Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  The loneliness receded a little towards Christmas by which time she had begun not only to recognise words said to her but to put them together herself. Her head did not ache so violently at the end of each day, assaulted on all sides by the incessant babble. And as she grew more proficient, so she grew more adventurous, taking to walking round the city until she had its layout completely and twice was able to direct Mr Browning to an address he had not been able to find. She discovered it was a quiet, safe place and that the stares of the men did not after all lead to unpleasantness. Flush, of course, was delighted with Pisa since, in the absence of dog-snatchers, he had so much freedom. She did not need to have him very often on the lead and he became well known, running the length and breadth of the city every day but always returning home by nightfall. Watching him, Wilson wished she had half his daring but even so was pleased with herself for not moping and for doing the best she could, though this still had not brought her companionship. But the Brownings were forever discussing when to move on and where to, so she drew some consolation from this. ‘Pisa is a little dull, Ba, is it not?’ she heard Mr Browning say, and at once her mistress was all anxiety lest he was bored, which he strenuously denied. ‘Not bored, Ba, how could I be bored with you, my heart? I spoke only of Pisa in general and see no shame in admitting it is a dull place. It will not do to make our home in and get down to hard, regular work.’

  It seemed to Wilson every place in the world was mentioned as a possible destination and all of them found wanting for one reason or another. She knew none of them so could not pass judgement on whether Venice was preferable to Rome or Florence to both of them. What she did venture to contribute to the daily discussion was a suggestion that if a move were to be made then it would be as well to make it sooner rather than later. ‘Now why is that, Wilson?’ her mistress asked, smiling. Wilson stared at her steadily, thinking it impossible that she could have no real idea but her stare brought no response at first and then the wrong one. ‘I suppose you mean because of the winter,’ Mrs Browning said. ‘But it is hardly worthy of the name here and nothing to fear.’

  ‘I was not thinking of the winter,’ Wilson said, and left it at that.

  She was quick to notice a change in Mr Browning’s expression and not surprised when, later, he waylaid her on the stairs and pressed her to say more. As ever, he was a master of tactful suggestion. ‘Am I to understand, Wilson, that you would wish my wife to be kept quiet in the next months?’

  ‘Indeed yes, sir.’

  ‘More than ordinarily quiet?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And is this because you think her more than ordinarily vulnerable?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Due to new circumstances?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Yet she does not?’

  ‘No, sir. If I mention my suspicions she dismisses them as nonsense.’

  ‘Might they be?’

  ‘It is always possible, sir, but when I look at her and observe how much plumper she is and when I know what I know …’

  ‘You are certain.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He went off thoughtful, his brow furrowed, and that evening, at bedtime, Mrs Browning took her to task for upsetting her husband. ‘Really, Wilson, you should not have spoken so.’

  ‘Someone must speak,’ Wilson muttered, hurt at being so openly criticised.

  ‘And for why? Where, pray, is the urgency?’

  ‘In what you might lose.’

  ‘How can I lose what I do not know I have?’

  ‘I know. It is four months since anything happened, ma’am, and before that for nearly eighteen months you were as regular as any woman …’

  ‘Wilson! Stop, do. You know quite well that a change of air, of food, and the travelling itself can all alter the mechanism. It was always so with me and now it is again and I think nothing of it and would thank you not to plant such ideas in Mr Browning’s head. As it is he will hardly let me walk round the room without worrying that I will overtire myself.’

  Reprimanded with such vehemence, Wilson said no more but with each month, as she wrote to Minnie:

  — I am more convinced. Say nothing to her sisters, Minnie, but if there is no announcement soon I will be surprised. She continues very well though not as well as she would have us believe. She eats well and takes to the food here better than I do. Oh, Minnie, what I would give for a mutton pie! At first we were in a quandary, not knowing what to do about our meals for none are provided, and between us we were ignorant of the art of cooking, myself as much as them, but then the landlady said it was customary to have meals sent in and that is what we have and my mistress is greatly taken with it. She relishes all manner of strange food and so does he and both swear they are glad to give up the roast beef of old England dinners but I am not. My stomach troubles me as it never did and if I had not brought with me, thanks to you, the cream of tartar and Dr Driver’s Efficacious Pills I do not know what I should do. I take them at night and presently the pains subside but then the next day when I am once more obliged to eat the same spiced food or starve they return. It has turned cold, though my mistress will not have it that it is real cold, by which I do not understand what she means, I am sure, for when we went to church on Christmas Eve it seemed colder than it ever did in London and I thought my nose would freeze on my face. Nor is our apartment well appointed, Minnie. Indeed, it is downright shabby and I sometimes think my mistress is blind for she appears not to notice the bare floorboards hardly covered with one poor quality mat such as you might not think good enough for the kitchen. Nothing is comfortable. There is not a curtain to be seen, and as for the furniture it would not grace a servant’s room in Wimpole Street and that is the truth. The church we went to as I was telling you of was not a church such as you know, Minnie, but Catholic and full of ritual. It made me feel queer to stand there listening to that chanting and with gold seeming to flash everywhere and the air full of incense and, indeed, I felt giddy and had to steady myself, and everywhere I looked were pictures and statues of shocking nudity and I thought I might faint at the grossness of it. Would that everything was as plain and simple as at home where the senses are not deliberately inflamed.

  Some days, she felt that all of her was inflamed. Her head, her stomach, even her eyes seemed to burn, she had difficulty containing her discomfort. She wished desperately she had mother near at hand with her herbs and concoctions, knowing exactly how to treat almost any ailment. Even thinking of mother made her eyes fill with tears. One more letter only since the one which had awaited her at Orleans, and then nothing, though she herself had written every week without fail. She had written to Minnie begging her to forward one of her letters, thinking it might somehow give it a better chance of being delivered, and Minnie had assured her it had been sent. But it had brought no reply and now it was two whole months since she had had a line from her family whereas though her mistress complained constantly that she did not get half as many letters from her sisters as she sent, nevertheless it seemed to the letter-starved Wilson that she received something by every post. Only Minnie wrote to her, and that was a fact. Lizzie had sent nothing, not a single word, which grieved her greatly. Minnie mentioned that she had called with her children and had said she was writing but no letter had appeared. And as for Reginald, well, she had expected nothing there. She could hardly remember he had existed.

  One day in early January all her misery seemed to come to a head. She had woken with the stomach pains she normally was not troubled by until after supper and then suffered the mortification of diarrhoea. Her skin felt cold and clammy and yet she could not bear to put on her shawl over her dress. She went in to her mistress barely able to stagger through her duties and yet was aware that she dissembled so successfully nothing was noticed. But then Mrs Browning was in a permanent dream these mornings, sleepy and smiling, languorous but not with the old, deadly languor but rather a cat-like satisfaction. Immediately she had finished dress
ing her mistress, Wilson rushed to her cubby-hole and lay down with relief. In Wimpole Street, there would always have been someone to observe and report the state she was in, but here she could lie until midday if she so wished and no one would be the wiser. Flush did not even need to be walked, being a gentleman-at-large in Pisa without need of escort. She wept into her pillow and wondered what all this was for – the loneliness, the anxiety, the constant struggle to make her own way in this foreign city. Whom did she hope to please? Not herself. She had tried so hard to make a new and better life but it seemed without reward. Both Mr and Mrs Browning had praised her only the other day for her new facility with the Italian language and she had been momentarily proud but now she saw the absurdity of her pride. She wanted only to be home, among people who knew and cared for her. At midday, she dragged herself up and bathed her sweating forehead and went to supervise dinner, none of which she could eat herself. The mere sight of the veal stewed in peppers, over which both Brownings exclaimed with delight, made her nauseous and she always rejected outright the mess of garlicky vegetation they called a salad. The afternoon passed in another daze of misery and discomfort. She supposed she must have slept a little for, when she came to, her arm was numb where she had been lying awkwardly and she could tell by the decrease of light that it was evening. She sat up and was immediately struck by a pain in her left side so savage she cried out. No one heard, or, if they did, they did not investigate. The thought of such neglect made her weep again and she had the greatest difficulty controlling her desire to lie down and never get up.

  But she did. At nine o’clock, when she was required to prepare her mistress for bed, she was there, pale and dark-eyed but upright and apparently as composed and efficient as ever. But she could not speak. Several times Mrs Browning addressed remarks to her but she was unable to reply for fear the façade she was so carefully maintaining would crumble. Fortunately, these remarks were of so general a nature and of such small importance that they hardly required an answer. And then Flush was being particularly demanding, yelping and barking, leaping annoyingly about the room, so that all was distraction. All the usual tasks done – the endless hair-brushing, the hanging up and folding of clothes, the laudanum mixed – Wilson was just thinking she had successfully survived and might now retire to bed once more, when the pain struck again. She could not suppress a groan, nor prevent herself collapsing on the floor, her hands pressed to her stomach. Even as she lay huddled there she was gasping her apologies, saying over and over she could not help it and was sorry, and then she was engulfed in pain and unable to reply to her mistress’s frenzied enquiries. She heard her say, as if from a long way off, and as though with an echo, that she would go at once for help and then she must have fainted because she heard nothing more till Mr Browning spoke to her. ‘Wilson? Wilson? Are you unwell? What has happened?’ She tried to raise herself up, but only succeeded in increasing the pain and fell back, crying out. ‘Oh Robert, go for Dr Cook quickly dear, go at once,’ she heard her mistress plead, and then the sharp rejoinder, ‘I will go nowhere, Ba, while you stand in a shift and bare feet – you will catch your death of cold.’ Both voices swam around Wilson’s head and she could not make sense of either but she was aware of gentle hands lifting her and of being carried across the room and laid on the bed and the next thing she knew was her mistress holding her hand and whispering soothing words. She opened her eyes and saw Mrs Browning’s face close to her own, wet with tears and tense with anxiety. She tried to say she was sorry but was hushed at once and told to lie still and not disturb herself until the doctor came.

  Dr Cook was brisk. Wilson was in too much pain to notice how brusque his examination was or to observe the slight air of impatience with which he turned to the Brownings at the end. Her greatest anxiety was the certain knowledge that she was in the Brownings’ own bed and must get out of it as soon as possible. She lay still, conscious that the pain was at last receding. Before she could get up, her mistress appeared once more at her side, a cloth wrung out in water in her hand, and applied it to her maid’s forehead.

  ‘Oh, ma’am,’ Wilson murmured, ‘you must not.’

  ‘Now, dear, listen,’ her mistress was saying, ‘Dr Cook says you have inflammation of the stomach and that with rest and a bland diet you will be as well as ever in a few days, but you must take no more of those pills Minnie gave you nor any cream of tartar. Weak tea and a little toast is all you must eat. Your poor stomach has been assaulted with the seasickness at first and then the change of food and climate, and it is nothing more, thank God.’

  ‘I beg pardon, ma’am,’ she whispered, ‘I will return to my room directly if …’ and she raised herself up satisfactorily this time and swung her legs down onto the ground just as Mr Browning returned from seeing the doctor out. He rushed forward and supported her as she began stumbling across the room.

  ‘Well done, Wilson,’ he said, ‘with such determination you will recover all the better.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I beg pardon, sir, for …’

  ‘There is no need, Wilson. We are all human and liable to sickness and must help each other. Ba! Still barefooted. Will you play with your life? Will you torture me so?’

  Lying at last in her own bed, feeling weak and weepy though free from all pain, Wilson could not help dwelling on his sole concern for his wife. It was only natural, she did not contest that, but it reminded her that she herself was no one’s first concern. She could run around in bare feet and a thin shift in the snow if she wished and no one would be distraught or feel their own life threatened. She could lie here and die and her death be a mere inconvenience until she was replaced with another maid. She cried again at that, great wracking sobs heard by no one, and then wiped her face with the coverlet and chided herself for self-pity. But she had planted in her own mind a thought that greatly troubled her: who would replace her and what would the consequences be? If she were to lie in bed and eat slops for a week, how would her mistress manage, she who had never so much as put up her own hair? It would be an impossibility. Some other maid would have to be brought in, at such cost, and there would be no end to the trouble it would cause. Perhaps the new maid would be preferred and then what? Sent back to England after all? It was only complete exhaustion which put her to sleep once such a possibility had entered her head.

  In the week that followed, Wilson was surprised and gratified several times over each day. Nothing was as she imagined. When she woke the very first morning it was to find her mistress standing at her side proffering a cup of camomile tea with a smile of pride and pleasure – her mistress, who never put a foot out of bed before eleven and had no more idea of how to make tea than a child of two. Wilson was so shocked she could not speak and stared at the tea as though it were poison, but Mrs Browning urged her to drink and watched her so eagerly that she was obliged to sample the tea.

  ‘Is it good? Have I brewed it well? Robert said to let the kettle boil fully before pouring it on the leaves and I truly did.’

  ‘It is delicious, ma’am, but I cannot let you wait upon me, I must …’

  ‘You must stay in bed, dear,’ her mistress said firmly ‘and I shall be an angel of mercy and do all that is necessary and I daresay it will be very good for me. You shall see, I shall reveal hidden qualities and no doubt be given a medal.’

  Five days later, writing to Minnie, Wilson marvelled at what her mistress had accomplished, swearing:

  — I never would have thought it Minnie, and nor would you, for she has been as kind as a person ever could be, and if I had been her sister I could not have been more tenderly treated. I lie on her own sofa, which is not, to tell you the truth, so comfortable as it has looked when she has been upon it, and I eat from her own hand and great is Mr Browning’s mirth at the charred toast I am offered, but to me it is as precious as caviar and as strange. The landlady helps out and otherwise she sees to herself and the result is comical if only I were not too much to blame to laugh. Her dresses are done up all wrong and
her hair a sight to behold and though she does not care and professes herself perfectly content Mr Browning is not pleased and gave great sighs of approval when today for the first time I was able to put his wife to rights. He likes her at all times to look neat and tidy and takes carelessness in appearance very ill.

  The very first day Wilson resumed her normal duties she was instantly aware that it was her mistress’s turn not to be well. Coming into the bedroom, beaming to be once more active, she found her white-faced and tense, clutching the coverlet to her chest. ‘Why, ma’am …’ Wilson began, alarmed, but was hastily shushed.

  ‘Do not let Mr Browning hear,’ her mistress whispered, ‘he is in his dressing room and knows nothing. I have had a pain, that is all, a pain such as I have never had before, but it is quite gone and was nothing.’

  ‘Stomach pains, ma’am?’

  ‘No, and yet in the region of the stomach.’

  ‘Cramps, ma’am?’

  ‘A little like cramps. Perhaps it is that, perhaps I am about to have my monthly health after all, Wilson.’

  ‘And perhaps something else, not health at all.’

  ‘Sssh! You are determined to make a fool of me, Wilson, and it is not kind. Now say nothing, I beg you. I will rest in bed a little, to be safe, and nothing need be said.’

  But that night, Wilson was awakened at three in the morning by a frightened Mr Browning and hurried into the bedroom with him. Her mistress lay there making no sound but with her brow creased in pain. Surreptitiously, Wilson peeped beneath the bed covers, under the pretence of straightening them, expecting to see blood but there was none. She placed her hand lightly on her mistress’s stomach to try to locate the pain but was told it resided nowhere specific. Raising her mistress up, she asked Mr Browning to fetch her a small glass of brandy and managed to force it through the clenched lips. A little colour came into her mistress’s cheeks and she began to relax and within a quarter of an hour announced the pain had entirely gone. Mr Browning meanwhile had pulled some clothes on and said he was going to get Dr Cook. Then followed a scene such as Wilson had never witnessed before and which she described a trifle breathlessly, later in the day, in a letter to Minnie: