I sang the ballad with anger and sorrow, thinking of these helpless women, and my own helplessness to do anything for them.
‘Pssst! Sing ’em something cheerful now!’ whispered Mrs Widdence sharply.
But I said, ‘No, that’s enough. I am out of practice. My voice is tired.’
In any case, I could see the customers were not in a mood to be sung to. There was a scatter of indifferent applause, and some titters and boos, as a spate of conversation broke out, unchecked.
Mrs Widdence looked both discontented and angry.
And a tall young man forced his way towards me through the crowd.
He was strongly built, pale and extremely well dressed. With an eye made critical after so many days passed in sartorial premises, I scanned his superbly cut jacket of dark grey superfine, his close-fitting dove-grey pantaloons, highly polished Hessian boots, his snowy neckwear. His hair was russet-fair, his countenance covered in freckles. And very, very familiar.
‘Hoby !’ I cried out in unaffected delight. ‘What joy to see you! How very – how very grown up you look!’
He looked not only grown up, but masterful and authoritative, not to say severe. His countenance had lengthened somewhat with the years; also filled out, firmed and matured.
He showed no equal joy at the sight of me.
‘This is no place to talk – ’ were his opening words – and he gave a frowning glance about the showroom.
‘Mrs Widdence,’ said I – she was still glooming at my shoulder, wholly dissatisfied at the outcome of her ventures. ‘Mrs Widdence, here is an old friend of mine, Mr – Mr Robert Hobart, whom I have not seen for many years. May we step aside into your office to talk over old times for a few moments?’
With an ill grace, she agreed.
It seemed to me that she already knew Hoby. And certainly she eyed him with respect.
On the way to the office, whom should we encounter but Nell Ferrars and the Lady Helen.
‘Well, Eliza!’ said Nell coldly. ‘I suppose we all expected that you would disgrace yourself in some way, sooner or later, but I am sorry indeed that you take such a public way of advertising your ruin to everybody in the Polite World.’
Lady Helen said nothing at all, but lifted her chin and turned her head aside. On the whole, I thought it best not to make any reply.
As soon as Hoby and I had arrived at the comparative privacy of Mrs Widdence’s little business room – where stood stacks of big wicker baskets lined with oil-skin, and a table piled high with bills – we fell to quarrelling bitterly.
‘Liza, how could you be such a fool? You know – you should know, coming from Othery – you have to keep your reputation wholly white, wholly unblemished. Not a single whisper must sully it. I had believed that you were safe – established in a very respectable, unexceptionable way down there in Bath – and what happens? First you get yourself into a devil of an imbroglio with those high-playing, foul-tongued riff-raff – as that Friday-faced female says – and now all the Polite World knows of your downfall –’
‘It is not true! It is all a pack of lies! And – in any case – why should the p-p-perditioned Polite World be interested in what happens to me?’
‘Because it makes a lively story!’ said Hoby furiously. ‘And then – to put the cap on it – you have to sing that dismal ballad about the maid betray’d – and the other one about never changing your maiden name – have you no sense of discretion at all? Do you want everybody to spit on you and point the finger of scorn at you? Why in the world did you ever have to leave Bath and come up here?’
‘Mrs Jebb died. And I lost my post at the school because – because of what happened.’
‘Well, there! You see! What did you expect to happen, if you make a fool of yourself? And what the devil do you expect to do in London?’
‘I came to look for my mother. And father.’
‘Oh,’ he said blankly.
‘Do you know, Hoby – have you ever heard – what became of Willoughby?’
He continued to look at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. I felt like an exhausted runner who has to keep running or he will fall.
‘I have a strong wish to find my parents,’ I muttered. ‘It is all very fine for you, Hoby – your father is the President of the Board of Fisheries’ – I had read this in the newspaper – ‘and I daresay he has found you some fine public position – what do you do, by the by?’
‘I act as assistant for Mr Nash at his public works. On the Regent Canal. And designing a new street to run northwards from Piccadilly,’ he answered mechanically.
‘Just as I thought! And a very engrossing occupation, I dare swear! But what can I do? No one has offered me the occupation of digging a canal.’
‘You have your music.’
‘Hah! You see where that gets me. I’ve a good mind to accept Fanny Huskisson’s offer.’
‘That trollop! I forbid you! I absolutely forbid you! Whatever she offers can only be thoroughly discreditable.’
‘What right in the world, Hoby, what right have you to tell me what I shall do or shall not do? Why-why,’ I stammered furiously, ‘you d-d-did not even answer my letters! Or at least only one in five!’
‘And as for setting up to live with this terrible old madam, Mrs Widdence, who, as everybody knows, has procured girls for half the peerage –’ he was storming on, when Mrs Widdence herself walked into the small room.
‘Mr Hobart,’ she said coldly, ‘I must ask you to quit this chamber. It – it ain’t befitting for you to be closeted with the young lady here any longer.—Out you go! Anyhow, there’s another gentleman wishes to speak to miss. So kindly give us the benefit of your displacement.’
With a last angry glare at me, Hoby – decidedly high-coloured around the cheekbones – strode out of the door.
‘Well there!’ said Mrs Widdence indignantly. ‘Fine sort of friends you have, Miss! But anyway, here’s the Signior, wishful to speak to ye – and I hope ye’ll be a bit more ladylike and refined with him, as ’is own chapelmaster to His Grace the Duke of Cumbria!’
After which with a frown, a grimace and a meaning wink, she left us together.
The Signior was the same elderly gentleman who had accosted me before in Bond Street.
‘I gave you my card, Signorina,’ he reproached me. ‘Why did you never write to me? Here have I been, searching through all the inns and hotels of London for you –’
His English was fluent and correct, but heavily accented.
‘Sir, I must apologize. But I have been very much occupied.’
He glanced around the little room with dissatisfaction.
‘This place will not do. You shall accompany me, if you please.’
‘But to where? I have a friend – in Clerkenwell – who will very shortly be expecting me – ’
Pullett had refused to come to Bond Street to hear me sing. She said it was not respectable, and no good would come of it.
‘Ah, I shall not detain you long, at this present,’ Dr Fantini said. ‘But I wish to show you something which will perhaps enjoin you to listen to what I have – I have to propose, relating to your future.’
Very doubtful and hesitant indeed, I was yet thankful for any excuse to leave Mrs Widdence’s showroom. I made her a brief explanation, which she accepted curtly, and followed the white-haired gentleman through the crowd and out to the street, attracting various stares and comments, a few favourable, many detrimental or sneering, on my way to the door. Outside, I was led to a carriage, among the many which blocked the way, and noticed that it bore a coat of arms on the panel and was driven by a very superior-looking coachman.
‘Sir, where are we going?’
‘Only to Grosvenor Square,’ Dr Fantini assured me. ‘Then you shall be conveyed onwards to your place of lodgement, if you so wish.’
Th
e ride to Grosvenor Square was brief and performed in silence.
We drew up before a handsome mansion on the south side of the square, and I was escorted by my companion into the house – ushered through the door by a bowing servant – and taken up a flight of stairs into a morning room.
‘Now,’ said Dr Fantini, ‘I must ask you to look at that portrait on the wall.’
It was a life-sized head, very beautifully painted. The signature was Thomas Lawrence. And it was a portrait of my mother – done when she was perhaps five years older than my own age at that time.
‘Good heavens,’ I said faintly. And again, ‘Good heavens!’
Mechanically, I pulled up a chair, sat down upon it and continued to study the portrait. Dr Fantini allowed me to do so in peace for many minutes. Then he said quietly, ‘Now, my dear Miss, will you allow me to have my say?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Your mother was a lady named Elizabeth Williams. Am I right? And you were born around the year 1793?’
‘To the best of my knowledge, sir, yes.’
‘Your mother left you in the care – as she had promised to do – of Colonel John Brandon. And she herself chose to go to London to – ah – pursue a career in opera. She, like you, had a voice of remarkable power and – ah – range. But she happened to be heard, singing the part of Elena in Elena e Paride by my employer, the Duke of Cumbria, who was so greatly taken with her voice and – ah – appearance and demeanour, that he – that he invited her to become part of his household.’
‘Made her his mistress?’ I suggested.
Dr Fantini gave me a severe look.
‘My dear Miss, my master the Duke is not – is not a man to be trifled with. He is a man of strong character and integrity. At that time he was twenty-seven years older than Miss Williams, he had for many years been unhappily married and lived separated from his wife and from their three children. He was greatly occupied in government affairs, being, at that time, Chancellor of the Exchequer. He became deeply, deeply devoted to Miss Williams and remained so. He preferred to have her always with him – whether down at his house, Much Zoyland at Alderbrooke in Wiltshire, or at this house in London. He could not bear to be apart from her for more than a day.’
‘Sir! Please tell me! Where is my mother now?’
‘Your own birth, Miss Eliza, had put your mother in peril of her life. She was told by her medical attendant that to have another child would certainly kill her. This was a great sorrow to her, as she felt a deep obligation and love to my master and would have wished to bear him a child. But it was not to be. He forbade it. He cherished her, he told her, more than any child.—However in the end she was allowed to have her way. Two years ago it was found that she was increasing.—And the prediction was right. She died in childbirth, and the child died also.’
After a moment I said faintly, ‘Where is she buried?’
‘At Much Zoyland. Would you wish to visit her grave?’
‘Of course I wish it! Of course!’ I burst out, and then – I could not help it, too many blows had been struck at me during this dreadful day – I fell into a passion of crying and flung myself down flat on the richly carpeted floor.
Dr Fantini behaved with compassion. In silence, he allowed me to have my cry out, then raised me up and escorted me to a bedchamber where, behind a closed door, with napkins and lavender water, I could repair the ravages to my eyes and complexion.
When I emerged, Dr Fantini was waiting for me with a glass of strong, sweet wine.
‘What is this?’ I asked, sipping it warily.
‘It is port. The Duke – like Mr Pitt – prefers port to claret. Also, he owns a vineyard in Portugal. Now, Miss – are you feeling more the thing?’
I said that I was.
‘My offer from the Duke is to take you back to Much Zoyland. There, if – if you are both of a mind to such a scheme – he undertakes to provide for you, have you educated, your voice trained –’
‘It has already been trained,’ I objected.
‘Ye-es,’ Dr Fantini rejoined distastefully, ‘ – not very well trained, Miss.’
‘Oh.’ Could I, I wondered, endure the prospect of more training, more education? Still, I did wish to see my mother’s grave. And to meet somebody who had loved her so much. I could talk to the Duke about her. And – who knows? – he might have tidings of Willoughby.
Besides, I could always leave Much Zoyland, if the Duke and I did not agree.
‘The Duke knows about my – my reputation? And where I come from?’
‘The Duke is exceedingly well-informed about almost everything.’
‘I shall tell him all my history.’
‘Very good, Signorina.’
‘Another thing – I have a friend, maid, companion – whom I shall wish to have with me.’
‘By all means,’ Dr Fantini said graciously. ‘That will be most conformable.’
So matters were arranged.
Chapter 11
The Duke of Cumbria always dressed in a full suit of old-fashioned clothes. He wore a bulky horsehair wig, which must have weighed several pounds. His coat bore great cuffs and massive buttons, and was stiff so that the skirts stood out; his ruffles were long and always dazzling white. The heels of his shoes were higher than is now common – for the Duke was not a tall man, though at all times a most impressive figure; and the shoes were ornamented with silver buckles, very polished. His face was much seamed and grooved, with care, and grief, and age, his skin somewhat pale; but the black eyebrows above his deepset eyes exceeded in size any that I have ever seen. His voice was very thunderous, though never harsh.
When my mother had first known him she was eighteen, and he forty-five; and they had been together for about fifteen years when she was carried off untimely. So he was now more than sixty, but looked older; he moved slowly, with a stoop, except when on horseback. He played no instrument himself, except the kettledrums; but he loved to hear playing and singing, and took care to ensure that the people about his household should be proficient in the musical arts. His private secretary, Solomon Mayhew, played the piano with brilliance; his steward was a gifted fiddler; even the little page-boys were encouraged to sing and whistle.
Much Zoyland, the Duke’s favourite seat in Wiltshire, was a huge old rambling house, built in the reign of Queen Elizabeth on the ruins of an abbey. It was spacious, with wide grassy courts, but also with small cosy low-ceilinged rooms; with great draughty halls, and also narrow passageways. Some of its doorways were so wide that a chaise-and-pair could have driven through; others so narrow that a thin person had to turn sideways to pass between the door-posts.
I grew to love it dearly.
‘This is something like!’ said Pullett, looking about her with approving eyes, as we drove up the long avenue and had glimpses of formal gardens with bright beds and clipped hedges. ‘This is the kind of place I can settle in.’
Her responses to the Duke were in the same favourable spirit. ‘He’ve got a mighty queer ring, but it’s a good one; blue and grey mixed; like the sky before sun-up, when you don’t yet know, will it be fine or driply.’
***
Before going to Zoyland I had an assignation that I was obliged to keep, though with no great eagerness for it.
On Sunday I went, with Pullett in reluctant attendance, to see Nell Ferrars in Kensington Gardens. I had written a note appointing a meeting there.
‘She’ll never, never come,’ said Pullett, who had known Nell – and thought very little of her – since early childhood. ‘You think that one would bestir herself to leave her great connections and come to see you? – not after what happened!’
For I had given Pullett a pretty clear idea of my ill-success in Bond Street. And, to do her justice, she had not said ‘I told you so.’
I said, ‘I think Nell may come. She may even bring he
r great connections with her. To jeer, perhaps. Or simply out of curiosity.’
I had written in my note to Nell: ‘I would like to speak to you for a few minutes on a matter of great import concerning your mother. I hope very strongly that you can spare the time for this meeting.’
‘Well, I’ll be!’ exclaimed Pullett, after we had taken a couple of turns up and down the Broad Walk. ‘There she does come, to be sure!’
‘And she’s brought some of her great friends with her.’
To my great despondency, she had with her Uncle Robert Ferrars and his wife the shrewish Lucy.
‘Odso, Mistress Fitz,’ drawled out Robert Ferrars, as the trio came up to us, ‘I fancy, don’t you know, you had best return to Bath and the young ladies’ school; ecod, you had indeed; a London audience seems to find you a trifle lacking in coloratura, hey?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Robert,’ stated his better half. ‘The young ladies’ school won’t have her back.’
‘Miss Ferrars. I should like to speak to you privately,’ I said to Nell.
‘Zooks, here’s a fine coil! What’s so woundily exclusive that we can’t hear it?’
‘If Miss Nell wishes to tell you later, that is entirely her own affair. But she may prefer to keep the matter to herself.’
– ‘I’m sure I don’t care,’ said Mrs Ferrars sharply. ‘Come, Robert!’
Affronted, they dropped a few yards behind, while Pullett walked on ahead.
‘Well? What is this private communication?’ Nell sourly demanded.
I pulled a letter out of my reticule and handed it to her. It was from the publishers John Murray at Number Twelve Albemarle Street.
It said, ‘Dear Madam, at your request, knowing that you do not propose a long visit to the Metropolis, we have read your friend’s novel with much greater celerity than our normal office procedure permits us, and we are now happily in the position of being able to tell you that we are entirely of your opinion about the Work. We, like you, think it a most delightful and captivating tale, and that it will be sure to take the public fancy. We are pleased to offer these terms for its publication’ (terms were here stated) ‘and wish you will now favour us with your friend’s address, so that we may be in communication with her personally. You informed us on your visit last week that she had a number of other novels already written. My partner and I shall be most eager to peruse those also, and hope that we may be in a position to make her an offer for them as well, following what we are certain will be the success of this one.’