Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  She said nothing. She sat in the garden, half-paralysed, unable to take in this information. Her heart began to pound and Mrs Browning, smiling in front of her, seemed to swirl before her eyes. She was speaking again, describing how Ferdinando would need to go to Leghorn to conduct Gigia and Oreste home, and how she, Wilson, must write the clearest possible instructions to her sister Ellen leaving no room for mistakes. All this she heard, even understood, but still she was speechless. Tears came more readily than thanks. She stood up, holding her hands to her face, laughing and weeping at the same time, gasping for breath, feeling her heart and only finally throwing her arms up in joy. Then she ran to find Ferdinando to tell him and they embraced and it was he who said, ‘She is an angel!’ of Mrs Browning and Wilson realised she had expressed not a word of gratitude. Back she stumbled, Ferdinando with her, and before a smiling mistress they both fell to their knees and thanked her. ‘It is an answer to a prayer I had stopped praying,’ Wilson said, ‘and you, not God, have answered it.’ This appalled Mrs Browning, who said at once that it was God using her as an instrument and that Wilson should have had more faith. Humbly, Wilson agreed.

  She wrote straightway to Ellen, though not without considerable difficulty. She did not trust Ellen, knew she must show some cunning and somehow invoke the name of law to frighten Ellen into co-operating. All the emphasis, she felt, must be on this coming as an order which could not be disobeyed and yet put in such a way as not to be offensive. So she began with praise:

  —the more I think on it Ellen the more beholden I am to you for how you have cared for Oreste and the more fortunate the child for having you. He has known no want either materially or of a mother’s love for you have supplied both abundantly and he will be reminded of this all his life you can be sure. But now Ellen the time I have long awaited has come and I write to tell you that an Italian maidservant by name of Gigia who is travelling home to Florence having been in Scotland with a family who are friends of the Brownings is to come to you to collect Oreste and take him to Liverpool where she will be joined by Mr Ogilvy and from whence they will sail for Italy, She will arrive on September 1st and depart on the 2nd and I trust you will make her welcome as I know all our mother’s daughters would. You need send nothing with the child Ellen as he will need quite different clothes here and when I have seen and measured him I will make them myself. Send him only with enough for the journey and such toys he shows an exceptional fondness for you having mentioned he will not be parted from the train William carved. And do not let him think he is to be parted from you forever Ellen for this would not be the truth. If you will not come to us I am resolved to bring Oreste to you by and by so you may see how he progresses which I hope will be as well as when he was under your care. Write Ellen and by express even telegram for which I will pay in order that I might have the relief of knowing you have understood and all is clear.

  No relief came. Worried, Wilson confided in Mrs Browning that she feared Ellen might not have received her letter, the posts being so very variable, and was instructed to write again and have it sent with a reply paid, a system she was assured was possible if expensive. Still no acknowledgement was made and it grew near the time when Gigia would be setting out on her journey. Over and over Mrs Browning emphasised what a deal of trouble the Ogilvys were being put to on her behalf, by allowing their maid to do what she was going to do, and Wilson knew it was true.

  ‘You have written very plain, I hope?’ Mrs Browning asked, severely. ‘There was no room for doubt in your words, Wilson, nothing left to query?’

  ‘Oh no, ma’am, I could not have been plainer as to everything.’

  But all the same, Mr Browning thought it wise that she should send to the Ogilvys a letter for Gigia to carry in which both she and Ferdinando formally requested the return of their young son and gave her power to remove him from the care of his aunt and conduct him to Italy. This was even read by a legal advocate, before whom Wilson and her husband signed the letter. It was a solemn moment. The language of the letter itself made her shiver – the ‘we hereby, being the parents of one Oreste Romagnoli’, seemed so important and the ending, though it only gave the date of the document and names of the witnesses, truly portentous.

  Then it was all done and the waiting began. Wilson made her own little calendar on a sheet of brown wrapping paper and wrote the numbers of each day large so that Pilade might learn them. Each evening, the child was given a piece of chalk and shown how to cross the days off which he did with great satisfaction. On the day Oreste and Gigia were due to sail with Mr Ogilvy from Liverpool Wilson had drawn a ship which excited Pilade more than anything else. His mother held him on her knee and explained for the hundredth time how big the ship would be and how many oceans it would cross and what his big brother would see from it. They had one likeness of Oreste, sent at Christmas when Wilson had requested it should be taken, and this was removed from its frame and put at the end of the chart. Nearer and nearer the squares came to the picture until there were only four left and Ferdinando made himself ready for the journey to Leghorn, where he would take over Gigia and Oreste from Mr Ogilvy, who continued to Rome, and see one to Florence and the other to Siena.

  The night before her husband was to leave, Wilson could not sleep. It was all unbelievable. Her own intense excitement had given way to a hollow feeling in her stomach and she had been quite unable to eat for several days. She felt frightened and strange as she thought of greeting her first-born, who would not know her and might recoil with horror and cry for Ellen. If he had any lingering memories, which was almost impossible to credit, they would not match what he now encountered. She had aged in four years, lost whatever attraction she had ever had, and it made her miserable to realise this son would not remember her without grey hair. When had her hair gone grey? She could not recall. These days, when she occasionally took over from Annunciata and brushed Mrs Browning’s hair, she marvelled that a woman so much older than herself should still have such black, black hair with only a very few silver threads in it (which she was instructed to pull out). And if Oreste would not recognise, and might be afraid, of her, what of his father? Ferdinando had aged, too, was no longer as vigorous nor did he walk so tall and straight. Forgetting his father’s darkness, his swarthiness, Oreste might cower and scream. But then she scolded herself – who was better with children, even foreign children, whose language he did not speak, than Ferdinando? Nobody.

  They all turned out to watch him go, Pen clamouring to accompany him so that he might be the first to embrace and welcome Lily’s baby.

  ‘He is no longer a baby,’ Wilson told him, holding his hand for comfort, ‘he will think himself a big boy.’

  ‘Bigger than me?’

  ‘No, for you are twice his age.’

  ‘Will he like me, Lily?’

  ‘He will like you and he will need you for you speak English and he speaks no Italian and not even his brother will be able to speak to him at first.’

  ‘Poor little boy. I will love him, Lily, like this,’ and Pen gave her a strangling hug so that she gasped and laughed and begged to be released.

  Ferdinando was already on his horse, which he was to ride as far as the station. She flew to give him last words of advice, all of them unnecessary. ‘Be gentle,’ she said, ‘be patient. He may be ill from the voyage, he may be homesick for the only home he has known, he may be …’

  ‘He may be happy to see his father!’ Ferdinando shouted. ‘He is my son and blood will tell. Now let me go.’ And off he galloped, with her watching until he was a speck on the horizon.

  A whole day to Leghorn and a night spent there and then the last but one square on the chart was reached. Guiding Pilade’s chubby hand, Wilson’s own trembled. Had the ship docked safely? Had Ferdinando greeted his son? Were they already the best of friends? Had Oreste already learned some Italian? At least Ferdinando now knew a great deal of English, whatever she had said to Pen to make him feel important. Again, she did not sleep and fo
r once was glad when Mr Landor called out, cursing the heat and wanting cold, cold water at once – even seeing to the old man’s wants was preferable to lying awake worrying. In the morning, she made up a cot for Oreste, placing on the pillow a small felt rabbit Pilade had once loved. In a strange place, who knew how this four-year-old might suffer? Something soft to cuddle in the night if he was bewildered might be a comfort. She wandered around all morning, unable to sit still, wondering what Oreste might like to eat. Fruit, surely, though there had not been much fruit on Ellen’s table, and bread, all children liked bread, familiar and comforting, but then Italian bread, baked with oil, was not English bread and she began to panic at the idea of him rejecting it and going hungry. Then cake, the soft lemony Madeira cake Pilade and Pen loved, she could bake that and sprinkle it with sugar and tempt him with that.

  The day dragged on, full of such random thoughts. By late afternoon, she thought she might be ill. Her spine was so tense, her shoulders so rigid, that she ached all over and that empty and gnawing pain in her stomach seemed to increase in severity as dusk approached and the hour when son and husband would return grew closer. She vomited, but had nothing except bile to bring up, a sweat thickened on her forehead which no amount of wiping away would banish. She knew little moans of anguish were escaping her, whimperings such as a dog might give. She walked out of the cottage where she and Pilade were lodged in charge of Mr Landor and along the road to Siena so that she might see them approach before anyone. Pilade was asleep, leaving her arms free for the precious embrace she longed for. On she walked, quarter of a mile, half a mile, watching the sun begin to set and knowing that when it touched the horizon she might see the horse coming and Ferdinando waving and maybe, if he was not slumped asleep in the saddle in front of his father, maybe another small hand too. The moment that red ball began to flatten, she sat on a rock and strained to see along the flat road, along the plain leading to Siena, and sure enough she saw a black dot which grew larger and became a single horse and then she stood up and began to run towards it, waving and shouting. A few yards on and she saw there was no answering wave and she faltered, uncertain if this was Ferdinando or some other lone horseman before whom she would make a fool of herself, but the closer he came the more sure she was that this was her husband and then she chided herself for thinking he had hands free to wave when one was needed for the reins and the other to hold the child. She stopped, her hand to her heart and smiled and resolved to wait and be calm. The horse was almost upon her and she shut her eyes, the better to see when it had reined to a halt. All in a flurry of dust it came towards her and then she heard Ferdinando shout her name and the neighing of the horse as it was pulled in and she trembled as she opened her eyes and looked up.

  Even before she registered that there was no child, she saw his anger. His usually placid, cheerful features were contorted with rage and she stood dumb while he poured out a stream of abuse upon Ellen and upon her and upon the Wilson family and upon the English and upon everyone and everything he could think of. He swung off the horse and stood in front of her, tired and dirty from travelling and all she heard was a sound like the crashing of waves on pebbles and she put her hands over her ears and swayed in pain at the roadside. She had no idea afterwards how she got to the Villa Alberti where Ferdinando took her to break the news and tell the tale of his fruitless trip. Did she ride? Did she walk? Was she carried? All she knew was that she came to lie on a garden bench and it was dark and the stars overhead were piercingly bright. She did not cry, or rage like Ferdinando, nor was she much interested in apportioning blame. Oreste was not here. Beside that, nothing mattered. Ferdinando was still vowing to the Brownings, angry themselves, that he would not send another scudo to England and calling heaven to witness he had been cheated and betrayed, but she lay there impervious. Everything was at an end – the hope, the joy, the new happiness that had been in her. All life had become a series of promises unfulfilled. She thought she would lie there forever, let others do to her what they wished. She was finished with planning, with striving, with looking forward. When Mrs Browning spoke to her out of the darkness, saying, ‘Come, Wilson, come, dear, you must not give way,’ she thought, why not, why not give way?

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  ELLEN’S LETTER ARRIVED the following week by which time life could be said, by all but the most observant, to have returned to normal. For twenty-four hours Ferdinando’s rage had continued and been listened to most sympathetically by the Brownings. He had repeated, over and over again, what Gigia had said, of her humiliation before Ellen Wilson, of how she had not even seen Oreste. Mrs Browning had declared it was all too bad, too dreadful an imposition to have been responsible for and that she would not be able to look the Ogilvys in the eye ever again after causing them such vexation. She had hinted darkly that Wilson herself must be to blame, that she must have been weak, must not have written plain enough and as she had been instructed. Then everyone had sighed and tutted and the thing began to be forgotten in the continuing concern for Henrietta.

  Wilson allowed it to be forgotten. She took no part in the exclaiming and protesting and analysing nor would she indulge in speculation as to what had really happened or as to why the letter of authority had not been used against Ellen. Hearing her own firmness doubted, she felt the beginnings of anger but quickly suppressed it. There was no use in being angry with Mrs Browning or Ellen or anyone else. It was all done with and had ended how things always seemed to end for her. She went about her normal business without speaking, unless it was impossible not to reply to some query. She was glad Ferdinando was in the Brownings’ villa and she was with Mr Landor and Pilade in another. There was no comfort to be found in her husband’s arms and in fact comfort was something he did not offer, being much too preoccupied with his own sense of injured pride. When he said again and again no more of his wages would go to Ellen for his son’s upkeep she concurred, did not challenge the underlying assumption that Oreste was no longer his responsibility. She felt numb and tired and surprised herself by managing to sleep deeply and well.

  But she knew Ellen would write and that the letter would be in the nature of both a declaration and a justification. It would be hard to bear and she dreaded such a letter because it might disturb her wonderful composure. Mrs Browning handed her Ellen’s missive as though it were hardly fit to handle and she took it with equal reluctance. ‘Unless there is any quite remarkable news your sister has to tell,’ Mrs Browning said, ‘I would rather not hear what she has to say since I imagine it is a tissue of lies, of excuses and complaints.’ Wilson did not reply. Why should it be imagined she would enjoy such lies? Even to open the letter was a burden and she waited until she was alone and hidden from view to do so. Her eyes scanned the first page quickly, taking in the expected account of how Ellen had looked after Oreste as her own, but when she came to the reasons why he had not been handed over to Gigia, Wilson slowed down and even repeated the words to herself. There was no doubting her sister’s passion as she struggled to express her resentment, writing:

  — on my life Lily I declare I want only what is best for the child and would not be Cruel to him nor the cause of Cruelty and what you asked was Cruel the child knowing no Italian and being Fearful of leaving me the only Mother he has known and who he loves as his own. And the girl who came for him was Young and Insolent and spoke to me as if I were some common washerwoman who must do as she was told which is not in my nature nor never was. If you were to come yourself Lily or the child’s Father I could not stand in your way whatever my feelings which are strong, but to hand over my Precious little one to a Young and Foreign girl who spoke his only language poorly that I could not do and send him with her on a dangerous voyage most frightening to him. You will say I ought to have informed you I would not part with the boy in such circumstances as you had taken trouble to describe but until I saw the girl I was not sure in my own mind what to do and only made it up when confronted with her and not taking to her at all. You will
be angry I know and accuse me of all manner of evil things but one thing you cannot accuse me of Lily is not caring for your son upon whose life I swear I love him truly and want only what is best for him. I cried after the girl had gone and he seeing my distress and I explaining I feared your anger he put his arms around my neck and comforted me and said he was sure his real mother could not but love her sister and believe she had acted for the best.

  Wilson smiled thinly at that bit. She did not believe a word of it and despised Ellen for concocting such a sentimental and silly scene. A four-year-old child say that? Never. The likelihood was that Oreste knew nothing about anything, and no one in Italy was ever spoken of. Ellen was sure now that she had him for her own and most likely thought it a fair return for her investment of time and trouble. She would not even bother to argue the rights and wrongs of what had occurred since it would be futile. Her desire was never to see or speak to Ellen again but of course she could not allow herself such a luxurious vengeance. It was important for Oreste’s sake to keep good relations and so with a good deal of lip-biting and general effort of control she finally wrote to her sister in most moderate terms expressing surprise, confessing intense distress, but apportioning no blame. She did not mention that no more money would be sent – let Ellen discover that when the monthly money orders did not arrive in the punctual way they always had done. It would be in the nature of a test for her: if, as she claimed, she looked after her nephew as her own then she would not query the lack of financial support; if she asked for it then it would be easier to force her to part with the boy. There were dangers in this silence – Wilson well understood that the steady remittance of funds for the care of Oreste constituted a claim on him over and above that of natural parentage – but she thought them worth risking. As Oreste grew he would become more expensive to keep and Ellen might not find his maintenance so easy.