Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  Breathless, she and Sarah managed to detach themselves from the throng near the Ponte Santa Trinita and collapsed laughing onto a stone seat. ‘It is like this every festival,’ Sarah gasped. ‘Oh, they know how to enjoy themselves, no one back home would believe it.’

  ‘What is it for?’ Wilson shouted above the noise of drums and trumpets and cheers.

  ‘It hardly matters,’ Sarah screamed back, ‘it’s their Grand Duke letting them do something or other, heaven knows, but it must be good news.’

  At that minute a splendid procession began to pass over the bridge with a carriage in its midst in which a magnificently dressed man was waving to right and left. Wilson stared in awe at the tall, heavy guards who walked in front, each bearing a flaming brand. ‘The Grand Duke!’ Sarah yelled and, pulling Wilson up, pushed her way to the front, but Wilson had eyes only for the guard and hardly looked at the Duke. She had never seen such impressive men, so straight-backed and broad-shouldered and could hardly wait to be back in her room so that she could tell mother how

  — thrilling it was, mother, to see the Grand Duke’s guard for you never saw such specimens of manhood, all hand-picked for the Duke’s service, and I am told educated men all of them as well as so tall. They are taken from all over Tuscany, the very best the country has to offer, and once in the guard you may not marry nor lead any but a most proper life, and the competition to join is great as you may expect, it being a high honour. Sarah Allen, the maid to Mrs Loftus as I told you of, has been introduced to one of the guard and thinks highly of him and is to receive an invitation for herself and one other to pass through the public rooms at the next audience held by the Duke and I am to be that one. Well, Wilson, my mistress says to me, I envy you for I have never been in the Duke’s palace and would like to go and have no chance of it. I will write and tell you of it when it happens, mother, but would beg of you before that date to write to me and tell me how you fare and if Fanny is recovered and every scrap of news, for when one is so far from home the craving for news is a terrible thing, as I am sure it is for you, but only think how I oblige, mother, and it cannot in truth be said the same of you and I mean no criticism. It is two months again since I heard from you and that a very short letter, and I cannot tell if another has gone astray as I fear. Tell Ellen to write the address very plain.

  The address was in fact always written very plain but she needed to imagine all manner of excuses for the lack of letters from mother. In a whole year she had had only four and none that satisfied. Granted, mother did not have much to write of, except to describe the new station that was being built or relate how a cholera epidemic raged, which was not pleasant to hear. The last, in July, had said Fanny was laid low with a fever and had driven her frantic with fear that Fanny had succumbed to the epidemic. Her mistress, entirely sympathetic to her distress, had known of an English lady about to depart for York and had asked her to take Wilson’s reply home with her and see it on its very short way from York to Newcastle. The lady had written since to Mrs Browning saying it had been done, so Wilson waited daily for a response to her anguished plea for immediate news of Fanny’s condition. None had come and her agitation had subsided only through sheer exhaustion. Mrs Browning had assured her that if the worst had happened, then a communication of some kind would never have been delayed. For a while, Wilson watched out for black-edged envelopes, but when none appeared was compelled to become philosophical. There was no doubt that the new fullness of her life helped her to quieten her anxiety. Whereas in the early days in Pisa time had hung so heavily that the arrival of letters was a momentous event, now, though letters were still a cause of great joy, the wait for Mr Browning to come back from the post office was not a desperate affair.

  Minnie had proved her most reliable and frequent correspondent, Lizzie falling by the wayside after a single apologetic letter written in reply to her own third. Minnie wrote fortnightly and at some length which pleased and surprised Wilson. Naturally, Minnie wrote of Wimpole Street and from her Wilson learnt a great deal she was able to censor judiciously before relaying to her mistress. She did not think it fitting to tell her what Minnie had written of Arabel who was reported to be in tears daily over her father’s command that she should not go so regularly to her work with the Ragged Children’s Charity. Instead, she passed on the news of Arabel’s delight in letters from Italy and her joy at her sister’s happiness.

  Her mistress rewarded her with a smile and a few tears. She spoke often of her guilt at what she had left her beloved sisters to bear, of how she had condemned them to endure what she referred to as the ‘unbridled masculine rampancy’ of the Barrett household, so that to hear they rejoiced in her escape and were not further cast down by it was a great relief. She could not, she said, enjoy her own happiness knowing they were wretched on her account.

  It seemed to Wilson that Mrs Browning missed her sisters more and not less as time went on. All that autumn, when they were obliged to leave the spacious rented rooms in the Casa Guidi and cram into what seemed a doll’s house by comparison in the Piazza Pitti, she spoke of them longingly and, though she was back to old Wimpole Street habits, writing industriously for several hours every day, she was dreamy and nostalgic, sighing often for their company. She liked to talk of them and since it was almost entirely talk full of memories Wilson provided a better audience than her husband. She reminisced about Henrietta’s squeezes, her impromptu dances where she loved to do the polka, and it was Wilson who could pick up the ‘do-you-remembers’ and add onto them with memories of her own. Then, after such a session, invariably ending in smiles that changed to tears, Mrs Browning would take Wilson’s hand and hold it tenderly for a moment and say that at least she was not quite bereft of old friends.

  Telling Sarah Allen how touched she was by this and other evidence of the regard in which she was held, Wilson was shocked at her new friend’s response. ‘Well,’ Sarah said sharply, ‘you are a fool to be paid in soft words. This mistress of yours is getting three for the price of one from what I see you do and are to her. What is it you are? Cook or lady’s maid? Seamstress or lady’s maid? Housekeeper or lady’s maid? You may think you are treasured, but I for one do not and am glad to be part of a proper establishment and not constantly asked to lower myself.’

  ‘There is no lowering,’ Wilson replied indignantly.

  ‘There is lowering and lowering,’ Sarah said, mysteriously, ‘and you would be wise to mark the difference before it is too late and you live to regret it.’

  ‘I have a girl under me,’ Wilson said, ‘I do not do everything.’

  ‘A girl under you?’ Sarah laughed derisively. ‘That child? Fit for what? Sweeping a floor? Taking the washing? And even that under your direction. It is not who is under you, Lily, it is who is with you. And you have no one, you carry too much. But who am I to point it out if you are so adoring of this mistress of yours? I do not adore mine, nor want her to hold my hand, but I see she does right by me and if she were not to, why Florence is full of those who would and she knows it. A good English lady’s maid is much in demand, Lily, and you would do well not to forget it. I wonder your precious mistress has not noticed for herself how rare you are and how she ought to take steps to keep you.’

  How could she, Wilson wondered later, turning over and over in her mind what the outspoken Sarah had said, how could my mistress know of any other household when she never left her own? It was an impossibility, she had no point of comparison. And as for striving to keep her maid, why that too was to misunderstand the nature of their relationship. Sarah spoke so often with contempt of Mrs Loftus and was as full of ways in which she, Sarah, could get the better of her as Ellen, poor foolish Ellen, had been. It sickened Wilson to hear the pathetic record of cheating and trickery, the lack of respect and trust, the complete absence of true regard. Instead of making her discontented, Sarah only made her happier to be on the footing she was with her employers. She would never let them down, they would never betray her. This know
ledge made her smile with pride and able to spot the jealousy which prompted Sarah Allen to speak so. She knew her well enough now to know that she was no Lizzie Treherne, faithful and compassionate, but was always on the lookout for her own advantage. As a companion Sarah was excellent but as an intimate, Wilson knew, she would not do. Moved to tell her mistress something of Sarah, after she had been to the Grand Duke’s Assembly, she found herself instantly understood. Mrs Browning confessed that even a perfect husband could not give her what her sisters did and her husband hearing only the first part, that he could not give her whatever it was, lifted his head from his book and expressed alarm to fail her in any department. When told his failing was the ability to relish and impart the slip-slop of feminine gossip he laughed.

  All that sunny winter, mild beyond belief, Wilson was often moved to observe how surprised those back home would be to hear so much laughter among the three of them. She even saw new lines on her mistress’s face made through constant laughter (but knew better than to point them out). And she knew that on her own face there was more often than not a smile, replacing the look of bland composure she had previously cultivated. If her mistress had changed in appearance as well as demeanour, then so had she. Her own slightness had become more rounded, her own dresses needed more generous measurements. As she wrote to Minnie:

  — you would wonder to see me nigh to buxom and as for my complexion though I have taken care to wear a bonnet at all times against this fierce sun and to use a parasol whenever I may, I have turned a brown colour and am mortified though I am told it becomes me. You will want to know who told me and I dare hardly tell you for it is one of the Grand Duke’s guard! Now you must not think Minnie that I am a sadly changed person and have become loose with my favours for I never would, but when a woman is approached in the most proper fashion by a most respectable intermediary and humbly beseeched to notice an individual as august as one of the Grand Duke’s guard, then it is impossible to be dismissive. His name is Leonardo Righi and he of course being one of the Guard, very tall, some six feet and two inches if you can imagine, and with dark hair and eyes. He is very formal and correct and did little more than present his credentials when first he made my acquaintance and was most anxious I should know his background which is that he is from a place, a small town, called Prato and his father is a medical man and his brother a prosperous haberdasher. He has a high opinion of English women and has heard they make the best wives! Well, of course, that is nonsense to talk of wives when we have met but twice and always with others, but I liked him the better for making the seriousness of his intentions plain though it amused me when I think how little I know him and yet he seems to have made his mind up. I am I assure you, Minnie, in no hurry to choose or to marry though my mistress is as good an advertisement for marriage as you can see and may soon be an advertisement for something else which she says I may tell you. There is no doubt this time and I had no need to point it out that she is expecting an interesting event in late summer, God willing. This time she is taking great care and Mr Browning even greater. We have begun to sew and knit the little clothes and I never thought to see her so content over a needle. Dr Harding has been called in and we like him very much and much more than the doctor in Pisa. Mr Browning asked him if it would not be wiser for his wife to break off entirely the habit of laudanum but the doctor said he knew it to have little effect on her condition and it might be more material to stop the port-wine which Dr Cook prescribed, so it is no more port-wine which my mistress is glad of for though she finds the Chianti her husband urges on her very pleasant, she has never liked the other. So we wait and this time will make no mistakes.

  It made no difference. Though Mrs Browning looked and sounded well as the new year of 1845 was brought in, and there were no pains or bleeding throughout January and February, in the middle of March Wilson was obliged to inform Minnie that her mistress had once more miscarried. Mr Browning had again been almost too tender for a man. Wilson marvelled at his solicitude and was annoyed with the cynical Sarah Allen who only asked ‘How long have they been wed?’ with the corners of her thin mouth already turned down derisively.

  ‘Eighteen months,’ Wilson said, ‘it is not nothing, after all.’

  ‘And it is not much,’ Sarah alleged, shaking her head, ‘not much at all, barely out of the honeymoon, and if as you tell me she has had two miscarriages in that time he will still be eager in that department.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? I told you, he has said he cares little for a child but only …’

  ‘Oh, I did not mean that, I meant his rights and her favours. If she has been expecting twice, and her frail, and had two miscarryings, and been ill, then it stands to reason Mr Browning will not be tired of her yet for he has had weeks and months, I daresay, of deprivation in bed.’

  ‘Sarah Allen!’ Wilson exclaimed and got up from the seat in the Boboli Gardens where they were enjoying the sun. She turned and faced her friend, who was openly laughing at her discomfiture, and told her she did not understand true love and that was all there was to it – and she would thank her not to discuss the Brownings in such lewd terms.

  ‘Oh sit down, Lily, do,’ Sarah said. ‘You are so easily offended, as though that mistress of yours was all angel.’

  ‘I like respect for her.’

  ‘Well, you shall have it, I shall be as respectful as you like but you can’t stop me or anyone else from thinking what we think.’

  Nor could she. There was speculation in plenty among all the servants, in and out of the house where they had their lodgings, and Wilson grew tired of denying her mistress was either about to die or that she had vowed she would never risk becoming pregnant again. She hated the gossip, but ignoring it in Florence was not as effective as it once was in London. And she knew there was gossip about herself too, once Signor Righi had been seen bringing her a bouquet at Easter. It was a flamboyant bouquet, a violent mixture of scarlet tulips and crimson carnations buried in a cloud of yellow Mimosa and the whole lot tied with a pink satin ribbon. Wilson had stared at it when the servant girl, eyes wide with excitement, had carried it in, and then there had been an unfortunate moment when Mrs Browning had thought it was for her and had exclaimed in disbelief ‘From Robert? Such as these?’ until she had read the card and laughed and said to Wilson they were from her follower. Wilson had not missed the hint of mockery. The flowers were vulgar, if ever flowers can be said to be such a thing (which she doubted). Separating them, she thought how lovely the tulips and the carnations looked on their own and put each variety in a separate jug. At least the card had been restrained, merely wishing Mrs Wilson a Happy Easter, and happy it had indeed been. With the inquisitive Sarah as chaperone, she had walked out with Signor Righi twice and twice more lined the square to see him march at the very head of the Duke’s procession to church. Then the Brownings, on Dr Harding’s advice, took to going for long carriage rides in the country around Florence and these coinciding with a minor indisposition of the Grand Duke’s so that Signor Righi’s duties were lighter, she enjoyed a pleasant outing herself to Fiesole – without Sarah Allen.

  Signor Righi was nothing if not correct. He did not, of course, wear his full dress uniform for such an occasion, but Wilson was relieved to discover that if anything he looked even more splendid in his ordinary uniform which, in her eyes, was anything but ordinary. Walking by his side, she worried only faintly that they might look incongruous and cause mirth since Signor Righi was so tall and she was so very small but she quickly realised nobody would be given to the slightest smile when faced with such a fellow. On all sides they met with admiration and Wilson, shy to the point of extinction, was amazed to find herself responding to it. She knew she looked pretty in a new dress of a very pale turquoise cut away at the neck in a fashion she had never worn before and with the Brownings’ brooch pinning the most delicious of lace shawls around her shoulders. She was treated with such deference it was almost an embarrassment and when she saw a boy scurry to bring her
a more comfortable chair at Signor Righi’s peremptory bidding she wondered what was happening to her. Her Italian was quite good enough to understand the general drift of her suitor’s conversation though she was not proficient in answering fluently (and not above taking advantage of her supposed ignorance of the Italian language when it came to replying to questions about her feelings for him). She knew that after such a speedy beginning to their relationship Signor Righi was not likely to wait indefinitely for her to commit herself but she was enjoying the experience of being courted so much she hardly wanted it to come to any conclusion.

  ‘Will you marry him, then?’ Sarah Allen asked, and would not be put off with a shrug. ‘He is a good catch, Lily, and if he’s willing to leave the Grand Duke’s guard to wed, then he is truly smitten.’

  ‘It is far too early to think of marrying,’ Wilson said.