Boston, September 1889
'Josiah, you Goddamn snake!'
A woman with the tightest hairstyle Beatrice had ever seen, enough to stiffen a woman's neck, greeted them behind a great white door.
At first, she was taken aback, for a good many reasons. The brashness of words emitted from an incredible short woman with a heaving bosom that Beatrice had only ever seen on livestock. The woman, Mrs Worthingworth, trembled with all the moxie her voice carried underneath a large crooked nose and wide-open arms.
Beatrice admittedly had never quite seen anything like it. Her uncle's words played out clearly, Americans were a different breed entirely. Although her encounters with such had been limited but not entirely sheltered, she was not completely taken aback at the cocksureness.
Her uncle was terrifyingly correct in the manner of which those of the east coast did admire the true pantomime of the English. Taking the bovine woman's hand and bequeathing a gentle kiss upon it, Beatrice could not help but notice her uncle's gaze hovering over the outlandish neckline and wondered how intentional it was. However, knowing Josiah, it was utterly intentional.
'My dear, my enticement and fear have never dissipated since the day I met you!' He exclaimed, in a half bow, allowing the older woman to fan herself in the stark and claustrophobic humidity. Beatrice observed, well acquainted with such dramatics and allowed the play to continue before her.
Beatrice could see, although, in a very slight manner, the woman before her glanced across the fan from the corner of her shrewd eyes. It was not often that Beatrice felt uncomfortable, nor was it often she rescinded such gestures. It was evident that this, however, was a time to perform a part, a part which her uncle had not quite clearly constructed nor had he voiced in its entirety. Regardless it was evidently in that very moment whom she was to become.
It was a role whereby she was merely an inconvenient afterthought, something that she would become wholeheartedly. A forgotten child in silks and shadows disregarded like an inanimate doll with no thought or great opinion in the land of unknown. At least, that is what she told herself whilst she was here in this rather intriguing place.
She was not the only one picking up on this however and her uncle rose from his overacted chivalry.
'My, my! My dear Mrs Worthingworth,' he whipped around clicking at Beatrice, 'don't forget your manners dear, now come, she won't bite!' he turned, smiling back at the big-bosomed, fanning woman.
'Amelia, what have I told you?' He said in faux hushed tones, clearly embarrassed by her lack of immediate curtsy. Taking a clear hint, Beatrice falsely flustered herself, pretending she was all out of sorts.
'Please, Madam, I gravely apologise,' she remarked, tilting her skirts and dipping the curls that framed her face, 'it has been such a long journey, I fear I have forgotten myself.'
The elder woman continued to fan herself, still holding her guests at the porch, something which irritated Beatrice more than it should have done. Yet if anything she had learnt in her many hard years; it was to take the lead from her uncle.
She was clearly to be a simple-minded object in skirts, nothing which of course, could compete with the likes of Mrs Worthingworth, she thought sardonically.
The woman huffed, her ample chest heaving in quick succession with clear distaste. She stepped aside as he waved more fiercely.
'James!?' She yelled and beckoned, 'Boy, I will whip you!'
Beatrice smiled through her awkwardness. She feared she would get very many blisters on the inside of her teeth in order to not say anything too questioning. Josiah looked at her over his shoulder cautiously, as she took a deep breath and tried to focus on the ground.
A young boy, no older than nineteen years, rushed to the door in an awkward-looking tailcoat, as though it was far too big for him. He was clearly out of breath, in fear of the woman with udders and an increasingly paced fan.
'I'm... Ma'am... I'm sorry, it's just!' he began, tripping over his words, his eyes darting whilst his bottom lip trembled. A coloured boy, clearly not used to the demands of the elite. Beatrice couldn't help but narrow her eyes, looking at the boy who had an extremely distressing cadence.
Thankfully her uncle noticed this before Mrs Worthingworth did and he gently nudged his elbow into her arm, reminding her to not forget oneself. Continuing to strain herself, she attempted to look dissatisfied with the servant. Although given all that she knew of the land across the Atlantic, she was not quite sure if he was indeed a servant in the intended means.
Trying to not question further than she should, the anguish of the boy forced a deep knot in the pit of her, constraining her ribs in the corset more than usual. Without giving too much away, however, she attempted to keep her shallow breath where it belonged, deep in her gut.
Allowing the strange interaction to play out before her, the barrelled woman hit the young man across his already discouraged face with the fan she was frequently fluttering.
'How dare you?' Through clenched teeth she struck the young man again as he, in return, let out a short but high-pitched cry, clutching at his cheek.
'How dare you, boy! Get from my sight this instance or I swear to God boy, I will flog you!' She yelled in a voice that even Beatrice and even Josiah squirmed at.
He ran from the foyer, fresh tears in his eye and the ill-fitted tailcoat bobbing behind him.
'I do apologise, Josiah. These children.' She huffed, bringing the fan back to her fat neck, seemingly ignorant of its new crumpled edges from the recent excursion. 'Please,' she gestured with the crinkled fan as she stepped aside. As much as a woman of her size could do so anyway, and gestured the guests in.
Josiah readily took the luggage, stepping into the foyer with Beatrice trailing behind.
'No need for apologies, my dear!' Josiah quipped, politely awaiting further direction, 'it is kind enough of you to allow us to stay, we are in no need to be made a fuss of.'
The woman gestured to a room on their left, whilst Beatrice admired the spectacular home. It was deceptively small from the outside for what appeared to be in the initial moments a very average and narrow townhouse.
However, now that she was inside, not only the length but the breadth of the place was most surprising indeed. With creeping ceilings and a grand, curling, white staircase coupled with an exceptionally ostentatious chandelier above them. Although it was tastefully decorated, for the most part, it was plain to see that their host was not a modest woman.
As Mrs Worthingworth guided them into what appeared to be the parlour, whilst Josiah threw her a tentative look across his shoulder.
'Please sit, I'll get one of the girls to bring you some refreshments,' the woman mentioned behind a thin smile.
'You are too kind -' but before Joshiah could finish the woman bellowed out from under her fan, her crooked nose lifting all the while. 'Melody! Get yourself in here in now!' the bovine bust rising as she almost struggled for breath and the fan almost wafted somehow faster.
Beatrice could hear the patter of shoes rushing across the floor.
'Yes ma'am.' The girl said shyly. She was a small thing, and a youthful face and looked around the same age as Beatrice.
'Bring our guests some tea, and don't you dare dilly dally!' Mrs Worthingworth sneered as the girl, who had much more composure than the previous servant, dipped her skirts in retreat.
Beatrice shuffled slightly in her seat, growing more uncomfortable around the woman. She was not unaccustomed to seeing ladies of the house treat the servants with discontent, for it was something her mother would often do, although not quite as brazenly.
'I must apologise for the service in this house,' the buxom woman sighed, sitting down opposite her guests. 'It seems now that we must pay them after that wretched war, the quality has dropped, to say the least!'
Chuckling to herself, the woman for the first time closed her fan.
'I'm sure you have many other ways to strike the fear of God into them when required.' Josiah quipped, leaning back and reaching for his cigarette case.
'I do indeed!' The woman half roared, whilst Josiah lit the end of the white stick.
Beatrice noticed quickly that her uncle, rather uncharacteristically, did not offer her one to smoke as well. Although this struck her as odd, she did not mention it, assuming it would be something that would displease Mrs Worthingworth for one reason or another.
'How rude of me Josiah, if you prefer one of my husband's cigars...' she gestured to the box that lay on the table between them, 'please do not hesitate. Now, where is that damn girl!'
Standing abruptly the woman respired and barged from the room, yelling all manner of obscenities.
'Fear not,' Josiah said in a hushed voice, quickly passing Beatrice his cigarette and he hastily looked over his shoulder towards the door behind them, 'keep yourself to yourself and trust in uncle.'
Beatrice took three quick drags in succession and passed the smoke back, blowing out the contents as fast as she could. Just as she did, the impending footsteps headed back towards the drawing-room.
Followed by Mrs Worthingworth, the young servant placed a silver tray of tea before them. After she laid the beverages down, she received a swift clip of the fan around the back of her head. Unaffected by the incident, the girl gave a rather clumsy curtsy and left the room without so much as a squeak.
'Once again, Josiah, I must say that the demise of your poor sister is just awful! To think, how such a thing could have happened!' Mrs Worthingworth exclaimed as Josiah poured the teas and handed them out.
Beatrice could not help but look surprised and realising her expression, took to sipping the tea. Bringing it to her lips, before she ever swallowed it, she nearly spat it out. It was lukewarm, weak and so incredibly sweet. Surely, this isn't how Americans had their tea? Thankfully, she did not allow for the blunder and instead, sipped at it out of politeness.
'Oh yes, dreadful business. Now my poor niece is orphaned. Hopefully, by the end of the year, I can find her a good husband and start a respectful business in our new home.' His voice had a sadness to it but not enough to put too much of a sombre mood on the conversation.
'Well even in the south,' Mrs Worthingworth began, slurping her tea in haste, 'our family has good friends. I'll be sure to get my husband to put you in connection with the respectable sort.'
'For that, we would be most grateful, my dear,' Josiah said humbly, taking a small bow in his seat with a hand upon his chest insincerity.
'I must leave you now,' Mrs Worthingworth commented, standing and allowing the teacup to clatter onto its saucer as she placed it on the table. 'I fear I have some darkies that need whipping into shape. I will send for one of the more competent ones to show you to your rooms'
Without further ado, she left them to it as Beatrice earnestly put the tea on the table.
'Do all Americans have their tea like this?' She commented with a grimace as her uncle handed her a cigarette.
'I am afraid so, my dear. As I told you before, they are in desperate need of both culture and etiquette.'
Her uncle could not have been more right. So far, everything she had seen so far in the house did not calm her nerves about what the country or its countrymen were like. She prayed silently that they were not all quite as abrasive as this particular house.
'So, I am an orphan?' She asked inquisitively.
'Oh naturally, it seemed the easiest way to keep the woman from bothering you too much and a nice explanation as to why we're even here in the first instance.'
'I suppose it stops too many questions as well,' Beatrice remarked.
'Ah!' Joshiah exclaimed, turning to her, 'you are catching on quick!'
'Are you really going to find me a husband?' Beatrice began, this time perhaps a little muted.
She knew she was of marrying age and very soon would be expected to have children. At least in normal circumstances, but she found the idea utterly repugnant. As soon as Josiah had whisked her away from her horrid family, she hoped that all such ridiculous notions would not be expected.
'Perhaps,' Josiah said, equally as sullen, 'it could create a lot of advantages. However, he stubbed out his cigarette to the sound of approaching footfalls. 'It's nothing to worry about just yet.'
She wasn't overly confident in his reply but as the door swung open with an older gentleman behind it, of course, another coloured servant, Beatrice smiled as he collected their baggage.
'Please, follow me.'
Her uncle had been gone for over a month whilst Beatrice was left with the Worthingworths. Although it was a welcomed retreat compared to her own family, it certainly had its difficulties.
The servants were treated exceptionally poorly and although Beatrice knew little of the war, from all the comments Mrs Worthingworth had made, she certainly seemed to be resentful for paying for former slaves. Ironically, half the staff seemed to have been born after the abolishment.
Beatrice however was mostly kept out of the way for which she was thankful. She would eat mostly in her room and occasionally perused the market with one of the servants in tow to gather whatever errands the lady of the house required.
Her days since Josiah's departure however were mainly filled with the usual mind-numbing activities - one's that were expected of a young lady of her class to uphold. Embroidery, poetry and daily prayers consumed the majority of her day, as much as she despised it.
However, she could not complain. Her interactions with Mrs Worthingworth were few outside of morning prayer and saying grace at the odd dinner which was thankfully, relatively brief.
Although comfortable in the grandeur of fantastic bedding, she would have restless nights. Staring into the canopy thinking back to her horse and how Beatrice desperately missed her weekly hunts. It was the only time she could escape the foul temper of her father and the constant scrutiny of her mother.
If she closed her eyes tight enough, she could still feel the taught leather of the bridles in her hand whilst her horse, Claudio, would canter and leap with far more poise and decency than any individual she had ever known. He was calm and brave and had the uncanny ability for when Beatrice required either a thrilling ride or to take her as far away as sensibly possible.
She missed a great deal of her life back home, more than she thought she would. As the harsh winter of America was beginning to set in, she missed the dreary grey of England in such seasons.
The day Josiah returned could not have been soon enough. As soon as she heard the stagecoach stop outside the townhouse, it was as though a weight had been lifted and finally, the tedious monotony could end.
'Uncle!' Beatrice cried, running into his open arms as he placed a delicate kiss on the side of her cheek.
'My dear, Amelia! Forgive my absence but I can assure you it was worth every second.' He took both her hands into his, squeezing them in excitement.
'Mrs Worthingworth is currently out at the moment,' she remarked as they made way to the parlour room.
Josiah smiled as he poured himself a large brandy for the both of them and he handed the crystal tumbler to Beatrice.
'How have you been my dear, you look well!' He commented, raising his glass to her in a toast.
'Mrs Worthingworth has been very kind. She even bought me a new dress.' Beatrice smiled, for she was grateful for the yellow frock. A fantastic gown of silk, trimmed with cream coloured lace and dark green bows. Not that it was particularly practical for the weather this time of year.
'Good! You will need something fitting for our next adventure.' He beamed at her as her eyes widened in anticipation. 'Make sure you have everything packed, by the morning, we will be leaving at noon by coach.'
Beatrice, taking a large gulp of brandy before Mrs Worthingworth arrived, could feel the gentle heat already building from her eyes as it often did from liquor. God, it had been some time since she had a good stiff drink.
'Where are we going? What's happening?' Beatrice questioned, almost stuttering over herself.
'Don't worry yourself with that now!' He said, grasping her shoulder and giving her a slight playful shake. 'Now, finished up your brandy and rinse your mouth, I dread to think what Mrs Worthingworth would do to me!'
He wasn't wrong. Clearly, in the woman's eyes, young women should remain pristine and well behaved. God forbid the madam of the house caught a seventeen-year-old maid tucking into the liquor. Mrs Worthingworth's behaviour was one thing; however, it was made abundantly clear from day one, that everyone in the house abided by an utterly differently set of rules. It was evident to Beatrice, that some things never changed.
She heard the loud barking of the lady of the house before the door even opened. Hastily finishing her drink, Beatrice wiped the liquid from the side of her lips with her thumb.
'Oh Josiah!' Mrs Worthingworth bellowed, ushering the servant away, 'I did not think you would be here so soon!'
'My apologies, my dear' Josiah said, taking her hand and kissing it with his usual candour. 'In truth, I did not expect to be back before noon but my arrangements, as you can expect, went rather well!'
Beatrice tried to contain her excitement, whatever was going to happen, she was utterly thrilled and knew that whatever preparations Josiah had, they would be nothing less than wonderful.
She barely slept that night, waking several times to check to make sure everything had been packed, even to the extent where she removed the contents several times and packed them back up. By the time the morning arrived and the chill air started to wear off, Beatrice was well and truly ready for their travels.
When Melody came to knock for her in the morning, Beatrice was fixing the last pin in her sandy hair, with her minimal luggage packed and her shoes buttoned to her feet.
'Enter,' she called, as the servant opened the door into the chamber.
'Ma'am, Mr Trelawney has arrived,' she said, her eyes downcast.
If there was one thing she would miss, it would be Melody. They had bonded over the few weeks since Beatrice had taken residency with the Worthingworths. Both a similar age, she had a warm heart towards the girl whom she discovered tolerated the behaviour of the lady of the house as it was one of the few places outside the hard labour and brothels that would employ people of her skin colour.
Although in many ways, Beatrice felt that there was so much in common between the two, it never took long for a malicious comment or the back of the hand from Mrs Worthingworth to realise how different their worlds were.
'I think I've got everything...' Beatrice mumbled, grabbing for her luggage.
'Ma'am, please!' Melody called, rushing towards the rectangular suitcase, 'you know how she'll be.'
Beatrice needed little explanation and though she detested allowing someone – whom she now considered a friend – to carry her belongings, deep down she knew it was for the best.
'I'm going to miss you, Melody,' Beatrice smiled weakly, suddenly filled with emotion.
She wondered if Mrs Worthingworth was more like her own mother than she first realised. She was a foul, vile woman when Beatrice was around, yet a woman of standing nonetheless. How much worse was the treatment of Melody and the others going to get without a guest in their presence?
Not only that, but she had never met the famed Mr Worthingworth and although her uncle had assured her that he was a man of simple pleasures and a gentle demeanour, she couldn't help but assimilate them to her own family.
Many had said her father was a well-tempered man when Beatrice knew a very different beast than the rest of the world.
'I would say to write to me... but... well, even if I could read that well...' Melody muttered, as her shoulders limped further and further.
'Oh, Melody!' Beatrice tried to compose herself but failed miserably. Drawing the girl into a tight embrace, her blue eyes beginning to steam. 'One day, I promise I will visit.'
As the two girls stood there in their embrace, Beatrice for one of the first times in her life, felt that she had made a friend. A true friend. Before Beatrice could finish her train of thought, Melody pushed her back and fussed with her apron. At first, Beatrice was mortified, what had she done wrong? But then she heard it, the heavy gaited footsteps with the ruffle of far too many petticoats.
Pursing her lips and nodding, she allowed Melody to take her bags as she dabbed at her eyes.
'Come now! Your uncle doesn't have all day, or so he tells me!' The woman called from the other side of the door.
'Just coming now, Ma'am,' Beatrice retorted.
The two girls left the room, as Beatrice followed behind the bovine woman.
'Well, you've been fine company, Miss Edwards,' Mr Worthingworth called half-hearted over her shoulder in some vague attempt to show civility.
'Thank you, Ma'am. As have you. Thank you for all of your hospitality,' Beatrice replied, still not mentally used to her new name, regardless of how many times she had heard it in the past few weeks.
They continued down the stairs in a silent, distant fashion, both reluctant to exchange any more pleasantries than necessary.
Her uncle, Josiah, stood in the hallway with a velveteen jacket of merlot and a matching waistcoat. Beatrice was convinced that the civil war could re-emerge and her uncle would remain as pristine and dapper as ever.
'Uncle!' Beatrice exclaimed, a large smile breaking on her lips. Yet there was something curious about his face, the way he returned her smile that didn't make her feel the comfort that she usually did. Something turned in her stomach with unease. Shaking herself, she tried to convince herself that she was just imagining things, it had been a long and emotional morning already.
'Mrs Worthingworth, how can I ever repay you for taking such good care of my dear, sweet niece?' He sang as he took her hand and laid a gentle kiss upon it.
'Josiah, you know as well as I do, regardless of you being a friend of my husband, that you have well and truly repaid me!' She barked, in her usual brash fashion.
Beatrice took the opportunity to give Melody one last smile and the girl took the luggage out to the stagecoach.
'A woman who is never shy with her words is a woman I will always admire!' They chortled together in the exchange that although was by now very familiar to Beatrice, made her skin turn inwards. She of course knew that her uncle was merely playing up to his audience, but the way Mrs Worthignworth would almost get giddy made Beatrice grimace.
Very little gallantry was made thereafter, as Beatrice left with her uncle in the stagecoach for their next adventure. She was glad to see the back of the house but her heart still ached for Melody. A sweet and gentle girl, forced into servitude by a woman who despised her and her creed.
The journey for the first while was taken in silence as her uncle jotted away in his journal and Beatrice looked out the window, watching all the sights and sounds as she always loved to do. In many ways, as her uncle had mentioned when first arriving in Boston, it had so many similarities to London even down to the buildings and trees. However, she couldn't help but imagine how different things would be the further they travelled. Would it be desert or snow? She tried to imagine animals that she had never seen but failed to even picture them.
The mixture of trepidation and exhilaration swirled within her.
'Have you gotten used to your name yet, Amelia?' He commented without looking up from whatever it was he was writing.
'It feels odd still, but I respond to it immediately,' she trailed off trying to articulate exactly what she meant, 'it's as though I know I'm Amelia but it feels as though I'm playing and don't really understand my character.'
Josiah chuckled, if he wasn't so sweet, she would have been abashed.
'Of course, my dear,' he said turning to face her as the carriage bumped and jolted its way through the city, 'it will come in good time. As long as you don't slip or how should we say it?' His eyes grew wide whilst grinning, 'forget your lines.'
She knew he was serious and nodded but still couldn't quite stifle her laugh. Josiah meanwhile closed his book and his expression changed, rather gravely.
'Uncle?' The feeling from earlier, returned to her stomach. All sorts of scenarios ran through her mind. Was it her father? Did they know where they were, was that why they were leaving again?
'Amelia, I must discuss something with you,' all joviality had dropped from his voice, as he looked at her with a stern look.
'When we first arrived here, I mentioned to you about potential suitors.' His words were paced evenly but that did nothing to stop the panic in Beatrice.
She shook her head as her lips parted, wanting to plea and beg but no sound would come.
'I know it's a scary thought, but we must consider the practical here -'
'No!' She cried, still shaking her head as she felt the fear and anger rise in her like a wave of prickly heat.
'Amelia, please,' he reached for her hand but she snatched it away. He didn't flinch and merely looked at her.
Could he not understand what he was asking of her? Marriage? To be an object? A toy?'
'Things are not as they were, caneton. You are a foreigner here with no family ties to secure you safely, do you understand?'
She could feel her hands beginning to shake. She turned her head back towards the window, trying to mask her tears as her breath caught time and time again in her throat.
'Amelia,' he placed a tentative hand on her heaving shoulder, 'there is no reason to get hysterical now.'
It was at that moment her dander was up and all the stress of the past few weeks broke like a dam.
'How can you not understand, uncle!?' She yelled, without a damn if the driver or anyone else outside the cab heard her. 'I will not be sold to some old man who will beat me! Who will stuff me in pretty dresses and get drunk and... and...' Beatrice tried to continue, to list off all the things her uncle for all of his worldly travels could never understand. Her breath fought with her chest as the two seemed completely incompatible. Her throat ached for release, to scream and yell but it all seemed to be stuck in a tight ball in her lungs.
She could see the shock on her uncle's face, his lips were tight and eyes narrow, a look he did not wear often. One she had only seen a few times before.
'Beatrice, please,' he said in a hushed voice, 'I would only find you someone who was appropriate, someone kind-'
She laughed, as much as she could do, as the tears leaked from her eyes and the bile built up in her nose.
'Kind?' She retorted, 'men always think that other men are kind, or honourable or some other... daft notion!' She wiped the tears away ferociously with the back of her hand, refusing to submit.
'Don't you understand, Uncle? It is always men who think this. When we as wives and daughters are the only ones to see the damned truth!'
Beatrice was mad, she was hurt, and she was so very cross with her uncle. He saw what her father did to her, and he expected that some stranger with a ring on his finger would be any different? That he would hold his fist back when he lost a game of cards? That they would keep their belt from welting her skin when they had too many whiskeys? How could he, her uncle, of all people be so damned naïve?
The carriage remained silent for some time, except for the odd rasp and snuffled from Beatrice. They sat like that for some time, however long it was, she was unsure. When she had finally calmed down and her breathing returned to normal, a nose impossible to breathe through and a tightening thump in her head, she straightened herself in the cab seat.
'If I am ever to be wed, Uncle, it will be a suitor of my choosing and nothing less.' Her words were final. If she was old enough to be considered getting shipped off to some geriatric oil magnet, she was old enough for her words to be taken seriously.
They remained silent again for some time, her words hanging heavy in the air. She looked to her uncle almost for reassurance, for something, anything that would not force her into a life that he had freed her from.
'Hmm,' he almost purred, picking up his journey and returning to it with his pencil.
'This will complicate things,' he began slowly with a stroke of his moustache, 'but I understand. Leave this with me, Amelia, my caneton.' Nodding slowly, he smiled at her kindly and with everything she hoped he would.
'Uncle will figure something out,' he tapped her on the nose with the end of his pencil playfully and he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. 'For now, all you need to worry yourself with is that we are going to a place called Scarlett Meadows. That is with any divine luck, where we will make our home.'