Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  ‘Children, ma’am?’

  ‘Especially children. Your own Pilade is a pleasure to me, Wilson. Such a fine child, so like his father.’

  ‘I hope he will grow to be finer than his father, may God bless him.’

  ‘You say that with some feeling, Wilson? Finer than his father? What can that mean? I wish nothing more for Pen than that he should be as fine as his father.’

  ‘It is different, ma’am.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You are satisfied Mr Browning is fine. I wish I were satisfied my Ferdinando is.’

  ‘Wilson! What disloyalty is this? What cause can you have for such doubt?’

  ‘Oh, cause enough.’

  ‘But Ferdinando is the very model of a servant.’

  ‘He is not the very model of a husband.’

  ‘Ought you to be saying this, dear? Will you not regret it?’

  ‘There is nothing to regret. I have said nothing, only that my husband is lacking in perfection, I believe.’

  How they had got onto this Wilson could not remember, but Mrs Browning was the more worried. If it had not been for a visitor arriving then and her being obliged to leave instantly she had no doubt they would have waded into deeper waters and she knew she would not have been sorry. But as it was, Mrs Eckley was announced and Wilson stood up. She was not quick enough to be out of the room before Mrs Eckley was in it and found herself trapped by her between chair and door. She dropped a curtsey and was waiting to be allowed through the door when Mrs Eckley said, ‘Is this not Wilson, whom I have heard so much about, Ba?’ The use of ‘Ba’ registered with Wilson more than her own name – she had not realised Mrs Eckley was on such familiar terms.

  ‘Why yes,’ Mrs Browning said from her sofa, ‘but surely you are acquainted?’

  ‘I believe not,’ Mrs Eckley said and to Wilson’s surprise held out her hand. ‘How do you do, Wilson?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, thank you.’

  Her hand was retained and to her astonishment given the slightest but most certain squeeze. Wilson did not presume to squeeze back. She suddenly felt in a great hurry to escape, instinctively disliking this pretty, richly-dressed young American. But it seemed Mrs Eckley had no intention of allowing her to take her leave yet. ‘Ba,’ she said, ‘did you not say Wilson was in the way of being in touch?’

  Bewildered, Wilson turned and saw Mrs Browning had coloured and seemed embarrassed.

  ‘We had some success, one winter, in Rome and that is all,’ she said.

  ‘More success than we have had?’

  ‘No, no. It was not at all the same thing. You must let Wilson go, Sophie, she has much to do.’

  So that was the attraction of this unlikely friendship. Pondering what she had just heard, Wilson went home, wondering if Mr Browning felt the same distrust of Mrs Eckley as she did. Questioning Ferdinando when next she saw him she grew exasperated with his inability to notice anything at all. He had no idea how often Mrs Eckley came nor how long she stayed nor what Mr Browning thought. It was, he said, his job to cook and see to his master’s clothes and open the door and go marketing, not to be a spy. All he knew was that the Eckleys were lending the Brownings their best carriage so they might travel the more comfortably to Rome for the winter. Wilson froze. All speculation about Mrs Eckley disappeared from her mind. ‘Rome?’ she echoed. Ferdinando obligingly repeated his piece of news without seeming to think it was either of interest or importance. ‘Rome,’ he said, ‘for the winter. My master is anxious to take my mistress south as soon as possible.’

  ‘And you? What of you? Is it to be as before? Does Annunciata go and you stay?’ He shrugged, spread his hands in the usual gesture, did not seem to care. But Wilson knew the answer without enquiring any further. Of course Ferdinando would be taken to Rome. Rome was not France, he would be essential in Rome, and if they took him with Annunciata she knew what would happen in no time at all and how it would leave her.

  She had not had an answer from Ellen but she could not wait. That very evening, leaving Pilade asleep, she went into the Casa Guidi and formally requested an interview with Mr and Mrs Browning.

  Ferdinando stared at her as though she had gone mad. ‘What am I to say?’ he whispered.

  ‘What I have just told you,’ she answered sharply. ‘Go, ask.’ She took care to remain on the threshold while he did so.

  After a moment, Mr Browning came out of the drawing room. ‘Wilson? What is this? You stand on such ceremony, at this hour?’

  ‘I wish to speak with you, sir.’

  ‘Then speak. Come, come through. My wife is already prepared for bed but then you are no stranger to that.’

  She followed him through the drawing room and into the bedroom where Mrs Browning, a thick shawl round her shoulders, sat up in bed. She was relieved to see no sign of Pen, before whom she would not have wished to speak freely. Mr Browning drew up a chair for her, as nice as could be, and sat down himself. He folded his arms, yawned, begged their pardon and smiled. ‘Do begin, Wilson,’ he encouraged her, as though she had promised an entertainment. She felt awkward sitting down but, since she had been bidden to do so, could not choose to stand. Twisting her handkerchief in her lap she began straight away by saying, ‘I believe you are to go to Rome soon, sir, ma’am?’

  Mr Browning, with an expression on his face that said he guessed what this was about and it did not please him, nodded. ‘Go on, Wilson, though it may not be of any use.’

  ‘No, sir. It is, sir, ma’am, that I would wish to return to your service and come with you.’

  Mrs Browning gave an exclamation of astonishment – a great breathing-out and almost a groan that came with it – and Mr Browning simply stared at her in disbelief.

  ‘Come with us? But your child, Wilson, and your house. Do you hear what you are saying? Are you thinking?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I have thought deeply and I have a plan. My sister Ellen, sir, who has had charge of my first-born this three long years, her husband William died of blood poisoning in September and she is now alone and I have written even before I heard of the plan to go to Rome to beg her to come out here to me with Oreste and if she does, as I think she will, having no other family or ties, then she might look after my house and other child for the winter and we would all profit without further trouble.’

  There was a silence so complete she could hear the slight rasp in Mrs Browning’s chest, a rasp that broke into a cough she seemed to welcome. Her husband leapt to give her a glass of water and Wilson to help her sit upright. When the fit was over none of them knew how to act.

  ‘It was the shock,’ Mrs Browning murmured. ‘Such a plan, Wilson!’

  Mr Browning paced about and then said, ‘You place us in a difficult position, Wilson, and one we can hardly approve. To take you, a married woman and mother, away from your child when you have grieved so sorely for the other does not make sense. If, as you say, your sister will come and bring Oreste then surely you have achieved your dearest wish? How could you then leave, leave both children?’

  ‘Only for the winter, sir.’

  ‘Robert,’ Mrs Browning broke in, ‘that has little to do with it, you are forgetting Annunciata, dear. How could we set her aside? We are not even able to consider this extraordinary offer.’

  But Mr Browning had become fascinated and ignored his wife’s point. ‘Wilson,’ he said firmly, ‘what lies behind this? Why should you choose, if you could, and I do not say that you could, to leave your children? And why would you wish to become a maid once more when you have risen higher? It does not seem sensible.’

  ‘It is not, sir,’ she said calmly, ‘but I am driven to it. If my husband goes to Rome then it is all up with me.’

  ‘Up with you? I miss your meaning entirely.’

  ‘He will succumb to temptation, sir.’

  ‘Oh, come, Wilson – think better of the man than that. Why, Ferdinando is the most dutiful, most loyal …’

  ‘He is a man, sir, and Annunciata is a b
eautiful young woman.’

  ‘Take care, Wilson, these are serious accusations.’

  ‘I accuse no one, sir. I only say he is a man and will act like a man, given the chance. He is human and so is she and all the marriage certificates in the world would not keep him faithful if he were tempted in those circumstances.’

  ‘It is a simple case of jealousy,’ Mrs Browning said quietly, ‘and we can have nothing to do with it. And since you push the issue, Wilson, my husband is a man too – no Robert, let me finish – he is a man too and subject to like temptation and to the charge of masculine appetites and yet I do not doubt his fidelity, wherever he goes. Cannot you have the same faith, Wilson? Cannot your love conquer this jealousy? You are Ferdinando’s wife, he is the father of your sons, is that not enough to make you trust in him?’

  Wilson smiled, pityingly, and folded her arms. How superior she suddenly felt to that woman in the bed, the woman whom she had so long admired, even idolised, but who knew little of human nature after all. It hardly mattered what her own husband did or did not do when his wife languished in bed, an invalid. Perhaps Mr Browning was entirely above reproach, though there were those who saw him constantly at Isa Blagden’s and thought that friendship promised more; perhaps he was able to subdue the desires of a healthy man in his prime, but Ferdinando would not be able to if temptation was set in his way. And consider, as Mrs Browning had never done, the close proximity in which servants lived in these rented apartments – it was very often more than flesh could stand. So she smiled on and stood there and in exasperation Mrs Browning said, ‘I do not know that we should continue this discussion, Wilson. I think it better if you leave us now.’

  ‘Then there is no hope?’

  ‘That is a touch melodramatic, surely. If you mean will we consider your desire to return to our service, then I am afraid not. It is impossible.’

  ‘Ferdinando could leave us,’ Mr Browning said suddenly. ‘He would have no difficulty finding another situation in Florence.’

  ‘Must you show such generosity, Robert? Is there any need for self-denial of this order?’

  ‘He will not leave, ma’am,’ Wilson broke in, quite matter-of-fact. ‘He is devoted, as all of us are. He must go and I must lose my husband and that is all there is to it. That is the way of things, the way the world works.’

  She saw a look of real dislike cross Mrs Browning’s face, quickly followed by an expression of exasperation. Mr Browning motioned his wife to be quiet and taking Wilson’s arm conducted her to the door, saying something to the effect that she must not give way to gloomy thoughts and that doubtless she was tired with a young baby still nursing and a house to run. She might even, he suggested, as they went to the stairs, benefit from a quiet winter with her sister to help and think what joy lay ahead with Oreste brought to her at last. She allowed herself to be shown out, allowed herself to be talked to but said not a word. It was her old mistress from whom she had hoped for much, woman to woman, and none of his soothing phrases meant anything to her. As she descended the stairs, she appreciated for the first time how far she had fallen from grace. She had suspected in Lucca, all those months ago, that Mrs Browning no longer cared for her as once she had done but she saw that it was worse than that: she was a nuisance, plain and simple. Someone who annoyed with her need for sympathy, who irritated with her shameless display of pathos. They wanted to be rid of her, would be glad to go to Rome and leave her miserable face behind. And as for Ferdinando, he would do what he was told, always. Lacking in initiative, he would be obedient and obedience to employers came before that to his wife. Besides, Florence was dull in the winter, even for a Florentine. Who would forgo the chance of a winter in Rome, the centre of things? No, there was no hope of her husband exploding with rage at the thought of leaving her and swearing that he would find a way to remain. She did not even expect it.

  And then the letter came from Ellen and her world seemed to darken further. Ellen was emphatic:

  — I could not take myself to a Foreign Land as you did Lily and never wanted such a thing and though you would be there that alone would in no way satisfy me and I should be afraid. I will end my days in my own country and that is certain. Nor could I contemplate the journey which fills me with fear near to fainting. As for Oreste, he talks fluently now and it is of course English and there would be much confusion for him. We are well and have no worries being happy together and not in need William leaving me better provided for than ever I had expected. Your money is spent only on Oreste you can be assured for I have enough. I work at the big house taking Oreste with me it is kitchen work and not difficult and gives me extra. So do not look for us coming Lily but think rather of you coming home if you have a mind.

  Wilson’s disappointment was matched only by her horror at Ellen’s suggestion – never would she return to East Retford. But what alarmed and frightened her most and had her leaping for her pen was this talk of ‘us’, of Oreste and Ellen being a pair who were ‘happy together’ and would never come to Italy. In anger she wrote:

  — whatever you have a mind to do Ellen it is not for you to dictate Oreste’s future and I confess I was disturbed to have you write as though he were your son and not mine, which he is and you know you cannot keep him and that it would be wrong. Next summer when Pilade is weaned which I will do long before then I am determined to come myself to England if there is no other way and bring my son back here and I have started saving towards it. As for the English speaking, a child of far more than three has no difficulty learning Italian and is so far from being wedded to the tongue he has begun with that he forgets it within a few months so do not say to me that is an obstacle. You will perhaps be affronted by my frankness Ellen but I am distressed and if you were to think on it you would understand. I am besides about to be deserted by my husband, who is to go this next week to Rome to prepare the way for the Brownings. That would be loss enough if I watched him go with only longing for him in my heart but there is instead a bitterness because he is happy to go life there being preferrable to here where there is only his tired wife for company. I do not know how I shall manage this winter and dread it not for the weather which is rarely fierce, but for the loneliness. There will be no one to speak with except Miss Blagden for a month or two when she comes to inspect the Casa Guidi before leaving Florence herself and otherwise not a solitary congenial soul. I have only two boarders, both of whom leave before Christmas, and I am not likely to replace them easily. It is a struggle Ellen and no mistake and though I have been thrifty as mother brought us all up to be and the rent is paid for the next year I am hard put to pay wages and still eat and keep warm.

  At least warmth was no trouble. The moment Ferdinando left, with only the most cursory of farewells, to go by train and boat to Rome in advance of the main party, the icy wind which had swept through the city most unexpectedly throughout October suddenly dropped and it was as if it were summer again. On the morning of November 18th, when Wilson stood in the street to wave goodbye to the Brownings, it was hot enough for her to want to move into the shade as soon as they had gone. And that was what it was, a move altogether into the shade. She trailed back into her house, carrying Pilade, and felt the shadows of the entrance hall which greeted her were merciful. She sought out the darkest room and even then closed the shutters, though it was only early morning, and lay on her bed without energy even to feed her son. Meanwhile, in her mind, she had visions of the Brownings rattling along in high good humour with all manner of beautiful vistas to right and left as they trotted to Arezzo and she could hear the conversation and Pen’s excited laughter. In another moment she saw Ferdinando waiting in Rome, standing on the doorstep, his arms open in welcome and a welcome most of all for Annunciata. How thrilled the girl had been to be going to the Holy City, how lovely she had looked in a jacket of scarlet silk, a birthday present given only the day before by Mrs Browning, how she had glowed and shivered with anticipation … All that was over for her. This was her place now, alone i
n a darkened room with no one to care what became of her. What had she done to deserve such punishment?

  The idea that she was being punished began to obsess her and she could think of nothing else the whole winter. She must have done something for which she was now being made to pay. Spending most of each day in the house, she had no one except Maria to talk to and Maria was not worth the effort. She would rather talk to Pilade though she knew this was only a sophisticated way of talking to herself. The child at least seemed to listen. As she bathed him, soaping the fat little limbs with a slow, caressing movement almost hypnotic in nature, she told him how lost she felt, how she no longer knew who she was nor where she was and how all that mattered to her was him. He was her sole reason for getting up at all, the only incentive to clothe and feed herself and drag herself from her bedroom where she would much prefer to stay. Pilade did not even splash in reply. He gazed up at her, huge brown eyes unblinking, and made little, soft dove-like noises she believed designed to encourage her. When she breast-fed him, which she still did though he was now a year old, the comfort of it made her weep and in weeping she felt happier. She would let him stay at the breast long after the milk had gone and the gentle, pulling movement as he continued to suck though he was no longer hungry were soothing. He was a quiet baby, watchful, with a stillness about him which, if he had not been able to crawl and stand and almost walk, would have been a cause for concern. ‘He is an angel,’ people told her and that winter she began to think he really might be.

  An angel. Sent down from heaven for what purpose? To show her the evil of her ways, the evil for which she was being punished. Never an assiduous Bible reader, though while mother was alive she used to read a few verses for her sake, she now began to turn to it more and more in search of enlightenment but her head swam when she tried to read. Her eyes leapt from Abraham begat Isaac and Isaac begat Jacob to Verse 25 of the Gospel According to St Matthew, to which she had turned simply because it began the New Testament and she had been unable to make anything of the Old. ‘First-born’ was the word that caught her attention, ‘And knew her not till she had brought forth her first-born son.’ She read on, about Jesus being born in Bethlehem and about King Herod and did not stop until she came to the line about Rachel weeping for her children. She read some verses and not others, understood some lines and not others, and stopped at every mention of angels or children or weeping or suffering. Sometimes she would hear some commandment being spoken – ‘Give not that which is holy unto the dogs’ – and others echoed in her head until it ached. As she read on, day after day, often by candlelight, through St Matthew and St Mark and on to St Luke and St John it seemed to her a message was reaching her and that message was that she must face her own wickedness. She had been wicked. She had given herself, a virgin, to Ferdinando without benefit of holy matrimony and her first-born was being withheld from her as payment for her crime. ‘Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters’ she read in Ephesians 6 – and she had not been obedient. ‘Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory’ she was told in Philippians 2 – and she had striven and been vainglorious. James 1 terrified her most with ‘Then when lust hath conceived it bringeth forth sin: and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.’ Oreste would die, she saw that now, for what was it she had felt for Ferdinando if not lust?