The Girl from Rawblood

by Catriona Ward

  As she said this, a great change came over Miss Brigstocke. The light fell on her in the same watery way through the panes of the coffee room. Her face bore the same scores, and the eyes remained the same obstinate, berry size. But to Miss Hopewell, a door was opened. There was a crack in the edifice of the spinster, through which strange things could be glimpsed.

  “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,” said Miss Brigstocke precisely, “mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ché la diritta via era smarrita.”1

  This alone would not have bound Mary to Miss Brigstocke; it is not uncommon, after all, to have a little of the Inferno by heart. It was the face that spoke the words that moved her. Another woman had risen from the depths and was using Miss Brigstocke’s conventional visage quite monstrously.

  “I hope that we will be friends,” said Miss Hopewell and found that she could smile. Miss Brigstocke smiled also and released her tight organs with relief, for there was no engagement at Hove.

  The journey passed, as long journeys do, in alternating fits of interest and lethargy. Miss Hopewell kept to her berth. Their arrival at Siena was a relief to both travelers.

  Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke contrived to live well, as one may do on very little in those parts. They lived as genteel English ladies do when constrained by means: quietly. At Miss Brigstocke’s insistence, they did not settle in the town; the apartments, she was persuaded, would be cramped and vermin-ridden. For herself—well, she was nothing—but she could not be comfortable there, for the sake of Miss Hopewell’s health. Miss Hopewell did not demur; it seemed to matter so little. Instead, they took a small house in the outlying district, which the agent called a villa, with cracked red walls and pink tile on the roof, overhung with fir trees that attracted many swarms of insects. Here, Miss Hopewell proposed to end her days, leaving her remaining capital to Miss Brigstocke.

  Constrained by the sense of their enforced intimacy, Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke at first strove to encounter one another only when necessary. For the first month of their householding, each hovered in her room, listening for the street or garden door; only when one was absent did the other venture forth. Both lived in fear of being subjected to (or inflicting on the other) the terrible ordeal of commonplaces.

  Gradually, as Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke met at meal times or by surprise in the parlor, they found common ground. A chance reference to painting revealed a shared taste in watercolors, which provided matter for desultory but sustained conversation. From there, they proceeded to such topics as art, music, and the benefit of foreign travel. When in early June Miss Brigstocke invited Miss Hopewell to address her as Hephzibah, Mary begged Miss Brigstocke to make similarly free with her own name.

  Hephzibah took to visiting Mary’s room of an evening, where she regaled her with the accomplishments and disappointments of her day. Mary sat in bed, her head cocked with polite attention, some piece of mending in her hand; Hephzibah sat in an armchair with her legs tucked under her like a girl, her long skein of hair spilling gray over her face.

  “The jam at breakfast! I daresay it will sound strange to you, my dear Mary, but these foreign apricots make quite a different type of preserve, I find. Now, I would not be so featherbrained as to say that I miss pips in the jam, but bramble jelly does have a feel of autumn about it, does it not, of hedgerows and sunshine and cool days, and, well, England…”

  Miss Hopewell had enough sensibility to perceive that these remarks were offerings, and she did not scorn them. When Miss Brigstocke made so bold as to admire a paisley shawl or a pair of ear bobs (“Oh, do keep them out of sight, dearest; Gabriela is a good girl, but every servant has light fingers, you know…”), Miss Hopewell urged her to borrow whatever took her fancy. Miss Brigstocke was always persuaded, at last, to accept these kindnesses; she made a careful show, upon return of the article, of its perfect condition. There was no mention in these courteous transactions of the truth that was apparent to both: that all Miss Hopewell’s property would devolve, one not too distant day, upon Miss Brigstocke—for Mary’s health did not improve.

  • • •

  There was a compact between the women: that they would carve a life for themselves from the rock face. They marketed and painted. In the evenings, they read aloud to each other, sewed, and spoke their prayers, leavening these worthy pastimes with indulgences, strictly rationed: a glass of ratafia, a book from the English library, cribbage.

  There existed in the district, unfashionable as it was, a little English enclave and some through passage of travelers, touring parties, and commercial traffic (for unfashionable carries with it the benefit of inexpensive). But two unattached women without wealth or privilege to recommend them—who are forced to entertain in a small parlor that smells distinctly of the kitchen—are not in danger of being inundated with callers. It was, Miss Brigstocke asserted one evening to Miss Hopewell, a great relief to hold aloof from the hubbub—what liberation, to be beholden only to themselves, no longer subjects in that petty fiefdom, Society!

  “Certainly,” agreed Miss Hopewell.

  Miss Brigstocke paused. Her face was unusually flushed. “Society!” she said again, with venom.

  Miss Hopewell looked up from the pages of her novel. She put it aside and leaned back upon her pillows in order to better observe her companion. In the light of the lamp, Miss Brigstocke trembled. She had her lip between her teeth a little.

  “Hephzibah,” said Mary, “you are exercised.”

  Miss Brigstocke nodded. Of a sudden, she placed her head in her hands. She spoke through her fingers, as if they were to blame. “You know that my life has not been a happy one. That I was born in a workhouse, you also know. I make no secret of it. But I have not told you something, which I fear will gravely affect your view of me.

  “The workhouse gave me the name Sarah. Hephzibah, I chose for myself. It seemed fit. It is in the Bible. The name my mother gave me at birth was…Talaitha. My parentage, I regret to say, is not respectable. Do you know that my mother and father were of the Romany people? No, for I have not told you of it. Though I reprimand myself, I think my reticence can be easily comprehended. I have not been welcomed in polite households. Whenever I obtain a position, the matter comes out. I know not how—it happens. Perhaps a friend of my father’s will see me at market in a town, and see his face in mine, and greet me. Or I will betray myself: one morning, I told my last employer that it was raining, in Romany. My mother would say that I have pushed my fate away, my people away…that that fate is now pushing me back. Prikaza.

  “When the truth is known of my parentage, my departure is wished for by all concerned and soon follows. I think there is a great deal of native mistrust for those of my tribe—but it is not that which forces me on.

  “When I see myself anew in their eyes…it is awful. The gypsy. Gadže Gadžensa, Rom Romensa, they say. Like with like. It is the only way they know. I thought myself so bold for running from my people… I scorned them. And what have I gained? I think I expected to discover my own nature by shedding my past. But it transpires that I have not a very discernible character, underneath it all. I am not much of anything. I left the Rom, and the Gadže won’t have me.

  “But I have said all this and omitted the one important matter: my apology. I did not tell you at Dover. Now, I know—by God, by long experience—that it is a thing that people wish to know. Or at any rate, they resent its concealment most deeply. Allowing you to take me, ignorant of that significant thing—it was shameful. No, please, I must get it all done or not at all. Were we antipathetic, you and I, unalike, were there no fellow feeling between us, I believe I would have confessed it straight. But I wished to come with you, and so I sinned by omission. And as I came to know you better, I came to esteem your friendship most highly, as I hope you have mine, and each day, it was harder to surrender it—the ease, the accord between us. I could not bear to be strange in your eyes. But it was not r
ight. So if you wish me to leave, then I will do so.”

  Mary pushed the covers aside and rose. She came to where her friend sat and placed a hand on the bent shoulder. Through the cotton, she felt the thinness of Miss Brigstocke’s rigid frame.

  “It is most trying,” Mary said, “to be obliged to conceal things about oneself, as you say. It is a source of constant anxiety and exhaustion. It must have been a great unhappiness to you, to always be keeping this secret—always steeling yourself for confession or discovery. I will not say, ‘We will say no more about it,’ for I am very interested and would like to ask you questions, if you would not find it too distressing.”

  Miss Brigstocke looked long into Mary’s face. She nodded. She briskly blew her nose and began to push strands of gray rag hair back into her cap. “I can never repay your kindness,” she said to Mary. “But I will endeavor to deserve it. Now, get back into your bed, for mercy’s sake. Ask me anything you will. What would you know? All the rather dull book of my life is open to you.”

  Mary laughed. “Oh,” she said, “anything! Tell me a tale your mother told you, at her knee. Tell me of the history of your people.”

  “That,” said Miss Brigstocke, “would take a very long time. And I do not know enough of the old ways to do it justice.” She was so woebegone at being unable to oblige that Mary was assailed by the desire to laugh. She repressed it.

  A sudden light shone in Miss Brigstocke’s eyes. She regarded Miss Hopewell steadily and with growing purpose. “There is one talent, peculiar to my family,” she said. “I have some sight. I cannot claim more than that. My mother was a great chovihani. My skill is small at best—but I am able, on occasion, to tell both the character and the future of a person in the lines of their palm.

  “I would look for you. What better use will there ever be for it? Dear Mary. If you have no moral objection to such things, perhaps…if you will show me your hand.” Here, she took Mary’s fingers in hers, cold and resistless. “Our clients prefer that we take it, being the expected thing, but truthfully, it can be enough to hold an intimate item, something belonging to the hand: a glove, a ring. Now, let us see something of your fortune.” Miss Brigstocke bared the soft palm to the light. She peered, small black eyes intent, her thumb pressed to Mary’s wrist.

  The hand was torn from Miss Brigstocke’s with vicious speed.

  “Not necessary, Hephzibah.” Mary’s voice was cool. “I see my future plain. It is nasty, brutish, and short.”

  • • •

  As May passed into June, the days grew longer, and the sun beat mercilessly on the pink tile of the villa. There came into Siena at this time a certain Reverend Comer, who was touring the churches. The reverend saw Miss Hopewell in the panetteria, where he was partaking of sweet rolls and she was purchasing the household loaf. He soon discovered their direction. As he explained to Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke, men of the cloth are not at the mercy of convention. Their calling grants them passage everywhere. They move in an elevated sphere and scorn such things as introductions.

  The ladies acknowledged the truth of this somewhat dazedly, for Mr. Comer had caught them on laundering day, elbow-deep in suds. This did not deter him but inspired him to call again and often, for the reverend had a most delicate understanding and was profoundly moved by their situation: he pitied the ladies sincerely. He begged them to believe that he did not regard the kitchen smell in the parlor. An aroma of onions was nothing to a man of God.

  In a villa consisting of four rooms, it was impossible to deny themselves when Mr. Comer called, as Miss Brigstocke said to Miss Hopewell, without actually hiding under their beds. Why should they wish to deny themselves? asked Miss Hopewell. Only benefit could result from intercourse with a person so brimming with compassion as the reverend. He had too, Miss Hopewell added inconsequentially, a pony and trap at his command.

  Hephzibah could not see how this signified; perhaps dear Mary had sat too long in the sun that morning.

  When it became apparent to Reverend Comer during the course of a morning visit that Miss Hopewell desired to see the olive groves at Argiano, he was much struck. To give a poor soul some pleasure—it was the least that any man of feeling or of Christian spirit could do. They should all three go there, that very day!

  The expedition was a success, and when the following day, Miss Hopewell expressed an interest in the church at Fiesole, the words had barely left her lips when a sortie to that place was proposed.

  Miss Hopewell acquiesced to these schemes with equanimity. If the reverend did snuffle air loudly through his nose, well, it was a small price to pay for exploring the abandoned monastery of Pontignano. If he did apostrophize Miss Hopewell in a mournful tone, as a “poor soul” or at other times as a “fragile bloom, upon a tender stalk,” why, this too could be borne if he did so as they drove through the vineyards of Chianti.

  Miss Brigstocke had qualms: she did not like to indulge the reverend’s generosity so far. It looked perhaps somewhat…pushing. Miss Hopewell soothed her; in due course, the reverend would leave the district. In the interim, biddable escorts with ponies and traps did not grow on trees. One could not live always at the rock face.

  On a particularly hot day, the three were taking tea in the campagna under a white umbrella, in the fashion of that time. Of a sudden, Reverend Comer began to gasp; his face became an even deeper shade of puce and acquired an uncertain sheen. Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke rapidly concluded that they must seek relief for him.

  It was the “fragile bloom” who proposed that they should walk together to the road where they had left their trap and hail a passing vehicle, perhaps the diligence, which traveled this road, and so summon help. This they did and waited some time on the hot wayside. The diligence was not in evidence; the road, which was peopled—in Miss Brigstocke’s mind—with bandits, was yet empty of vehicles. Presently, however, hoofbeats announced the approach of a man in rich livery, who came on a sweating horse, returning from the discharge of some duty.

  Miss Brigstocke stepped into the path of the animal, calling piteously, “Aiuto, per piacere! Vi preghiamo di portarci a Siena!”2

  Mary seized Hephzibah’s collar and pulled her from the road, as the man attempted to wrestle his horse to a halt in a cloud of dust. At length, when all was still, he addressed Miss Brigstocke. “I pray you, madam, do not throw yourself in the path of galloping horses.”

  At which Miss Hopewell said sharply, “You are a Devon man. I would know it anywhere.” Her heart hurt with half-recalled things. To hear it in this place, after so long…

  “Aye,” he said quietly. “William Shakes, madam, of Peter Tavy, on the Tavy River.” He swept the tricorn from his head, pulling at his forelock, which revealed a pleasant face of forty years or thereabouts, topped with sandy hair, without powder or wig.

  “I know Peter Tavy,” Mary said. “A good place for fishing. Well met, fellow countryman. But I could wish for better circumstances! You find us in straits. One of our party is indisposed. Help should be sought with all possible speed. Is your establishment nearby? Will your master admit us? Is there a doctor in the neighborhood?”

  He nodded briefly after each inquiry. Mary thought he seemed an effective, restful sort of person.

  “It will be done,” he said. “A carriage to fetch you. Look for it.”

  The horse leaped forward. Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke were left with dusty faces in the empty road.

  “Well!” Miss Brigstocke said in distress. “To go to some strange gentleman’s house, to beg help? Mary, you have put us in a predicament. It cannot be right.”

  “Your solution was folly,” said Miss Hopewell and settled on a stone to wait.

  “It is what I would wish to avoid!” said Miss Brigstocke. “To take such aid from a stranger, and a foreign gentleman too…”

  Presently, a large, dark carriage in the Italian style came rumbling alon
g the way, and Mr. Shakes riding at its side. Two footmen, directed by the women, got the ailing clergyman into it, and Mary and Hephzibah climbed in after.

  They presently arrived at a wall whose gate, being opened, revealed a formal garden of the type not often seen in that country. Even in their fatigue and concern for their companion (whose color had grown alarmingly high), Miss Hopewell and Miss Brigstocke’s spirits were lifted by the perfume of flowers in the air, the rolling lawns before them, which lay lush and verdant in defiance of the white sun. The coach made its way between spreading oak trees, leaves dappling the drive in longed-for, familiar patterns of light and shade. Miss Hopewell looked about and found herself confronted by a roe deer; it regarded her briefly with a walnut eye and fled into the trees like smoke. The drive curved to reveal a lake hemmed with rushes, upon which swans sailed; on the far side of the water lay a tall white house, encompassed by rose gardens and fruit trees. The sound of the cicadas in the distance fell strangely on their ears. The ladies felt they had stumbled into a pocket of England.

  The reverend was whisked away into the depths of the house, protesting that he felt—if not well—quite better, and that he forbade a fuss to be made… His querulous voice faded up the long staircase, and a deferential majordomo motioned the ladies to follow him down the marbled hall to a cool parlor overlooking an orange grove, where they were given tea.