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Chapter 2 – An Invitation

London - December, 1880


Mrs. Augusta Underwood lifted the heavy silver teapot from its tray. “Shall I be mother?”

William Pratt composed his face into a silly grin. He resented Mrs. Underwood’s usurpation of his mother’s duties. His mother should be handing around the tea things, not the huge busted and blade-faced Mrs. Underwood. He understood Mrs. Underwood’s feelings, while pretending to ease the burden of the delicate Mrs. Pratt by serving tea and passing around cake, feared catching the disease that was slowly etching away his mother’s life. He was not about to mention this since it wasn’t the sort of thing a gentlemen would do and since he hoped one day Mrs. Underwood would be his mother-in-law.

He shifted on the hard, horsehair seat in his mother’s parlor, then reminded himself that a gentleman didn’t squirm around on his chair, especially not in front of ladies, and held himself rigid with his feet placed flat on the carpet. He longed to prop his ankle on his knee and make himself comfortable.

It was really his parlor now, since the death of his father, but he never thought of it that way, since there was not one thing in the room that he had placed there or picked out.

The parlor was overheated and crammed with furniture and decorations on normal days. A large fire blazed in the fireplace behind the brass grate making the room hot and stuffy.
The walls were papered in cream silk with a wriggling, snake-like floral design. A large, brownish oil painting in a gilt frame hung over the fireplace and brass gas sconces hung on either side, their hissing gas flames added to the heat. The black horsehair sofa and chairs, with their black walnut carved wooden arms and legs and backs were surrounded by potted palms and displayed murky needlepoint pillows stitched up by William’s mother. Each morning, Betty, their servant girl pinned freshly starched and ironed white anti-macassars along the chairs and sofa backs and placed doilies on the tables. A large curio cabinet with glass figurines sat on one side of the fireplace with a small brooding landscape hanging above, and an oval mirror hung on the other side. The mirror’s silver backing had worn away and the reflected room was smoky and dim. A glass kerosene lamp with a cream-colored shade with slashing black designs burned on a small table next to the sofa. Dark roses clotted themselves through the wool carpet. Maroon velvet drapes covered the small brass-grated windows and blocked out the last rays of the winter sun.

The usual confusion of the room was even worse this evening. The room reeked of the turpentine smell of evergreens. Two days ago, Betty added fresh fir, pine and hemlock boughs and pomanders of cinnamon, cranberry, and apple to the floral decorations and satin drapes on top of the mantle piece and a large vase of pink Christmas hellebores. She propped a small bruce pine in one corner and decorated it with gingerbread men, hard candies, pinecones, and garlands of cranberries. Tiny white hand-dipped candles teetered on the tips of the branches, dripped hot drops of wax and threatened to send the tree into flames. On the top of the tree, Betty fastened two Christmas dolls – one a blonde angel with long, curly hair and the other a brunette with hair pinned up. The brunette wore a blood-red dress. Every year Mrs. Pratt asked William to pick one of the two, and every year he said he couldn’t make up his mind.

Lady Bloxham, mother of Charles Bloxham, and Mrs. Bolton sat on the sofa next to his mother. They all wore mourning black for brothers, uncles and husbands long passed. Three of Mr. Poe’s Ravens. Mrs. Underwood sat in one of the upholstered chairs with dark wooden carving across from William. Cecily sat on a small gilt chair that befitted her status as the only female under the age of forty in the room and the most attractive young lady of William’s acquaintance.

“It’s very kind of you to visit my mother,” William said. The three old bats and Cecily showed up ever Tuesday, regular as machinery, to visit with his mother, and he, just as regularly, was caught in the parlor sipping tea and making vapid conversation so he could sneak looks at Cecily.

Cecily was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, with her dark, curling hair tucked up on top of her head and splayed out on the sides in waxy, sausages curls, her pallid white hands and dark, glowing eyes. She always dressed fashionably. Today, she wore an icy blue silk dress that hugged her figure down to her hips. A swath of ruffled cloth swept across her belly and around her curves into a small bustle. One dainty foot, shod in dove grey boots with pale blue buttons up the ankles, peeped out from under her skirt. It was a highly impractical outfit for the sloppy weather of this time of year, but he couldn’t fault her for displaying her beauty. She peered at him over her tea cup with narrowed eyes, and he looked away.

Mrs. Augusta Underwood was as ugly as Cecily was lovely and dainty. “It’s our Christian duty to visit the sick, Mr. Pratt, and our pleasure to see your dear mother.” She patted William’s mother’s hand with her black-mitted one.

William stared down at the dregs of leaves in his tea cup. He found it nearly impossible to speak when Cecily was in the room. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Underwood.” He felt foolish for repeating himself and irritated at the ladies who only visited his mother in order to out do themselves in a display of Christian virtue.

“Will we be hearing you in the church choir for Christmas services, Mr. Pratt?” Lady Bloxham asked. “We do enjoy your singing.”

His delicate cup rattled in his hand and he set it down on a nearby table when he saw his mother looking at him with a steady gaze of disapproval. He wasn’t sure if he had offended by not speaking enough to Mrs. Underwood and the other ladies, or if rattling his cup had drawn his mother’s notice.

William’s mother smiled at the compliment. “William has a lovely voice.”

He suspected he sang off key and everyone was too polite to tell him. He didn’t like the choir, didn’t like the pompous songs they sang or being the butt of Charles Bloxham’s jokes. He’d decided just that morning that he would find some way to dodge out of choir duty. Now, he felt trapped. “I suppose I will.”

His finger wandered to his too tight linen patricide collar and he pulled it a little loose. It was his last good linen collar and soon wouldn’t be fit to be seen. He’d have to switch to cheap paper collars or those awful celluloid things. His mother blinked and he dropped his hand.

“Oh, that will be lovely,” Mrs. Bolton said. She clapped her tiny hands. “You must be so proud, Mrs. Pratt.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better son,” Ann said. “So much like his father, so dutiful and considerate.”

“Mother, please. I’m sure the ladies don’t want to hear about me.” He could feel his face turning hot and red. A flash of Cecily’s dark eyes showed her disapproval and her opinion that he was somewhat of a sissy and a mama’s boy. He longed to show her his manly, romantic side.

His mother was not to be deterred. “The only duty William has been remiss in performing is bringing home a sweet girl to marry.” She looked at Cecily, who busied herself with another cup of tea and bit off a large mouth of biscuit.

William attributed Cecily’s avoidance to her modesty and her shy nature. Naturally, she wouldn’t care to seem interested in the prospect of getting married until the event was properly sanctioned by her parents.

Augusta Underwood passed around a plate of cake. “We all wish to see William happily settled.” She gave William a severe look.

The conversation turned to matters concerning the upcoming church social, decorating the church for the holiday services, the excellence and dedication of Dr. Gull to his lady patients and other things that William had no interest in discussing. He appreciated not having to talk which gave him the opportunity to sneak shy glances at Cecily. She was a lovely girl, serious and calm. She’d already gained his mother’s approval. He imagined himself in the church raising her white gauze wedding veil and leaning forward to kiss her small mouth. His imagination shifted to their wedding night. She sat on his bed in a pure white linen gown, her rose-colored nipples dark against the thin cloth. He lifted the hem of the gown and --

Mrs. Underwood addressed him and jerked him out of his fantasy. “I do hope you’ll be able to attend, Mr. Pratt.”

He had no idea what Mrs. Underwood was talking about. Whatever it was, he was certain he would prefer to avoid it. “I would be happy to, but I don’t think I can be away from Mother for so long.”

He adjusted his cake plate over his lap so that the ladies would not notice the embarrassing predicament in which he found himself. His cotton drawstring underdrawers felt hot and scratchy and he was certain the flap had come open. He wished the flap had buttons, but he was too embarrassed to ask Betty to fix them.

His mother would never forgive him if she knew what he’d been thinking about Cecily. He could hardly forgive himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about a nice girl like Cecily in such a fashion. She was good and pure.

His bewildered look was not lost on his mother. She often caught him daydreaming. “Don’t be silly, William. Mrs. Farquhar is still in mourning for her dear husband. She’s offered to come and stay with me any evening you’d like to go out. You can certainly go to Cecily’s party.”

He glanced at Cecily to see if she had any part in this invitation, but she was chatting with Lady Bloxham and ignored him. He preferred to stay at home and avoid these gatherings where Charles Bloxham and the Harbury brothers, Frederick and Cyril, did their best to make him the miserable brunt of their jokes. Still, he wanted to meet Cecily and he was prepared to endure all the Bloxhams and Harburys in the world to spend an evening with her. “Since Mrs. Farquhar has so graciously agreed to visit Mother, I’d be pleased to attend.”

A short while later, the ladies left. Cecily stepped to the edge of the paneled door to avoid the green beribboned ball of mistletoe that hung over the parlor threshold.