“For your journey here?”
“Oh, no. Only for pleasure.”
“And was it morally acceptable?”
“I would say so.”
“And what else? For pleasure.”
“Looking Backward,” Lizzie said. “Are you familiar with it?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s a sort of Utopian novel about the United States in the year 2000. It describes how all industry has been nationalized and all wealth equally distributed, and it...”
“How perfectly horrible!” Alison said, “I’m sure I shouldn’t want my wealth distributed, equally or otherwise. Are you wealthy, Lizzie?”
“I wouldn’t call ourselves wealthy, no. We’re comfortable, I suppose...”
“Ah, that delicious American word, ‘comfortable’. What sort of work does your father do?”
“He’s a banker,” Lizzie said. “That is, he’s involved with several banks in Fall River. And he owns property here and there. But I shouldn’t say we’re wealthy, no.”
“Do you live in a grand old house on a hill somewhere? I love those photographs of American houses high on hilltops.”
“No, we’re close to the center of town, actually. And the house isn’t grand at all.”
“Fully electrified, I’m sure.”
“We don’t even have gas illumination.”
“But, my poor darling, how do you see? To read all these books you’ve been telling me about?”
“We have lamps, of course. And candles.”
“Like your Abraham Lincoln.”
“Well, we don’t use candles unless we’re out of lamp oil.”
“Great big candles in heavy brass candlesticks, I’m sure.”
“Some of them, yes. And some of them rather old. One particularly handsome one used to belong to my mother’s mother. We keep it in the spare room across the hall. Emma says it’s eighteenth century. I would suppose it came from England.”
“Emma?”
“My sister.”
“And your mother? What sort of woman is she, Lizzie?”
“My mother is dead,” Lizzie said. “She died when I was two years old. I don’t remember her at all.”
“Has your father remarried?”
“Yes,” Lizzie said, and paused. “How did you know that?”
“Well, they all do, don’t they?” Alison said, and smiled. “And in this candlelit house of yours...”
“Lamps, usually,” Lizzie said.
“... are there many servants?”
“We have only one. A girl from Ireland. Her name is Bridget Sullivan, but we call her Maggie. My sister and I.”
“Maggie? But how odd.”
“Our previous girl was named Maggie.”
“You must have been very fond of her. The previous girl.”
“No, it’s just... habit, I suppose. Calling her Maggie.”
“Is she comely, your Maggie?”
“I would guess. I never really noticed. She’s young and healthy, and we get along quite well with her.”
“How young?”
“Maggie? Twenty-three, I would suppose. Twenty-four. Somewhere in there.”
“Do many people in your town have servants?”
“Some. Not all. Not very many, I guess.” She paused, and then said, “How many servants do you have?”
“Far too many, I’m sure,” Alison said, and laughed. “You met George, of course, who was kind enough to fetch you, and Moira, who deigned to interrupt her nap when you rapped on the door, and later served our tea. We’ve a gardener and a cook, but I don’t employ a personal maid, and Albert is quite capable of buttoning his own shoes. Neither have we any need for a nursemaid, thank heavens.”
“A person who employed such a staff would be considered very wealthy in America,” Lizzie said.
“Oh, we’re not half so wealthy as Albert would wish us to be,” Alison said, and again laughed. “There are families here in London — high society, don’t you know — who keep a staff of twenty or more, scurrying about underfoot. I should expect it costs them a quarter of their income annually — Lizzie dear, you must forgive me! We British haven’t the slightest qualm about discussing personal finance. In ten minutes’ time, a British stranger will ask you how large your fortune is. And, moreover, he’ll expect a reply. There’s nothing rude about it; it’s merely a national trait, our obsession with money. How large is your fortune?” she asked, and unexpectedly winked. “I don’t expect an answer, I’m pulling your leg. I’m so enjoying this, Lizzie, aren’t you? Have you tried the clotted cream? You haven’t touched a bite!”
“Clotted?”
“The most sinful concoction ever devised by man. Or woman, as I’m sure the case actually was. Try it with the berries. Spread it on one of the scones. It’s from Devon, and my dairyman assures me it came into London fresh this morning.”
“I shall become fat as a horse,” Lizzie said.
“In which case, you’d be perfectly in fashion,” Alison said. “Here, let me help you.”
“I’m far too plump as it is,” Lizzie said.
“Plump? No, no,” Alison said. “You’re what my mother might have called wollüstig.”
“Is that German?”
“Yes.”
“Is your mother German?”
“Was. She’s been dead for quite some time now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lizzie said.
She watched in silence as Alison sliced one of the scones in half and then spread each half first with cream as thick as butter and next spooned onto them the tiniest strawberries Lizzie had ever seen.
“Thank you,” Lizzie said, accepting the plate. “What does it mean? The German word you used?”
“Wollüstig? Well, I suppose it would translate as ‘voluptuous’.”
“Oh, my,” Lizzie said. “Voluptuous, indeed!”
“Have your read The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night?” Alison asked.
“I wouldn’t read that, no,” Lizzie said.
“Why not?”
“It would not be in keeping with serious piety.”
“Are you seriously pious then?”
“I should hope so.”
“And you would consider that book improper? Morally unacceptable?”
“From what I’ve heard of it, yes.”
“What have you heard of it?”
“Only that the Persian monarch has many wives...”
“And you disapprove?”
“It’s beyond my ken. And that one of them...”
“Scheherazade, yes.”
“... tells stories that are bawdy.”
“Have you read The Golden Bough?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s only recently been published. I was wondering if you might consider that morally acceptable.”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“Are you familiar with the work of Krafft-Ebing?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“He hasn’t been translated into English yet,” Alison said. “I found a copy of his book on our last visit to Germany.” She hesitated, and then said, “Psychopathia Sexualis.”
“Oh, my,” Lizzie said.
“You should look for it when it comes to America. I’m sure it’ll be widely translated. Or does the title frighten you?”
“If it means what I think it does,” Lizzie said.
“What do you think it means?”
“I’m not sure it would be polite for me to say.”
“It deals with sexual aberration,” Alison said.
“Which is what I imagined.”
“Now I’ve shocked you.”
“I do not shock easily,” Lizzie said.
“You’re blushing to your toes,” Alison said, and smiled. There was an uncomfortable silence.