— and cannot be healthy. You would pity her, mother, if you could see how thin she is, she is like a child. Her arms and legs are sticks and she is so small, smaller even than I am, and she has no stomach or chest on her but then she does not eat. She has her coffee, black stuff, evil looking stuff, and sips that all day and otherwise pecks at whatever is sent up. A pudding she will try and fruit if it is soft but meat she detests. I have seen her feed it to Flush when she thinks no one looks. So, mother, she receives little to make her strong and needs medicine to make her sleep. She cannot sleep without it, she says it is her elixir. I measure the drops, it is laudanum, most carefully and collect a new bottle of the tincture each week from the chemist on the corner and he says it is a wonder Miss Barrett is still alive. She has a Cough which troubles her but no worse than our Fanny’s and there is no Blood thanks be to God. But it is a sad life she leads and without her family she would be sadder still.
Wilson blotted the letter carefully. She would describe the family in another letter – there were so many of them, her head had ached with learning their names. Miss Henrietta and Miss Arabel of course were easy but the men were different. She knew Master Septimus and Master Octavius first because they were most in the house and the noisiest and came most often to see Miss Elizabeth. They were the youngest of the six sons, both tall and fair and although twenty and twenty-two years of age seeming very much younger. They smiled a great deal and always had tales to tell and Wilson was not too afraid of them.
Next up from Septimus was Alfred, called Daisy which puzzled Wilson hugely, and he was a lazy young man, always yawning and vowing he was done for. He did not visit his sister so often but, when he did, he sketched her. Wilson saw and admired his sketches and thought him clever even if she never felt entirely at ease. Sette and Occy teased her, if they noticed her at all, but Alfred watched her through his half-closed eyes and she wondered if he was critical of her and if so why. He never addressed a direct word to her and neither did Henry, two years older than Alfred. Henry was the rarest visitor of all in Miss Elizabeth’s room – Wilson was there a month before he came. She did not take to him. He was peremptory, frowned a lot, appeared discontented and bad tempered. And she was afraid of his dog, an enormous hound called Catiline. This animal was supposed to remain in the yard or below stairs but when the master was out Henry allowed him to wander everywhere and all the servants warned Wilson to watch out and keep away if the beast was roaming the stairs. The other two brothers were much older, or seemed so. George was the image of his father though not so tall and sometimes appeared to Wilson even more impressive. He frowned a great deal and always looked worried and serious and she had heard Miss Elizabeth tease him and ask him if he carried all the cares of the world on his strong shoulders. George was a lawyer and came and went as regularly as his father. Charles John, the oldest of the brothers, stayed at home all the time and was often in his sister’s room. He was known as Stormie but was very un-stormlike. Wilson had never seen such a hopelessly tongue-tied and shy young man – he made her feel bold by comparison.
So far, mother knew only the names of all the family. Wilson was waiting until she could differentiate them all more usefully before she would describe them to those at home and make them as vivid as she hoped she had made the servants. Mother was well acquainted by the end of the first month with Minnie Robinson and her ‘Kindness’ and knew, among others, of the flighty Tilly and Simon, the boot boy, and of the alarming Charles, the footman, whose passion in life was pigeons (not that he could keep any in Wimpole Street). Then there was the butler, Mr John, who was respectful and not nearly as powerful as Mrs Robinson, and Molly Mawson, Miss Henrietta and Miss Arabel’s maid, who had been very nice to Wilson from the start and helped her a great deal. Mrs Tappit was the cook and Amy the scullery maid and that was it. With the exception of Tilly and Charles, Wilson liked them all and felt comfortable remarkably quickly, but it was only to Minnie Robinson that she felt drawn. Mrs Robinson ruled the house absolutely and yet no one was afraid of her. She was firm but gentle, always gentle, and inspired in the other servants a desire to please. Even Tilly jumped to put right whatever Mrs Robinson had found wrong and tried not to offend again. Every day, Mrs Robinson had Wilson into her room for a quarter of an hour in the afternoon when Miss Elizabeth rested and they took tea. Wilson assumed at first that this regular meeting must be for Mrs Robinson to keep an eye on her and question her to see that she was doing what she ought – though for a housekeeper to interrogate a lady’s maid would not, as Wilson knew, be proper. But on the contrary, Mrs Robinson, who was soon Minnie to her, never asked a thing beyond enquiring whether she was content.
One afternoon, there was another woman there when Wilson entered Minnie’s room. She made to leave, but Minnie called her back and said she wanted her to meet Mrs Treherne who had been Crow, Miss Elizabeth’s maid. Mrs Treherne excused herself from getting up, saying she was near her time and tired with the walk from Camden Town. Wilson shook her hand and sat down, shy and a little intimidated. As she wrote to her mother:
— it was Crow, mother, as I have heard so much about. Tilly told me Miss Elizabeth loved her dearly and cried her heart out when Crow left and vowed she wanted no other maid and I believe this to be true. She is a fine looking woman even now though big with child and her face Minnie says somewhat swollen as well as her belly and legs. She has fine dark eyes, eyes like Miss Elizabeth, but her face is square and ruddy and her expression Frank. She said she was pleased to meet me, as I was to meet her, and she asked me if I liked my new place and was glad to hear I did because my mistress was Precious to her, she had been with her through Great Sorrow and had feared often for her Life. I asked if I might be so bold as to enquire about the Great Sorrow but Mrs Treherne shook her head and there were tears I am sure in her eyes mother and she said she was not able to speak of it today. I begged her pardon and asked after her health. She said she was to go to Caister shortly to be confined and would be glad to rest up there at her mother’s house. When she said that, mother, my own eyes filled, I could not help it, thinking suddenly of your house and what an age it will be before I see you and my dear sisters. I wish —
But after some thought Wilson had scored that out. It was no good wishing for letters from home as long and regular as those she despatched. Mother did not have the time to write nor did she have so much to write about, though Wilson had told her every detail was of interest to her, every scrap of home life. And Ellen and May were worse. Ellen added a line or two to mother’s letters and that was all and most unsatisfactory. May wrote her own notes but they were poor things and Fanny only signed her name with a row of kisses.
Miss Elizabeth knew she wrote many letters home because she had seen her scribbling. Wilson had thought her mistress was asleep and had pulled paper from her work basket and a pencil to finish off a long letter she wished to post that day. ‘Why, Wilson,’ Miss Elizabeth had said, making her jump, ‘is that a letter?’ Wilson had blushed, dropped her pencil in confusion and vowed she had meant no offence and would not do it again only – and then Miss Elizabeth stopped her and laughed and said what nonsense Wilson talked, that she was quite delighted to find her maid had a taste for correspondence. Ever since, she had plied Wilson with paper and envelopes, requesting to know if she preferred small to large sheets, rough to smooth paper, pencil to ink and if ink which ink and what kind of pen. Wilson was embarrassed by her mistress’s interest but it went further. Miss Elizabeth examined her handwriting and said it was good and clear and better than hers.
‘Where did you learn that hand, Wilson?’
‘From my mother, miss.’
‘As I did mine. My dear mother could not abide an untidy hand. She would make me copy out my letters to my grandmother until she was satisfied I could do no better. And Bro had his knuckles rapped many a time … dear Bro.’ To Wilson’s consternation, the tears had coursed down Miss Elizabeth’s face and Miss Henrietta coming in had been alarmed and rushed
to comfort her, asking Wilson whatever had happened.
‘Nothing, miss. We were talking of writing and letters and Miss Elizabeth spoke of her mother teaching her and of, I think Bro, or some such name, and how – ’ Miss Henrietta shushed her and indicated she should leave the room.
Later, Minnie consoled her. It was, she said, only the mention of those dead loved ones, of Miss Elizabeth’s mother and brother, that had upset her. Minnie said she never mentioned Bro’s name and hardly ever her mother’s and when she did she was quite overcome. It was a sad story Minnie told her and Wilson felt guilty because it gave her such drama for another letter.
Dearest Mother,
I am well and glad to receive your letter this day which came in the afternoon and was a great comfort and I was happy to know Fanny is better and Ellen has bought a new hat though I cannot fancy she will wear such a Creation as you describe very often. I have hardly been out to need a hat even though the weather is fine and I miss the air. Presently I hope to walk to the Regents Park which I believe is a great sight and there is a Zoo and a Diorama and all manner of delights, would that I could see them.
Miss Elizabeth has a Cough and is not as well as previously and we are anxious the weather being good and it not being the season for a cough. But she had been brought Low and has wept many a day and I cannot account for it nor can anyone. But I have discovered some of the sorrows she has and sorrows indeed they were mother such as will make you weep yourself. Her mother was taken right suddenly, all in three days, when none suspected she was mortally ill and Miss Elizabeth did not speak for two months except the bare necessities. But mother worse was to follow for she had a brother Samuel and he died of the fever in Jamaica when Miss Elizabeth lay ill at Torquay and hardly had that blow struck mother before another brother whom she loved dearest of all was drowned in a storm. Minnie says she was not with her then, being in London here, but Crow, as I met last week, was and thought Miss Elizabeth would go insane with grief. It was four years ago mother, in the summer, but she cannot speak of it, her suffering being too great still. Minnie says Crow swears Miss Elizabeth willed herself to die and when she did not could only think she had been spared to do her work. She has written such poems that they are to appear in two volumes this August mother – only think of it! I have not seen any of the poems but Minnie says Miss Henrietta tells her their father thinks they are very fine and will make a stir. A man comes sometimes and he reads them —
Wilson was aware her mother might misinterpret this piece of information and hastened to add that this man was a relation, a cousin. She thought him an impressive gentleman, this John Kenyon, though he was not as handsome as Mr Barrett whose age he was. He was large, portly, balding, florid-faced but his bearing was dignified and he had a way of peering over his spectacles which Wilson found endearing. She had shown him in each week and could now meet his level, appraising stare on arrival without flinching. He did not engage her in any conversation, for which she was grateful, but he smiled and nodded and told her once, on the way out, that Miss Elizabeth was fortunate to have replaced Crow with someone prepared to look after her so devotedly.
Wilson thought about what Mr Kenyon had said after he left, pondering over the meaning of ‘devotedly’. She was not sure if she was devoted or not. The word implied an intimacy she could not in all honesty say that she yet felt. It was only right to use that word about her mother – then, it was literally true. But with her mistress she was still, after a month, nervous and unsure. She had picked up the routine tasks of the day quickly enough, there had been no difficulty there, but she had not caught Miss Elizabeth’s measure as easily. It seemed to her Miss Elizabeth wanted something she was failing to give and the knowledge troubled her. Miss Elizabeth would say, ‘Give me another draught of laudanum, Wilson, my head aches so, I shall not sleep,’ and when Wilson dutifully measured out drops of the tincture and gave it to her mistress she seemed somehow displeased though her order had been precisely obeyed. ‘You do whatever I ask, Wilson,’ Miss Elizabeth had said more than once but it had sounded like a complaint. Once, her mistress had said fretfully, ‘Crow would not have let me have more,’ and Wilson had felt humiliated. What did Miss Elizabeth want?
Watching her sometimes, when she dozed, Wilson was aware of a growing tenderness. She sat darning a stocking, as near to the window as she could get (though the blind being down not much sun struggled through) and looked round the room and found herself shivering. It was like a tomb, a very well appointed tomb, with everything the dead person could want gathered together for their enjoyment in the next world. The white busts of the poets Miss Elizabeth revered glowed eerily in the half light and the spines of the hundreds of books glittered on the shelves. And there, shrouded in a heavy coverlet, her dark hair spread out on the pillow, her pale hands hanging listless over the side of the chaise longue, lay this tiny creature, smothered and trapped by all the belongings and furniture. It was a sad life, Wilson reflected, for all its ease and security. Weariness lay heavy in the air, lethargy seemed to seep from the walls, and there was a hint of despair over every surface. Wilson darned and thought. Miss Elizabeth’s illness, if illness it was, and the deaths of her loved ones, did not seem sufficient to account for her misery. What more was there to know? She was beginning to feel, as everyone in the whole house did, that she would do anything to bring a smile to her poor mistress’s face.
Hearing a carriage, Wilson paused and listened. It was the wrong time of day for callers but she heard, faintly, the door knocker bang and then voices and afterwards the door closing and the carriage driving off. Sitting as she was at the back of the house, she could not peep out to see what was happening but she would hear later, from Minnie. She completed a fine darn and made the end good. Miss Elizabeth’s clothes were not in good order – in that respect at least Crow had not been perfect, which gave Wilson much inward satisfaction though she would not for the world have remarked on it to a soul. Her mistress had little interest in clothes, wishing daily she could stay in her chemise and wrapper without the trouble of dressing, but she confided in Wilson that if she dared to do so it angered her father who liked to see her properly attired. So she had two black silk dresses for the summer and two black velvet for winter and they were all much the same, distinguished from one another only by a difference in collar. The effort of donning this costume exhausted Miss Elizabeth every morning of her life. Patiently, Wilson had learned to leave this laborious dressing until after her mistress had done some of her writing, finding she was better humoured, less listless, if she had worked. Then she would try to get it over as quickly as possible, provoking the response, ‘You are very deft, Wilson.’ This comment made her blush. She was not sure if it was praise or not and merely said, ‘Yes ma’am,’ and bobbed her head.
‘Was that a carriage, Wilson?’ Miss Elizabeth asked, voice drowsy and eyes still closed.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘I wonder who it could be?’
‘Shall I find out, miss?’
‘No. It is of no consequence. It will be a caller for Henrietta. I do not know how she can abide to visit and be visited so.’
Wilson said nothing. She picked up another stocking and began threading a needle. Minnie had made dark hints about Miss Henrietta and a certain soldier who should be nameless. She said the master was no fool and would see through any pretence. Miss Henrietta, Minnie said, was running it very close and should not count on luck forever. Next week the master was to travel out of London for a week and already Miss Henrietta had been to her, wheedling and sweet-hearting her into a few jellies and biscuits for a squeeze she planned. Minnie swore to Wilson she would not countenance any defiance of the master’s orders and that if he were to leave orders that there was to be no company allowed into the house while he was away then that would be that: no jellies, no biscuits, no sharing in Miss Henrietta’s defiance. But if no such order was issued then, why, it would be a pleasure to oblige.
Some evenings, up in her room
after Miss Elizabeth had been put to bed, Wilson heard muffled laughter and faint strains of a violin and knew Miss Henrietta had persuaded her father to let them have an entertainment. Minnie had told her Mr Barrett could be as sociable as any of them, given the right mood, but Wilson, lying in the dark, could not envisage it. There seemed no strain of fun in the master at all. Whenever she saw him in Miss Elizabeth’s room he appeared grave and anxious. She was half tempted to creep down and hang over the banisters to see if she could catch a glimpse of the master enjoying himself through the open drawing room door but so far she had not had the courage. Her curiosity was never greater than her concern to be at all times beyond reproach. Sometimes, Mr Barrett would detain her a moment as she made to leave Miss Elizabeth’s room on his arrival – he put up a finger and paused himself and she curtseyed hastily then stood her ground, looking up at him as he liked his servants to do. Occasionally, he spoke to her, never more than the most brief enquiry as to either her own health or Miss Elizabeth’s, but mostly he simply held her gaze a moment or two before nodding and with his nod dismissing her. Wilson had heard Tilly swear her stomach turned to jelly and even Charles confessing to a tremor or two when he did this to them but Wilson felt no fear. Mr Barrett’s eyes seemed to her not so much frightening as appraising and since she did her work well and conducted herself in a seemly manner she did not flinch as others did. She tried very hard in one letter to explain this to her mother, emphasising that
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