The Smile of the Stranger

by Joan Aiken

  “Ah, yes. The Court, having refused Charles’s plea, then reassembled, and Bradshaw made a speech in which he declared that the King, like all citizens, was subject to law, such law having been framed by the Parliament, which was the voice of the people… Have you that down, my dear?”

  “Just a moment, Papa.” The pen scratched. “Voice of the people—yes, I have it.”

  “Mind you write clearly, my love! It is but wasted labor if, after all, my words cannot be read.”

  “I am writing my very best,” Juliana assured him stoutly.

  “I did not mean to offend you, my dear—I know that I can rely on you. Oh,” he sighed impatiently, “if there were but a machine into which a man might speak and his words be impressed upon wax!”

  “Now who is being fanciful, Papa? That would be magic. And who needs such a machine, when he has a devoted daughter at beck and call?”

  “Very true, my dear!—Charles made an attempt to speak in his own defense, but he was at all times an indifferent orator. The impediment of his speech which had troubled him so sorely as a child came back to plague him at such times of stress, and while he was stammering and choosing his words, Bradshaw shouted out, interrupting him: ‘You have not owned us as a court! You look on us as a sort of people met together.’”

  The girl wrote diligently, and, while he was waiting for her to reach the end of the sentence, her father observed her with absentminded affection.

  She made a delightful picture as she sat with her feet curled sideways under her and one elbow resting on the table. Her gold-brown hair rippled about her face in natural ringlets, falling to the nape of her neck in front and caught up at the back in a Grecian knot. Her eyes, wide-set and almond-shaped, were dark brown, unlike those of her parent. A smudge of ink on the small chin only added to the charm of her face, which dimpled enchantingly as she looked up and smiled.

  “‘A sort of people met together.’ I infer, Papa, that Bradshaw was employing the word ‘sort’ in the old-fashioned sense of a group, or number?”

  “Yes, child… Bradshaw’s speech continued, and terminated in a sentence of death.”

  Juliana sighed deeply as she wrote, but this time she ventured no comment.

  “Charles again attempted to make a declaration in his own defense, but he was dragged out by the soldiers. He cried out bitterly, ‘I am not suffered for to speak!’”

  “It was too bad! Oh, if I had been there!”

  “If you had been there, you, single-handed, would have vanquished Cromwell, Bradshaw, Cawley, and the rest of the impeachers!”

  “I would have made such a speech!” Her fists clenched at the thought. Then she recollected herself, and said, “I beg your pardon, Papa! I will not interrupt again.”

  Nor did she. More than two hours passed by, during which her father dictated uninterruptedly and she, with tireless hand, wrote down his words. Occasionally, during the affecting description of Charles’s final words and execution, she surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eye, with the hand that was not writing, but she made no complaint of fatigue, as the measured periods continued to flow from the author’s mouth.

  After the execution had been described in all its grim detail, Juliana did glance up hopefully, but, her father immediately proceeding to a discussion of the Martyr-King’s character and difficulties, she obediently continued setting down his words. Only when he said, “Warwick informs us that Charles seldom ate of more than three dishes at most, nor drank above thrice, a glass of small beer, another of claret wine, and the last of water,” did she remark, taking the opportunity to rub her right wrist, as her father’s flow of speech was cut short by a coughing spell, “Papa, dear, let me pour you a glass of wine. Your throat must be dry with so much work. And I believe I had better light the lamp; I can hardly see what I have written.”

  “Very well, my dear. But no wine for me; a cup of water will be sufficient.”

  When the lamp was lit he proposed going on again, but his throat was now in reality so weary that the frequency of his cough finally obliged him to desist. Juliana carefully collated all her pages together, and put a book on top of them, choosing the heaviest from the large number of volumes that lay strewn about within reach of her father’s chaise longue. His eye followed her actions wistfully, and he said, “I will read through those pages after I have rested for a moment or two. By the time I have perused them, I daresay I shall be fit to recommence.”

  “First you must take a little nourishment, Papa. No!”—as he protested. “You must, love, you must indeed! Otherwise I—I shall rebel! I shall refuse to take down your dictation. Look, here is a supporting broth which kind old Annunciata has left for you—let me but heat a little of it over the brazier.”

  He was very unwilling, but, presently recollecting that Juliana herself had taken no nourishment since breakfast, he at last permitted her to prepare a simple repast for both of them. While he was sipping the broth, he kindly inquired, “Did you have a pleasant outing, my dear? Were there many people abroad on the Ponte Vecchio?”

  “Oh, a great many! Now try a grape or two, Papa”—as he pushed away the half-finished broth. “The day has been so warm and pleasant,” she went on, without betraying any hint of the fact that she might have wished to be out in it rather more than for one hasty trip to buy her father some handkerchiefs, “that multitudes of people were strolling by the river. Oh, that reminds me, Papa, of the amusing episode that I had intended relating to you.” And she recounted, with considerable natural vivacity and many lively turns of phrase, the confrontation between the haughty but shabby lady traveler and the shrewd and redoubtable Signora Neroni. She omitted her only half-founded suspicion regarding the lady’s theft of a pair of gloves, feeling that it would be wrong to blacken the character of someone who was not there to defend herself, and ended, “Now, Papa, was that not a diverting occurrence? Was it not singular that she should have applied to me for your direction? You see, your fame is being bruited abroad, and all Florence will soon know that it has a distinguished Englishman of letters living in its midst, despite kind Mr. Wyndham’s being so obliging as to keep your address a secret!”

  “You did not give the lady our direction?” her father interrupted. His tone was sharp. He had gone very pale—even paler than before.

  “Now, Papa, you know me better than that, I should hope! I know your dislike of tuft-hunters and sycophants. I am fully aware of your desire for privacy and seclusion—I know you do not wish to be hunted out and toad-eaten by any sensation seeker who has read your books and wishes to sit at the feet of the author. I did no such thing, but, with the most poker-faced discretion in the world, replied, ‘I am afraid, ma’am, that I cannot help you.’ Did I not do right?”

  He breathed a sigh of heartfelt relief. “Yes, my dear! Of course. I might have known that I could rely upon you.”

  After which he sat silent for many minutes, a half-eaten bunch of grapes dangling from his fingers, while he gazed ahead of him.

  Juliana, too, had been pensive, chin on hand.

  “It is a queer thing, Papa,” she said at length. “I did not observe it at the time, but, recollecting that lady—something about her, I do not know what—perhaps the tone of her voice—has brought back to me an episode of my very early childhood—at least I am not fully certain that it happened at all—did I perhaps dream it? When we were living in Geneva—when I was very small—I seem to recall something that took place in a boat—was it in a boat? I can remember your shouting—you were very angry—and some person holding me up—you taking me from them—”

  She had been saying these things in a musing tone, staring into the red heart of the brazier as she tried to piece together her early recollections, but now she looked up and, aghast, discovered her father white as a corpse, staring at her with dilated eyes.

  “Dio mio, what is it, Papa?” she cried out, breaking into Italian in he
r agitation. “You look as if you had seen a ghost! What is the matter? For God’s sake, tell me!”

  “The Englishwoman!” he said harshly. “Describe her! What age was she? What was her dress? What did she look like?”

  “Tall,” faltered Juliana. “Decidedly shabby—I noticed a great darn in her glove, and a patch on the toe of her boot—long face like a horse—dark eyes, I think—her voice rather deep and loud—and I observed that she wore on her right hand, over her glove, a ring of white stone, shaped into the form of a unicorn’s head. I observed that most particularly because it was so—Papa!”

  A bitter groan had burst from him.

  “It is she! God damn her, the fiend! I thought I had shaken her off at last. How has she managed to find out my whereabouts? I thought I was safe to end my days here!”

  “Papa?” Juliana was trembling. “Who is it? Who is she? Oh, what is the matter?”

  For he had sprung agitatedly to his feet and, with trembling hands, was attempting to assemble together some of the piles of books and papers that lay strewn about the room.

  “We must leave instantly!” he ejaculated. “There is no time to be lost if that archdevil is in Florence. At any moment some unthinking person may betray my direction.”

  “Leave? Leave Florence?” Juliana stared at him in consternation. “But we have lived here for so long—ever since I was eight! You mean—go away altogether? Leave Tuscany? For good?”

  “Yes, yes! Quick! Find the basket trunk! And the hamper and bandbox. And my portmanteau! I will go down to bespeak a chaise. Or, no”—recollecting. “Perhaps it is best if you go. But wear a cloak—a hood. Do you have a loo mask?”

  “A loo mask, Papa?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “What ever should I want with such an article?”

  “Then muffle the cloak around your face. Bid the chaise be here as soon as the horses can be set to!”

  “But, Papa,” said Juliana, wondering if her father had suddenly run mad, “pray consider! I doubt if any chaise may be had so late in the evening! Remember the hour! Will it not do if I go in the morning? Directly the sun has risen, if you wish.”

  “Very true—you are right,” he sighed.

  “And where are we to go?”

  “To England.”

  “To England?” She could scarcely believe him. “But how are we to get there? A chaise will not take us to England.”

  “We will travel by stagecoach across France. Or, no”—recollecting. “I am so shocked I forget that France has declared war on England. As English subjects, that way is barred to us. We must go by sea, from Leghorn.”

  “All the way around Spain?” Juliana was horrified. “Papa, you must not! Do you not remember that Dr. Penzarro said a sea voyage was not to be thought of—that the pitching of a ship would be the worst thing possible—that time when you were wishing to go to Constantinople? Oh, I am sure you should not—I beg you not to think of it.”

  “Child, I must think of it. But it is true,” he said, after a pause, frowning, “they say all the English are beginning to leave—embarking from Leghorn. She might, also. I must reflect. I will write a note to Mr. Wyndham—perhaps he may be able to help us. He has been a good friend. I shall be obliged, my dear, if you can summon young Luigi Fontini, and tell him that I shall require him to carry a note to the Envoy’s residence—and, if Mr. Wyndham is not there, to seek him out.”

  “Very well, Papa,” she said obediently.

  “And, when you have done that, help me pack our possessions. I will attend to my papers—do you concern yourself with our clothes, and other belongings. Fortunately we have not much! We must, in any case, have left within a few months,” he murmured to himself, and, to Juliana’s inquiring glance, added rather hastily, “It is said that the French are certain to invade Tuscany.”

  With trembling hands he began inserting books into a canvas bag, breaking off to admonish Juliana, “If anybody knocks at the door—do not answer!”

  “Oh, dearest Papa—truly I am not sure that you are well enough—”

  “Hush!” he said, turning on her so terrible a look that without further question she set about doing his bidding.

  Two

  Two days later the father and daughter were aboard a small packet boat in the Gulf of Genoa. Tuscany being neutral, shipping still plied to and fro between Leghorn and the French Mediterranean ports. By some mysterious means Mr. Wyndham, the British Envoy at the Court of Tuscany, a good friend of Mr. Elphinstone, had procured Swiss papers for the pair, and they traveled as Herr Doktor Eck and his daughter Johanna. Switzerland at that time was still on terms of uneasy friendship with France; therefore as Swiss citizens they might hope to travel through France unmolested, though Juliana worried privately as to what might befall them when they reached a Channel port and must take ship for England. However, that lay untold weeks ahead; no use to fret about it yet. There seemed little doubt that their journey across revolution-torn France must be far slower and more hazardous than it would have been in normal times.

  Up to the moment of setting sail Juliana had not dared to question her father about their abrupt and unexpected departure—so harassed, apprehensive, and distraught had been his bearing, so impaired his state of health, so infrequent and nightmare-ridden his brief spells of repose as they journeyed across Italy in a drafty and rattling carriage. Sometimes, at posting stages, he had glanced back along the road, as if expecting to see the tall pale Englishwoman in pursuit, but, so far as Juliana was aware, and greatly to her relief, no further sign had been seen of this personage.

  When they were safely afloat and, favored by a calm sea and following wind, were making northwestward, Juliana, observing with unbounded relief her father’s happier look and somewhat easier deportment as the roofs of Leghorn fell away below the horizon, ventured for the first time to make an inquiry.

  Little as she wished to worry her distressed parent any further by questioning, she felt it really incumbent upon her to do so. Beneath her youthful vivacity there lay a vein of sound common sense which told her that, reluctant though she must be to entertain the idea, her father’s frail health and recklessly self-taxing disposition rendered it unlikely that he would live for many more years. Indeed, so exhausting had this hasty removal proved to his delicate frame that, she owned sorrowfully to herself, the period of life remaining to him might even have to be measured in months. If only he could be brought to follow medical advice! But he nurtured a barely concealed contempt for all Italian doctors and paid very little heed to their admonitions. Perhaps in England he might prove more biddable; this, Juliana thought, was one of the very few factors in favor of their removal.

  She herself grieved at quitting Florence, in which city they had lived for nearly ten years, and where the climate appeared to agree with her father. They had acquired few friends, however; Mr. Elphinstone was of a reclusive temperament and seemed to shun his fellow countrymen; their only connections were his professional acquaintances, editors of journals for whom he sometimes wrote articles or did translation, tradespeople from whom they purchased supplies, and the officials at the Envoy’s residence who were also glad sometimes to avail themselves of Mr. Elphinstone’s services as a translator. If her father were to die, thought Juliana, she would hardly know to whom she might turn; and so far as she knew, she had no other relations. She had been vaguely aware that their way of life—solitary, peaceful, hard-working—was somewhat unusual, but she knew no other.

  “Papa?” she ventured as, in the fresh autumn evening, they sat on deck wrapped in capes and watched the sea turn from turquoise to a wonderful shade of amethyst, while the sky’s sharp blue faded to a transparent green. “Papa, may I ask you some questions?”

  She felt, rather than heard, the deep sigh with which he received her words. But after a pause he replied in a melancholy tone, “Of course you may ask questions, my dearest child. Believe me, I am fully aware
of the self-restraint which has kept you from doing so hitherto. But it is time, alas, that you were informed, at least of such among our circumstances as are fit for your ears… How old are you now, Juliana?”

  “Papa! What a question to ask your own daughter! I shall be eighteen on John the Baptist’s Day.”

  “Eighteen…to be sure, that is not very old. Yet you are a sensible child. And—it is as well that you should be informed as to our plans. Ask, then, what you wish, my child.”

  At this permission, questions jostled together in Juliana’s mind. She asked the simplest first.

  “Where are we going to in England?”

  “We are going to a house called Flintwood Manor, in the county of Hampshire.”

  “That is in the south of England, is it not?” Juliana inquired, after consulting a mental map.

  “Yes, it is in a region known as the New Forest—though the forest has not been new for some five hundred years. We shall hope to take ship across the Channel to the port of Southampton, from where it is quite a short journey to Flintwood.”

  “You think that even in time of war ships will still be crossing the Channel to England?”

  “Oh, I daresay there will always be privateers and freebooters,” her father replied dryly. “At a price, doubtless a passage can be found. In my young days I know there was plenty of wool going out, and brandy coming in; I imagine it will still be found to be so.”

  “England!” said Juliana musingly. “I have imagined going there for so long! I have wondered so much what it was like, and wished to see London; especially Whitehall, where poor King Charles lived. Whitehall is such a beautiful name; I picture it all built in gleaming white marble, with orange trees and fountains.”

  “Do not get your hopes up too high,” replied her father in a rather quelling manner. “It is not precisely like that; however, you will see it for yourself in due course, doubtless, and will be able to form your own opinions.”