“When am I to be made homeless? How many grains remain in this hourglass?” How many times would the pendulum swing before it became immobile? Her arm dropped from the back of the chaise and sat limp in her lap as she stared at the black cotton of her mourning gown. How much easier if death claimed her. She was prepared, so why did he not visit?
“You have approximately six weeks. A buyer has already come forward for the house and has agreed to give you sufficient time to find other accommodation. Nevertheless, most of the furniture and effects will need to be auctioned to provide you with as much of a nest egg as possible.” With his bad news delivered, Mr Stevens rose and retrieved his hat and overcoat.
Dawn waved her hand around the room. “Take it all. With the house sold, what use have I for the furniture and carpets?”
“I will of course finalise the estate and lodge the residual in an account for you until you know what direction your new adventure will take.” He smiled, as though that should console her for the loss of family, home, and everything of importance to her.
Dawn stood on unsteady feet and drew a shallow breath. The solicitor was not to blame for her situation, and it would do no good to fall at his feet. “Thank you for your care, Mr Stevens. I could not have carried this burden without you.”
He patted her shoulder. “I am sure something will present itself. Mr Uxbridge always said you were a clever young woman.”
3
Dawn retired to her room and threw herself on her bed. Or rather, not her room and no longer her bed. They now belonged to some mysterious stranger and she was a lodger, dependant on his goodwill. She had six weeks to find a new home and occupation. Six weeks for death to knock on the door and deliver her to the cold earth next to her parents.
Could she simply will her erratic heart to give up its attempts to keep her body ambulatory? Trying to do anything about her circumstances seemed so pointless. She would die soon anyway. She imagined she would wither and shrivel up like an autumn leaf once parted from her beloved garden. Why bother scouring the papers looking for a cottage and an occupation when she would never live out any employment trial period?
With a plan in mind, Dawn set about achieving it by doing nothing except wallow in her grief. Her heart morphed into a frantic moth, beating against glass to reach a flame within. Each time an attack tightened her chest and stole her breath, she hoped it was the final one to end her misery.
Yet oddly, some teeny part of her didn’t want to die. A whispered voice in the back of her head drove her to find the tonic and gulp a spoonful down. Something forced her to calm her heart before it succumbed to its inherent weakness, and to walk the few paces to stand in the garden and draw strength from the enveloping foliage. Then in the morning after the attack had passed, she chided herself for not having the mental fortitude to let her feeble organ expire and solve all her problems.
As one day turned into another, she began to suspect that waiting to die might not be the best solution to her impending eviction. She might actually have to consider another option. A week after the fateful visit from Mr Stevens and nearly two weeks since her parents failed to return home, another odd thing happened.
One morning, as Dawn drew open the curtains and gazed out in the street, she didn’t see a world she had rarely walked through. Instead, she saw a beckoning opportunity.
After a quiet breakfast, she took a book and sat in her favourite spot in the garden, under the leafy shade of the spreading elm. The tree was a ridiculous indulgence given the diminutive size of the garden, but Dawn didn’t care. They had both been weak-looking saplings when she planted it twelve years ago during her first week in the house. As the elm grew taller and stronger, so did Dawn. In the years yet to come, its limbs would touch either side of the brick walls, and the neighbours would probably demand it be trimmed. But that decision would no longer be hers.
She mourned not just her parents but the loss of a garden she had lovingly crafted and which now belonged to another. If only she could mould and nurture some other piece of ground. She imagined a grand estate where she would plant enormous trees that would take decades to reach maturity. It would be a kind of immortality, to plan a garden that endured for generations.
And why couldn’t she make plans? Death had turned a blind eye to her. Perhaps he failed to visit because she had not yet lived. There was a whole world beyond the front door, and she had never been a part of it. All over England, estates both old and new needed gardeners and landscape designers. She resolved not to settle for being a companion or seamstress, when she would much rather have dirt under her fingernails.
Admittedly her constitution was something of an impediment, but most grand houses had labourers to do the hole digging and other such manual tasks. She could carry a rolled up plan under her arm and gesticulate as the architect of a verdant new world. If she acquired a few bottles of her tonic, and if she were careful with what she did, it might be possible. After all, she had exceeded doctors’ expectations for her survival. And rather than being taxed by her modest garden, she had improved with the gentle exercise.
It almost seemed her heart troubled her the most when she did nothing, and therefore lying around actually weakened her. Gentle exercise might very well invigorate her overall condition. Of course, there was also a good chance too much activity might hasten her end. Either way, nothing ventured nothing gained.
Once the idea took root, it was a most resilient seedling. She argued with herself as she paced the lime chip paths. It was ridiculous. Head gardener was a job suited only to vigorous men. Yet she had such a way with plants and nature, what could she achieve on a larger scale? She had spent years drawing landscapes. Some fanciful, with water features and follies and a riot of summer blooms. Others clipped green spaces with intricate parterres delineated by careful shading of tones. All she lacked was a practical outlet to prove herself.
Inside, she sat at the dining room table with the newspaper spread open. She read through the usual acceptable vacancies for women. Governesses urgently sought for a variety of unruly children. Companions wanted by wealthy women who were boorish and old. Shop girls and factory workers, who were expected to wear their fingers to the bone for a handful of shillings a week.
As she read each advertisement, she realised the foolishness of her idea. There were no jobs for gardeners. They were probably passed between noble families in gentlemen’s clubs, rather like coveted butlers and mistresses. A sob welled up in her chest and a tear escaped the corner of her eye.
“What shall I do now?” The dream of an expansive landscape waiting for her to sculpt its curves suffered a catastrophic earthquake and the land fell away.
Dawn wiped away the tears. She would simply have to apply for the positions society expected of her. She fetched pen and paper and began. As each word formed on paper, despair etched deeper into her skin. She had no experience, no references or letter of introduction, and no skills to recommend her. Being gently bred was the only thing in her favour, and that wasn’t an achievement but an accident of birth.
Still, she had to try. On the first day, she applied for one governess position and one as companion. On the second day, she sent off a letter to a local milliner looking for a shop girl. Dawn adored hats, although she had trouble turning her affection for chapeaus into a skill worthy of employment. On the third day she found an advertisement for clerical work. That appealed more; books didn’t require snotty noses to be wiped or heavy parcels to be carried.