It was not the first time Marianne had felt a young man's arms around her; but when John's hand groped for her breast, encased as it was in layers of corset, camisole, and bodice, a violent thrill of outraged modesty ran through her. She wrenched herself away. Turning, she faced the young man with flashing eyes and a look of such indignant innocence that he actually fell back a step.
Seeing his confusion, Marianne's quick temper subsided. Perhaps,, she thought charitably, he had been reaching for his pocket handkerchief.
"I forgive you," she said coolly. "So long as you promise never to do such a thing again. I esteem you as a friend, but I could never marry you."
John's fleshy mouth dropped open. "Marry?" he began.
A rumble of wheels outside, on the graveled drive, announced the arrival of the first of the carters who had come to carry away the squire's mortgaged property, thus sparing the young man the necessity of an explanation that would have been painful to all concerned.
Marianne remembered this incident as she bent more closely over her sewing. She was not experienced enough to understand why John Bruton's fumbling hands had offended her, as the tentative embraces of other enamored youths had not. Victorian young ladies were not as stupid as their elders fondly believed, but they were, for the most part, armored against rude behavior by the social conventions that made ladies immune from the sexual demands their female inferiors had to accept. What Marianne did not realize was that the death of her father had not only robbed her of a male protector, it had removed the social status that had made her sacrosanct. She only knew that her former playmate's proposal, as she believed it, had been unacceptable – and that she had better not mention it to Mrs. Jay.
Mrs. Jay took her silence for a negative reply and went on with her speech.
"I thought not. Well, one can hardly blame your father for not having made arrangements; you are quite young. And without a dowry, it is most unlikely… I fear that you must indeed consider some means of earning a livelihood."
"I understand that Lady Verill is looking for a companion."
"Out of the question!" In her agitation Mrs. Jay stabbed her needle into her thumb. "Lady Verill is always looking for a companion. She is… Her affliction is of a nature that… It would not do for you."
Lady Verill drank. This fact was well known to all the neighborhood, as was the corollary, that her companions were expected to see that she was supplied with just enough brandy to keep her in a mild stupor. It was no easy task to judge this correctly, and the consequences of misjudgment were horrendous. If sober, the lady fell into deep melancholy and attempted suicide; if too drunk, she flew into a maniacal rage and attempted homicide upon Lord Verill.
"I only suggested it," Marianne explained, "because it would be one means of my remaining in the neighborhood. I see no other opportunities here – unless I attend the next Mop Fair, displaying the proper uniform for the trade in which I seek employment. If cooks wear colored aprons and nursery maids white linen, what is the symbol for a companion, I wonder? A genteel but worn morning dress of gray cambric, adorned only by a neat white collar and cuffs? I might borrow Lady Verill's lap dog."
Mrs. Jay let her ramble on in this vein while she marshaled her arguments. She had no intention of explaining her real reasons for wishing Marianne out of the area. Luckily there were others.
"There are no opportunities in this backward country region. And it would be too humiliating for your neighbors to see you reduced to such a position. I have given the matter much thought, I assure you, and I see no help for it. Your only chance of finding a suitable situation is in a large city."
Marianne dropped her sewing and clasped her hands.
"London?"
"You needn't look so pleased," Mrs. Jay said, with some asperity. "I suppose that like all girls you think of London as gay and exciting. It is a great filthy hive, riddled with sin and vice and crime. However, it happens that I have a friend there who has turned her home into a boarding house for young ladies in your position – those of respectable family, but reduced circumstances. The need for such establishments is so great, and the supply is so limited, that her rooms are in constant demand, but I feel sure that if I ask she will find a place for you."
"Oh," Marianne said.
Mrs. Jay did not notice the flat tone. She was sincerely pleased with her plan; indeed, the recollection of her old friend, so conveniently situated to do Marianne good, was the only bright spot in an otherwise dreadful state of affairs, and it never occurred to her that her description, with its reiteration of "respectable," might not thrill her auditor.
"She also has connections which enable her to place young ladies in respectable situations. It is an excellent opportunity, Marianne, and I can go to my rest – my nightly rest, I mean – with greater peace of mind, knowing you will be in her care."
"It is very kind," Marianne murmured.
"You might accept a position as companion, if the establishment were of the best quality. And, as I have reason to know, your accomplishments qualify you to instruct the young. Then there is your music -"
"My music," Marianne repeated, visibly startled.
"Yes, you play quite nicely. Eventually you might hope to set up as a music teacher, if you are very frugal and save your earnings. That would be pleasant, would it not? Your own rooms, where pupils could come to you?"
"Oh, certainly." Again Marianne bent over her sewing. Unseen by Mrs. Jay, she let out her breath in a sigh of relief. She would not have been at all surprised to find that Mrs. Jay had been reading her secret thoughts; often in the past, when she had meditated some improper act, the vicar's lady had seemed to know precisely what she intended – and had, of course, forbidden it.
She would certainly forbid Marianne to develop the plan she had formulated after the first shock of her father's death had passed and she had realized she was on her own. The girl was not above dramatizing the tragedy of her situation; references to poor orphans and cold, cruel worlds were romantically thrilling; but in fact Marianne was more pleased than intimidated by her freedom. She had the careless self-confidence of a young person who has never been hurt or deprived, and she yearned for excitement. Of course it was sad about poor dear Papa, and seeing her favorite ball dress carried away had been exceedingly painful; but now she could carry out the daring scheme that had oft occurred to her when, angered by some small punishment or frustration, she had vowed to run away from home and seek her fortune. She did play the piano well, and her singing voice had been much admired. The preceding fall, when a well-known mezzo soprano had visited Ripon – had not several gentlemen assured her that she sang the Che faro with much more feeling than did Madame Belledame?
Daunted, at first, by Mrs. Jay's suggestion, Marianne soon realized that the plan would provide no real obstacle to her ambition. The lady who managed the boarding house could hardly chaperone every single one of the respectable young ladies every hour of every day. Once she was actually in London…
A dazzling vision filled her imagination: an elegant theater, marble-columned without, red plush and gilt within; distinguished patrons in formal evening dress, the ladies glittering with diamonds; the Royal Box – and on the stage, the focus of a hundred footlights, she herself (pale blue satin and pearls, ostrich plumes in her hair) bowing, as thrown blossoms littered the boards around her and the applause deafened her, and the Prince of Wales leaned forward, the Garter ribbon across his breast…