Wednesday June 6
A fortnight has gone by, and there have been no replies to my advertisement. Alexandra has lent me money to pay for another week’s lodging, but I have naught to send home to my mother, and I must quickly find employment. I am strong and healthy, and well accustomed to hard work. There are factories in London where I could apply, or if all else fails, I could hire out as a charwoman or a scullery maid. But Alexandra will not hear of this. She says that I have too good a mind to waste it in menial labour. Of course I am flattered that she thinks me clever, but cleverness will avail me little if I cannot earn my keep.
Thursday, June 7.
An acquaintance at the British Museum has told Alexandra of a London book-bindery employing women. The work sounds pleasant, and if I am not to be hired by a publisher, at least I would have a small part in the making of books. I mean to apply on Monday. One of the Gnostic ladies has offered to lend me a skirt and shirtwaist, and Alexandra has said she will do my hair (she threatens to cut me a fringe) so that I will appear respectable. But I despair of my hands, so calloused and rough from outdoor work that no emollient will smooth them. And I must remember, when answering questions, not to fall into the broad Borders speech.
In the meantime, Alexandra and I have had a visitor. Our sponsor Mrs. Elisabeth Morgan came to call this afternoon, saying it was time she met her newest protégé. She is a lady of middle years, with a kind face and pleasant manner, though it seems to me rather eccentric in her dress. This afternoon she wore a long plum-coloured velvet waistcoat over a grey woollen gown belted with a tasselled cord and over that a paisley shawl. Perhaps this is a new London fashion, though she did put me in mind a little of the White Queen in Alice.
Of course Alexandra has not told her why I came to London and Mrs. Morgan was too discreet to inquire, though when I said that I had been a bondager, she gazed at me admiringly through the monocle she carries on a ribbon. “To have led such a hard life, and yet still aspire to cultivate the spirit and the intellect — my dear child, you make me feel quite humbled.” Clearly, Mrs. Morgan is persuaded that I, like Alexandra, am a seeker after arcane wisdom. I spoke as little as possible, for fear of revealing my true ignorance; leaving Alexandra to seize the reins of the conversation in her usual confident way.
“It is time, my dear Alexandra,” said Mrs. Morgan, setting down her teacup, “that you paid your respects at 17 Lansdowne Road. You must join our little gathering this Saturday, and of course Miss Guthrie must come as well.” So saying, she opened her reticule and produced a printed card.
It was an invitation, which Alexandra read aloud.
“Madame Blavatsky. At Home, Saturday 4:00 to 10:00 o’clock.”
“This Madame Blavatsky,” said Alexandra. “They say she is très formidable.”
“Indeed she is,” said Elisabeth Morgan. “But my dear, you must not let her intimidate you. You too can be très formidable!”
Of this Madame Blavatsky, I know only what Alexandra has told me: that she is widely read and widely travelled, and a famous Theosophist. 17 Lansdowne Road, it seems, is the very epicentre of London occultism. I have no notion what a Theosophist might be, and I look forward to Saturday with some trepidation. Still, as Alexandra says, it should prove “bien intéressant.”