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Chapter Seven
“What could be more interesting than an elegant and unaffected letter?”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Do you think my pa handsome, Miss Griffin?”
“Er…” Matilda had vowed to respond to all of Chloe’s questions most truthfully but hadn’t been forewarned of this one. “Miss Chloe Hawkins, please concentrate on your letter writing.”
The grouching blond mop of hair fell upon the paper once more, ink smudging the edges, table, fingers and floor.
Matilda sneaked a peek at Miss Appleton’s tome for some ripe advice, but there was naught as regards awkward questions about handsome employers.
Ink blots, however, were a severe wrongdoing and to be punished with a sharp reprimand.
For two days now, they had followed the routine laid out in this book, plodding through Mrs Trimmer’s Ancient History – whicheven Matilda had discreetly yawned at – and reading aloud Grammar of Geography,which certainly imparted no lust for travel. The spine of Salzmann’s Elements of Morality remained unbroken and Matilda had considered poking around the library for more edifying material.
Lessons on one’s deportment had proved more successful as Chloe was a graceful girl with a cheerful disposition, despite having rehearsed another fifty-six curtsies.
A knock on the door and Betty bustled in. “Elevenses, me darlins. Sponge cake with vanilla cream, gingerbread, Oliver biscuits and a pot of tea.” Betty flumped on the sofa, wiggling her toes in the air. “Phew, me aching feet. How’s the lessons goin’?”
“We are practising the art of letter composition this morning, and Chloe is writing a missive to her friend. Are you ready to read it aloud, dear? Then we may have tea.”
The quill was all too keenly thrust down and her charge breathed deep.
“My dearest acquaintance Modesty–”
Betty snorted. “That poor girl. It ain’t decent to burden yer child so.”
“Mydearest acquaintance Modesty,” Chloe repeated with a glare, “no doubt you will anticipate the purport of this epistle–”
“Piss wot?” Betty whispered, eyes gleaming.
“Epistle,” bawled Chloe, “which is to ask…”She glanced up.“I think this next bit flows better…do you fancy melting a bob on a jaunt to Bullock’s gaff next week to see the stuff snaffled from Napoleon? It’ll be a lumping great jape and Pa might buy us ices. Love Chlo. P.S. There’s even Napoleon’s own carriage…with a bed in it!”
Matilda briefly closed her eyes.
Thus far they’d only covered the opening pleasantries of letter composition as the entirety could not be taught in a single morning. But the remainder showed creative promise.
“A carriage with a bed in it, are yer sure?” Betty quizzed, swiping a slice of gingerbread.
“Yes!” cried Chloe. “And it’s bulletproof!”
Matilda shook her head. What a vivid imagination.
“Have you visited Bullock’s Museum before, Miss Griffin?”
Well, no.
That particular museum had opened its doors before her parents had died but her father had considered it vulgar – a harem-scarem collection of goods shoved together in order to titillate the public without any academic relevance whatsoever. The ostentatious Egyptian Hall in particular – although never actually viewed – had been disapproved of.
Yet she knew it held Birds of Paradise specimens from the Moluccas…
“No, but it does sound interesting. I hear it also has an armoury, a collection of Captain Cook’s treasures and many preserved mammal exhibits from Africa.”
“Go on with yer. Sounds a bit lifeless to me,” declared Betty, dipping her fingers in the sugar bowl to extract three lumps. “But yer should ask Mr H to take yer both soonish, as Mick says they’ve a busy one next week, and then yer’ll be stuck in reading Mrs Tiresome’s tedious toes till Judgement Day.”
