We are entertaining guests for my twenty-fifth birthday! I expect I should be grateful to Papa for throwing such a lavish affair, with musicians hired especially for the occasion, but in all honesty, when a lady reaches a certain age, she prefers not to draw attention to the fact. I do not wish to mix with half of the wealthy families he deems it proper to invite, and I cannot flatter myself they would care a straw for my company, were I not set to inherit a fortune upon my father’s death. Besides all this, it falls to my lot to write the invitations and organise the necessary provisions of food and alcohol. On the whole, it is a troublesome undertaking.
This morning, I was sitting at my cherrywood desk writing directions for Tilda to take to the confectioner – although our cook is proficient in his way, he could never create the ornate meringues and towering jellies called for – when there was a tap at the door.
Wilkie chirruped as I answered, ‘Enter.’
Papa walked in, still wearing his smoking jacket. ‘Forgive me, my dear. Do I interrupt you?’
‘You do, sir, but it is a pleasant interruption. I have had as much blancmange and spun sugar as I can take.’
He smiled at the detritus on my desk. ‘Why, Dorothea, I am charmed to find you employed in this way! You say it is tiresome, but I would so rather your head be full of desserts than …’ A stiff nod in the direction of my shelves, groaning with books and porcelain phrenology busts. He does not know about the real skull, hidden inside my desk. ‘It is much more agreeable. More becoming.’
My shoulders tensed. After nearly twenty-five years, I am well aware that Papa’s views on female propriety are not my own. He has an acute sense of embarrassment, a fastidious need to obey social strictures as if they were Gospel. You would imagine the world were one enormous pair of eyes scrutinising his every movement. No amount of cajoling, explanation or reasonable argument on my part will change his mind. I must simply divert him down a different path.
‘Oh Papa,’ I rolled my eyes drolly. ‘Do not be such an old bear! Grump, grump, grump.’
Thankfully, he threw back his head and laughed. He was in a good mood. ‘Will you be able to civilise me in time for the party, do you think?’
‘I had hoped to. But look at this!’ I flicked my fingers at his sleeve. ‘A smoky old jacket in the company of ladies! I should have thought you would know better.’
‘I beg your pardon, Dora.’
‘Dotty,’ I corrected.
The name snuffed the light from his eyes. ‘You know I cannot call you that. I called your mother Dotty.’
I began to shuffle the papers on my desk. A stitch of memory opened: Mama, propped up in a bed of cushions, wheezing at me, her face the colour of tallow. Even then, she was still beautiful. I never experienced the dread children often conceive for sick relations. There was not a single moment when I feared her. But Papa did. I can feel it in the shift of air, whenever I mention her name. I can hear it in his silence.
Papa cleared his throat. ‘I forgot to ask if you have ordered Cabinet Pudding.’
‘Have you acquired a sudden taste for it, sir?’
‘You know that I have not. It is Mrs Pearce’s favourite.’
Of course I knew she was attending – I wrote the invitation with my own hand. All the same, it made me cross to have her spectre raised in my room: her pencilled eyebrows and lantern jaw jutting straight at me. Enthralling, they call her. I see no beauty – only arrogance.
‘And heaven forfend that Mrs Pearce should be disappointed,’ I breathed, addressing my menus. ‘Particularly on my birthday.’
‘That is not worthy of you, Dora. I know you do not like the idea of me marrying again, but your mother has been gone—’
‘She will not make you a good wife,’ I warned. ‘For all her acclaim in society. There is a decided dent right where Conjugality should sit, and I never saw smaller domestic propensities.’
He went on as if I had not spoken. ‘—a good many years, now. You do not consider that you will soon be married, yourself, and I shall be left quite alone.’
Alone. I let the word ring for a moment. Ruth Butterham in her cell; Mama on her sickbed – that was the true meaning of alone. What Papa meant was he would have no one to play the piano while he read his newspaper.
Wilkie scuttled across his sandpaper, claws scratching.
‘I will soon be married? Pray tell me to whom, for this is the first I have heard of it. Has a gentleman applied to you, Papa?’
‘No, of course not.’ Irritation in his voice. ‘But you must choose a suitor. Leave it any longer and you will be a confirmed old maid. I could not bear the shame of that.’ A pause. ‘As a matter of fact, there is someone I would like you to meet.’
Panic leapt. Another one. With every year that passes, it is harder to turn them aside. Members of Parliament; estate owners; even an earl, once. Not one of them can stand beside my David: the scourge of pickpockets, the upholder of justice. Someone truly good and useful. I have never felt a flicker of attraction for anyone save him. But if Papa ever suspects my attachment …
‘Oh? Do go on.’
‘Sir Thomas Biggleswade is the name,’ he said. ‘A fine model of a man, excellent hunter. He has local connections and owns a place down in Gloucestershire.’
My smile felt like it had been carved into my face with a knife, but I held on to it. ‘Gloucestershire. Heavens, what a distance! How far I should be from my charitable work.’
‘Pish! Aren’t there prisons that need reforming in Gloucestershire?’
‘Well, I expect there are.’
A thought seemed to strike him, and his expression hardened. ‘But look here, Dora, you’re not to mention any of your prison folly at the party. Especially to Sir Thomas.’
‘He does not approve of charity, sir?’
‘I am in earnest. I will not have you spouting on about criminals, or science, or any other topics a young lady should be ignorant upon. I have had to face down enough foolish tittle-tattle in my time. I won’t have it said that I cannot keep my own daughter in check.’
I bit my lip. When did he suppose he ever had me in check? ‘Dear Papa, no one would say such a thing. Surely there is nothing remarkable in a gentleman giving his only child an education?’
‘There was nothing remarkable in the education I gave you. It is these books you buy and these – these heads.’ Colour rose in his cheeks. ‘I remember last Christmas. I assure you, everyone recalls the incident. We have yet to live it down. Mrs Pearce was not impressed. We must consider ourselves fortunate that she is kind enough to overlook your behaviour and continues to show you such attentions.’
As if it were my fault that the young men, after imbibing alcohol, asked me to read their scalps! I was being amenable. Certainly, it was no pleasure for me to run my hands through their bear-greased locks.
‘I am sorry, Papa. It was only meant in jest.’
He regarded me intently. Muscles twitched beneath the stubble on his jaw, fighting one another. I pouted and gave my most contrite expression, but it seemed as though he saw two ladies before him: one he loved dearly; the other he feared.
‘You do not know, Dorothea …’ he began. He raised a hand to stroke his moustache. ‘You were very young, when your mother died. You would not recall how … strange she became towards the end.’
I recall everything: every line of her face, every word that she spoke. She was never strange to me.
‘The … ah, religious mania. You have to understand how it was, back then.’ He perched on the edge of my desk. ‘The Catholic Emancipation Bill was still years away. When she suddenly converted, like that … It was the end of good society for us.’
I turned my eyes to the menus, for I could not conceal the scorn in my face. He spoke as if Mama should prefer good society to the sanctity of her own soul!
‘Looking back, I think it was the onset of the illness. Her behaviour … I do not like to tell you this, Dora. Perhaps it was not her fault, but she embarrassed me. In public. There was gossip.’
A protective flare in my chest. I wrestled it down, determined to reply with composure. ‘As you say, sir, it was a long time ago. You cannot doubt your position in society today. Nobody thinks the less of you for having a – what shall we say? – eccentric daughter?’
When his voice came, it was iron hard. ‘You do yourself no favours. What you call eccentricity, others will call bad blood. They will call you your mother’s daughter.’
‘What else would I be?’ He hesitated. I could read his thoughts, and for a moment I lost my control. ‘No! I do not care if she does accept you – I will never, never be the daughter of Mrs Pearce!’
‘That is sufficient, Dorothea!’ He surged to his feet, shaking my desk. A paper fluttered to the floor. ‘I mean it. You will behave at this party. You will be biddable, you will be feminine and you will talk to Sir Thomas about reasonable, everyday topics. Am I understood?’
‘Yes, Papa. Only—’
His index finger pointed within an inch of my nose. ‘And whatever happens, whatever people say to you, there will be absolutely no talk of heads.’
‘But Papa, what if—’
‘You will behave!’ he roared, marching from the room and slamming the door behind him, to poor Wilkie’s considerable fright.
Temper, temper. One of the seven deadly sins. Not that Papa would ever mind that.
I was angry too; my heart thudding hard against my ribs, my tongue itching to upbraid him. But of course I took the time to compose myself and be reasonable about it.
Now I am calmer, I reach into the bottom drawer and retrieve my secret skull. Smooth bone against my hands. A light thing, really, without all the flesh. I place its forehead on my own. The pressure, the cool touch, seems to ease my pounding nerves.
Dark, cavernous holes gape where the eyes once were. Inside lies a white-grey cave. The thoughts and fears that echoed there are gone. No tumult, no strife remains, only bone. How trivial our mortal cares are, when all is said and done.
Recovering from his little scare, Wilkie flutters back up to his perch and tries a wary chirp.
‘I know, dear boy. He does not understand me.’ I place the skull back in its drawer and retrieve my second treasure. Time has softened the folds in the paper and erased most of the print. In the corner are two pale splashes – I suppose she must have spilt tea upon it as she read. I trace the stains with my fingertips, longing for her.
This was the first thing I found in Mama’s bundle of papers when I was tasked with sorting through them upon her death. Tied with a ribbon, it encased the letters from her friends and the silhouette sketches. It is a pamphlet on phrenology.
If only Mama were here to help me defend the science I have learnt for her sake. We might study the guests at the party together. I should dearly like to compare findings with her.
I should like to know if she looked at Papa’s skull, and saw the things that I see.