Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  — how adventurous she is getting too. All the time I have been with her, mother, she has never so much as been near a shop nor paid a visit but now we do both. We went in a carriage to Oxford Street at a quiet time and though she walked only from the carriage to the shop and through the door and then sat down Miss Elizabeth did more than she has done in years. She chose some pretty material for a dress and it is not black but a pleasant green and will suit her. She said that when she was young and cared about such things she always wore green since it is her favourite colour, the colour of nature. Only afterwards, once home, did Miss Elizabeth pronounce herself worn out though she looked well enough and has not had a single fainting fit for the whole time since I returned which is remarkable.

  It was only writing to her mother that made Wilson see how remarkable this really was. She paused as she wrote, considering whether what she had written was strictly true. It was. No fainting fits, no headaches so severe the blinds had to remain drawn all day, no attacks of palpations so alarming a double daytime draught of laudanum was called for. This new, improved health of her mistress was no illusion, and with it went a more cheerful disposition, fewer hours spent steeped in melancholy. In fact, Wilson herself was accused of just such a thing. ‘Why, Wilson,’ Miss Elizabeth said to her one morning, when she had first gloried in another lovely day and confirmed she would be going out to the park again, ‘you look quite downcast of a sudden. Are you unwell? Is there bad news from home? Come, tell.’ Wilson blushed deeply and insisted there was nothing the matter, claiming merely to have slept badly owing to the heat. The excuse was accepted but she knew she was watched closely and tried hard for the rest of the day to be more animated, but it was difficult. The only day she felt truly herself was Sunday when it was almost certain she would meet Timothy.

  The third Sunday in July it was Timothy’s turn to have bad news. He was to leave London the following week for an extended visit with Mr Kenyon to Hampshire. ‘When?’ cried Wilson. ‘Thursday, I think,’ said Timothy gloomily, ‘and there is nothing to be done about it for it will always be thus. I am not my own master nor you your own mistress unless we strike out for ourselves.’ Wilson was silent. Again and again Timothy would refer to ‘striking out’ and it made her impatient. He did not know how or when to strike and was no nearer realising any of his grand but vague plans. ‘That is that then, for the summer,’ she said. ‘By the time you return it may be winter and then where will we be? How can we meet when it is cold and wet?’ Timothy made a noise of exasperation, swearing September and October in London were nothing to fear, and then, after some hesitation, said that he had been thinking and had a plan. Wilson waited, though he seemed to think she should speak. ‘I know a man,’ said Timothy, ‘who wants a partner in the printing business, a partner with some capital of his own and a will to work hard to build the business up. Now, if I were to say to my master I wished to be that partner and if he were to make enquiries and see this business to be the sound venture I know it to be, then he might set me up as promised and we could marry.’ Wilson flinched as though struck. It was the first time marriage had been mentioned and to have it part and parcel of a business deal, mentioned in literally the same breath, offended her. She had to struggle not to let tears appear in her eyes and to answer in a level voice, ‘There are a lot of “ifs”, Timothy.’ This seemed to cheer him, to act as a spur to a tumble of plans that now came rushing from his lips and produced an animation she liked to see. He even said, at the end of an outline to do with the printing process which she did not understand, that he could not bear to be apart from her for another minute and would do anything that they might be together.

  Once home, she had plenty to reflect on. Would she, like Timothy, do ‘anything’ to be with him? She thought not. It depressed her that she was not so carried away. Did it mean she was not so much in love? Perhaps. What was love, in any case? She was attracted to him, too attracted she sometimes thought. If she had not had a cool head on her shoulders, it was easy to see how she could be carried away were he to put sufficient pressure upon her. And she liked Timothy, liked to be with him, to hear him talk. She believed him to be a good, kind man who would always do his best, but it was that best which bothered her. What were Timothy’s true prospects? He could not know. How could a footman, even a footman of charm and intelligence become a printer? And what of printing? She knew no printers, had no idea how profitable or secure such an occupation would be. Timothy assured her that printing belonged to the future, that soon there would be more and more need for it, but what did he know? If she married Timothy for richer, for poorer, she did not want it to be for poorer. Her horror of being dragged down was so great she could not contemplate wilfully bringing such disaster on herself. Perhaps, if Timothy went ahead and became a printer and was taken into a business, then after a year in which he had proved himself she would marry him. But if she could reason thus, so calmly and shrewdly, could she be in love?

  The very next afternoon, knowing nothing, Miss Elizabeth pondered aloud herself. ‘My cousin Arabella is contemplating an engagement, Wilson,’ she said, ‘and she asks me when I think she ought to become engaged? How long should she leave between engagement and marriage?’

  ‘Six months,’ Wilson said, abstracted.

  ‘Six months, ten months, a year, it is not of the slightest interest to me, it is all artificial and such nonsense. If people are in love then it is an absurdity to be bound by such conventions. Do you not agree?’

  ‘Well, miss, some declaration and some waiting might be for the best.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, so as to be sure.’

  ‘Sure of what? Of what the world thinks of you? I should not care for its judgement.’

  ‘It is a big step,’ Wilson added, knowing how lame this sounded but wishing, in a way that surprised her, to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Marriage is, but not love. Love is no step at all.’ Miss Elizabeth said this so vehemently that Wilson, who was watering the flowers in the window boxes turned round to stare. ‘Now, dear, do not give me that look my Aunt Hedley and Mrs Jameson give me for I cannot bear it. I do not mean I am in love, to put it as vulgarly as they do, but only that I know by instinct that if love is there it declares itself and cannot be denied and has nothing to do with engagements and marriage. When the time comes for you, if not me, Wilson, you will know.’

  Then I do not know, Wilson thought sadly. I do not know. That is precisely the agony. Yet does she know? Does Miss Elizabeth? And if not, how can she speak with such authority and why do I bow before her verdict? Showing Mr Browning in the next afternoon she gave him the kind of searching look she usually took care to avoid. ‘Good afternoon, Wilson,’ he said, ‘and it is a good afternoon too. Is Miss Barrett well? Is she enjoying this weather?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, she has been out every day and shows the benefit.’

  He smiled and nodded his head in delight and Wilson found herself smiling back. He was a nice man, she thought, as she led the way up the stairs, nice friendly eyes, nothing cold or haughty about him but a general warmth. Miss Elizabeth greeted him now like an old friend and Wilson was not encouraged to linger. Lately, Flush had begun to take a dislike to Mr Browning, which was unfortunate. He made a nuisance of himself by rushing for the poor man’s ankles and attempting to nip them. Today, for that reason, he was banished and skulked in the yard outside. Miss Elizabeth said he could be brought back for the next Tuesday visit when she hoped he would have learnt his lesson. The idea of Flush being penalised in any way for Mr Browning’s sake was the clearest indication there could be that his status was changing: Mr Browning was being preferred to Flush, in a manner of speaking.

  After these Tuesday visits, Miss Elizabeth was always animated. Wilson tried to catch her mood in her letter to her mother, describing how:

  — she is trying to prepare herself for a different life as all can see. Tomorrow she is going to spend the day at Mr Kenyon’s house and I with her.
Mr Kenyon has often suggested a change of indoor scene would benefit her and since the day after he goes to Hampshire and the house is to be shut up it is the last opportunity till the autumn. I was surprised when she told me —

  So surprised she dropped the jug she was carrying and was mortified to have to apologise and make up a story about her hands being wet. Fortunately, she had not yet filled the jug with water nor did it break in falling but her confusion was noted and wondered at. ‘You have not been yourself of late, dear,’ Miss Elizabeth said. ‘I have said it before and now I say it again. Will you not tell me if anything is amiss?’ She protested there was nothing amiss, that she had foolishly not dried her hands properly and now they were dry and it would not happen again. ‘Well then, I repeat, I am to pass the day, or the greater part of it, at Mr Kenyon’s house tomorrow and he is kindly sending his carriage for us. Will you take anything I may need, Wilson, for I should not like to bother any of Mr Kenyon’s household.’ Wilson promised she would and went out of the room to fetch water to put in the jug and the flowers Mr Browning had brought the day before. She had trimmed the stems and now arranged them in the fresh water. Looked after carefully they would survive until the following Tuesday. Her mind was racing ahead. She would see Timothy without a doubt but though this made her glad it made her anxious too. They had parted on Sunday without her making a direct answer and she had not managed to see him since. He needed, she knew, some reassurance that she approved his plan and that she would stand by him. Any coldness on her part would be interpreted as a refusal of marriage, but how could she be anything else but cool in front of Miss Elizabeth?

  The coach came at midday and they were ready. It was a very short distance from Wimpole Street to Devonshire Place but Miss Elizabeth treated the journey with great seriousness and made much of feeling so well at the end of it. ‘You see, Wilson,’ she said, ‘I am a traveller in the making, would you not agree?’ Wilson, remembering the ordeal of her journey from London to Newcastle, could not forbear to say, ‘This is hardly travelling ma’am,’ and was told, though with a smile, not to be discouraging. They stopped outside Mr Kenyon’s lovely house and Timothy came out directly. ‘Why, it is Timothy, is it not?’ Miss Elizabeth cried. ‘Do you remember Timothy, Wilson?’

  ‘Of course, miss, now do take care with your gown or it will catch in the door again.’ Bending down, Wilson fussed over the dress, neatly covering her own embarrassment. But Timothy was being wicked.

  ‘And I remember Mrs Wilson, Miss Barrett,’ he said as he carried their basket up the steps, ‘for how could I forget when she kept us all in order?’

  ‘Good gracious, Timothy,’ Miss Elizabeth said lightly, ‘I have never seen Wilson as a tartar.’

  ‘Oh, I did not mean that, miss, she is too pretty to be a tartar.’

  It was outrageous and Wilson was furious. Timothy was laughing and smiling but Miss Elizabeth was not. She went quiet and held her head a little higher; if Timothy only had the wit to see this was a sign that she thought he was being impertinent, as indeed he was. He showed them into the drawing room, a magnificent room which overlooked the park and was full of light and sun as the Wimpole Street drawing room was always dark and gloomy.

  ‘How strange it seems,’ her mistress mused aloud, ‘to stand in another room instead of my own.’

  ‘The change will do you good,’ Wilson said.

  ‘It may, though I have never before been a friend to change, have you, Wilson?’

  ‘Me, miss?’ said Wilson, unpleasantly aware of Timothy still finding ridiculous things to do in the vicinity of the fireplace, still straightening perfectly straight fenders and the like.

  ‘Do you care for change for its own sake, Wilson?’

  ‘No, miss, I do not. I have never welcomed change though sometimes afterwards I can see it was for the best.’ She knew Timothy was listening intently, and not just because it surprised him, she was sure, to hear a mistress and a maid converse so. Half of her wanted to give him something to think about and she was also not unaware of being proud to be thought worthy of engaging in abstract discussion.

  ‘Precisely, Wilson. That is what I think myself. But why, in that case, do you suppose we are so reluctant to make changes? Why do we cling to the old ways and routines even though we do not necessarily like them?’ By now Miss Elizabeth was seated on the sofa and Wilson on a chair in front of her. She took her sewing out and began to hem a border, feeling more comfortable with her hands occupied.

  ‘I expect it is fear, miss,’ she said, neatly clipping off some thread and concentrating hard on threading a new needle. ‘We like what we know and fear what we do not.’ To her relief, she realised Timothy had gone.

  ‘It is very timid of us,’ her mistress said, ‘I am ashamed of my own timidity, Wilson, I must confess.’

  ‘And I of mine.’

  ‘What do you think it will take to make us brave, dear?’

  Wilson shook her head. Sometimes she grew secretly exasperated at this kind of talk for which her mistress had a great taste. Often, she would become so confused as question after question and hypothesis after hypothesis were presented to her that she was hardly aware of what she was saying and yet Miss Elizabeth drove her on relentlessly to say something.

  But today she was rescued by Mr Kenyon himself who came to inquire if there was anything he could do for them. Wilson stood, giving her mistress a quick interrogative look, and at the slightest inclination of her head curtseyed and absented herself as Mr Kenyon sat down. Once out of the drawing room she hesitated. She did not know the house. Below, she had no doubt, Timothy lurked, awaiting her wrath, which he must be aware would be released the moment she was alone with him. But she did not want to be alone with him. Quietly, she began tiptoeing down the beautiful curved staircase, pausing every three or four steps to listen. It would not be proper for her to go into any room in the house except the housekeeper’s but she knew that once she ventured below stairs Timothy would pounce. It was her intention to hover around the hall, if possible to find a cloakroom or suchlike in which to hide. Mr Kenyon had said he would be only a few minutes since he had much to do before departing for the Isle of Wight and in any case part of his success in persuading his cousin to spend the day in his house had been his assurance that she would have the place to herself. But the hall was not empty. The butler was opening the door and a maid was crossing it, carrying a tray. Wilson froze on the last bend of the stairs. She could not possibly sneak into any ante room while the Kenyon servants were watching. It would be beneath her dignity and remarked upon. The accepted behaviour for a servant of her standing, as she well knew, was to introduce herself to the housekeeper who would invite her to sit down in her room. There was no option. Slowly, she continued to descend the stairs, praying for some miracle before she was obliged to go through the door leading below. There was no miracle. The butler preceded her, opening the door for her himself, and she heard Timothy’s voice as she followed.

  Still, there were others present; the housekeeper came forward and the butler introduced her. A young girl, presumably the kitchen maid stared openly and was told to get on with her work. It was, Wilson saw, while trying not to appear inquisitive, a kitchen as pleasant in its own way as the drawing room and equally bright. The housekeeper offered her tea and she accepted, hoping thus to avoid being alone with Timothy. But clearly some agreement had been reached and the housekeeper was in his confidence because, the minute the tea was brewed, she disappeared smiling all over her face and saying she knew when two was company, especially a certain two. Timothy pounced at once, trying to grab her hands. She snatched them away and said fiercely, though keeping her voice low, ‘How dare you speak like that in front of Miss Elizabeth, how dare you shame me so.’

  ‘Shame you? Oh come Lily, not I – it was only a piece of wit – ’

  ‘Wit? It was cheek and recognised as such.’

  ‘Then I am sorry for it.’

  ‘Sorry does no good.’

  �
�What does any good, then?’

  ‘I don’t know I’m sure. Nothing does any good – to speak so, when you know it to be dangerous.’

  ‘I am going away tomorrow, Lily, and nothing will be dangerous any more, I will not be near you, and I must have an answer.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To what? Now you shame me, for sure. A man asks you to marry and you cannot remember and do not think it requires an answer?’

  ‘You did not ask me to marry, Timothy, you mentioned marrying, that is all, and it is different.’

  ‘Very well Lily, will you be my wife?’

  Again, even though it was properly phrased, Wilson had to fight back tears, tears she would not in the world have her suitor see. It was so ordinary, here among the teacups down in the kitchen. As he asked her, Timothy actually sugared his tea, stirred it and swallowed. But it was a proposal and needed a reply. ‘Well, Timothy,’ she said, breathing deeply and taking hold of her own teacup, ‘you honour me. I wish I could give you the answer you want.’ He put his cup down quickly at that and looked so shocked she instantly softened towards him. ‘I am not saying no,’ she went on, touched as relief flooded his features and his smile reappeared, ‘but I cannot say yes, not yet, not with your future so uncertain. I care for you deeply, oh I do, you may be sure, you know that, but I am afraid of the future. I do not want poverty, Timothy, I want a secure home for my children and a chance to be happy together and I ask myself if I am right to risk that chance on so slender a promise.’

  ‘Slender?’ Timothy echoed, ‘What I promise is far from slender, Lily. If my master advances the capital then I am as good as made. In a short time I will pay back his loan and be in profit and a fine future will be ours.’