by Debra Daley
Miss Broadbent said crisply, ‘What nonsense, Miss Downes.’
‘I had the story from the mistress herself!’
‘I doubt that very much. If Em were a poacher’s daughter we should have heard about it before now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for impugning the poor child.’
I felt less impugned than reminded how likely it was that I was the progeny of a lowly felon rather than – and this was my sustaining pipe dream at the time – the clandestine child of Mrs Waterland. I had once heard Mrs Heswall ask Hester, with a raised eyebrow, if I had been made ‘on the other side of the blanket’. It was the first time I had come across the phrase but its meaning was clear enough to me. In a high tone, Hester rebuked the laundress for her presumption, but when I asked her myself, Hester said that she had never heard anything so batty, which was the same as saying she knew nothing. Sometimes I dared to let myself imagine that Mrs Waterland and I were united by a shared tragedy, where I was the child she could not acknowledge and she the mother I could not claim.
The conversation had rushed on, leaving Downes high and dry, to the topic of Mrs Waterland’s aunt, Lady Paine. Hester recalled how deeply grieved the mistress had been when the aunt expired.
‘As well she might be,’ declared Mrs Edmunds. ‘When Lady Paine ceased to exist, so did the annuity that she had put on the mistress. That money has been sore missed in this house. Late-whiles it has been a devil of a business to reconcile the accounts, or the ones I deal with, any road. I have had to codgel and mend just to keep the fires burning.’
Hester said, ‘No wonder the master is oft so out of sorts. He was beholden to the mistress all those years to pay the bills and it has preyed on him.’
Miss Broadbent said, ‘It is a pity Sir Joseph could not have found it in himself to take up where his sister left off. He might have offered assistance to his relations.’
‘Sir Joseph is a heckle-tempered fellow, by Jove,’ said Mr Otty. ‘He ever opposed Bernard Waterland. He never reckoned our master good enough for a Felling, but the mistress’s father was still alive at that time so Sir Joseph could not thwart the marriage. And then the master has been so troubled these last several years, there was nothing in his situation to alter Sir Joseph’s low opinion. Sir Joe thought him good for nowt.’
Miss Broadbent said, ‘Then it is miraculous that Sir Joseph has agreed to prosper Mr Waterland’s son.’
‘Mayhappen he sees in the young master something of himself, for isn’t Johnny an up-and-comer in the Felling vein?’
Downes said, ‘We are all under an obligation to the mistress. She it was who swallowed her pride and begged Sir Joseph to sponsor Johnny Waterland.’
Mr Otty said, ‘That’s true, I will uphold.’
Mrs Edmunds said, ‘Happen it was the begging that did it. Sir Joseph would not be the first man to savour the sight of a high woman lowering herself to him.’ She drained her cup, and then observed in a tone that scored a line under the discussion, ‘In the long run, families come up and go down like the grass and there’s no end to it.’
After supper, I accompanied Miss Broadbent to the door of her chamber to bid her goodnight. She resided in a cramped closet off the schoolroom. She bent to kiss my cheek and then she laid a light hand on my arm. ‘Em,’ she said, ‘do you know that the foundling hospital in London would have made a record of your admission. Perhaps you could ask the mistress if she has the document. It will show your original name, and the date of birth.’
‘My original name?’ My voice caught in my throat. It had not occurred to me that Mary Smith might not be the name bestowed on me at birth.
Miss Broadbent said in her quiet way, ‘Every foundling is baptised with a new name on being admitted to the hospital and they are entered in a register.’
I might have asked Miss Broadbent how she knew such a thing, but there was an unusually closed look in her eye and I did not dare to put the question to her.
*
I trembled with anticipation at the thought that I could learn my identity from an official record. But did I want to know? To discover that I came from dishonoured stock – my fantasy of belonging to Mrs Waterland was much more appealing. And yet, if it should turn out that my mother was a worthless person, oughtn’t I to know that? At the same time I felt that I must tread cautiously. I did not want Mrs Waterland to interpret an interest in my origins as an aspersion on her generosity in supplying me with an alternative life. However one afternoon she called me to her parlour to help work embroideries for one of Eliza’s new gowns and I found a way to chisel an opening for the topic. I asked her whether fashions had changed very much since her entry into society. I hoped that talking of her youth might bring her to the subject of parentage, by which I could bring up mine.
Mrs Waterland worked her needle for a minute or so without acknowledging my enquiry, but then she began to describe rather dreamily an ensemble she had once appeared in at a ball: the petticoat of silver tissue worn very bouffant, the stays cut breathtakingly low, the tight sleeves making the most of her slender arms, her headdress a cloud of snowy gauze and falling from her shoulders a train of ice-blue shagreen that imitated sharkskin. She sighed, ‘I was seventeen and never was more beautiful, I freely admit. I felled the heart of a young viscount that night. He was terribly handsome. I have always been hopelessly drawn to good looks, you know.’
It was a statement that begged the question of the master’s appearance, but of course I could not remark such a thing.
She bent over her tambour and tugged at a thread. I hesitated to ask more about the viscount. Evidently a match had not been made and I feared probing a wound. I said, instead, ‘I imagine you were always beset by admirers, madam.’ I suppose I expected her to counter with something prettily self-deprecating, but she did not say anything at all for a few minutes. She looked in silence towards a window. Her emotions seemed very near the surface, which was not something in her that I was used to.
She said flatly, ‘Beauty is a great benefit, but it is not a reliable currency. He was madly in love with me, but my lack of fortune was a stumbling block. He married an heiress with a shape like a barge. When I saw in the newspaper that he was dead of an accident from his horse quite soon after his marriage, I was glad.’ Her smile was tight. She resumed her needle, adding, ‘It is pointless to dwell on the past.’
I said, picking my way carefully, ‘I must admit that I cannot help wondering about my own past. I am rather curious about my people.’
I thought she stiffened rather as she said, ‘But, my dear Em, you know the story. You were abandoned at the hospital.’
‘It crossed my mind that you might have been given my certificate of birth.’
She said, ‘I believe no such document exists.’
I did not wish to quote Miss Broadbent’s assertion that the foundling hospital kept records. I intuited that it would not advantage her. ‘Oh. I assumed there must be something on paper. Perhaps we could send away to ask at the hospital. You know, dear madam, that I am not even sure of my correct age.’
Mrs Waterland said, ‘Alas, child, the births of foundlings are rarely recorded.’
You see how she did not quite answer the question. I had the impression that she did not want to be pinned down, but it may have been that she was dwelling still on those dashed hopes of her youth. I wondered if Miss Broadbent had been wrong about the records, although it was not like her to be inaccurate.
The mechanism of the clock on the chimney piece whirred loudly and chimed the hour.
Mrs Waterland said, ‘You must accept, my love, that you will never know your provenance. Were I in your shoes, I should tell myself that my parents were of high rank and fallen, alas, on hard times. Just because such a tale is the fanciful wish of every foundling does not mean it cannot be true.’ She laughed her tinkling laugh and I found myself grateful for the shelter of her regard.
*
When I told Miss Broadbent some of what had transpired between the
mistress and me, largely that there was no certificate of birth, I saw at once by her almost infinitesimal shake of the head that she did not believe this to be the case, but she said only, ‘That is rather surprising.’ I thought she was about to add something else, but then Eliza came back into the room with some boisterous request or other.
I wished that I could have pursued the subject with Mrs Waterland more zealously, but I lacked the courage. At the same time I was puzzled by her refusal to satisfy what was a natural interest on my part. I felt that she was determined to give me an insufficient response and that piqued my curiosity even more.
Mrs Waterland’s Apartment
March, 1758
My slow slide towards an estrangement from Sedge Court can be traced to the watershed of Eliza’s and my shared fourteenth birthday. The day began, however, with promise. The moon was in a bright phase, and since it was able to light the way, the Waterlands had decided to leave early and drive to Chester to meet Johnny’s coach from London. Eliza and I rose before dawn. When I opened the window of the bedchamber for fresh air, I saw that the sky was still dusty with stars and a carpet of wavering mist concealed the lawn. I was buoyant, looking forward to spreading my wings in the schoolroom without Eliza’s distractions. I can almost hear her snort of derision at that.
I rigged us in our warm wadded robes and our felt slippers and we ran downstairs to the next floor and knocked at the mistress’s apartment. Downes opened the door brandishing a silver-backed hairbrush like some fabulous weapon.
Mrs Waterland’s dressing room, with its intricate wallpapers, its obscuring festoons of tulle, its screens and hangings keeping their secrets, always struck me as the command post of the house, from where she worked the levers of Sedge Court. She was sitting at her toilette in the glow of candlelight, fragrant, fur-wrapped, looking at least partially divine. You are probably tiring of my extravagant descriptions of her – but once one has formed an idea about someone it takes an effort to shift it, don’t you think?
She wished us a joyous birthday and added with an arched eyebrow, ‘Don’t my girls look fetching today!’ One was not sure whether she meant it as a jest. But in any case, I was confident that she had at her disposal the means to improve our defects. Her dressing table thronged with silver-topped bottles and cut-glass jars. Glimmers of light ricocheted among the bevelled surfaces of these mysterious receptacles, which contained, surely, all the ingredients needed to beautify the world.
With a mischievous smile, she ordered Downes to retrieve from the closet ‘something that might interest Miss Waterland’, before returning her attention to her toilette. She dabbed at a cake of lip colour with her little finger, while we helped ourselves to the breakfast set out on a low table.
From the closet came the sound of a struggle, followed by a volley of yelps. Then Downes emerged, grim-eyed, with a tawny young pug squirming against her bosom.
Mrs Waterland rose in a rustle of silk and set the dog on a tuffet. She fondled his sooty face and cried, ‘Isn’t he a darling? He is all yours, child!’ She handed his leash to Eliza with a smile that suggested an outpouring of gratitude was in order.
I could see that it was not love at first sight between Eliza and the pug. They regarded one another with mutual uncertainty, their brows similarly corrugated.
‘Do you not adore him?’
‘Of course, Mama.’
‘You must devise a sweet little name for him.’
Eliza scrutinised the pug, and he backed away from the effort of her stare. After a few seconds of deliberation she announced, ‘His name shall be Brownie.’
‘Good heavens, darling, could you be less inventive? Why not call him Pug and be done with it.’
Eliza made a gesture of deflation and the leash fell from her hand. The pug seized his chance, bolting for the door, but I managed to reel him in. I said, ‘We ought to call him Dasher.’
‘Dasher! Oh, clever Em!’ Mrs Waterland beamed. ‘He is absolutely a Dasher, don’t you think, Eliza?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Eliza lamely. ‘Shall he come with us to Chester?’
‘Not today, my love. He is too young and disorderly.’
She called Downes to take Eliza away to be dressed. I, however, she detained with a whispered, ‘Do not think you have been forgotten, my love.’
Perhaps you can imagine my surprise and delight at that.
She invited me to sit down again and then presented me with a substantial parcel wrapped in dark red linen. A portable writing desk! Well, that was what I hoped to find. But the unbundling revealed instead a rosewood workbox, which contained a plethora of needles and pins and skeins of thread.
Mrs Waterland beamed. ‘Cunning, isn’t it? Certainly an improvement on the little box you have had all these years.’
I thanked her and she replied after a pause, avoiding my eye, ‘Well, of course, a rather more capacious workbox is called for now.’
When a ship is wrecked off our coast, a tolling bell at Parkgate announces the melancholy news. I heard in Mrs Waterland’s of course a similarly mournful knell. As she patted my hand, foreboding began to steal over me like a sea fog.
‘Dear little Em,’ she murmured. She spoke in the condoling tone of one who must inform of an accident. ‘The moment has come when you must assume the life that is apposite to your rank.’
I was stunned by her words.
They meant a wrenching shift was about to take place for me. But I nodded reflexively in acceptance. Despite my shock, I felt that I was required somehow to reassure Mrs Waterland. I mean to say: the true expression of my own feelings could never be other than secondary. I was habituated to serve her interests.
She sighed. ‘It is all because of Eliza, of course. Alas, my dear daughter lacks those natural embellishments that draw a gentleman to look favourably upon a young lady. You, however –’ she directed an impish smile at me as if we were in cahoots – ‘must take care to keep the fellows at a distance.’
Which fellows? I wished to protest. I had the feeling I was being reproved for something that was not my fault as though I had deprived Eliza of a toy and she must be compensated for her loss.
A current of air rattled the windows and fluttered the candle flames. Drawing her fur more snugly about her shoulders, Mrs Waterland leaned towards me and said, ‘Ahead of us lies a great undertaking, and all of us must play our part. Eliza must contract a marriage that will make fast her finances and her place in society. You understand the importance of that, don’t you, my love? Your own security depends upon it. You will want, as I do, to see her make an attractive match. After all, whomever Eliza marries shall become your master, too.’
That my fate rested in Eliza’s hands was a daunting prospect. I shivered at the thought. Then it occurred to me, clutching wildly at straws, that since a marriage was contingent on Eliza’s being able to attract a suitor, perhaps we might never leave Sedge Court. I plucked up the nerve to ask, ‘Madam, how should Eliza and I be disposed if it should happen – I mean, in the event that – that Eliza might not marry?’
Was it the raw draught seeping across the windowsill that made me quake or the remote eye that Mrs Waterland turned on me? ‘There is no question,’ she said icily, ‘that Eliza shall not be settled on an estate. And you will strive, as shall I, to make it so. In any case, one day Johnny will have his inheritance and you will not like to be annexed at Sedge Court when he installs his wife here. Eliza must have her own household to command.’
Mrs Waterland came then to the nub of the matter. Henceforth, I was to take up the position of Eliza’s waiting woman. My status at Sedge Court had never been formally determined in the past. It had lodged somewhere between companion and cousin, a situation that had allowed me to maintain the illusion that I was a member of the family. Now I was to be designated a lady’s maid, a demotion which in one swoop cut off at the knees the fantasy that I belonged to the Waterlands by blood and made clear that my only right to live at Sedge Court was by dint of th
e master–servant contract.
‘It is the way of the world, my love,’ said Mrs Waterland with a little squeeze of my hand. ‘We are governed by the stations to which we are born.’
I must have looked very staggered, because in order to cheer me up she offered to let me work on her project in the summer house, where her underwater design was to be rendered in shells. However, she made it clear that my principal responsibility, naturally, was to attend to Eliza’s toilette. I was also to clean Eliza’s apartment, and tend Eliza’s fire and bring supplies of fuel, candles and paper. I must launder her laces and fine linens, iron and repair her clothes and undertake white-work, plain-work and the salvation of delicate stuffs as required. I must press her bed linen, draw the figures for her embroideries and make patterns when necessary to refurbish her clothes. I must keep her millinery and her footwear in order. I must manage Dasher. My time apart from that was to be held in reserve in order to assist Mrs Edmunds and Miss Downes in the smooth running of the household and with tasks that arise with the seasons – the putting-up of preserves, for instance, and the beating of rugs and drapes during spring and autumn.
I stared into the empty maw of my workbox. I did not baulk at earning my keep, and certainly it had not escaped my attention that Sedge Court was understaffed, but I could not see that there were enough hours in the day to accomplish my duties and my studies as well. I closed the workbox.
I asked in a weak voice, ‘Shall I continue to go to Miss Broadbent?’
Mrs Waterland’s expression told me that it pained her to disappoint me, but disappoint me she must. ‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘that you have been a most laborious pupil. Miss Broadbent tells me you have already mastered a syllabus far beyond your years, but …’ She brushed a stray curl from my face. ‘Now is the time for a different kind of guidance – and Miss Downes shall provide it.’