by Joan Aiken
‘Thank you, my love,’ whispered Aunt Polly from time to time. ‘You make me so comfortable!’
Then she would fall asleep for a moment or two. Sometimes, on waking, she seemed to imagine that Hatty was one of the twins, Sophy or Eliza.
‘How you have grown, my dearie,’ she would whisper. ‘But where is your sister? I like to see both of you together.’
This aberration of her aunt’s for some reason gave Hatty a most complicated pain.
‘I am Hatty, dear aunt! Your niece! Don’t you remember? You shall see the twins, I promise, as soon as you are a little better.’
Nobody dared tell Mrs Ward that the twins were dangerously ill. Mr Filingay shook his head over them, visited them half a dozen times a day.
‘They have so little strength for resistance,’ he said. ‘I fear their frail constitutions simply cannot fight against this infection. It is terribly unfortunate that they should have been exposed to the germ.’
The most grievously sad thing, Hatty thought, was that no other member of the family but herself seemed to have any interest in whether the twins lived or died. Mr Ward made perfunctory, brief inquiries each morning, but otherwise paid no heed to their state; Tom and Sydney never made any inquiry at all; Ned seemed troubled about them, but, still seriously ill himself, appeared to feel more guilt at having passed the germ to them than real concern about their prospects. ‘Poor little things,’ he sighed, ‘but what future had they, after all? Life could never be any benefit to them. They have a strange gift for chess, certainly, but what use is that? No man is going to marry them for their chess. And they could hardly be separated. No, to me it seems the kindest fate for them to die and be together. But supposing only one should be taken? What in the world would happen to the other?’
‘Oh, Ned, don’t!’ Hatty would cry out, as he rambled on in this way, his own enfeebled state lending a bleak sadness to his speculations.
The only person in the household beside herself who took an active, positive interest in the survival of the twins was Burnaby, grimly battling for their imperilled lives, cooling their fevered heads with lavender spirits, nourishing them with drops of broth and brandy, changing their soaked bed-linen ten times a day.
Can she have discovered at last that she loves them? wondered Hatty at first, helping as much as she was permitted, which help was now dourly and ungratefully accepted because there was too much work for one person. But it was not love that drove Burnaby’s labours, Hatty soon realized; it was the knowledge that, without the survival of the twins, her own position in the household would be in danger. The care of the twins was her sole responsibility, her only function; if they were gone, nobody would need her, nobody would want her. Few in the house liked her; only Mr Ward had a kind of taciturn respect for her. Sydney, it was true, sometimes gossiped with her, but Hatty had not noticed him doing so since her own rejection of his advances had left him in a state of humiliated, resentful rage. Hatty still did not know how much of the scene Burnaby had witnessed. At present, perhaps, she was too much preoccupied with the state of the twins to allude to it; but Hatty felt certain that, sooner or later, she would turn it to account in some malicious and trouble-making way; most probably by telling Mr Ward about it. Hatty thought that she ought to forestall this by informing him herself, but, just at present, she did not feel equal to the ensuing scene. She was sure that her uncle would deeply disapprove of any such alliance, that he did not expect Sydney to marry for years to come, and, when he did, it must be an advantageous, profitable match, preferably to the daughter of the senior partner in his law firm, or some young lady with a comfortable fortune of her own, certainly not his penniless cousin.
But Mr Ward, just then, was in no mood to be burdened with any additional anxieties. He was beginning, most reluctantly, to realize that his wife’s state was much more severe and problematical than he had, at first, been willing to acknowledge; that she might, indeed, never return to full health. He was still excessively angry about the infamous behaviour of his niece Frances who, he felt, had disgraced him and the whole family in the most open, bare-faced way possible, in view of all his neighbours, colleagues, and trade and professional connections. If the hussy had to run off with some good-for-nothing, why could she not have done so in Bath or Huntingdon or Northamptonshire, where Mr Ward did not live and was not known? But to elope within throwing distance of her own uncle was the outside of enough!
Another worry, not the least, was the condition of his son Ned, who was still extremely weak and debilitated. Ned ought, at this time, to have been commencing his naval service, in fact he should by now already have done so, but this step had already been postponed a couple of times due to the intervention of Ned’s mother who, steady-minded and sensible in most ways, had a quite unreasonable attachment to her youngest boy; he was her darling, the apple of her eye, and she had up to now managed to defer his departure from home; she had been used to fall into a most exaggerated anxiety when she envisaged his rough and dangerous life at sea. And now, reflected Mr Ward, the parting, when it came, would be a thousand times worse, with the boy still thin and pale and pulled-looking, and his mother so frail that a breeze might knock her over, and full to the brim of sick fancies!
Then there was a worry about Hatty – the girl, though she looked tired and drawn, seemed to be tackling her household duties well enough; in fact, Mr Ward was obliged to acknowledge, it was hard to see how they could have managed without her during the present embarrassment; though that, to be sure, was no more than ought to be expected of her, considering the comfortable home she had been granted all these years. But what was all this about poetry? And Muses? And corresponding with Lord Camber – that was a thoroughly undesirable development.
Living on the fringes of the aristocracy had its problems, Mr Ward admitted to himself; upper-class gentry felt themselves so much less bound by social restrictions than persons in his own hum-drum middle-class walk of life that dealing with these high people (though profitable) presented one with not a few difficulties. Now and then I even wish I’d never asked the fellow to step in and take his mutton with us, mused Mr Ward; well, it is a thoroughly fortunate thing that he has gone off to the banks of the Susquehanna river, and I trust that he will remain fixed there for some years. Though what will happen to the Duke in the meantime I hate to think.
Hatty, for the remaining week of her cousin’s sojourn in Portsmouth, tried her best to avoid being left alone with him. She did not anticipate a renewal of his addresses, for he eyed her with such hostility when they were together in a room that she felt she had made him into an enemy for life. So she was greatly surprised to be intercepted by him, one afternoon when she had hurried out into the garden in hopes that some of the twins’ night-wear, hung out earlier in the day, might have been sufficiently dried by the wintry gale to be ready for use. Sydney came walking from the direction of the conservatory, stood directly in her path, and said, ‘Cousin Hatty: have you given any more thought to the offer I made you last week?’
She stared at him in astonishment. He went on rather stiffly, ‘I took you by surprise on that occasion, I fear I should have been more deliberate in my approaches and given you time to reflect.’
‘My dear cousin,’ she told him with a certain degree of impatience, ‘if you had given me five years to reflect – if you had given me ten – the answer would still be the same. We should not suit one another at all. I should put you out of patience all day long and I cannot imagine ever being happy as your wife. We know one another far too well to allow of any doubt on the matter. Now – pray – excuse me, I am in a hurry to supply your poor little sisters with clean bed-linen.’
He still barred her way.
‘I have not finished yet, Cousin Hatty. Listen. You cannot remain in this house for ever. Suppose my mother should die? That is not improbable. What are your prospects? I am probably better informed about them than you. It is very unlike
ly that my uncle Henry will be able to provide you with any portion at all. His recent marriage to Lady Ursula has been a decided drain on his resources. I know this for a fact. And your sister Agnes’s simultaneous wedding to Mr Norris has also embarrassed him to a considerable degree. With no portion, I can assure you, my poor cousin, your chances of receiving any other offer than mine are quite negligible. Who would want you? You have no expectations, you have no fortune. You will have to earn your living as a nurse-maid or as a governess. Do you realize that?’
‘Of course I do! The prospect does not terrify me in the least. I might even enjoy it. Teaching – attempting to teach – your sisters has been no penance, I assure you. On the contrary. If – if I had been permitted more freedom with them – but excuse me. I really cannot stand talking now, Cousin Sydney. And my feelings about your offer are perfectly firm. I am greatly obliged to you but I am sure, too, that when you are returned to London, you will be relieved that I said no.’
He looked at her with a lowering brow. Then he said, ‘Cousin Hatty, you will be sorry, very sorry for this. I warn you! I can make your position in this house exceedingly uncomfortable. I can even – very likely – put a period to your residence here. My father—’
‘Have you ever considered, Sydney,’ she interrupted, ‘how very, very much your father would dislike it if you were to go to him with news of your engagement to me? He has quite other intentions for you, you may be sure. I heard him once tell your mother what a fine thing it would be for you if you were to marry Miss Brabham.’
‘Miss Brabham?’ Sydney looked thunderstruck. Miss Brabham was the daughter of the senior partner in his law firm, had ten thousand pounds of her own, and was aged thirty-two. Hatty had never laid eyes on the lad, who lived in London, but had heard Sydney describe her as very evil-tempered and a regular antidote.
This distraction gave Hatty the chance to slip past Sydney with her bundle of laundry and run indoors. He was to travel up to London that evening by the mail, so she was in hopes of not encountering him again, or at least only briefly. And indeed her last view of him was when the diminished family party – Mr Ward, Tom, and herself – stood on the doorstep to wave Sydney goodbye. He shook hands with the two males, threw Hatty a cold glare, shouldered his portmanteau, and walked away in the direction of the mail-coach stop.
Hatty drew a large breath of relief. She had not taken his last threat very seriously and soon forgot it in the pressure of other cares and the comfort of having him out of the house.
She had, however, intended, that evening, to inform her uncle of Sydney’s proposal – she felt it her duty to do so, though a most disagreeable one, in furtherance of the better, more communicative relations now obtaining between her uncle and herself – but was prevented from this by the presence of Ned, allowed downstairs for the first time in his bed-gown to join the family for tea. He hardly seemed to relish the privilege – sipped his tea half-heartedly and nibbled without appetite at a morsel of cake.
‘Ha! Ned,’ said his father. ‘Now you are back on your pins we must begin to set about getting you on to a ship. The Bulfinch had to sail without you, but I have made overtures to Captain Hardwick on the Endeavour; she is in dock re-fitting but he tells me that he hopes to sail within four or five weeks, and if you have your strength back by then he will be happy to take you on board. Sea air will complete your recovery, I dare say.’
‘Thank you, father,’ said Ned faintly.
‘There will be a deal of work, I daresay,’ said Mr Ward, ‘getting you outfitted and ready with all your gear. It is too bad your poor mother is not in health enough to take a hand in the business. She has such a head on her shoulders for such matters. But your cousin Hatty will do her best, I am sure.’
‘Do you think Ned will be well enough to leave home in four or five weeks?’ inquired Hatty doubtfully.
‘In course he will!’ Her uncle returned with a frown to the newspaper he was reading.
‘I – I think I will go back to bed, Hatty,’ said Ned unhappily. ‘Will it – will it be in order for me to visit my mother to say goodnight?’
‘Yes of course, Ned, but pray do not stay with her too long so as to fatigue her.’
He nodded and crept away.
Now I ought to summon up the courage to tell my uncle about Sydney’s offer, Hatty thought. Tom was in the schoolroom whittling a top, to add to his already large collection. No interruption was likely. But she found she simply did not have the heart to break up the quiet interlude, and fracture her uncle’s peace. He may think I wish to marry Sydney and this is my roundabout manner of approaching the subject. That would be dreadful. And he is fond of Sydney, has such a high opinion of his good sense and ability; this would certainly lower Sydney in his estimation and annoy him very much; but is the truth simply that I am too much of a coward to tell Uncle Philip what happened?
Suddenly it occurred to Hatty to wonder what Lord Camber would advise, supposing him to be present in the room and a party to the situation?
Oh, how I wish he was! thought Hatty with a deep sigh. She imagined Lord Camber’s comforting presence, his time-scoured, weather-beaten countenance, nearly always with a broad understanding smile on it, his friendly comprehension and slow, thoughtful manner of commenting on what he had been told.
‘We-e-ell, do you know, Miss Hatty, I believe I would not trouble your poor uncle with such a confidence at this time. He has so much else on his mind! And it would be rather telling tales out of school, would it not?’
With a huge sigh of relief, Hatty thought: no, I will not mention the episode to my uncle. Ten to one, as soon as he is back in London, Sydney will forget all about it. He too has plenty of other things to occupy his mind, I am sure.
In her turn she bade her uncle good night, and went upstairs to visit Aunt Polly, impelled, in part, by a wish to ensure that Ned had not stayed too long with his mother and distressed her with too much talk about his forthcoming departure to sea.
Arrived at her aunt’s room she thought, indeed, that she had come none too soon. Ned was half-kneeling, half-crouching by his mother’s bedside, clasping her hand, addressing her in a low, urgent murmur; Mrs Ward looked distressed and confused; she was stroking his head, but her eyes were sad and unfocussed, staring over the bowed head as if she did not quite hear him and her attentions were half elsewhere, on something that lay beyond him.
‘Poor Neddikins; dear Neddikins,’ she murmured. ‘It will get better. Things often do get better. Or else they seem less important. Or they go away.’
‘And I am afraid you must go away now, Ned,’ Hatty said gently. ‘We have to get your mother ready for the night.’
Ned gave her an apprehensive, shame-faced look, and took himself off; Hatty, approaching the bedside, saw at a glance that her aunt’s pulse and temperature were both higher than they should be, that her breath came much too fast, that she was in a dangerous state of disturbance.
‘Oh, the children!’ she said sadly. ‘They are always asking for treats and sweetmeats. Mr Ward will never agree – very likely he is in the right of it; how can one decide what is for the best?’
‘Never mind it, Aunt Polly,’ Hatty soothed her. ‘Very likely in the morning it will seem much simpler. Here is Nurse coming, look, with your night-time dose, which will make you feel like going to sleep. Just forget about the children. They will come to no harm.’
But outside Mrs Ward’s door Hatty met Burnaby, arriving to summon her with a baleful countenance.
‘Miss Hatty, the twins is mortal bad, both of ‘em. I wish ye’d send the boy for Mr Filingay, though I misdoubt there’s little he can do.’
Mr Filingay, when summoned, agreed. All that could be done he did, but his efforts were unavailing, and, towards dawn, Sophy, the smaller of the pair, murmured, ‘Pawn to king’s four’ for the last time, turned to her sister, and died. Ten minutes later Eliza followed her example
.
Tired out, wrung, and utterly defeated, Hatty burst into tears.
‘Oh, poor little things! What did they ever have? What use were their lives?’
Mr Filingay was soothing.
‘Now, Miss Hatty! Now, my dear young lady! They did not have bad lives. They had far better care, a better home, than hundreds of others with such problems. Many in like case would not have lived for half as long. Don’t I speak the truth, Miss Burnaby? You have taken famous good care of them, I know!’
Burnaby deflected her malignant stare from Hatty long enough to give him a nod.
‘Now I am going to give you a calming dose for yourself, Miss Hatty, and you must go to your room and lie down.’
Hatty drank the potion Mr Filingay gave her and went off to her own room, feeling that she left the household in a dangerously explosive and undefended condition.
She slept for a short time, but heavily.
When she woke, it was to a strange silence. The usual sounds of the house were completely stilled.
She lay for a few moments in a state of great confusion. Was it Sunday? Christmas come again? Or had all the maids caught the measles?
Then she remembered about the twins. She was able to feel more calmly about them now, thankful, at least, that their deaths had been easy and without pain, that they had been together; and it was true, as Filingay had said, that, in poorer or more uncaring households their lives might have been a great deal worse; at least they were fed, clothed, washed, and attended to, if the latter only to a minimal degree. But oh, poor Aunt Polly, Hatty thought; their death is going to strike her a mortal blow. With a deep, premonitory pang she knew that this was so. I wonder if she has been told yet? Or will they keep the news from her? It would be best to do so. But she will be sure to find out. How can she not?
Hatty sprang from her bed and made a hasty toilet. As she did so she saw one reason for the household’s unwonted silence: snow was falling heavily, and must have done so for some time; a layer of white, two or three inches thick, lay on branches and twigs, the posts and chains in front of the house, the doorsteps, and the street beyond. Few tracks marked the snow. Very little traffic was moving. Yet it was late, Hatty discovered, far past the usual breakfast hour.
