She’d chivvied and cooed and inflated my head so much that I’d marched out of the door of our damp, shabby flat in London’s East End with my chin lifted and my stride purposeful to catch an omnibus. Ifeltgood enough, so whyshouldn’t I apply?
But my best day dress is 6 years old with well-disguised patches (thanks to my careful sewing), and I have a fake reference in my pocket. Unsurprisingly, my false bravado has leaked away like drain water. How on earth will I convince this gentleman—this Dr Alexander Dryden—that I’m better educated than his son, a boy who has been raised in a household infinitely wealthier than my own? It’s a ruse that can only end in embarrassment (mine) and laughter (Dr Dryden’s). Hot tears edge from my eyes, and I blink them away furiously.
I have two choices: run away and face the wrath of Aunt Ivyorknock on the door and face the pity of Dr Dryden. It all boils down to what I’m afraid of the most.
I raise my hand to the lion’s ring. Aunt Ivy is terrifying when she’s angry.
My tentative rapping is answered by a dark-haired man with a stern expression. ‘I have an appointment—with Dr Dryden,’ I whisper.
I’m waved inside with a curt ‘Follow me.’
At first, I think the man is the butler until I’m ushered into a study, and he enters and closes the door after him. Then I realise thisisDr Alexander Dryden, and he doesn’t have a butler.
That’s slightly odd to my way of thinking, but I supposeit’s not unheard-of.
Dr Dryden seats himself behind the wide wooden desk and gestures to a high-back chair opposite.
‘Take a seat, Miss ... ?’ His tone is polite, but none too friendly.
I sink into the chair nervously, laying my sweaty palms face down on my thighs.
‘Hughes, Florence Hughes.’
‘Ah yes.’ He ticks something on a piece of paper with a black-and-gold fountain pen. Curiously, I jut my head forward, straining to see how many names are on his list. But his arm covers it.
‘Reference?’
Heart pounding, I draw Aunt Ivy’s reference out of my pocket and hand over the sealed envelope. Dr Dryden flicks open the flap with a gold letter opener and draws out a single sheet of thin paper. I cringe at the slight twitch of his eyebrow. One page does not bode well. But Aunt Ivy insisted that a short note sticking to the facts—stating where, when, and for whom I had worked—was best. ‘If I wax lyrical about your merits, he might get suspicious,’ she asserted. But now I’m thinking that she should have tried to fill at least two sheets of thin paper with my merits to give him something more to read.
Dr Dryden peruses the reference in silence. As I know thegist of what Aunt Ivy has written (and we had a run-through of my answers the night before), I take the chance to observe him, unnoticed.
He’s in his early forties and wears his short, straight dark hair in a severe slicked-back style, which draws attention to his pale face, sharp features, and well-trimmed sideburns touched with silver. Dr Dryden is handsome, I conclude, but his personality lacks warmth; in fact, the thing that stands out to me most about him is his decidedly chilly manner. When he raises his unblinking brown eyes from the page to study me, it feels like he’s assessing not only my suitability as a governess but also the suitability of my soul for heaven. I lower my gaze in increments under his potent stare until all I’m seeing are my shaking white hands.
The chair creaks as Dr Dryden flexes his legs underneath the desk. Still, he says nothing, but I can sense him inspecting me. It’s mental torture, exacerbated by the hypnotic tick of the clock on the mantel.
My eyelids droop—the early start and the haphazard journey across town, which involved three omnibuses, catching up with me.
‘Do you eat meat, Miss Hughes?’
Dr Dryden’s deep voice cuts through my stupor and jerks me awake.
I blink. ‘Pardon?’
‘Do. You. Eat. Meat,’ he repeats slowly as if I’m hard of hearing.
‘Yes, of course,’ I say, bewildered. ‘Why?’
‘Do you like it bloody or well done?’
‘Um, well done, I suppose?’That’s a strange question. Why does he want to know that?
Dr Dryden makes a quick note with his pen. He taps the end of it against his chin and looks at me.
‘Where do you really live, Miss Hughes? I’ve interviewed two young women from Kensington so far, and your dress and manner are far removed from that part of town. And your reference has obviously been faked.’
My chest tightens, and I open my mouth. But I’m not sure what to say, so I close it again. He attempts a smile, but it’s a mere parting of his lips, and I catch a brief glimpse of snowy-white teeth.
‘I’m not angry. I’m simply curious as to why you’d apply for a position that you’re not qualified to do,’ he says.
