Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  Wilson felt flushed with pleasure but did not know how to communicate this to Miss Elizabeth except by saying she thought the poem beautiful. Miss Elizabeth smiled and said she would show Wilson the verses when they were printed in a book and that if she wished she might have the volume containing them as a present. That, said Wilson, would be a fine thing.

  Wilson had always revered books, without knowing why. When she had first gone to Mrs Graham-Clarke’s, it had been her job to dust the books on Wednesdays. Each volume had to be taken down and the spine dusted and the top of the pages dusted and the book opened carefully before it was replaced to make sure all the dust was gone. It took a long time and was found tedious by the other maids who were glad to relinquish the task to Wilson. Week after week, dusting the same books, opening them at much the same pages, Wilson developed a growing familiarity with their contents though she did not at any time sit down and read them. They were not truly of any great interest to her as reading matter because they were almost all about natural history, Mr Graham-Clarke’s great passion. Wilson was not desperate to know the mating habits of the crested grebe nor when the swallow migrated or where to but she liked the very arrangement of the texts, the importance of the chapter headings and the attractive appearance of the print. She was sorry when book dusting was no longer within her domain and had been only too happy in Wimpole Street to take it upon herself again. By rights, it was Tilly’s job but Miss Elizabeth found Tilly’s method of book dusting irritating and so did Wilson – it was done so hurriedly, so carelessly, each book pulled out roughly and attacked energetically with the duster and slammed back into place all in one jerky movement. So Wilson had offered and her offer was graciously accepted by those concerned and now she dusted books on Wednesdays, just as in the old days.

  But the books were different as Wilson discovered very quickly. Miss Elizabeth had so many slim volumes of poetry, each difficult to dust, unlike the big Graham-Clarke natural history volumes which were an inch or two broad at the top where the dust sat visibly. These poetry books, on the other hand, had to be virtually caressed, they were so thin. And the poems were set out so spaciously that lines leapt out demanding attention as she took her duster reverently round them. Wilson learned the names of Shelley and Keats and Wordsworth and knew the titles of Queen Mab (a name she loved) and Endymion and The Excursion. She read snatched lines from all of them, mouthing them as she dusted, looking forward to the following week when she could add some more. She knew that if she had the courage and was prepared to speak out Miss Elizabeth would be most likely to tell her to take down whatever book she wanted and read it in her room but she was not yet bold enough to be so forward. And if she had been, it would not after all have been the poetry she would have borrowed but the books from the other side of the room, the novels. Sometimes, she read whole pages of those and she longed to know what happened to Alice Darvil in Ernest Matravers and whether she did or did not have a child by him as seemed likely by the last few pages of volume one. She could not find volume two, however hard she searched, and did not even consider asking for it. Even more absorbing was Rob Roy. All three volumes were there but, however assiduously she dusted, Wilson could do no more than take in lines that seemed to leap out at her of their own accord – ‘I must inform you at once, Mr Osbaldistone, that compliments are entirely lost on me, do not, therefore, throw away your pretty sayings’ was one of these, for it sounded just how her mistress might speak in reply to flattery. She could not link this with another line a little later in the same volume – ‘My dear Mr Francis, be patient and quiet, and let me take my own way, for when I take the bit between my teeth, there is no bridle will stop me’ – but felt they were excitingly connected. She would have liked to take all of Rob Roy to her room for, as she wrote to her mother:

  — I have a deal of time on my own mother more than you would think and more than I ever had so I am not tired as before. Miss Elizabeth likes to be by herself to read and write and she rests many hours besides and has no need of me so long as I am near should she do so. I sew and have fully repaired all her clothes and she exclaims at the neatness of my darns and is well pleased with the freshening I have done. She asks me if I do not think sewing an abomination and was surprised when I said no I did not but liked it and thought it useful and was happy to sew. I have made her a lace collar for her black dress which was drab and in need of some decoration and she thinks it a wonder that my fingers can fashion such a gossamer thing from mere thread as she says. And Miss Elizabeth goes to sleep by nine and sometimes eight in the evening so you see I have extra hours to myself which I might otherwise not have.

  And what did she do with those hours? Wilson asked herself and fretted because the answer was not as much as she would have liked. In the daytime, when she was obliged to be near at hand even if not required, the problem was not too pressing. She embroidered and crocheted and was tolerably content. But in the light summer evenings when Miss Elizabeth had retired, or even before then when she had no need of a maid because Arabel was with her, Wilson was restless. Then she would have read, if she could have had free access to the books which filled her mistress’s room or been able to afford to buy her own, which was quite out of the question. Newspapers and magazines were easier to come by. Miss Elizabeth took a great many of both and when they were cleared out each month Wilson could have her pick but she found most of them dull reading. Only Punch, which at 4d a month seemed expensive to her, entertained her and she read it from cover to cover, pausing often over the cartoons and wishing she could always work them out.

  Miss Elizabeth asked her once if she had been to the Diorama. She did not like to say she could not afford the entrance fee in case it seemed ungrateful but it had been hard to avoid doing so when her mistress urged a visit upon her. Nor had she yet seen any of the sights of London, not even the river, or visited a theatre. She had been nowhere but Regent Street Chapel and Regent’s Park and also along Oxford Street. Often, climbing the stairs to her room when it was still a brilliant June evening outside she had wished she had a companion to take her out or that it were acceptable for her to go alone. But her only friend among the servants was Minnie and Minnie only went out to visit her sister. With the rest, Wilson did not mix and was on the whole too old as well as too senior to do so. If Miss Elizabeth had led a different life then so would she have done: she would have accompanied her as other lady’s maids accompanied their mistresses and had a fine time. It surprised her, after three months in Wimpole Street, to realise how very much more restricted her life actually was than it had been in Newcastle but of course, as she reminded herself, there she had known so many people with whom she had grown up and also she could wander abroad with confidence on her own, knowing where to go and where not to go.

  Miss Elizabeth asked her often and, Wilson felt, anxiously if she missed home.

  ‘Yes, miss, indeed I do.’

  ‘What do you miss, Wilson? Besides your mother and sisters of course.’ Once more Wilson was embarrassed – to be asked to discuss her feelings in such a way was excruciating to her and yet Miss Elizabeth would persist in spite of her surely obvious discomfiture.

  ‘Home itself, miss, the ease of it. And Newcastle. It is not a beautiful place but I have known it all my life.’

  ‘But does London not excite you, Wilson?’

  Wilson was guarded. ‘I expect it would, miss, if I saw it as presently I am sure I shall.’

  But that was the wrong thing to say for as she wrote to her mother:

  — my poor mistress wept to think she held me back as she vowed she held all back who were around her and she would not listen to my denials and indeed mother it was thoughtless of me to speak so and I was ashamed. But Miss Elizabeth must have spoken to Miss Henrietta for the following afternoon she said to me Wilson you are to go out and see something of London you are to accompany Henrietta to her friend Mrs Maggs which is a good drive away across the river and you will go in the carriage with her and see some si
ghts. Well mother I protested of course and said my place was with her and indeed I wished only to be with my own mistress and do what was right but she would not hear of it and said Molly, as is Miss Henrietta’s maid, had a pain in her face which was true and could not go and I was needed and would oblige Miss Henrietta and in short it was an Order. How she laughed when she said it was an Order and how happy she was for me and I was excited I confess. We set off at three o’clock and drove down Regent Street at a trot and then round Picadilly and into the square and then oh mother we went down the Mall for all the world like the Queen herself and St James’s Park was beautiful then we crossed Westminster Bridge and my breath was taken by the sight of that mighty River and the Dome of St Pauls far away. Miss Henrietta pointed out this and that and was very kind and then we arrived at Mrs Maggs and stayed until five when we set off to return. But mother we did not return all the way ALONE. Hardly had we set off than Miss Henrietta leans forward and says Wilson my sister says you are discreet and I hope you are and I said I believed I was and she says good because I am going to ask you to be discreet. And then the carriage stops near the bridge and a soldier got in and it was Surtees Cook mother!! He bowed to me politely and said good evening Mrs Wilson and are you well and I said I was and then he took Miss Henrietta’s hand and they talked of meeting the next day to go on a picnic to Richmond and whether it could be managed, Miss Henrietta said she thought it could and that if a party of eight or ten should go then there would be no objections from a certain quarter. Then Mr Cook, for I know not of his rank to call him by it properly, he got out of the carriage and we went home to Wimpole Street. Miss Elizabeth asked me how I had enjoyed the outing and said she could tell even before I spoke that I had enjoyed it because my face showed it and I said I was glad of that because I had enjoyed it indeed and I told her what I had seen. Now Wilson you will be able to write to your mother and tell her something of interest and I said I would. Miss Elizabeth then asked me how I had found Mrs Maggs house and I said what I had seen of it seemed very pleasant but that the housekeeper was not as kindly as Mrs Robinson nor the Kitchen as comfortable as ours. So this is not such a bad place Wilson she said and I said it was a good place and I would always say so and she seemed relieved. Wilson she said I will be frank and tell you I do not like change and I am glad you think this place satisfactory and I hope you always will.

  There were tears in her eyes as she spoke, Wilson saw them clearly and was touched. Only three months and it appeared she had won a place in Miss Elizabeth’s heart simply by being herself and trying hard to please. Mrs Graham-Clarke had not cried nor shown any emotion when after seven years she had given notice. The old lady had sniffed and said some folk did not know when they were well off and would rue the day. The good reference she gave her was worth a great deal to Wilson but a little show of affection and gratitude would have meant more. Miss Elizabeth knew how to show both. She was not effusive but with those tears in her eyes and that touch of her hand and her thoughtfulness for her maid’s pleasure she showed in kind her appreciation. Coming into Miss Elizabeth’s room that night Miss Henrietta saw Wilson painstakingly combing Flush’s coat while his mistress held him and said, ‘Oh, such devotion to duty, Wilson! Why Ba, you have a treasure of a maid and no mistake.’ Miss Elizabeth merely smiled and nodded, while Wilson blushed, but after she had gone to her own room she found herself thinking it was true, she was literally devoted to her mistress and half in love besides.

  Chapter Four

  THERE CAME A day in August when Miss Elizabeth placed in Wilson’s hands two green-backed books and said, ‘There, Wilson, I said you should have your own volumes and there they are for you to keep with you, if you wish.’ Wilson blushed and was incapable of speech (though of late she knew she had become much less tongue-tied and was proud of it). She had never owned any book except the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer.

  ‘Oh, miss,’ she managed to say at last, ‘oh, miss.’ She hugged the books to her chest and smiled and knew that, though it was foolish, she had tears in her eyes. ‘Well, Wilson,’ said Miss Elizabeth, ‘I hope you are as ecstatic when you have read the poems.’

  The books stood on her washstand in a tin box Wilson had taken, empty, from the kitchen, afraid that the precious volumes might somehow get wet even though she was most careful to remove them from the stand when it was in use. She had told no one of the gift, had smuggled them up the stairs in a work-basket, afraid she might meet someone who would enquire how she came to be carrying books, and such fine-looking books, to her room. She would of course have been quite safe if challenged, for she only had to show the fly-leaf to explain all. ‘For Elizabeth Wilson – Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, August 15th, 1844.’ Not thinking to find any inscription, not imagining these books would be stamped with such evidence that they were hers personally, Wilson had experienced a slight sense of shock when she came upon the writing. For days now she had watched Miss Elizabeth pore over piles of these books, writing in many of them before they were handed to her to pack and send to the post, but she had never thought hers might be one of them. It was almost too much to be so included when the other names of those honoured were so far above her. Wilson felt she ought to remark upon the inscription but could not think how to express her gratitude sufficiently. She longed for her mistress to enquire how she found the poetry but no enquiry came and no reference was made to the gift again. Wilson felt she might burst with the need to say something but her opportunity did not come for almost a month when Miss Elizabeth laughed out loud at something in a magazine she was reading. ‘Why Wilson, do listen to what this gentleman says of my poems: “This poet had done better to confine herself to those romantic ballads and sonnets which are so becoming to the female pen instead of straying in a subject very near to politics about which she can know nothing”. Well! What do you say to that?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss, I’m sure except the ballads are very beautiful and so are the sonnets and as for politics, miss, I know not what the writer means.’

  ‘Neither do I, except I suppose he means I ought not to write about suffering and injustice and should not include the “Cry of the Children” and such like.’

  ‘Oh, if that is politics, miss, then indeed the gentleman is wrong for I cried at it and thought it very true and wondered how you could know, if you will excuse me, being so removed from such dreadful things.’

  ‘Newspapers, reports, there is no mystery, Wilson, and novels, which are so wrongly despised, I learn a great deal from novels I assure you. You cried, you say? You truly cried?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. “They look up with their pale and sunken faces and their looks are sad to see” –’

  ‘Why, Wilson – you can recite from it.’

  ‘Many a verse, miss, and soon I shall have it all by heart as I want. And, miss, to write in the books for me, naming me, it was too much, miss –’

  ‘Now I shall cry if you continue, dear, and that will never do with Mr Kenyon coming and staring at me through those spectacles of his just looking for faults. But I am glad you are pleased, Wilson. It makes me happy. And I am more than glad you like my poems enough to have them by heart.’

  Later that day, when Wilson had shown Mr Kenyon in, she heard her mistress say as the door closed, ‘Wilson is quite the critic you know – she comes on rapidly and is not all the mouse you might take her for, Mr Kenyon.’ Climbing the stairs, she wondered about that – was she a critic? What was a critic? Someone Miss Elizabeth esteemed, that was certain. Over and over again Wilson heard her mistress pick up a newspaper and say now there was a good critic or throw it down and declare that critic was no critic but a fool. As for being taken for a mouse, she was used to that. Because she was so small and moved about quietly and had a tendency to avert her eyes, and because her colouring was light and she had no distinguishing features and spoke only when spoken to – she was naturally judged a mouse and people could be forgiven for thinking this. It had never worried her. There were advantages,
particularly working in a large household such as Wimpole Street, in being thought a mouse. She knew she aroused neither fear nor jealousy and so everyone was pleasant to her. Since she never gossiped she never became party to all the plots and sub-plots raging in the house. She had shown she could stand her ground, if need be, and her quiet demeanour was no longer interpreted as possible weakness. Minnie Robinson congratulated her on gaining everyone’s trust. ‘It is not often,’ Minnie told her approvingly, ‘that the master commends a servant, I can tell you, and he said to me only yesterday how satisfied he is. Now that is an important word to the master, Lily, one he rarely uses for he is very rarely satisfied. You must know as I know he mostly gives vent to his dissatisfaction.’

  Indeed Wilson did know. Mr Barrett, at the moment, was deeply dissatisfied with Miss Henrietta and Mr Alfred (because they had been on a picnic without permission), and with Mr Henry (because he had gone to see a friend in Dover) and the whole house knew it. The master was not an evasive man in this respect – his displeasure came straight out and was witnessed by whoever was there. If that person were Tilly or Charles or even Molly, who should have had more loyalty, then the entire staff knew within five minutes. He did not raise his voice but his anger was unmistakable and the whole house felt it, even Miss Elizabeth upstairs in her sanctum. ‘Oh, Wilson,’ she whispered on one such occasion, ‘I do wish Henry would not anger Pa so. He is a most thoughtless boy to cause such displeasure and all for a trip to Dover. I ask you, can it have been worth it?’ Wilson said nothing, only measured out the laudanum with a steady hand. ‘He ought not to go against Papa, who loves him dearly.’ Wilson gave her mistress the tincture she had prepared and watched while it was taken, drained to the last drop. Miss Elizabeth lay back, her eyes closed, murmuring, ‘We ought all to be careful not to hurt poor Papa.’