The Weeping Ash (4 page)

With a slightly more cheerful aspect than usual, Thomas allowed the bootboy Jem to slide his greatcoat over his shoulders, pulled on his cocked hat, and strode out into the downpour.

* * *

Five minutes after her husband had stamped out of earshot, Fanny summoned up the resolution to get off the bed.

Moving stiff-legged, like an old woman, letting out little involuntary whimpers of pain and misery, she stumbled vaguely about, hunting for her scattered clothes. “Dinner won't be long,” Thomas had said. She was terrified of displeasing him again by being late for the first meal in his house.

Besides, what would his daughters imagine that she was
doing
up here all this time?

She picked up her muslin dress from the floor, but it was dusty, crumpled, and torn. And her boxes, with the rest of her belongings, had not yet been brought up. She could find no needle or thread in the room, to sew up the torn lacing; also, she badly needed hot water to wash herself. She felt soiled, stiff, cold, dreadfully damaged; the delicate pride, which had carried her through the pain of Barnaby's careless withdrawal and helped her hide her agony from her sisters, seemed now completely shattered; she was conscious of being wholly broken in spirit, fit for nothing except to be a kind of slave. Dimly she contemplated running away—but where could she run to? Not to her father—he would never take her back. And there was nowhere else… But she was really too cowed and weak to entertain serious thoughts of escape.

Outside the door she heard stifled voices.

“Well, I'm sure I'm not going in. Let her manage on her own!”

“'Tisn't
my
place.”

“Blest if I go—”

“Let Tess take in her things and help her—if she wants help. One thing is certain, I'll never call her Mama. A girl of sixteen!”

“Hush, Martha, she might hear you. Go on, Tess, tell her there isn't much time—that Papa hates to be kept waiting.”

“Yes, miss,” said a much lower, timid voice.

Two sets of steps went away downstairs, and after a moment Fanny heard a tentative tap on the door.

“Come in!” she called faintly, brushing the tears from her cheeks with a fold of the petticoat she had been clutching. And she huddled the garment around herself as the door opened to admit a small servant girl dragging behind her one of Fanny's two boxes of clothes.

“Please, ma'am, I'm Tess, and I'm to help you,” the girl said.

Fanny, in her misery, thought the maid's voice sounded pert and knowing; she was eyeing Fanny curiously; no doubt she would hurry back to the servants' hall to describe to her companions the plight in which she had discovered the master's new young wife.

“I don't need any help; thank you. You may go,” Fanny said, trying to make her voice cool and stop it from shaking. She stared down at the petticoat in her lap, forcing back tears.

“Shan't I open the box, then?” Tess sounded astonished. “Don't you want
nothing
done?”

“Oh, very well—yes—open it. Can you bring me some hot water?”

“I dunno, ma'am,” the girl said doubtfully. “I dunno as the copper's hot enough yet.” And she added, “Miss Martha said to tell you, ma'am, that dinner will be served directly the master's back, and 'e—the master—can't abear to be kept waiting.”

Fanny made a slight movement of her head, to indicate acknowledgment of this message. She heard faint sounds of activity, as the cords around her box were unloosed and the lid raised; then there came the click of the door closing behind Tess, and Fanny buried her head under the pillow in a renewed agony of tears. But she did not dare lie weeping long, for she imagined that Tess might soon be back with the hot water.

This did not occur, however—presumably the copper had proved recalcitrant—so, after waiting as long as she dared, Fanny was obliged to manage as best she could without. She had some Hungary Water, and some lotion of rosemary that her sister Maria had made for her. At least, as one of the hard-up rector's eight daughters, she was accustomed to managing without the services of a lady's maid—but she did, now, for the first time, regret the inevitable presence of her seven sisters, their ceaseless fire of comment and criticism—“Lord, child, that sash isn't straight, come here and I'll tie it again—stand still, your lace is crooked—your hair wants smoothing, wait while I comb it—”

For once, even Kitty's presence would have been welcome.

The notes of a gong boomed through the house, and Fanny tied the strings of her slippers with shaking hands, did her best to straighten the counterpane over the horrible sheets, then snatched up her reticule and, holding her head high, opened the bedroom door and walked slowly down the stairs, trying to disguise the stiff painfulness of her descent by what she hoped would pass for dignity.

The downstairs hall, she found, had been vigorously tidied since her first entrance. No sign of disorder remained, save a stray curl of wood shaving on the bare boards. Nobody was there, but doors stood open to right and left. Glancing through the left-hand door, Fanny could see a table laid for dinner, but, mercifully, there was no one in the room. She turned to the right and timidly entered what must be the drawing room, or parlor, it was sited under her bedroom upstairs and had the same pretty semicircular bow window, looking out onto darkness, for the curtains were not yet hung. Glancing cautiously about the room, she observed a threadbare rug, a few pieces of sadly shabby furniture, placed in positions of rigid exactitude, and in attitudes hardly less rigid, three young ladies. No: one of them was a child.

Since the young ladies stared but did not speak, Fanny was obliged to open the conversation. She did this with considerable reluctance, for their looks were far from friendly.

“Good evening,” she said, nervously polite. “I—I believe we must introduce ourselves.”

Silence, while they directed hostile stares at her embroidered dress of white Spitalfields silk, cut low on the shoulders and gathered into a lace fichu in front. It was quite her prettiest gown, the single new one she had, apart from her wedding dress, and she had been greatly relieved that it lay right at the top of her box, since only its elegance, she felt, could sustain her through this difficult encounter. She had expected Thomas's daughters to be stylishly dressed. But now she felt awkward and overfine, for the two elder young ladies wore plain round gowns of brown and blue mull respectively, while the little girl was in blue and white striped gingham covered with a pinafore.

“I shall have to guess which of you is which,” said Fanny a little desperately, as Paget's daughters still did not speak. “You,” to the tallest, “must be Elizabeth—and you Martha—and you must be Patience.” The words “I am your new mama” absolutely stuck in her throat, as three pairs of cold gray eyes regarded her.

“It—it is very absurd, is it not?” Fanny persisted, since all three remained obstinately silent. “You—you two are both taller than I, I believe.”

The words “And older, too,” were silently formed by the lips of Martha, at whom Fanny nervously smiled, but she did not speak out loud; however little Patty cried out, “Of
course
they are—much taller!” directing a scornful glance at the newcomer.

All three girls were, in fact, remarkably stoutly built and well grown for their ages, which were, Fanny knew, nineteen, seventeen, and eight. They resembled their father in being sallow-complexioned and large-boned, with sandy-fair hair and watery blue-gray eyes, pale mouths, and unforthcoming expressions. Only Martha, the middle one, had any pretension to good looks; her cheeks were pinker and her eyelashes darker than those of her elder sister, her mouth, nose, and jaw were a better shape, and her hair, which was a little darker, appeared to curl naturally. Bet, poor girl, really was regrettably plain; no doubt this was one of the reasons why she still remained unmarried at nineteen. Her nose was thick, with a bump in the middle, her mouth shapeless, her lank, sandy locks dangled limply about her neck, save above her brow and ears, where the hair had been twisted into unconvincing curls; and her thick, white, almost lashless eyelids covered eyes so pale in color that it was amazing they could hold such a sharp expression. Little Patty projected her lower lip and wore a scowl of frank antagonism.

The front door slammed.

“There's Pa come back,” announced Martha in a tone of relief.

Fanny dreaded seeing Thomas, again but felt, nonetheless, that his presence would relieve this uncomfortable encounter. He walked in, gave a glance at Fanny, and said, “You have made the acquaintance of the girls, then, I see; good. That gown is by far too fine. Whatever possessed you to put it on? We are expecting no company. You will be half frozen in the dining room.”

“Would you prefer that I change it?” faltered Fanny, and thought she saw a quick exchange of glances between Bet and Martha at this evidence of submission.

“What, now—when dinner's all but on the table? No, no,” said Thomas impatiently. “One of the girls can find you a shawl. Bet—fetch something from the lobby for your stepmother.”

Bet moved slowly from the room, with lips pressed together and an expression of decided resentment, either at the errand or because she disliked hearing Fanny referred to as her stepmother.

“Make haste!” Thomas called after her, and then he strode into the dining room and shouted angrily through a further door, which apparently led to the kitchen:

“Kate! Tess! Jem, where are you all? Where the devil's dinner?”

Placating voices responded, and Fanny heard a scurry of footsteps and a clink of cutlery. “Come along!” Thomas called to his daughters and Fanny. “If they see us waiting, perhaps they will pay a little more heed to the fact that it is more than eight minutes after the hour.”

As they began to sit down at table, and a stout, red-faced woman carried in a tureen of soup, Bet came hurrying back with a mud-gray shawl which she thrust ungraciously at Fanny, who was obliged, therefore, to eat the meal in considerable discomfort, with the shawl continually slipping from her shoulders.

The meal was not a convivial one. Thomas sometimes addressed a remark to his daughters, or a question as to the disposition of his effects. More often it was some withering reproof. When little Patty dropped her soup spoon he snapped:

“Have not either of you girls succeeded in teaching her proper manners
yet
?”

Fanny gathered that little Patty was not often accorded the privilege of eating with her papa.

“She does well enough as a general thing,” Bet answered shortly. “I daresay she is shy in company.”

“She will have to get used to the
company
, as you call it,” Thomas remarked, casting an unflattering glance at his new wife. “Let it be your task, Frances, to improve her table manners.”

The awkward meal was soon over, ending in a blackberry and apple tart which contained a sour mush of blue-gray fruit and innumerable seeds. After this, Kate, the red-faced cook, brought in and set before her master a dish of deviled bones. Thomas said curtly:

“Ah, that looks tastier. You'll have to do better than this tomorrow, Kate, or I'll be advertising for a new cook-maid.”

Kate muttered that one could not get used to a new stove all in a flash.

“You have a new mistress, too, don't forget. I shall look to see a great improvement in the next few weeks—or there will be changes made!”

Kate darted a resentful glance at the new mistress in question, and Fanny felt, with a sinking heart, that her position in this household was being impaired before she had even established it, without her being able to do anything to set herself right.

Thomas addressed himself to his wife and daughters indiscriminately, as he poured himself a small glass of port.

“Run away now—all of you. I have business to attend to and shall retire to my garden room. I may drink tea with you all later. Send the child to bed.”

Patty began a protest but was hushed by Bet, who escorted her up the stairs. Martha, with a discontented expression, followed Fanny back to the parlor. There the fire had burned up in the hearth, and its light was reflected eerily, ten times over, in the curved panes of the bow window. Outside, a wind was beginning to rise, which sighed in the boughs of invisible trees, and thumped and whistled in the chimney, as if a live creature were imprisoned there.

Fanny shivered in her thin, pretty dress, pulling the shawl close about her and moving near the fire. With a heavy heart she remembered how cozily, last night, she had bundled into the big sagging bed with Charlotte and Kitty; there had been teasing and laughter and fun; even Kitty, for once, had seemed sorry that her younger sister and willing servitor was going far away.

However at least Martha, on her own, seemed less inclined to be hostile than when supported by the presence of her sisters.

“Pray, Fanny, have you ever been to Winchester?” she demanded. “Or Salisbury? They say there's some monstrous fine shops there.”

Fanny was obliged to confess that she had never set foot in those towns, but she soon discovered that Martha's principal wish was to describe her own single visit to Brighton, two years since, under the escort of an aunt, her mother's sister. The splendors of this town, its circulating libraries, pastry shops, Pavilion, the hairstyles and toilets of the ladies, and the ogling effrontery of the beaux, occupied her happily for many minutes. Bet, returning during these eulogies, cast up her eyes in exasperation; evidently the glories of Brighton had a wearisome familiarity for her.

“Well,
you
wasn't there, Bet,” Martha said defensively. “Aunt Phillips didn't see fit to take you; I was just telling Fanny.”

“Has Papa given you leave to call her that?”

“No, but it don't signify; I certainly shall not call her Mama; Lord! I would not demean myself to address somebody who was younger than me in such a fashion!”