‘And as you are, Lily.’
‘Oh, not me Penini, I am not good.’
‘Are you bad then, Lily?’
‘No, no, but I am of the common kind, there are many of me, and your Mama was very special, some say a genius.’
‘You are special too, Lily, and I know none other like you.’
‘But you do not see me clearly, you are only a boy and I was your nurse.’
He smiled at her, an odd little smile, half-mocking, half-sad, as though he knew a secret but would not confess it. His face was strange to look at these days, with an unsettled look, unsettled in feature as well as expression. The very skin of it was changing, the silky smoothness giving way to a duller finish with here and there the small blemishes of early adolescence. And his eyes, which had once seemed huge, now seemed to have shrunk and no longer dominated his face. It struck her that the next time she saw him, if she ever saw him again, she might not recognise him, that this half-formed man might change into an adult quite different from his boyhood self, the self that still lingered there.
‘I will never forget you, Lily,’ he was saying, most solemnly. ‘Never. Will you forget me?’
‘Never, never. You are written on my heart.’ It came out of her with such ease she had no time to be embarrassed at her own fulsomeness. Once she had said it, she liked the sound of those words so much that she repeated them. ‘You are written on my heart, as your Mama is.’
‘Did you love Mama, Lily?’
‘I did. I loved her dearly. She was my life.’ Again, she had found herself uttering phrases which did not feel her own and yet which pleased her. The words were trite and she would have laughed at them coming from another, but her emotion transformed them.
But Penini was frowning. ‘Your life, Lily? Then is your life with Mama? Is your life over?’ He looked troubled, almost panic-stricken and she hastened to reassure him.
‘No, no,’ she said, ‘it was but an expression, a feeling, to show what your dear Mama meant to me.’
‘I have heard Papa say it, to Isa, and she said he must not think in such a way.’
‘And she is right. Your Papa is still in the prime of his life and it is nowhere near over.’
‘Isa said to him he showed little faith in himself. She said Mama would be sorrowful to hear such words.’
‘She would, she would.’
‘And Papa said it was a momentary lapse and he had much to do in this life yet.’ Penini paused, his account of this conversation between his father and Isa Blagden up to now delivered in a monotone. His voice changed, became more tremulous, as he asked, ‘Will Papa ever be happy again, Lily, do you think? Can he be happy without Mama?’
‘Why of course, my love, as can you, as can we all, as we must be, for what use is it to bury ourselves in unhappiness? Think how it would grieve your Mama, to know she left on earth those she loved who could no longer smile or sing because she had gone ahead to heaven.’
To her relief, she saw him nod, and then sigh, and then, because too long ignored, Pilade claimed his attention by throwing a ball at him and they began a game which soon brought shouts and laughter from him. He was young, only twelve after all, and by nature a happy boy. Not for long would his desire to enjoy himself be suppressed. However deep the wound left by his adored Mama’s death he would recover, whereas for his father the way ahead was more painful, less certain to lead to contentment. Already, the hurtful rumours had started and she had heard them herself. People, ignorant people, whom she despised, people were saying Miss Blagden was more than a friend to Mr Browning and that they would not be surprised if within a year and a day there was a marriage. Fools. She had dealt contemptuously with that canard. And then they said, these same malicious people, that Mrs Browning’s death was a blessing in its way to her husband who had long ago tired of her invalidism. That was worse than foolish, it was wicked and she had said so. Who else knew except her? Who else had watched their love grow and flourish and endure? No one, no one had the certain knowledge she had and she would never betray it. No one would get from her any tales of disharmony because there had been none. Ferdinando might mutter there had been disputes she had not witnessed these past four years and Annunciata might nod her head significantly and indicate she knew a few secrets Wilson was not party to, but both of them were misguided. It was not a matter of knowing of this disagreement or that but of knowing them, and know them she did.
Mr Browning said as much before he departed from Florence.
‘Well, Wilson, we have had a long attachment,’ he said. ‘How many years was it that you were in our service? Ten? Twelve?’
‘Two when Mrs Browning was Miss Barrett, sir, and eleven after her marriage if you count only the actual years of employment.’
‘Which we never did for you rendered often more than service after Annunciata took your place.’
‘I tried to, sir.’
‘At any rate, now it is at an end.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I will be truthful, Wilson. I do not expect to return to Florence, it is too painful to me, much too painful.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘I think you do, I think you do.’
She saw his face constrict and was afraid he would weep, but he controlled himself and the moment passed. He looked thinner, greyer, less fit than usual and instead of the pacing about which had accompanied all their interviews in the past he sat on Miss Blagden’s sofa, quite still, his shoulders drooping. How terrible it was, she reflected miserably, not to be able to offer any adequate sympathy, not to have some word or gesture which might express her compassion. She could have taken Mrs Browning in her arms, whatever the difference in their station, upon an occasion like this, but such a thing was impossible with Mr Browning, With men.
‘I will write,’ he was saying, ‘and have arranged with the bank for money to be paid for Mr Landor.’
‘Do not worry about Mr Landor, sir, I shall not desert him.’
‘I know you will not. You are far from being a deserter,’ and he smiled, a little wanly. ‘Will you stay in Florence, Wilson, when there is no longer a Mr Landor?’
‘I cannot say. There is nothing for me here, but what is there in England?’
‘What is there for any of us in England? I ask myself that and do not know the answer. We must all do the best we can.’ He rubbed his hands together and slowly stood up. ‘Shall we shake hands on it, Wilson, on the future, whatever it brings?’
So they shook hands and she thought how the firmness of his grip belied the exhaustion of his appearance. There was a vitality and strength in it which made her see this man would recover as surely as his son, even if he had more from which to recover. She wondered, as she made her way home, what would become of him, whether he would go on to become the great poet his wife had known him to be, but which, as yet, the world did not seem to recognise. And as to marriage, she was not so sure as she had been. He was a vigorous man, a healthy man, a man not yet fifty and the urges of the flesh might be fierce. But then she knew him to be a tender man, a sensitive man and his love to have been very great. She felt bowed down with his grief and sense of loss and trudged through the hatefully hot streets, tense with his despair. How agonising to be left alone, as he was left, left to suffer so. But then, as she entered her house and sank down onto a chair in the dark recesses of the kitchen she began to feel a curious sense of disquiet. What was she doing, weeping for Mr Browning? Why distress herself with his distress? It was what she had always done, taken upon herself the troubles of the Brownings as though they were hers and drowned herself in pity for them. But who did the same for her? Not Mrs Browning, nor her husband, not ever. Even as the first edge of this realisation sliced through her mind she felt guilty, as though she had no right to the thought, as though she might be chastised and found out. It was an unworthy thought, surely, a resentful, selfish one, suggesting she held it against her former employers that they did not value her as she valued them. Half-fea
rfully, she pondered over whether it were true and if it were, whether it was fair. Was she entitled to feel cheated that she had never received what she had gladly given? She was a servant, they had been her master and mistress. Was it not outrageous to have expected any evenness of sympathy? People would say it was, that she had got above herself and must suffer accordingly, that she had no right to feel disappointed.
But it should not go on. Sitting there, alone, knowing that at this very moment Mr Browning and Penini were boarding the train to leave Florence, to leave her behind very likely forever, she saw that it could not. It had to end somewhere and here and now was as good a place as any. She had tried before to escape from the trap in which her own adoration and loyalty had caught her and she had failed. Now she had a new chance. The trap had been sprung. Mrs Browning was dead. Mr Browning and Penini had gone. It was up to her to walk free of all of them.
She rose uneasily from her chair. It was time for Mr Landor’s lunch to arrive from the trattoria and she still made a practice of being the one to carry it in to him. She hovered near the door and when the boy appeared bearing the tray with its dish of fragrant chicken she took it and walked up the stairs. She had never resented bearing trays nor many another task rejected by lady’s maids, who considered that sort of thing too menial and she had always been liked for it. How I like to be liked, she thought, how I crave approval. It even pleased her that Mr Landor now positively liked her and could manage a smile most days instead of throwing a dish at her head. He was sitting near the window today, peering out as though expecting someone but there was no likelihood of visitors.
‘There you are, sir,’ she called, ‘chicken, your favourite dish, and as hot as you like it, judging from the steam.’
‘Browning has gone,’ Mr Landor said dejectedly, ‘he has left Florence.’
‘I know he has, and he said farewell to you.’ She went close to him and thought how frail he had become, skin and bone where once he had been so powerful. ‘But you must not worry, sir, you will be well cared for.’
‘That does not concern me,’ he said irritably. ‘It is the company I want, the company of a good mind, and where now shall I find that?’
‘There are other minds in Florence, I believe,’ said Wilson, a little drily.
‘Well, I do not know them and none are like Browning’s and that little wife of his.’ He paused and then looked up at Wilson, rather afraid. ‘She is dead, is she not?’
‘Yes, sir, this last month past.’
‘Ah, the pity of it, the pity, and myself so ready to go in her place.’ The tears streamed down his face, but noiselessly. Wilson let them continue, knowing how little it took these days for them to fall.
‘It was God’s will, sir,’ she said, ‘and we must all bear up. Now come, eat your chicken.’ She removed the cover and to encourage him took a forkful and put the fork in his hand. Dismally, he stuck it in his mouth and made some attempt to chew and swallow, but once he had disposed of the mouthful he returned again to the subject of Mrs Browning’s death.
‘You were her servant, were you not, from Wimpole Street days?’
‘I was, sir. I went to her in April 1844 and was in her service in one way or another up to her death.’ It was not quite true but she wanted it to be.
‘And was she a genius?’
‘That is something I know nothing of, sir, but people who knew about poetry praised her highly.’
‘And did you?’
‘Sir?’
‘Praise her highly – do I not speak clearly enough? Are you deaf?’ It was a flash of the old Landor and Wilson smiled to see it, noticing the chicken was now being devoured hungrily and with speed.
‘Of course, sir. She was a good woman.’
‘What in heaven’s name is a good woman? I have never met such a creature in my life. Women are pretty or talented or kind or gentle if they are not altogether horrible but as for good, it is a nonsense.’
‘You go too deep for me, sir. I only know Mrs Browning was never mean or wicked or cruel and to me that is good, what I mean by good.’
‘Then I expect you were blind.’
‘How would that be?’
‘Servants are. Sometimes it suits their purpose to be so but mostly they cannot see what is at the end of their noses. They are too afraid of giving offence and losing their place. Never trust a servant’s opinion of a master or mistress and yet there is the irony, you see, for they are likely to know most, they have seen and heard what others have not. But they are all either idolisers or cheats so no good comes of it and I hate the idolisers most.’
He was in fine fettle by now, waving his fork around and raising his voice and altogether enjoying himself as he pontificated to his audience of one. Wilson knew he did not really know to whom he addressed himself and that it did not matter. She left him still eating heartily and went back down the stairs to make ready for Pilade to be brought back from his outing with his father. But as she sat in the shade of the doorway looking out into the street, Mr Landor’s words, however absurd she had thought them at the time, nagged at her. Had she seen what was at the end of her nose? Had she recognised Mrs Browning’s faults and marked them well? Hardly. For a brief period she had been aware the lady was not perfect in relation to her, but whom had she blamed for that? Herself, mostly. And even now, thinking like that seemed too terrible to continue, too blasphemous to contemplate. Did this make her an idoliser? It must. Mrs Browning had been her idol and she wished her to stay that way. What good could come of destroying her idol when she was dead? The last thing she wanted to do was examine the reality of her idolatry and discover she had wasted the best part of her life on it.
It was tiring to be thinking back and forth in this foolish way. She wished she did not think at all. That was the best way in life for a servant, not to think, to work, to obey and never, ever to question why. And she must stop referring to herself as a servant. She was not a servant. She had not rightly been in service for the last four years. She ran a business, and ran it with moderate success. She was beholden to no one. As the proprietor of a boarding house she might be a working woman but she was not a servant. How strange, then, that this gave her so little pleasure that the joys of independence, or a sort of independence, seemed muted. Perhaps, if things had been otherwise between herself and Ferdinando, they would have meant more to her. She saw him now, coming down the street holding Pilade’s hand. His farewell to Mr Browning and Pen had been far, far more emotional than her own – oh, the sobbing, the evidence of a broken heart! She had thought he might at the last minute throw himself in front of the train bearing his beloved employer away. He looked utterly downcast, was not replying to his little son who she could see was chattering away. Here was a man not disposed to ponder any Landor-like statements on the nature of service, a man quite unworried by the slur of being a blind worshipper. Ferdinando questioned nothing, was only miserable because he was now deserted. She could feel, as he came closer, the hardness gathering in her.
‘They have gone,’ Ferdinando said as he came in, and he spread his arms wide in that gesture of helplessness she knew so well and had come to despise.
‘Then that is over,’ she said sharply, ‘and we must get on with our lives which I for one will be glad to do.’
‘What life is there?’ her husband said with such deep gloom that if she had not been so irritated by it she would have laughed out loud.
‘Plenty,’ she said, ‘unless you are quite without spirit.’
‘I am without anything,’ and there was another melodramatic gesture of despair.
‘Oh what nonsense,’ she snapped. ‘I should be ashamed to say such a thing and so ought you. Tomorrow you must go in search of a new situation. You have Mr Browning’s references safe? Well then, a king himself would employ you with such evidence of virtue. You will soon have another hero in your life to keep you happy and it will be Mr this and Mr that and you will hardly notice the change.’
He looked at her
in such bewilderment that she had to turn aside and busy herself washing Pilade’s hands to hide her sense of shame. She did not know what made her speak to her husband so viciously when he had done so little to deserve it, but so often now she could not help herself. ‘There is some food in the kitchen,’ she said, her back still to him. ‘You may help yourself if you will.’ If he touched her, she would shrug him off but mercifully the lure of the proffered food distracted him. ‘I have new lodgers today,’ she said, ‘and must see their rooms are ready. Come, Pilade, it is siesta time.’ She left hurriedly with the child and put him on his bed and lay down herself. Ferdinando, who could sleep anywhere, in any circumstances, would slump in the kitchen but in case he sought her out she bolted the door. A fine thing, to bolt one’s door against one’s husband in the middle of the day and she chided herself for it. But the door stayed bolted.
She did not expect to sleep, so tormented was her poor mind with these doubts and accusations as to Mrs Browning’s perfection and her part in it, but she slept deeply until there was a persistent tapping at her door. Drowsily, she raised herself up and leaving the still sleeping Pilade on the bed she opened the door to the kitchen girl, who had come to say the new lodgers had arrived and wished to see her and were waiting downstairs. Hurriedly, Wilson washed her face and tidied her hair and wondered how late it was.
The new lodgers sat stiffly in the little sitting room, a man and a woman, both middle-aged, both dressed in black. They appeared hot and flustered but then to travel any distance at all in the heat of an Italian July and at the hottest part of the day was to invite suffering. She saw at once that they were at the end of their tether and said, ‘Welcome to this house, sir, madam, and please allow me to offer you some iced tea which will be brought directly.’ Their faces relaxed instantly – it never failed. She kept a store of tea specially for English visitors who were always charmed and reassured that they had come to the right place. Knowing better than to make conversation, Wilson poured the tea into glasses and decorating each glass with the thinnest slice of freshly cut lemon and a tiny sprig of mint, which she grew in her own yard, she offered the weary travellers the drinks. The man drank thirstily, with no pretence of refinement, and the woman more slowly but still with more gusto than elegance. Then Wilson led them to their rooms on the first floor at the back (at the front were Mr Landor’s, which she explained as she showed them in). These rooms were hardly splendid but they were cool and immaculately clean. Wilson waited for the woman to draw her finger surreptitiously over the surface of the dressing table or peep at the sheets while pretending to rest – she had seen it done countless times and relished it, knowing no fault could possibly be found. But neither man nor woman made any attempt at examining their quarters; merely expressing themselves pleased and said they would rest at once.
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