Bleak Expectations (29 page)

Then, after long, frustrating weeks of wooing, our relationship took a turn for the physical.

It happened as we sat on a courting bench, the governess between us, trowel in hand as she built a small, touch-preventing wall. Flora suddenly leaned towards Miss Hardthrasher and whispered something in her ear; in response that doughty chaperone’s eyebrows rose in surprise so greatly that they momentarily disappeared beneath her hair.

‘You are sure, Flora?’ she asked, disapproval filling every word.

Flora nodded and giggled sweetly – could this creature of Heaven ever do anything ugly? – and tiny spots of blushing red grew on her perfect cheek. Miss Hardthrasher sighed and turned to me. ‘Miss Dies-Early would like you to touch her—’

‘Get in!’ I yelled ecstatically, and possibly with less decorum than was appropriate. But the governess had not finished, for now she added a final word to her sentence.

‘—shoe.’

Oh. Well, still, it was something, a pure gesture of love, and what I believe the cruder youth of the time referred to as ‘getting to first base’.
⁴

I bent down towards Flora’s foot, a sensation of excited love tightening my throat, but suddenly all was blinding agony as Miss Hardthrasher smashed me over the head with her pokerizer.

‘Not while she still wears it! Do you think she is some sort of painted Italian courtesan leaning out of a window shouting, “Fifty lire a touch, a hundred to go all the way”? Do you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I replied, massaging my hurt head.

‘She will remove the shoe, I shall hand it to you, and only then shall footwear tactility commence.’

That is what now happened, and as I touched Flora’s delicate, perfect shoe, I felt an electrical charge of unadulterated passion surge through me. It lasted but a second as the governess snatched the shoe back and wiped it with a pine-scented cloth.

‘I am disinfecting the shoe of lust, and shall now place it back on Miss Dies-Early’s foot.’

She did so, and the small red spots on Flora’s cheeks blossomed into a glorious facial sunrise of joy.

‘Oh, I am quite overcome with passion!’ she said breathily, and then her eyes rolled upwards into her head and she fainted, first slumping against the courting bench’s arm-rest, then sliding forward and plunging to the ground with a loud thud.

‘Miss Dies-Early has fainted,’ Miss Hardthrasher informed me, somewhat unnecessarily, ‘for she is unused to such behaviour, not being a lapsed nun seeking to make up for years of abstinence by touching any man she can get near.’

‘Evidently not.’

‘Now, after such intimacy, the law dictates you must marry her.’

Oh, wondrous feeling of love-joy and joy-love that now exploded within me like a mighty, amorous burp! Oh, miraculous sensation of infatuation rewarded! Oh, sublime sentiment of future marital bliss! Oh, imminent weddingy ecstasy!

¹
Special room for courting.

²
Essentially a rather grandiose term for a stick.

³
These were officially codified in nine incredibly dense legal volumes. Romance lawyers made a lot of money in the nineteenth century.

⁴
This is not the baseball term used in modern sexual vernacular. The nineteenth-century version derived from military vocabulary, first base referring to the primary encampment of an invading British army.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife – but I was shortly to be in want no more and, even better, the wife I would have want of no more was both astoundingly good-looking and one I truly, deeply adored.

My spirits were raised further by receipt of another letter from the continent:

Dearest Pip,

Mr Benevolent still has us captive but I have managed to find a pen and paper and am writing this secretly. If we can— Hold on a bit, Mr Parsimonious wants to write something.

Bye for now,

Pippa

The familiar cheery hand of Mr Parsimonious now took over:

Dear Pip,

Do not worry, I have protected your sister’s virtue thus far and we are planning to try and ow ow ow! Mr Benevolent has just come in and caught me writing this and is now twisting my ear with some tongs. Ow, ow, ow!

Yours ever,

Mr Parsimonious

PS Ow.

Inevitably, given those words, the next hand was not cheery, but menacing and cruel:

Dear Pip Bin,

What’s this I have found? A secret letter? Pathetic! Ooh, must dash as a mysterious figure is leaping through the window.

Yours despicably,

Gently Benevolent

The letter continued over the page in a more jaunty and heroic hand:

Dearest nephew Pip,

Have just dramatically smashed through window, wrestled Mr Benevolent to the floor and rescued Pippa and Mr Parsimonious. That villainous wretch has run away like the coward he is, and we are all now safe and well. The weather continues fine for the time of year.

Lots of love,

Aunt Lily

Oh, thank you, noble and fearless Aunt Lily! Now Pippa was under her protection I felt truly relieved, though there was also a mildly unnerving postcard:

Dear Pip Bin,

Though that pesky ex-fiancée of mine might have foiled me I will destroy you yet and shatter your sister’s virtue like a moral vase that has been attacked with a naughty hammer.

Lots of hate,

Gently Benevolent

PS Ha, ha, ha!

But even that could not shake my jolly mood as I approached the final hurdle in my quest to marry Flora: I still had to ask her father for marital permissioning. He was an important man indeed, Lord Backhander, a Member of Parliament and secretary of state for expenses, corruption and petty larceny.

‘So you want to marry my daughter, eh?’ He did not look at me as he spoke, instead concentrating hard on something he was writing; later I discovered it was a forged receipt for eighteen fake carriage trips on state business, an otter-house, which was apparently necessary for the defence of the realm, and a completely fictitious second castle in his constituency.

‘I do indeed, sir.’

He stopped writing and looked me fiercely in the eye. ‘And you think just because you are Britain’s richest young man you can flash your money in my face and then waltz off with Flora?’

‘No, sir, of course not,’ I protested.

‘Hmm. Still, might be worth a try, eh?’

‘Um . . .’ My head spun with the implications of his words. ‘Are you suggesting I offer you a bribe, sir?’

‘What? No! How dare you, sir? How dare you?’ He stomped about indignantly for a while, to my mind a little unconvincingly. ‘I am merely suggesting we make the marital process easier with a little . . . palm-greasing. Eh? A bit of forearm-oiling or elbow-buttering. Take my meaning?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Although I want to make it quite clear that my daughter is not for sale!’

‘No, sir.’

‘But I would be prepared to offer a ninety-nine-year lease on her. More tax efficient. Say, ten thousand pounds, cash or cheque, payable now?’

So this was how grown men of politics and power did things! What an enlightening and inspiring life lesson! I quickly wrote out a cheque for the bridal amount and handed it over.

‘Thank you. You may marry Flora with my blessing. As soon as the cheque clears.’

Marital permission was granted! I skipped and danced and jigged all the way home, light-headed, light-hearted and heavy with happiness.

Sadly, Pippa, Aunt Lily and Mr Parsimonious could not make it back from their travels for the wedding, but I gladly bought Harry out of his army commission and he returned to be my best man. On his arrival home, he immediately threw himself to his knees and hugged my legs gratefully. ‘Thank you for saving me from military service, Pip Bin. It was awful!’

‘Oh, come now, Harry, it cannot have been that bad. Surely it has at least made a man of you.’

‘Yes. A very traumatized man.’ He stopped hugging me, stood up and looked around in a seemingly casual manner. ‘By the way, is Pippa back yet?’

‘I am afraid not.’

‘Aaargh!’ Harry shouted despairingly. ‘Sorry, bad army memory. Or maybe a bit of dust in my brain. Definitely not upset at Pippa’s absence. Still, you’re getting married to someone you love so I suppose it’s all fine.’

He was right: it was all fine. Better than fine. It was marvellous, splendiferous and fantastigreat.

The marriage was to take place in the famous London church of St Wedding, with its towering, triple-layered, cake-like spire, and even though it was set for the next Saturday, on the Tuesday before I decided I could not wait that long and so, taking my future father-in-law’s example, I persuaded the authorities, with lots and lots of money, to swap the two days that week. So Tuesday became Saturday and I was to wed four days earlier.

The morning of the wedding was the most glorious morning I had ever seen. Even though it was raining. And the pollutive smog of London was sitting thick upon the streets. And all I could hear was the sound of consumptive paupers coughing their last. But to me the rain was the softly falling dew of love, the smog was a shimmering mist of passion and the retching wretches were a heavenly choir singing of my besotted ardour.

I barely remember anything leading up to the ceremony: all was just a blur of excited anticipation. I do recall the bachelors of London pelting me with horse-dung as Harry and I walked to the church, so envious were they of me marrying Britain’s hottest unmarried hottie, but in my joy their ordure assault seemed only a compliment; and soon I was standing in front of the altar, brushing manure from my coat and watching my beauteous bride come down the aisle towards me.

Her father had refused to attend the service unless someone ‘made it worth his while’ – such a fine, sensible man of business! – and so Miss Hardthrasher gave Flora away, standing for the last time between us. The vicar commenced his marital work, and soon we were at the crucial moment, my heart fluttering like a happy butterfly.

‘Will you, Pip Put-that-in-the Bin, take this woman to be your wife?’

‘I will,’ I said.

‘And will you, Flora Moribund Dies-Early, take this man to be your husband?’

‘I will,’ whispered Flora.

‘She will,’ echoed her ever-protective governess.

‘Then I now declare you’ – here it came – ‘husband’ – getting there, my bit at least was said and done – ‘and’ – the glorious conjunction was now said and done also – ‘wife.’ Yes! I was a married man! Married to an absolute belter! And with that came certain instant benefits. ‘You may kiss the bride.’

I had been waiting for this moment for so long, and in a pure, honest, true way, and not in a sordid, physical, lustful way at all. I pursed my lips – I had been taking osculation lessons – and moved towards my glorious Flora, closing my eyes and leaning forwards.

It was a rougher, more stubbly kiss than I had imagined and, on opening my eyes, I saw why.

‘All kisses must go via me,’ said Miss Hardthrasher. She smiled at me. I didn’t like it. She turned and went to bestow my kiss on Flora, but I had had enough and seized her by the arm.

‘No, Miss Hardthrasher. For though you be her governess, I be her husband. And I will kiss my wife.’

So I did.

Was anything ever more soft, sweet and delicious? No. Apart from maybe a really good profiterole. Truly that kiss was a taste of Heaven. When it was finished, I smiled at Flora, and she smiled back, her hand to her chest.

‘Oh, I feel quite, quite giddy,’ she said, and collapsed in a wifely heap at my husbandly feet.

‘Harrumble for Pip Bin and Flora, who has fainted!’ shouted Harry, and the whole congregation erupted into cheers and applause as I picked up my unconscious bride and carried her down the aisle and out of the church.

Yet as I prepared to pass through the doors of the church and into glorious married life, I felt a shadow fall over me and, looking upwards to the choir loft and organ attic above, I saw a cloaked figure duck out of sight. The choirmaster or organist, I thought, but then I heard a laugh, echoing sinisterly, a familiar yet, as he had promised, new and improved ‘ha, ha, ha,’ and I knew it was no musical member of the church staff but the worst ex-guardian in the world, Mr Gently Benevolent, and I wondered what evil, happiness-ruining plan he had in store for me now.

None, it turned out.

At least at first.

For our married life was blissful, joyous and super-duper-James-Fenimore-Cooper.
¹

Flora and I rewarded Miss Hardthrasher for her support and diligence by sending her on a Church-sponsored tour of the bordellos of Europe where she could give full rein to her vast moral disapproval. I did not envy the bawdy ladies of the continent, but it gave Flora and me time together, time to get to know each other.

We took long, unaccompanied walks arm in arm and chatted about every subject under the sun, two minds in perfect harmony.

‘Ah, what a glorious day,’ I remarked, as we stepped out one morning and, though every day was glorious merely by dint of Flora’s existence in it, this day was particularly so, the skies above us being blue and dotted with idyllically fluffy clouds, the trees around us being particularly lush and leaf-full and the flowers in the meadow we walked through being open and bright and petally.

‘Oh, but it is glorious, my dear Pippy.’ Flora had many new nickname variants of my true name; each time she used one my heart soared a little more. ‘Look at the pretty clouds in the sky. I do so like clouds!’

‘I too like them, dearest.’ In truth, I had no opinion about clouds, but if my beloved liked them then so did I.

‘You like what?’ my perfect Flora asked.

‘Clouds.’

‘Oh, what a silly thing to say, Pipling. Who could possibly like clouds?’

‘But you just said you did.’

‘Oh. Did I? I am sure I did not.’ Her brow furrowed in confused thought. ‘Or maybe I did. I do not know. For my brain is occupied with making me pretty, not clever. Oh, I fear I must be very vexing to you, dear Pipply-chops!’