But long before spring came she was sick and weary of her life. While she stitched, working in her bedroom for the privacy of it, though the ice was often on the inside of the window and it was foolish to desert Ellen’s hearth, she seemed to pass the time in a daze of bewilderment. How had she come to this? What was she doing here, so far from her husband? She had never felt more dead, more cut off from everything she had learned to love. Only Oreste gave her joy and that was a strange, muted pleasure. Knowing she might have to leave him if there was no other way of getting out of East Retford, she tried to keep herself separate from him even when cuddling him – he must not gain power over her head as well as her heart. She yearned for Ferdinando, for his life and vigour, for the completeness she felt with him, whereas here she felt so alone. She could not talk to Ellen, who in any case only wished to talk of the baby, and she had no other friends, except by letter. She wrote long screeds to Lizzie Treherne and Minnie Robinson and even to Jeannie, the Ogilvys’ maid, who was now back in Dundee. Nothing she ever received in return was satisfactory, but then Lizzie had three children and Minnie was getting too arthritic to write with ease, and Jeannie found corresponding a strain. She would have liked to pour out her heart to her old mistress, to Mrs Browning, but did not dare. Her last letter had been chilling.
News from Paris, the only place from which she really craved news, remained sparse. Notes from Ferdinando came regularly enough but they were short and repetitive and became like a formula. Indeed, sometimes she suspected that was what they were – letters paid for and written by a scribe according to an agreed recipe. Mrs Browning wrote only twice between November and April, saying each time that she was pushed to finish Aurora Leigh, her verse poem and hardly had time to think of writing to her own sisters. Wilson, reading the breathless account of days too short to fit everything into, could not help but contrast this pace with her own weary struggle to get to each bedtime and oblivion. She thought constantly of what she would be doing in Paris at each hour, of what she would be seeing and doing and hearing. At eight in the morning she woke to her cold room and had no Ferdinando to warm her before she touched the icy floorboards and went to Oreste seeking what he could not give her. She picked him up from the lined drawer in which he slept and, though she kissed him and he smiled and gurgled, all she felt was his helplessness. In Paris, they would be making a play out of breakfast, with Ferdinando singing and Pen joining in and the coffee bubbling on the stove and then Harriet – oh that Harriet – would take Pen out into all the colour and variety of the Parisian streets. She would meet other maids and gossip, buy hot chestnuts from a stall and watch a Punch and Judy show then return home to lunch with all the talk that went with it in the Browning household. Visitors would call, there would be laughter and more talk and the satisfaction of feeling at the hub of things. If she was there, and not Harriet, there would be time off and she and Ferdinando would make good use of it walking along the Seine and sitting in cafés and feeling far less like servants than they ever did in England.
In Ellen’s house, though peace now reigned, there was neither talk nor laughter nor conviviality of any sort. William went out soon after dawn, returned for his dinner (eaten in silence) at noon, and came home again at dusk, whenever that fell. He worked hard and in the evening sat by the fire smoking his pipe before retiring to bed early. His Sundays were distinguished by a later start and going to church but otherwise held no distraction. He was civil, played with the baby, treated both Ellen and her sister respectfully now, but offered nothing in the way of fellowship. Ellen was hardly better. She rose with her husband and spent her day cleaning and washing and baking. Her entertainment was caring for Oreste. Wilson remembered her as loquacious but came to the conclusion she had imagined it. Ellen spoke as little as William, appearing to have no interest in anything outside her own house. The world at large was of no consequence to either of them and Wilson, who had never thought it was of much to her, discovered she missed knowing of wars and prices and iniquitous laws and who had written, acted or painted a masterpiece, all ordinary topics of conversation in the Browning household. It stunned her that people could be so self-sufficient when their self-sufficiency was clearly so sterile. She would rather die, she thought, than endure this forever. Watching the evenings lengthen, feeling in April a little heat coming from a still rare sun in the sky, she longed not just for Ferdinando but for Italy. She looked at her son and wished she could see him basking in the heat, as he surely would, in his father’s homeland. Only then would everything seem right in her world.
By May she was almost ill with waiting, as she had done all winter, for the post. Soon, soon it must bring a letter with a date in it, a date telling her when to rejoin her true family. But May went by and there was no letter saying anything at all. Unable to restrain herself she wrote three times to the Brownings, repeating over and over that she was ready and waiting and that they must not fail to inform her of their arrival. She even reminded them, though it humiliated her to feel the need to do so, of their promise to take her back, and then she trembled to think she might have gone too far. Still no response came and it was June when surely their plans would be made. In desperation, terribly afraid there was something sinister in this silence from Paris, she wrote to Minnie Robinson, begging her:
— to tell me Minnie please if Miss Arabel has heard from her sister as to this summer’s plans for I had expected before now to be told and I am sore afraid in case I am not included in them though I cannot believe it since I was assured otherwise. Oh Minnie it has been a long weary winter here in East Retford than which there is to me no more god-forsaken place. My sister and her husband have been kind and I have much to be grateful for in having their home to shelter me and am not unaware of what I owe to them and how fortunate I have been where others are not but nevertheless Minnie it has been a sore trial and were it not for my precious baby I could not have stood it. He is a fine child never ailing anything nor troubling anyone and is much admired. He begins to crawl and can stand unaided except for holding the tip of a finger and that you know is well advanced for his young age. My brother-in-law treats him as his own which since the poor babe is deprived of his father means much. It is not right Ferdinando my husband has not seen his own child and breaks my heart, so write dearest Minnie and tell me of any plans which have been made known of the Brownings’ arrival.
All in a flurry, three letters came in the middle of June, each with the same news but then Wilson could not have it repeated often enough: the Brownings were to arrive on June 30th and she was bidden to make her way on the 29th to Mr Kenyon’s house in Devonshire Place to await their arrival. Over and over she read this, checking the date, checking the place, before ever she proceeded to absorb any of the instructions. It seemed Mr Kenyon was mortally ill at his summer residence in the Isle of Wight and had begged the Brownings to stay in his London home. She would make ready for them and might if she wished have her baby brought down to show off, before leaving for the Isle of Wight which the Brownings intended to visit partly as a holiday and partly to pay their last respects to their benefactor. She would go with them but should be warned that Ferdinando would not: he would stay in London since there was not room for him nor any need of his services in the Isle of Wight. If this did not suit, she should say so immediately and Harriet might be retained. Swiftly, Wilson replied, stating in unequivocal terms that she was ready to go to Devonshire Place, ready to go to the Isle of Wight, and that she quite understood that parting from her husband would be necessary. ‘There is no need,’ she ended, ‘for Harriet.’
Minnie told her the same news, adding that Miss Arabel feared her father would order her out of London as soon as her sister arrived; and so did Ferdinando, in a note quite unlike the usual ‘formula’, ecstatically reiterating the concession about Oreste. Suddenly, there was so much to do, the days flew past and Wilson found herself singing as she sewed. But she was careful to restrain her enthusiasm for leaving in front of Ellen and Willia
m, neither of whom seemed to have taken in the significance of her departure. What concerned them both, naturally, was how long Oreste would be gone for and as to this Wilson knew she must be very careful. She might need her sister more than she yet was in a position to tell, though she had begun to hope, even though she knew it was foolish, that she might not need her at all. All she told them was that she was going to London to meet with her husband and the Brownings to discuss her future. She was taking Oreste to show him off though he could not of course stay with her in the Devonshire Place house – Lizzie Treherne would have him.
The day she left Carol Gate it rained heavily. As she bounced along in William’s cart, clutching Oreste who was swathed in shawls, it seemed to Wilson that was all she would remember of East Retford, the rain, the interminable rain. To a place already grey in her mind it added another depth of shadow and she was vowing all the way to Sheffield that she would never, never live there again.
‘Come back soon!’ Ellen had cried, opening her arms wide as she ran several hundred yards alongside the cart, the rain soaking her as the wheels threw up spray from the puddles. ‘Come back soon!’ Poor bedraggled Ellen, her arms empty, the miracle she had hoped Oreste’s birth would work now only a dream.
Wilson tried to talk to William about Ellen but without knowing if she had removed Oreste from her forever it was hard. ‘William,’ she ventured, ‘Ellen will be low, with us gone. Do not be hard on her, I beg you.’ For answer William whipped the horse and was silent. ‘And yourself,’ Wilson went on hesitantly, ‘you have been good to us, like a father to my child and I thank you for it.’
‘I am father to none of my own,’ William muttered above the noise of the cart, ‘nor ever will be by the looks of it, so I’d better get used to it.’
Wilson could not think how to reply. His tone had not been the bitter thing his words implied but instead had about it a touch of resignation. ‘It is a dreadful business,’ she said, not knowing precisely what she meant, wishing only to be sympathetic and not to make William angry.
He alarmed her, just before Sheffield was reached, by suddenly asking, ‘The boy, when will you be bringing him back?’ She did not know how to answer and took refuge in ‘It depends on my husband.’
Once she had left him, she spent the journey to London thinking how nothing depended on Ferdinando, nothing. William, so much the master in his own house and work, would not be able to imagine how little depended on her own husband. He had neither the power of the purse nor of place. The Brownings had all the power. She say it more clearly than she had ever done, though she had never been blind to the realities of her position. The nine months in East Retford had been like a prison sentence, and while serving it she had had many hours to reflect on the hopelessness of trying to rise above her station. She saw she had to accept it, to be obliging and humble and not act as though she had her own life to lead and could do as she wished. If she wished to be with Ferdinando, if she wished to return to Italy, if she wished to employ herself in the manner she enjoyed, then there was no room for manoeuvre. Realising this made her as nervous as the day she had travelled to London for the first time. Now, as then, her anxiety was to please and she had even more to lose. If Oreste could please also then the whole game would alter. Looking down at him, asleep in her aching arms, she could not see how he could fail to enchant. Surely, once the Brownings had seen him, their hearts would melt and a small corner could be found for him?
So it was an optimistic Wilson who waited in Devonshire Place on June 30th, wearing the blue dress in which she had been married and with the brooch the Brownings had given her on their first anniversary pinned to her collar. She stood motionless in the hall when the time of arrival came near, her hands clasped in front of her. Mr Kenyon had taken his staff with him, except for the housekeeper and a maid, and it had been readily agreed by them that Wilson should act footman when the carriage arrived. She had time, standing there, to brace herself and so successfully that when she heard the carriage stop she was able to open the door calmly and descend the steps with dignity. The first to see her was Pen. He gave a great shriek of ‘Lily! Oh my Lily!’ and then the door of the carriage fairly shot open and the child catapulted out of his father’s arms and into hers. He had his legs wound round her waist and his arms throttling her neck and he smothered her with kisses of such violence she knew her lips would bruise. She laughed and cried, almost shocked by such demonstration of passion, and tried to calm him down by talking to him but not a single sentence escaped without the kisses cutting it to pieces. ‘You have grown so …’ she began and was silenced and coming up for air breathed, ‘I would never have thought you …’ and lost that too. It was hopeless. She hugged him back and stroked his hair and was enjoying this reunion thoroughly until she heard Mr Browning say, ‘Well, Wilson, you will be in no doubt you have been missed.’ Hastily, she removed Pen from her neck and, still holding him said, ‘And I have missed him, sir, and indeed all of you.’ She tried to curtsey but it was impossible and it began to worry her that Pen’s extravagant affection might do her more harm than good. Over his head, her eyes scanned the carriage, where Mrs Browning still sat. Thinking she was looking for her husband, Mr Browning said, ‘Ferdinando follows with the luggage. He will be here presently.’ She finally detached Pen, who ran off into the house, and went down the last step towards the carriage. Peering in, she was shocked again. ‘Oh, ma’am,’ she murmured, aghast at the pinched white face staring back at her, a face so wasted since she had last seen it that it hurt her to look at it. And the face had grown all of a sudden old, without doubt – old. The lines had deepened, the skin shrivelled. Mrs Browning smiled and stretched out her hand, but there was a new weariness underneath the general fatigue of travelling.
That evening, Wilson lavished all the care and tenderness she had in her on her mistress who by the time she was in bed was sighing with contentment and vowing she felt heaps better. ‘Everything is as it should be, dear,’ she murmured, ‘and how it has not been for this last year.’ Quietly, so that she could hardly be heard, Wilson followed the old routine, folding clothes, mixing laudanum, pulling curtains and extinguishing lamps in the familiar way. She liked to do it. There was comfort in assuming her old role and pride in clearly being appreciated for doing so. Only once did she think of Oreste being put to bed by Lizzie and firmly shut the image out of her head. That way, she would undo herself. There must be no tears of nostalgia or any other sort. She must be cheerful and soothing and not for one moment allow any of her own worries to intrude on Mrs Browning’s own. Even when she had been asked how her baby fared she had been careful to restrict herself to a short and favourable answer then to turn at once to more queries about Pen. When she was asked if she saw a change in the child she was clever. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she began, ‘he is greatly grown but still a young child for all that, still a baby in his ways and looks.’ It was an answer that pleased, as she had known it would and once more she had proved her worth. The first day of the reunion, the first day of what she felt was a trial period, ended satisfactorily.
Not so the second. It began well and ended badly. She was reunited with Ferdinando at dawn after he had been on the road from Dover all night due to a series of mishaps. Again, it was she who answered the door, though it was the side entrance this time. She had not been asleep but had sat shivering on the stairs worrying about her husband’s late arrival. She had been so anxious about seeing her employers that she had had no time to fret over Ferdinando, but sitting there in the early hours of the morning she began to feel tense and unsure. Suppose he no longer loved her? Suppose she took one look at him and thought him changed and no longer loved him? He would seem strange, he would be awkward and so would she. But nothing could have been less true: the moment Ferdinando came out of the cab and rushed towards her, her body responded without any doubts. It was so good to be held by him, to feel his strength and hunger, and she laughed to think she could have thought otherwise. They went to bed as soon as
they had deposited the luggage in the hall, and made love and only afterwards did she see how exhausted her husband was.
He wanted Oreste immediately and was dismayed to hear the child was not even in the house. ‘It is better so,’ Wilson said firmly, ‘while I regain my position. I must not seem claimed by my baby or I will be thought no good to them and then what? Then we will never be together and never get back to Italy. Later you can see him and go whenever you like to Lizzie’s.’ He slept and then, that afternoon, went with her to Lizzie’s and saw Oreste for the first time. His pride was almost indecent. She was made to strip the child completely and at the sight of his muscular little legs and the broad chest and most of all the prominent genitals Ferdinando was ecstatic, raving at what a fine Italian he was. Wilson was glad Lizzie could not understand a word as the predictions of Oreste’s future glory grew wilder and wilder, but she loved to hear the torrent of Italian, and from his antics, so did Oreste. He was not in the least afraid of this big, dark man who had suddenly appeared to fondle and caress him but laughed all the time and was pleased to be shown off. ‘He is like my father,’ Ferdinando declared, and then wept because his father was dead and would never see his namesake. ‘He is a Romagnoli, there is no doubt.’
They took Oreste back with them to Devonshire Place for his formal introduction to the Brownings. Ferdinando carried him and seemed oblivious to his wife’s repeated instructions as to how he should behave. ‘No boasting in front of them,’ Wilson pleaded. ‘No excessive pride, Ferdinando, I beg you. Let the child speak for himself, do not appear enslaved. And remember Penini’s feelings, he may well be jealous if you pay too much regard to Oreste. Keep with Pen, show where your allegiance lies, or we have no future as a family.’
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