That look of Speckle’s lingered all night. The one that saw a spark of determination and fire in her. She hated that she no longer saw it in herself. The Thea that attended Doctor Hunter’s lectures would run headlong into the challenge until she succeeded in germinating the protea and winning that place on the advisory board and influence in the botanical world. But that wasn’t the Thea she was permitted to be in society. That Thea was tired. Tired of the drudgery of polite society, of her unpredictable and controlling husband. And she was a mother to three children. That was definitely tiring.
The thing that tired her most though, was the consistent and unexplained absence of Martha.
Unable to sleep, she slipped out of bed at first light and peered through the curtains. The orange light woke the city outside. The same light as the morning she had chased Martha on to the docks – to say goodbye as the person she loved and trusted the most in the world set sail on a journey to the unknown. She kept the thoughts at bay when out in society, but when she was alone, they became too loud.
Musket the Scottish terrier cocked his head at her from the bed, wondering why his pillow had got up so early. She smiled at him.
‘It’s ok Moo, you go back to sleep.’ He huffed, and replaced his chin on the covers, keeping an eye on his mistress. Just like people, Musket was also meat with thoughts. Mostly thoughts about food and people he loved, but also thoughts about how to rip the kneecaps off people he didn’t know or like. That was most people apart from Thea, her close staff, the children and the governess. He was supposed to be George’s dog, but after Musket had taken a chunk out of his ankle as soon as he got his grown-up dog teeth, he had been passed to Thea to sort out. Secretly, she thought Musket had good taste. She watched the city wake – the boats on the Thames to her right, the traders pushing carts along the busying streets. There weren’t many carriages around at this hour. Everyone with money was still in bed.
A gentle sound came from around the door. ‘Your Grace? You are up?’
‘I am sorry, Joan,’ she said, twitching the curtains shut at the sight of her always-impeccable lady’s maid. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
Joan shook her head. ‘Not at all, Your Grace, I was awake.’ But Thea knew she probably wasn’t – just a light sleeper and always on hand to help.
‘Robe?’ asked Joan.
‘Dress, I think this morning,’ Thea confirmed. She wasn’t in the mood to dally. ‘I’ll wash first.’ Joan bobbed and went to fetch warm water from the kitchen.
Thea sank back between the four posts of the bed and her thoughts slid once again to Martha. These moments alone were the only time she could allow herself to think of it. They had been lovers, as close as two people could be – but that was anotherthing not permitted by society, polite or otherwise. Thea had chosen to marry George for her family’s home and for her sister, and Martha had followed her dream to explore the globe and the plants in it – with the understanding that she would return to Thea in time, when things had settled. They had corresponded regularly at first, through Martha’s trips to Cape Colony, to India and Sumatra, when she wrote to ask if Thea minded if she extend her year-long trip.
A bitter expulsion of air left Thea. She had been so hopeful, and so excited for Martha when further opportunities for exploration presented themselves, but suddenly, two years ago, the letters had stopped. It had been well over five years since Martha set off on that trip. No voyage was that long, not even to the other side of the globe. Thea had sent letters to far off lands but had no way of knowing if they had arrived. She had contacted both of Martha’s houses and had heard nothing. The knowledge that Martha was out there, thinking of her, had been what propelled her through the early months of her marriage. Of the wrench from her family, the anxiety of an unfamiliar household, the pressure to perform in society and bear children. Martha’s love had carried her through, and now it was gone. She was desperate to know that she was safe, at least, but had no way of finding out.
Joan returned, and Thea dragged herself off the bed against her heavy heart. Her lady’s maid settled understanding eyes on her.
‘I understand the duke is to be away for a few nights,’ she said gently. ‘He will leave after breakfast.’ Thea assumed that Joan simply pitied her for being tied to an exhausting husband who spent more nights at the house he kept for his mistress than the one he kept for his family. She let her think it. It was easier than her considering that Thea’s melancholy was due to illicit heartbreak.
‘I am sure we will manage,’ she said, with a humourless smile. ‘But do ensure that Fletcher encourages him to settle up with the tailors. I was reminded of the balance by his wife last week.’
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ said Joan, pulling the Japanese screen around so Thea could wash in at least a little privacy. Thea hid a sigh as she washed by the fire and slowly dried herself with the cloths Joan passed. When that was done, she stood while Joan began the torturous process of application of undergarments, petticoats, skirts, stomacher and dress.
‘Do you expect he will visit the children before he goes?’ Thea asked, wondering if their paths would cross.
Joan paused. ‘I expect he will be keen to get off, Your Grace,’ she said.
Thea nodded. It was as it had been since the childrens’ births. Girls weren’t of much use to him until marriageable age and Edward had failed to be excited about any of the shooting or sword games George occasionally tried to interest him in. Thea was pleased he had stopped at three children, as she was now in her twenty-eighth year and childbearing would be more dangerous.
The silence stretched. ‘Mister Valtrevers sent a beetle yesterday,’ tried Joan, evidently trying to cheer Thea up. ‘Mr Fletcher dealt with it, so His Grace won’t know.’
Thea smiled at her kindness, and however weary she was with the world, a little curiosity pricked. ‘What kind?’ she asked.
Joan pinched her lips together and shook her head. ‘A black one?’
Thea allowed herself a rueful chuckle. She knew Joan was baffled by the collection and slightly repulsed by it. Especially the bugs. Joan came from India, where she said there were plenty of far-too-interesting bugs, thank you very much, and she would rather keep them outside the house.
‘I put it in the third case,’ said Joan, gesturing at the half open door. ‘With the other black ones.’
Thea’s gaze slid to the small collection of natural historical items she kept in her suite of rooms on the third floor of their Whitehall Townhouse. George didn’t like them in the house, but he never came to her apartments. Fossils, skins, pinned insects and all manner of curiosities flanked the corridor, but she struggled to raise her curiosity for it in the way that she used to. It fascinated her, of course it did – but she had nobody she could share it with, and nobody she was doing it for. As the seed parcels from Martha had stopped, her excitement had waned. Her eyes flicked to the collections of pebbles on a shelf – well polished from handling over the years – carefully dusted by the staff who couldn’t know the memories they represented. Of a kiss in the shadow of a cliff or a brush of hands on the beach. All at once both exquisite and gut wrenching.
Now she was a wife. Property, with no legal right to her autonomy, wealth, or children. She executed her role as dutiful companion, loved her children dearly but at a sensible distance, and ran the house with a brisk efficiency. But security for her family had cost her more greatly than she would have predicted. She felt like she had lost a part of herself. Something that Doctor Hunter would never be able to pull out of a cadaver and display to his students. This was nothing physical, but felt like a more fundamental part of her identity. The lectures and the dress-up allowed her a much-needed escape – but now she could only really be happy as someone else. She wondered what happened to meat with thoughts when it wasn’t permitted to think. Maybe it just rotted?
‘There,’ said Joan, patting the last errant hair into place. ‘Lovely.’ The wig was tall, the dress wide and the shoes shiny.
Thea considered herself in the mirror. Another costume applied. She added a smile and headed out of her apartments and down the grand stairs to breakfast.
‘Morning darlings,’ she said, poking her head around the nursery door and seeing Musket poke his around at a much lower level. His legs weren’t as long as he thought they were.
‘Mother!’ cried Edward, who left his toy farmyard and ran over – getting more assured every day, she thought, at his four years of age. She crouched to meet his hug and was met by Abigail too, throwing her pudgy form at her.
