It was all quite different from how she had imagined and she many times laughed bitterly at herself for her naivety in the days following the birth of her son. The birth itself was painfully different. Hadn’t she seen Mrs Browning lie there without a murmur and bring forth a large child with what seemed ease? And there she lay, when her time came, screaming incessantly for hour after hour with no hope in her mind of surviving such agony. Long before it was over she knew she could not go on and yet the horror of it was that there was no escape – the pain had to continue, she could not walk away from it. She pleaded and shouted to be put out of her misery but all she got in reply was the instruction to be patient. The more searing the vicious cramps, the more frantic she became until the midwife vowed she would tie her down if she did not cease to thrash around. And then, when it came to the time to push, the pain seemed to swallow her with each effort to obey and she wept as well as screamed and begged and begged for laudanum, for anything to put her to sleep.
Ellen, at her side throughout and in almost as great a state of distress, asked the midwife if nothing could be given to ease the suffering but was ignored. The midwife, who had seen all this before, was contemptuous – this was childbirth, this was women’s fate. She said the baby’s feet were coming first, hence the difficulty, and that a mother given laudanum or gin or any other opiate would be a sleepy mother and one who might endanger the baby’s life. Nothing could be done, she said, except to pray.
They prayed, Ellen and Wilson, and at last, at two in the morning, the baby was born, feet first as the midwife had said. Wilson heard the cry but was so taken up with the instant removal of pain that she could think of nothing else. How still she felt, how calm her body, how peaceful it suddenly was lying there, released from torture. It was Ellen who rushed to see the child, Ellen who held him first, Ellen who cried with joy. Wilson heard, as if from a long way off, her sister tell her it was a boy, a fine big boy, perfect in every detail, with black hair and long legs and a beautiful olive skin, but she had no interest and was content to wait until the afterbirth came away, cleanly, and the midwife pronounced the bleeding all but stopped.
Then Ellen put her son in her arms and again it was different from her expectations. She had thought she would recognise her child, that she would look at him and by some curious natural process know him. But the tiny face looking up into hers, the eyes momentarily wide open as if in equal astonishment, was a complete surprise. She did not know it, she had never seen it before, never seen a face like it. As she stared, devouring each feature, exclaiming at how handsome he was, she felt herself shiver with excitement: he was hers, her son, her own. She cuddled him to her and the feel of him, the warmth and trembling weight bound him to her all in an instant. Without thinking, she fumbled with her shift and put him to her breast and, with the first pull on her nipple and the pain that once more shot through her, she was devoted to him. Any thought of parting with him even for an hour was unthinkable. And yet, in preparation for handing him to the wet-nurse, so that she might leave him and rejoin her husband, she rubbed her breasts the morning after the delivery with equal parts of spirit and oil and used the glass tube she had bought to suck her own milk away. She cried while she did so and became so upset that Ellen had to assist and she remembered doing the same for her mistress when Pen was born, only then the doctor had brought an India rubber pump that was far more efficient.
Writing to tell Ferdinando he had a splendid son more like him than like her, more Italian than English, Wilson for once swept aside all inhibitions created by knowing her letter would be read to him. With pride she began:
—On this day the thirteenth of October in the year of our Lord eighteen-hundred-and-fifty-five I gave birth to your son who is a fine healthy boy born feet first. I cannot tell you the love I feel for him Ferdinando and only weep that you cannot be here to see him and hold him and wonder with me that we have created such a splendid child. He has dark hair and eyes and strong limbs and a lusty cry and all is well though I suffered sorely in the having of him, worse than I had anticipated. But I am well and happy the ordeal is over and I have come through. I pray for you and for our reunion that I may present you with your son and see you share my joy.
Then she wept, overcome with misery at wondering when that would be. Any moment, Ferdinando would be taken off to Paris, if he had not already been obliged to go, and it struck her suddenly that she ought to write to her mistress and make plain her desire to return to her service. By the next post she wrote:
— I am already decided, ma’am, that I cannot live without my dear husband no more than you could and my sister Ellen being more than willing to care for my son I am resolved to leave him with her while he is young and return to claim him when we come to England on the next summer visit. This being mid-October I consider I can travel to join you in a month from now and therefore will not have inconvenienced you much I hope. Pray give me directions and I will manage to see to the rest. Kiss Penini for me and tell him my baby is nearly as beautiful as he was.
More tears followed until her baby’s head was wet with them and Ellen scolded her. She lay huddled in the bed, watching the wet-nurse suckling her son and the hopelessness of her dilemma depressed her utterly. She had not bargained for the force of her love for her child, for the pull he would exert on her heart. The horror of what she was proposing to do – go, leave him, not see him, not hold him, desert him, abandon him – froze her movements. She lay for hours unable to speak or eat, her eyes following Ellen crooning to her son, cuddling him, carrying him about. And when William came in, that big man tip-toeing, and took the baby and smiled down at him she could not bear it and turned her face to the wall.
She had neither energy nor will to get herself up and no one seemed to care – the baby was centre of all attention. She told herself repeatedly how fortunate she was to have the luxury of lying in bed, warm and comfortable with food and drink brought generously to her when many a woman in her position had to rise the next day after giving birth and shift for herself, but she did not feel fortunate. She felt trapped, she was trapped, and far more securely than she had ever envisaged. The steel jaws of the trap bit her breast and she could not escape without tearing it from her and with it would drain her life and happiness. Yet she could not stay here in East Retford with her child – all the compulsion in her was towards Ferdinando and her life with him. If she could return next summer, then surely ways and means could be found to take her son back to Italy. Feverishly, she ran over the possibilities in her mind, calling in all the friends she had ever had and deluding herself that among them would be one who could travel with a child not yet one year old. Burying her head in the pillow, pulling the covers over herself, she willed herself into the next year, conjuring up pictures of herself and Ferdinando and their son all smiling under an Italian sun.
Outside, it rained. All the rest of October it rained and an east wind blew, and everyone shivered and cursed winter for coming so early. Wilson, on her feet once more, lived for the post, though it brought her nothing but bad news. Ferdinando was with the Brownings in Paris where they had travelled four days after Oreste’s birth. There was trouble finding an apartment and then, when one was found, more trouble moving out when it did not satisfy Mrs Browning – the sofas were hard and ugly and the sun never came in because the windows faced the wrong way. No one had time to write to her. All she had had was a letter of congratulation written by Mr Browning on Ferdinando’s behalf and another by her mistress saying she was happy and relieved for her. But by November 11th, when Oreste was christened, she had not had a single other communication in response to her application to return. In the church, with Ellen as godmother holding Oreste and William as godfather standing at her side, Wilson felt already displaced. She had left them in spirit but here she was in body, dull and restless, frantic to get the parting she dreaded over.
On November 20th she received a letter from the Brownings with, enclosed inside, another from Ferdinando not i
n any hand she knew. She went to her bedroom, already in her mind packing her trunk and giving Ellen last instructions for Oreste’s welfare. With trembling hands she smoothed out the Brownings’ letter first and prepared to absorb what she supposed would be detailed directions. It was written by Mrs Browning but signed by them both. Her eyes skimmed the first page, which was full of the tribulations involved in finally settling themselves in the Rue du Colisée near the Champs-Elysées, and then the second which gave an account of how much of their post had been misdirected and they had only last week:
— received the letter you sent at the end of October Wilson dear (though since you did not date it I cannot be sure when it left your hand, the postmark also being indistinct). I must confess my husband and I were startled by its contents, not having imagined that one who had so recently given birth would contemplate a journey from East Retford to Paris and in all seriousness, Wilson, I fear it would be too much for you. But in any event, it is a journey you will not be called upon to make for it is unfortunately not within our power to receive you back as and when you wish. You will surely understand that in engaging Harriet and bringing her here far from her home we were obliged, if we had any decency at all, to guarantee the length of her employment and her safe passage back to London and we accordingly assured her that she would hold her position with us until next June when we make another summer visit to London. You cannot hold this against us, Wilson, nor can you expect us to cast aside Harriet upon being informed you see your way to returning. You would do far better to stay with your sister and care for your child until next June when we would be happy – indeed overjoyed – to have you back (and will regard that as certain unless in the meantime informed otherwise). We are sorry for any disappointment this causes you but feel sure that upon reflection you will agree we are bound to Harriet.
There were three more pages but she did not then read them. The words ‘we are bound to Harriet’ filled her with rage and she pushed her fists in her eyes to block out the sudden vision of her smirking substitute. Why ‘bound’ to Harriet? What pretence was this? What contract had been entered into of such a secure nature that they were ‘bound’ to a servant engaged temporarily? She had never heard the like of it, she did not believe it. There was more to this than any supposed obligation: they preferred Harriet, that was the truth. She was young and pretty and did not burden them with the worries of a married woman. By next summer doubtless they would discover they were ‘bound’ to keep Harriet after all and at this thought panic filled her. She would never see Ferdinando again, never return to Italy, be stranded forever in East Retford …
It was quite half an hour before she could compose herself sufficiently to read Ferdinando’s own letter but when she did it cheered her considerably. He had dictated it to a fellow Italian who, just as she had predicted, he had met at a café where exiled Italians gathered. In a great burst of feeling he assured her he wept nightly for her and could not bear being apart from her or their son. She need have no foolish worries that he had become a philanderer for nothing could be further from the truth. He had not even lifted his eyes off the ground to look at a French woman and as for Harriet White:
— she is a thorn in my side which I feel more every day. Penini detests her and cries for you morning noon and night and will not be quietened though his mother and father plead with him to stop. He will not sleep with Harriet and so sleeps with his parents nor will he let her dress him or feed him which I am called upon to do. Every day he asks if his Lily is back and I say No and we cry together for you. Nor is your mistress in reality much happier for this Harriet is not dependable and forgets all manner of things and consequently there is no order in our household which is not the happy place it was formerly. As to not allowing you to return I am devastated by the decision and do not understand it except it were to do with expense for there can be no other explanation. I stood open-mouthed when told they felt bound to Harriet and a bird could have flown into it. They were as embarrassed as I have ever seen them and glad when I left the room. And now Lily I am desolate all over again what with the hope that had sprung up in me being so cruelly dashed and I would that I were not a feeble fellow unable to gather you and my son up into my arms and keep you there.
Wilson smiled wearily at that. Ferdinando was quite strong enough to do what he said, if only he were with them, but he could do nothing materially towards bringing them together. There was no alternative: for the next six months she must stay here and find some employment to support herself and save towards the bleak future. Ellen and William were happy to have her and no mention of payment had been made nor, since if nothing else they were not exactly poor, did it need to be. But she could not stay in this house day after day with nothing to do but watch Ellen drool over her baby nor could she compete with her. All Ellen wished to do was act nursemaid and, watching her blossom, Wilson could not deny her the chance. The only pleasure of the day was to see how the birth of Oreste had transformed his aunt and uncle. There were no more drunken rages from William. He returned to being the hard-working, sober citizen he had formerly been and the change in his demeanour was noted by all. ‘You need not fear, sister,’ he said one evening to Wilson as he noted her expression seeing him kissing Oreste, ‘I know he is not my own flesh and blood and that his father will one day claim him. I know it, I know he is not my dead son and I shan’t pretend he is. But the power of holding him, hearing him … it heals, it heals. It is as everyone says. It sets me straight.’
He was a beautiful, good baby. When she was alone with him, which was rarely, Wilson gloried in her son’s looks and in his sweet nature. Memories of Pen were all she had with which to compare him and he excelled them in every particular. Though Pen had been big at birth with a strong chest he had lacked Oreste’s perfection of form and under the care of Dolorosa quickly became, for a while, fat. Oreste was much better proportioned and his skin infinitely smoother. His black hair thickened rapidly just at the stage when Pen had lost his blond wisps and his eyes were huge and a dark, dark brown. He smiled continually, never shrieking as Pen had been capable of doing, and slept long hours whereas Pen had woken repeatedly between feeds. All who saw him remarked on the baby’s tranquillity and contentment and yet he was as spoiled by Ellen and William as Pen had been by his parents. There was no baby in the world more suited to travel nor one less likely to cause disruption in any household. So easy and comfortable was this child of hers that Wilson began to entertain the notion of presenting him to the Brownings and convincing them it would not be out of the question either to take him back to Italy or, once there, to allow him to live in the Casa Guidi. She knew it was madness but it was an insanity she wilfully indulged in, to make the East Retford winter days more bearable.
She knew she must find work but lacked the energy to go in search of it. Where, in East Retford, within reach of Carol Gate, could she find suitable employment? She would not live in and thereby throw away the chance to be with her baby, the only advantage of being stuck in England, and so limited her opportunities. Ellen had heard of a vicar’s wife who was looking for a parlour maid and might be willing to take someone not living in, but Wilson could not bring herself to go seeking such a job. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ William murmured, but when she flashed back at him, ‘I am no beggar and if need be will take my son and go,’ he hastily pulled back, swearing it had been an idle remark not intended to offend. But, in the event, work came to her. While with Ellen she had taken to reworking her sister’s clothes partly to be useful, partly to keep herself busy and partly because she liked the work. This was one talent of mother’s, at least, which she had inherited and developed. She pulled to pieces a brown dress, some eight years old and, by altering the skirt entirely and fashioning a new collar from yet another abandoned garment, she produced a most attractive creation which improved Ellen’s sallow looks so much it was noticed in Chapel. Enquiries followed compliments and before long Wilson was in demand as a seamstress. The work suited her
homebound circumstances perfectly and soon she had more than she could handle. She hand-sewed beautifully, finishing seams and trimmings so expertly that the dresses looked new. It pleased the few ladies of East Retford who had heard of Paris fashions to have Wilson incorporate little touches here and there which were ‘all the rage in Paris, ma’am, when I was there last summer and I did not think you would mind if I copied what I saw’. No, the ladies did not mind and were quite willing to pay the extra Wilson charged for the unusually tucked bodice or the most originally shaped sleeves. Her fame spread to Sheffield and twice carriages arrived at the door to bring extremely smart clients all eager to avail themselves of the services this rustic wonder was said to offer. Wilson gave half of everything she earned to William for her keep and the other half she saved. It was surprising how these savings accumulated but then, greatly daring, she had risked charging London prices from the beginning. There was not much to make on the alterations but once she had begun to make new garments she made a real profit. She charged fifteen shillings for a dress, for the making only, because that was what Mrs Browning had paid for her last new dress over and above the cost of the material and trimmings. Ellen thought it scandalous but her customer hardly murmured, she was so thrilled with the originality of the dress. All the time she stitched, Wilson smiled a little grimly to think how all these years her entire income a week had been half what she could get from making a dress.
Lady's Maid Page 42