So. Presumably Mamma thought I would be more influenced by something I read in a book than by anything she tried to tell me. I flicked through the pages until my eye was caught by a section headed The Dangers of Excessive Learning. The chief danger, according to the writer, was that a girl who studied too much would become "dogmatic and presumptuous, self-willed and arrogant, eccentric in dress, and disagreeable in manner."
As I read these words, the pressure inside me that had been building all day, exploded. I flung the book away from me. It hit the wall and landed face down. Hot angry tears ran down my face. How could Mamma do this to me? Why didn't she understand? I put my head on my arms and sobbed.
After a while I sat up and blew my nose. I picked the book up and smoothed its crumpled pages. What could I do with it? I didn't want to ever see it again. Kneeling down, I thrust it under my bed. It could stay there with the chamber pot.
***
Later that afternoon, when Mary and I returned from my lesson at Mr. Fielding's, I went into Papa's study to wait for him. I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
I picked up a copy of The Medical Times and Gazette and flicked through it, listening for the sound of the front door opening.
After a while I looked at the clock. Papa was late. The committee meeting must have overrun as usual. I turned to the letters. The Dean of Saint Thomas's Medical College was justifying his refusal to admit women on the grounds that the arrangements of the medical school were not suited to the reception of female students.
I threw down the paper in disgust. Then I heard Papa's steps in the hall. He went into the parlour, where Mamma was waiting. I stood up and paced about. Finally, he came in. He went and sat at his desk and looked at me over the top of his spectacles, his eyes red with tiredness. I'd been telling myself that Mamma didn't deserve any consideration, but now I felt a pang of remorse. I shifted my position, waiting for him to speak first.
"Sit down, Lou."
I sat in the chair where his patients sat.
"Now what's all this about? Your mother tells me you were very rude to her this morning."
This was unfair. I stuck my chin out. "I wasn't rude. I didn't want to go out with Mamma, that's all. I had studying to do. And Mamma said I had to go, she—"
He held up his hand. "Whatever you feel, you should do what your mother asks, shouldn't you?"
"But supposing what she asks me to do is unreasonable? Supposing she—"
His look silenced me. I hung my head.
He sighed. "You're too old for this now, Lou. You must realise that you can't always have what you want." He gestured at my dress. "You look like a lady—and very elegant too."
I blushed but he went on, "Now you must learn to behave like one."
This was too much. He was sounding just like Mamma.
"But, Papa, I've got so much to learn. I don't want to waste time listening to a lot of ladies talking about—whatever ladies talk about."
He smiled at this.
Encouraged, I went on, "I'd much rather come out with you and help you with your patients, like Tom did." I'd envied my brother his two years as Papa's assistant before he started his course.
His expression changed. "Would you, Lou?"
"Yes. Mamma doesn't understand. She wants me to be just like her. But I'm not like her, am I?"
"No, you're not like your mother." He regarded me thoughtfully without saying anything, and then he cleared his throat. "There's something I think you should know—and maybe it will help you understand your mother better."
I was very curious. What was he going to say?
"You know, don't you that your mamma lost her mother when she was a little girl?"
I sighed. That old story again. It was sad but Mamma had been very young. It wasn't as if she'd known her mother.
"But what you don't know is that Mamma had a brother, Thomas, whom she idolised."
I stared. This was news.
"He was twelve, two years older than Mamma, when he died of typhoid."
"Why haven't I heard of him?"
Papa shook his head. "Your Mamma has always found it difficult to speak about. I expect she doesn't want to bring back the sad memories. Think how hard it must have been for her growing up with only Grandpapa and the servants for company."
I was touched. It must have been horrible. I couldn't remember my grandfather: he'd died when I was three, but there was a painting of him hanging in the dining room: a grim-looking old man with a bushy grey beard, like an Old Testament prophet.
"What was Grandpapa like? Was he as fierce as he looks in his portrait?"