Lady's Maid

by Margaret Forster

  He was all action now and she was his puppet, allowing herself to be dressed and her hair roughly pinned up. She heard him rouse the new maid and give her instructions and she let herself be led away though her legs were uncertain things, moving of their own volition. He pushed her from behind up the stairs of the Casa Guidi and when they reached the apartment he all but carried her in. She felt she would choke as she was half-dragged to the bedroom and put a hand to her throat feeling the tightness there. Mr Browning was there with Penini, both of them quite still and silent. Penini turned when he heard them enter but Mr Browning did not move. As Ferdinando had described, his mistress looked young and beautiful. There was nothing hideous about her corpse, nothing that might terrify Penini – she did indeed simply look asleep. Her hair had been brushed and looked still alive and it was hard not to imagine the thick black eyelashes did not tremble a little. Ferdinando backed out of the room almost at once and Annunciata, who had been hovering at the door, went too, but Wilson became part of the tableau. She took her place beside Penini and when his arm went round her waist she put her own round his. They stayed in this worshipping attitude until suddenly Mr Browning rose and said, ‘We must leave her. There are things to be done.’ He led the way out and Wilson had no option but to follow him and his son. She knew what the things were that needed to be done and could not bear to think of a strange hand doing them but nor could she answer for her own composure if she were to offer to do them herself.

  It was not until they were in the drawing room and the woman who was to lay out Mrs Browning had entered the bedroom, watched by Penini’s curious eyes, that Wilson realised no one wept. Ferdinando and Annunciata could be heard in their quarters sobbing together, but in the drawing room not a tear fell. Mr Browning was ashen-faced and exhausted-looking, but he was dry-eyed and held his head high. Penini looked bemused but his lovely face was not stained with grief and his eyes, though troubled, were clear. The two of them stood by the window, where, though the curtains were drawn, there was a narrow gap through which they could look into the street. Wilson saw Penini slip his hand into his father’s where it was clasped firmly. They were bearing up admirably, for the moment. She waited, without the will to make the decision to go. It seemed wrong to say anything at all and in any case she had no words to offer. But while the woman was still busy in the bedroom, Mr Browning turned and sat down heavily and Penini was pulled down with him leaving only her standing.

  ‘Sit down, Wilson,’ he said softly, ‘sit down, I beg you.’ She sat, stiffly, on the very edge of a chair. ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘it is all over. There was nothing that could be done, nothing.’

  Wilson said nothing, never taking her eyes off Mr Browning’s face.

  ‘Papa,’ Penini said, ‘is Mama in heaven now? Is she there yet?’

  ‘Yes, my son. And she will pray for us.’

  ‘Will we hear her?’

  ‘No, Penini, we will not, but because we love her she will never really leave us.’

  ‘I loved her,’ Wilson suddenly said, colouring at the way she blurted this out. Penini left his father’s side and came over to her, not running as he usually did, but walking the short distance slowly and purposefully. He took both her hands and said in tones that would have been comical if the circumstances had not been so sad, ‘And Mama loved you, Lily, you can be sure and now I will love you for her, see if I don’t.’

  The day was long. People came and went without Wilson having much idea who they were or why they had any business there. She stayed with Penini while his father went to arrange the funeral service, the heat being so fierce there could be no delay in burial. Miss Blagden arrived, trembling and red-eyed, and it was decided Mr Browning and Penini would go to stay with her up at Bellosguardo for the moment. Wilson said she would remain to watch over the body, with Ferdinando and Annunciata in residence to support her. She could hardly wait for them to go. So far from fearing to sit all night with the corpse she longed for the opportunity. It was twenty hours since she had heard the news and yet still not a tear had left her eye. She felt very weak and tired as she settled herself beside the bed, with only one candle lit, but also suddenly relaxed. There was no one now to watch her, no one whose own feelings had to be respected. There was just herself and her dead mistress. Ferdinando and Annunciata would no longer come into the room, scared that spirits might hover near the body, scared of death itself, but she had no such fears. That body was no more her mistress than the coffin which would receive it. It was a poor reminder, and that was all. But in knowing this, Wilson also knew her mistress was still there in the very air of the room, in the belongings within it, in the books and papers everywhere in evidence. She hoped that during the night something would communicate itself to her and she sat, expectant, all her senses finely tuned and receptive to the slightest nuance. She watched the shadows the candle made, smelled the wax melting, picked up the faintest vibrations of the thin muslin curtains moving in the welcome breeze and catching on the lock of the shutters. About two in the morning, though she only guessed at the time, she took a turn round the room to ease her aching back and when she sat down again she sensed a change in the atmosphere. Unable to divine what it was, she willed herself to be open to whatever was happening. She breathed deeply and steadily, as mother had once done, and closed her eyes and lifted her head. Any moment a hand might stroke her cheek or a whisper be made in her ear and she must not flinch. But neither touch nor sound came and presently the moment had gone. Then, she wept, convinced she had failed, that an attempt had been made to reach her and she had let it go. She wept and wept until dawn and when there were no tears left she fell asleep with her head drooping onto the same pillow as the dead woman’s. When she woke, she felt the cold, cold cheek against hers and moved away, repelled. It was, as Mr Browning had said, over, all over.

  Chapter Thirty

  ONE WEEK LATER, Wilson felt moved to pick up a pen and hunt out some paper and ink. It was so long since she had written any kind of real, lengthy letter that she felt the pen awkward in her hand and could not get the nib to write smoothly, wasting two good sheets in the effort. The ink seemed too thick and the paper too rough and she became irritated with her own incompetence, but then at last she got into the way of it and once she had done so, once the rhythm of writing had been established, she felt a return of the old pleasure such correspondence had once given her and wondered that she could ever have given it up. She was able to confide in the writing paper in a way she had been unable to do ever since her mistress’s death and it was the greatest possible relief to her. Down it all went, the shock of the death itself, the terrible numbness that had followed it, the aching sense of loss which nothing could fill and now, in the last day or so, the fear that her life had no meaning any more and never had had ever since she had properly left her mistress’s service. To Lizzie Treherne, the only one of her own status, who even now would remember the pull Mrs Browning exerted, she chose to write:

  — how cruel it was Lizzie to be even then that very day on the brink of a new understanding after those years of bitterness on my part which I cannot now think of without torment. I look back Lizzie and I cannot forgive myself for my resentment nor for seeking from her what she could not give. I think I worshipped her for too long to regard her as any kind of ordinary mortal and had come to believe she would always be as devoted to me as I to her. I made no allowance for how I had changed and become a trouble to her and held it against her that she was not willing to put me first in which I was woefully wrong. The seeds of these, my expectations, lay in those early years Lizzie, before we left Wimpole Street, when she made something of me until I came to believe I was special and then in the flight to Italy when without meaning to I laid at her door a debt and expected it paid in full. I had quite forgotten by then I was but a lady’s maid and had come to see myself as her friend, to be treated as such. There is no such thing in this world Lizzie nor will there ever be, alas. Those who serve can never hope to breach the gap
between themselves and those who are served and I ought to have remembered it. And yet there was something between us which was over and above the maid-and-mistress position and that is what I must cling to. What shall I call it, Lizzie? A sympathy, it was, a feeling, which at times crossed the barrier. There was a tenderness until her marriage which I treasured and even after it there were times when only I would do. Now all that has gone and I never expect to enjoy such a thing again. What I shall do with myself I do not know. Mr Browning and Penini leave here at the end of this month – oh, Lizzie, so brave they have been! You would not have thought they could endure the pain of the funeral as they did, both so dignified and composed though their hearts broke. I cannot describe to you what the service was like for I hardly heard a word being transported in time to that other church where she married and in my dream noting nothing of this latest sombre occasion. At the graveside I stood back as befitted my station and in truth did not wish to see the coffin go down nor the earth fell on top of it. The streets were lined with mourners on the way there, all Florence seeming to know who passed and to weep. Mr Browning and Penini stay at Miss Blagden’s and make their preparations for departure. I have not seen much of them, not wishing to intrude on their grief, but I have heard Mr Browning’s composure broke down after the funeral and that he wept on Miss Blagden’s shoulder many an hour saying he wanted she who had gone. Penini is all of a sudden a man and when I saw him I saw him with his mother’s eyes and felt her sadness. The golden curls have gone and the silk and satin clothes, and before my eyes I saw a plainly dressed right masculine youth, proud of his masculinity. But he was not too proud to kiss me and behave towards me as he has always done and I saw that still inside himself he is the same and a credit to his mother’s teaching. Mr Browning has arranged everything for Mr Landor’s care and I have undertaken to watch over him as before and to inform Mr Browning of any change. It is true the old gentleman’s presence keeps me in Florence but then where would I go? Ferdinando stays too. He did not wish to leave his country again to live in France or England and Mr Browning seemed content to let him go, not having any house as yet which he would need a servant for. He lives here with me for the present but must shift for himself before long since I have grown used to being husbandless and no longer have a taste for it. This will sound cruel, Lizzie, and I daresay it is and he the father of my children, but I cannot be what I am not and I no longer feel a wife. Mr Landor is nearly ninety years of age and frail now, and quieter with it, and I will bide my time until his end comes which cannot be long, then I have a mind to return to England to the dear North and see if I have enough Englishness in me to make a life there. But this is a hazy notion and one I have entertained before in a romantic way and it may not come to pass. I am growing old and less able to uproot myself and yet I do not feel since my dear mistress left me that I can rest here. Mr Browning is said to declare he will never return and that Florence with its memories is unbearable to him and I have a mind to agree. I see her everywhere Lizzie and sometimes I am sure it is not my imagination, but her very self. Yesterday as I crossed the Piazza San Felice I fancied I saw my mistress as she was eleven years ago when she was at her strongest after the birth of Penini and able to walk about wherever she wished. She smiled at me and looked so pretty and happy my heart almost broke and then she was gone and I was left shivering in the hot sun. And then today when to aid Mr Browning I packed her clothes, Annunciata not wishing to handle a dead woman’s garments, I thought I heard her laugh next door in the drawing room, and when I went to look I caught a glimpse of her in her white wrapper as she vanished onto the balcony. If this is a haunting Lizzie then I can only say it brings me comfort and that I am not afraid and would wish to be haunted thus every hour of the day and night. But I fear that in time it would drive me mad with the longing to go back into the past and that my nerves would not stand it and I would be wise to leave this place where she is for she will never leave it. Mr Browning said to me I was to choose something of his wife’s for myself not as a remembrance for he knew I needed no aid to my memory, but rather as a keepsake if I understood the difference which I do. I deliberated long over it at first thinking I might choose a shawl so that in wrapping it round me I might wrap something of her but the moment I came to pick up her clothes I could not keep hold of them they being too strongly affecting. I chose the best of these articles and on Mr Browning’s instructions had them boxed up to send to Miss Arabel. I could not of course have my pick of her jewellery which is precious and all of which goes by rights to Miss Arabel except for her wedding ring which her husband keeps to himself and a few other trinkets which he wishes to give to Penini in the hope that one day they will go to his wife. I fancied I might request a small oval hand-mirror the same which I used to hand to her every day and upon the handle of which our two hands would meet in the exchange and it is a pretty thing with a frame of worked silver. But then again to look at my face in it would only cause me pain and I turned instead to a cup and saucer of pink and white china which was part of a set bought the week I started in service in Wimpole Street and out of which she drank her coffee. I felt in holding it I would have something of her in a comfortable way and besides I have always admired it. But there again it is very delicate and I would not dare to use it and it might be broken by Pilade. This left her books and her writing things and I knew every book to be valuable to Mr Browning who would not expect me to choose such a thing and might be pained if I did and so Lizzie with some trepidation that I went too far I asked if I might have her little inkstand, one of several she used. Mr Browning seemed surprised and seeing his surprise I was quick to say I had over-reached myself and he must forget what I had requested, but he said I must have it and it was an excellent keepsake and that he was impressed I had thought to choose it. So now I write to you Lizzie out of her inkstand and it gives me great pride and pleasure. It is of a dark wood with a handle to carry it by and two square holes for the ink wells which are of crystal and have caps on hinges. There are two grooves for pens and a drawer to pull out and use for letters. The whole is not above twelve inches in length and eight in width and two or three in height and it is not heavy. Mr Browning says it is one she bought herself or so she told him in Malvern when she was a girl and kept with her all her life though she had several others in prettier wood. It is a little chipped at the corners and the knob is missing on the drawer and there are several scratches made he says by Flush on the wood but it is solid and not likely to come to any harm. I like to touch it as I write and in the feel of the wood I have some comfort. Write to me Lizzie if only a line that I might know you are alive and well and have received this sad news.

  As soon as she had finished this immensely long letter Wilson wished to start on another, but could think of no one but Ellen to whom she might write. Minnie Robinson was dead. The black-edged card, telling her of this other death, had arrived while she was still struggling to accept Mrs Browning’s, and she had been shocked later to remember how little grief she had felt. She would have liked to write differently to Minnie but had no desire to share her sorrow with Ellen to whom it was likely to be meaningless. It struck her as little short of tragic that no matter how hard she thought over her friends and acquaintances there was no one other than Lizzie to whom she could write the intimate kind of letter she had in mind. What, she wondered, did this tell her about herself, about her life? Friendless, she was friendless, and almost without family. Penini meant more to her, now his mother was dead, than any other human being except for her sons and soon he would leave her and another link would be broken. He was aware of this too and spoke of it with feeling.

  ‘We are going to France, Lily,’ he told her, sitting holding her hand while Pilade sat on his knee and looked up admiringly at him. ‘But I am to have my pony, Papa says.’

  ‘Well, that is a comfort,’ Wilson said, ‘and it will be cooler in France, I daresay.’ It was a pointless thing to say but she knew she must part from him without emotion or she w
ould burden him still further and increase his suffering. ‘Are you to go to the seaside?’

  ‘I believe so. And Aunt Sarianna and Nonno will come with us.’

  ‘Well then, that will be company.’

  There was silence. Pilade kissed Pen and broke into a little song, which Pen joined in. They hand-clapped the beat and Wilson smiled at their enjoyment. Suddenly, Pen crushed Pilade to him and she saw there were tears in his eyes. It was hard to know what to say or do. Quietly, she got up and found some sewing.

  ‘What will happen to you, Lily?’ Pen said, his voice husky but the tears under control.

  ‘Why, nothing Penini. Everything will go on as before, as it always has done. Have no fears for me.’

  ‘Then I shall come back and see you, if Papa will bring me, and if not I shall come back when I am a man to see you, Lily.’

  ‘And what a fine man you will be, such as your mother would be proud of.’

  The minute she had said this, she felt it had been a mistake to mention his dead mother and was about to cover up, with some enquiry as to which part of France he and his father were going to, when he said, ‘What would Mama have been proud of, Lily? Tell me.’

  Wilson shifted uneasily. ‘There now,’ she said, ‘of you, of what you are and will become.’

  ‘But what? What will I become?’

  ‘Who knows? A fine young man, honest and true, that is what I meant, and kind and good, as your Mama was.’