by Joan Aiken
The alderman’s daughters, Edith and Jemima, were spoilt, shrill, stupid little creatures. Confronted by their ignorance and lack of will to learn, Alvey appreciated even more, in retrospect, the eagerness, attentiveness, quick wits, and thirst for knowledge which she had found in Nish and Tot. Teaching them had been like throwing crumbs to hungry birds. Whereas the Grainger girls were interested in little but the endless supply of new frilly dresses their mother had made for them; drilling a few phrases of French into their reluctant minds was harder work, Alvey thought, than building the Roman Wall, and would take about as long. Still, she did not dislike escorting them about the streets of Newcastle. The weather had improved. August was dry, sunless, but temperate enough to make walking a pleasure. And Alvey began at last to find some merit in the city, which, though undeniably black and dirty, was not without architectural interest, and a lively, prosperous place, rich from its profits as a sea-port and its coal and ship-building industries. Coal and industry were not the only features, Alvey found. The Sandgate region, to be sure, was full of drunken seamen and foul-mouthed navvies, whose language, fortunately, was almost wholly incomprehensible, but there were Norman arches to be seen, and Roman stonework. Newcastle was full of history. There were gateways, flights of steps, and enticing little alleyways known as “chares”; there were handsome new Georgian houses, a ruined castle to admire and explore, fine shops and theatres; even open country, not really so very far away.
Sometimes Alvey went with Edith and Jemima to Jesmond Dene, where the bubbling brook, the grass and trees, made her ache with longing for the Hungry Water; but her favourite excursion was to go down to the banks of the Tyne, and look wistfully westwards along its wide and busy reaches, wondering which drops of the river had come down from Birkland and under Hexham bridge.
On Saturdays she sometimes caught a horse-bus to the edge of the city and walked along the Roman Wall, here almost at its easternmost extremity.
Kindly Mrs Robson often asked Alvey how she did, pressed a singing-hinny or piece of gingerbread on her as she passed through the shop—“Bless ye, lass, ye’re as thin as a rail yet, white as a clout—” and kept a solicitous eye on her lodger; but it was conversation that Alvey chiefly missed, not food; the gruff good sense of Sir Aydon, the meandering, yet pithy commentaries on life emanating from Tot and Nish, the servants’ shrewd observation, old Mrs Winship’s sudden fiercenesses and piercing intuitions.
How are they all doing? Alvey still wondered miserably, a dozen times a day. How did Louisa contrive to present the matter? How did they take my departure and her arrival? What happened? Have they quite accepted her now, and put me out of their minds? Were they very angry? What did Sir Aydon say? Is Louisa still there? How long was it before she introduced Lieutenant Dunnifage into the household? And did she reveal that he was her husband? What did Sir Aydon say to him? Was Lady Winship at all happy to see her true daughter—was she surprised? Did she even notice the exchange? Can Louisa have managed to persuade her mother to give up that voluntary self-imprisonment?
Oh, how I long to be there, in my room, sitting at the window-table, listening to the silence, which will presently be broken by the thump of children’s feet on the stairs and the thunder of the breakfast-gong . . .
It was like, Alvey thought, beginning to read a book of surpassing interest, arriving at the last chapter, only to discover that the last hundred pages have been cut away.
Mid-August came, and the Grainger family departed for three weeks to the seaside, to Alnmouth. Alvey had looked forward to more leisure in their absence, but acquired another job at this time, translating French correspondence for a wire-and nail-manufacturing company who exported large quantities of goods to Brussels and Ghent. She enjoyed her excursions into the manufacturing part of the city and was kept busy for several days a week, but missed her outings with the Grainger girls and went once or twice, by herself, to the Roman Wall. Now, looking northwest towards Whittington and Capheaton, she imagined the heather in bloom, its fiery plum colour, almost painful to the eye, under the grey sultry clouds. The hills around Birkland had just been fading from this barbaric purple when she first arrived. I prefer them green or brown, she thought. But what is the use of such preferences? I shall never see those hills again.
When the Graingers returned, at the beginning of September, she was sincerely pleased to see the girls, and listened patiently to their tales of rolling down sand-dunes and fishing from a coble for whiting and mackerel.
“And what is the French word for boat, Edith?”
“Oh, I’ve forgotten all that old French, Miss Clement!”
One afternoon, after Alvey had, with the utmost difficulty, managed to insert into their heads the fact that “la canne” meant “the stick” and “la bague” “the ring”, and had escorted the girls home to their fond mamma, she found that lady, as was her habit, taking tea in her suffocatingly curtained and flounced and frilled and valanced drawing-room.
“There you are, my angels! Did you have a pleasant walk? Come and sit down, now, and have your tea.—Ah, thank you, Miss Er—say goodbye, now, properly, girls, au revoir, mademoiselle, merci bien. Did you learn a great number of French words this afternoon? That is good. Bring your cups here. I have not yet poured the tea because I have been so engrossed in reading this very entertaining new romance that your kind Papa brought home for me from Thurstan’s.” And Mrs Grainger held up a volume, handsomely bound in red leather with gilded edgings and silken bookmarker. “Wicked Lord Love. Oh, it is the most amusing tale! When you are just a little older, my loves, you shall read it; as soon as you can understand long words.”
“Good heavens, ma’am!” exclaimed Alvey. “I mean—pray excuse me—might I just take a glance at that book you have there?”
“Why—I suppose so—yes—if you wish it, Miss Clement,” said Mrs Grainger stiffly, making it plain that she thought the nursery-governess was taking a considerable liberty. And she enfolded the book in a sheet of clean writing-paper before passing it, with some reluctance, to Alvey, who turned at once to the title-page.
WICKED LORD LOVE, By a Lady. In Three Volumes, price One Guinea. Published by Seward & Company, Pleasaunce, Edinburgh.
With trembling fingers she opened the first page and read the opening lines—her opening lines.
“Why it is—it is—my own book! How very amazing!”
“Your book, Miss Clement? Pray, what can you mean? Mr Grainger just brought it home for me, this very afternoon, from Thurstan’s Library.”
“Yes; no; I did not mean that it was my property, Mrs Grainger, but that I am the person who wrote it. I am the author.”
“You, Miss Clement—the author of this book?” Mrs Grainger plainly received the statement with total disbelief. She added, after a moment, as if very kindly giving Alvey a chance to retract and redeem herself, “I mean, you know, that is so wholly improbable! Are you quite positive that you do not find yourself mistaken, Miss Clement? Very few people, after all, are clever enough to write a book and have it published—especially such an amusing one as this!”
Alvey had been rapidly flipping through the pages, and now collected herself. “No: I am quite sure. And thank you, Mrs Grainger, for letting me look at it.” She added quietly, “Goodbye, Edith, Goodbye, Jemima. I shall see you on Thursday. Don’t forget those words between now and then,” and, handing the volume back to Mrs Grainger, she took her departure.
Before returning to Mrs Robson’s house in the Side, she made her way with all speed to Thurstan’s Circulating Library, the foremost in Newcastle, which occupied a prominent position near the Bigg Market. And there, in the front of the shop, on a large round table, she saw a whole red-and-gold pile of Wicked Lord Love. Trembling a little, from sheer excitement, Alvey asked for a copy, handed over her twenty-one shillings, and saw the three volumes wrapped up.
Then, with her heart beating like a sledge-hammer, she hurried
back to her attic to gloat over it. It reads beautifully in print, she thought. Oh, what nonsense it is! And what fun I had writing it!
Tomorrow she must start to ask questions; must write immediately to Messrs Seward & Company and demand to know why they had never been in touch with her, never paid her; but, for now, she was content just to sit in her stuffy little room, barefoot, on the bare floorboards, and gloat; then to lie down, at long last, on Mrs Robson’s lumpy mattress, not to fall asleep but to think over and over again, I am an author! I have had a real book published! I am an author!
The next morning was devoted to the composition of two letters; one to Mr Allgood, giving her direction in Newcastle “whither she had removed, owing to family differences, and was living under the name of Miss Clement”; the second, and this a highly indignant one, to Seward the publishers, demanding to know why they had published her book without even doing her the courtesy of apprizing her as to their intentions, or offering terms.
In the course of the following week she had replies from both.
Mr Allgood wrote,—
“MY DEAR MISS CLEMENT: I am more than happy and relieved to hear that you are safely settled in Newcastle, for some wild rumours have been flying about the countryside regarding mysterious duplications and replacements; and I am credibly informed that a second Miss Louisa Winship, an exact likeness of the first, is now in residence at Birkland Hall. As to which has the right to reside at Birkland, I would not pretend to judge, but to which one my loyalty is owing there is no question, and it is to the author of Wicked Lord Love that I pen these lines.
I learn with great dismay from my cousin Jamie that there has been some hiatus in communication; it appears that during February storms a mail-coach went off the great North Road and many letters were destroyed or dispersed and never reached their destinations; it seems all too probable that his to you, offering terms for the book, was among their number.”
Perhaps I did James an injustice, thought Alvey; perhaps he did write to his grandmother and that letter was lost too. Letters do go astray I suppose . . .
“Suffice it to say,” continued Mr Allgood, “that my cousin was entirely delighted with your manuscript and commenced work on its publication without a day’s delay; so anxious was he to put the work before the public that, failing to receive a reply from you, he neglected to wait until he had your authority to proceed. He informs me, moreover, that the first subscription was exhausted before publication, and another edition is already in preparation. But you will be hearing from him directly regarding these matters. He sent me a copy of the work for myself and my chief purpose in writing is to inform you of the immense pleasure and entertainment it has given me; if I may so put it, the experience was precisely like dancing through a daisy field on a warm day in May!”
Good gracious, thought Alvey, and tried to imagine Mr Allgood performing such an activity.
“My great hope is that you will in the course of time return to Hexham to inscribe the copy of,
your devoted admirer and well-wisher, etc etc
CYRIL ALLGOOD.”
James Seward wrote:
“MY DEAR MISS CLEMENT, I am overjoyed to have your new direction from my cousin Allgood and write in haste to tender my most sincere apologies. I understand that the first letter I wrote you in February offering terms for your novel never reached you. I ought of course to have written again, but assumed that you were perhaps away travelling and would reply at a later date. My excuse for immediately proceeding without further consultation must be my extreme eagerness to put this delightful Work before the public; an eagerness which, I am happy to say, has been amply justified, for the first imprint is already sold and a second in preparation; I have hopes of even a third or a fourth. My Accounting is appended herewith and it is with great pleasure that I enclose my draft for £221.6.4 being the monies owing to you at this time (if you agree to my terms).
I need hardly tell you, Miss Clement, that I shall await the next Product of your pen with the most hopeful and confident impatience; perhaps a sequel, a further instalment of the escapades of Wicked Lord Love? I understand there is already talk of a possible dramatic representation of the piece at Covent Garden with Kean in the title role; Mr Siddons is at work on one at this present time & is hoping to persuade his wife to emerge from retirement; so you can see that a second instalment would reach the Public at a wholly propitious moment—”
Good God, thought Alvey dazedly, my fortune is made. She looked at the account sheet:
By Commission to Author of 10%: 2,000 copies sold, WICKED LORD LOVE 21/. To Author: £221.6.4.
I could live for a year on that alone—with care; but then he says that another edition is in preparation; perhaps a third and fourth. And also a dramatic version—how are the profits from dramatic representations divided, I wonder?
Life had suddenly changed colour in the most astonishing manner. She was still in a state of wretched homesickness for Birkland; but at least she had plenty, now, with which to occupy her mind; hopeful, forward-looking thoughts, prospects of new ventures, new vistas.
Mr Allgood, had, with his letter, enclosed two other papers. One proved to be the missing letter from Louisa; doubtless it had followed a different route from Madagascar and arrived on the heels of its sender. This described her happy marriage to Lt Dunnifage and announced her intention of returning home forthwith to claim her dowry; “and so that Papa can have the pleasure of meeting my Husband for himself and seeing with his own eyes the interesting Sensibility & amiable Sympathy which characterize my beloved Spouse.” That’s as may be, thought Alvey, who had formed no very favourable impression of Lt Dunnifage.
“You will, naturally, upon receipt of this, wish to procure yourself some other Domicile to which you may remove upon (or, preferably, before) our arrival at Birkland, so that there need be no embarrassing Juxtapositions. I leave the arrangements for this to yourself.
Yours &c LOUISA WINSHIP DUNNIFAGE.”
The second letter was from Isa, posted in Durham. She had written:
“MY DEAR ALVEY,
Here we are staying with Major Fenway’s uncle the Bishop, in whose house we are treated with the most Distinguishing Kindness and introduced to all that is interesting and amiable among the local society; in other words, we are very snug. But I need not tell you, dear Alvey, how acutely impatient I am to complete the last stage of our journey and arrive at Tinnis; not Birkland itself, alas, but at least in my beloved Northumberland. I have so much to tell you, and even more, I am certain, to hear. How does my father go on? And has poor Mamma recovered from the brutal destruction of her garden? And what is the word of James and his friend? I am really wild to see you, and shall hope to ride over for a day’s visit as soon as we are safely installed among the Chibburns.
with best affection, ISA.”
This letter gave Alvey a decided pang. How much I should like to see Isa, she thought; Isa is a real friend, perhaps the only one I have made in my life. With the possible exception of Guy Fenway?
Since the discovery that she had become a published author, Alvey felt herself to be an entirely different person. I have grown to be an adult, she decided; and looked back with wonder at that stricken creature who huddled against the window, day after day, lacking the energy to creep beyond the corner of the street. Now, too, she was afflicted less often by those painful assaults of childhood memory—though she did feel a deep, deep sadness at the thought of what pride and pleasure her mother would have taken in this visible, tangible evidence of achievement. But in her heart of hearts Alvey had no doubt at all that Sarah must be dead. So I must feel all the pride on her behalf, she thought, since my success is thanks entirely to her early teaching, and her example of hardworking persistence; any credit is due to her and I needn’t give myself airs.
She did not give herself airs, but this new self-confidence made her think long and hard about h
er relationship with the family at Birkland.
I did help them. I know I did. And I think I could continue to do so. But it would be impossible to return there without invitation. And certainly not if Louisa and her husband were still in residence. Oh, how I long to hear from somebody there—just to know how they feel about me.
I’ll write to Isa at Tinnis Hall. She and Meg must be there by now. That is my best course.
She did so directly, but had received no reply when she next went to conduct the young Misses Grainger for their educational ramble. Returning from this promenade on which she had, with considerable difficulty, taught her two charges the phrases “je ne sais quoi” and “je ne sais pas”, she found herself invited to take tea with Mrs Grainger, and was amused to discover that her status had, during the passage of a week, been subject to a complete revision. She was received (like Isa and the Chibburns) with most distinguishing kindness. Evidently her pretensions to having written Lord Love had been canvassed and accepted; indeed Mr Grainger himself presently arrived from his place of business and congratulated her upon her success.
“They are talking aboot it all over the town, Miss Clement, all over the coontry, I oonderstand, indeed they are; ye’ve got a right money-spinner on yer hands there, I tell ye straight! Ay, it’s real laughable stuff, so it is; I’m amazed a female could write anything so humorous.” He was a red-faced man with a pompous air and self-satisfied expression; he looked at Alvey with real astonishment and respect.
