Kent, England
March 1798
Charlotte was one week short of seventeen when her life
changed, falling into two halves like a shiny child's
ball: before and after. In the time before, Charlotte was
staying with Julia Brentorton, her dearest friend from
school. Julia and she survived boarding school together:
the dreary grind of everyday Latin instruction, music
instruction, dance instruction, art class, etiquette with
the school mistress, Lady Sipperstein. Etiquette was
really the only unpleasant class.
"Julia!" Lady Sipperstein would suddenly appear behind her
left shoulder. "Cross your legs at the ankle when you sit
in a low sofa.
"Walk up the stairs again, Charlotte, and do not sway your
hips this time! You are wiggling in an inappropriate
fashion."
Lady Sipperstein was a terrifying woman with a bosom that
extended forward like the prow of a ship. She knew to a
hair how low one must bow to a duchess as opposed to a
king, and she drilled her students as if they would do so
every day.
She was full of maxims: "One dismisses a servant as if he
were a young child: with firmness, brevity, and
uninterest. . . . The appropriate gifts for the sick
depend on where they live: If they live on your estate,
instruct the cook to make bone-marrow jelly and bring it
yourself, with fruit; if they live in the village,
instruct the servants to deliver an uncooked chicken
instead. And of course be sure to ascertain that any
illness is not contagious before you enter a house: While
it is important to show feeling, one must not be foolish."
Etiquette was an hour of unnerving questions. "Julia! If
afootman enters the breakfast room with an obviously
swollen jaw, what is the appropriate response?"
"Send him home?" Julia would suggest tentatively.
"No! Information first. Is the swelling the result of a
distressed tooth or an improper brawl the night before? If
he has been brawling, dismiss him. If not? Julia?"
"Ah, send him to a doctor?" Julia stammered.
"Incorrect. Inform the butler that he should be put on
duties that will keep him out of public view. There is no
point in coddling servants."
For Charlotte, art class was the focus of the day. She was
happiest in the white square room furnished only with
twelve easels. They painted the same groupings over and
over: two oranges, one lemon; two peaches, one pear.
Charlotte didn't mind.
Julia did. "A pumpkin today!" she would chortle, mimicking
Miss Frollip's excited tone when she introduced the latest
still life.
For Julia, there was dance class--and that not because of
dance, but because of Mr. Luskie. He was a rather hairy
man, a family man: robust, friendly, not a bit of danger
with the girls, the teachers all agreed. But Julia thought
his whiskers were dashing, and she read messages in the
gentle pressure of his hand as he directed her through the
steps of a cotillion. "I adore him," she whispered to
Charlotte at night.
Charlotte would wrinkle her nose: "I don't know, Julia,
he's rather . . . well, he's not . . ." It was hard to put
into words. He was common. But how not to insult Julia?
She thought a bit uneasily of Julia's passionate vows of
love: She wouldn't do anything, would she? Of course, Mr.
Luskie wouldn't . . . but Julia was so beautiful. She was
like a peach, Charlotte thought: golden and sweet-smelling
and soft-looking. Would Mr. Luskie?
One of Charlotte's governesses had been stridently
opinionated about men: "They want one thing, Lady
Charlotte!" she would say. "One thing, and don't you
forget it and get yourself ruined, now!" Charlotte would
nod, wondering what the one thing was.
So she would whisper back, "I don't think he's so
handsome, Julia. Did you see that he has red veins in his
cheeks?"
"No!" said Julia. "He doesn't!"
"Yes, he does," said Charlotte.
"How do you notice so much?" Julia said crossly.
Finally school drew to a close, and one by one the girls
were taken off by titled relatives, or simply by maids:
taken off to be fitted and prinked and "tarted up," Julia
said. It was time to start a process that would end in
settlements and dowries, balls and weddings.
As the daughter of a duke, Charlotte was regarded
enviously. Her coming out would be magnificent. Her elder
sister Violetta had made her bow to society in a ballroom
draped from top to bottom with white lilies.
It was only Charlotte who didn't care much. She longed, if
the truth be told, to stay in the white square room and
paint another apple, or (if the market was particularly
exciting that week) even a persimmon. She was good, really
good, she knew she was, and Miss Frollip knew she was, but
that was the end of it.
She had to come out; Julia had to come out; there would be
little time for persimmons.
So when her mother picked her up at Lady Chatterton's
School for Young Gentlewomen, Charlotte felt resigned, but
not excited. Her mother arrived in full armor, in
Charlotte's private opinion: in the ducal coach with four
footmen behind. The duchess was shy and quailed at the
thought of an interview with the formidable Lady
Sipperstein. Poor Mama, Charlotte thought. She must have
been in a terrible tizzy.
Finally Charlotte and her mother were regally dismissed by
Lady Sipperstein and escaped in the coach. The duchess
grinned in a most unduchesslike fashion, leaned back
against the satin cushions, and said, "Thank goodness,
you're finished, Charlotte! I never have to see Lady
Sipperstein again! We can be comfortable. How did the last
picture go, darling--oranges, wasn't it?" For Charlotte's
mama was a devoted parent, who lovingly kept track of her
children's latest exploits, even if in Charlotte's case
that had simply turned into a long progression of
watercolor fruits.
"All right, Mama," Charlotte said. "I'll show you when we
get home." Charlotte frowned a bit. Her mama treated all
her work the same: with reverence, delight, and a
noncritical eye.
"Good," said Adelaide comfortably. "I shall send it off
immediately to Saxony. We're doing quite well on that
hallway, dearest. Why, two or three more and the walls
will be full!"
© 2003-2026