The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  But to lock him up! To deprive him of food! Could Kitty really have become such a monster?

  Martha Alsop retired, after leaving a tray with soup and tea and a wing of cold chicken. Ellen, who had been hungry and exhausted on arrival, swallowed the soup but found that she could not touch the chicken. The thought of her father locked up, powerless, underfed, so close at hand, was too appalling; she thought food would choke her.

  It was many hours before she managed to get to sleep, and then her slumber was a light, broken one, disturbed by dreadful dreams.

  Long before daylight she was up and dressed, having woken at the first sound of movement in the house.

  Opening her door the slightest crack, she kept a careful watch on the one which Alsop had said was her father’s. At last, after about forty minutes of watching, a small, thickset man, evidently a servant, came up the stairs, carrying a jug of water and a pail.

  He took a key from his pocket, opened the door, and went inside. Presently he reappeared with the pail and a bundle of dirty linen, and went downstairs, this time leaving the door shut but not locked. It seemed likely that he would soon be back; but meanwhile, seizing her chance, Ellen tiptoed quickly across the hallway, tapped on the door, and, without waiting for a summons, opened it and went in, closing it softly behind her.

  The room was much more sparsely furnished than hers. It looked as if it had originally been intended for a children’s room or nursery; the single bed, chair, and small table were plain; there were bars across the window, but they were not new. The room was very cold, although the window was shut, and the air was close and smelt bad.

  Her father lay in the narrow bed, propped against a couple of pillows. Ellen was inexpressibly shocked at the change that had taken place in him since she had seen him last. He seemed to have aged twenty years. His hair was limp and scanty, his cheeks hollow, his back and shoulders hunched and drooping. From a tall, big-boned, elderly man, he had deteriorated into a thin, stooping, lantern-jawed ancient. He was unshaven, with a three-day stubble of beard, and the nightshirt he wore was spattered with food. His look was vacant and wild-eyed; when it fixed on Ellen he at first seemed to stare at her without recognition; then a flicker of intelligence came into his eyes; glancing warily from side to side, he worked his jaw once or twice before beckoning to her and whispering urgently, “Mattie? Have you come to take me away?”

  “Papa! Oh, dear, dear Papa!”

  Ellen was wrung to the depths of feeling by his pitiful, tremulous look. He could not articulate very clearly, for he did not have his false teeth in his mouth—nor were they anywhere to be seen; nor were his clothes. There was no cupboard in the room.

  Ellen knelt by the bed and took his bony hands.

  “Dearest Papa. I am so sorry to see you like this!”

  “It is Blanche—she thinks it best to keep me here,” he confided in his broken, toothless utterance. “But I do very much wish to come home, Mattie. I am glad you are here at last. Why did you not come sooner? Have you my clothes with you? Blanche took them away. But I can walk—my leg is much better—only it is so cold in here—” He would have scrambled from the bed had she not restrained him.

  “Hush! Wait, Papa! I do not have your clothes with me now, but I will come back with them soon—I promise.”

  “You won’t leave me here?” His hands clung to hers.

  Blinking to keep tears of outrage and pity from her eyes, Ellen said, “No, I won’t leave you.”

  Now she noticed more strongly the horrible smell in the room—a rubbery, cankerous odor, of decayed food or flesh. He is ill, they are killing him, she thought; how can they do this?

  Luke said falteringly, “I believe this place—where they keep me—is in my house.”

  “No, it is Kitty’s house, Papa.”

  He shook his head. “It is my house—my dream room. Perhaps it is my own fault—I should have furnished it long ago. I knew this room was always here—inside my head, you know—but I did nothing about it. For years! But you will get me out of it, Mattie, will you not?”

  “Yes, yes, of course I will. But I am not Mattie, Papa, I am Ellen.”

  “Ellen?” Slowly his gaze focused on her. His face, if possible, seemed to become even more drawn, grief-racked, agonized. He cried out loudly, “No—no—you are not Mattie! Mattie is dead!”

  “Hush, Papa! That was long ago. She has been happy in heaven for—”

  “No, no. Listen! You don’t know. You don’t know what I did. She was in so much pain—I couldn’t endure her pain. I stood outside her bedroom door, I heard her crying for me, Luke, Luke, oh, Luke, won’t you come to me. Help me!”

  “That is all over now, Papa,” said Ellen, though her hands were clenched in anguish on her father’s.

  “No, but I would not go in! I was unable to, I could not bear to go in! I stayed away from her room. A week before she died, I told Bendigo I was obliged to go to Bath on business. I couldn’t endure even being in the same house with her pain! I went to Bath! I stayed at Pratt’s Hotel!”

  “Oh, Father!”

  “And I did not come home until the nurse wrote to me that she had died. After five days more of terrible pain. This is my punishment,” he said, looking at the bare room. “I deserve it but—you will take me away, Mattie, will you not?”

  A brisk step came up the stair, and the manservant entered, carrying a bowl of gruel. He checked sharply at sight of Ellen, and his face turned plum color.

  “Oo the deuce said you could come in here? That ain’t allowed! Clear out, afore I call the master!”

  “I beg your pardon!” Summoning all the authority of the rue St. Pierre and the Hôtel Caudebec, Ellen drew herself up and gave him a freezing glare. “I am Miss Paget. I have come to see my father. Who—pray—are you?”

  He advanced and put the bowl of gruel on the bedside table. “I’m Consett, Mr. Bracegirdle’s man, that’s who I am, and no one’s allowed in this room without Mr. Bracegirdle tells me first. Sorry, miss, but orders is orders. The door’s to be kep’ locked at all times.”

  Ellen did not choose to discuss her father’s state with this underling. She said frostily, “Then you should have left it locked just now.”

  “Didn’t think there was anyone about to nip in like you done,” grumbled Consett, who was a very unprepossessing individual with a round greasy face, thinning black hair, and quick-moving shifty brown eyes.

  Mr. Paget’s attention had been deflected from his daughter by the gruel, which he was gulping down with clumsy haste, dropping more splashes on his garment. Wrung by pity, Ellen said loudly, “I will come back later, Papa! Enjoy your breakfast.” Then she left the room.

  Consett followed her to the door, where he said in a low voice, “The old gentleman’s not safe to be left, miss. That’s why the door has to be locked. Master’ll tell you all about it.” Then he shut the door smartly and she heard the key turn inside.

  Ellen returned to her own room. The hour was still early—half past seven. She drew the curtains and looked out. A hard frost lay in the garden; the factory chimneys belched black smoke; the prospect was unutterably dreary.

  Shivering, she dragged a blanket from her bed and wrapped it round her shoulders; then sat down to wait for the sound of the breakfast gong.

  * * *

  At breakfast, which was served on a massive mahogany table, with porridge, ham, kidneys, muffins, herring roes, toast, oatcakes, and urns of coffee and tea, the Bracegirdles, who had evidently enjoyed their dinner party, showed more cordiality to Ellen than they had on the previous evening.

  “Did you sleep well? You still look shockingly tired. It was folly, to travel here until we summoned you. You had best go back to bed after breakfast. Besides, I have a very busy day,” said Kitty, “with the Dorcas Society, the Sunday School teachers, and the Women’s Christian Aid. And the Poor Basket. And Mr. Bracegi
rdle, of course, has to go to the mill. No, you had best spend the day in bed. Then, this evening, perhaps you may see Papa.”

  “I have already seen him,” said Ellen.

  A freezing silence filled the room. Ellen went on, “How can you, Kitty—who call yourself a Christian woman—have the conscience to keep anybody—let alone your father—in such a state? What can you have been doing to him? He looks like some wretched old tramp! He is cold—dirty—hungry. And it is barely four months since he was a strong, active, intelligent man.”

  “Upon my word!” said Mr. Bracegirdle indignantly. “Didst ever hear sooch ingratitude? Here we’ve looked after him all the time you’ve been laid oop—and that’s all the thanks we get!”

  “Really, Ellen!” exclaimed Kitty, with extremely heightened color. “I’d thank you to reflect a little longer, before coming here and condemning us out of hand! Wait till you hear both sides of the matter, pray. Papa has been behaving like a lunatic—like an utter, raving madman! For his own sake, it was necessary to restrain him. You need not think we enjoyed having him here. It was no such thing, I assure you!”

  “Then you will allow him to come home with me today,” said Ellen. She recalled her total lack of funds—but, after all, Luke must have money at his disposal—there must be some cash of his somewhere about the house?

  “Leave with you today? Are you mad?”

  “That is quite out of the question.”

  “Why?” said Ellen. “I shall write, then, to Eugenia. If she and Eustace knew what you were doing here—”

  “You little fool! It was Eugenia’s idea in the first place! She suggested that I bring him here and—and reason with him. She could not do so—Eustace is too soft—”

  “Soft-headed,” said Sam Bracegirdle. He rose, mopping his mouth with the damask table napkin. “I’ll leave you to make the matter plain to the lass,” he said to his wife, and, to Ellen, “Joost get this into thy head, miss. Your pa’s not leaving this house until he and I have come to an agreement over something Kitty wants him to do.”

  “Change his will, do you mean?” said Ellen.

  The same icy silence followed her words.

  “If you know about the will,” began Kitty. Her husband interrupted her.

  “Your dad’s clean daft, girl—that’s the long and the short of it. He’s not sensible. He’s not responsible. And, until he is, he stays here. Who knows what other idiocy he might fall into? He stays here until he agrees to alter that lunatic testament. And if he won’t do that—then we’ll be obliged to get medical men to have it set aside, because he’s of unsound mind. Do ye see? Leaving all his brass to that harpy—the idea!”

  “I don’t like Mrs. Pike any better than you do,” said Ellen, “but Papa was not mad when he made that will, and you know it. Whether you have sent him mad, since, with your cruelty, is another matter—”

  “What?” shrieked Kitty. “Us sent him mad? I like that! Mind your tongue, miss! Anyone would think you wanted that woman—that mother of a jailbird—to get Mama’s money!”

  “I can’t say I want that. Though I would not be prepared to go to such lengths to prevent it. But has it not struck you that you are going the best way to drive poor Papa out of his wits? He is terrified—wretched—it makes me sick to see him. How can he ever change his will now?”

  “Roobbish!” said Sam Bracegirdle vigorously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, miss! Ony road, you’re ailing—fevered—yourself, in no case to joodge. Your pa’s aging, that’s all. It’s four months since ye saw him last, and that’s a long time at his age. It can be sudden—when old ones goes downhill. Now: you go and rest, like a sensible lass. Later in the week ye can talk to our doctor, Barney Oldthorpe, as clever a man as ye could wish to meet; and he’ll be able to put your mind at rest. We’ve not been oonkind to the old gentleman—it’s joost that he’s a thick-skulled, obstinate, self-willed old devil, and ye can’t reason with him.”

  He had begun this statement in a very reasonable tone, but worked himself into a passion by the end. Ellen felt danger in the air. She said quickly, “I’ll be glad to talk to your doctor. Perhaps he can write to Smollett at Petworth. I do think, Mr. Bracegirdle, that if Papa were at home—in his own place—allowed to lead a normal life—he would be much more likely to see the force of your arguments. After all, Mrs. Pike has left his employment now—several months have passed—very likely he has almost forgotten her.”

  “Nay, but if he went home, likely he’d remember her again and invite her back,” objected Sam. Ellen thought of Mrs. Pike, still in the vicinity of Petworth, and feared there might be some truth in his argument. He pulled the watch from his fob and exclaimed, “By gum, I’m half an hour late! Talk to Ellen, Kitty—reason with her—you can make her see sense, I daresay.”

  And he left the house at speed.

  * * *

  After another hour spent in fruitless argument, Ellen was glad to retire to her room while Kitty busied herself with her various charitable occupations. The door to Luke Paget’s room remained shut and locked; nobody went up or came down. Listening outside it once or twice, Ellen heard her father mutter to himself fretfully; she heard the name “Mattie” several times repeated, and sometimes a kind of whimpering. She was greatly tempted to talk to him through the door, but decided that this would only be unkindness, since she had no means of access.

  She thought with horror of the story he had told her. It had the ring of total truth. Ellen clenched her hands again, thinking of those five days during which Mattie had writhed in pain, calling for her husband, while he had stayed in Bath, safely out of earshot. Why should one trouble oneself to rescue such a man? And yet she must.

  “When does Papa get his meals?” she asked Kitty at luncheon. Kitty gave her an angry, silencing look—there were a couple of local ladies from the Christian Aid Society at the table.

  “Consett takes him his meals twice a day; the doctor told us he should be on a light diet. Old people can easily become overheated and poisoned by too much rich food, he says. And my father is in a very delicate state of health,” Kitty explained to her guests, who nodded sympathetically and murmured that elderly people could be a great care and a problem and that Mrs. Bracegirdle was showing exemplary filial piety in tending her difficult old parent. Ellen longed to speak up and disabuse them. Two basins of gruel a day! she thought, looking at the fricassee of veal and chicken patties with which the ladies were being regaled—but she was aware that her own position in the house was highly precarious, and she had best mind her tongue, or she might find herself turned out summarily, and lose any chance of helping her father.

  That evening she was allowed to pay a short, formal visit to her father’s room, but Kitty and Bracegirdle accompanied her, and Luke was evidently so alarmed by their presence that he fell into a violent tremor and hardly looked at his youngest daughter.

  “Well, Mester Paget, hast thought any more as to what we were talking aboot?” said Bracegirdle. He evidently intended to speak in a calm and measured manner, but his voice rang so loudly in the scantily furnished room that it made Luke start; his great anxious eyes fixed on the other man, and after a moment he shook his head and muttered: “Not—subject—coercion—free—dispose—as I choose!”

  “Don’t be foolish, Papa!” said Kitty sharply. “You know that your testamentary dispositions are utterly unreasonable.”

  An obstinate, vacant, cunning look came over Luke’s face. “Mattie will take my part,” he mouthed at Kitty. “She knows what you are—vile demon! Get you back to the pit!”

  “There! You see!” said Kitty furiously, and she pulled Ellen from the room. “He raves. He is not rational. Sam says we must have him declared of unsound mind.”

  Ellen saw many practical objections to this, but she had decided not to expend valuable strength on arguing with the Bracegirdles. She really did not feel very strong, an
d was turning over a wild plan in her mind, for which all her resources would be needed.

  “When does the doctor come next?” she asked, after a considerable pause.

  “On Saturday.” Kitty sounded relieved that her sister had given up expostulating and seemed to have begun accepting the situation.

  Ellen resolved to possess herself in patience, and accordingly spent a couple of days resting, thinking, and observing the habits of the household. Kitty was out a great deal of the time on her various charitable activities; Sam left the house at eight every morning and did not return until five. The key of Luke’s room was entrusted to the disagreeable Consett, who kept it at all times on his person.

  * * *

  On Wednesday evening, when Alsop brought her washing water before dinner, Ellen asked, “Martha, could you send a telegram for me?”

  “Not tonight, miss. But tomorrow I could, when I go to the grocer’s.”

  “The thing is, Martha, I have no money to pay for it; but would you take this brooch instead?”

  It was a little pearl one her mother had given her when she was ten.

  “Bless you, miss, I ’on’t take your brooch! I can find the money—I get good wages—and you can pay me back some time or other.”

  “I shall need to meet somebody in the village; is there a decent inn?”

  “The Crown’s noon so bad; that’s where the business folk mostly stays.”

  Having dispatched her message, Ellen was free to remember that it might never reach its recipient—who might, in any case, be unable or unwilling to help her; any number of things might go wrong with her plan, and she had best occupy herself by thinking of some alternative course. None presented itself, save an appeal to the better feelings of the doctor (who was probably too well paid by the Bracegirdles to indulge in the luxury of better feelings), and Ellen was in a wholly despondent and pessimistic frame of mind when, on Thursday afternoon, she walked down to the Crown Inn.