by Joan Aiken
“Why are we going to this Flintwood, Papa? Who lives there?”
“Your grandfather, Juliana.”
“My grandfather,” she said wonderingly. “I did not know that I had one! He is your father, then, Papa?”
“My father, yes.” His tone was far from enthusiastic.
“What is his name?”
“He is called General Sir Horace Tullesley Paget.”
“Paget? Then why is our name Elphinstone?”
“Paget is our real name, Juliana. Elphinstone is the name under which I chose to write my books. I assumed it for—for various reasons.”
“And why have you never spoken of my grandfather before?”
“Because we quarreled, my dear. We have not seen each other in a great many years—since before you were born.”
“What was the cause of your quarrel?”
“There were various causes. First, he disapproved of my choice of profession. He wished me to purchase a commission in his regiment—as he had done, and his father, and all my uncles but one. My father could not understand my wish to study history and write for a living—it made him excessively angry.”
“What a stupid reason!” said Juliana. “If I have children, I shall allow them to become writers or—or carpenters, whatever they wish.”
“Ay, but you have been brought up in Italy, my little one. In English society, matters are more carefully regulated. And besides, this was twenty, thirty years ago. Children were obliged to mind their parents.”
“Do I not mind you, Papa?”
“Sometimes!” he said, smiling. “But I am not near so strict with you as my father was with me.”
“What were the other reasons for your quarrel?”
“Well,” he replied, much more slowly, “the principal one was that your grandfather did not approve of the lady whom I wished to marry.”
“My mother?”
“Yes, child. Your mother.” His voice was hollow—heavy—he stared out over the darkening sea with a look of profound depression.
“Why did Sir Horace not approve of her?” Juliana wanted to know.
“First, because she came from a level of society which, he said, being lower than ours, was an unsuitable source for a partner: she was the daughter of an apothecary. He held that she was after nothing but my money.”
“Your money? But we have so little money, Papa. Only what you earn from your writing.”
“Now that is so—yes; but your grandfather was—is—quite a rich man.”
“But if you had enough money, why did it matter that you wished to marry a girl who had less?”
“My father was certain that she did not truly love me; that she was merely after money and position. He said she was a sly, scheming, designing hussy.”
Juliana thought about this for a little while. Then she said, “Was that true?”
Her father likewise waited a moment to answer. Then, sighing, he replied, “Yes, my dear. I fear your grandfather was in the right about her. At that time, though, I was but a romantic, idealistic young fool, with my head full of ancient history—notions about chivalry—gallant knights—beautiful ladies—and so on! Laura seemed my ideal of the knight’s lady.”
“My mother’s name was Laura?”
“Laura Brooke.” He paused, and then said slowly, “And she was extremely beautiful—tall, pale, dark-haired—like some queen from a legend of romance.”
“Oh…” For some reason Juliana found that these words gave her a curious pang. After a while she asked, “But, in spite of my grandfather’s opposition, you married her?”
“Yes, we married. I was of age, so he could not prevent me. But he could—and did—stop my allowance and cut me out of his will. He refused to support me or have anything more to do with me.”
“What happened then?”
Next moment Juliana wished that she had not asked, for her father’s face became so full of anguish that she could have bitten out her tongue. But his voice when he replied remained level enough.
“First, my dear, you were born—and have been my chief delight and comfort ever since. Then—what followed was precisely what your grandfather had foretold. Your mother, disillusioned by a life of poverty and scraping care, as I tried to earn enough with my pen to support us all, soon decided that—that she had made a mistake in thinking that she loved me. She found others—another, whom she preferred. And so she left me. And you too. You, of course, were only a baby then.”
“So why did you not make up the quarrel with my grandfather?”
“He had said things that—that I could not forgive.”
“And you were too proud to acknowledge that you also had been wrong,” Juliana said in a reflective tone. “I know your nature, you see, Papa.”
“Perhaps.” There was a smile in his voice.
“Did you never see my mother again? Did she never wish to see me?”
She asked the question wistfully. It seemed to her incredible that another man could be preferred above her father—so handsome, clever, and sweet-natured as he was. And for a mother to go off and desert her own baby—that appeared hardly possible; it was the most strange, unnatural thing she had ever heard. She had always supposed her mother dead. She added tremblingly, “Did you divorce her?”
But to this question her father replied, “If you do not mind, my dear, that touches upon topics which are a cause of such anguish and horror to me that I prefer not to recall them. I would rather not speak any more on this subject at this time. In England—when we are rested from the journey—I will tell you the whole history.”
“Oh, dear Papa! Indeed, I would not give you pain for the world! Pray do not think of—of telling me anything that you would rather not! I am only sorry to have distressed you so much as I have. I had thought that I ought to know something of our circumstances in case—in case you—”
Her voice faltered to a halt.
He said calmly, “You were very right. And I can tell you also that a year ago—when France declared war on England—I wrote to your grandfather, explaining that—that I was not in the first degree of health, and that if I were to fall ill, or die, it would greatly relieve my anxieties about you if I could be assured that he might be willing to offer you a home—since you are the only thing in the world that I cherish.”
“You wrote to my grandfather a year ago?” She was amazed. “You never told me!”
“There are many things that I do not choose to tell you, Puss.” Her father pinched her cheek.
“And did my grandfather reply?”
“He replied—somewhat stiffly, which was to be expected, but without recriminations. He said that he was now alone, as your grandmother died five years ago—which I had heard—and that we might come to Flintwood—either or both of us—whenever we wished to do so. He was not cordial—he did not say that we should be welcome—his phrases were formal—but he said all that was proper, and intimated that we had a right to come; that he would not bar his door to us.”
Juliana, with her chin propped on her fists, looked thoughtfully at her father.
“His letter was so unwelcoming that you did not wish to accept his offer,” she deduced. “Or at least you wished to postpone accepting it as long as possible. Am I right, Papa?”
“You will think me selfish, my love, I fear, but I did greatly wish to complete my Vindication of King Charles I before removing to Flintwood. Your grandfather was always so wholly unsympathetic to my writing. And we have been happy in Florence, have we not? I know I should have been considering your interests—”
“My interests? What have they to say to anything?”
“Why, as a young lady of respectable birth, you should be learning to move in Polite Circles, instead of keeping house in a tenement and cooking on a brazier in Florence. Your aunt would be scandalized, without a doubt—�
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“Oh, have I an aunt?” she said, all curiosity.
“My elder sister Caroline. She married a baronet and has two daughters; I daresay she will be prepared to bring you out in society, for she was used to go to all the ton parties; her husband, at one time, was on the fringe of the Carlton House set.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, the Prince of Wales and his friends. My sister Caroline was always the most empty-headed fool possible; I doubt if time will have improved her. I believe her husband turned from fashionable circles to political ones—but with as little distinction, I imagine. He was always a dull stick.”
Her father’s tone was so impatient that Juliana did not pursue the question of her aunt’s family.
“Does my grandfather know that you have written several historical works under the name of Charles Elphinstone? That your life of George Villiers received wide acclaim?”
“I fear, my love, that your grandfather is not to be impressed by the writing of books! He has rarely opened one in his life, unless it might be a history of some military campaign, or a treatise on strategy. He is a soldier first and last. Whether my books received acclaim or not would be of no account to him. But no, I have not told him. And I do not plan to do so. That is one reason why they have all been written under a nom de plume. I knew that your grandfather would detest the thought of the family name being used in such a context.”
“I do not think that I shall like my grandfather,” was Juliana’s comment.
“I devoutly hope that you will endeavor to do so, my child! He is a man of just and upright principle, strict attention to duty, and impeccable religious beliefs. His military career was not marked by—by any outstanding success in the field—he commanded a brigade in the American war—but I understand that his careful regard to detail and his consideration for his men have earned him the respect of his peers.”
Juliana did not voice her opinion that her grandfather sounded to her like a dead bore; instead she remarked, “I believe, Papa, that we should go below. The evening air is too cool for you. You are coughing a great deal, and that is bad.”
“Yes, I fear that you are right, my dear. What should I do without my ministering sprite?” he asked playfully, as he rose with difficulty to his feet, supporting himself by leaning on her slight shoulder. Another violent fit of coughing shook him, and he had to clutch at the deck rail while the seizure lasted. His daughter watched, biting her lip with distress, unable to help or relieve him in any way, as he coughed and coughed, pressing a kerchief to his lips. A sailor passing nearby said in alarm, “Il povero signore! He should not be on deck—he should be in his bed!”
“Nothing—it is nothing!” Impatiently the sick man shook off the kindly hand laid on his arm, and began haltingly to make his way toward the companion ladder. But Juliana noticed with terror that the kerchief he had been pressing to his lips and now returned to his pocket was patched and stained with blotches of vivid scarlet.
* * *
Six weeks later the travelers were approaching the port of St.-Malo in Brittany. Their journey across France had been slow and difficult enough to justify Juliana’s worst forebodings. Sometimes she felt that it might even have been better to risk the effects of a long sea passage on her father’s constitution; that way at least they might have been certain of a landfall. But now, although so close to the Channel coast, they still were not sure of being able to cross the narrow strip of water that lay so tantalizingly between them and England. And the weather had been bad, the roads had been vile, the transport had been uncertain; besides which, there were all the hazards of revolutionary officialdom. In these days of the people’s government, every town gate and village tax office offered an obstacle, sometimes dangerous; the smaller the place, the more ignorant the natives, the likelier they were, in their new-found arrogance, armed with muskets and knots of red ribbon, to stop all strangers, cross-question them, inspect their papers, lengthily consult lists of proscribed persons in case the travelers’ names might be found thereon, keep them waiting, and generally harass them in every way possible.
The journey had been a nightmare. On several occasions, furthermore, they had been obliged to stop at tiny places and stay in small country hostelries deficient in almost every convenience or amenity, because the sick man had been too weak to continue on the journey. Even then—lying abed in the dark chamber of some miserable little auberge—he could not bear to be idle, and demanded that Juliana find her pen, procure whatever ink and paper might be at hand, and continue to transcribe from his dictation. Obedient to his wishes, she therefore crouched by ill-placed windows to catch the last of the light, or knelt on the floor because there was no chair, by the light of guttering candles, setting down his final estimate of Charles’s character, which was often dictated in a voice so faint with fatigue that she must strain her ears to catch its note. She herself would often be trembling with exhaustion after a day’s travel, or shivering from the damp and chill of the inn bedroom; it was fortunate, she frequently reflected, that she was so strong, that her own health remained unimpaired and she was able to help her father with his book as well as ministering to his other needs, without succumbing to the strain of his unremitting requirements. Although the gentlest man in the world, he seemed unaware of how hard he was driving her.
Even in the diligence or stagecoach, as they rumbled on and on, over the monotonous and mud-covered French countryside, he would be thinking of new and important sidelights to the main thread of his book, and might require Juliana to take down notes, often greatly to the surprise, and sometimes suspicion, of their fellow travelers. Once a douanier in a small town demanded why, if Monsieur was a Swiss, as it said in his passport, did he dictate and require his young lady to write down in English, as one of their companions in the coach said he had been doing?
Juliana with great presence of mind explained that her father was a professor of English history, which necessitated his writing in English. The douanier scratched his head doubtfully at this, and she added with a stroke of inspiration, “My father, Citizen, is making a study of Cromwell’s Glorious Revolution, and the execution of the renegade ci-devant Royalist usurper Charles Stuart—see, it is all written down here!” And she held out to him some of the pages that she had been writing.
“I do not read English, Citizeness.”
“No, but you can read the names!” And she pointed out Cromwell, Downes, Cawley, Bradshaw, Charles. The douanier slowly peered his way from one to another, and at last said, “Good. The citizen-professor writes a history of the English revolution—very good. Too bad that revolution did not succeed! Ours is better. You may pass on your way, Citizens.”
“Oh, Papa!” Juliana exclaimed that night in their damp, unsavory bedroom. “Poor King Charles! I felt the most wicked traitor to him—saying such things! I am sure he would never have forgiven me—he would never have told such a lie! But I was so afraid that if the man knew what your book really said, he might confiscate it, or tear it up.”
“You did very well, Puss,” her father said, smiling. “I should not have had such presence of mind. And I daresay King Charles would condone your act—if he wanted my book published, that is!”
“Of course—that is true. It will establish his good name forever!”
The arrival within sight of St.-Malo was an occasion for joy. They stopped for the night in the small fishing village of St.-Servan, where, for a wonder, the inn they chose proved clean and comfortable. And on that evening her father dictated his last paragraph to Juliana, concluded his final peroration, and announced with a sigh, “There! It is finished. And I fear a weary work it has been for you, my pet! You have been an angel—a rock—a monument of forbearance and industry. How many pages of manuscript?”
“Six hundred and two, Papa,” she said faintly.
“Hand me a sheet of paper, my love, and I will make it six hundred and three by addin
g the title page.”
With a weak and shaky hand he dipped his pen into the standish, and wrote in staggering letters: A Vindication of King Charles I, by Charles Elphinstone. Then, underneath, he added, “This work is dedicated to my Dear and Dutiful Daughter Juliana, without whose untiring and faithful help its completion would never have been achieved.”
“Oh, Papa!” Reading over his shoulder, Juliana could hardly see the words; her eyes were blinded by tears.
But then he somewhat impaired her pleasure by depositing the unwieldy bundle of manuscript in her arms, and observing, “Now, as soon as you have made a fair copy, Juliana—a task that should prove easy and speedy once we are at your grandfather’s, for there will be no household duties to distract you from the labor—the book may be sent off to my publisher, Mr. John Murray. How long do you suppose the copying may take you, my love? Could you write as many as ten pages an hour?”
“I—I should rather doubt that. Papa,” faltered Juliana—even her stout spirit was a little daunted at the prospect ahead, for the book was more than twice the length of any of his previous works. “For the first hour it is very well, but—but presently one’s hand begins to tire! However, you may be sure that I shall do it as speedily as may be. You cannot be any more eager than I am to see it on its way to the publisher’s. Only think! Instead of having to ask the British Envoy to undertake its dispatch, you may be able to travel up to London and leave it with Mr. Murray yourself.”
“So I may,” agreed her father, coughing.
At this moment they were startled by a tremendous noise of shouting, the clashing of sabers, and musket shots in the street outside their bedroom window.
“Mercy! What is it? What can be happening?” exclaimed Juliana in dismay, running to the window to look out.
“Have a care, my child. Do not let yourself be the target for a bullet. If there is a disturbance, it is best to stay out of sight.”
But Juliana, reckless of his warning, struggled with the stiff casement, pushed it open, and hung over the sill.
