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"I can only take that to mean that he has already found another suitor for his daughter," Elizabeth replied.
"So soon?"
"Aye, he did not waste any time," Elizabeth said. "I cannot imagine how I shall tell Portia."
"You mean to say she has not seen this letter?" Antonia asked, holding it up.
"I have been afraid to show it to her. There is no telling how she may respond."
"Well, you cannot keep it from her," said Antonia. "She shall find out eventually, from her father if not from you. And the sooner she knows, the better, I should think. 'Tis time that she learned to accept things as they are."
"That was rather an unfeeling sentiment," Elizabeth replied, a bit taken aback. "She is still grieving for the man she loved."
"Then let her don her mourning black, thus giving death its due, and go on about her life," Antonia said.
"Antonia! How can you be so harsh?"
"Oh, truly, Elizabeth, 'tis not my intent to sound hard-hearted." she replied, "but Portia simply must accept that Thomas is dead and there is naught that she can do to bring him back. And if she believes that he died by her father's hand or else by his will, then even so, what can she do about it? Is there proof she may present? And if, by some chance, she has such proof, would she present it, accusing her own father? And even if she could, what good would come of it? Who would convict a father for seeking to protect his daughter from disgrace? Who would even fault him for it?" She held up the letter once again. "He writes here in this very letter that the sheriff's men had come to see rum. From the sound of it, they spoke to him respectfully and he answered them in kind; thus they were satisfied and took their leave. And there it shall end, Elizabeth. There it shall end. Regardless of what we may suspect, officially the murderer shall remain unknown. Thomas was a young journeyman of much promise but of little means, and a Jew, at that. Henry Mayhew is a prominent and wealthy merchant and a Christian. What more is there to say?"
"There is something more to say for Portia, surely," said Elizabeth.
"Very well, then let us say it," Antonia replied. "She is her father's daughter and must do her duty, as must we all. My father never sought my counsel or consent when he arranged for me to marry. Nor do most fathers do so. And for all of your poetic and romantic notions about
love, Elizabeth, the day will come when your father, too, shall decide upon a husband for you, before you become too old for him to marry off and he is settled with a spinster. You and I have talked of this before. Marrying for love is fine for the more common sort of people, but we must be more serious and practical. And the sooner Portia comes to understand that and accept it, the better off she shall be. That is my advice to you, Elizabeth. Do with it what you will, but know this: Neither Portia's father nor yours shall remain patient forever."
"And why, pray tell, should it be a matter of their patience?" replied Elizabeth, her temper flaring up. "Why is it a daughter's place to do her duty by her father and not a father's place to do his duty by his daughter? 'Tis a parent who brings a child into the world, and I should think 'tis a parent's duty to ensure that child is nurtured and protected. Why must a daughter grow up to be little better than a slave, destined to marry a man she did not choose, and to spend the remainder of her life at his beck and call, while a man may do whatever he desires?"
"Oh, Elizabeth, there are ways for a woman to do what she desires also, if she does so with careful judgement and discretion," said Antonia. "Look around you at this handsome home. Is this truly what you call living like a slave? You have servants, for God's sake. You have never raised a hand to do anything much more demanding than embroidery! Methinks you see too much of your-self in Portia's plight, if we may truly call it plight. Indeed, how different has her life been thus far? Her father is one of London's richest merchants, and from what he writes in his letter, 'twould seem that he has made arrangements for a marriage for her that would improve her prospects even further. She shall marry a rich man of good standing and live a pleasant life of indolence, waited on by servants hand and foot, in return for which, in all likelihood, she shall be required to do nothing more than help entertain his friends and give birth upon occasion. This is a desperate plight? Good Lord! However shall we save her?"
Elizabeth stared at her friend, her mouth set in a right grimace. "I perceive that I have made a mistake," she said after a moment. "I called upon you because I believed that you would care enough to help, but I see now that you do not care at all. Forgive me, Antonia. I did not mean to waste your time."
Antonia raised her eyebrows. "Well, I see I have offended you, though such was not my intent. Should I take that as a dismissal, then?"
"Take it any way you please," Elizabeth said curtly, turning away from her.
Antonia gazed at her for a moment, her head cocked thoughtfully, then she sniffed, stood, and made her way outside, back to her carriage, without saying another word.
Elizabeth heard the door shut behind her and bit her lower lip. She felt tom. She felt angry with herself for having become angry, and at the same time she felt justified in feeling so. She had known Antonia for a long time. Though she was a few years older, they had grown up together and she had always considered Antonia one of her closest friends. And even though she had not seen Antonia as often since her marriage, she certainly knew her much better than she did Portia. Yet it was to Portia that her heart went out, while Antonia had shown her a side of her character that seemed harsh and insensitive, even a little cruel. And that both surprised and disappointed her.
Yet at the same time, she had to admit that Antonia was not entirely in the wrong. Elizabeth had to acknowledge that she lived a life of privilege, as did Portia. Yet she was still dissatisfied with her lot in life. So did that make her ungrateful? Or was there, in fact, more to life than simply being well taken care of? Had every need truly been supplied?
If a woman were provided with a home, however comfortable that home might be, and if she were well fed and clothed and granted every material comfort that she might desire, then did that mean that she should not wish for anything more—or, if she did desire something further, pursue such desires quietly. "with careful judgement and discretion"?
Elizabeth looked inside herself… looked hard… and found that she could not accept that. It just did not seem right. "Gild a cage howsoever you may choose," she murmured to herself, "and yet still 'twill be a cage. Forge chains from gold or silver, and yet still they will be chains." At the same time, she reminded herself that her own chains, such as they were, were certainly of silver, if not gold, and she wore them fairly lightly. There were many women whose lives were far more difficult than hers. She truly had very little about which to complain.
And yet… there was that cage. Let a woman try to step outside, she thought, and the world would gently usher her back in, or else revile her for a shrew and chastise her accordingly. If only I were born a man, she thought… and then realised that even if, by some strange and supernatural twist of fate, she could somehow have been given such a choice, it was not what she would have chosen. She would no more wish to be a man than she would wish to be a horse. No, what she wanted was the freedom that went with being a man. She wondered if the day would ever come when women could enjoy such freedom. Most likely, it would not, she thought. Men would never allow it. And women like Antonia would continue having to resort to "careful judgement and discretion." Perhaps, as Antonia had advised, that was what she should do, as well.
Her thoughts were interrupted when one of the servants entered and announced, "Mistress, there is a Master Symington Smythe to see Miss Portia."
She turned. 'To see Miss Portia?"
"Aye, mistress, that was what he said."
She frowned. Why would Tuck come to see Portia and not ask to see her first? "Show him in, Albert," she replied.
"Aye, mistress."
A moment later, Albert announced the visitor once more.
