‘I cannot,’ she wept, ‘I cannot, I dare not, I beg you, sir, if you have any pity, do it quickly and tell me.’ Ferdinando held her and she shuddered and closed her eyes again and turned her face into his chest.
Mr Browning fetched a paper knife and slit the letter open. He read it first, to the end, then put his own arms round Wilson too so that she lay between him and Ferdinando, almost smothered by their weight. ‘Look at me, Wilson,’ he begged, ‘or you will not believe and it will be worse in the end. Your mother and your sister May have gone to – to – they have gone to meet their beloved Maker, my dear.’
Wilson stopped crying and sat up. There were no screams, nor did the shock release any indication that she had understood. She was perfectly still, perfectly quiet, and it was far more disturbing to the two men.
‘Shall I read your brother-in-law’s letter to you? Can you bear it yet?’ There was no response but Mr Browning began to read the sad tale of the fever which poor Arthur had unwittingly brought home with him from a patient’s house, a fever which he had survived himself only to have his wife and their unborn child taken instead and, shortly after, his mother-in-law. The funeral, of necessity, had already been held and he begged her forgiveness for the pain he inflicted with his unlooked-for news.
Mrs Browning behaved perfectly. Returning to the sight of Wilson rigid and catatonic with grief she at once assumed control. The men were banished and Pen returned to Isa’s from whence they had just come. She shut herself in with Wilson and talked to her and prayed with her and held her against her breast. Little by little, the tears began to flow again and when Wilson was incapable of seeing or hearing, so great was the misery, she gave vent to her feelings and her mistress wiped her tears for her and held her close. ‘Cry,’ she urged, ‘cry on, cry, my dear, cry for your loved ones or a stone will grow in your heart.’ Mr Browning, looking in upon them after several hours had gone by, muttered uneasily, ‘You will be ill, Ba, this cannot go on,’ but was sent away. Only as night came and Wilson could cry no more did Mrs Browning call for a lamp to be lit and food and drink brought and afterwards she took her maid to her bed herself.
In the small hours, Ferdinando crept in beside her and held her tight, kissing her hands and whispering endearments. The comfort his presence gave her was inexpressible. ‘Life is short,’ she sighed, and held him tight.
Chapter Twenty Two
WILSON COULD NOT afterwards remember anything about the rest of that winter in Rome. When her mistress shuddered as they left the celestial city behind in May and expressed the belief it was forever damned in her eyes because of little Joe Story’s death she was inclined to agree. The thought of mother dead was inconceivable and then, because she had been only able to think of mother for weeks and weeks, the loss of May suddenly struck her afresh long afterwards – May, who was so young and happy and good. The dark thought crept into her head that if it had been Ellen she could have borne it better and then she wept at her own cruelty, for hadn’t Ellen suffered enough and didn’t she deserve a little happiness? Not that she sounded happy in the two letters that had come since January. The shock of the double death was as great for her as for Wilson and then, in March, she lost the baby she was carrying and her misery was complete. Everywhere Wilson looked in her family she saw only wretchedness. Instead of it growing, with the marriages of both sisters, instead of it multiplying, as a family should, it was shrinking to nothing.
Her mistress was entirely sympathetic and most forbearing when she was tearful and dazed and doing even the simplest tasks with difficulty, but she urged acceptance in a way Wilson found hard to take. Religion was no longer to her (if it ever had been) the comfort it was to Mrs Browning nor was the assurance that death was but a stage in life. Even the death of Flush, at the age of fourteen, was brought into these general assurances that there was life after death. She felt little distress herself at the dog’s death – there had been something cruel about the sight of such a very old dog staggering around the Casa Guidi, barely able to see or hear and smelling to high heaven however carefully he was groomed. Pen, of course, was grief-stricken but Mrs Browning less so. It seemed almost to satisfy her that when Flush was discovered dead she could bear it so well. ‘It was a natural end,’ she said, and encouraged Pen to see it as such. A little funeral ceremony was allowed in the Casa Guidi yard where Flush was buried but Mrs Browning did not go down to watch nor did her husband. Wilson, Pen and Ferdinando, who alone of the adults had wept, buried the dog and said a prayer and planted a small wooden cross upon which Pen had laboriously written Flush’s name and dates.
Afterwards, back in the drawing room, Wilson was obliged to listen to a description of a young, silken-coated dog cavorting round the fields of heaven, thankful to leave behind his ugly, mangy earthly self. While sceptical, Wilson did find herself drawn more and more into attempts at spirit-writing, though she knew it was a dangerous kind of game she was playing. She even, for only the second time in her life, took some of her mistress’s laudanum when urged – ‘It will relax you, dear, and help us along’ – and came to love the sensation of light-headedness it induced. She was almost happy sitting in that dim room with outlines of furniture and fabrics swirling before her and only her partner’s heavy breathing disturbing the air. When the pencil jumped in her hand and wrote her mother’s name she half knew and half did not where the guiding spirit came from. Ferdinando, who did not like her to indulge Mrs Browning in this fashion, shook his head sorrowfully when she confessed she hardly knew what she was doing and therefore it could not all be a true deceit. (Not, for example, as Isa Blagden’s maid’s performance was a sham and that was for sure.) She told him that apart from when she was in his arms those sessions with her mistress were the only times she was at peace. She felt mother was near, even came to believe that now mother was dead she might have handed on her gift to her.
She was in Ferdinando’s embrace more and more often, no longer caring about any consequences. She had even confessed to her mistress that yes, she was much smitten with him and that they might soon become engaged. The news was taken well. ‘He is a good man, Wilson,’ Mrs Browning said, ‘and you know him well.’ Thinking she could not guess how well, Wilson said nothing. All that concerned her was that there was no mention of dismissal. ‘Ferdinando is already one of our family,’ her mistress said graciously, ‘and nothing need change.’ That was, as Wilson well understood, the key to her attitude: nothing would change, the Browning way of life was unthreatened.
All that long summer, when they did not even escape Florence to go to Bagni di Lucca since there was some financial difficulty to which she was not privy, Wilson gave thanks that by some miracle she did not fall for a child. At the back of her mind, there was some anxiety that her failure to become pregnant in spite of repeated love-making, might mean she was barren and so, though every month she was relieved, she was also a little dismayed. Ferdinando, for his part, more and more frequently urged marriage, confessing himself tired of all the subterfuge. He wanted to have her on his arm as a wife for all the world to see and resented her insistence that appearances should be maintained at all costs. But by the autumn she was wavering. Twice her monthly health had been late and she had seen, as Lizzie Treherne had pointed out, how foolish it was to delay, but then the temptation to continue as they were for just a little longer, saving hard all the while, overcame her.
That winter, her mistress suffered the worst congestion of the chest since she had left England to live in Italy and both her husband and Wilson were back to nursing her all night. In these circumstances, it seemed to Wilson heartless to say she was going to marry Ferdinando. This would inevitably give rise to worry over the future and so she delayed the already long-postponed announcement of her engagement even though she had promised Ferdinando on New Year’s Day that she would make it. It was unfortunate that she did so, for by the time her mistress was sufficiently recovered to be going out for short drives in the sun it was April and Wilson knew she was
without doubt pregnant. Ferdinando was ecstatic and so, she could not deny, was she. Instead of being filled with terror at the prospect before her she could feel only immense satisfaction and joy which was difficult to hide. Fortunately, her mistress was diverted by the visit of two lady friends from Rome and not given to scrutinising her maid too closely. When Wilson told her, in May, that she had accepted Ferdinando’s proposal and was now engaged her news was greeted with a good show of pleasure and she was commended, as she wrote to Lizzie:
— for my honesty, Lizzie, she was much pleased I had been truthful and confided in her and that the trust between us had not been broken which would have grieved her sorely. Well, Lizzie, you can be sure I knew of whom she was thinking when she added that others she had loved dearly had not been so open and that I smiled to myself and thought neither am I ma’am and for good reason. She has from time to time spoken to me on the subject of the power of love and what it can lead to and she is right proud that she understands the forces at work even going so far as to acknowledge the power in some circumstances cannot always be withstood and a wedding ceremony is not in some exceptional cases everything. But I am no fool Lizzie and do not need your warning for were I to admit I give myself regularly to Ferdinando without as yet benefit of clergy it would be a different story, for then it would be a sin. We are so placed here in the Casa Guidi that I would need to be a saint to resist the man I love and I am glad to have found I am not and that womanly impulses I thought to be lacking in me have overwhelmed me. Yet nothing of that sort is suspected and we are careful to act at all times with decorum especially in front of the child. Often he seems like our child for we are a family within a family and he eats and walks and sings with us and is very close. What will happen when our own child comes I cannot imagine but strangely Lizzie and contrary to my previous anxieties I have no fear. But we have announced our engagement and my mistress is much occupied in ways and means we can marry. She is adamant that I as a Protestant and Ferdinando as a Catholic, should have our marriage recognised in both Churches, saying it is her duty to see that this is done. This bewilders us for neither of us, if the truth be told, much care as to the niceties of the marriage service so long as it is performed and quickly, but since we cannot reveal the need for speed no heed is taken of our desire for it. Meanwhile we are all to journey to England in a month or so stopping off in Paris to see Mr Browning’s father and sister. I am nervous of it, Lizzie, on many counts. I will be five months gone by the date of our departure and since already I have difficulty lacing myself I dread to think what state I will be in and how I will bear the travelling having a dread of seasickness and its effect. Then I have no home to go to in England which distresses me more than I can say. My old home in Newcastle being long since gone I had fixed my thoughts on Sheffield though I have no liking for it but now that too is pulled away as an anchor. I have only Ellen in East Retford and though she writes to make me welcome I dread seeing her with all that has befallen us in the interval. Nor do I know if her husband and his children will welcome me as she does and why should they since I am nothing to them. As for Ferdinando, he has never travelled and has a fear of it and will be dependent on me just when I have a mind to be dependent on him. All in all, Lizzie, I wish we were not going and that is the truth.
But there was no escape. They all took ship at the end of June from Leghorn to Marseilles via Corsica. Pen was wild with excitement, flinging his arms alternately round Wilson’s neck and then Ferdinando’s in a torrent of delighted kisses as they set sail. Fortunately, Mrs Browning had a slight cough and Wilson was able, under cover of being strict with her, to rest with her in her cabin. To her relief, she was not sick and felt well rather than otherwise. Ferdinando took sole charge of Pen and she was able to conserve her energies most conveniently. While she sat in the cabin, her mistress lectured her on the folly of not marrying with sufficient regard to the laws of both churches and boasted of having obtained a dispensation from the necessary banns. The Archbishop of Florence had provided it and once a clergyman had been found who would accept them and have no objections to a religiously mixed marriage they could proceed … ‘Perhaps, Wilson,’ she ended complacently, ‘you would like to marry at your sister’s in September, when you go for your holiday?’ Wilson immediately busied herself with some sewing the better to appear composed when she replied. ‘I think not, ma’am. Ferdinando is a proud man and would rather appear before my sister as my husband.’
‘Then it is very awkward, dear, for where can you be married?’
‘Anywhere, ma’am, for I do not care about the place any more than you did.’
Mrs Browning stiffened and gave a little cough. ‘It is hardly the same, Wilson. Should I have been able to have my sisters with me in the church I would have chosen it.’
‘It is a long time to September in any case,’ Wilson said, ‘and Ferdinando says he has waited long enough.’
Mrs Browning raised her eyebrows a little and said, ‘Then if he has waited long enough, another two months is nothing. I really think it would be best to wait until England.’
In the event, it was Ferdinando who succeeded in bringing the happy event forward. As they travelled through France it became harder and harder for him to be alone with Wilson and by Lyons he had not slept with her for fully three weeks. At each inn, Wilson slept with Pen or sometimes with both her mistress and Pen, and there was not the slightest chance of even an hour together. He could not, he said, endure this foolish separation and so he went to his employers and begged them to allow him to marry their maid with all despatch. If it could not be arranged because they were travelling then he vowed he would leave their service and so would Wilson and they would find someone to marry them in Lyons where he was prepared to set up a fiacre to support himself. It was an impassioned plea which nevertheless brought a smile to Mrs Browning’s face, a smile she tried to hide but which Wilson saw. She looked at poor Ferdinando and though she loved him dearly could see how absurd he seemed to her employers with his talk of becoming of all things a cab-driver in Lyons. Yet she blushed with anger and not, as they doubtless thought, with embarrassment as she witnessed this scene. Who were they to conjure up such difficulties? She was sure that left to their own devices she and Ferdinando would have been married long before now. It hurt her to see a fine man like her lover reduced to coming cap in hand to plead for something that was his by right. And so when her mistress hid her smile of amusement Wilson stepped forward and took Ferdinando’s hand openly and said quietly, ‘And I would be happy to be a cab-driver’s wife, if so be it.’
After that, things moved swiftly. Mr Browning arranged their wedding for July 11th in Paris at the British Embassy and every effort was made to make it a happy event. Mrs Browning, whose cough, though not serious, was again troublesome, did not attend the ceremony, but Mr Browning did. It was all modest and humble, a very long way from the wedding day of Wilson’s girlish dreams, and the ghost of mother haunted her throughout, but there were moments of great feeling which she never forgot. Her mistress’s embrace, as she left the hotel where they lodged, was one of them, given woman-to-woman without trace of condescension. ‘I am happy for you, dear Wilson,’ she whispered, and her eyes were full of tears. And then, as she smoothed down her blue dress, uncomfortably aware that even though every seam had been opened out it looked too tight, Pen appeared with a bouquet of tiny lilies and wild orchids and presented it to her. That time, she was the one with tears in her eyes. Mr Browning took her in a carriage to the Embassy and made her feel like a queen and when they arrived and saw Ferdinando waiting he looked so handsome and serious she had the greatest moment of all, a moment as she alighted and he rushed forward to take her hand when she was quite certain of his love and of her own. There was nothing shabby or pitiful about being only three people at a wedding, just as there had been nothing sad or pathetic about her mistress’s own. And afterwards, when they enjoyed the breakfast she and Ferdinando had managed to prepare, there was a good de
al more merry-making than on the Brownings’ own day.
Waking next morning, Ferdinando at her side, Wilson said aloud, ‘I am a married woman,’ for the pleasure of hearing the words. She lay looking at the ceiling, keeping perfectly still so that Ferdinando would not wake and interrupt her hour of reverie. It had been achieved. She was married, and happily married, and neither her mistress nor her master had said anything about either her or Ferdinando leaving their employment. All was well. But then she felt the quickening in her womb, the sudden shivering spasms that told her her child was alive and growing, and her thoughts turned to the future. How long could she delay breaking this other news? Over and over she had tried to estimate the date her baby would be born but without any doctor to guide her the estimate was of necessity crude. It might be as early as the middle of October or as late as the end of November. Only one thing was certain: she could not travel back either to Paris or to Florence at the end of September. By then her condition would be glaringly obvious and she would need to take care. But she felt calm and relatively untroubled by it all now she was married. She was respectable, had done the respectable thing.
As soon as they reached London, with lodgings taken this time in Dorset Street, she wrote to Ellen in East Retford begging her:
— to excuse the lack of letters Ellen for I have been sore pressed with the travelling we have done and besides much affected at the thought of coming to a place Mother no longer occupies which thought has dragged me down as I daresay it still does you. But I have happier news Ellen and can tell you I was married last week to Ferdinando Romagnoli my fellow servant this last two years. We are here now until September at least and look forward to visiting you in East Retford if we are welcome. My mistress is loth to lose both Ferdinando and myself at the same time having much to do helping her husband see his latest volume through the press and I am bidden to take my holiday first but it is agreed he may come to fetch me so you will have the opportunity to meet with him. He knows as yet very little English for we have always conversed in Italian in which as you know I am proficient but now we are in England he must make more progress. Our weather has shocked him and he fancies this must be January and not July not only because it has not ceased raining since we arrived but for the bitter cold. It makes him value his own country all the more which is no bad thing. He is entitled to his holiday too but has declined the favour except for bringing me from East Retford. Write, Ellen, and direct me as to your exact whereabouts and say if I am welcome.
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