Two women entered the drawing room. The stout mother was squeezed into a dress in garish shades of green and violet. The daughter was older than me. Her grey gown with scarlet trimmings was a perfect fit; she had a handsome, but haughty face. My feet suddenly seemed enormous. I tucked them under my chair.
My mother rose and coughed. After a second, I stood up too.
To my surprise, Mamma said, "Goodbye, Mrs. Piper." She looked at me.
"Oh, goodbye, Mrs. Piper," I echoed.
I followed my mother to the door. As she passed the Wintertons, she bowed her head, receiving a slight nod in return. The daughter looked down her nose at me, making me conscious of the sooty mud on the hem of my gown. I ignored her and left the room with as much dignity as I could manage. In the chilly hall, I retrieved our umbrella from a cast-iron stand decorated with two pelicans. They looked as if they would like to peck me with their vicious beaks.
It was still wet when we got outside, a cold rain turning to sleet. I hurried after Mamma. "Who was that? What an awful dress the mother was wearing."
"Don't make personal remarks, Louisa, it's not kind. They're Mr. Winterton's wife and daughter. You know, the banker?"
"Oh, that's why they give themselves such airs. And I suppose we had to leave because we aren't good enough for them."
Mamma tutted. "Don't be silly. It's the correct thing to do. One always leaves when the next visitor is announced, whoever they are."
The adult world was certainly mysterious, but I wasn't complaining; at least it had cut our visit short. Now I could go home to my studies with a clear conscience.
***
The next morning at breakfast Mamma said, "We'll have to pay some more calls today."
I gaped at her.
"Close your mouth, Louisa."
I found my voice. "But I came with you yesterday."
My mother sighed. "Yes, but Mrs. Fielding was out and there are some other people I need to see today."
"But why do I have to come?"
My mother looked at me reproachfully. "I told you why yesterday. You're not a child any more. You need to learn the way these things are done."
"Why should I learn something I won't ever be doing?"
Mamma stared at me. "What do you mean? Of course, you'll pay calls."
"I won't. It's such a waste of time."
Mamma looked at me helplessly. Before she could say anything else, I said, "And I can't believe you enjoy it either."
I didn't mean to say this. It just slipped out. Mamma looked away and her mouth trembled. After a pause, she said, "You're right, Louisa. I don't enjoy it. But I do it because it's my social duty."
Those familiar words! I couldn't stop myself. "Social duty! What does that mean? Only what other people think you ought to do. Who cares what other people think!"
My mother shook her head. "You don't understand. I don't do it because I care what people think. I do it to help your father."
It was my turn to stare. "How can it possibly help Papa?"
"Now that your father has a position at the Dispensary, he has to try and increase the subscriptions. I do what I can by speaking to the wives of influential men. It helps to create the right impression. It isn't a pleasure, I assure you, but it's for a worthwhile cause."
I hadn't thought of that. A guilty sense of being in the wrong made me blurt out, "Then it's better if I don't come. I'll just create the wrong impression, slouching and looking common."
I'd gone too far.
Mamma said "Oh, Louisa." She sounded weary. "You can behave perfectly well when you choose to. Why won't you?"
I heard the appeal in her voice, but I ignored it. I stood up. "I'm not coming. I've more important things to do." Turning my back on her, I went out, banging the door behind me.
Once inside my room, I took a deep breath. I was trembling. I'd never opposed Mamma so openly before. She'd tell Papa and what would he say? He'd see that I needed to study, wouldn't he? Picking up the volume of Euclid, I found the page.
***
Though I tried all morning, I couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about Mamma. At lunchtime I couldn't face her so I stayed in my room, miserable but defiant.
Eventually Mary came with a plate of bread and butter and slices of cold ham on a tray.
"Where's Mamma, Mary?" I was beginning to think I should go with her.
"Your mother has gone out." From her tone I could tell she wasn't pleased with me.
"Oh." I was too late. "Did she say anything?"
"She asked me to give you this." Mary fished a parcel out of her apron pocket. "She meant it for your birthday, but she thought you had enough presents then."
"Oh." Prickly with shame, I took the rectangular package. I looked at Mary, hoping for some comfort, but she pursed her lips and went out without another word.
I undid the brown paper. It was a book. Mamma had never given me a book before. I looked at the spine: Girlhood by Marianne Farningham. Not a promising title. I opened it at random.
Hoydenism, frolic, and exuberant mirth will now become unseemly and therefore will be exchanged for a soberness of manner.