Two: The Diary of Charlote Penn

Mauldy Institute: Alumni Retrospective
…this class produced three remarkable young women, each luminaries in their field: noted archeologist, Dr. Virginia Jones, nee Smithson; beloved children’s author, Charlotte Penn; and the infamous suffragette Josephine Bailey-Smythe, whose estate established a very generous scholarship and endowment for the school. Lady Bailey-Smythe famously said of her alma mater, "Nothing encourages the sense of independence in a young girl as much as locking her in a castle conveniently placed in the middle of a lake." Other alumni have said of Mauldy’s unique setting…

Two: The Diary of Charlotte Penn

September 19, 1902

Grandmother and I have been in England for two weeks now. Grandmother seems intent on exposing me to as many important paintings, building, and people as possible. There comes a time, rather quickly, when the enthusiasm dwindles and one is left yawning at the prospect of another bloody castle.
In-between, I’ve been measured for dresses and pinafores and skirts and blouses and a pair of trousers (at my request) and stuck with so many pins I’m positively a pincushion. Every single garment is green with the occasional white blouse, the school colors. Fortunately the school colors are not plaid or tartan or whatever it is called in this country. The boxes from shops have been steadily piling up in the hotel room. Soon, I fear, the boxes will overtake the room.
We’ve taken tea in the gardens of so many hotels and charming teashops. So far, this trip has not been much different from Philadelphia. There Grandmother took me from tea at hotels to museums to a department store for a pair of shoes or more measurements with sticking pins and then on to diner at a restaurant. Same routine, different accent.
The production would not be so bad if Grandmother did not shake her head, whistle lowly, and comment on growing girls. My clothes never seem to fit correctly and that is hardly my fault. I am a growing girl! Whistling and tutting in London is exactly the same as whistling and tutting in Philadelphia.
I know going to museums and gossiping with the other traveling ladies of leisure is what Grandmother enjoys. I want to explore the ruins of Hastings Castle, on a jutting cliff over the Channel. I want to climb over the stones and discover hidden nooks behind a canopy of green leaves. Grandmother tells me I’ll scuff my shoes and warns to get off those dirty stones before I scrap my hands.
A small part of me is aware that I’m traveling on Grandmother’s money so I can’t really complain.
The shipyard at Philadelphia was crowded along the Delaware River. The pier of the transatlantic cruise ship was bustling with passengers bidding farewell, porters lugging baggage and orderly men in uniforms checking clipboards and pocket watches.
My father sent me off with a pat on the shoulder and a stern warning to do exactly as Grandmother said. The morning sun was bright on the water and cause a great deal of glare. Still, I am sure that his eyes squinting and the grimace was not from the grief of her only daughter going away to England for a year or more of school. Grandmother’s money again. Father can’t seem to keep any and Grandmother seems to have a never-ending supply.
Mother kissed me on the cheek and whispered, "Be good. Do as your grandmother says." I suspect it was for more her sake than mine. Grandmother’s money kept her in hats, gloves, and specialty shoes.
The voyage took seven days, the first half being in a fierce storm.
The first night of the voyage found me at Grandmother’s side, trying to be invisible. The floor of the dinning room swayed slightly. The ship was too large to be tossed about lightly in the storm. The chandelier tinkled with constant movement.
Grandmother berated and praised the various fashions aboard the ships as being too flamboyant, too daring, or too conservative. The food was a touch bland but satisfactory. The service, of course, left much to be desired.
I sat quietly, eyes lowered to the hands folded demurely in my lap. She had too many targets to turn her attentions to me, but only if I kept quiet as a church mouse.
Halfway during the dinner the ship lurched violently in the storm. Grandmother gasped and covered her mouth. Her complexion turned a distinctive shade of green.
From that moment, I had my run of the ship, as Grandmother took ill with "mal de mer," which is a rather pretentious way to say seasickness. "I don’t quite seem to have my sea legs," she would say, propped up in the bed by a dozen pillows, sipping tea and nibbling dry toast before turning faintly green.
I strolled the deck, read the books I brought along, and endeavored to play shuffleboard. One evening I was escorted to dinner and dancing by Linus. His sister, Beatrix, was there but it was still nice. A pleasant voyage, overall, despite the storm and lurching of the ship.
I ran into Linus (literally) on the promenade deck. The deck was largely deserted. The ship had not outpaced the storm but both seemed to be making a mutual voyage across the Atlantic. The sky was heavy with lead colored clouds and the ship rocked in the unsteady waters. The poor weather gave me the opportunity to enjoy the promenade and the scenery of the ocean in relative seclusion.
Nose in a book, I was reading whilst I walk. Grandmother gives conflicting messages about books. I’m suppose to be learned and hold an intelligent conversation but when she does catch me reading, she scolds that reading will ruin my eye sight and make me squinty eyed. It’s easier just to read when she’s not around.
Rather than listen to Grandmother complained about her lack of sea legs, I said I was going out for a stroll, fresh air, and to take a bit of exercise. Hardly reasons she can find fault with. She’s always telling me I could do with a bit of exercise, put some color in my cheeks. I used this time to read but walked slowly with my nose in a book so not to have been lying entirely to my grandmother. I swear, she can smell the lie on you.
With all my attention focused on the duel tasks of reading and walking smoothly so not to move the pages with every footstep, I collided solidly with an object that moved directly into my path. The book and I flapped to the wooden deck, arms and pages waving in a desperate attempt to levitate.
He was a tall, dressed in white flannel, with the brightest, reddest curls I had ever seen. It was challenging to take my off the vivid locks and get a good look at his face.
He glowered. Dark eyes seemed to cut right through me and judged me to be an insignificant matter.
I felt myself stutter an apology, clutching the book to her chest as a shield. "I’m so, so sorry. I really should pay more attention to where I going but this is the only chance I have to read and Grandmother says that reading will ruining my eyes and give me wrinkles, which is ridiculous, but how can I argue with her? She never lets me say word, she just talks louder, and that’s how she wins arguments."
The paint on the deck blistered. I could feel it curdled under my toes.
"Miss Penn," he said, nodding his head. He walked away with hands clasped behind his back, as if we had merely tipped hats and not collided.
Shocked by the utter rudeness of the fellow I failed to notice that he had magically acquired my name.
The next evening Grandmother pronounced herself too ill to tolerate the smell of food. If I was to dine, it was to be in the dining room with the rest of the passengers. Of course it was unseemly that a child such as myself be unaccompanied but this was drastic times and called for drastic measures. I was not going to argue. I quietly dressed for dinner and escaped before she could change her mind.
I dined alone in glorious freedom not to complain about the food or the less than ice cold beverage and simply enjoy a meal. The whole experience was quite a novelty.
Two tables away I recognized the bright red curls of the fellow I bumped into on the promenade desk. A girl accompanied him, perhaps my age, and she had a head of equally bright red curls.
He caught me looking. He smiled. Quite a nice change from the glower. I smiled in return.
The third day of the voyage, Grandmother was no better. The storm still tossed the ship like it was a tiny wooden boat.
"You are fortunate to have a strong constitution," Grandmother said, resting on the couch in the salon area of our cabin.
"I am young," I said meekly, trying to avoid her wrath by being so fortunate as to be both young and healthy and immune to the effects of a stormy sea.
"Are you writing in that journal again?"
"Yes," I said, closing the book and slipping the pencil back into my pocket.
"Good. Such activities help to develop your mind and a sense of self."
"May I stroll the decks?"
"I suppose so, please leave quietly. I have such trouble sleeping, you know. This ship has the most uncomfortable mattresses."
She was snoring by the time I closed the cabin door.
On the deck, vacant again due to inclamite weather, I found a lounge chair and settled comfortably with my book.
"I see you are no longer walking and reading at the same time,’ a voice said from above.
The figure, a man from the voice, blocked the sun, darkening his face but lightening his red curls to a fiery glory.
"Whilst it is a very time efficient habit," Charlotte said, "it seems to be hazardous."
"And where is your charming grandmother?" The figures sat on the chair next to hers, allowing a good view of his face. Still as grave and serious as she remembered but pleasant.
"Mal de mer," Charlotte said. "Lounging in bed, lamenting my strong constitution, and growing green and the mention of food."
He smiled, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth. "She seems the type of woman who could bully herself back to good health."
"Even Grandmother lacks the power to control the ocean. A fact which vexes her, no doubt."
"My sister, Beatrice, is wanting to play shuffleboard but we are a player short. Would you care to join us?" He pointed down the deck to the girl with the long red hair. She seemed to be board, examining her nails.
"I’m afraid I can not accept. I only play games with acquaintances." Did I say that? The words came out of cool like, like I made witty banter every day.
"My name is Linus Fox, I am traveling with my parents and my sister back to England. Are we now acquainted enough for a game of shuffleboard?"
"Certainly." Linus held out his hand and helped me to my feet.
The game went quickly. I have never played before and strategy is a concept that takes a few games to develop. Beatrice won but that doesn’t matter. I played a game with people my own age that wanted me to play. No parents pushing together unhappy playmates. No Grandmother dictating that I play a round of croquet because it was "good for my health". Friendship, another novelty. I was beginning to enjoy traveling.
The next evening I dined with the Fox family. Mr. and Mrs. Fox were very cordial and asked polite questions which I answered politely. I was very good at that particular game, having made enough of the social rounds with Grandmother to know the difference between interest and polite interest. Beatrice herself was polite but a little standoffish, never speaking to me directly but about me in a vague third person way, as if I was not there at all.
As the last plates of dinner were cleared, the tables were pushed back to clear room for dancing. While I have never danced before, I have had a number of lessons: all part of Grandmother’s idea of a proper education for a young girl. I have learned how to dance but have been allowed to attend a dance.
"Would you care to dance?’ Linus asked.
I blurted, "Grandmother never lets me dance. She says it stirs the blood and makes young people unruly."
"Grandmother Penn is not here. Would you like to dance?"
"More than anything."
So we danced. It wasn’t like in the romantic novels were I felt myself melt or grow flush and stared into his liquid dark eyes and felt our harts come to a mutual understanding. Nothing like that. It was fun. I enjoyed myself. But I was flush. I wish I had more adult clothing. Something like Mother would wear. I’ll write to her and ask. Grandmother still dresses me with high collars and tight sleeves with an impossible amount of buttons.
On the second to last day of the voyage, the weather cleared. Grandmother appeared on the promenade deck, harassing the porter about the unsatisfactory nature of the deck chair. She required pillows and lap blanket and a cool drink.
Her voice appeared before her physical form. I felt cold dread in my throat. Linus was lightly guiding me by the elbow when we rounded the corner and beheld the sight of my grandmother prodding the porter with her parasol. She turned her cool gaze to us and Linus’ hand fell away from me, such is the force of her will. A short lecture ensued about how young I am, how a gentleman four years my senior should know better than to make advances on a child of my tender age, certainly without introducing himself to her guardian. To take advantage of the affections of a child such as myself whilst my grandmother was ill is an unforgivable sin.
Linus accepted the berating verbal abuse with his usual glower and lack of any facial expression. He nodded curtly and bid me a good day.
No more shuffle board, dinner, or dancing. The last two days were passed in the salon with Grandmother gossiping with the other ladies of leisure. I’ve been writing in this journal.
I saw Linus one more time, in passing, on the pier as we departed in South Hampton. He passed her covertly a note card with his address. I slipped it into my handbag before Grandmother could notice.
So here I am, can you imagine, sitting very still, writing in my journal, while Grandmother talks with the other ladies from America who are traveling. I seem to be the only granddaughter in tow.
Last Easter, Grandmother announced that she was sending me to school in the fall. Not a school on the east coast, the only civilized part of the country, as far as Grandmother is concerned, but to England. Presumably so her granddaughter (me) would be trained in social niceties and other nonsense. Personally, I was happy with my school in Philadelphia but Father and Mother always kowtow when it comes to Grandmother and her whims. Off to England I go with a wave of Grandmother’s wand.
I don’t mind, not really. Mother and Father can’t seem to be bothered to notice they have a daughter. Father’s a banker: a good, respectable profession except he makes investments that always end badly. How he keeps his position, I don’t know, but I suspect it has more to do with the family name and Grandmother’s influence than talent and determination. He looks surprised when I walk in study, like there’s only a vague sense of recognition and he can’t quite pace my name. Sometimes he will fold away the evening newspaper and say a word. Mostly he waves his pipe in a vague way and sends me off. Mother spends amounts of money on clothing that is positively sinful. I spend most of the year with Grandmother at Pennsbury Manor as it is. Grandmother has repeatedly said that my father did not have the sense of his father (God rest his soul) and my mother had the intellect of a fluffy bunny.
Grandmother is the type of women who commands the center of attention and voice drifts above the crowd of conversation. She has a very demanding presence for such a short little woman. Always equipped with a parasol, she pokes and jabs a path through a crowd. The instrument, I believe, is not the silly accessory affair of fashion but something more stout, perhaps with a steel shaft. The point quite stings when it is applied to your backside. Quit frankly, I’m looking forward to being out from under her thumb for a time.
Last night I packed the last of my bags. I’ve been outfitted with a wardrobe for the entire year, each garment is in a forest green, the school uniform color. The frocks Grandmother insisted upon seem to be a bit old fashioned and I’m not really in a position to argue but I’m thrilled with white fur lined coat. I’ve never felt rabbit fur so soft and fine.
Grandmother is sending me to the Mauldy Institute for Young Ladies. Sounds stuffy but I’ve read the pamphlets and it seems as stuffy and pretentious as the name. I’ve been told it is quite progressive and ingenious and I cannot imagine Grandmother sending me to a progressive school is she knew it was progressive. For such a forthright, domineering lady, she really is quite traditional and conservative. Grandmother acts as if when Grandfather Penn was alive, she bowed to his wishes but since his death, without the presence of a strong patriarch, she’s filled the position out of necessity to keep the family humming. I don’t believe it. I imagine she had Grandfather Penn under her enormous thumb with the rest of us.

Grandmother has observed that I appear to be sulking, which is not flattering on a girl of such modest attractiveness as myself. Furrows the brows, not good for the complexion. She has suggested I make a list of pros and cons on the year abroad and meditate upon my good fortune.

Positives of a year spent at Mauldy Castle:
Exploring a castle, finding secret passages.
I can write to Linus without fear of Grandmother reading the correspondence.
No Grandmother Penn!
I can read and study what I like.
Not having to read and study what Grandmother tells me to.

Negatives:
Possibly being roommates with a bigger social snob than my grandmother.
I’ll actually catch my death of cold on this damp little island.
A vengeful spirit might haunt my room. No, that’d be a positive.
What if the cook only serves horrid British food like Toad in the Hole or Steak and Kidney pies? Can a person live on tea and scones alone?
I miss home. I know people in England are well acquainted with the idea of sending their children away to boarding school. I assure you that in America, it is an unthinkable idea.

Tomorrow I board the train to Mauldstone. I guess I’ll see what happens then.