Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  It was that last phrase which helped her recover. Contempt braced her and she took up her pen in a rush of furious energy and wrote:

  Dear Mr Wright

  I thank you for your note which indeed it was not necessary for you to send since I had no claim on you nor you on me as I know of. My good wishes to you and your wife.

  Yours faithfully,

  Elizabeth Wilson.

  She took the note out immediately and ran with it to the post box and dropped it through as though it were a live coal. There. That was at an end, and she had been right all along. Love, he had called it and here he was no better than Ellen’s Albert. Mrs Oliphant’s maid, whoever she might be, had provided what he wanted and long may they rot in their boarding house. So much for fine ideas of being a printer. How clever she had been to see that as a ploy. Printer indeed. If she had gone along with him, it would be her now, toiling away in a boarding house and expecting a child. But there was no pleasure in her self-righteousness and she was too honest to falsify the record even to herself. For another hour she lay on her bed, going over what had happened and castigating herself too. She might have had a proper understanding with Timothy and, once committed, she knew he would not have let her down. She had asked too much, been too honest, given him too little encouragement and not enough hope. She had only herself to blame and even now did not dare reckon how much. Perhaps, after all, she had done the right thing, perhaps she had never loved Timothy and that slow growth of feeling she had felt when he went away had been mere loneliness. She had never felt that lurch of the stomach Ellen spoke of nor any leap of the heart. Maybe she never would and must settle for a Timothy in the future.

  She moped and slept badly and feared Miss Elizabeth would worry about her and seek to find out what was wrong, which she dreaded, but there was neither comment nor interrogation. As the sun shone brilliantly throughout June, Miss Elizabeth grew happier and happier and more oblivious to all around her. Everything was touched by her happiness and if Wilson had not been so despondent she would have laughed to observe the more absurd aspects of this transformation. Miss Elizabeth waxed ecstatic over a quite ordinary patch of grass in the park, plucking handfuls of it and smelling it and throwing it over herself, declaring it was nature’s most ordinary but most wonderful bounty. She looked out of the carriage window – for they went for many a ride now – and exclaimed in rapture at the lights in the shop windows, swearing she was in fairyland all at once. At first Wilson was irritated but then her mistress’s delight if ridiculous, was infectious and she smiled in spite of herself and Flush barked and the three of them hugged each other. Such joy found its own response and as the glorious summer continued Wilson found herself comforted and cheered by it until she was nearly her old self again.

  Only then, towards the end of July, did Miss Elizabeth speak of noticing her depression. They visited Mr Kenyon before he went to the Isle of Wight and Timothy came to mind as they entered the house. A new footman showed them up to the drawing room and then out again at the end of the visit and once they were in the carriage Miss Elizabeth said, ‘I hope no unhappy memories were revived in that house, Wilson.’

  ‘Indeed no, miss, none at all,’ Wilson said cheerfully, though she had expected to feel a pang or two of regret.

  ‘I hear the boarding house is in trouble,’ Miss Elizabeth said, prefacing her statement with no reference to Timothy. ‘Mr Kenyon does not expect to recoup his investment.’

  ‘I am sorry for that.’

  ‘When the child comes it will be even harder for them.’

  ‘It is always the way.’

  ‘So you were wise, Wilson. I should not like it to have been you struggling in a boarding house, weighed down with the child.’

  Wilson was silent for a while and then could not help saying, as mildly as possible she hoped, ‘Lizzie Treherne is not pulled down, for all the second child. It does not always happen, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, Crow,’ Miss Elizabeth said, ‘she works hard enough for ten.’

  ‘As I should have done, though I have no regrets.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. It made me sorry, to see you suffer dear, but now you have grown back into yourself and it is all over.’

  It was perhaps mild rebellion against the complacency with which this was said that made Wilson more open to interest than she would otherwise have been. Lately, Miss Elizabeth had taken to regular shopping and in one shop where she bought a pair of fur-lined boots, though outside the sun scorched the pavements, there was a most attentive young man who fitted the boots and dealt with the purchase – attentive to Wilson as well as to his client. He was smartly dressed and had an open countenance of such honesty that Wilson was much struck and he was respectful without being obsequious. ‘What a pleasant young man,’ Miss Elizabeth commented on leaving the shop, ‘we will go there again, Wilson, when I buy a lighter shoe.’ And they did, twice. Miss Elizabeth tried on the entire stock, it seemed, and finally bought a pair of the prettiest green kid slippers which she said made her feel as vain as Henrietta. But the bow on one of them was a fraction loose and the young male assistant promised to have it attended to and then delivered to Wimpole Street. He delivered it himself. It was pure chance that Wilson was leaving the house with Flush as he did so and chance again, or so she thought, that he was walking in her direction (she did not admit to herself that, knowing where his shop lay she changed her direction). He introduced himself most properly as Reginald Pomfret and in the brief five minutes they walked together managed to impart a great deal of information. His uncle owned the shop and, though a mere assistant at the moment, Reginald had been promised a partnership. He lived with his widowed mother out at Barnet and was a church-goer. As they parted, he hoped they would meet again.

  Wilson saw little chance of this. Wandering in the park, she reflected how impossible it was for a woman to make any kind of headway in this situation. If she went to the shoe shop on any pretext it would be seen through and her interest advertised, which would not do. Whom she met was entirely dictated by the life she led and always, always she had to wait for the first and even second move or sacrifice her dignity. Outsiders like Reginald Pomfret were beyond the pale, and she did not really care. But chance again brought him before her and with such speed she began to think it was ‘meant’. The Hedleys once more descended on Wimpole Street for their daughter Arabella’s wedding and after the bride-to-be had seen Ba’s darling slippers nothing would satisfy her but that she should have a pair in white. Wilson took Mrs Hedley and Arabella to the shop where the charming Reginald sold them not only the slippers but two other pairs of shoes each. The resulting parcel was so large that Mrs Hedley would not hear of it being taken in the carriage and, as Wilson wrote to her mother:

  — positively ordered the assistant to carry it round without delay. I never thought shopping could be so tiring, and wished Miss Elizabeth had kept me with her, but she said I was to guide her aunt and cousin round the shops though believe me they need no guidance and I am the lost one. Mrs Hedley said to me in the carriage that she knew her niece and could tell there was something afoot and doubtless I knew what but she would not demean herself by plaguing me to tell her. I said I did not know what she meant and needed no plaguing to say so. Well Mrs Hedley said it is that poet and he means something to her and I shall have it out with her before I go. Miss Arabella Hedley had kept silent but then she said she felt sorry for her poor cousin and that it must be embarrassing to have such speculation when it was all so ridiculous. Ridiculous says her mother and why pray and Miss Arabella tosses her pretty head (she is very pretty) and says oh come now mother for you know dear Ba is old and ill. Old, old repeats her mother very angrily, I’ll thank you to watch your tongue, miss. Ba is only just forty and that is not old I hope and as for ill she has never looked less ill and I never did believe this illness was anything but unhappiness. Miss Arabella laughed and her mother was even angrier and bade her explain herself further and Miss Arabella said it was on
ly that to talk of love and marriage, which was what her mother hinted at she knew and of Cousin Ba in the same breath was silly. It made her feel nauseous, she swore. Oh said her mother so you are the only person in the world entitled to talk of love are you and Miss Arabella coloured and said she believed she never had talked of love and her mother said very quietly so that it was quite unpleasant then maybe you should, maybe you should, and maybe your cousin Ba knows something you do not and ought to and I will thank you to hold your peace. I wished I were not in that carriage for the next ten minutes so great was the hostility between them. I looked out of the window, remembering how scornful my mistress is of this marriage and how she told me she feared her cousin Arabella would regret it though she might never admit it because she could see no sign of her being in love. Then all was forgotten in the buying of lace for the wedding dress which took hours and hours and cost more than I earn in five years mother though I do not wish to sound complaining —

  Wilson and Miss Elizabeth had many a discussion about the wedding of Arabella Hedley and Mr James Johnstone Bevan whom she was to marry on August 4th, both of them scandalised at the price not just of the wedding gown, which, as Wilson had told her mother, cost forty guineas merely for the lace trimming, but of the six dress pocket handkerchiefs at four guineas each and the reception for fifty people estimated at one thousand pounds. Henrietta, coming in when they were deep in scorn of such ostentatious show, was cross with them. She flared up and accused her sister of being a spoilsport.

  Wilson noted that her mistress was unrepentant. She even smiled at Henrietta’s noisy exit. ‘Henrietta hankers after the distinction herself,’ she murmured. ‘She would so love to be the centre of attention for a while, as a bride must be. She cannot understand why this holds no attraction for me, indeed she does not believe I speak the truth. What would you say to a wedding, Wilson?’

  ‘Yours, miss?’

  ‘Oh, no. Heavens, it was but a generalisation.’

  ‘I enjoy a wedding, though I cannot say I have been to many and none of Miss Hedley’s grandness.’

  ‘I shall not go to the church.’

  Wilson, even after two years, could not presume to ask why not but, as ever, her silence and the sudden, stiff resumption of whatever task on which she was engaged spoke volumes that were not lost on her mistress.

  ‘It is not from pique or anything like it, you know, Wilson,’ she said. ‘It is that I could not bear the church. It would be too much for me. I should faint.’

  ‘Is a church so fearful, miss?’

  ‘Not fearful so much as overwhelming. I could not trust myself to stand with others and hear the music and feel the emotion. It would be too much.’

  But the outings to shops continued. A warm cloak was bought and joined the fur-lined boots in the closet. ‘They will be warm for the winter,’ Miss Elizabeth said and Wilson risked rejoining, ‘I am glad you intend to go out this winter, miss, and not shut yourself up in here.’ This brought a smile she could not quite interpret, a rogueish, ironic smile that demanded but did not get a reaction. Putting the new cloak away Wilson found herself hoping all the nonsense about wintering abroad was not to be gone through again, only to end in nothing. Already, Mrs Jameson had started urging another attempt and Wilson wished she would desist. It seemed Mrs Jameson was offering to accompany Miss Elizabeth and that this was to be an inducement for her to proposition her father once more. It would be like her luck, Wilson reflected, if, after all, this was the autumn she was called upon to leave London just as it had become attractive once more.

  She had walked out with Reginald Pomfret twice. He had been very correct and proper. One Sunday afternoon he had walked in Regent’s Park with her for half an hour and another Sunday had met her out of chapel and accompanied her home. She quickly discovered he was very different from Timothy Wright, even allowing for the difference in station, which was not after all so very great. With Timothy, of course, there had been joint interests since he had worked within Wimpole Street. Wilson did not know what to talk about with Reginald. Certainly not about her mistress – it would have been quite improper to discuss her with someone like Reginald who did not know her. But looking after Miss Elizabeth was very nearly her whole life: if she did not talk about her and the Barrett family, this left a great gap. Nor did Reginald seem interested, as Timothy had been, in current affairs. Because Miss Elizabeth had been discussing them, Wilson threw out a rather grand reference to the revised Corn Laws but Reginald hardly seemed to know what she was talking about. She wondered if perhaps he was not rather ignorant then rebuked herself for putting on airs. Reginald was pleasant and easy and it was a relief to have someone with whom to walk. She was also obliged to admit that he was attractive, far more attractive, more of the gentleman, than Timothy. Her stomach still did not lurch but she did experience a surprising sense of pleasure when he took her arm to guide her across the street and, though she did not know how the image had come into her head, she had a momentary vision of being kissed by Reginald and enjoying it. He was so clean looking in his smart coat and highly polished boots and he had such faultless manners that all her innate caution began to weaken. When he asked her to the theatre one evening in late August she did not even think about refusing and was taken aback when Miss Elizabeth did not seem pleased. She would rather not have mentioned her invitation at all but since she needed to leave the house as soon as her mistress had dined, and was in effect asking for an evening off, there was no way round this.

  ‘Oh, so you have another follower, Wilson,’ Miss Elizabeth said, with an edge of coldness to her tone. ‘I hope he is respectable.’

  ‘As I am, miss,’ Wilson said quietly.

  ‘I did not mean to offend you, Wilson.’

  ‘I am not offended, miss.’

  ‘Good. You may of course go and I hope you enjoy the play, though it is not one I would wish to see.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  Thank you, but some of the anticipation had gone. It seemed to her unfair that Miss Elizabeth should resent any attention being paid to her maid. Why, Wilson thought, cannot she be glad for me? It took Lizzie Treherne to enlighten her. ‘Why, Lily? Because she needs you too much, goose. She is jealous and don’t ever forget it.’ But what, Wilson wondered, was there to be jealous of? There was nothing there, nothing to make anyone jealous, no intimacy whatsoever between herself and Reginald Pomfret. He seemed to like to squire her about and even to spend money on her, which, deducing he could not have much she thought generous; but they made no headway at all. Conversation between them, wherever they were, continued to be extremely limited and yet this lack of discourse was not due to shyness. The truth was that Reginald was not a talking man. He spoke when there was something to say and had no love of talk for its own sake. As I now have, Wilson thought. It was Miss Elizabeth’s fault. She had been brought out of her simple yeses and noes and had grown used to fulsome explanations. She could not be doing with Reginald’s pleasantries and little else. Yet, knowing this, she still allowed him to walk out with her and knew he would presume she must feel some affection for him. There was little affection and what there was waned rather than grew, but he did not seem to be aware of this. Instead, he began to talk of taking her home to meet his mother and to intimate that he considered their walking out would soon be put on a different footing, which alarmed her. She had the feeling he might soon propose and was overcome with embarrassment at the prospect, knowing he did not love her nor she him. It was Miss Elizabeth’s fault again. She now looked for love and that was ridiculous. Reginald was a good match and she ought to accept him. He could give her security, unlike Timothy, and was that not the most important thing a suitor could offer? Observing her mistress and Mr Browning, she wondered.

  All thoughts of Reginald Pomfret were banished the next day when Flush was stolen yet again and her mistress’s hysteria brought Wilson out of her state of reverie. The two sisters, Miss Elizabeth and Miss Arabel had taken the little dog shopping w
ith them – which Wilson had thought very foolish but, since it freed her for the afternoon, had said nothing. Flush disappeared between shop and carriage and Mr Henry was sent to negotiate with the Fancy immediately. Unfortunately, Taylor, the head of the Fancy, chose to come and make his demands in person and was thrown out by Mr Barrett who loudly forbade anyone to pay the ransom for the dog. Once he had done so, not a brother could be found who would defy him. ‘Very well,’ Miss Elizabeth said, ‘we will go to Taylor ourselves, Wilson. We are not so cowardly.’

  Writing late that night to her mother Wilson vowed:

  — my heart has still not ceased pounding mother for I admit I was half-terrified and did all I could to dissuade my mistress from venturing into Shoreditch this being a most disreputable district worse than Pandon, worse than any Newcastle has to offer. But she would not be held back and there was nothing to do but go with her and try to hold her back from any foolishness. She had the idea, mother, that because she is a lady she would be treated as such which only proves her innocence of the world. The moment we had left respectability behind and had entered on dark and narrow streets I did not know, like the worst chares at Butchers Brook, I was afraid of what would happen should she seek to alight from the carriage in her finery knowing it was quite likely she could be spat upon and even have her shawl snatched. She said I talked nonsense but when the cab driver lost his way she had taken heed enough of my words to send him to ask at a public house where Taylor lodged. While he was gone we were alone and quite unprotected but she would not let me close the curtains and therefore as I expected we were soon peered in upon and a crowd of rough people gathered. Give us a shilling, missus one old crone begged and even stretching in her hand which was all scabby touched my mistress’s sleeve and I saw she would have her bracelet off in a trice so I said right sharply hold off there or there will be trouble for you which caused horrid laughter but at that moment our cab man returned and we continued. You were savage to that poor woman Wilson my mistress says reproachfully and I could have given her sixpence at least to buy bread for her children. Bread says I she would buy no bread but gin you can be sure and moreover the moment she was given so much as a farthing the rest would be upon us and no hope but we would have been overwhelmed. She was not inclined to believe me but by then we were deep into Shoreditch and arrived at Taylor’s home. Our carriage had difficulty getting down his alley being crowded with filthy urchins fighting and rolling on the ground and we all but ran over several. Once we halted the carriage was surrounded and almost rocked by the press of people attracted to it. Two pretty ones someone shouts and another asks who shall pluck them for they will be tasty morsels which bit of wit earned screams of joy. I do not know that Miss Elizabeth heard half of the swearing which followed but mother I hope not. Taylor being out his wife if such she is which I doubt came from the building and my mistress made to get out to greet her saying she did not wish to be thought superior. I on the other hand locked the door, praying it would hold and urged her to forget thoughts of offending and talk through the window. This Mrs Taylor was huge, like a washerwoman, with greasy hair and a rank smell coming off her which if we had been closer would have overpowered us but she was willing enough to be civil and said she would tell her husband we had called and had the money for the dog. Then she said all insolent would we not step down and take a dish of tea which impertinence produced ribald laughter. At last we were on our way home and my mistress took me to task for my fears saying these people were more to be pitied and that I ought to sympathise with their poverty which was not their fault. I told her I had no need of instruction on poverty having seen plenty of it and that she was mistaken if she judged poverty made savages of us all. Then she was quiet and we spoke no more. Taylor turned up at the house again and after another altercation, this time with Mr Alfred, we had Flush back eventually and my mistress is excited rather than otherwise by her adventure talking of nothing else.