people, and a lady never gave way to her emotions in front of others.
She’d go home. Emma turned back around and retraced her steps to the corner. At home, she could throw things, cry, and scream to her heart’s content. Except, of course, that she’d throw something she loved and break it, and she’d regret that later. And her landlady would hear the noise and think some lunatic had gotten into the building. She might even send for the police. What a horrible thought.
Given no other way to vent her frustration, Emma took several deep breaths and settled for walking. She strode along High Holborn, her boot heels drumming on the pavements like the rhythm of a fast and furious engine.
She’d resign, she decided. First thing Monday, she’d walk in, announce her resignation in aquiet, dignified fashion, give the proper fortnight’s notice, and swallow down her anger long enough to request a letter of recommendation. That was the sensible thing to do.
No, it isn’t , an inner voice cautioned. Resigning wasn’t sensible. She earned seven pounds and six a month. Where on earth could she earn that sort of money working for someone else? Men like Marlowe, who felt a female secretary should be paid the same as her male counterpart, were rarer than unicorns. She had a snug, comfortable flat in a very respectable neighborhood, the security of a post that would be hers for a long time to come, and an ever-growing nest egg sitting in the bank earning three and one-half percent per annum, her protection against the ravages of poverty when she was too old to work.
Emma stopped again and turned to lean back against the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the Royal Music Hall. She sighed. There were times, like now, when being sensible was a terribly aggravating thing to be. She stood there for some minutes, not knowing what to do, dithering in a way that would have made her stern military father quite cross.
One shouldn’t be sensible all the time. Surely there were times when she ought to be able to give in to reckless impulse, be carried away by the spontaneity of the moment, but she could never seem to manage it. Oh, how she wished she could.
She straightened away from the railing and stepped forward to the curb, preparing to hailthe first passing omnibus. For once in her life, she was not going to be sensible. She was going to go to Mayfair and buy that peacock fan, and she wasn’t going to care how much it cost. Every woman ought to feel beautiful and exotic on her birthday.
The little bell above the door of Dobbs’s Antiques and Curiosities jangled as Emma entered the shop, but Mr. Dobbs didn’t even notice. He was hovering with anxious solicitude near a group of young ladies gathered around the counter in the center of the room.
Emma froze by the door. One of the ladies, a pretty girl with blond hair in a dress of rose-pink swiss, was holding that peacock fan. Her fan.
The girl waved it at one of her companions. “Will this suit for Wallingford’s ball, do you think?” she asked, laughing as she playfully curtsied.
Everything within Emma cried out in protest. She took a step forward, then stopped. Short of ripping the fan out of the younger woman’s hand, there was nothing she could do. She could only watch and wait.
Like beautiful butterflies, these girls, as they floated around the room in their pretty pastel morning dresses, each playing with the peacock fan in turn, while Emma hovered by the door, fingers crossed behind her back, hoping against hope they would put it down and depart. She listened as they talked gaily of their upcoming ball, their various suitors, and the fullness of their dance cards.
“So, should I buy it or not?” the blonde finally asked, raising her voice a bit to be heard above the chattering of her companions. At once it was agreed by all that peacock feathers would be the perfect thing to set off the blonde’s ball gown of turquoise silk.
With a sinking feeling of misery in
She’d go home. Emma turned back around and retraced her steps to the corner. At home, she could throw things, cry, and scream to her heart’s content. Except, of course, that she’d throw something she loved and break it, and she’d regret that later. And her landlady would hear the noise and think some lunatic had gotten into the building. She might even send for the police. What a horrible thought.
Given no other way to vent her frustration, Emma took several deep breaths and settled for walking. She strode along High Holborn, her boot heels drumming on the pavements like the rhythm of a fast and furious engine.
She’d resign, she decided. First thing Monday, she’d walk in, announce her resignation in aquiet, dignified fashion, give the proper fortnight’s notice, and swallow down her anger long enough to request a letter of recommendation. That was the sensible thing to do.
No, it isn’t , an inner voice cautioned. Resigning wasn’t sensible. She earned seven pounds and six a month. Where on earth could she earn that sort of money working for someone else? Men like Marlowe, who felt a female secretary should be paid the same as her male counterpart, were rarer than unicorns. She had a snug, comfortable flat in a very respectable neighborhood, the security of a post that would be hers for a long time to come, and an ever-growing nest egg sitting in the bank earning three and one-half percent per annum, her protection against the ravages of poverty when she was too old to work.
Emma stopped again and turned to lean back against the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the Royal Music Hall. She sighed. There were times, like now, when being sensible was a terribly aggravating thing to be. She stood there for some minutes, not knowing what to do, dithering in a way that would have made her stern military father quite cross.
One shouldn’t be sensible all the time. Surely there were times when she ought to be able to give in to reckless impulse, be carried away by the spontaneity of the moment, but she could never seem to manage it. Oh, how she wished she could.
She straightened away from the railing and stepped forward to the curb, preparing to hailthe first passing omnibus. For once in her life, she was not going to be sensible. She was going to go to Mayfair and buy that peacock fan, and she wasn’t going to care how much it cost. Every woman ought to feel beautiful and exotic on her birthday.
The little bell above the door of Dobbs’s Antiques and Curiosities jangled as Emma entered the shop, but Mr. Dobbs didn’t even notice. He was hovering with anxious solicitude near a group of young ladies gathered around the counter in the center of the room.
Emma froze by the door. One of the ladies, a pretty girl with blond hair in a dress of rose-pink swiss, was holding that peacock fan. Her fan.
The girl waved it at one of her companions. “Will this suit for Wallingford’s ball, do you think?” she asked, laughing as she playfully curtsied.
Everything within Emma cried out in protest. She took a step forward, then stopped. Short of ripping the fan out of the younger woman’s hand, there was nothing she could do. She could only watch and wait.
Like beautiful butterflies, these girls, as they floated around the room in their pretty pastel morning dresses, each playing with the peacock fan in turn, while Emma hovered by the door, fingers crossed behind her back, hoping against hope they would put it down and depart. She listened as they talked gaily of their upcoming ball, their various suitors, and the fullness of their dance cards.
“So, should I buy it or not?” the blonde finally asked, raising her voice a bit to be heard above the chattering of her companions. At once it was agreed by all that peacock feathers would be the perfect thing to set off the blonde’s ball gown of turquoise silk.
With a sinking feeling of misery in
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