such intelligence is rarely seen, and if displayed to the right class of people, at once a gem of society. A lack of fortune, although regrettable, is permissible in cases such as these, and to instead throw such a girl away into the arms of a country goat at such a young age is the equivalent of throwing a diamond of the first water into the deepest depths of the sea.

Some time later, Harriet's mother mounted the stairs with her husband, listening, amazed, to the story he was telling animatedly of Harriet's apparent surrender. "I can hardly believe it!" she said suspiciously. "Can Harriet be so submissive in such a short time?"

"Well, my dear, a girl like Harriet loves her freedom," said Mr Stevenson, convinced he knew exactly what was going on. "I am sure she simply found the confinement too much."

"Hmmm," said Harriet's mother, who was a little more acquainted with the arts of her daughter. "We'll see."

They opened the locks, and quickly went in to find Harriet lying on her bed, the very picture of desolation. "Oh Mother!" she said, quickly sitting up. "Please, let me out of here!"

"Are you willing to marry Mr Porker?" asked Mrs Stevenson sternly.

"Yes, oh yes, Mother – just anything to feel the air again!"

"I don't know if I should believe you or not," said the mother, regarding her daughter critically.

"I know I have lied in the past, Mother, but this time, this time I am in earnest. Please believe me!"

Mrs Stevenson sighed. She thought. She sighed. She thought again. "I suppose I must believe you," she said reluctantly. "After all, I do want to see you married to Rupert Porker."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Harriet, running over to embrace her mother and kiss her father's cheek.

"I have spoken to Mr Porker and his parents, and you will marry him tomorrow," said Mrs Stevenson, shrugging off the only embrace she had ever had from her daughter, and frowning. "He is a little surprised, I admit, but compliant. Until then, you will remain in this room."

"I look forward to it," said Harriet, lying glibly, but smiling genuinely – at her success. "Oh, Mother, but what will I wear?"

"It does not signify what you wear, Harriet," said Mrs Stevenson repressively. "You will wear something serviceable and becoming to a female in your humble position. I imagine your tan silk will do. I shall ask Fanny to prepare it immediately."

"Will you ask her to bring it here, Mother? I fear I have lost weight since last I wore it, and she may need to adjust it."

"Of course," said Mrs Stevenson absent-mindedly, running through in her mind all that had to be done to prepare for tomorrow, and subsequently missing the look of glee that sprang to Harriet's face.

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"Oh, Harriet, what a mess you've got yourself into," grumbled Fanny, carrying the dress through the door. "If you'd just behaved a little more genteel-like . . ."

Harriet rolled her eyes, although she embraced Fanny warmly and happily. "Spare your moralising, Fanny, and lend me your ears. We don't have much time, but you have got to help me escape."

Fanny looked at her for a moment. "Oh, I see, miss, you've gone and got yourself into a right dither, and decided you can rely on me for whatever hare-brained scheme you've got up your sleeve. Well, I tell you this, Miss Harriet, I'm not goin' to risk losing my job yet again just to provoke Bedlam in this here household."

"Oh, Fanny!" said Harriet, in woebegone accents, and indeed, looking so much like she was perishing away that Fanny fell for it, yet again, and completely. "You must help me, you Must! My parents are diabolical, they are like the villains in The Black Forest!"

Fanny gasped. "No!" Fanny had a terrible weakness for novels; a weakness that Mrs Stevenson had as yet no knowledge of, as Fanny was not even supposed to be literate. Harriet had taught the older girl to read since she was eight or so. Another of their secrets was that they were actually very good friends, even if Harriet did have a knack of winding Fanny perfectly around her finger with hardly any effort at all. If Mrs Stevenson had found out she would have instantly dismissed Fanny, for as well as being a high-stickler, she was snobbish, and would have blanched to discover that the person Harriet loved most in the household was her common abigail. And so Harriet had a secret ally in Fanny, and now was bent on using this advantage to the utmost.

"I need your help, Fanny, for there is no one else in the world who can help me," Harriet said plaintively, effectively dismissing off five or so very good friends who would have thought it great fun to assist Harriet in escaping her evil parents. (I am sorry to say it, but there it is; they would have thought it hilarious.)

Fanny leaned forward with an absurd, serious look on her face. "What must I do?" she asked solemnly.

Harriet leaned over to her so that each girl's curls were touching the other's and in a torrent of whispers communicated exactly what had to be done. A smile grew on Fanny's face as she listened. "Oh, you're a great lass, Harriet, you really are," she said. "If I only had that intelligence of yours, why, I could be prime minister, I could."

Harriet stifled a laugh at the vision of Fanny Smith giving speeches in Parliament, and thanked her friend cordially.

"You're sure it can't go wrong?" asked Fanny worriedly. "Will the missus find out it's me?"

"Never," Harriet assured her. "And if she should catch me, I promise you that even under threat of torture and the gallows I will not tell her who aided me."

Fanny smiled as she left. It was all so romantic.

Harriet picked up a small book that was lying on the floor. "A Bride Bush," she read out loud, noting her mother's name inscribed on the frontispiece, and started flicking through it. Her eyes alighted on one page in particular.

'The whole duty of the wife is referred to two heads. The first is to acknowledge her inferiority, the next to carry herself as inferior. First then, the wife's judgement must be convinced that she is not her husband's equal, yea that her husband is her better by far: else there can be no contentment, either in her heart or in her house. If she stand upon terms of equality, much more of being better than he is, the very root of good carriage is withered, and the fountain thereof is dried up. ... If ever thou purpose to be a good wife, and to live comfortably, set down this with thy self. Mine husband is my superior, my better: he hath authority and rule over me: nature hath given it him, having formed our bodies to tenderness, men's to more hardness. God hath given it to him, saying to our first mother Eve, thy desire shall be subject to him, and he shall rule over thee. His will is the tie and tedder even of my desires and wishes. I will not strive against GOD and nature. Though my sin hath made my place tedious, yet will I confess the truth, mine husband is my superior, my better.'

Harriet threw the book on the floor again, but she had to laugh.

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"My dear child," said Mr Stevenson comfortably, opening the door the next morning, "it is time to go."

"Yes, Father," said Harriet, standing up with a brave, anguished look on her face, as if she was going to have a tooth pulled and had decided that it was all for the best, and no matter what pain she suffered, she would endure it. "I am ready."

"I must say, Harriet, I am very proud of you," her father said. "You have changed quite remarkably these last few days. Yes, by Jove, I'm proud of you." He looked up to find a very odd expression in Harriet's eyes. It was almost like sorrow. "What's the matter, dear? You'll be a married woman soon. Aren't you excited?"

"Oh, vastly," said Harriet, with a slightly wobbly voice. To tell the truth, Harriet was affected by her father's statement. For the first time, she wished she could have been what he wanted; she wished she could have been happy with what her parents had wanted for her. Everything would have been so much easier. No, she didn't like her parents much, but if she had been a different sort of person, she could have, and sometimes she felt that deeply.

They descended the stairs, Harriet clutching her going-away bag which the faithful Fanny had filled with everything she would not need to go and be married. They met Mrs Stevenson downstairs, and silently drove to the church, Harriet looking appropriately nervous. "Well, Harriet," said Mrs Stevenson as they got out of the carriage, "I am glad it has come to this point at last. I think you will agree that we have always done the best we can for you and that this day is the culmination of that?"

Harriet found it very hard not to snort loudly at this, but managed to pull herself back into a feeble nod. She climbed out of the carriage on her father's arm as Porky came out of the church where he had been waiting. Rupert Porker was a rotund young man with persistently red cheeks as if he had just been involved in copious amounts of exercise, and thin yellow hair that clung to the top of his head. He had the appearance of vacuity, and piggish blue eyes, which were currently surveying his bride-to-be in a satisfied, triumphant manner. "Good morning, Mr and Mrs Stevenson – Miss Stevenson," he said, emphasising the 'miss' and grinning as if he had just made the cleverest joke of the season. Harriet found it hard not to retch.

Mr Porker's younger sister Julia, a very close friend of Harriet's, followed him out of the church and smiled tentatively at Harriet. Fanny had been told to give her a message, and so she was looking neither distressed nor flabbergasted that her best friend had agreed to marry her idiotic brother.

They entered the church, and Harriet could feel herself sweating. If this didn't work . . .

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Extract from A Bride Bush : William Whately, A bride bush, 1617, p.36ff.