Fanny (74 page)

My Step-Mother did not stir; her Cheaks were sunken and her Pallor was so great, she seem’d a Waxwork Lady in the Abbey.

“Babababa!” cried Belinda.

Slowly, Lady Bellars open’d her Eyes, fixt upon the Babe, and said: “Fanny, how kind of you to come!” Whereupon she extended one pale Hand to Belinda, who grabb’d her Finger with all her Infant Force and Tenacity.

“This is Belinda,” I said.

“No—’tis Fanny. Little Fanny, my Husband’s Bastard. Little, little, little Fanny. O ’tis said the ones with all the Wit and Spirit are not got in our lawful, boring Beds—but are By-Blows of the Devil. How do ye do, Little Fanny?” Whereupon she shook Belinda’s tiny Hand.

“My Lady,” I whisper’d, “I am Fanny. The Babe is call’d Belinda.”

“What? Have ye a Babe? Have Puppies, rather, before ye bear a Babe. Puppies will not desert you. Puppies will not dye of a Brawl in Gaol. Puppies—aye, that’s the Way. Have Puppies, Girl.”

She ceas’d. I sank down on my Knees, holding Belinda, who babbl’d in a sort of Sing-Song, more sensible than Lady Bellars’ Ravings. “Babababa! Dadadadada!” she sang, and ended upon this Interrogatory: “La?”

Dear Goddess, I thought to myself, she hath gone quite mad. Is this where Womanhood leads—to very Madness? I, who have been both Pyrate and Whore, am less distemper’d in the Mind than this Good Lady whose whole Life hath been preoccupied with Goodness! Come then, Pyracy—if this be where Goodness leads!

“A Letter,” Lady Bellars said, “from my Dear Husband. Who shall break the Seal? Not I. Not I. Not I. A white Letter is a very Virgin in my Eyes. Pristine. An Ode to Virtue and to Silence. Better to have a Puppy piss on’t than to rape it with my evil Eyes.” She struggl’d amidst the Pillows, then dragg’d forth a Letter which lay beneath ’em, and let it flutter to the Floor, where still I knelt. ’Twas a seal’d Missive address’d in Lord Bellars’ Hand to Lady Bellars.

“Read it. ’Tis not for my Eyes,” said Lady Bellars. “He is dead—so much the Monk hath writ. I do not wish to hear what he may think beyond the Grave. In Life I married him, but Death makes a Divorce! Ah yes, I am a Widow now and blessed be that Name. No Husband. No Children. Have Puppies, Girl.”

I pickt up the Letter from the Floor, turn’d it o’er in my Hands, whereupon Belinda snatch’d it, conveying it immediately to her Mouth.

“No, no,” I said gently, taking it back and secreting it in my Bosom; but in some Sense I thought that the Child’s eating it should be as good a Solution to the Problem as any, for Lady Bellars did not wish to read it, nor, i’faith, did I.

Suddenly the Door to the Dressing Room swung open and who should appear but Mary, who still lookt—after all these Months—as if she suckt upon a Lemon.

“Well, well,” says she. “Look what the Cat dragg’d in. Got ye that Bastard in the Brothel—or in the self-same Place ye lost your Hair?”

I thought of all I had been thro’, and here was Mary, the same as e’er before, still catty with the Enviousness of Inexperience. ’Tis said that Adversity is a sort of Crucible wherein all our petty Fears are melted down; if we become more open to Life’s Joys after Misfortunes, ’tis because we know how scarce they are and consequently we appreciate ’em. But Mary, who had stay’d Home, protected at her Mother’s Bosom, did not know what ’twas to be depriv’d of Home and Hearth, and consequently she appreciated neither them nor her Mother.

I rose with Belinda in my Arms and said: “Mary, how sweet ’tis to see you once again!”

“Hmmph,” said Mary. “If ye mean to honey me into letting ye stay here with yer Bastard, there’s a big Surprize in store for ye. I am Mistress of this Manor now and I’ve no Intention of letting a Bastard with
another
Bastard sully the Good Name of Lymeworth more.”

“Bastard?” said Lady Bellars. “Did someone speak of Bastards? O have Puppies, rather. Pugs are nice and Spaniels slobber but are sweet, and O the Little Dog of Teneriffe is sweet indeed!”

Mary lookt at her Mother with Contempt.

“See what you’ve brought her to,” she said. “I’ve a mind to throw ye out.”

“Me!” I said, “see what
I’ve
brought her to? O Mary, you are sick with Envy and it thwarts your very Life and Happiness! What of your Father and your Brother? Am I to blame for the unhappy Match that brought you to this World? Am I to blame for all your Father’s Infidelities, your Brother’s Foolishness, your Mother’s Madness, your own envious Nature? Look inward to your own Heart and see the Sickness there! ’Twill do more Good than blaming me! For my part, I am glad to go. I have made my Peace with my own Life. I will flourish where’er I go. Banish me from Lymeworth and I’ll sail again to the New World to seek my Fortune. I know I shall survive and so shall my Belinda! I wish I knew the same were true of you!”

“Go then!” said Mary. “And leave me here to nurse my Mother! She scarce needs
your
Care. I have call’d a Woman from the Countryside who is known for Healing. Go back to your Bawdy House! Sail to the Plantations for all I care! Leave us in Peace! We need no Bastards here!”

“And what of your Father’s Letter?” I askt, drawing the Letter from my Bosom. (I swear the Devil made me speak those Words—or was it verily the Goddess?)

“What Letter?” askt Mary, her Eyes blazing.

“This one!” said I.

“Give it here!” said Mary, running to me and making as if to snatch it.

“Not so fast!” I said, holding Belinda and the Letter tightly.

“Give it here!” cried Mary, “or I’ll scratch your Eyes out!”

I ran for the Door; she follow’d me.

“O my Sweet Ladies!” rav’d Lady Bellars. “Do not scuffle so! You may have my Cakes! You may have my Ale! You may have my Husband and his Letters! But ne’er my Puppies! No, you may ne’er have my Puppies!”

The Dogs sprang from the Bed, as if they had been summon’d, and follow’d me and Mary, barking furiously.

“Give me that Letter!” Mary shriekt, as we reach’d the Door, whereupon it flew open, nearly knocking me down—and who to my astonish’d Eyes should appear but Isobel in her low white Wimple!

She lookt at me and at Belinda, then at Mary, who was now tearing at my Gown, ripping the Train of the Dove-grey Silk.

“Blessed be,” she whisper’d ’neath her Breath, touching Belinda’s red Baby Cheaks, whereupon she said, “What’s this? What’s this? I shall do no Healing in a Madhouse!”

“She took my Father’s Letter—the Tart, the Slattern!” cried Mary.

“What Letter?” askt Isobel.

“Lord Bellars’ Letter!” I cried.

“Give it here,” said Isobel, directing her Words to Mary (tho’ i’faith, ’twas I who still clutch’d the Letter), “or I’ll ne’er attempt to heal your Mother.”

Mary ceas’d her Scuffling. “Are ye the Healer, then?” she askt.

“The same,” said Isobel. “Pray, Ladies, sit ye down. If you sit peacefully, I shall administer a soothing Potion to Lady Bellars and then I’ll read the Letter to ye all!”

I gave the Letter o’er to Isobel, marvelling at her Appearance here, yet knowing enough by now not to question it. With Belinda in my Arms, I sat down in a rose Silk-cover’d Chair whilst Mary sat opposite me, glow’ring.

“’Tis the Healer I call’d,” said she, “to heal my Mother. If ’twere up to you, she’d dye, I reckon.”

“O,” said I, watching the familiar Figure of Isobel busying herself at Lady Bellars’ Bedside with Herbs and Potions drawn from the Bag she’d brought.

“I’ll need hot Water,” she said to Mary.

“I’ll call the Chambermaid,” said Mary, rising and pulling the Bell Cord.

“O Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” said Lady Bellars, looking distractedly about the Chamber for her Daughter.

“Here I am, Mother,” said Mary. “I have sent for someone to heal you.”

“What? Healing?” She lookt at Isobel with Puzzlement, yet Recognition. “O this Lady heal’d me once before, I think, but then I broke again—did I not, Love? Did I not?”

Isobel took her Hand and clasp’d it. “He that broke you is now gone,” she said simply. The Chambermaid appear’d; the Dogs barkt; Belinda babbl’d; Isobel held Lady Bellars’ Hand and star’d into her mad Eyes.

Did they then know each other? O Wonder pil’d on Wonder! There were more Things here than I was privy to! That much was clear.

“Pray, bring hot Water,” Isobel directed the Maid.

“Dadada?” askt Belinda, clapping her Hands with Glee. Isobel lookt at her with Love, then she lookt back at Lady Bellars, who rav’d again.

“Witchcraft?” she askt. “O no! ’Tis merely Healing! She is my Friend. May Men only be Friends? Sure, Women may be Friends as well!”

“Hush! Mother,” said Mary.

“Hush me no Hushes, Girl,” said Lady Bellars. “I am not asham’d to Love a Puppy or a Friend!”

The Air was thick with strange Suggestions; what might all these Things portend?

I sat quietly holding Belinda whilst hot Water was brought and Lady Bellars’ Herbs were mixt and pour’d and she was given to drink.

Soon, she seem’d sooth’d and sleepy, whereupon Isobel led me and Mary and Belinda into the Ante-Chamber, saying: “Let her rest now. We will read the Letter.”

Chasten’d by the Presence of Isobel, on whom she depended to soothe her Mother, Mary was quiet and obedient. She follow’d us into the Ante-Chamber, still looking Sour, to be sure, but no longer protesting.

“Sit ye down, Ladies,” said Isobel, who directed us to Chairs, yet stood before us. I was struck as ne’er before by how tiny and frail she was, with her bent Back and fragile Bird-like Bones. With her white Wimple low upon her Forehead, to hide the horrid Cross, she lookt a sort of curious Nun, Chaucer’s Prioress, perhaps, to my Wife of Bath: what Strength was in that tiny Figure of a Woman!

“‘My dearest Heart,’” the Letter began, (read in Isobel’s tinkling, chiming, yet strangely determin’d voice), “‘When this comes to hand, I shall be dead. You, of all Persons, are most entitled to know the Reason for my strange Disappearance, and yet ’tis towards you that I have the most enduring Shame, for Reasons which will soon be apparent.

“‘How may one begin to undo more than twenty-five Years of Wrongs? If I were no more than the Erring Husband of Song and Story, I should come Home forthwith, like Ulysses returning to Penelope, enfold you in my Arms, and vow to spend the Years remaining us, atoning for my Sins. But the Gods have arranged a sterner Punishment for me; the Wrongs I have done have already begot their own Progeny, and I am curst fore’er-more, I fear. For that Reason, I retreated to this Monastery to pray out the Rest of my Days, hoping thereby to mitigate the Evils of a long Life of Errors, the Worst of which I shall now acquaint you with (tho’ it grieves me in the extream).

“‘Being always accustom’d to indulging my own most fleeting Passions, I hesitated little, if at all, when I found myself suffus’d with deep Desire for our adopted Daughter, Frances….’”

“Aha! I thought as much!” Mary cried.

“Dada?” askt Belinda, a silver Thread of Spittle dangling from her pink cherubick lower Lip, and staining the ruffl’d Boddice of the silken Gown she wore.

“Pray, cease,” I said, “I can hear no more.”

“You must,” said Isobel, “and so must Mary. ’Tis Time the Truth were known, harsh as ’tis.”

“Read the Letter!” cried Mary, glow’ring at me as if the Letter would now give Proof Positive of all my Guilts and all her Innocence.

“’Tis Lady Bellars’ Letter,” said I.

“Aye,” said Isobel, “but it concerns you more and she is too far gone to read it now. Let me continue….”

I lower’d my Head and clos’d my Eyes, listening whilst I held Belinda, who babbl’d sweetly as a Brook in Spring.

“‘Thus,’” said Isobel, reading, “‘when I found that I was able to seduce her’…”

I hung my Head still lower in Shame.

“…‘neither your Presence in the House,’” read Isobel, “‘nor the Stern Moral Obligations befitting an adopted Father restrain’d me. I had my Way with her, thinking there would be as little Consequence as when a Great Lord takes his Pleasure with a Chambermaid. Would that it had been so! Or rather, knowing what I now know, it could not have been so, for the Gods prepar’d for me a Tragedy of most Shakespearian kind. Little did I then know that Fanny was my own Natural Daughter.’…”

“What?” cried Mary. “This is Blasphemy!”

“Dear Goddess, preserve me,” I mutter’d.

“Quiet!” said Isobel, “and hear.”

“‘Little did I then know that Fanny was my own Natural Daughter, and that, in seducing her, I should beget still another Bastard upon my own Bastard!’”

“This is Impossible,”! said Mary, pointing to Belinda. “This Brat is no Child of my own Father’s!”

“No,” said Isobel, softly, “because he is not e’en your Father….”

“What?” screamed Mary. “How dare ye come into my House and tell me that?”

“I shall explain all,” Isobel said, “but you must first hear the Letter.”

“’Tis a lying, cheating Letter!” Mary cried. “’Tis a Fetch! ’Tis not my Father’s Letter!”

In a Way, I hop’d ’twas true, for the Thought of the Incest I’d committed froze my very Blood.

“Will you hear me then?” Isobel askt Mary. “Or would you rather have the Events to come take you by Surprize?”

“What Events?” cried Mary.

“The Arrival of Lord Bellars’ Attorney with his Last Will and Testament, of which this Letter speaks….”

“His Last Will and Testament?” askt Mary.

“Aye,” said Isobel, “the same.”

Mary ceas’d; Isobel resum’d reading.

“‘For you did not tell me, dear Cecilia, what you then knew; namely that Fanny was my Daughter by Isobel, the Housekeeper who was turn’d out of Doors for suspected Witchcraft, and knowing all that, yet keeping your Peace about it, you rais’d her lovingly as your own Child, letting me in no Way suspect that she was my true Daughter, whilst Mary was the Changeling.’”

“How dare you!” Mary cried, jumping out of her Chair and seizing the Letter, whereupon she ran to the Grate and toss’d it in the Fire. It caught immediately, and was charr’d beyond Recognition before Isobel could e’en try to pull it out. Part of my Mind was reliev’d, as if the Burning of the Letter might undo the incestuous Act itself.

“No Matter,” said Isobel, calmly. “The Attorney will arrive from London by and by and you shall know the Truth. You can no more kill the Truth with Fire than you can kill the Goddess with your Fires; the Truth will blaze up o’er all.”