by Joan Aiken
“Excuse me,” said Jane, gulping. “I have to go home now. They will be waiting for me. Mrs Cole was to come in to drink tea and say goodbye —”
“Oh — Mrs Cole! But wait a moment, pray wait,” said Emma. “There is something I wished to say —”
Jane waited obediently, but as nothing seemed to be forthcoming, repeated, “Aunt Hetty will be wondering what has become of me. I must go, Emma.”
Emma still hesitated, then said rapidly, “That stuff looks better on you than ever it did on me — it was improved by taking off the bugle trimming. But I do not think you should wear a stuff dress in London — cashmere would be better —”
“I do not know — I suppose the family, the Campbells, will tell me how to go on — goodbye —” stammered Jane, hardly aware of what she was saying, and ran away down the path among the bushes, leaving Emma again solitary by the cedar tree.
As she let herself out through the door in the wall Jane thought over the few words that had been exchanged, and then about what Mrs Hill had said. I would not agree that Emma is puffed-up, exactly, she decided. No. She is not that, whatever Mrs Hill may say. She does not have a high notion of herself. But she is very hard to please, when it comes to other people. That is because she is so easily bored.
Emma’s words returned to Jane. “So you are going to London. Are you glad?”
Almost, Jane thought, as if she envied me. Almost as if she herself would be glad to go. Yet she has a father who dotes on her, a loving sister, a kind governess, friends like Mr Knightley, fine clothes, playthings, books, a grand house, a beautiful garden — why is she not satisfied?
Running homeward along the village street, Jane wondered suddenly: will the Campbells have a piano?
Returning home, she was stricken to learn that Mr Knightley had called, had been sitting with her aunt and grandmother twenty minutes, hoping to say goodbye to her, but was finally obliged to go off to a churchwardens’ meeting.
Chapter 3
Colonel Campbell was a tall, active-looking man, aged about fifty, his complexion much bronzed and weathered by long service abroad under blistering suns. His grey-brown hair had mostly receded, leaving him half bald, and his keen, intelligent countenance was further marred by a scar, the legacy of a bullet-wound, on the left side of his temple. He walked decidedly lame, and was deaf in one ear, another effect of the head wound.
“You will have to speak loud and clear when you address me, my child,” was one of the first things he told Jane, in the harsh, carrying tone of the partially deaf. “For otherwise, you see, I shall be continually urging you to speak up, speak louder, and that, you know, will be a very tiresome waste of our valuable time.”
“Can you hear me if I speak like this, sir?”
“Ay, that will do very well; you have a fine, clear, pretty voice, my dear. I do not doubt but that we shall do very well together.”
Miss Bates and her mother naturally wished to entertain the Colonel lavishly with currant-wine and sweet-cake from the beaufet; they wanted to call in the neighbours and make their visitor known to half the village; but he swept aside all these proposals with military briskness. Endowed, under his abrupt manner, with a kind heart and a discerning eye, he perceived that both the elderly ladies, and also Jane herself, were suffering acute strain at the thought of the imminent parting; the ladies had sat up after midnight, crying and completing last-minute tasks, and all three had slept very ill, if at all, during the remainder of the night; the greatest kindness he could do for them was to remove Jane with all possible speed.
“Come, my dear, if you are ready, let us be off; the horses have had all the bait they need; it is only sixteen miles to London, after all! Nothing of a journey. Once you are finally and permanently fixed with us, I daresay we shall be trotting it up and down three or four times a quarter.”
“Oh — but this time I am coming only for a visit, am I not, sir?” urgently and anxiously protested Jane, as he lifted her into the carriage, after many and tearful embraces of her grandmother and aunt.
“That’s of course!” He pinched her cheek, but turned to say privily to the two trembling ladies in their shawls, “We had best make it a tolerably long one, this time, hey? to allow the child space to settle and put down a few roots, you know; for I can see that she is one of the sort who forms strong attachments, I can see how much she loves her home here (and indeed it’s to her credit); and such bonds take time to form — There, now, have we all on board that we should have, every basket, bundle, posy, and carpet-bag? Excellent — capital — that was most expeditiously done. Now, my dear ladies,” he added with a certain impatience, “pray do you step indoors, for this wind will give you a shocking chill otherwise. I guarantee that we shall not start off until I see your faces at the window upstairs — Look out through the glass, now, Jane, and wave your kerchief to your friends — that’s the dandy — there they are, snugly established up in the bow. Now then, let go, driver! and let us see how fast you can get us back to Manchester Square.”
Jane did not require any instructions to look out and wave; her face was pressed against the carriage glass; but it was doubtful how much of the external world she was able to see, for the tears streamed continuously from her eyes. Still, so long as any of the landscape remained familiar, she continued to crane her neck and gaze out at all the beloved scenes so as to fix them in her memory; and when, as very shortly happened, they had travelled beyond any familiar landmarks, Colonel Campbell kindly and sensibly pulled out a newspaper and absorbed himself in it, allowing her to have her cry out in peace; after which, being really exhausted by her disturbed night, she fell sound asleep.
When she next awoke, over an hour had passed, and they were already threading the new-built streets of suburbs. A small rain fell, and Jane was dismayed by the view through the glass: rows and rows of small shabby houses, interspersed with fields of cabbages and straggly orchards.
“Is this London, sir?” she asked.
The Colonel laughed at her tone of horror.
“No, this is only the outskirts; set your mind at rest, my child! You will find that the neighbourhood where I and my family have chosen to settle is pleasant enough; only ten minutes’ walk from a fine, handsome park, not to mention streets of elegant shops. And my daughter Rachel will be so eagerly looking out for you; you can have no notion of how many questions she has asked about you, and will have to ask. She is overjoyed at the thought of having a companion. She and her mother, you see, have scrambled over half the world after me — France, in which country Rachel was born — and Corsica — and the West Indies — and the Low Countries — and Ireland — they are regular camp followers and have hardly ever been lucky enough to have a settled place in which to live. So poor Rachel has completely missed attending dame school, and music lessons, and dancing classes, and birthday parties, and all the other things that well-brought up little girls, such as yourself, take for granted. She is hoping — and, indeed, so are her mother and I — that you will be able to help and advise her in ever so many ways.”
The Colonel said all this with great friendliness, and Jane was encouraged, as he had intended that she should be. She said, “Oh, but, indeed, sir, I don’t, either, know very much about birthday parties and dancing classes. I — I have always lived very quietly, you see, in Highbury, with Grandmamma and dear Aunt Hetty; there were so few other children.”
“But you have learned your lessons with good Mrs Pryor — I am told that you are an exceedingly well-informed young person. And you know a great deal about music, so in that department you will be able to help Rachel, who loves to sing, and has picked up, in the course of our ramblings, various peasant ditties; she will be able to tell you a great many tales about mules and mountain passes, but has only been taught by her mamma, and has hardly ever had the good fortune to get near a pianoforte.”
“I love to sing too,” said Jane shyly. “Perhaps we can sing together.”
Her curiosity began to stir about this unknown Rachel.
How very delightful it would be, she thought, if there were ways in which she, Jane, could be of use to the other, could help or inform; how fortunate if Rachel were actually to be grateful for her presence, if the benefits were not to be all on one side. What an unexpected notion that was! She had grown to accept her rejection by Emma as being an example of what life was bound to offer, and to believe, humbly, that because she was so dull, and not interested in making up stories about weddings, nobody could wish for her company. But here, it seemed, was somebody whose early childhood had been even more deprived of amenities than her own.
“How old is Rachel, sir?” she asked.
“Just your age, my child; she will be nine in February. We had hoped, for a long time, that she might be blessed with younger brothers — or sisters; but, alas, that was not to be; so your companionship will be all the more welcome. And, I hope, hers to you. I know you have had the company of your good aunt and grandmother but you must, often, have wished for friends of your own age.”
Jane could not feel, truthfully, that this was so. She had become used to her solitude, had often consciously enjoyed it, had never been aware of loneliness; she could pass hours in perfect content playing her music, or sitting on the bank of a brook watching the minnows, or at her needlework, absorbed in the memory of some book that she and Mrs Pryor had been reading together.
“Indeed I have never had a friend,” she said thoughtfully.
“Well, now you are furnished with one — friend, sister, companion — ready made, on offer! Which is enough, I daresay,” remarked Colonel Campbell drily, “to make you both detest one another on sight! But let us not tempt Providence by supposing any such thing, for now we are arrived, and yonder I perceive Rachel and her mother on the step, ready to greet you.”
In fact the carriage had, while they were talking, rolled into a spacious new-built square, with a circular garden in the centre, protected by railings; and, close at hand, outside of a handsome modern red-brick mansion, a lady and child were waiting with eager expressions of curiosity on their faces.
“Well, my dears,” called the Colonel jovially as the horses came to a halt, “here she is, I have brought her to you, and now you can pet her and play with her to your hearts’ content.”
He spoke so cheerfully, opening the door of the carriage, that Jane was startled to see the child on the step throw him what seemed a nervous, apprehensive look, as if she were not prepared to believe in his good humour.
Next moment the lady, presumably Mrs Campbell, a thin and frail, but brown-visaged and intelligent-looking person, dressed in a very plain, almost Quakerish fashion, was helping Jane to alight, and embracing her in the warmest possible manner, while exclaiming, “Welcome, a thousand welcomes, my dear child! We are so happy to meet you. I was well acquainted with your father, you know, before his sad, untimely death — the kindest, most delightful young man. Oh, you have quite a look of him — his eyes exactly — has she not, James? For his sake, and for your own too, we are most happy to have you here. Are we not, Rachel?”
The child beside her drew a half-strangled breath. With a sudden flash of astonished comprehension, Jane realised that she really was terrified of something — almost too terrified to speak. Stepping forward, with a most unwonted initiative, Jane caught hold of her hand — a piteously thin, cold hand it was, like a little bird’s claw — and said quickly, “I do so hope that we shall be friends! Your papa has told me a great deal about you!”
Two skinny arms came round her neck. “I am s-s-s-certain we s-shall!” said a hesitant little voice in her ear. “I want to I-love you like a s-s-sister!” Over her shoulder Jane felt Rachel cast a scared glance at her father.
“That’s right, that’s right — but come along, Rachel, don’t be dawdling there, do not keep poor Jane shivering on the step!” he said impatiently. “Bring her indoors where she can see the house, and get warm, and grow accustomed to us all.”
Flinching, Rachel would have retreated, but Jane held fast to her hand, thus allowing herself to be drawn into the hall, where the Colonel was loudly exclaiming, “Come, where’s my dinner? Where’s my leg of mutton? I am downright famished, and so, I dare swear, is poor Jane — hey, Jane, are not you?”
Rachel winced again, at her father’s brusque demand, but Mrs Campbell answered tranquilly, “Dinner will be quite ready in ten minutes, my dear. Before that I daresay Jane will like to see where she sleeps — come with me, Jane, my child — and to wash her face and tidy her hair a little.”
During which process — which revealed to Jane that, for the first time in her life, she was to have a capacious bedchamber all to herself — Mrs Campbell, who accompanied and assisted her with the greatest kindness, also addressed her the following words of earnest advice:
“My dear Jane, we are truly glad to have you with us, for your dear father’s sake, and shall do our utmost to make your stay here as happy as possible. We are not rich people, you know. My husband, due to his wounds and — and other reasons — was obliged to sell out of the army sooner than he would otherwise have wished; though, for myself and Rachel, I am very pleased to be back where there are houses and pavements and libraries! But our style of living will be very plain; there will be no grand entertainments, or anything of that kind. But all that we have you shall share.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” quietly answered Jane (but thinking, as she looked round her spacious chamber, observing the bed with a quilt, the well-polished chest-of-drawers, the closet full of shelves, the slipper-chair and dressing-stand, that the Campbells’ style of living, however plain, was greatly superior to that of the Bates ladies in their three rooms in Highbury).
“There is, however, one thing that I should like to say to you directly,” continued Mrs Campbell, glancing towards the door to make sure that nobody was within earshot, “and that is about Colonel Campbell. As you will have discovered, he is somewhat hard of hearing, and this makes him — on occasion — a trifle impatient, if he cannot catch what other people — especially children and servants — are saying. He is not at all an ill-tempered man — I would not wish you to think that — but he can be hasty. All will be very well so long as you speak up clearly and address him without fear. Indeed I am rejoiced to see that you and he are already on such pleasant terms. Just speak so that he can easily hear you, and I am sure he will love you like a father.”
“Yes, ma’am. I quite understand. My grandmother is a little hard of hearing too. And I am very much obliged to you for having me to stay,” answered Jane.
This was not, at the moment, strictly true; she was in a misery of homesickness, wondering how in the world Aunt Hetty and Grandmamma were managing without her — they would have finished their early dinner long ago and now, most likely, she thought, would be sitting shedding tears with no Jane to wind wool and read aloud to them. — But, most likely, kind Mrs Goddard or Mrs Pryor would have stepped in, knowing how they must be feeling this first evening without their precious child. Encouraged by this notion, Jane looked up at Mrs Campbell, whose thin, brown, clever face was bent down to hers in earnest goodwill.
“Colonel Campbell was so very fond of your excellent father, my dear — who, indeed, saved his life on at least two occasions. And he is ready to be equally fond of you. He —” Mrs Campbell glanced again towards the door, as if she would have said more, but at this moment Rachel came shyly round it.
“Ah — Rachel my love. That is right. Now you can take Jane downstairs, and show her the way to the dining-room.”
Jane, seeing them again side by side, was struck very much by the resemblance between mother and daughter. They both had the same very thin, long faces, long noses, and small delicate mouths; but where Mrs Campbell’s eyes were bright brown and sparking, Rachel’s were pale grey, similar in colour to her father’s, and rather close-set. Her nose, too, had a tendency to pinkness. Lank brown hair hung straight round her face; she was, in fact, poor child, decidedly plain. Yet, thought Jane, there was a quality insta
ntly attractive about her thoughtful, interested, inquiring expression and the light in her grey eyes, suggesting that she would eagerly welcome all new impressions, all new encounters, and put them to excellent use.
As before, she caught Jane’s hand, saying in a half whisper, but very warmly, “After d-dinner I have s-s-so many things to s-s-show you —”
“Make haste!” came the Colonel’s clarion shout from below, and they hurriedly scampered down the stairway.
Before she fell asleep that night, Jane had many tears to shed. The noises in the street outside were disturbing: strange, loud, and unfamiliar, hoofbeats on stone, shouts of link-boys, wheels rattling on a paved roadway; and she thought of poor Aunt Hetty, lonely in her tiny chamber where the other bed stood empty for the first time. Jane longed for the silence of her own village, where the loudest sound at night would be the hoot of an owl or bark of a kennelled dog. — But, beyond sorrow and homesickness, what a multitude of new things she had to occupy her mind! And, foremost, making all other details of this new existence sink into the background, was the visibly unhappy relation between Colonel Campbell and his daughter. Each time he addressed her, she shrank and trembled — and small wonder, thought Jane, for his manner to her was so harsh, irritable, lacking any kindness or patience. How can he be so unreasonable to her? wondered Jane, when he is so understanding and kind to other people? Poor Rachel did not help her own cause, it could certainly be seen, for when she did address her father in reply to his questions (never spontaneously of her own accord) her voice was frequently so low and timid that he furiously ordered her to repeat almost every sentence. And her stammer, less observable when she conversed with other people, became, when she spoke to her father, so severe, so crippling, that the shortest phrase, or even a single word, often took her several minutes, while the Colonel waited, irritably tapping fingers on the table, or the arm of his chair. It was painful, it was distressing, to watch and listen to them. — Whereas Rachel, on her own, was a different being. With what eager pleasure did she display to Jane all her collections of pressed flowers from the West Indies, her tiny Corsican doll — “We had so little room in the s-saddle bags, you s-see, that she was the only toy I was permitted —” her drawings of foreign castles, and the few books she had already acquired since their arrival in England. “Now you are with us I hope we s-shall get m-many m-more! Do you find my English accent v-very odd, Jane? G-Grandmother Fitzroy says that I roll my r’s dreadfully; I had a Corsican nurse, you see, I spoke Italian before I learned English (or not even Italian, exactly, but the language they s-speak in C-Corsica, Aunt Sophia s-says it is dreadful g-gibberish;) poor Giannina, she cried when we left, and s-so did I; then there was S-Seraphina in Santa Lucia, and G-Grizek in K-Krabbendam, and M-Maire in Ireland — I have had so many nurses, and each one s-spoke a different language! And now we are to have a g-governess, P-Papa says he hopes she will teach me to s-speak correctly. We have only, you know, been in England three weeks; I like it well enough, but not s-so well as the West Indies. But now you are with us I am s-sure I shall like it m-much better!” hugging Jane. She had innumerable questions to ask about England, which Jane answered to the best of her ability.