A Singular Woman…
Chapter 1
My name is Elisabeth Hardy. I live in Africa, in the North of Kenya, on a game reserve, although we're leaving soon. My parents brought us out here when we were small. They wanted to get us away from the ideals and values of the England ruled by Victoria I. An England that believes that women should be shy, retiring and demure. That they should be ruled over by their fathers, brothers, husbands. I am happy to say that I consider myself to be the exact opposite of that.
In Africa, we can be ourselves. My mother has taught me to stand up for what I believe in, to be ladylike but strong. At the same time, my father taught me in the same things he taught my two older brothers - to ride, fight and shoot - all things which are usually associated with men folk back in England. In Africa, I can be free - speak for myself, run off to places by myself, and do such things that might be frowned upon in England. But now we are to leave my beloved Africa and return to England, all because of a horrible tragedy that has befallen us.
My parents, who taught me so much are dead. They died a month ago. They were both vets, tending to a herd of buffalo, when a tourist decided to squeal to her friend about them. This caused a stampede that crushed my dear mother and father to death. My brothers and I narrowly escaped with our lives. Now we are recalled to England by my aunt and uncle, something my brothers and I are not pleased about.
My brothers are John, who is twenty-five and Paul, who is twenty-three. Both are more than old enough to look after me, a nineteen-year-old woman, although I am sure I do not need to be looked after. However, my aunt and uncle insist that we all move back to England. There, apparently, my brothers will stay at the manor house, where they will learn to be country gentlemen, and I will go to London, to stay with my godfather, who is widely believed to be the oddest man in all of London.
I am sent to London to improve my etiquette, my deportment and ultimately, to find a husband. How I hate this! Here, I can run wild and free and not worry about how I look or my actions. But in that great smoggy, smoky city, I shall have to be on the look out for a wealthy husband - the last thing I should ever wish for.
My godfather should also be another interesting factor in this tale. His name is Mycroft Holmes. He is a renowned misogynist, which will mean that I will get virtually no freedom at all. I cannot think why my mother and father would choose such a man as my godfather. On the positive side, I have heard that his younger brother is the young detective, Sherlock Holmes. Although a man of only twenty-five, he and his colleague, Dr. John Watson have solved many of the most baffling cases in the history of crime. Hopefully, I may have, at least, some adventure in the time that I am in London.
All my bags are packed and I hear the sound of the people waiting outside. Paul calls me and we all take our bags down to be packed onto our horses, and packhorses. I get on mine first, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I do so love Africa. It has given me a freedom in life which not many other girls can boast of. I look over and wave goodbye to all of our friends. My brothers get onto their horses, and walk them to stand beside me. Our African housekeeper comes up to us. She is crying dreadfully "Goodbye, my little triplets". Of course, we are not really triplets. We are called so because we look similar. We all have the same dark brown, wavy hair, although mine reaches down my back, whereas the boys' obviously doesn't. We all have the same deep blue eyes, my mother's eyes. We are all tall, although my brothers are taller than me, and athletic. That is where the similarities end.
Paul is much more muscular than John, as he played rugby often with my father and the African men they taught the game to. John is fit as well, but much more studious. In an ideal world, he would wish to train as a doctor, but we all know that our aunt and uncle definitely would not approve. They wish both of my brothers to become fine, English gentlemen, and to marry good, upstanding women, perfect women. Women so unlike myself. Perhaps I will marry when I am in England, but I am determined that if I cannot find a man to love me for who I am, I will live and die a spinster.
We turn the horses away from the lodge, and my brothers and I lean back, waving at our friends and desperately praying that we would not have to leave.