Lady's Maid
Page 14
Nothing was said, the next morning, of what mother had told her. It was Sunday and everyone was at home and there was meat roasting in the oven and the sun shone. All five of them went to chapel and then walked on the Town Moor in the afternoon, with Wilson describing the difference between such natural wild country beauty and Regent’s Park which she declared pretty and a miracle, existing as it did in a big city, but a pale imitation of the real thing. Her mother and sisters were pleased she preferred the Moor and, seeing how sensitive they were in her praise of London, she began deliberately to look for more and more to exclaim over and swear she would miss once back in grey Wimpole Street. She picked pussy willows and catkins, saying how such a thing was impossible in London; she pointed to the fields and said how hemmed in was Wimpole Street; and she drew attention to the peace, broken only by bird song, and said it was music to her ears after the hideous din of the capital. Her affection for her birthplace made all of them proud to be still living there and, as they walked arm in arm through trees just beginning to meld into each other as the delicate new green leaves spread like lace over the black branches, mother began to sing and all the sisters took up the refrain of ‘Summer is icumen in’. I must be mad, Wilson thought, to give up this and go back to that.
The last few days were painfully sweet. Fanny never left her side. From when she woke up and came straight to her eldest sister until she closed her eyes at night, holding that sister’s hand, she clung to her, linking her arm through Wilson’s so tightly that she threatened to drag her to the ground. Her huge eyes, reminding Wilson strangely of Miss Elizabeth’s for all that they were blue and not brown, gazed into her sister’s as though trying to memorise her every feature. She was so utterly frail and dependent that even to free an arm seemed an act of rejection. She tried to encourage Fanny to practise her writing, promising she would have her very own letters if she would write back, but pen and ink work seemed beyond the girl’s grasp. She would start to copy the letters Wilson wrote out but gave up before a single row of even one of them was legible and complete. It was exasperating but, curiously, Fanny did not appear depressed by her failure though she apologised sincerely enough. What is to become of her Wilson wondered, as she observed that it was not only writing skills Fanny lacked. She could not sew without the stitching becoming ragged in a moment and the simplest of cooking tasks, though she could manage them, held no attraction for her. Half way through rolling pastry she would simply abandon it and wander off. Mother was endlessly tolerant and seemed to expect nothing better of her youngest child. The same excuses were made for her at fifteen as had been made when she was five and Wilson began to realise that the suspicions she had always had of Fanny’s mental inadequacy were correct. She was backward if not totally deficient. There was something seriously lacking, though it could not be readily seen – Fanny looked quite normal and could converse fluently if in a childish way. But as she appreciated Fanny’s true condition, Wilson began to fret over her future. If anything happened to mother, who would look after Fanny? Not Ellen or May, who were in service, yet who else was there? And so, before she left, she resolved to speak to mother and set her mind at rest: Fanny would be her responsibility and she would acknowledge this and pledge to support her and guard her. How she would do such a thing, she did not know and did not stop to work out. All that mattered was the promise.
Waking on her last morning to the sun flooding through the thin curtains, Wilson turned her head gently and looked in turn at each of her sisters. Through the open door of the adjoining room she could see that the covers were thrown back off Fanny and May and she smiled to see how chubby May looked next to the slender Fanny. May’s sturdy arms were flung out over her head and her freckled face frowned in sleep. Whereas Fanny lay so tidily, so primly, her hands clasped on her chest and her expression serene. They were an unlikely pair of sisters but then, thought Wilson as she looked at Ellen beside her, so are we. Ellen had changed both in her looks and in herself. She was heavier and tougher, in every way. Wilson was shocked to hear her boast – it was more in the nature of a boast than a confession – that she was sharing in a fiddle at her place of work. It was all to do with food deliveries and the signing for three hams when four were delivered and such like with proceeds from the sale of the fourth ham split between cook and Ellen and the kitchen maid. When Wilson tried to say it was a dangerous business, that little deceptions could lead to bigger ones and that Ellen should beware, her sister laughed under the bedclothes and said she knew how to look after herself. It seemed to her that Ellen had, on the contrary, no idea at all. There were tales of a gardener who was no better than he ought to be and of meetings with him in the shed and what Ellen described as ‘fumblings’ which she was not going to give in to but which she clearly enjoyed and over which she had little control. It was a life below stairs quite unlike her own virtuous existence in Wimpole Street. She felt further estranged from her sister by the knowledge that Ellen’s conduct was so much more common than her own.
Am I a cut above the general run, Wilson wondered, eyes half-closed, savouring the warmth of the bed and the pretty patterns the sunbeams made on the wall, was I meant to leave all this behind and do something and be someone and go somewhere? Ellen with her hams and gardeners, May with her polishing and awe of the butler, Fanny in a dream, none of them with a speck of ambition beyond the ordinary and all content to stay here forever. London has made me restless she thought, restless and discontented, unwilling to settle for the humdrum, and yet what could be more humdrum than her daily routine in Wimpole Street, what more uneventful? She had no reason, no possible justification for feeling excited about her return and yet that was how she did feel – nervous, eager, expectant, quite unlike the poor waif she was when first mother forced her south. ‘Something is going to happen,’ mother had said and she believed it to be true, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. She got up quietly, tiptoed to the window and peered out at the beautiful May morning, beautiful for mother’s birthday. In a whisper she said, ‘Something is going to happen,’ and then laughed at the absurdity of it.
Chapter Nine
WILSON COULD HARDLY credit the effusiveness of the welcome she was given by Miss Elizabeth. She presented herself, when she arrived in Wimpole Street, with some hesitation, not sure whether she ought to go and change first. The moment she opened the door of her mistress’s room, quietly and carefully as she always did, there was a cry of ‘Wilson! Dear, dear Wilson,’ and Miss Elizabeth actually rose from her sofa and came towards her, and so did Flush, barking frantically. A second before she was embraced, Wilson drew back, aware of her dust-coated clothes and of a worry that to move into her mistress’s outstretched arms was not perhaps quite proper. But Miss Elizabeth’s gesture was so sudden and sincere that it could not be spurned and she accepted the welcoming embrace with pleasure. It was she who broke away first, protesting that she was not fit to be touched, and Miss Elizabeth who clung on, half-weeping, half-laughing. Her relief was so visible, so tangible, that Wilson had never felt more gratified in her life.
It took her very little time to discover that Miss Elizabeth was in a great state of general agitation which had little to do with her own return. Mr Browning, it seemed, was pressing to be invited to meet Miss Elizabeth and would no longer be put off with excuses about health or weather.
‘Well, miss,’ Wilson said calmly as she went about her old routine, ‘he must be invited and the thing got over and then you know you will feel the better of it directly.’ There was a great deal of sighing and pressing of the hands to the heart and a tear or two and a trembling lip but finally it was agreed, a day must be fixed. Mr Browning should be allowed to call one weekday afternoon.
To Timothy Wilson confessed she wished this precious Mr Browning was not coming at all. ‘It is so very rare,’ she told him, walking in the park on a beautiful day towards the end of her first week back, ‘so unusual for her to have a new gentleman calling and it has quite unhinged her.’
‘What nonsense,’ she snapped and, ‘how like a man. It is nothing to do with expectations, it is the fear in her.’
‘What fear?’ said Timothy, genuinely bewildered. ‘Is Mr Browning an ogre, then? I cannot see it, I’m sure, him being so small and – ’
‘Oh, heavens,’ Wilson swore, ‘what or who he is has nought to do with it. She dreads all new people, she cannot help it, there is no reason for it but it is there, this dreadful nervousness. She has not a shred of confidence and though I never thought to have any myself I am a lion compared to her.’
‘Don’t take on so,’ Timothy begged. ‘It is not your concern, now is it? You getting upset on her behalf does no good that I can see.’ He kicked a stone and whistled for his dog and felt irritated himself that Wilson appeared to be able to think of nothing but Miss Barrett since he wished to talk of quite other matters, matters mainly to do with arranging for Wilson to go down the river with him for the day. He did not dare ask her now because he knew she would say she could not leave her mistress while she was in such a state.
He was right. Every day for the whole of the next week was dominated by the coming visit of Mr Browning and Wilson was as exhausted as her mistress by the time May 20th dawned. She went in to find Miss Elizabeth as white and strained looking as a woman on her death bed. Her fingers were bloodless, numb, and she held them up announcing she had no feeling anywhere but her heart which was beating wildly. She refused to get dressed, saying she would wait until nearer the time or she would faint with the exertion. The usual tiny cup of strong black coffee was refused – ‘I will drink and eat this evening if I am still alive.’ Wilson knew she ought to laugh at such melodrama but instead felt distressed. It was not right that one small, frail woman should suffer so over such an unremarkable occurrence as a visitor. She did not attempt to argue Miss Elizabeth out of her exaggerated gloom but was as sympathetic as she could be. This only produced tears of gratitude which at least removed some of the tension.
At midday Wilson helped her mistress to dress. She had wondered if perhaps another dress might be worn, had even suggested the pale grey or the dull green silk which hung in the wardrobe and had never been worn in all the time she had been there; but no, the black silk was called for as usual. The only difference was in the collar chosen to go over it and the jewellery. Instead of the cream crocheted small collar, changed every day, Miss Elizabeth produced a delicate shawl-like white lace collar which she said Mr Kenyon had brought her from Malta and she had never had occasion to wear. Wilson admired it, but not too extravagantly, knowing that too much enthusiasm was almost certain to see the collar rejected, which would be a pity since it both softened the black far more effectively than did the cream and also lightened the wearer’s pallor. She had always privately thought that cream was quite the worst colour for her mistress to wear. It made her skin appear ashen whereas white made it look, though still startingly pale, clearer, more translucent. Below the collar, where it divided on the bosom, Miss Elizabeth directed her to fasten a beautiful brooch which Wilson had never seen before. It was an amethyst set in gold filigree, the stone heart shaped. The moment it was pinned on, Wilson could not help exclaiming at its beauty. Miss Elizabeth looked at her anxiously and said she thought perhaps it was ‘too overdone’, that the brooch was ‘too rich’ for her modest dress and only made her look ridiculous. Wilson vowed it did nothing of the sort but that on the contrary the black and white of dress and collar were the perfect background for the amethyst. Sighing, Miss Elizabeth left it on, murmuring that she could not bear vanity.
Another hour was spent checking the room. The armchair in which Mr Browning was likely to sit had to be placed at an exact angle to the sofa where Miss Elizabeth half-reclined and then the sofa table had to be moved in case it impeded his passage to the chair or restricted his legs when he was seated. Wilson did what she was told though well aware that since Mr Kenyon, who was much taller and heavier than Mr Browning, sat in the chair with the greatest of ease, it was unlikely the new visitor would have any difficulty. Certain books had to be on display and others removed and there was something not quite right, though only Miss Elizabeth could see it, about the arrangement of the plants. Patiently, Wilson carried out orders, realising all action, however trivial, was a distraction. And then, at one thirty, when all was as right as it could be, Miss Elizabeth said she would attempt to sleep for an hour, or at least lie with her eyes closed and the blind down. Wilson was to go away and come back at two thirty precisely with a glass of very cold water.
Closing the door behind her, Wilson felt quite overcome herself. She had no doubt that her mistress, though she might close her eyes, would not sleep for a moment. She stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall, and could not bring herself to go down. No one knew, as she knew, how Miss Elizabeth suffered. Miss Henrietta had even laughed the day before at the idea of any apprehension about the impending visit. ‘Why Ba,’ she had cried, ‘how can you be so silly when you know you long to meet your poet?’ That was how he was referred to throughout the whole house – ‘Ba’s poet is coming’, ‘Miss Elizabeth’s poet is to visit’. There was a mocking tone to this which Wilson did not like. She also wondered, as she slowly descended the stairs, whether she was quite prepared to like Mr Browning herself, the cause of so much distress in her mistress. Would he come to mock too? Was this visit made in a spirit of vulgar curiosity? The very idea made her feel cold towards him.
Next day, Wilson was glad to go for her walk with Flush. She did not know what had happened after Mr Browning’s visit but only that the pleasure it had so plainly given her mistress turned to pain upon the receipt of a letter sent by the new visitor as soon as he reached home. Miss Elizabeth had wept over her reply and been greatly agitated. Now, she was asleep, worn out with grieving and would not be herself until the evening and the need to put a brave face on for her father. For once, Wilson was not eager to meet Timothy in the park, indeed found herself hoping he would not be there; but he was and there was no escape. She would have liked to talk to Lizzie Treherne or even Minnie Robinson but Timothy was the wrong person for such a delicate subject. She was offended when he straight away asked her, ‘And how did Mr Browning do? Did your mistress find him agreeable?’ She could have slapped his smiling face which suddenly struck her for the first time as capable of leering. ‘Quite agreeable, I believe,’ she replied stiffly. Timothy fell into step and put his arm round her waist. Lately, this was a privilege she had permitted him, though only when they were away from the main path. Today, she flinched as his arm came round her and frowned. ‘Is something the matter?’ Timothy asked. She said no. They walked for a while, admiring the last of the cherry blossom floating down onto the lake. ‘Lovely day,’ Timothy said and because he said it gently and because it was a lovely day, she felt warmer towards him. ‘I wish,’ she said, ‘I could persuade my mistress to come out again and perhaps I will.’ He was silent for a long time and as they continued their walk he replied only in monosyllables. At the end of the walk he turned to face her directly and said, ‘All you talk of is Miss Elizabeth, day in and day out.’ She blushed and said defensively, ‘Well, what would you have me talk of?’ He took her hand and said, ‘Us.’ ‘Us?’ she repeated foolishly. ‘And what is there to talk of, pray?’ ‘There could be many a thing,’ Timothy said, and turned away as he spoke, dropping her hand.
Wilson stood quite still, alerted by Timothy’s tone of voice and stance to something out of the ordinary. It was not the time to pretend. She cleared her throat and touched Timothy’s sleeve. Flush, who had returned of his own free will, growled at her feet. ‘Timothy,’ she said, ‘you are a good friend. I know I tire you with my anxieties over Miss Elizabeth but who el
se can I confide in, seeing you every day as I do? If it is a burden, I will stop, though if people do not talk, to those they believe fond of them, of what is in their head then what can friendship be worth?’ She delivered her little speech with her eyes carefully fixed on the ground but then, as she finished, lifted them to meet Timothy’s.
He was still grave, ‘So I am your good friend?’ he asked.
‘Indeed,’ she said.
‘Well then,’ he said, ‘a friend may ask a favour, I believe, and not be misunderstood?’
‘He may.’
‘Come with me on the river to Richmond, Tuesday next. There is a steamer leaves the pier at ten in the morning and if you were to take a day off we could go down the river and picnic in the deer park. Now, will you come with your friend or is your devotion only to Miss Elizabeth Barrett?’
Put like that, she had no option but though they parted on good terms, Timothy whistling and cheerful, she worried all the way back to Wimpole Street about giving her word for a Tuesday. Tuesday was already Mr Browning’s day and she was depended upon to open the door and show him in and out. There had been three more visits, in spite of the disastrous letter, each easier than the last but still her mistress was nervous and in need of support beforehand. But then, while Wilson debated whether to ask permission, fate played into her hands. With flushed cheeks, Miss Elizabeth announced that there was to be an invasion, that her Uncle and Aunt Hedley, and three of their children were to come from Paris to stay and all normal life would be at an end. She said it dramatically, despairing aloud of ever having any peace for the entire fortnight, but Wilson judged she was not truly displeased. All she dreaded, she said, was her aunt and uncle bringing up the subject of her brother’s drowning, which she could not abide and yet, since she had not seen them for five years it was inevitable the memory would emerge in some form or other. She wept a little as she thought of the last time she had seen these relatives but was soothed by Wilson rather more easily than usual. ‘You will like my Uncle Hedley,’ she said, ‘and my aunt, too, but you must expect her to interfere, Wilson dear, and you must remember she was born wanting a finger in every pie. She is my mother’s youngest sister and has led a charmed life, the luckiest of all the four sisters.’ Wilson was then treated to a Graham-Clarke history and a description of all the sisters and their various idiosyncrasies. Miss Elizabeth was in such good humour at the end of the recital that it seemed the ideal moment to ask for a Tuesday off. Permission was granted without details being inquired, though there was a hint of curiosity in the way her mistress said, ‘I hope you intend to do something special, Wilson?’ She said she did, that she had been invited to go to Richmond by boat but gave nothing else away.