Part 2 | France
09|
A system of shafts, cranks, and belts—called transmission—powers the looms at my father's mill. Prior to the morning shift the overhead axles are brought to speed by the steam engine in the powerhouse while the actual looms still lie dormant. Then the whistle blows and in come the workers, and one by one they hook the belts onto transmission and the weaving machines rattle into life...
... this is the image that comes to my mind whenever I watch Miss Hopkins.
She is animated by the company of men. Quite literally.
During the last few days I have repeatedly heard her described as 'spirited'—and she is. She is lively and quick-witted. Entertaining, but without being forward. Pretty, too. She's a perfect society lady.
But there is another side to her—one not encountered in public and by men. I wonder if her own father knows how she is in private.
Hooked off power, that's how she is. 'Languid' doesn't even begin to describe her state of inertia. And I have been witness and victim of it for the last two days.
(Excerpt from the diary of Emily Thornton)
Within a day Emily came to loathe Mary Faye Hopkins... A fairy, indeed! More often than not, at least in Emily's company, she was away with them.
During the day, while the gentlemen were absent for their excursions to the Amiens cotton mills, Miss Hopkins did nothing but recline on the chaise longue in the little private parlour of her hotel suite; and as Miss Hopkins wasn't inclined to go sightseeing, Emily was stuck as well. Her father had made her promise not to go exploring by herself. The only servants available were Miss Hopkins's lady's maid and Sir Thomas's valet, and were therefore not at her disposal. Tom Boucher was, of course, accompanying his employer.
Emily had pondered taking Origins with her to Miss Hopkins's parlour, to re-read some of its more baffling hypotheses—her hostess wouldn't care about her choice of reading matter one way or another—but when she had held the book in her hand, she had felt a slight revulsion, not against its contents but against the volume itself. After a lapse of a few weeks her revenge on Walter by means of 'abducting' a book seemed petty and not much to the point... and little by little it had spoiled her enjoyment in reading it. With a sigh she had shoved it back into her holdall.
Now she sat by one of the parlour windows overlooking the busy street outside and was alternating between doing some needlework—rather badly—flicking through a volume of French poetry, and staring out of the window, wishing she was down there with the town folk.
So much for visiting the cathedral and town! she thought sullenly.
In her blundering French—Emily's education with the Watson boys had more emphasised on dead than on modern languages—she had quizzed the little chamber maids the night before and had learnt that besides the cathedral—it was the largest in France, they proudly told her—there was the medieval belfry at Place au Fil with its huge bell weighing a stunning eleven tons. But, more importantly, the cirque at Place Longueville was currently in town... and then there was the Saint-Leu quarter. The maids had giggled as they mentioned it and then had quickly conceded that Emily was, perhaps, a little too young to visit, especially in the evenings.
Plenty to see, if only one ventured out of the front door, but Miss Hopkins was just lounging in her parlour eating bon-bon.
"I wouldn't know why to bother," she declared. "You can hear the belfry from here... that booming bell stroke every hour is hard to miss—and quite a nuisance. And the cathedral? You've seen one, you've seen them all. And haven't we got plenty of our own in England? You must have visited Westminster Abbey, or Saint Paul's, while staying in London—"
"Yes, of course," Emily said, "But I never visited a Catholic one before and I should like to see it from the inside... actually, I'd like to attend a service—with mass read in Latin, with all the strange goings-on in front of the altar, and with wafts of frankincense floating about—it must be quite outlandish, I'm sure."
Miss Hopkins gave her a listless smile. "You are a peculiar child, Emily," she remarked. "Please, be so kind and call for Lucas—" Lucas was her lady's maid. "—as the gentlemen will soon be back and therefore I'll better get changed... and so should you," she added with a cursory look at Emily's day dress. "You might wish to wear something smarter if you are to come down to the lobby for tea."
This was the final one in a string of barbed remarks; and Emily felt that she had sat through quite enough of them for one day. She rose to find the maid and then excused herself to her room.
Nothing had prepared her for such a mind-numbing day in the morning...It had, in fact, started quite pleasantly with an early breakfast in the company of her father. They had sat together in the small parlour that connected their rooms and Emily had been happily munching brioche and trying coffee—after tea had turned out to be undrinkable—all the while pulling faces at its bitterness.
"Add some more of the hot milk," he had advised her. "Ordinary French people drink their morning coffee from a bol—which is, basically, a bowl—with lots of milk... Best way to take coffee, in my opinion—"
"—just not the way of a gentleman, is it?"
He had stared at her hard for a moment, then seemed to come to a conclusion, and his face had relaxed into a smile. "No, it isn't," he had admitted, laughing. "Which is just a point in case that genteel isn't always best—"
"—all the while we fiddle with too small cups," Emily had concluded. "So, what's the news on the Continent?" she had asked, pointing at his French newspaper. He had obliged her and read out, and translated, such pieces as might amuse and be of interest to her. His French—despite his lack of a formal education—was infinitely better than hers.
It had been a lovely, cheerful hour—and thus far had been the highlight of her day.
Back in her room and changing into one of her new muslin dresses, Emily for a moment contemplated to excuse herself and stay in her room over tea. But after an entire day spent indoors, she longed for a change of scenery and society. Even at the cost of bearing with the Hopkinses.
Although she had been tardy, she arrived downstairs before Miss Hopkins. To her pleasure she saw that, next to the two gentlemen, Tom Boucher was seated in the lobby, something he generally wasn't in the habit of doing with the Hopkinses present. Finding her prospects thus brightened, Emily approached and greeted the gentlemen, and then seated herself beside her father's secretary, eager to hear his report of their day at the French mills which—tinged by his age and family background—would differ from her father's.
It appeared that the English cotton industry had little to fear from its French counterpart at present. Even though production took place on a large scale, technological innovation was firmly with the British side. For the time being, at least... Gone were the times when such regulatory measures as the ban on exporting Arkwright's waterframe had been in place.
"It serves to keep us on our toes," Thornton commented on Tom Boucher's report. Turning back to Sir Thomas, he added, "Despite the leeway we've been given, now that the costs for production in America have risen with the end of slavery, we mustn't get complacent."
Unfortunately, at that moment Miss Hopkins arrived. Boucher took it as his cue to excuse himself. And so, as so often in the company of Sir Thomas and Miss Hopkins, Emily felt like the odd man out again. She was mostly quiet while the gentlemen discussed their observations.
Not so Miss Hopkins. Though, if anything, less informed about the workings of a cotton mill than Emily, this didn't stop her joining into the discussion. What she lacked in information she more than made up for with her supreme self-confidence. And, much to Emily's annoyance, the men duly took heed of what she said.
To make things worse, 'tea' proved to be coffee once again. Not the milky concoction of the morning, but a piping hot, pitch-black beverage served in tiny cups; and rather than being accompanied by sandwiches and teacakes, it came with a selection of sticky-sweet pastries. Emily glumly nibbled at an éclair, listening to what was being said.
"As a Londoner born and bred, I am used to consider myself at the very heart of the Empire," Miss Hopkins said. "But more and more I am coming to understand that it is, in fact, the northern 'back-country'—" She softened the slight with a tinkling laugh. "—that makes or breaks her fortune."
"Well, yes," Thornton replied. "The northern cotton industry, mundane as it may seem, is the engine that drives our economy, and when it fails—as it did during the Cotton Famine at the beginning of this decade—it will be felt throughout England and beyond. So, we'd better make sure to keep it in good working order." He sipped at his coffee. "But enough of business for one day... Are you pleased with Amiens, Miss Hopkins?" he asked politely, but with his attention on Emily who sat with her eyes lowered, picking at the trimmings of her dress.
Miss Hopkins spoke of the delicacies she had sampled during the day—omitting the fact that all of them were taken inside her hotel room—and then at length, and to Emily's utter surprise, told them about the sights. "... and, finally, there is an admirable figure of the Saviour, called Le beau dieu d'Amiens, which separates the doors of the central portal," she concluded her description of the cathedral.
While Sir Thomas was vocal in his appreciation, Thornton said little beyond acknowledging her account with an occasional nod of the head. But the corner of his mouth twitched as if he was about to smile in agreement.
"How about you, Emily? Did you also enjoy your day?" he finally asked.
"Quite," the latter answered curtly.
"Good to hear, Miss Thornton," Sir Thomas chimed in. "Now, as to our plans for tonight; I booked us a table at Le Canard Jaune for nine o'clock; and after the excitement of today I'm certain that Miss Thornton won't mind staying behind." Emily's head snapped up, looking at her father in astonishment. But if he was equally bemused, he didn't show it. His face remained totally inscrutable. "Food's excellent, apparently, but the lateness of the hour would, perhaps, be a tad inappropriate for the child."
From the window of her bedroom Emily watched them depart. Dusk was already setting in. They were taking a coach although the restaurant couldn't possibly be at a great distance from their hotel. Amiens was too small for any long distances. So, taking the coach was owed entirely to Miss Hopkins—or rather, to Miss Hopkins's dress.
It was in the latest London fashion; an emerald green affair with a pronounced bustle and long train, and laced to an impossibly small waist. No surprise Miss Hopkins couldn't walk more than a few paces in it. Emily wondered how she could even breathe with her corset laced so tightly, let alone contemplate eating dinner.
And no wonder Miss Hopkins took to laudanum to ease the discomfort.
It came in the guise of a 'nerve tonic', and during their first day together, Miss Hopkins had twice asked for it. Lucas came in with a tray that held a small glass of water and an apothecary's bottle made from brown glass. Afterwards, Emily had smelt the sickly sweet odour in Miss Hopkins breath. That smell was unmistakable. Emily herself had tried it once—administered by Aunt Frances—when her menses had started with a vengeance. She remembered the syrupy sweetness that would not quite disguise the bitterness underneath, and the debilitating drowsiness that followed. She had taken it never again, preferring to bear with the pain rather than have her faculties numbed.
Laudanum was common enough both in London and Milton society; and more than once Emily had overheard whispered discussions of the advantages of Sydenham's over Rousseau's Laudanum, or vice versa, in the drawing rooms where the ladies waited for the gentlemen to join them after port and smokes. They claimed it eased their ailments and, quite generally, smoothed over the rough edges of life—and best be kept a secret from the men. But then, didn't they all deserve to have their little secrets?
So, Miss Hopkins was a laudanum user and, telling by the strange changes of her moods, very much in the habit of it.
In the course of the evening, which she first spent by having a solitary supper in her room and then sneaked away to play cards with Lucas, Franklin the valet, and Tom Boucher—she was still considered young enough to get away with socialising with the servants—Emily learnt a little more about Mary Hopkins and her aspirations. Lucas wasn't averse to the odd glass of brandy and became quite talkative after a couple of them.
Unsurprisingly, Miss Hopkins was on the lookout for a good match and, at twenty-four years of age, she was getting a little—'desperate' was the word Lucas so carefully avoided. The Hopkins estate was entailed away from the female line and, as Miss Hopkins's dowry was just 'adequate', her chances of finding someone young, handsome, and rich were on the slim side.
"... and so my young mistress has told me the other day that there's always the option of 'handsome and rich'—or just 'rich', if all else fails," Lucas said, entirely unaware of Franklin's frown. "The poor thing... so beautiful and giving up on a love match already. But who knows? Mutually satisfactory matches between 'May' and 'December' have been made before." She giggled.
This remark set off alarm bells in Emily's mind. It isn't by any chance my own father, Miss Hopkins has her sights on, is it? she thought, aghast.
At this moment Franklin pointedly checked his pocket watch. "Isn't it time to return downstairs? They might be back shortly," he said, raising an eyebrow to Lucas.
Back in the quiet of her bedroom, waiting for the clicking of the door to their suite to announce her father's return, Emily couldn't help but wonder. Was her father softening his stance as regarded a possible second marriage and did he give Miss Hopkins reason to believe so? But why, after all this time? Perhaps he was tired of his solitary life and longed for a companion, she mused. But if that was the case, would he seriously choose someone as vacuous as Miss Hopkins?—what would be her allure to him... well... beyond beauty and youth?
In the end she fell into a troubled sleep, failing to notice her father's return and the opening of her bedroom door as he checked in on her.
"I'll be away with Hopkins for the morning," Thornton announced over breakfast on the following day. "We shall leave for Rouen after lunch. Please make sure everything's packed and ready by then."
"Of course, papa," Emily replied. At least packing would give her an excuse not to spend time with Miss Hopkins in the morning. "Will Sir Thomas and Miss Hopkins still travel with us?" She knew they would, but there was always hope that Sir Thomas had changed his plans.
"To Rouen, at the very least. After all, it's on their way to Deauville where they'll spend the summer. But Miss Hopkins is contemplating a sojourn into Paris before they'll continue to the seaside."
"To Paris?—Together with us?" Emily asked, taken aback.
"I don't know what hotel they generally stay in, but they may indeed stay in Paris at the same time as we do."
"And... we'll be spending more time with them?" Emily probed.
"As much as common courtesy would require."
Just courtesy?—or an active interest?
"Won't we be engaged once we are in Paris?" she asked. "What about Uncle Frederick and Aunt Dolores?" Her mother's brother, whom she had never met before, had arranged for them to meet in Paris in order to get to know their niece. Because, for reasons Emily didn't quite understand, Uncle Frederick was prohibited from visiting England.
"What about them?" Thornton replied brusquely. With his brow furrowed he added, "Perhaps I should have warned you, Emily. Your uncle and I are not on amiable terms; therefore I might spend very little time in his company... Of course, you may visit them as frequently and for as long as you choose—just don't count on me to accompany you after first introductions." He folded his newspaper and rose to leave. "Incidentally, I won't be needing Tom this morning... You may want to show him the sights here in Amiens. I hope this is to your liking—"