Prologue

England, 1803

Every man, in this era - and in every other preceding it - was designed to tend towards one of four specific temperaments which corresponded with the following elements; the choleric man was associated with fire and thus with passion; the sanguine man with air and buoyancy; the phlegmatic man with water and coolness; and the melancholy man with earth and depression.

Every man, in this fashion, was easy to decipher, therefore this novel does not comprise of many male characters. The incredulous reader will ask his or herself wherefore I be thus resolute in my decision, but in asking yourself that, you must also ask yourself this; what, in the name of all passions, vexes all men? God’s tenderer creatures; women, do. Women are and always will be by far the biggest and most vague mysteries which man has ever known, or tried to know. Men may draw queries, yet women are altogether a mystery. Whether this book be directed to women or to men I cannot say; the kind and gentle reader will decide that on his/her own, for he/she knows his/her sex and his/her personal interests better than I. I will try understanding the female sex in my own way, and men, gentlemen, pirates, robbers, princes, kings (kings, bah! ‘tis my English pride) I do hope, from the pit of my heart, that in writing this narrative, I will aid you also in comprehending the gentler sex.

Now, I was in front of this noble house merely because of business matters; my sir’s good friend, Madame Bovie, was thence awaiting my arrival in healthy restlessness, doubtless; such was the suave lady’s nature. Madame Bovie was not a very kind woman, by any means, yet she was very understanding and pretty apprehensive of the teachers and pupils of her fine establishment. Looking aloft at the high building - wholly unattained by London’s soot - I smiled to myself proudly; knowing full well that this edifice’s durability had been ensured by my own kin’s hand; maneuvered by a brooding mind, doubtless.

The house was as magnanimous as the Royal Palace - but in a simpler (and more rustic) mode. Its walls were fashionably faded beige brown; bottle green and sea green plants skulked up to the girls’ opened portholes; the dormitories themselves, doubtless, quite vented and fresh, and the roof was covered in panels still stout and not nearly rusty with time.

“But,” I meditated amidst this minute harmony, the chirping birds a pleasant background noise to my thoughts, “It is the housekeeper who guaranteed its resilience. My dear departed sir was but the founder of the house which was kept throughout time by the good lady. As it is said; God made the country, and man made the town. By Jove! devoid of the housekeeper’s espousal, the house would be dreadfully neglected and its inmates would not be female buds, but sullied vermin. How now! When did my good man ever visit its compounds? When did he ever pass a night under its promising roof? When, I say!”

At theutterance of these last words, my good lady dared stir from the full-blooming establishment unthinkingly - casting off her comfortable parlour for my sake - and thrust a hand forward for my shaking. “’Ello, Monsieur,” said she; her French enunciation disturbing her English speech on a most comic scale.

“Good day, Madam,” said I, removing my hat, and driving my mitt into hers; her said mitt seeming unnaturally stout for a woman. “Your grip,” I observed coolly, “Is very indelicate. I must own that I expected a little less from a woman’s… generally delicate figure.”

“Monsieur is vraiment prejudeeced,” she returned pleasantly, fixing her hand white to her side; a side exaggeratedly curved by her inhumanly braced corset. This Madame Bovie was not an earth-treading star, yet a certain charm lighted her features; even if hers were on the verge of middle-age and irregularity. Her face was heart-shaped with an almost hook-like nose, her eyes were fine and full, large and deep, yet they occasionally appeared harshly guarded by their thrilling green colour.

Her black raven hair, as I’ve aforementioned, was arranged in smooth bands on her temples, and in a large Grecian plait behind. Madame’s figure - though incongruously curved - was the most superb imitation of English grace I’ve seen possessing a foreigner. Bravo, Madame Bovie! Thou won points in this round. On to the next!

This woman made me jolly, and jolly was my step when it crossed the house’s marked frontier; a door long and white. Above this door a stone tablet bore the name of the house; “Northfield Hall. R. Bailey. Built in - A.D.”, then a quote followed the inscription; “If one be blessed, then a lone fantasy shall alter one thousand realities, and be thy guide.” I read over the words; convinced that they meant more than what they seemed. Little things recall us to earth; my hostess’s voice sufficed. The vestibule which she led me through was sealed with a notably low ceiling, yet its width was as effortlessly presented as Madame’s corset.

“Roomy,” I nodded in acceptance of the vestibule as she adjusted her tightly woven hair in the mirror on my right. Well, I would not take points there, yet I did spot her plucking a grey filament of hair from her generally black mane. Self-conscious woman! (Still young, I had not considered the possibility of men having an influence upon women’s self-esteem. Why, if there were no men on earth, women would be happier and fatter!)

Yet, so were all women - be they blooming or wrinkling - that wretched sentiment possessed each of their sex’s spirits; and ensnared them in chilly metal crates; the crates’ possibility of unlocking sparse, until Death snatched their bodies, and they became as cold and as stubborn as said Death himself. But then, that was Death’s influence on all beings; even on men; their gallantry hopelessly buried under soot; muffled underneath a heavy tomb’s slab.

On entering Madame’s sun-lit parlour - the room itself, was wholly submerged in green; wherever drapery hung, wherever carpets were spread, or cushions placed, the sole colour employed was green, as though Nature had not been in elevated morale to share her diversity of colour with this dignified lady - I removed my right-hand glove, held my hat and glove in my left hand, and looked at her with a smile playing underneath my black whiskers. Her cheeks lit with colour; a fresh effect on her otherwise white cheek.

She was just as the late Mr. Smollett alleged her to be; calm and dignified all through. “Seet down, Monsieur,” she nodded toward a chair painted green. “Tasteful,” I observed aloud; the chair being made in a classy style, I could not hold my tongue. “How is monsieur, then?” she inquired solemnly as we both sat, then, looking wondrously at my hat - the object being still in my hand - she quickly veered her mind into a different channel of thoughts. “Monsieur should ‘ave left hees hat in the vestibule - comme tout le monde.”

“My hat?” I lifted my brows; casting on it a playful eye. Madame noticed this animated gesture, and proceeded swiftly in encouraging my somewhat high spirits. “Yees, Monsieur, why does he still wear it?” I cackled inwardly at her grammatical lapse, quite in the fright of rendering my hilarity audible. “Because, Madame - not that I mistrust you - a distinguished household always has its little spies and secrets, and if, leaving my hat in the vestibule someone under your employment should steal it, I doubt I’d ever lay my eyes upon it again.”

“Oui, c’est cela,” she nodded; her eyes narrowing for whatever reason. “Mais… heu, but, Monsieur, the dear portress; she is a good girl, to be sure.”

“Good girl!” I snarled rather savagely, as though I were discussing the day’s politics with a man supporting the opposition. “Portresses are shrewd animals, and your pet, I’m sure, does not differ much from mine in Portman Square. They are completely unreliable. While we're discussing the subject, where was this good girl when you had the decency to steer me into this comfortable room?” I perfectly recalled the empty wooden bench. To this, she did not grace me with a reply, yet, she did take her fat cat unawares by its armpits whilst it had been snoring on a cushioned footstool by her arm-chair. The creature let loose a demonic howl; its shrillness piercing my eardrums so much that I fought with myself to hinder the urge of boxing the animal’s ears.

Madame walked to the door - which had been closed upon our entering the room - and opened it; peering through it only with her nose, I should think - such was the angle in which I beheld her. “Mees Lucie,” she said aloud using her least pleasing tone, I should imagine. A weak voice answered the good lady’s query. “Yes, Madame? What now? Your feet still too cold?”

“Mais, non, Lucie!” she must have said this through gritted teeth, for the words which filtered through the tiny cracks of her presently venomous fangs had sounded quite muffled. “Y a le Monsieur dont je t’est parlé; le fils de Monsieur Smollette.”

“Mr. Frank Smollett?” said the portress with a Scottish accent influencing her speech, for her tongue certainly did not possess the silvery utterance of the south.

“Oui, oui, qui d’autre? Je t’ais clairement dis d’être présente a son arrivée ! Ou était-tu?”

“Nul-par!” she answered with a rather shrill tone of voice. I noted right away that her voice had two main chords - for the French tongue I’ve not tasted ere this, and thus to the vocal strings was my interest directed - like two main singers; one was quiet and subdued - preferring the duet to support her shy vocals, and the other; a prowess waiting to spring into an energetic solo. “Bon,” said her prosecutor, dropping the fat animal which had been clawing at her black silk dress to the floor; its landing producing a dismal thump. May sorrow come to he who does not pity the animal, so round was it, that rolling would be a better choice for it than walking on those four stumps which his mistress insisted on calling paws. Once ‘Mees Lucie’ was sent aroint to the vestibule, Madame returned to me with a nonchalance of air which I found rather inspiring. “Madame must be wont of chiding her employees?” said I; nature insisting me to be frank. “Yees,” said she, fondling the mammal which had actually managed to mount the silk cushion again. Why, by my troth, the thing looked positively unnerved, and would have made a deliberate evil action upon Madame, would she have not given it a token of her love; a dear little biscuit, I think, one made originally for a dog. The gluttonous creature being thus satisfied, Madame again filled her bright arm-chair, and set on me a pair of suspicious green eyes. Strange woman! They chilled me to the bone; gnawing at my skeleton as would a carnivorous vulture.

“Monsieur will leeve in Northfield Hall?” asked she; that wicked witch of the west!

“Nay!” said I; my nerves suddenly on edge. “I have found a situation, I should say - a house further to the north. My landlord, it is said to me, is quite the devil, and a man, I am surprised to find, more exaggeratedly reserved than I.”

“Undiable?” she made a curious grimace upon hearing those words, though she repeated them in her own tongue, as though they were too blasphemous to be echoed in English; her lips twitched upward; revealing her pink gums, and her nose crunched into the very heart of her face. I observed her with touched curiosity, for she held the position for a few seconds more.

“Never mind it,” said I, seeing that my fierce manner of speaking had touched her in a most disconcerting fashion. I proceeded. “You know my present state of affairs - at least the bulk of it. Here is my father’s will, and the documents marked by my signature; to be sure of the endowment of my father’s estate.”

“Why, monsieur, you do not stay in London?” asked the strange little woman; ramming her chair closer to mine. My limbs shuddered; a common tick of mine. The little woman seemed to be very insistent upon my staying, but, by Jove, no woman could ever be gifted with enough sense to change a man’s will, or influence it in the least! (This was the negative notion I had of women, reader, but you will note my growth of character throughout this story.) And, oh! A gentleman to that! Besides, as my good friend Hobbs would say; a woman’s sense is only chat.

“Dear Madam,” I leaned back in my chair, making a slight grimace of my own, for, just akin to her, I was wont of making rather droll contortions with my features. A certain goddess - one which I mortified along with her mamma a few months prior when I did not make any advances for a few months; feeling rightly at ease behind my mask - had once been strangely enchanted by these boyish grimaces. “My first rent is already paid. I cannot stay in London another night. As soon as matters are settled - which they will be in some minutes - I will take my leave from this institution - from all of London.”

When I, Frank Smollett, wanted something, I was quite firm in my resolution to obtain it; and quite violent when angered - or impassioned, ladies, if you will - and when I was bent on something, an obstacle or two only rendered me more resolute. Madame perceived this with a thwarted eye; and with her round elbow propped up on the chair’s warm green arm, her index finger knocked on her temple as though trying to arouse her inner goddess, and, I think, the single thing hindering such an emergence were my arrestingly black mustachios, for I’ve heard many a man and woman speak of the mustachios with affected curiosity. Feeling her attempt at concealing her disenchantment, I said to her in as benign a tone I could; “Here are the finalizing papers, my good friend,” and looked rather fixedly in her eyes.

“You are not my friend,” said she; her voice faltering, “And I am not kind any more than you are gude. I will keep the papers as evidence, I suppose, for future reference.” Well, this did not sting me much; not even after I exited the tranquil room agitatedly, and recalled the words distractedly; much the opposite of my previous state. As my generally nervous step led me into the low-ceilinged vestibule, passing the previously emptied rustic bench; I beheld with some surprise the slender figure of a young portress wearing a yellow shawl, a pair of green boots with black laces and a light blue hat with a puffy red feather attached to it with a white ribbon; added on as an imitation of the gentry. Youth, I say, enveloped her outer crust, yet sleep overwhelmed her conscious being.

Thus urged - for any man so would be, if such an opportunity were presented before him; mocking his self-restraint rather jeeringly - I was too tempted to proceed without a thorough look at the young dame; standing a foot away from her, I noted with some curiosity the girlish - though somewhat infantine - expression in her by no means small features. I could not decide whether she appealed to me or no, yet still I looked on, as if searching for that veiled vestige. Though young and reckless - as many an old unwise man would say of what they still are, despite experience - white necks, carmine lips and cheeks, and clusters of bright curls did not suffice for me without that spark which would live on after the bloom has faded, and the hair grown grey.

Miss Lucy was a pretty girl; breathtaking no, though I could not construe for sure - imagination provided what the eye could not reach - for her eyelids were shut; veiling her eyes - those eyes I but acquainted mine with a year anon - but here I did not wake her in order to see those stars. I turned away, walked through the door, and just as my boots scratched the narrow, dusty lane leading from Northfield Hall, I heard, from the previously silent vestibule, a very quiet - though mischievous - giggle. It did not check me. It only pushed me further away from the old building. Whether the girl had been awake, or whether it had been the ghost of a deceased schoolgirl, I would never know. After carrying myself to Portman Square, and noticing my trunks piled atop a black coach, I begged the housekeeper a quick dinner in the kitchen - with the sweating cook, I beg your pardon, ladies - and some tea. Having been tolerably filled, I found John, said ‘Hey day!’ to the kind old coachman, and gave him the address to my new abode in the far North, where I would remain until sense finally knocked at my door.