Eliza’s Daughter (15 page)

Mrs Jebb sucked in her breath at the finish.

‘They did not, then, violate you?'

‘No, ma'am; though plainly that was their intention. And,' I said with satisfaction, ‘I dealt Master Harry a sharp clip on his ear which will, with luck, leave him a fine black eye in the morning.'

‘You stupid child.'

Mrs Jebb did not berate me. She spoke in her customary harsh, measured tone. ‘Those men are in possession of your shawl. And now they will make it known all over Bath that, in those woods, they had you at their mercy and enjoyed you each in turn.'

‘But that would be a lie.'

‘How could you prove so?'

‘I suppose – I could go to a medical man – ' but my voice faltered as I thought of the ensuing indignities, the difficulties. ‘Miss Orrincourt will no doubt give me notice,' I said dejectedly.

‘Not if she is a woman of sense. And such I believe her to be.' Mrs Jebb glared at me. ‘You are a
very
stupid child. I had believed you to be dowered with sense and discretion beyond your years. But I see that I was wrong. Let this be a lesson to you, my girl! Never,
ever,
pay the slightest heed to a man who says that he shares your tastes, your interests. It will be a black falsehood, told inevitably in order to gain his own ends. Which are always, and unalterably, the same. So at least you have learned what will stand you in good stead.'

She scowled at me and continued, ‘In the circumstances, this letter comes very apposite.' She produced a paper from her reticule. ‘It is a request from Edward Ferrars, which I had been on the point of refusing. (Why, pray, should he think himself entitled to favours from me?) But, as matters stand, it will be as well to indulge him, and poor Cousin Elinor will benefit.'

‘Mr Ferrars?'

She unfolded the paper.

‘They have had severe floods in Delaford. It is a damp, unhealthy spot – always was. Low-lying, in the Levels. A week's rain, and the canal overflows its banks. Half the village down with a putrid fever. Several women died. And your cousin Elinor (I call her cousin because Edward Ferrars, now that he finds a use for your services, employs that term) your cousin Elinor laid down upon her bed, deathly sick; and nobody but a half-wit to nurse her.'

‘Good heavens, ma'am! Poor Mrs Ferrars! And they want
me?
But' – here commonsense set in – ‘why does she not send for her own daughter? For Nell?'

‘Hah!' A spasm of sour laughter shook Mrs Jebb. ‘As well hope to enlist the help of the constellation Andromeda! Of course Nell's father wrote to her first – but it seems she was about to set out for a northern tour with her fine friends. No help to be had from that quarter.'

‘Well – if I can really be of use,' I said a little doubtfully, ‘naturally I will go. Cousin Elinor – Mrs Ferrars – is by no means an easy person to help. But it is the least I can do. And –'

‘And it will take you out of Bath while this little
scandale
dies down. Tomorrow is Saturday – you had best go directly, on the carrier's cart. The last thing we want is for people to make connections.'

‘Make connections, ma'am?'

But Mrs Jebb broke off and would not continue.

‘Run to bed, child, I am tired.'

Indeed she looked it. She looked a hundred years old. Now I felt remorseful that I had brought this anxiety on her.

‘Ma'am I am indeed sorry that – that any action of mine should cause you trouble or worry. I thought – I thought no harm. I thought I had found a friend.'

The hooded eyes surveyed me impatiently. Her visage was all down-dragging lines like some seamed and puckered rock face, deeply chiselled with water-courses.

‘Child: we all think thus, and it is our undoing. If you find
one
friend in your whole life, you will be luckier than most. If you do, you should thank heaven fasting and cherish that person as best you can.—Now, leave me.'

In my bedroom, later, when I was gloomily taking stock of my bruises and scratches, Pullett came creeping in with hot water and compresses.

‘Don't you worry, dearie, I'll write that one's name on a piece of paper. And I'll drop it in the brook. And then we'll see what we shall see!'

‘What
do
you mean?' I asked wearily.

‘Never you mind, Miss Liza! We shall see what we shall see.'

And she tiptoed away, nodding her head.

Behold me then, in a tolerably disconsolate frame of mind, travelling towards Delaford on the carrier's cart.

I had dispatched a note to Miss Orrincourt, explaining that Mrs Ferrars was gravely ill and that I was obliged to go to her assistance. It seemed unlikely that any rumour of my misadventure would yet have reached the school. And indeed I had a very amiable and approving reply, delivered by the school boot-boy, before I set off. They would feel my absence keenly (Miss Orrincourt wrote), but it was clearly my duty to hurry to the bedside of my kind benefactress; she hoped that my withdrawal from my classes need not be of long duration. And she sent all manner of cordial wishes to Mr and Mrs Ferrars.

No mention of Nell, nor yet of Margaret Dashwood. Perhaps Miss Orrincourt felt that even if either of them did present themselves at Delaford they might not be of much use.

Along with this note I received another, on pink paper, folded into a cocked hat.

‘What's
this,
Davey?'

Could it be an apology from Lord Harry ffinch-ffrench? I eyed it with some aversion, as if it might fly open and discharge a poisoned dart at me.

‘I dunno, Miss. A lady left it at the school. She reckoned as you was there. Miss Orrincourt said, best bring it to ye, along with hers.'

A lady? Then it was not Lord Harry; not unless he had a female accomplice.

Dear Miss FitzWilliam:

I heard you sing the last concert at the Rooms, and was hugely affected! Not only by the brilliancy of your voice, but also by your exceedingly strong resemblance to a long-lost, long-yearned-after acquaintance of mine, Miss Eliza Williams. I feel convinced that you must be a connection of hers! When I was younger she was my greatest, my most-loved friend and confidante. This was some years ago – many years ago. (My name in those days was Clara Partridge. Now I am Mrs Jeffereys.) I should be so very happy to make your acquaintance, and perhaps hear news of one so long missed, so greatly cherished.

The lady wrote from an address in Walcot Street.

Needless to say I was not a little chagrined that this message came
now,
at a time when I could not respond to it. But I resolved to write to Mrs Jeffereys from Delaford, and go to see her as soon as I returned to Bath. For it did appear as if she must be able to give me information about my mother, and perhaps about my father also. This new hope for the future came as a very welcome distraction, since otherwise I found myself shamed and low-spirited enough, aware that in Mrs Jebb's eyes – and in my own also – I had shown myself as a great booby –
I!
who esteemed myself so shrewd! – and had fallen to the lure like any seminary miss. I felt both anger and mortification; and my sore-heartedness did not abate until we reached Delaford, when the melancholy condition of this pleasant hamlet caused all such thoughts to be swept from my head.

It was plain that the flooding had been severe, as water marks high on the walls of the whitewashed cottages bore muddy witness. Branches and weeds and dead animals lay at random where the water had carried them, and a fetid stink hung over the whole place. The flood had not as yet wholly retreated; the horse and cart that conveyed me were splashing through a couple of inches of water along the cobbled roadway.

Not a soul was about. No one was to be seen out of doors. The whole place was deathly silent.

‘'Tis a proper kettle of eels,' said my driver, looking gloomily about him. He set me down at the parsonage, which had fared a little better than its humbler neighbours, being set up on a slight rise; here the waters had evidently flowed over the lintel, but had not risen as high as the windows.

I picked my way through ankle-deep mud to the front door and plied the knocker, but no one answered. The door was never locked, I remembered, so without more ado I pushed it open and walked in.

The small parlour inside was as I recalled it, but looked dirty and uncared for. A thin layer of mud lay over the brick floor. The single rug was sodden. The house stank.

‘Hilloo?' I called. ‘Is anybody about?'

No answer. I made my way, slipping and sliding, along the short passage to the kitchen. Here I found an unlit hearth, dirty dishes strewn everywhere and a dismal miasma of mud and decaying vegetables. A small sluttish figure stood listlessly with her back to me, staring vacantly out of the window. She turned slowly at the sound of my step. I recognized a village girl called Sal, little better than half-witted, who had sometimes come up to the house to assist Cerne the maid in rough tasks, scrubbing floors or washing curtains.

‘Good day, Sal,' I said. ‘Do you remember me? Where is Cerne?'

She looked at me uncomprehendingly and shook her head. I remembered that she could hardly speak.

In a state of no small alarm I turned and began to mount the stairs.

‘Cousin Elinor?' I called.

A faint sound of reply came from the main bedroom. I pushed open its half-closed door and found a state of disorder similar to that below-stairs, with used soup bowls and plates, soiled towels flung over chairs and a sour smell of illness and filthy linen. On the bed lay a figure which I had some difficulty in recognizing as Mrs Ferrars, so clay-coloured and sunken were her features, so lank and greasy her hair, so emaciated her limbs.

A feeble croak came from her again.

‘Drink – drink –'

I looked about. There was none in the room, only empty vessels. Gathering up as many of these as I could carry – everything I picked up felt slimy – ‘I will be back directly, Cousin Elinor,' I promised, and ran down the stairs.

‘Is there any water in the house? Water?' I asked Sal, who had not changed her position in the kitchen. She shook her head, gesturing vaguely towards the garden, which could be seen through the window. The parsonage derived its water from a well, I knew, but I could see that the well-head, which lay at the bottom of the garden, was still submerged under six inches of flood-water. The water in the well would be filthy, I had no doubt.

Under the stair, I recalled, Edward Ferrars kept a few bottles of wine, reserved for very rare and special occasions (of which there had been none on my former visit); also a barrel of cider; this indulgence he sometimes permitted himself after a hard day's work around the parish.

I found a corkscrew, opened a bottle of claret and carried a glassful upstairs to Cousin Elinor. Supporting her with my arm, I held the glass to her lips and she was able to drink a little. The heavy lids rose from her sunken eyes and she looked at me in perplexity.

‘Nell?' she murmured. ‘Nell? . . . No . . .'

‘Never mind,' I said gently, laying her down again among the grubby sheets.

During the ensuing three hours I worked and made poor Sal work, as seldom before in either of our lives. The kitchen fire was lit, after a severe struggle with damp kindling and sodden wood; water was boiled on it in a pail, and linen washed; a great purging and scouring of dishes took place; a scrawny fowl, from the flock miserably pecking about at the damp upper end of the garden, was ruthlessly slaughtered, plucked and set to simmer. The water I used for this latter purpose was procured from the well of the Manor House which, being set up on a knoll, had escaped the flood. And I set Sal to fetching more pails of water from the same source, as she seemed fairly useless for any other purpose.

Meanwhile, every ten minutes or so, I persuaded poor Elinor – now more comfortably established at least in clean bed-linen and night-apparel – to take a few more sips of wine. At the end of three hours she had drunk close on two tumblerfuls and was visibly the better for it; a trace of colour had come into her face, and she had slipped into what was probably a somewhat drunken slumber.

By now the daylight had begun to wane. I had not troubled to question Sal about Edward's whereabouts, for it was plain that she had not the least notion and, if she had, could not answer. I assumed that he was out on parochial affairs; and so it proved for presently I heard the tired clip-clop of his elderly cob and, through the kitchen window, saw him dismount and lead the beast into the building which did duty as stable, barn and hen-house.

After a few minutes he came into the house. He had aged by ten years from the man I remembered; his hair was greyer and scantier, his face more gaunt; the severity of his expression lightened not at all at sight of me or at the changes which had been wrought in his house. These he took for granted. Plainly, he was at the very extremity of exhaustion.

‘My wife – Mrs Ferrars – how does she go on?' he croaked in a voice ragged with fatigue.

‘She is asleep; I have rendered her a little more comfortable.'

He nodded – made as if to sit down, then recollected himself and climbed upstairs with a slow, heavy step. His visit to the bedroom lasted but a moment; when he came down again his long face wore a look of severe displeasure.

‘You
opened a bottle of wine!
You had no leave to do that!'

‘There was no water in the house fit to drink.'

He started a long harangue about the need for economy and respect for other people's property. In the middle of it I simply walked away; I have never seen any value in argument with obstinate fixed ideas, and if ever there was a man with set ideas Edward Ferrars was that man. You might as well try to shift a granite gatepost.

So, instead, I brought him a basin of chicken broth and a bannock which I had baked over the fire. (Fortunately the pantry, where the sacks of flour were stored, lay up two stone steps at the back of the house, and had escaped the flood;
un
fortunately it had become a refuge for mice.) There had been no time, as yet, to set dough a-rising.

Mr Ferrars ate without comment for a while. Then he said, ‘But this is
meat
broth. Whence had you the meat?'

‘I killed a fowl.'

‘You
killed a fowl?
Were there not potatoes – turnips – carrots – in the store?'

There had been; many of them rotten; these I had flung out to the dejected poultry, along with seventeen little pots of rancid dripping, and various crocks of sour milk and hideous mouldy lumps, nature unknown.

I contented myself with saying that Mrs Ferrars needed the extra nourishment. Even in Byblow Bottom, where living was scant enough, I had never seen anybody closer to death from hunger, thirst and neglect.

He gave a defeated sigh, passing his grimy coat-sleeve across his forehead, then stood and said, ‘I will retire now.'

‘I have made you up a bed, sir, in Cerne's room; I believe Cousin Elinor will do better if she is alone and can sleep undisturbed.' Ignoring his frown, I continued, ‘Where
is
Cerne, by the by?'

‘She went to nurse her sister – who had the fever – Cerne took it as well. I have just come back from burying them.'

(Later I learned that he had also conducted two more funerals that day, and had sat at three death-beds.)

‘That is bad news,' I said. ‘I am very sorry. Cerne was a kind person. Cousin Elinor will miss her greatly.'

To this he made no reply, but said: ‘I must be at the church at five minutes to seven tomorrow to conduct the early service. Will you see that I am called in good time?'

I nodded, and returned to the kitchen to set oatmeal and water in a pot over a banked-up fire, which I hoped would stay in all night. Sal had long ago trailed away homewards; I had made myself up a bed in Nell's room, which was where I had slept on my previous visit.

***

Next day, by great good fortune, Mr Grisewood the lawyer chanced to visit Delaford on business connected with the Manor House estate. He called at the parsonage, asking for Edward Ferrars, who was miles distant at the time, by the bedside of a stricken parishioner.

Mr Grisewood made no attempt to conceal his dismay at the desolation in the village. ‘Merciful heavens! I had heard about the flood but had no notion it was half so bad! I must write to the Colonel directly. He would wish to be informed.'

‘Oh sir! Do you know where Colonel Brandon is at this present?'

He hesitated. ‘No, my dear Miss FitzWilliam – it is true that we are not precisely certain. But we did have a communication, some months ago – it had taken that long again to reach us – announcing the Colonel's intention to break his voyage and make a stay at Lisbon, before returning to this country. I shall write to him at Lisbon in care of the British Envoy there. He should know about matters here in the village. He may wish to return without further delay.'

‘That had not been his intention?'

‘No, I believe he had thoughts of rejoining his regiment.'

‘In the meantime, sir, do you think some funds might be advanced to provide assistance for people in the village?' I had been through the village that morning, to find if any help might be procurable for the stricken parsonage. But I had found all other households in the same condition, or worse. I said to Mr Grisewood: ‘Their need is very acute. All their provisions were carried away in the flood, or rotted in the water. And the fever has killed many.'

I did not add that Mr and Mrs Ferrars were almost as needy as their parishioners, but, on his promising to provide help, resolved to see to it that the occupants of the parsonage received their fair share of whatever was forthcoming.

The Colonel, it seemed, had made provision before his departure in case of some such disaster (floods here were not uncommon, though this one was unusually severe); Mr Grisewood promised that coals, clothing and a stock of food should be sent from Dorchester directly.

‘Is it permitted to see Mrs Ferrars?' he then asked.

I said I thought this might be possible. Today she was more collected; had recognized me, after a few puzzled moments, had submitted to be bathed, and have her hair combed, had eaten a spoonful or two of porridge.

Mr Grisewood came from her bedside looking shocked to death.