The Memoirs Of A Young Victorian Lady

Chapter 1 - An Introduction to my Situation

I was just a few days past my sixteenth birthday when first I arrived in Saratoga. My journey had been sped by the marvel of a rapid and smooth rail coach, and I often wondered at the miracle of such a speedy and modern appliance. My entire trip had been by such new means, first a steamship to the Americas and then a railroad trip. Why, even the nature of my appointments had been made by transatlantic telegraph! It was no wonder that the world marveled at these impetuous Yankee engineers. There seemed no end to what their ingenuity would conjure.

I should explain. My name is Caroline Pendrake, and I was born in the Year Of Our Lord 1880. Now, as I look back at that time, even as our world speeds alarmingly towards an almost inevitably terrible conflict, I am still awed by how my own small piece of it changed that summer.

In a way, it all started several years before, when my parents died in the London typhus epidemic of 1893. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, I can realize it was only a minor outbreak, yet for my loving parents it was major enough. Certainly hundreds died, and countless thousands were laid ill. The only reason I survived is that by then I was living in a boarding school, Mrs. Pembleton's School for Young Ladies, a finishing school as it was called.

My father was a military attaché attached to the Foreign Office, and as such was routinely posted to embassies all over the Continent. Once I was old enough to live on my own, albeit in a supervised environment, I was placed in a boarding school. Both he and my mother felt that a military lifestyle in lands where the Queen's English was unknown was no life for me. Summers I would spend with them, viewing castles and forts with my father, and attending various embassy functions with my mother.

In many ways I was quite content. They were both quite affectionate with me, but some of the places they were stationed were terribly horrid. Most people would think of a military attaché as being stationed in one of the great capitals, such as Paris or Berlin, but my father, bless his dear departed soul, was an over-aged captain in an era without a war. He was stationed in places such as Carpathia, or Ruthenia, or even, try as I might to forget it, Slovenia.

Oddly enough, when they died in the plague, he was between assignments and they were living in London. Since my mother was an only child, and had no surviving family (most having died in the Sepoy Mutiny in India years before), one of my father's few relatives, a second cousin was named my guardian. Little did this change my life, since what few savings my parents had were spent in sending me back to school immediately after the funeral. It was perfectly obvious that for a young woman in my situation, that is, a middle class orphan with a good name and respectable education yet little money, I would most likely need to earn my way in life as a school teacher or governess until I married. Realistically, this was little different than my prospects before my parents died, and I had never expected any other, and was perfectly content with my life.

In truth, everyone seemed to think I would have little difficulty in finding a marriageable husband, even without a penny to my name. I must admit, that I have a good education, although at the time it was rather conventional, a keen sense of humor, and an agreeable disposition. Most others never seemed to take note of these qualities and instead focused on those qualities which a woman does best to blush at, my face and my figure. Yet, even then, when brushing my hair in front of the looking glass, in my heart of hearts, I would often agree with my flatterers.

I am not a tall person, being only a bit over five foot, and barely weigh more than a hundredweight. Nowadays, women look back on the corsets worn by proper Victorian ladies with horror, yet at the time it was little imposition on me, as I was, and am, very narrow-waisted and could easily fit into the smallest corset. I must report, however, that this tended to make my bosom quite conspicuous, forcing what few pounds I possessed up and out as it were, and inasmuch as a generous Creator has already blessed me with a considerable ampleness in this regards, my figure seems much like the proverbial hourglass, with more time to pass than had passed. My limbs are lithe enough, and I still have slim and elegant wrists and ankles. My hair is a golden yellow, and hangs to my waist when unfettered, which is often, and my eyes are a deep blue.

Mind you, in those days, little of a women's figure could be seen. Certainly, anything above the ankle was cause for a scandal, if not a public stoning! In fact, the fashion of the day was that even married couples would not see each other, but would perform their marital relations in the dark. I have always felt that this has been a precept more often obeyed in the breach than not.

So it was expected that once I left Mrs. Pembleton's, with a few introductions into polite society, I could be assured of marrying an up-and-coming young man with prospects, or perhaps an older widower with money. Some of my more worldly friends suggested that I try for both, an older man to provide me with an income, and a younger man, to be more "vigorous".

Things changed for me only a few years later, when my second cousin suffered a stroke at Christmas time. He was a rather elderly gentleman for whom I felt not the love for a parent but rather a more distant affection. For his son, I had less emotion than that. He was a cold man, old enough to be my father, and at our first interview, he informed me that at the end of the school year I was to be matriculated, regardless of my feelings. He saw little use in the education of females, he said, and would certainly not keep up the needless expense. I was welcome to stay with him and earn my keep, but the cold glint in his eyes as he perused my form told me of the sordid way he intended for me to do so.

I politely thanked him for his offer, ignoring the obvious plan he had in mind, and contacted my father's solicitor, whose name I obtained from Mrs. Pembleton. In a letter, I explained my situation and asked whether there were any other relatives yet existent upon whom I could turn in my hour of despair. I also discussed with Mrs. Pembleton my circumstances, and she promised to begin searching for a situation to my liking.

You cannot imagine the extent of my surprise when a few months later, Mister Carruthers, my father's solicitor showed up at the school and asked to see both me and Mrs. Pembleton. It turned out that there was another relative, a rather distant cousin from an offshoot Scottish branch of the family that had settled in the Americas. He had forwarded my letter to this cousin and a reply had just arrived.

"It is really quite unusual.", he commented. "There was no letter, simply a quite lengthy telegram specifying that you and an accompanying adult be provided with first class steamship tickets to New York. Once there, you are to stay the night in a place called the Waldorf Astoria, then the next day take a rail coach to a place called Saratoga Springs, where you will be met, presumably by the gentleman, a Mister James MacAllister. I can't say as I've ever seen anything quite like this before."

"An accompanying adult? I don't understand.", I replied.

"I don't either.", he admitted.

"And how is this travel to be paid for?", asked Mrs. Pembleton.

"Well, as I said, he directed that everything be paid for ahead of time, and a wire transfer to Barclay's has already been arranged and cleared. We are to provide a pair of first class tickets, and a hundred pounds to you, Miss Pendrake, and twice that to your companion, as spending money."

"I still don't understand about my companion. I may be young, but I am not that young!", I protested.

"As I said earlier, I do not understand myself.", said the barrister.

Mrs. Pembleton looked thoughtful. "Perhaps you could take the value of the second ticket and the other two hundred pounds in notes. That would give you an excellent start if there was a problem, and could certainly pay for a ticket home if you do not like the Americas. What is this gentleman like?"

"Well, I can not say as I truly know. He certainly seems rather wealthy, considering the cost of the tickets and the telegram, and what inquiries I was able to make indicate he is an investor of some sorts, but nobody seems to know where he got his money from.", he replied.

"And the spare ticket and funds?"

Mister Carruthers shook his head in the negative. "Unfortunately, I have no authority to do such a thing. However, I will make a counterproposal of sorts. Your father was a dear friend. If you do not like this Saratoga place, send me a letter, and I will arrange for you to come back to England. It may not be first class, but you won't have to row the boat either, and then we can find something else for the future. Is this to your satisfaction?"

Mrs. Pembleton smiled graciously and I nodded my thanks.

It was thus that I found myself traveling to the colonies. The steamship made the journey in a fortnight, and as one of the first class passengers, I found myself sharing the Captain's Table. In truth, I suspected that I would have had little difficulty finding any table to dine at, since it was made quite apparent that an attractive young women, of admittedly barely marriageable age, would be welcome anywhere on the ship. I blushed politely at the compliments, but was secretly pleased.

The Waldorf Astoria was not at all some provincial tavern, as Mister Carruthers had feared, but instead turned out to be one of the newest and finest hotels in New York City, itself a metropolis fit to rival London. Despite my plans to stay a single night, I was shown to a small suite with two bedrooms, and my bags were unpacked and my clothing was taken out to be cleaned and pressed. The bell captain seemed interested in a gratuity, so I gave him a one pound note, the only money I had on me at the moment. He gave it a strange look before pocketing it, and this was perhaps the most forceful reminder that I was now in a foreign country.

My rail trip began early the next morning. Again, my ticket had already been paid for, and I found myself in a most congenial conveyance called a Pullman car. Other such cars included dining and viewing coaches, and there were even sleeping cars, with beds, or at least bunks. It truly astonished me that this country could be so large that you could travel for days, and still not reach the other side! Why, the conductor informed me that this single province of New York was but slightly smaller than my own country of England, and that some of the states as they are called are larger than most of the nations on the Continent! They already had 45 of these states and blithely talked of adding more, even some overseas and in the Latin American countries, even in Canada, as if the Queen would allow of such a thing!

As per the instructions in the telegraph, I wired ahead to inform this Mister MacAllister that I would be arriving today, and upon my arrival in the early afternoon, descended from the coach in the hopes of greeting my distant relative. Saratoga Springs seemed a rather sleepy destination, as very few other passengers alit from the train. From the luggage car I saw my trunks being set out, and not espying anyone to greet me I began to make my way to reclaim my possessions.

It was then that I noticed a somewhat confused gentleman approaching the few other passengers and the conductor. Suspecting that this was whom I was to meet, I stayed in place to await his approach, silently taking stock of his appearance. At first he looked rather elderly, but as he neared I realized that this was an error; the appearance of age was due to his silvery-gray hair and the presence of a cane. As he came closer, I could tell that the cane was in fact a walking stick, and that his hair, although indeed silvery in tone, was luxuriously thick and wavy, and went down to his shoulders. Other than that, he was in the peak of health and the prime of life. He was quite tall, almost a foot taller than I, and possessed of a slim waist and hips, but with a manly chest and wide-set shoulders. His high brow spoke of his breeding and intellect. Large and lustrous silvery mustaches graced his clean-shaven countenance. He had gentle and light brown eyes and a straight aquiline nose. His skin was tanned a very dark shade, almost as if it was a light walnut, yet was free from wrinkles everywhere but at the corners of his eyes and lips. The most prominent feature of his face was a long and thin white scar which descended from his left eyebrow to his jaw. He was dressed quite well, if not precisely in an elegant fashion, than certainly in one that showed a considerable degree of refinement. He wore a dark charcoal colored riding jacket, tight on his frame, with matching riding pants, also tight, tucked into gleaming black riding boots. Under the jacket he wore a lighter charcoal vest and a snowy white silk shirt, with a bright green cravat. His hat was somewhere between what could be called a "cowboy" hat and a top hat, and was worn at a jaunty angle. I could only guess his age at no less than the late-thirties to no more than fifty, and he appeared to be in excellent shape. I must admit, I was hoping that he was whom I was looking for.

He approached me with a very worried look on his face and raised his stick to his hat in greeting. "Pardon my intrusion, Miss, but did you perhaps see a young child, a girl, on the train? She would be about six years of age or so, and her name is Caroline Pendrake.", he asked.

I blinked and answered with a start. "My name is Caroline Pendrake. Are you Mister James MacAllister, sir?"

He stopped and stared at me, his mouth flapping in silence like a fish in a fishbowl, before he could summon words. "You?!...Oh my!...You?...Oh, good heavens!" Finally he mastered his emotions as I continued to stare at him. He had been expecting a six-year-old child? Stepping back from me slightly, he looked up and down the track. Lifting his right hand to his mouth, he inserted a pair of fingers and let out a piercing whistle which could only be rivaled by the steam whistle of the train itself. The entire station turned in our direction, at which point he removed his hat and waved it frantically above his head.

I was mystified by this and was on the verge of protesting when another man and a woman approached from opposite ends of the platform. The woman was only a few years older than myself, a very attractive redhead several inches taller than I, but the other man was simply astonishing. Taller still than Mister MacAllister, he was at least ten years older and much heavier set, although not portly or stout, and he was an Indiaman, a Musulman in white linen pants, shirt, and floor length coat, dun colored soft boots, with a crimson sash sporting a long dagger, and a crimson turban! I had seen enough Indians in London and around the military to recognize him as a Sikh.

Turning to the others, Mister MacAllister said, "Allow me to introduce Miss Caroline Pendrake, six-year-old!"

The Sikh simply gazed at me, but the young woman started, and exclaimed, "Good heavens!", in a heavy Irish accent.

My temper was beginning to boil over, when Mister MacAllister explained. "Please excuse my intolerably poor manners, Miss Pendrake. In you letter you explained that you were six years old."

"That cannot be, sir, as you can plainly see that I am not!", I protested.

"I have it right here." He reached into his pocket and pulled out my well traveled envelope and removed the letter I had sent to Mister Carruthers. Squinting at it, he mumbled to himself, then said in a louder voice, "Yes, here it is, 'I will be only six then, with hopes of...', well, it is right here." He handed me the letter.

I glanced at it, but since I was the writer, its contents were already familiar to me. "Excuse me sir, but it says, 'I will be sixteen, with hopes...'"

"What!" He tore the letter from my grasp and began to read it again, squinting fiercely. The young woman began to laugh as the Sikh made what I gathered was a disparaging comment in some Indian tongue. My relation began arguing back scathingly in the same dialect until the Sikh reached into his own pocket and pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses, which Mister MacAllister took with considerable distaste and put on. He reread the letter and grimaced. "Blast!", he swore, tearing off the glasses and thrusting them at the Sikh, and thrusting my letter to the woman. "Blast! Blast! Blast!"

Finally he regained control of himself and faced me. "Well, my dear, you must think by now I am the perfect madman. I am not, but I will have to admit to a certain vanity where my eyesight is concerned. It would appear as if I have managed to cock things up nicely, indeed. As you can assuredly gather, I have been expecting a child, not a grown woman, but please, I pray you, pay no mind to this. Believe me when I say that you are as welcome as possible. Allow me to introduce Mrs. Siobhan Rourke, your nanny, and Ahkbar Singh, my, ummm, compatriot."

(For those unfamiliar with the Celtic speech, allow me to interject and specify that Siobhan is actually pronounced Sheh-Vawn, an extremely beautiful name for such an improbable spelling. However, as one who has grown up surrounded by the Celts - pronounced Kelts - such as the Irish, Scottish, and Welsh, an Englishman soon learns to ignore their oddities of birth. I do not know who first said that the wogs start at Calais; I've often suspected one does not have to go even that far!)

Mister Singh bowed silently but Mrs. Rourke laughed loudly. "You'll be needing a nanny like I'll be needing a third leg!"

My relation looked pained. "Please, let me apologize again. My behavior was quite outrageous and uncalled for. You had no way of knowing my error, and it most certainly was not your fault! Allow me to make it up to you. If you and Mrs. Rourke will accompany me to a bistro in the town, I will make a start of it. Ahkbar, please see to Miss Pendrake's luggage and then join us if you would." Mister Singh bowed towards me, touching his right hand to his breast then his forehead, before straightening up and moving away. Mister MacAllister stepped between Mrs. Rourke and myself, then cocked up his elbows and allowed us to each take one as he escorted us from the station and into the town.

Mid-Summer in upstate New York, which is defined as anything in New York State north or west of Yonkers, is more akin to Spring than Summer. It was warm, with a slight breeze, and the trees and flowers were just beginning to bloom. Mister MacAllister led us to a small inn with an outside gallery and allowed the owner, a portly and small man, to seat us around a small table. He greeted Mister MacAllister profusely, who ordered a bottle of wine, "...something light, perhaps a white? And the usual for Mister Singh, of course." The proprietor promptly returned with two large bottles, opening one and allowing Mister MacAllister to sample the vintage. It was a German wine from the Rhineland. He also opened the other bottle, but left the cork in.

"Now, to the first order of business, Miss Pendrake. Could you possibly forgive my breach of etiquette earlier? And might I call you Caroline? Miss Pendrake sounds so formal for such a lovely young lady as yourself.", my host begged of me.

"Certainly, Mister MacAllister. I must confess, that upon thinking of it, I must have been quite the shock to you. Does this change your desire for me to stay? If so, I am sure that I can return home. A friend of my father's has promised my passage as needs be.", I stated.