Chapter Seven
WILSON LOVED THE arrival of the post every bit as much as her mistress did, though receiving so few letters herself. But Miss Elizabeth was generous with her larger share and would often beg her maid to ‘listen, do’ as she read out some particularly interesting passage. Gradually, Wilson learned a lot, becoming aware how imperfect was her own epistolary style. It was unnecessary, she soon realised, to use capital letters in the haphazard fashion she did, and she began to appreciate the importance of correct punctuation. She resolved to try harder to emulate Miss Elizabeth’s educated correspondents. She had as usual, studied the day’s envelopes as she carried them upstairs one morning in the second week of the new year. Mr Kenyon’s hand she recognised and was fairly sure another was that of Mr Horne, a literary friend of her mistress’s who wrote most amusing letters, but the third envelope was a puzzle. It was postmarked New Cross, an area quite unknown to Wilson who wondered if it was in or out of London. Normally, such a missive would have been good for at least ten minutes’ speculation before the paper knife was called upon to do its work but Miss Elizabeth, after glancing at the postmark, laid the letter aside with far too casual an air, remarking that it was doubtless from some unknown person commenting on a poem and would be left to the afternoon. Other letters arrived that day but Wilson could not fail to notice that the New Cross letter remained unopened. It was also noticeable that Miss Elizabeth was in great good humour in spite of having coughed half the night away. Mr Barrett, greatly pleased, commented on this to Wilson as he left his daughter’s room. ‘She is very cheerful,’ he said, ‘in spite of this wretched affliction, an example to all of us, Wilson, of Christian fortitude.’ Wilson murmured agreement and hoped the mood would continue. It did. Three days later, another New Cross letter arrived. This time, her mistress seemed to think an explanation was called for. ‘It is from the poet Robert Browning,’ she said, ‘about my work. I am very pleased to have it.’
She was also, Wilson surmised, very pleased to reply. The letter she wrote back seemed to take up a great deal of time for one who usually wrote so swiftly and fluently. Two drafts of this letter were torn up and thrown on the floor, from where Wilson retrieved them to put them on the fire, and there were many clickings of the tongue and other signs of exasperation. Wilson vaguely remembered her mistress speaking of this poet Robert Browning to Mr Kenyon but could not recall what had been said. There was no one whom she could ask about him, even if she had been bold enough to voice her curiosity, so she stopped thinking about Mr Browning’s letters and turned her attention to the latest one from her mother.
What mother wrote about during January and February was how she looked forward to her eldest daughter coming home in the spring. It had been agreed when Wilson took up her employment in the Barrett household, that every year she would be entitled to two weeks’ holiday and the time was approaching to claim it. When Miss Elizabeth, who had begun to show great interest in the weather, asked if it was milder than usual for February Wilson took the opportunity to remind her that with spring beginning the subject of her holiday was in her mind. ‘Ah yes,’ Miss Elizabeth said, ‘you must go to your family and I shall have to be brave, shall I not?’ She asked when Wilson would go and Wilson said the end of April if it was agreeable, so as to be home for mother’s birthday which fell on May Day. Miss Elizabeth clapped her hands and exclaimed aloud and could not believe that Wilson’s mother shared her own beloved dead mother’s birthday and said certainly she should be there for it and counting backwards it would be best if Wilson departed on April 18th and she regarded this as settled. She asked when Wilson’s own birthday was and if she set much store by it for she made little of her own. Wilson said she would be twenty-five on September 14th and that she did not quite like the idea; she did not relish being a quarter of a century with no home of her own. Miss Elizabeth was very quiet after she said that and Wilson feared she had precipitated one of those attacks on the institution of marriage which plunged her into such confusion. But her mistress only said, ‘Ah yes, a home of one’s own is a fine thing.’
All thoughts of home, which were constantly with her from the middle of February, made Wilson happy but when the early promise of spring disappeared in a savage frost and a bitter east wind just as the daffodils in the park looked ready to bloom, she was obliged to contain her impatience. There was ice on the pavements and once more she was confined indoors, reduced to standing at the window in the afternoons and peering wistfully into the street. London had taught her she liked to be outside more than she had realised – she disliked intensely being kept in, had come to depend on her walks with Flush to Regent’s Park. But it was not just the fresh air and exercise and the change of scene she craved; it was also the possibility, indeed the increasing certainty, of company. Other people were as regular in their park walks as she was, after all. Ten months of leaving 50 Wimpole Street at much the same time every weekday and following much the same route had thrown in her way much the same people, people who now nodded or lifted their hats or smiled in recognition. And then of course there was Timothy, who had gone back to Mr Kenyon, on the gentleman’s return from abroad, and took his pug for a walk at the precise time that Wilson took Flush. It was, she thought, an amazing coincidence.
The moment Timothy left the household in Wimpole Street, Wilson had felt easier with him. She had not liked the scrutiny of the other servants, the eagle-eyed observation of every word and look exchanged. Sometimes it seemed the servants’ hall existed only to gossip about the various liaisons in the house, imagined or otherwise, and she was always on the alert to prevent any tittle-tattle about herself, so even after Christmas she was more reserved with Timothy than she had intended to be. But then, at the beginning of February, Mr Kenyon returned, unexpectedly due to an illness of a relative, and Timothy joined him almost immediately. Wilson met him every day in Regent’s Park for two delightful weeks until the sudden vicious return of winter put a stop to her outings. She was sorry for this, and yet, going back over her encounters with Timothy, wondered what there was to be sorry for? It did not amount to much. They met, always pretending their meeting was accidental, at the main gate and walked for twenty minutes in one direction and twenty in the other and during that time talked mostly of their employers. Timothy, of course, had much more to tell than Wilson. He was, she thought, quite boastful in his description of Mr Kenyon’s immense social standing and the magnificence of his dinner parties, as if such things would impress her. ‘Really,’ Wilson was moved to say one day, ‘I wonder your master wishes to spend so much energy on entertaining. My mistress would not think of it even if she were able to. She despises socialising, it is a waste of creative energy.’ She knew, even as she said it, that she was merely repeating, parrot-like, Miss Elizabeth scolding Miss Henrietta but she could not resist it. Timothy was not put out. He laughed and said he believed his master enjoyed himself and gave others much enjoyment, for certainly even very great literary names were eager enough to come and waste their creative energies at his generous table. Wilson bridled a little, reading into the mention of ‘very great’ literary names a possible reflection of her mistress’s lesser one, and then realised how silly she was being. She admitted to Timothy pleasure and enjoyment of any visible kind were low on the horizon of her mistress’s life. ‘A letter from Mr Browning the poet,’ she confessed, ‘is the highest of joys in her day. It is quite pathetic to me.’ Timothy nodded and looked serious and said he had not been untouched by Miss Elizabeth’s plight when he was in Wimpole Street and that he had wondered how Wilson stood it sometimes when she could have found happier employment with ease. That had turned Wilson’s tongue sharp. She told Timothy her employment was quite happy and that she had never wanted a situation where she would be gadding about night and day with some silly empty-headed lady. She insisted the regime in Wimpole Street suited her quiet tastes excellently. Timothy shrugged and said he was glad of it but that he liked a little bustle himself and had found the Barre
tt household a mite oppressive and had always been glad to be sent off with Mr Octavius. For reasons she could not understand this had offended Wilson so much that she had not spoken for the rest of that walk.
It was only this kind of exchange that she was missing by not being able to go to the park while the intense cold weather continued but Wilson was obliged to admit, if only to herself, that it mattered more than she had thought. She felt deprived, lost without her little daily excursion. Her park life was her own life, and all the more precious because of this, and Timothy was her only friend outside the house apart from Lizzie Treherne. Every time she spied Timothy’s jaunty figure approaching, her spirits could not help rising and his own broad smile was impossible not to match. She knew he was interested in her and regretted only that her unfortunate response to his earlier attempt at a closer degree of friendship had apparently made him wary of approaching her again. He was always absolutely formal and correct, treating her with dignity and a slightly exaggerated respect which made her uncomfortable. He never came anywhere near suggesting they went for a walk together or indeed that they should meet: the pretence was kept up that even their afternoon walks were purely accidental and not to be counted on. Wilson had begun to fear that the first move would have to come from her and she could not think of making it.
But deprived of Timothy’s company she was beginning to think she could do so. Miss Elizabeth had almost lost her voice so there was not even the distraction of talking with her and life was twice as quiet as it usually was. Miss Henrietta had a cold and stayed in bed and Miss Arabel, never given to much conversation in any case, had a harsh cough of her own which prohibited her from visiting her sister’s room although she was not ill enough to take to her bed. Wilson seemed to live in a grey twilight world, performing all her duties mechanically, feeling time was suspended until the frost should go and the ice melt and the sun bring everyone to life again. She felt restless, unable to settle either to write or read, and disinclined to find comfort with Minnie, with whom she normally spent a good deal of time. It was Minnie, in her wisdom, who assured her that everyone was out of joint because the seasons were. ‘There is nothing worse than a spring that goes back on itself,’ said Minnie, ‘even the master feels it. No one will be right until there is some warmth in the air and then we will see things go too much the other way, I daresay, and that will be trouble in itself.’ Wilson could not fathom exactly what Minnie meant but was consoled to think that perhaps what she felt was only a seasonal affliction. She told Miss Elizabeth something of what Minnie had said, merely to pass the time, and her mistress smiled and managed to croak that Minnie was a great believer in spring fever and thoughts of love and had made the same obscure prophecy every year for as long as she could remember and, whatever happened, always declared she had been right. She herself, she said, had no hopes of life improving with the spring. She had no hopes of anything. Hearing this, so sadly said, Wilson’s heart began to beat a little faster with distress and she was glad when Miss Henrietta scolded her sister and thought of any number of things for her to look forward to and promised her that when the sun came out her spirits would rise and her health improve as it always did. ‘And there is your poet, Ba,’ Miss Henrietta teased, endeavouring to be light-hearted. ‘You have made a new friend and, come the spring, may become acquainted.’ Miss Elizabeth was not pleased with this and told her sister not to be so foolish, that being approached for a meeting with Mr Browning was a thing to dread not hope for. But irritation banished the tears and Wilson was grateful to have another crying fit averted. Sometimes the tears came so thick and fast that her own bodice would be soaked in them as she held her mistress tight and patted her like a child. It was this emotional abandon which made Wilson incapable of judging her poor mistress as she would others and Lizzie had told her to beware of it. ‘You will not be able to leave her, as I could not for so long, Lily, you must watch this, you must not get pulled in too far.’
Once the second, true spring had begun it seemed to hurtle along at a frantic rate. The very first afternoon Wilson rushed so eagerly to the park the heat of the sun seemed tropical in spite of the beads of snow still spotting the grass and the slivers of ice round the rim of the lake. Wilson loosened her coat and pushed her bonnet back from her head and, like Flush, lifted her face up and breathed deeply and felt she had come up from a long way underground. Timothy caught her unawares. ‘And where have you been, Mrs Wilson, all these long two weeks?’ ‘Indoors, for sure,’ said Wilson, but she smiled and made certain he knew she was not reprimanding him. Timothy it seemed had still walked forth, swearing the air had been wonderfully bracing and nothing to be feared and that he would have thought Wilson would have been tougher. ‘Well then,’ Wilson said, lightly, ‘perhaps I am weaker and more ladylike than you thought, Mr Timothy.’ ‘I would not like you the less for that,’ Timothy replied swiftly, and she found herself blushing. Pleased, she walked with him the length of the rose garden and he told her of yet another grand dinner party at which he had served. ‘Your lady’s poet was there,’ he said. ‘Mr Browning and a host of other literary grandees.’ She could not help asking what Mr Browning was like, though tried to make her enquiry as casual as possible, not wishing Timothy to sense her curiosity and label it vulgar. ‘A small fellow,’ Timothy said, ‘smaller than I am, but a fine head and a strong voice. He talks a great deal and very loudly.’ Wilson would dearly have loved to press Timothy further but did not dare. Instead, she turned the talk to the subject of the Corn Laws and Miss Elizabeth’s wish to write for the Anti-Corn Law League, and Timothy came to life at once. For the next twenty minutes he lectured Wilson on the iniquities perpetrated by the government and was full of information about riots there had already been and those confidently predicted. There was no mistaking his own sentiments. Listening to him, Wilson was dismayed to find how quickly she became bored; she found she had been looking at the daffodils and estimating how long it would take for the tight buds to open and had not in fact heard a quarter of what Timothy was saying. He did not seem to notice. In full spate, he squired her out of the park, clipping his dog on a lead and attaching Flush for her; then holding both dogs firmly, he continued to walk with her back to Wimpole Street. Wilson attempted to point out that he was going past his own house but Timothy could not be interrupted and swept along with her, unable to break off his discourse. By the time Wimpole Street was reached, she felt quite exhausted and dreaded any response to the half hour tirade being called for. But before No. 50 was reached, Timothy broke off suddenly and nudged her:
— and mother he said Do you see that man on the other side, well it is the poet Mr Browning as sure as I am standing here. Well you could believe I looked very hard and saw the man clearly. He was walking very slowly along past No 50 and looking up at the windows as though expecting to see something of interest which at that time of day I could have told him at once was not likely for there would be no one in any of the rooms at the front of the house. I observed he was smartly dressed wearing fine yellow gloves and a well cut coat with a velvet collar and carrying a hat and cane. He is as Timothy had told me small and trim but with something confident about him that belongs to another taller man I fancied. It was something to tell my mistress when I got in but I did not. I cannot say mother why I held back. It was only that I had a feeling she would not like to be told either that I had seen Mr Browning or that he appeared to be examining the house. So I said nothing of it and talked of the pleasant walk I had had and Flush too. She got up this afternoon for the first time in two weeks and walked around the room a little vowing she was as unsteady as a child of two and she was. I said practice would make her stronger and that she would be well advised to take regular turns around the room and extend them to the rest of the house and then when I came back from my holiday she might go out again. But at this mention of my going away she began to weep and went back to her bed. It is always the same mother for she cannot bear any talk of my departure but you may be sure I remin
d her constantly and will not be put off indeed no. Miss Henrietta’s maid Molly will look after her and I have begun to show her what she needs to know and it will do very well. And I am to travel by the stage coach mother about which I have made enquiries and I shall do it in three stages and will manage it very well do not fear —
But mother would of course be very afraid and Wilson was not as sanguine as she sounded. She had almost no experience of travel. Her only journey had been made with the Newcastle Barretts and she did not look forward to travelling alone and having to fend entirely for herself. Miss Elizabeth, sensing her reservations played upon her doubts and wondered aloud how she could face such an ordeal. Wilson, remembering her mistress’s boasts of how she would travel the world if she could, said she expected she would survive as others had done. That day, Miss Elizabeth retired to bed at four in the afternoon and Mrs Jameson, who had been told she might come at four thirty had to be put off. Wilson was embarrassed but Mrs Jameson was not. She stood in the hall and shook her umbrella – there had been a brief sun-shower moments before – and, after she had listened to Wilson’s explanation and apologies from her mistress, she shrugged and said what of it, she had been visiting at 51 and was not in the least put out and she supposed there might be somewhere she could sit for a moment and pass the time of day with Wilson herself while she got her breath back. Wilson was alarmed and confused. She stared at the redoubtable Mrs Jameson helplessly. Did she mean she expected to be taken upstairs to Wilson’s attic bedroom? Surely not, such a request had never been heard of and was quite unlikely and improper. What, then? Did Mrs Jameson expect to be conducted to the kitchen? Where on earth did she imagine she could have a conversation with a lady’s maid?
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