Painting your face is the height of vulgarity, her mother had denounced in shocked, hushed tones. Only fallen women would indulge in such depravity. When Mina had wept penitently, her mother had patted her shoulder and promised she would not tell her father of her fall from grace. Not all girls are intended to be beauties, her mother had explained gently. We must accept our lot in life with good grace. Your father and I are simply glad you have been spared the snares and temptations that a beautiful face brings with it. No doubt, she had meant it as a heartening pep talk, but Mina had been left feeling plainer than ever.
It was only when Mama had died and Mina had been clearing out her toiletry case that she had come across the secret compartment which held Mama’s own stash of rice powder for the complexion, a handful of burnt sticks for darkening her lashes and a tin of pink balm for her lips or cheeks, Mina wasn’t sure which. Dear, hypocritical Mama. Mina had thrown the contents out without ever telling anyone. The fancy walnut lacquered box with its velvet lining and silver-topped bottles had been sold along with Mama’s French bronze vanity set with the pretty blue guilloche pattern. The proceeds had been used to buy a new morning coat for Papa to meet with their esteemed governors.
Now, picking up her hairbrush and running it through her damp locks, she almost wished she had kept the contraband beautifying products. She looked a pale, drab thing she told herself, looking herself full in the face. The mirror showed her depressing reflection. Like one of those gloomy paintings of Ophelia floating down a stream, singing to herself with her hair full of weeds. It was no wonder her groom had left her in the church. Setting down her hairbrush, she caught herself up short. She hardly wanted William Nye’s attentions, she told herself sternly. What on earth was she thinking of?
Then she remembered she did have some jewelry to her name after all and went to fetch her stocking. Upending it, she retrieved her mother’s silver locket and her father’s gold watch and chain which she had stashed in the toe for safekeeping while she bathed. Jewelry would add a finishing touch to the dresser. She set them down in a few different places before she was satisfied, and then ran to her trunk to find the small china dog that one of her ex-pupils had given her as a farewell gift. Her father had laughingly said it looked like a long-haired ferret, stood on its back legs, but Mina knew it was supposed to be a pampered little lap dog such as society ladies owned. She set him carefully down and then returned to her trunk.
Mama’s engraved silver teapot, spoons, and sugar bowl she set on an empty shelf next to the window. She’d love a cup of tea now, she thought longingly, but could not face running the gauntlet downstairs even though there was a cupboard full of the stuff. Perhaps she could keep a packet upstairs for her own use, she thought. It really ought to be stored in tins to keep it fresh.
Of her mother’s bone china tea service, she had kept two settings and the milk jug only. It had not been such a wrench as she’d feared, for in truth, it had been far from complete, gaining a few chips and cracks over the last thirty years. She placed these pieces of pretty yellow floral carefully on the shelf next to the silver teapot and surveyed the results with a critical eye, moving one cup and saucer closer to the edge and nudging a silver spoon closer to the others for the purposes of symmetry. She hoped Hannah had found somewhere to display the rest of the set to advantage, for she had gifted the remaining pieces to their old maid who had professed herself most pleased with the oddments.
It was only then that she recalled the folded, weighted paper that Hannah had pressed into her palm at their hurried farewell. Mina frowned, remembering she had stuffed it in the concealed pocket in her skirts at the time. Returning to her trunk, she lifted out her dresses in turn, searching for the one she wanted. It wasn’t so easy now they had all been dyed a uniform black and she smothered a sigh for the loss of her best green silk which now looked sadly streaky. Still, it couldn’t be helped and quite honestly the green silk had been on the tired side for a while now, however many times she had replaced the trim and then cuffs. Besides, she would be in mourning for twelve months at least, so what difference did it make?
Sifting past her stiffened horsehair petticoats, she delved into the discrete pocket and found the folded paper. Sitting back on her heels, Mina unwrapped it and found it to contain one of the two shiny gold half sovereign coins Lord Faris had given Hannah for her tip. Tears sprang to Mina’s eyes at Hannah’s unexpected generosity. The dour servant had shared half of all her wealth in the world with her. Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, she read the smudgy message their old maid had painstakingly printed on the cheap yellowing paper.
“Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”
Mina blinked, then reminded herself that Hannah had never met William Nye. If anything, it was likely to be a warning against her half-brother Jeremy, who Hannah must have taken against despite his munificence. Scrambling to her feet, she crossed to the dresser once again, and put her half sovereign into the top drawer along with the hand-written warning.
Returning to her dreary black dresses, she carried them over to the wardrobe, but on opening the second door, was surprised to find some of the hangers already occupied. Drawing them out, she found several gleaming white shirts with elaborately pleated fronts, a necktie of flaming red silk and a waistcoat of striped scarlet and black the like which quite took her breath away with its garishness.
Her father had always said black and white were the only two permissible colors for a gentleman’s evening attire and everyone knew that neckties should be as small and soberly colored as possible. The final hanger displayed a walking suit of a loud and vulgar plaid, which she was sure no gentleman would ever deign to wear. Touching the fabric and feeling the silk lining there could be no doubt the clothes were expensive though they were wholly lacking in any kind of taste.
Remembering Will Nye’s spartan dress of plain black wool waistcoat and breeches and collarless shirt, she could not imagine who these garments could belong to. With a shrug, she shoved them to the one side of the wardrobe and hung up her own lackluster gowns and stiffened petticoats at the other end. There could be no greater contrast, she thought between the two sets of clothes at opposite ends of the rail. If one side belonged to a fine cock pheasant, then the other side was that of the corresponding female bird with its dull feathers of mottled brown and black.
With a shiver, Mina returned to her trunk and slung a warm blue woolen shawl over her shoulders as she unpacked the last of her things. After all, it wouldn’t matter if she wore colors in the privacy of her own room and the black-fringed shawl was thin and provided no warmth whatsoever. At the bottom of the trunk lay her white cotton chemises, drawers and handkerchiefs, her spare corset, and black stockings. These she dropped into the second drawer down and considering herself unpacked she climbed into bed to open one of the few periodicals she had managed to slip down the side of her packed trunk.
It was an old favorite, despite her father’s disapproval of such literature. Their pupils had bought swathes of them over the school terms and instead of throwing them out, Mina had built up quite a collection over the years, which she had kept in neat piles under her bed. Papa thought the serialized fiction and poetry within their pages to be of low quality and betraying poor moral fiber, though he did not object to her reading the domestic household pieces or the cooking recipes. Mina read them from cover to cover and consumed them like guilty treats. She knew the stories to be mere fluff, but the thrill of a female protagonist triumphing over the odds stacked against her was a lure she could not resist.