Chapter 2
My dear deluded Aunt Ivy has arranged this ridiculous appointment for me. She believes I have hidden talents, so much so that she answered a gentleman’s advertisement for a governess on my behalf.
Now here I am, staring at a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head attached to a glossy black door. My knees tremble as I raise a hand to the ring protruding from the lion’s mouth, but I can’t quite bring myself to use it.
When I found out what Aunt Ivy had done, I was astounded at her gumption. I despise the long hours of my poorly paid sewing work and wish to better myself, as Aunt Ivy well knows. However, I have no wish to make a fool of myself either.
‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thing? I have no experience as a governess!’
Aunt Ivy was undeterred. ‘You can read and write, and you’ve always got your nose in a library book.
You’re perfect for the position. The gentleman is a doctor, and his son is a young boy.
He won’t care if you make a few fumbles.
If he asks questions you can’t answer, just make something up.
You’ve got a quick tongue in your head. But for the love of God, don’t say you’re from Spitalfields.
Your story is that you’re an intelligent, respectable girl being brought up by your aunt, and we live in Kensington.
Just remember that at your interview, and you’ll be fine. ’
‘Where exactly is this position?’ I demanded.
‘Belgravia. He’s paying 100 pounds a year, and it’s live-in. The appointment is at ten o’clock tomorrow.’ She clapped her hands excitedly.
‘But ... but there will be other women applying who are much more qualified than me. I can’t compete—’
‘Nonsense, Floss! Of course you can. You have to have more confidence in yourself.’
She’d chivvied and cooed and inflated my head so much that I’d marched out of the door of our damp, shabby flat in London’s East End with my chin lifted and my stride purposeful to catch an omnibus. I felt good enough, so why shouldn’t I apply?
But my best day dress is 6 years old with well-disguised patches (thanks to my careful sewing), and I have a fake reference in my pocket.
Unsurprisingly, my false bravado has leaked away like drain water.
How on earth will I convince this gentleman—this Dr Alexander Dryden—that I’m better educated than his son, a boy who has been raised in a household infinitely wealthier than my own?
It’s a ruse that can only end in embarrassment (mine) and laughter (Dr Dryden’s).
Hot tears edge from my eyes, and I blink them away furiously.
I have two choices: run away and face the wrath of Aunt Ivy or knock on the door and face the pity of Dr Dryden. It all boils down to what I’m afraid of the most.
I raise my hand to the lion’s ring. Aunt Ivy is terrifying when she’s angry.
My tentative rapping is answered by a dark-haired man with a stern expression. ‘I have an appointment—with Dr Dryden,’ I whisper.
I’m waved inside with a curt ‘Follow me.’
At first, I think the man is the butler until I’m ushered into a study, and he enters and closes the door after him. Then I realise this is Dr Alexander Dryden, and he doesn’t have a butler.
That’s slightly odd to my way of thinking, but I suppose it’s not unheard-of.
Dr Dryden seats himself behind the wide wooden desk and gestures to a high-back chair opposite.
‘Take a seat, Miss ... ?’ His tone is polite, but none too friendly.
I sink into the chair nervously, laying my sweaty palms face down on my thighs.
‘Hughes, Florence Hughes.’
‘Ah yes.’ He ticks something on a piece of paper with a black-and-gold fountain pen. Curiously, I jut my head forward, straining to see how many names are on his list. But his arm covers it.
‘Reference?’
Heart pounding, I draw Aunt Ivy’s reference out of my pocket and hand over the sealed envelope.
Dr Dryden flicks open the flap with a gold letter opener and draws out a single sheet of thin paper.
I cringe at the slight twitch of his eyebrow.
One page does not bode well. But Aunt Ivy insisted that a short note sticking to the facts—stating where, when, and for whom I had worked—was best. ‘If I wax lyrical about your merits, he might get suspicious,’ she asserted.
But now I’m thinking that she should have tried to fill at least two sheets of thin paper with my merits to give him something more to read.
Dr Dryden peruses the reference in silence. As I know the gist of what Aunt Ivy has written (and we had a run-through of my answers the night before), I take the chance to observe him, unnoticed.
He’s in his early forties and wears his short, straight dark hair in a severe slicked-back style, which draws attention to his pale face, sharp features, and well-trimmed sideburns touched with silver.
Dr Dryden is handsome, I conclude, but his personality lacks warmth; in fact, the thing that stands out to me most about him is his decidedly chilly manner.
When he raises his unblinking brown eyes from the page to study me, it feels like he’s assessing not only my suitability as a governess but also the suitability of my soul for heaven.
I lower my gaze in increments under his potent stare until all I’m seeing are my shaking white hands.
The chair creaks as Dr Dryden flexes his legs underneath the desk. Still, he says nothing, but I can sense him inspecting me. It’s mental torture, exacerbated by the hypnotic tick of the clock on the mantel.
My eyelids droop—the early start and the haphazard journey across town, which involved three omnibuses, catching up with me.
‘Do you eat meat, Miss Hughes?’
Dr Dryden’s deep voice cuts through my stupor and jerks me awake.
I blink. ‘Pardon?’
‘Do. You. Eat. Meat,’ he repeats slowly as if I’m hard of hearing.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, bewildered. ‘Why?’
‘Do you like it bloody or well done?’
‘Um, well done, I suppose?’ That’s a strange question. Why does he want to know that?
Dr Dryden makes a quick note with his pen. He taps the end of it against his chin and looks at me.
‘Where do you really live, Miss Hughes? I’ve interviewed two young women from Kensington so far, and your dress and manner are far removed from that part of town. And your reference has obviously been faked.’
My chest tightens, and I open my mouth. But I’m not sure what to say, so I close it again. He attempts a smile, but it’s a mere parting of his lips, and I catch a brief glimpse of snowy-white teeth.
‘I’m not angry. I’m simply curious as to why you’d apply for a position that you’re not qualified to do,’ he says.
‘And I’m curious as to why you’re asking me how I like my meat,’ I retort. ‘Shouldn’t you be asking me proper questions, like ... like ...’ I trail off as I’ve never applied for a position like this, and I have no idea what questions he should be asking.
Stupid sodding job. I didn’t want it anyway.
So what if I would have lived in a fancy house and been paid a decent wage?
It’s not meant for the likes of me. He’s earmarked one of his hoity-toity Kensington girls for it.
I let out a doleful sigh. There’s no point trying to carry on the pretence, so I may as well come clean.
Aunt Ivy is going to be livid that I haven’t stuck to my story.
‘All right, if you really want to know, I live in Spitalfields with my aunt. She applied to your advertisement and wrote me the reference because she thinks ... Well, never mind what she thinks. But if you’d known my background, you’d never even have given me a chance.’
‘Possibly,’ he says. ‘But lying about who you are doesn’t give a good first impression, does it?’
I hang my head, ashamed. ‘No, sir. But if it’s any consolation, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with lying about it.’
‘So do you have any experience being a governess? Have you taught any children at all?’
‘No. Well, unless you count how to steal a hot potato when the seller’s back is turned.’
Dr Dryden lets out a loud bark of laughter. The sound is alarming, but at least he’s amused. I smile faintly as he chuckles away.
Speaking of children, where is his son? I wonder.
Upstairs, playing? Yet from the quick peer down the dimly lit hall before I was shown into his study, I got the impression the house was completely devoid of life.
And since I’ve been in here, there’s been no thumps, bumps, or squeals issuing from overhead—no noises that could be associated with a happy young boy playing at least. Perhaps he’s out with his nanny or is just very quiet?