My Victorian Suitor

From inkwells to markers, petticoats to miniskirts, and rogue to chapstick, I'm rudely yanked back into the present. Someone belches behind me, and the smell of his lunch is so pungent I plug my nose. I'd much rather be in a lush parlor wrinkling my nose at the distaste of a tobacco pipe. At least there, I would be surrounded by gentlemen.

"Heads up!"

I duck on instinct, but the projectile doesn't fly anywhere near me. It—whatever ‘it’ is—ends up stuck on the back of someone's chair. The boy who threw it roars with laughter. He sees the glare on my face, and tilts his head.

"What's the matter Suzie?" His voice is mocking, and he pulls out his lower lip and widens his eyes. "You look like someone peed in your cereal."

In Victorian England, a gentleman would never speak about bodily functions in front of a lady. Alas, he's as far from a gentleman as I'm from the 1800s.

"Just go away." I sigh, and flip my hair over my part. "Leave me be."

He gapes, more for the people around him than me. "'Leave me be'? 'Go away'? You're not talking all fancy-like! Did you give up on your dream to become a prostitute on the Titanic?"

I want to punch him. Oh, I want to punch him. A lady does not raise her hand in violence. She is kind and patient. The words from my Victorian etiquette book come back to my mind, and my impulse drains away. My annoyance, however, doesn’t. "The Titanic was in 1912, genius."

"I am a genius, thank you."

"Get out of here."

He turns away, and I sink back into my seat. Oh, to be sitting at a piano, carving notes out of the instrument to a popular symphony composed by Beethoven. Behind me, my older and slightly wiser, but less pretty, sisters would chide my mother for insisting so heavily that I be married. My brother would laugh at my mother’s brashness to the lords in the room, but would prod the gents to seek my attention. A few of the men would attempt, through various galas and dinners, to achieve my good graces—heavens, they might even propose—but I would decline. After all, my heart would belong to another.

Another, a man with the tallest top hat and wearing the richest silk. He would watch me, as I played the keys, planning out the day I would be his. He would think I couldn’t see him, but I would catch his stare through the dusty gilded mirror hanging above the mantle. An embarrassed blush would grace my cheeks, but my piano-playing would continue uninterrupted.

I would finish my verse and stand up, hearing the compliments of the company but only listening for his voice. He wouldn’t come over—no, that would be far too sudden—but watch me the rest of the night, waiting for the ball the following weekend.

And at that ball—

“Suzie! Earth to Suzie!”

I blink out of my daydream. The girl in front of me is snapping her fingers in front of my face. She nods to the teacher, who’s standing at the front of the classroom with an unamused expression on her face. I pale.

“Yes ma’am?” I say, hoping my politeness will be appreciated.

Her scowl deepens at the “ma’am,” and I cower. She strides forward, placing both hands on the front of my desk. “I will not tolerate this behaviour. You will pay attention in class, whether or not you want to be here. Got it?”

I nod. My mysterious suitor would never let me be treated in such a way.

The teacher crosses her arms. “For the record, I am only twenty-seven. And if I ever hear you calling me ma’am again…” She lets the threat hang in the air. She’s an old maid, that’s what she is. Probably never had a husband and is stuck as a spinstress.

I wait as the teacher turns away and goes back to the front of the classroom. She starts the lesson, and once I’m satisfied she isn’t looking at me, my eyes slide to the floor and I fall back into my thoughts.

The ball would be hosted by a sir, with a new fortune looking for a young beautiful wife. I would go by pressure of my mother, for she would have no clue about my new attraction to an even wealthier man. I would tie up my hair with ribbons—ribbons? Did they use those back then? I think so—and take the carriage to his manor with my unmarried sisters in tow.

The meal would be splendid, and the dance exquisite. To the side of the room my mysterious suitor would dwell, only watching and observing. The host of the ball would dance a set with me, but my eyes would remain on the man from the parlor. After the set, the host would introduce us. As if our hearts hadn’t already forsworn ourselves to each other.

“My lady,” he would call me, and “my lord,” I would call him. He would take my gloved hand, and I’d feel the kiss through the fabric. The host would tease him to ask me for a dance, and I’d smile, coy but innocent, as all good Victorian women are. Something in my gaze would melt his tough exterior, and he’d take my hand to dance.

Our dance would cause a frenzy with my sisters, and my mother would faint for joy. The instruments would play a slow tune that allows him to bring me closer, almost closer than appropriate. The dance would end, but we would not part.

I’d take him to the gardens. The manor would be sprawling, with trellis’ of roses and manicured lawns and a pond glittering in the moonlight. He would remove his hat, confessing to me he’s never seen someone so beautiful.

I would feign shyness, giving him the opportunity to take my hand. And, under the moonlight and country hillside, he would request for my hand in marriage.

An audible sigh escapes my mouth, and the boy to my right gives me a weird look. I glare back. He can talk to me when he’s got a ten acre manor with servants.

My fiancé and I would be married after three evenings. My mother would cry, weeping for joy at such an excellent find in a husband. Father would give his blessing for sure, only needing to see his wallet and my smile.

And then, the mysterious stranger, who no longer would be so mysterious, would whisk me away to his manor in Oxford. We’d live in a house bigger than we need, living in luxury and love for the rest of our lives. I’d play piano for him every afternoon, and every evening he’d take my hand before bed. In love we’d stay, even until our children’s children would fight in the first World War.

The teacher raps her knuckles on the whiteboard. “This part is especially important. Pay attention.”

I prop up my chin with my hand. Is anything really important, if it’s not from Victorian England?