by Joan Aiken
‘Ay, that I do!’ she said readily. ‘For my cousin Alice, who is a milliner in Clerkenwell, has a friend who was in service to a wealthy lady, a Mrs Jennings. The Dashwood ladies were staying with Mrs Jennings in London at the time when Willougby got married to Miss Grey. Poor Miss Marianne – ah, and a beauty she was, by all accounts! – she was the one that Willoughby left my poor deceived Eliza for. And no wonder! if she was one-half as good-looking as they say. But she had no portion, either, poor thing, so he stayed at her side barely three months, and then, dear, it was off and away to Miss Grey and her fifty thousand. Poor Miss Marianne nearly died of grief, they say. And I fear my poor Eliza must have had her heart broke likewise – besides being left in the family way, you know. All men are black villains at heart, if you will believe me, dear.—All except Mr Jeffereys,’ she added generously.
‘So Marianne Dashwood was also jilted by Willoughby, and married the Colonel.’ And hid Willoughby’s portrait in a book, I thought. ‘Poor girl.’
‘Still, before that she was spoken for by another fellow, but she would have none of him, so then he went after her sister and married her,’ Mrs Jeffereys told me, as if to show that Marianne, though disappointed of Willoughby, at least had her fair share of offers.
‘Indeed?’ I cried with lively curiosity. ‘Who could that have been?’
But that she did not know.
‘Mrs Jeffereys – are you quite sure that you have no clue as to my mother’s whereabouts?’
‘Dearie – I’d tell you if I did. You are so like her, you know,’ she exclaimed again, wiping her eyes unaffectedly. ‘I knew you must be hers, the very first minute I caught a glimpse of you.’
‘But the last time you saw my mother she was well – and – and happy?’
‘Yes, my love. The time I’m telling you of, when she came and stayed at the White Hart.’
‘With whom was she staying at that time?’
Mrs Jeffereys gave me a shrewd, careful look.
‘Well, my love – not to put too fine a point on it – with some lord. She never told me his name. But she told me she had a plan – when Eliza and I were at school together she was always feather-witted enough, but I could see that since those days she had learned to keep a weather-eye out for herself; she had a plan to start up an establishment in London. As soon as she had some money saved, she said.’
‘An establishment! What kind of an establishment?’
‘A gaming house. Many of those, you know,’ quickly explained Mrs Jeffereys, ‘many of them are perfectly respectable.’
Dazed with all this information, I said, ‘Mrs Jeffereys, two gentlemen are walking along the quay in this direction. If you would rather not be seen talking to me –’
‘Oh, thank you, my love, that is thoughtful.—Yes, well, I’m afraid Mr Jeffereys would be greatly – anyway, you will let me know, dear, will you not, if ever you have news of dear Eliza? I should be so happy to hear –’
With fluttering gestures of her parasol and hasty steps, Mrs Jeffereys fled off up Avon Street, and I took my own slow and thoughtful course homewards to New King Street.
I felt almost stupefied. As if I had dislodged a pebble and fetched down an avalanche.
Chapter 8
I said nothing to Mrs Jebb that night. These days she retired early, was often abed when I went out. Several times I had offered to play and sing to her, but she said, ‘No, child, no. Music is for company. Not for solitude – ’ looking about her uneasily at the empty room. And I could not withhold a shiver, recalling how cheerfully in the old days the sound of talk and laughter and song was used to ring across New King Street from her parlour windows.
I need hardly say that after my encounter with Mrs Jeffereys I had retired to my own bed with my head in a whirl.
To have believed for so many years – all my life indeed – that my mother was no more, and then to discover so lightly, so casually, that far from having perished she was very probably, at this time, established in London, either directing the affairs of a gaming house, on the one hand, or leading a life of comfort and dishonour, on the other, in the keeping of a rich nobleman: this, indeed, was enough to turn all my considerations upside down.
What had she been doing all these years? (Had Colonel Brandon ever supported her? Or did he too believe her dead?) Why had she visited me only the one time? (Had the Colonel forbidden her to do so?) What was she like, my mother?
In appearance, it was very plain, she and I could have been a pair of mirror-images; but that did not of course mean that we were alike in character. Ardently, I wished to know more about her. And surely, if I succeeded in locating her, if I managed to introduce myself, she would not then repulse me? But perhaps she had given a promise to the Colonel – in return for his having undertaken my support? – or to her protector – by whom, perhaps in the meantime she might have borne other children? – not to approach me?
And where, in this new, dark, confused and tangled panorama of connections, did my father, did Willoughby, take his place? All I knew about him was that he had married a Miss Grey with fifty thousand pounds, and that he expected to inherit a small estate in Somerset – what was the name? Allingham? Annington? Which was, possibly, not too far distant from Delaford?
Vaguely, from three years back, came the echo of a remark made by Edward Ferrars when he thought I was out of earshot. Elinor had said, ‘You think there might be talk?’ and he had answered, ‘He might come to hear. There is such a strong resemblance.’
A resemblance not to Willoughby, I now understood, but to my mother. Whom Willoughby had abandoned. As he had also abandoned the unfortunate Marianne Dashwood. And how many others, before fixing on Miss Grey and her fifty thousand? Not an estimable character, this Willoughby, my father, with his handsome dazzling appearance, his fire, his wit, his poetry, his address. ‘All men are black villains at heart,’ had said Mrs Jeffereys. And this was certainly the general view held in Byblow Bottom, where so many legacies of their carefree villainy lay scattered and unclaimed, like eggs at an Easter festival.
How many males could I number among my acquaintances who were not black villains? Well: there was Edward Ferrars, that pillar of rectitude; there was the Colonel; there was Thomas; there were, of course, dear Mr Bill and Mr Sam – but what did I truly know about those two? Mr Sam had a wife, Mr Bill, a sister; but were they kind, were they supportive to those ladies? If they had children, did they maintain them?
Would it be possible for me to write to Blank Willoughby Esquire, Allingham or Ammingham, Somerset: ‘Dear Sir, I am given to believe that I am your daughter. I should be delighted to make your acquaintance and would be much obliged if you felt inclined to let me know my mother’s address and contribute towards my support.’ (But probably, in view of his former way of life, he had run through Miss Grey’s fifty thousand by now. And what about his wife, the erstwhile Miss Grey? She would probably not be at all pleased to make my acquaintance.)
In the midst of such confused and contradictory thoughts as these, I finally drifted off to sleep.
Next morning, bursting with news, I sought the presence of Mrs Jebb.
These days she did not quit her couch until noon, or later; I found her, pale and listless, still in bed, wrapped in a fleecy shawl (for the spring mornings continued frosty and sharp; anxiously I wondered how Elinor Ferrars might be faring, and if Mrs Ashcott still remembered to leave the oatmeal to simmer overnight). Mrs Jebb was drinking cocoa with a look of gloomy distaste. Scattered correspondence lay over the counterpane.
‘Ma’am, only listen! I have made such a discovery!’
Ignoring my remark, she said, ‘Look at this!’ and thrust a paper at me.
It was a letter in the handwriting of Edward Ferrars. It said:
Dear Madam,
I regret to be obliged to inform you that Information of a most Regrettable and Scandalous nature
has come to us from a Reputable Source, regarding the young Person at present residing with you, the young Person known as Miss FitzWilliam; news which makes it wholly out of the question for me ever again to receive her under this roof. And I strongly recommend that you yourself should lose no time in expelling this Creature from your own Premises. I regret to say that her conduct has been completely Incompatible with Morals or Decency.
I have the Honour to Remain, dear Madam with respectful compliments, your friend,
Edward Ferrars.
‘A reputable source!’ cried I in high indignation. ‘It’ll lay his reputable source is none other than that spiteful tattletale, Nell Ferrars!’
Now, of course, I repented my note urging Nell to come home and take care of her mother. For plainly this must be the fruit of it.
‘It is because I told her she should come back to Delaford. Of course she would far sooner remain in Berkeley Square, currying favour with Lady Helen. But, ma’am, listen, my news could not be more timely – ’
Eagerly, without reflection, I now poured out the tale of my encounter with Mrs Jeffereys. Mrs Jebb listened in silence.
I concluded: ‘And so you see, ma’am, I need not be a charge upon you any longer – or a disgrace under your roof – for, surely, once I have left this house, surely your friends will all return to you – I can go and seek my mother –’
‘B-b-b - b-b-but - ’
Her stammer took me by surprise. She had turned even paler – leaden-pale.
‘But what, ma’am?’
‘We were to go to P-p-p-p – to P-p-port –’
Mrs Jebb fell forward, heavily, on to the breakfast tray.
Pullett came running in at the sound of the crash.
‘Oh – Miss Liza! What in the world did you say to her?’
Gulping, I explained to Pullett as we ran for warm water and towels, and I wiped Mrs Jebb’s face and laid her back comfortably while Thomas went off at a gallop for the doctor.
‘You said you were going to London to seek for your mother? Oh, but Miss Liza – Missis was looking forward so much to going to Portugal – she spoke of it so often – “When we and Miss Liza go off on the gad to Lisbon – ’ she’d say, “we’ll do such-and-such – ”’
We stared at one another in horrified silence, and I wished that I had never been born.
***
The doctor said that it was a stroke, and that Mrs Jebb might rally.
‘But I fear that her constitution has been gravely undermined by the pints of laudanum – in brandy furthermore – that she has been imbibing during the past few weeks.’
It had been undermined, too, we concluded, by all the threatening letters she had been receiving from Sydney Wetherell.
‘Pay £50 or I will lay an information and bring witnesses who will attest to seeing you purloin two handkerchiefs and a yard of satin ribbon on January 15 last . . .’
There were half a dozen in the same vein, concealed in her reticule.
‘Oh, my poor mistress!’ wept Pullett. ‘Why did she never tell me about them? And she must have been paying him off, too . . . no wonder she has been skimping so, lately, on the housekeeping. No wonder she wishes to sail to Portugal and get away from the bloodsucker.’
But Mrs Jebb was not destined to sail to Portugal.
She did rally to the extent that she was able to talk a little, to consume a spoonful or two of food. But her heart was not in recovery; she paid little heed to us as we came and went, addressed her, pestered her with food or with services; her eyes, her thoughts, were elsewhere.
Once she said to me vaguely, ‘Who did you say your father was, child?’
‘Willoughby, ma’am.’
‘Do I know him?’ even more vaguely.
‘I have no idea, ma’am.’
‘No – I do not think I know him. And I don’t think Mr Jebb knew him.’
Mr Jebb was much in her mind. She referred to him very often, as if she thought that he was in the house and would soon enter the room.
Another time she said, slowly and haltingly, ‘I wish you to have my rubies, Eliza.’
‘Oh, ma’am !’
They were an exceedingly handsome and valuable set: old-fashioned table-cut stones, comprising a double choker necklace, bracelets, earrings and two huge circular brooches; she sometimes wore the lot, her lips puffed out in self-derision, to add lustre to a humdrum evening while playing whist with her friends. Latterly, she had not worn them.
I said, half laughing, ‘But, Mrs Jebb, you have always told me that the rubies were not for me – because they would clash so hideously with my hair.’
‘Never – mind – that. Worth – handsome sum. Set – up – in business.’
‘But, ma’am, what about those poor Ferrars? Elinor’s need is so much greater than mine.’
‘Not – your affair!’ she snapped. ‘Dispose – rubies – where I choose.’
‘Yes, yes, ma’am – of course,’ I soothed.
‘Don’t owe them – any good turn. Forbade you – house. Leave – rubies – where I choose,’ she repeated, and I forbore to point out that a verbal disposition of property had no legal binding.
She went further though, summoned Rachel and Thomas, made Pullett fetch the stones from the mahogany wardrobe (relic of a much larger house) and take them out of their case.
‘Give – to – Liza. Put – in her hands,’ she croaked. ‘Now – bear witness – you two – Rachel! – Thomas!’
‘But, Missis,’ said Rachel doubtfully – her face was all wrinkled up with distress, ‘there must be something in writing. You must put it in writing. And Thomas says the same.’
He nodded with vigour.
Mrs Jebb could not write. All she could produce was some spidery streaks on the paper.
‘We should fetch in the lawyer – Mr Penwith – I daresay he can make an affidavit – or some such thing, tomorrow.’
Mrs Jebb nodded slowly. ‘Tomorrow. Rubies – for – Eliza,’ she repeated.
But in the night she died.
I was with her at the time, for Pullett, who had been sitting at her bedside, grew anxious about her breathing and fetched me. We raised her up and I suggested a little brandy, which always seemed to ease her. Pullett had gone for it when Mrs Jebb opened both eyes and gave me a slow smile – her old, quirky smile, mocking at both of us.
‘Ma’am?’ I said softly. ‘Did you really take that lace?’
One eye slowly closed. And remained shut. The other followed suit. Neither re-opened. After a moment – I had been holding her – I laid her back on the pillows.
Pullett, returning with the brandy, let out a long, low wail.
***
Of course I did not get the rubies. Mr Penwith, the lawyer, though perfectly civil, was quite scandalized at the idea. In vain did Pullett, Rachel and Thomas assure him that Mrs Jebb’s intentions had been completely clear, that they were all witnesses; he made nothing of this.
‘My dear good people – anybody could say anything! Signed and sealed must be signed and sealed. And here – in her will – it states with perfect clarity that they are to go to Mrs Busby. I will take care of them.’ And he did so forthwith, tucking them under his arm.
Mrs Jebb’s will left five hundred pounds to her cousin Mrs Elinor Ferrars – I was glad of that, though I feared Elinor’s husband would appropriate every penny of it for parish purposes – some other trinkets besides the rubies were distributed among her forsworn perfidious friends, and the house in New King Street ‘to my faithful servants Rachel and Thomas Kennet’. One hundred pounds to Pullett. Nothing to me, except for a strange codicil, ‘I bequeath my dear Pullett and Miss Eliza FitzWilliam to each other.’
‘Most untoward – most unorthodox,’ said Mr Penwith crossly. ‘I told Mrs Jebb so but she would have it; she would pay no attent
ion to my counsel. It means nothing, of course – nothing at all!’
Mrs Jebb left very little cash. The sale of furniture and effects would just about cover the legacies.
I was happy for Thomas and Rachel, who declared their intention of keeping the house and taking in lodgers, in Bath always a most profitable livelihood.
‘And you shall be our first lodger, Miss Liza, and for nothing, and for as long as you please. For Missis was that fond of ye, we know she’d a wished it.’
‘But, Rachel, I brought her nothing but harm. I am sorry that I ever crossed her path.’
‘Stuff and nonsense, miss. She loved ye. This last pair o’ years she’ve been happier and brisker than since Master died.’
Now that it was too late, I wished vehemently that I had asked Mrs Jebb more questions about her husband, about her childhood; about their early life together. Alas, the young are ever so; they think time is unlimited; they expect their elders to go on for ever. The moment for asking questions is always postponed.
But I did not plan to continue in Bath, I told Thomas and Rachel. There was nothing here for me now.
‘I am going to London, to look for my mother.’
‘And I’ll come with ye,’ declared Pullett.
Truth to tell, though I was touched by this offer, it did not rejoice me. I felt that Pullett would be a decided anxiety, an encumbrance. A fetter.
‘No, no, Pullett; you must stop here in Bath with your friends. How do I know that I shall be able to support both of us? It is hardly even likely that I can support myself.’
‘Nay, but I’ll help ye,’ said Pullett. ‘I can work – I can sew – I can take in washing. And it’s not respectable for a young lady to be off on her own.’
What she meant, of course, was: just now you are going to need all the respectability you can scrape together.
Not one of Mrs Jebb’s friends appeared at her funeral. Thomas, Rachel, Pullett and I were the sole mourners at the grave-side, and walked home in silence leaving her all alone in her coffin, under the wet earth, under the lashing rain. I hoped that she would be reunited with Mr Jebb. And I hoped that the rubies would raise blisters on the wrinkled neck of white-haired, acid-tongued Mrs Busby.