Chapter 5
‘It has been said that the East End is a “terra incognita for respectable citizens”. But I think parts of it are rather underrated,’ remarks Dr Dryden. ‘And especially pleasant for strolling around on summer evenings.’
My interview has reared off on a tangent. I have no idea what ‘terra’ whatsit is, but I don’t need a gent telling me that the East End isn’t all that bad. It’s autumn now, so the worst of the London heat is over. But Spitalfields still stinks—morning and night, in any season.
‘Since you like the East End so much, maybe you should try living there and not in Belgravia, sir,’ I can’t help saying stiffly, which earns me a low chuckle in reply.
I’m surprised that, yet again, he’s amused at me speaking my mind and that he has a sense of humour—even though it’s so dry you could use it for kindling to light a fire.
Remarkably, for my latest snide comment, he doesn’t throw me out for impertinence but suggests showing me around the house instead.
So does that mean I’ve got the job? I have no clue.
‘My aunt said the position is live-in. Is that the case?’ I enquire as we start down the hallway.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ he clarifies, throwing open a door on the right. ‘This is the parlour.’
I peer inside. It too is a dim room like the rest of the house, thanks to heavy black velvet drapes being partially drawn. The only interesting furniture is an overstuffed emerald-green sofa that looks comfortable to sit on.
He pulls the door shut, and we continue down the dark nondescript hallway without any family photos until we reach the end, which has a door. He gestures for me to open it. ‘The kitchen is through here.’
‘Oh,’ I say, wondering why he’s showing me the kitchen. Would I have to clean it?
The kitchen, I’m relieved to discover, is pristine and has a gleaming row of copper pans. But it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used. The range is stone cold.
‘I don’t have a cook at present,’ says Dr Dryden from behind my left shoulder. ‘It’s difficult to get good help these days.’
He’s standing so close to me the air between us seems to tighten, and my skin hums with awareness. I step away, pretending to study some teacups with a tiny pink-and-gold rose pattern, though I can still feel him, like a shadow at my back.
‘What do you do for meals then?’ I ask, turning to look at him.
The corner of his mouth quirks. ‘My son and I tend to dine out.’
I glance up at the ceiling. His very quiet son.
‘I’m used to cooking for myself. A bit of cheese on toast suits me,’ I tell him, hoping to sway his mind and give me the position.
‘An independent spirit, I see. Good, good. That’s what I’m looking for in a governess.
’ From that, it seems I’m still in the running.
But there’s something about the way Dr Dryden’s looking at me that is shiver inducing, and the fine hairs on my arms rise.
I would go so far to describe it as a ‘hungry look’, but I did just mention cheese on toast, and it’s nearly time for lunch.
‘After you, Miss Hughes.’ Dr Dryden stands aside to let me pass, and as I do, he rocks forward and sniffs me. Only slightly, but it’s definitely sniffing. Shame courses through me. Do I smell bad? I had a good wash before I came here.
He doesn’t offer to show me upstairs and walks towards the front door. It seems the tour—and the interview—is over.
The thought of going back to Aunt Ivy, to our rickety flat with its peeling wallpaper and communal outhouse, makes me panic when we’re standing by the door.
‘Please, sir, I know it’s bold of me to ask. But can you tell me if I’ve got the position or not? If I haven’t, I’d rather know. I hate being kept in suspense.’
‘Do you now?’ Dr Dryden looks down at me thoughtfully. ‘Hold out your arm then.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your arm please, Miss Hughes.’
Hesitantly, I extend my right arm, and he pushes the sleeve of my dress up carefully and trails a cool finger down my warm skin. His icy touch is thrilling, and I can’t help shuddering a little.
Dr Dryden studies the inside of my lily-white wrist. He prods a forefinger at the network of pale-blue veins.
‘Does your skin bruise easily?’
The question confuses me, but I sense the answer I give will help him decide whether to offer me the position. But why does he want to know? Is it something to do with his son?
‘I-I’m not sure, sir. I don’t think so. No more than anyone else’s.’
‘Are you healthy?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you have any conditions?’
‘No, sir.’
I realise then that this is a health examination, not some excuse to touch me, and my cheeks flush a little for reading more into it than I should.
‘Very well.’ He drops my arm, and I pull down my sleeve. ‘I’ve decided that you will do very nicely. I mean ...’ He clears his throat softly. ‘That you would be a welcome addition to the Dryden household.’
My heart lifts, and I can’t help the grin that spreads over my face. ‘Really, sir?’
He nods. ‘Really, Miss Hughes.’
Wait till Aunt Ivy hears this. I’m going up in the world!
‘If you’d like to tell me your real address, I’ll write to your aunt and confirm it. I’ll also let you know what date you’ll be starting.’
‘Of course, sir.’ I tell him the address, and then I’m being shown outside onto the stoop. He says a quick goodbye and is about to close the door.
‘Sir?’
He opens the door a crack, and an eye glints at me. The rest of him blends in with the darkness beyond the door. ‘Yes?’
‘Can I just ask, why? The reason why you chose me, I mean.’
There’s a long pause. ‘I find you ... refreshing. Good day, Miss Hughes. I will be in touch.’
The door closes abruptly, and I stand there for a moment, lost for words.
Refreshing? I’ve never been called that by a man before. ‘Bookish’, ‘mouthy’, and once I was called a ‘prig’, but never ‘refreshing’. Aunt Ivy is going to chuckle when I tell her that.
It’s only when I’m on the omnibus heading back to Spitalfields that I realise he hasn’t told me anything about his son whatsoever.
***
Aunt Ivy, as expected, is thrilled that I was chosen for the position and is patting herself on the back for giving me a leg up in society, even if it is by underhanded means.
It relieves her of some of the responsibility of feeding and clothing me.
God knows she’s finding it hard enough to feed and clothe herself.
‘Dr Dryden found out I live in Spitalfields, and he still chose me. What do you think that means?’ I ask her that evening when we’re sat in front of the fire, toasting bread.
Now that the excitement has worn off, the slight misgiving that I had at the interview about working for him has turned into full-blown foreboding.
Aunt Ivy swivels her fork slowly, toasting her bread evenly in the low flame, firelight shadows dancing on the faded green living room walls.
‘He’s not a snob. That’s all it means.’
‘But he didn’t even tell me about his son or show me upstairs.’ He sniffed me ... ‘I have a bad feeling about him. I don’t think I should work there.’
Aunt Ivy gives me an incredulous look. ‘Turn down an offer of a live-in position and a good salary? He’s a doctor. A respectable man.’
I stare silently at my toasted bread, which is starting to blacken around the edges. Am I being silly? I can’t help how I feel. My gut is telling me that there’s something not right.
‘He chose you because you’re special,’ Aunt Ivy continues, transferring the steaming toast to her plate with nimble fingers. ‘Like I chose you from your ten brothers and sisters in Whitechapel. If I hadn’t, where do you think you’d be now?’
I shrug.
‘Dead or selling your body on the streets, no doubt. My sister married for love, and she’s suffering for it.
Last I heard, she’d taken up with the gin—and that never ends well.
’ She scrapes butter onto her toast angrily to make her point.
‘So I won’t hear another word. You’re going to him, Florence, and that’s final.
It will be the making of you, mark my words. ’
My bread is now more char than toast, but I hardly notice. A knot of fear lodges in my stomach.
But what other choice do I have other than to marry well?
However, even that is proving impossible.
I have looks enough, but I lack money and connections, and prosperous men don’t marry for beauty alone.
No, Aunt Ivy is right: beggars can’t be choosers, and I’d be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth.