Wilson, on the contrary, was depressed. Shoreditch seemed to her a terrible warning of what lay beneath her, of what she might have come to if she had not, under mother’s guidance, made something of herself. To her mistress, it was another world far removed from her own but to her it was the nightmare always at the back of her mind. She shivered at the memory of those ravaged faces which had peered into the carriage and Reginald Pomfret seemed more attractive than she had ever thought him. Marry Reginald and she would be respectable, respectable and safe and far removed from Shoreditch.
Chapter Thirteen
WILSON KNEW AS soon as she began to descend the stairs at six o’clock in the morning, that something was up. She saw Tilly ahead of her, coming out of the drawing room with the ashes, and her air of excitement was unmistakable. She looked up eagerly at Wilson mouthing ‘Have you heard?’ and when Wilson composed her face into an expression of aloofness – she never encouraged or indulged in gossip – would not be put off. She clutched her arm as she passed the turn in the stairs and said, ‘The master is closing the house up and sending nearly all of us to the country.’
She heard the same startling news when she went into her mistress’s room, to find her at her desk scribbling away.
‘Wilson, have you heard? George has been sent to find a house in the country.’
‘Yes, miss, I have heard.’
‘Then you will understand my alarm. The moment I finish this note you must take it yourself and post it so that it will reach Mr Browning this afternoon.’
‘Yes, miss.’ Of course, thought Wilson as she put the cup of coffee down in front of her mistress, if they went to the country, then no more Tuesday visits and even daily letters might present difficulties. Quietly, as Miss Elizabeth wrote furiously, the paper screened by her dishevelled hair, Wilson stripped the covers from the sofa that was really a bed and began throwing them over chairs to air. She had hardly finished before her mistress was pressing an envelope into her hand. ‘There Wilson, go now, if you please, without delay, and you will catch the first post.’ Looking at her, startled at such urgency, Wilson saw how bright her face was, how alive and strong. If the news of going to the country had appalled her, it was not horror that showed but rather the same sort of excitement Tilly had exhibited. It intrigued her. As she left the house a few minutes later to post the letter to Mr Browning, she pondered on the significance of such animation. How could Miss Elizabeth greet such news in that kind of way, almost as though she relished it? Surely the country meant no Mr Browning and yet Mr Browning was the only person about whom she seemed to care. By that evening, when she was writing to her mother, Wilson had suspicions impossible to voice but which it was a relief to put on paper:
— she does not seem to think she will go to the country mother for all her father has been and told her so and very grim about it too. I was quite frightened by his expression, for he commanded me to stay and I was embarrassed to witness what followed. His tone was abrupt and his countenance stern when he addressed Miss Elizabeth and I could not help but think he was holding himself rigid as I have seen him do before and struggling for composure and it was this bearing that was remarkable more than what he said which was only what we already knew that the house needed decorating and must be emptied directly. Miss Elizabeth was perfectly cool and said she understood and she thanked her father and said she hoped he would be able to enjoy some of the country air from which he had just hoped she would benefit. Afterwards when he had taken his leave she said to me that she could not think what ailed her father but that there was more to this sudden edict than decorating the house and she wondered what it was. I longed to ask her why she was not distraught but of course could not. After Mr Browning’s reply had come by the evening post she was even livelier and smiled and kissed the letter and took deep breaths. I was bold and asked if Mr Browning was not very, very disappointed to hear we were off to the country and she laughed such a strange false laugh and said no Mr Browning is not disappointed, on the contrary he thinks it is time I left London. I said nothing but felt uncomfortable. All day I felt as if something was brewing but could not guess what other than the proposed exodus —
Watching her mistress closely, Wilson waited for the inevitable reaction to set in, for despair at the thought of being banished to the country to overcome her, but her mood of high good humour continued. Her brothers and sisters were all out, at a picnic near Richmond – the very word caused Wilson to smile sadly at the memory of herself and Timothy – and most unusually, Mr Browning was to call although he had already been on Tuesday and this was a Friday, a day he never visited.
Letting him in, Wilson was struck at once by his eagerness. He always was eager, always did look bright and lively, and was in the habit of climbing the stairs quickly but that day he positively rushed, so much so that by the turn of the stair he was ahead of Wilson and when he reached Miss Elizabeth’s door had to wait for her to catch up. She looked askance at him and he smiled and begged her pardon and at the sound of his voice the door flew open and Miss Elizabeth stood there. Wilson distinctly heard him say, ‘Oh, my love!’ as her mistress said, ‘My own!’ and then he was in the room and the door closed all in a flash. She knew without any doubt that they were in each other’s arms and the realisation stunned her. She went slowly downstairs, thinking how stupid she had been. All the signs had been there and though she had recognised them, she had not made them into anything significant. What she had known was that Mr Browning cared for Miss Elizabeth and Miss Elizabeth cared for Mr Browning but what she had not reckoned on was that this caring could ever come to anything.
By the time Mr Browning left, Wilson had come to the conclusion that he could only have come on a Friday and in the state he was if he had urgent reasons for doing so. What could these be? Was he thinking of asking for Miss Elizabeth’s hand? The very thought made her tremble and feel faint – what a scene there would surely be. But when she went in to her mistress with the tea things she found her so happy and even relaxed that she could not believe such drama was in the offing. She put the tray down carefully and suddenly felt Miss Elizabeth’s fingers round her wrist.
‘Wilson, you care for me, dear, do you not?’
‘Why, yes miss, I believe you know I do.’
‘And you would see me happy. Would you not?’
‘Indeed yes.’
‘Well, I may be about to be very happy indeed, if only I can find the courage and I believe I can.’
‘I am glad, miss.’
‘But I will need your help, dear, when the time comes and I will ask a great deal of you and you must be prepared. Can you guess Wilson?’ Wilson, her wrist still imprisoned by the cool, slim fingers, hesitated. It was precisely the kind of invitation she dreaded. So many mistakes could be made and once made would be impossible to retrieve.
‘I have an idea,’ she said slowly, ‘but I hardly think I can be right.’
‘Tell me your idea.’
‘Indeed I dare not, it is too fantastical.’
Miss Elizabeth laughed and released her wrist. ‘Then you have almost certainly guessed, Wilson, for I grant you it is fantastical and will be called so and not believed till proved and we will say no more.’
But when it came to bedtime, Wilson observed that the pleasant ease which had seemed to overcome her mistress after Mr Browning’s visit had been replaced by a general agitation so marked that she automatically measured out a double dose of laudanum without being asked to do so. ‘Here, miss, take this draught which I have made strong and calm yourself, do, or you will not sleep tonight.’
‘I will not sleep in any case, I could not, but I will not take the laudanum, Wilson, for fear it numbs my brain and renders me too feeble to act. Oh, Wilson, come, come, sit down, dear, sit near me and hold me.’
Alarmed, Wilson sat on the sofa and put her arm round her mistress’s shoulder. ‘Why, miss, you tremble so, what is it? What troubles you?’
‘Wilson, nothing troubles me exce
pt fear, fear of myself, fear that I will prove a coward tomorrow when so much is to be asked of me.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper so low that Wilson had to bend so close that her cheek almost touched her mistress’s. She could feel the heat that came from it and tendrils of hair brushed her own skin making her shiver. ‘Wilson, tomorrow I am to be married to Mr Browning at Marylebone Parish Church.’ It was said in a rush, all on one note, quite expressionlessly, but once the news was out, she seemed to give a great gasp and then she laughed, half hysterically, and clutched Wilson to her and rocked her. Then she pushed her away and scrutinised her face. ‘Why Wilson, you look as if you have seen a ghost. Had you not guessed after all?’
‘No, miss,’ Wilson managed to stammer, ‘not that it was to be done secretly, so sudden like and without the master’s – ’ A hand came swiftly over her mouth and her mistress’s expression changed to one of alarm. ‘Do not say his name, do not mention it to me, do not tell me it is a terrible and dangerous thing I do for I know it and cannot help it and it must be so.’ Silent, Wilson watched her. The room, lit only by one bedside candle, was full of shadows. The busts of the poets loomed enormously above her head and by the dying light of the fire she could see her mistress’s great eyes reflecting the candlelight. Flush, crouched at her feet, whimpered and Wilson picked him up and stroked him. Her head was full of practicalities but she could not bring herself to deal with them. Miss Elizabeth sighed and lay back. ‘I will not sleep but leave me now, dear, and in the morning come in early.’
Wilson stood up, holding Flush. She felt unable to leave. Her mistress looked so forlorn, lying there in her white shift like a child. She blew out the candle but still did not leave and again Flush let out the smallest of sounds. ‘Goodnight, miss,’ Wilson said, her voice strangely rough and uncertain, ‘goodnight and God bless.’
She did not sleep herself. All night she shifted in her bed restlessly, obsessed with questions to which there was no answer and all of them trivial. What should she put out for Miss Elizabeth to wear on her wedding day? She could not wear black, surely she was not thinking of it but then if she did not wear black what was there in readiness for her to wear? The green, the green silk? But although quite recently purchased it would need letting out, now that she had put on some weight, and the last time she had worn it she had complained the trimming was shabby and needed renewing. Was there time to renew it? Could she dash out to Oxford Street and find a matching trim and have it back and sewn on before the wedding? But there would be so many other things to do, it did not bear thinking about. And how would she want her hair dressed? In ringlets? But the ringlets only took well if her hair was freshly washed and if it was washed it took hours to dry and she never went out after washing her hair. Perhaps she would just twist it back and wear a bonnet. Of course she would wear a bonnet but she had no bonnet suitable to be married in. At the thought of how shabby Miss Elizabeth’s bonnets were, Wilson had to get up. She paced the floor, clutching herself, almost weeping at her mental picture of this pathetic bride, and feeling it to be her fault. If only she had had more notice, if only a day’s more, she could have worked wonders but now, now, it was too late. Cautiously, Wilson opened the window and leaned out. The cool night air calmed her. She closed her eyes and thought how foolish she was being when there were so many more important matters to be decided. How would they leave the house? They could pretend to go for a walk, she supposed. But everyone knew they would never go for a walk without Flush and if they took Flush what would they do with him at the church? No, they could not take Flush. So it would be better if they acted as though they were going to visit someone. But who? Had Miss Elizabeth thought of whom they might say they were visiting? She visited so few people apart from her old teacher, Mr Boyd, and Miss Trepsack.
Just before dawn, Wilson fell into a light doze, which did her more harm than good. She woke at six o’clock with a blinding headache and a feeling of nausea. Dressing herself, she felt stiff and awkward and wondered at first if she were ill. Grimly doing up her boots, she scolded herself for such feebleness. She must be strong for Miss Elizabeth’s sake. Taking the coffee, she was not surprised to find her mistress in tears. So great was her compassion that she needed no bidding to embrace her, knowing exactly how she felt, what she had been through during the night. She wept in Wilson’s arms and then smiled and murmured that today of all days she must not bear the marks of tears on her face. Then she managed to stop and to raise herself up and begin her toilet. After she had drunk the coffee, she appeared restored and was able to answer Wilson’s many queries.
They would leave the house a little after eleven, as though going for a walk and Mr Browning would be waiting with his cousin at the church. Afterwards – her voice faltered as she said the word – afterwards they would take a carriage to St John’s Wood where her friend Mr Boyd lived. Then Wilson would return to Wimpole Street and she would rest at Mr Boyd’s until Henrietta and Arabel came to fetch her home in the afternoon. All this was imparted in a breathless monotone, hard for Wilson to catch. When it was finished, there was a pause. Miss Elizabeth closed her eyes and lay back on the sofa-bed, as though exhausted by the recital, and Wilson stood transfixed beside the table. It was the mention of the hour which had rendered her almost incapable of speech – eleven o’clock, barely four hours away, and so much to be done. She let out a groan at the hopelessness of performing any kind of miracle with costume or appearance, whereupon her mistress’s eyes flew open and she asked what was the matter. ‘You will not fail me, Wilson?’ she asked, sitting up and throwing off the covers and holding out her hands beseechingly.
‘Why, no miss, but eleven in the morning – it is so soon, I thought it would not be until the afternoon – and so much to be done.’
‘So little, dear,’ Miss Elizabeth said gently. ‘It is not a case like my cousin Arabella’s. I shall put on a clean dress and that will suffice.’
‘But which dress, miss?’ Wilson almost wailed.
‘Whichever you say. I am happy to be in your hands.’
For an hour Wilson was entirely preoccupied in choosing a dress and doing what she could with it. The green silk was the only possible choice but, as she had suspected, it was too tight at the waist and the white lace trim at the neck was dingy. Rapidly Wilson opened the seams at either side – fortunately she had made them generous in the first place – and then stitched them back up, praying that there was just enough material to hold. There was. Next she cut away the lace entirely and transferred another collar from one of the black velvet dresses, doing it so well that the new collar looked as though it had always been part of that dress. Throughout this frenzied sewing, Miss Elizabeth read. Neither she nor Wilson spoke. Flush trotted round the room sniffing and scuttling and, as both looked up at the same time to watch him, Wilson and her mistress smiled at each other tremulously.
At nine thirty, the bride began to dress, still professing lack of interest in what she was to wear but, when Wilson put out a taffeta petticoat it was firmly discarded in favour of a fine lawn one ‘because taffeta will rustle in the church’. They both froze when the green silk dress only just slipped on and Henrietta came into the room and exclaimed at how grand her sister was looking this morning. ‘Quite dressed up, Ba,’ she remarked ‘and where are you going?’ Wilson, who was at that moment doing up the side-seam fasteners, could feel Miss Elizabeth’s heart pounding though outwardly, even to the trained eye, she appeared cool. ‘To see Mr Boyd,’ she said, ‘and Wilson thought I ought to get out of black more, even though it is hardly worth it for a blind man.’ Henrietta seemed satisfied with this explanation. She stayed awhile longer, complaining how dull life seemed now the picnic was over. When she had taken herself off Wilson thought it permissible for her to ask, ‘Miss Henrietta does not know then, miss? Nor Miss Arabel either?’
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