Anna and Her Daughters

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Perhaps she has something to hide,” suggested Rosalie.

  *

  The next morning Mother said I must call upon Mrs. Millard and take her some flowers.

  “You needn’t go in,” said Mother. “Just ask how she is.”

  “Must I?”

  “Of course you must,” said Mother firmly. “It’s your duty to go. It’s only polite.”

  I would have avoided the duty if possible; I had been told that Mrs. Millard was ‘not a friendly sort of person’, and even if I did go in and see her I should have to speak to the French maid (who was very unfriendly indeed) but Mother would listen to no excuses; she picked the flowers herself and arranged them in a posy and sent me off as if I had been ten years old.

  Mrs. Millard was at home and before I could explain that I did not want to see her I was ushered into the sitting-room and found her lying on the sofa with her arm in a sling.

  “How kind of you to call!” she said pleasantly.

  “I just came to ask how you are. I’m awfully sorry —”

  I began.

  “You’ve said that before,” she declared. She had an incisive manner of speaking which was slightly alarming. “There’s no need to keep on saying you’re sorry. Of course you’re sorry. If you weren’t sorry you’d be a fiend — and you appear to be a kindhearted young woman — and an artistic young woman,” she added with a glance at the flowers.

  “Oh, Mother did that,” I said hastily.

  “A young woman of integrity!” exclaimed Mrs. Millard.

  I could feel myself blushing.

  “A modest young woman,” added Mrs. Millard smiling.

  Of course she was making fun of me, but I did not really mind. “How is your wrist?” I asked. “I hope it isn’t very painful.”

  As I said the words it occurred to me that it was almost the same as saying I was sorry and I wondered if she would reply that I must be a fiend if such was not my hope. I believe she thought it, but fortunately she did not say it. She just explained that a small bone was fractured but it had been set and put in plaster and would soon mend. “It wouldn’t matter if it were my left wrist,” she added.

  I began to say that of course one’s right hand was much more useful, but she interrupted me.

  “I’m writing a book,” said Mrs. Millard. “And I can’t write with my left hand. That’s the trouble. I’m writing the biography of a naughty lady,” she added with a smile.

  “A real book! How wonderful!”

  “There’s nothing wonderful about it. Writing a biography is hard work, that’s all. If you’ve got the material you can go ahead, and I’ve got plenty of material — in fact rather too much. There’s no need for you to gaze at me as if I were Charlotte Bronte and Jane Austen rolled into one. It’s a job — just like any other job — and I do it for money.”

  I still thought it was wonderful — and clever.

  “This isn’t my first attempt,” she continued. “I’ve done several biographies. It’s an odd feature of modern life that respectable families should allow a complete stranger to browse amongst their family-papers and concoct a story about an ancestress who was no better than she should be. Don’t you think so, Miss Harcourt?”

  “Yes,” I said. “At least — I don’t know. Perhaps it might be rather amusing.”

  “Oh, it’s amusing,” said Mrs. Millard with a wicked smile. “The adventures of Lady Esmeralda Pie make very amusing reading. She was a baggage; there’s no other word for her. I was just beginning to get things sorted out — and now this has happened.”

  I very nearly said again that I was sorry, but remembered in time to choke back the words.

  “What were you going to say, Miss Harcourt?” inquired Mrs. Millard sweetly.

  “It was just — I wondered — couldn’t you get a secretary?”

  She shook her head. “Solda would be as jealous as hell and there would be rows. I can’t stand rows. If I could get somebody to come in for a couple of hours in the morning it might work out, but there’s no hope of that in Ryddelton. No, I’m afraid Lady Esmeralda will have to wait until my wrist is mended.”

  “Would I be any good?” I asked. I felt I had to offer, for although the accident was not my fault I felt responsible but my offer was very half-hearted and I was extremely glad when it was refused.

  “I don’t think I could bear it,” said Mrs. Millard, looking at me thoughtfully. “I tried a secretary once before. I thought it would save time. She really was wonderful. She wrote shorthand faster than I could speak, so she was always waiting for me to continue — waiting patiently with her pencil poised and her large earnest brown eyes fixed upon my face. I think she must have given me an inferiority complex or something. I know she nearly drove me mad.”

  “How awful!” I said, smiling. And then I rose and said I must go.

  “Can you do shorthand?” asked Mrs. Millard.

  “Oh no! I can’t write shorthand. I can’t do anything that proper secretaries do. I’ve never had any training.”

  I had said good-bye and was half-way to the door when Mrs. Millard called me back. “We might try,” she said. “If I found you were driving me mad we could stop before I was raving and biting pieces out of the carpet.”

  It was a joke of course. I could see that by her face. I thought it was a poor joke but I laughed and said, “It was silly of me to offer. Of course I wouldn’t be any use at all. It was just that I was …”

  “Sorry?” suggested Mrs. Millard.

  I could hear her laughing as I went down the path.

  *

  Never before had I met anybody the least like Mrs. Millard, so I could not help thinking about her and wondering about her book. If she wrote as she talked the book would be unusual to say the least of it. I did the shopping and walked home. It was pleasant to live on a hill because of the view and because of the joyous feeling of rushing downhill on a bicycle with the breeze whistling in your ears, but it was not so pleasant to toil home with a heavy basket on your handlebars. Mother was in the kitchen making scones.

  “There you are!” she exclaimed. “If you’d been here a few minutes sooner you could have answered the telephone yourself. She left a message to say you’re to go at ten on Monday.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Millard, of course. I thought it was all arranged. She said you’d offered to go to her as secretary.”

  I lifted the basket on to the table and gazed at Mother in consternation.

  “Didn’t you offer?” asked Mother.

  “No — I mean yes, but I didn’t mean it.”

  “She thinks you did,” said Mother, squeezing the dough off her hands and taking up the rolling-pin.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t — a joke?”

  “Of course it wasn’t a joke. Half a crown an hour, she said. It isn’t much, but you’re not trained so I don’t suppose you could expect more.” Mother sighed and added. “We could have Mrs. Gow twice a week, couldn’t we? But don’t go if you don’t want to, darling.”

  I was not sure whether I wanted to or not. There was something very exciting about Mrs. Millard — but a little frightening as well. I said, “But she wouldn’t keep me, you know. She said if she found I was driving her mad it would stop.”

  “Driving her mad!” echoed Mother in amazement.

  I decided that I could not take the job. I had no idea what she would want me to do, but whatever she wanted me to do I was sure I was incapable of doing it … and then she would be cross. The mere idea of Mrs. Millard being cross was terrifying. I explained this to Mother.

  “She sounds mad already,” said Mother. “She sounds absolutely crazy. You had better ring her up and say you can’t manage it after all. Say you’re sorry,” added Mother.

  I could not help smiling as I went to the telephone, but my smile faded when I tried to make up my mind what to say.

  The telephone receiver was sticky with dough and as I wiped it off I thought of all that Mother did in the hous
e: making scones and washing the dishes and scrubbing the floor. I was no use to her — and I had an uncomfortable feeling that I never would be any use — I seemed incapable of learning. How nice it would be if I could pay Mrs. Gow myself! I stood and looked at the telephone — and wondered. Well, why not? I thought. If Mrs. Millard found me hopelessly incompetent she could sack me. There was no harm in trying.

  Chapter Seven

  It was exactly ten o’clock when I rang the bell of The Corner House on Monday morning. (The clock on the tower of the Town Hall was beginning to chime); the door was opened immediately.

  “Oh, it is you!” said Solda without enthusiasm. “Enfin, it is stupid to ring the bell and take me from my work. You can walk up the stairs to the study.”

  There were several doors on the top landing but fortunately I chose the right one and looked in. The room was large and sparsely furnished with a roll-top desk, a typewriter and a book-case filled with reference books; a chest stood upon the floor near the fireplace.

  Mrs. Millard was sitting at a large solid kitchen-table covered with piles of papers and letters. She looked up and said, “A punctual young woman! Take off your jacket and hang it on the door. Have you got a pen?”

  I had brought my fountain-pen and a scribbling-pad as well, so I sat down in the chair opposite to my employer and waited for orders.

  “These are the letters,” Mrs. Millard explained. “There are more in that chest — hundreds of them. Some are from Esmeralda to her friends and some are from friends to Esmeralda. There are letters from enemies as well — but you’ll see as we go along. Here’s a sheaf of them for you to clip together in chronological order.”

  There was nothing difficult about that, so my spirits rose and I tackled the job cheerfully. For a time we worked in silence. Mrs. Millard was reading the letters and sorting them into three separate piles. Presently she said, “Some of these letters are useless; some have passages which I can use; some I must have in full.” She chuckled and added, “Here’s one I must have in full. Can you read it?”

  The question was by no means superfluous, for the letter was written in thin spidery writing which would have disgraced a child of eight years old.

  “That’s a specimen of the Lady Esmeralda’s calligraphy,” said Mrs. Millard. “She was an indifferent pen woman and her spelling leaves much to be desired but she made up in quantity what she lacked in quality. When she was excited her writing deteriorated and became even more illegible. Obviously she was excited when she wrote that. See what you can make of it, Miss Harcourt!”

  “It would be easier if you called me Jane,”

  “Very much easier,” agreed Mrs. Millard promptly. “Here you are, Jane. You can take the letter and copy it out clearly. I want it exactly as it is, with all the abbreviations and peculiar spelling. Sit over there at the desk.”

  “Just — copy it out?” I asked.

  “That’s what I said,” declared Mrs. Millard impatiently.

  It took some time to decipher the letter (at first glance it seemed an impossible task) but I had a feeling that this was a sort of test and if I failed my engagement would come to an abrupt conclusion — so I struggled on. After a bit I began to get more used to the scrawl and except for a word here and there — which stumped completely — I made a clear transcript.

  No wonder Lady Esmeralda had been excited when she sat down at her ‘booreau’ to pen the letter to her ‘dearest Emily’ (most young women would have been too excited and upset to write at all) for it contained news of a ‘fearce jewel’ which had taken place at dawn between two of her ladyship’s admirers, both of whom had been ‘woonded in the fray Lady Esmeralda had been present in person, hiding in the shrubary’, and obviously had enjoyed the fun. To see the ‘bludde’ flowing, and to be aware that it was shed for her, had given her the most delicious sensations which she described in full. She explained to dearest Emily that it was not a mere whim which had lured her from her comfortable bed at such an unwonted hour; it had been essential to see the contest with her own eyes so that she might determine which of the contestants she liked best.

  I took the letter and my transcript to Mrs. Millard and showed them to her.

  “Very neat — just what I wanted,” she said. “It’s taken you a long time but you’ll get used to her scrawl. That word is étonnant. You’ve left a space for it. Don’t you understand French?”

  “I didn’t realise it was a French word,” I said. “I see it now, of course.”

  “Esmeralda used quite a lot of French words to describe her sensations. It’s an interesting letter, isn’t it, Jane.”

  “Is it true, Mrs. Millard?”

  “It depends what you mean by true. The letter is authentic — I mean it was written by Esmeralda to her friend — but whether it is a veracious account of what happened or merely a charming fairy-tale —”

  “A fairy-tale!”

  “To amuse dearest Emily, to make her heart beat faster and give her shivers up her spine,” explained Mrs. Millard with a wicked smile. “Here’s another letter,” she continued. “Not quite so lurid. I only want the passages I have marked.”

  “I can type,” I told her.” Not very fast, I’m afraid, but it would be neater than —”

  “The chatter of a typewriter!” cried Mrs. Millard with a shudder. “My dear Jane, do you want to drive me mad?”

  I said no more, for the last thing I wanted was to drive her mad. I was getting interested in Lady Esmeralda and I wanted to keep my job.

  *

  That first morning is very clear in my memory, perhaps because I was all keyed up and anxious to do well. After that we worked every morning for two hours and on Saturday I was able to give Mother thirty shillings. She took half — to pay Mrs. Gow — and made me keep the rest and I must admit that it was a pleasant feeling to have fifteen shillings in my pocket — fifteen shillings which I had earned myself.

  I had wondered whether Mrs. Millard would sack me when her wrist was better but her wrist mended and nothing was said. We went on working together and I knew I was useful. From the first I had been fascinated by Lady Esmeralda and as the weeks went past her personality emerged more and more clearly and took a firm hold upon my imagination.

  One day when I went into Mrs. Millard’s study there was a little miniature lying on the table amongst the papers.

  “There she is,” said Mrs. Millard. “That’s the lady. They’ve sent me the picture to be reproduced as a frontispiece to my book.”

  She was exactly as I had imagined, with a long white neck and dark curls and a mischievous twinkle in her emerald-green eyes.

  “It’s exactly like her!” I cried.

  “How do you know?” asked Mrs. Millard teasingly. “How can you possibly know? The artist had to make her beautiful or he wouldn’t have got paid for his work.”

  “I know — because it matches the letters!”

  “You’re besotted with the creature,” declared Mrs. Millard. “It’s all the more strange because if you met her in real life you would dislike her intensely.”

  I stood there, wondering.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Millard. “You would be terrified of Esmeralda … but never mind, you’re not likely to meet the lady. She’s been dead for nearly three hundred years — so you can hang her on the wall over the chimney-piece and go on worshipping at her shrine.”

  I hung her over the chimney-piece and, although I did not worship her, it gave me a great deal of pleasure to look at her picture and to marvel at the strange anomalies of her character. She could be kind and generous; she was often cruel. She was reckless to the point of insanity. It amused her to have half a dozen admirers and to play them off — one against the other — like a juggler playing with coloured balls. Occasionally she met a gentleman and found him ‘enchanting’ and wrote detailed accounts of his perfections to her dearest Emily. Then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, she would tire of him or find somebody more attractive, and the unfor
tunate gentleman was thrown aside like a worn shoe. She possessed a peculiar sense of humour and one of her chief pleasures was to play practical jokes upon her friends: jokes which were the scandal of the town and frequently got her into trouble.

  The letters received by Lady Esmeralda were almost as revealing as those she wrote and almost as ill-spelt. As we ploughed through the contents of the oak-chest we discovered scores of love-letters and invitations to routs. There were bills for dresses and mantles and shawls … and one day I found an anonymous letter demanding money. It was quite short and very much to the point and was written upon a dirty piece of paper.

  “Look at that!” I exclaimed, passing it to Mrs. Millard.

  “Blackmail!” cried Mrs. Millard in delight. “It isn’t surprising! No woman could live that sort of life without laying herself open to blackmail — but how lucky that she kept the letter and didn’t burn it!”

  “Shall I copy it?” I asked.

  “Of course! Use your brains, child, and don’t ask superfluous questions.”

  Mrs. Millard was always telling me to use my brains and the consequence was I had begun to use them. It was good for me.

  Lady Esmeralda’s background was no less interesting than herself; it was a colourful picture of luxury and squalor. Armies of servants thronged the great houses; coaches rumbled up to the doors. Huge meals were eaten at tables laden with silver and lit by candles; there was drinking and gambling and duelling. Highwaymen frequented lonely roads and footpads lurked in the streets. Thieves were hanged and crowds gathered to see the grisly entertainment.

  The picture of life in those far-off days became so real and clear that I felt as if I had lived in them myself. It was almost as if I remembered them. Sometimes I returned to them in my dreams (which was not always enjoyable) and occasionally I found myself using words and phrases which occurred in the letters.

  Perhaps this was why Mother suggested that I should ‘give it up’.

  We were all having tea together in the sitting-room. It was a wild stormy afternoon; we could hear the wind howling in the chimney, but inside the cottage it was warm and cosy. Rosalie was making hot-buttered-toast.