‘Too early? How is that? What age are you, Lily? Over five and twenty if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Just,’ Wilson lied, annoyed with herself.
‘And have you had other offers?’
‘Certainly I have.’
‘Then you ought to know how good this one is,’ Sarah said smartly. ‘What can you see that is wrong with it?’
Wilson did not reply but silently answered herself. It was the old query: was she in love? And the old riposte: what is love? She liked to be with Signor Righi and was flattered by his attentions. She even thought he would make a good husband, if being courteous and respectful meant the same thing. She was attracted to him, in that when his hand touched her elbow to guide her across the street she felt a frisson of what might prove to be desire, but the thought of anything more intimate rather appalled her. Then she had not met his family, nor seen Prato, nor did she know what manner of life she would be leading if she left the Brownings’ service – which was another thing. How could she leave when her mistress was once more pregnant, though none knew it but the two of them, not even Mr Browning, and was quite desperate that this time she would bear the child? The utmost care must be taken and only she could see that it was. Only a month after they had moved back into the Casa Guidi, at the end of their short lease in the Piazza Pitti, Wilson had felt instinctively that her mistress had conceived and yet had no reason to. Writing to her mother, to whom she still wrote regularly, though a full winter had gone by without a line in return, Wilson tried to describe how
— there was the oddest feeling, mother, when I went in to her that morning, the morning after Midsummer’s Night. She was lying half in, half out of the bed, with everything disarrayed, and the shutters being still closed and the room dark in any case, it was difficult to make her out. I opened the shutters and turned to say good morning ma’am and another beautiful morning it is, when she lifted herself up and smiled and held out her arms as though in joy and I went to her and she embraced me. I am so happy, dear, she said, and for nothing in particular. She seemed secret in herself and it crossed my mind that something might have so transformed her but I said nothing there being nothing but ridiculous fancy to say. All the next month she was especially lively and well, and by the time Mr Browning took her off on an excursion at the end of July when this city burnt like a furnace and he wanted her out of it, I was sure she was expecting again. I spoke of my conviction and she put a finger to my lips and nodded but said I was not to speak of it yet for she hardly dared to believe she was given another chance. Well, mother, I was uneasy knowing that rattling about in a carriage and on these roads, which are very poor once outside the city, was quite the worst thing for her delicate condition but when I said so she told me I was being presentimental and that it was too early in her pregnancy to do any harm. I begged her to tell her husband but she would not, saying he would cancel their holiday and wrap her in cotton wool at once which she could not abide. I wondered if I should not defy my mistress for the first time and do what I thought right and not what I was bid, but she saw the look in my eye, I daresay, and said, now Wilson, you must not tell my husband for that would be cruel and I will tell him myself upon our return. Which she did and it was as she said, him being determined to keep her in her bed though she is only a few weeks gone. By our reckoning it will be the end of February and it is only August, but it is not too soon to be cautious in the extreme. Dr Harding was brought in and has spoken in private to Mr Browning. He came to me the morning after the doctor’s visit and was very grave and said, Wilson, only you will understand the care that must be taken and I will need your help as never before, saving once. Then he said he planned to wean my mistress, his wife, from the laudanum which he had a conviction whatever the doctors said was the cause of the miscarrying, and she had promised to let him have his way being determined nothing this time should even be suspected to be her fault. So I am mixing half the quantity of the tincture with water and she takes that and in another week I am to reduce it further which frightens me for I have seen her once when she could not get it, the bottle being knocked over and broken by Flush that night, and it was a dreadful sight. She could not be still and became near demented and I was at the chemist’s when he opened, and rushed to her with the correct mixture and only then was she calm. So now we are holding our breath and there is a pause, very welcome after this busy time furnishing these rooms, which formerly were furnished by the owner who has now removed his things. And Mother, we have a man-servant, a cook by the name of Alessandro and do not think I am pleased for I am not, decidedly. He is a most boastful man and believes himself to be a genius and furthermore his quarters are so cramped and intrude on mine which are also cramped and altogether I find the new arrangement not at all to my liking and have said so. The dinners Alessandro prepares are all very well and I do not find fault with his cooking though you would laugh at his idea of a good stew, but the man himself I cannot abide. He is forever presuming to know more than anyone else and to hear him talk you might imagine he had been everywhere in the world and cooked for Kings which cannot be the truth or he would not be here. He is not old but so fat it ages him and he has eyebrows so thick they make me think of apes and I find myself quite ill and unable to look at him. Furthermore, though I cannot yet be sure, I fancy he is a cheat of the first order and fools my master into believing he has spent on food what he has not in fact spent and if so he will in time be found out for he has not yet guessed how careful my master is with money.
Alessandro looked at her and if she had not known he had a wife and three children elsewhere in the city, to whom he returned on Sundays for the night, Wilson would have felt uneasy. As it was, she tried hard to absent herself from the miserable hole called a kitchen though with her room so near to it there was no hope of escaping the knowledge of Alessandro’s noisy presence. He was, she thought, the noisiest, messiest cook she had ever seen at work but neither of the Brownings, secluded in their huge rooms at the front of the apartment, ever seemed to hear or see him. At night, when he climbed the ladder to his bed above the kitchen, Wilson could hear him snoring and the sound unnerved her. She lay imagining Signor Righi in bed and wondering if he snored in such a heavy, masculine way. Mr Browning did not, of that she was sure. He had a delicacy and modesty remarkable to behold and in his person was as fastidious as any woman. Alessandro was not. He was crude and clumsy and it outraged her that he did not attempt to protect her from his ablutions and worse, whereas she took care both to wash and to perform all natural functions with a regard for what others could see and hear. What she suffered from the company of Alessandro made marriage to Signor Righi all the more attractive and she resolved to speak to her mistress as soon as an opportunity arose – let her be safely over the miscarrying months and then she would speak out and say she intended to marry after the baby was born.
Before she could make such an announcement a disaster of such magnitude overcame her that all thoughts of engagements and marriage and other happinesses were swept away. One afternoon in September Mr Browning came back from the post office with a fat-looking letter for Wilson. He presented it to her with a smile and hoped she enjoyed whatever was in it and suggested she should give up combing Flush for the fleas that plagued him and retreat at once to her room. Instead, quite breathless with excitement and the promise of such pleasure at last – for she could see the envelope was in mother’s own hand – Wilson begged leave to take herself off to the Boboli Gardens where she could sit in the sunshine and make a festival of her letter. All the way there, she clutched her letter to herself, the very weight of it pleasing her, and even once she was seated just inside the entrance on her favourite seat in a pretty arbour she turned the precious letter over and over, pressing it first to her cheek and then to her lips, caressing it with her finger-tips and squeezing it fondly. Inside was all the news of almost a year and she wished to savour every morsel wrapped up so enticingly in it. At last, drawing a deep breath, she opened it and sprea
d out the sheets of thick paper, counting them before she began to read. There were four large sheets, all so closely written it would be difficult to decipher mother’s wavering script, but never would a labour be more lovingly performed.
‘My dearest Lily’ (the letter began and even reading those simple, obvious words Wilson’s eyes misted over and she had to wait a moment before continuing),
I thank you first for your many letters which have been like manna from heaven and much loved. It has torn at my heart that you will have wondered and fretted at my silence but when you know all you will understand I was not mistress of myself and unable to compose a letter …
A cold hand seemed to grip her heart as she read those words and she felt herself shiver. Looking up, she watched a child bowl a wheel along, laughing and shrieking and tried to reassure herself that mother’s words were not necessarily ominous. Almost reluctantly now, she returned to the letter, holding the first sheet a little way from her as though, after all, to distance herself from whatever news was to come.
… which made any sense and was not cruel to you being so far away. I cannot even remember when I last wrote nor can Ellen but we told you, I am sure, of Fanny’s illness, her first illness. She was taken very bad in the summer with what we thought was a fever such as she has had before which you will recall witnessing and I dealt with it as before with herbs and medicines and nursed her carefully and she seemed to get better, but then two months after the onset of this fever and one month after it lifted she fell ill again and burned so hot a cold cloth was warm against her head in a moment and she was delirious not knowing who I was. I sent at once for Mr Conroy, who as you know is expert at fevers, and he took one look at her and said he thought this was no ordinary fever but like a plague. The very word threatened to throw me into strong hysterics but I struggled and gained control and asked Mr Conroy what should be done. He said nothing could be done except for watching closely how the fever progressed and if any sores broke out when we would know for sure that he was right and this was a strange infectious fever previously not endured. We took turns, Ellen and May and I, and no sores appeared but the fever never lifted and Fanny was unable to swallow even so much as a teaspoon of water. Mr Conroy returned and said he believed now it was diphtheria and the throat must be lanced. I near fainted at this but he forced my poor baby’s lips open and showed me the pus and I saw it was as he said. He said there was a clever young doctor newly started whom he knew of, but he was costly and could I stand the expense of having him perform the operation necessary. I said cost did not come into it where Fanny’s life was concerned and that between us my daughters and I would pay this doctor whatever he charged. He was sent for immediately and came and everything was made ready on the morning of Midsummer’s Day. Dearest Lily, I will spare you what took place, there being no use in harrowing you, though indeed I wrote a wild letter to you immediately after telling you all but thank God had the mercy to tear it up. And it has been like that ever since – I write, I destroy and never get nearer breaking this terrible news. Dearest Lily, poor Fanny bled to death on the table here. The young doctor was not so clever and in operating severed an artery without knowing and continuing to say afterwards that Fanny’s artery was awkwardly placed and her neck thin, and it could not have been otherwise. You will wonder and perhaps be angry that two long months have passed and only now are you told this news and not with a black edged envelope or seal to warn you and as there properly ought to be, but I could not bear to frighten you so at the very beginning. Dearest Lily, if I have acted wrongly, forgive me, it was for your sake, truly. And as to the immense delay I have been afflicted with other troubles though beside Fanny’s death nothing else touches me. Ellen is with child and the father whose name you well know and with which I will not sully this page which bears real sorrow will not marry her nor stand by her and she has been sent off from her place. She is neither ashamed nor cowed but defiant and likely to humiliate us even further than she has already done by throwing herself before this worthless man and begging him to notice her. The child is to be born at Michaelmas and how we will manage I do not know for I have not finished this weary catalogue of woe. Dearest Lily, we have to leave this house. The fate I always dreaded has befallen us since Sir Richard Robson has died and his estate passed to his son who has sold the house and estate with all its holdings and buildings and we are evicted without appeal as from the New Year. It has been pointed out to us how fortunate we are to be given time to prepare but it is hard to see any fortune in it. I have been frantic with thinking where we might go and how we might manage and have spent many nights between weeping and praying and seeing us all on the parish but the kindness of Mr Conroy has saved me from true despair. He has a brother in Sheffield, who has done well for himself and runs two apothecary businesses and is in need of some steady person to help him prepare medicines and the like. Now I have no training as you know, but I have helped Mr Conroy often and he has been much impressed with my poor skills and with my neatness and has told his brother and explained the circumstances and there is a house available. I am to help this other Mr Conroy and May is to be maid to his wife and if Ellen sees sense and leaves her child here with whoever can be found to take it she too is to be found a place and we will earn our keep and have a roof over our heads if in a strange place. You will see now, Lily, why this letter took so long to form itself and I am truly sorry for what it contains. It is an unspeakable relief to me that you at least are happy and doing well and you are not to do anything foolish which I fear you might knowing your kind heart and true feeling. Stay where you are, Lily, for the storm is passed and you can do nothing. Brighter days are ahead, I have a certainty of it. The other night I sat by the fire, weeping a little, I confess, and all of a sudden I saw Fanny laughing and running about and throwing kisses to me and felt much lightened. And then I saw a house I did not recognise and myself baking in it and everything neat and well appointed. And, finally, I saw you dearest Lily in such a pretty frock of the palest turquoise and at your side a man of immense height who squired you about with great finesse. Now, Lily you have not spoken of a man and I ask you if there is such a one to tell me of him, for we all must have hope and trust to God, who knows all and does what He does for our sakes.
The last words of endearment read, Wilson folded up the letter with stiff fingers and replaced it in its envelope. She would burn it, the moment she reached home. Such a document did not bear keeping. Every line was cruelly embedded in her mind and would never be forgotten. Where, she wondered as she rose and began to walk slowly back to the Casa Guidi, where were her tears? There were none now the letter was done. Everything about her felt dry – her throat, her eyes, her mouth. She swallowed repeatedly, licked her lips, tried to create saliva and failed. Entering the dark hall of the Casa Guidi building she stumbled and put out a hand to steady herself, a hand that met the cold, moist stone with relief. She stood leaning her forehead against the wall for a moment before wearily climbing the stairs. As quietly as possible she opened the heavy door into the Brownings’ apartment, hoping to slip into her room and lie down but Flush met her in a frenzy of welcome and Mr Browning followed behind, smiling. She blessed him for his discretion. He saw her face and said nothing at all, only took her arm and led her into the drawing room, calling on his wife to come at once, but not in a voice to cause her alarm. She came, smiling too, and also saw her maid’s stricken face and knelt down beside her chair and took her hand. ‘My sister Fanny is dead,’ Wilson said, dully, and then at last began to weep.
Chapter Seventeen
IN OCTOBER, JUST as she was beginning to think there might after all still be some happiness in life, Wilson heard from Leonardo Righi – she did not like the slightly derisive way in which her employers always referred to him as ‘Mr’ Righi which was not even correct – that the Grand Duke, under pressure from the city fathers, was disbanding his personal guard. Leonardo was going home to Prato where he would take employment with either his f
ather the medical man or his brother-in-law the merchant. But he could not go without the answer to his proposal of marriage and it must be definite. When he said this, his eyes were full of reproach and Wilson knew she had been remiss. It was not fair to have kept Leonardo dangling all summer and she was a little ashamed. He seemed to require so little of her, claiming no favours even after months of walking out, and yet she did not think for one moment he was a cold fish (which she had always suspected Reginald Pomfret to have been). When he kissed her hand at the end of each occasion upon which he had taken her out, his eyes conveyed messages of unmistakably passionate intent. But he did not presume to do more than kiss her hand and though she was pleased to be so honoured, she was puzzled. Leonardo was courting her in such a strictly formal manner she could hardly credit it and could not quite decide what to make of it. Daily, Sarah Allen, of whom she was growing tired, pointed out to her what might happen. ‘There are other pebbles on the beach, Lily, and you are not that special.’ It was altogether better to discuss what she should do with her mistress who, since the devastating news from home, had been truly tender and solicitous.
Because she was now undeniably pregnant and at what was pronounced by Dr Harding to be the most dangerous stage, Mrs Browning spent almost the whole day prone once more, rising only from her bed to walk to her sofa, very like the old days in Wimpole Street. And as in those days, which in all other respects were so different and felt as if they belonged to another age, Wilson sat beside her mistress for many hours keeping her company and being on hand to save her the effort of moving. She sewed baby clothes to add to the layette wrapped up in tissue paper after the last miscarriage, and as she sewed she felt so troubled it was not surprising her mistress should ask her, very gently, if she was still grieving for Fanny or was there another burden pressing heavy. So Wilson told her of Leonardo’s imminent departure and of how she was committed to replying the next day.
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