Eliza’s Daughter

  However on this evening he seemed mild and friendly enough, slipping out to join me on a kind of landing-shelf at the top of the steep little stair below my closet.

  ‘A lady came driving through the village this afternoon in a chaise and pair,’ he whispered. ‘And she asked if you lived here.’

  ‘Oh, Hoby! And I not here!’ For the first and only time I regretted my wanderings with Mr Bill and Mr Sam. ‘Who in the world can she have been?’

  ‘She left no name, she would not stop, she was with a fine gentleman, and he was wild to get on, or they’d never reach Bristol before dark –’

  ‘Bristol? They were fair and far out of their way, then. But who can it have been?’

  ‘Blest if I know,’ said Hoby. ‘All I can say is, she was fine as fivepence, with feathers in her hat and rings on her fingers. She said she’d have liked a glimpse of you and sorry it was not to be. She said, from the look of me, she could see that I was a trustable lad’ – he chuckled at this, and so did I, thinking how wide of the mark the strange lady had been in her judgement, even farther than from the road to Bristol – ‘so she handed me a keepsake to give you and here it is.’

  He passed me a smallish object, long and thin, swathed in a wrapping of what felt like coarse silk, tied all around with many threads.

  ‘What can it be? And who, who was she? Did she leave no name? What did she look like? Was she handsome?’

  ‘Umm. . .’ Hoby began, but I knew he was no hand at making a picture in words. And just at that moment, the passage door opened to the front parlour, letting out a shaft of lamplight.

  ‘What be all that mumbling and shuffling?’ bawled an angry voice.

  ‘Mizzle!’ hissed Hoby. He fled back to his own quarters and I scrambled off with haste to mine, as a heavy step started up the stair. I thrust the mysterious token, whatever it might be, into a cavity of the thatch where I was used to hide apples or cakes if ever I was given one.

  Tom Wellcome stood breathing heavily at the top of the stairs for a moment, letting off sour fumes of cider, then plumped back down, but left the parlour door open so that I dared not stir.

  Naturally, after this I lay wide awake on my pallet for at least an hour, tormented by curiosity as to the identity of the strange lady. Could she be the wife of Colonel Brandon who paid for my upkeep? Was the strange gentleman Colonel Brandon himself? But if so would he not have stopped and asked to speak to Hannah Wellcome? Often I had wondered why he never came to see me; other guardians and protectors did, once in a great while, visit Byblow Bottom, but he, never; nor did he ever write or send a gift. Only the money arrived regularly from some bank in Dorsetshire with a regular exhortation to me to be a good girl and mind my books. So this small object, whatever it might be – it was the size and shape, perhaps, of a comb or a pair of scissors – would be the very first gift I had received in the whole of my existence. Palpitating with excitement I fingered and felt it, over and over, but could not solve the problem of the many threads that bound it round. So my curiosity must wait, unassuaged, until first light.

  Long before cockcrow I was awake, gnawing and nibbling at the threads with my sharp child’s teeth, until at last they gave way and the white silken wrappings unfolded to reveal an object which I had seen pictured in the Gentleman’s Magazine at Dr Moultrie’s, but never in actuality, for it was not the kind of article made use of by the women of Ashett and Othery. It was a fan made from delicate strips of ivory, rubbed fine as threads and jointed together, I knew not by what means. For some time its beauties and intricacies eluded me, since I was unable to solve the mystery of the opening clip.

  Later, after breakfast, I was able to catch hold of Hob, behind the chicken shed, and ask for his help.

  ‘Here, Goosey! It works like this,’ he said, easily pushing back the catch with his thumb and flipping the fan expertly open. He then wafted it to and fro, giving me such languishing looks over the top, raising and lowering his brows, eyeing me sideways under his thick, sandy lashes, that I was soon reduced to helpless laughter.

  ‘Oh, Hoby, you are so funny! Where did you ever learn to do that?’

  ‘Never you mind, young lady.’ Deftly, he snapped the fan shut and restored it to me. ‘That is how the gay ladies of Bristol go on, and it is no business of yours, not for another ten years.’

  Hoby’s father occasionally toured the western counties in the course of his duties, and would then carry away his son for a few days’ pleasuring.

  ‘But I say,’ he added, ‘you owe me a good turn, little one, for if Biddy Wellcome had been in the house you’d never have laid a finger on that fan. You had best keep it well hid.’

  Since I dared not conceal the fan anywhere indoors, I stowed it in the hollow of an oak that grew in a little coppice where we used to gather firewood. Here – if nobody else was by – I would luxuriously fan myself, raising my brows, lowering my lashes and glancing sideways out of the corners of my eyes in faithful imitation of Hoby’s performance.

  I did not show my treasure to Mr Bill or Mr Sam. Young as I was, instinct told me that such a toy as a fan would be of no interest to either man. They were absorbed by matters of the spirit, or of the wilderness, cataracts and tempests, rocks and rainbows; a fan, a trivial feminine trifle, would be to them an object of indifference, if not scorn.—Thus early, I taught myself to divide life into compartments, turning a different countenance to each person with whom I came into contact.

  ***

  The next event worthy of record came at the season of Michaelmas when I had achieved, I suppose, my seventh or eighth year. Mr Bill and Mr Sam, deeply mourned by me, had quitted our neighbourhood and sailed to foreign lands; Germany, I believe. In my childish heart their absence was a continual ache; at each street corner, if I went into Ashett, I looked for Mr Sam’s floating black locks and flashing eyes, Mr Bill’s Roman nose and lofty height; I could not truly believe that they would never come back, and I made endless forlorn plans for the celebration of their return, tales that I would relate to them, secret wonderful places I would show them; I do not know how many years it took me to understand that none of these plans would come to fruition.

  Meanwhile the two babes, Thérèse and Polly, had grown into small, fair, curly-headed children, wholly unalike in their natures, but resembling each other in one respect, in that both were unusually late in learning to talk. Biddy Wellcome, as she slopped about her careless housework, never troubled to address them except to bawl out a command or prohibition; that, I suppose, may have been one reason for their lack of linguistic facility. And Polly, like her mother, was naturally stupid, slow at learning anything, even when it was to her advantage to do so. Thérèse (whose awkward foreign name had long since, by everybody in Byblow Bottom, been abbreviated to Triz) was, conversely, very far from stupid, but she remained delicate and somewhat listless; would sooner forgo some treat than be obliged to take trouble for it. So she did not bestir herself to speak, seeing no advantage to be gained thereby. When I was with them, I defended and protected Triz a great deal of the time from the overbearing greed and selfishness of Polly, who could be quick indeed to grab any good thing for herself once she had become aware of it. And as a result of this, little Triz had become, in her quiet way, very attached to me.

  She had a word for me: ‘Alize,’ she would murmur, smiling trustfully as I approached. ‘Alize.’

  As I say, it was the festival of Michaelmas. Dr Moultrie had gone off, grumbling very much, to officiate at the funeral of an Over Othery parishioner who had been so inconsiderate as to die just then. So I had a holiday. Down at Ashett, a hiring fair, a three-day annual event, was in full swing. Shepherds, farmhands and dairymaids would come there from all over the country to offer themselves for employment, in hopes of bettering their condition. Also, I knew, there would be jugglers and peepshows, music and dancing, gypsy fortune-tellers, toys and fairings for sale. But I had no heart for As
hett; the streets where Mr Bill and Mr Sam were no longer to be expected made me feel too sad; and in any case I had no money to spend.

  All the boys from Byblow Bottom, whether bastard or born in wedlock, planned to go junketing; they had saved money, mostly ill-gotten from poaching, and looked forward to a day of pleasure.

  ‘You can come along of us, little ’un, if you like,’ said Hoby to me good-naturedly. ‘I’ll give ye six pence to spend.’

  His mates growled very much at this offer. ‘Wha’d’we want with her? She’d be nought but a trouble.’

  Regardless both of them and of Hoby, I shook my head, though I had a lump in my throat big as a Pershore plum.

  ‘No. I don’t want to come.’

  ‘Not want to see the fair? But Hannah and Tom are going down to buy tools and calico. Everybody’s going.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Ah, she’s cracked. Bodged in the upper storey,’ said Jonathan disgustedly. ‘Besides being faddle-fisted. Who wants her? Come on, leave her.’

  Hoby still tried to persuade me. ‘You’ll like it, Liza. Indeed, you will.’

  But I shook and shook my head, more obstinate as he became more pressing, and at last simply ran away from the boys and hid myself in Farmer Dunleigh’s haymow until they were well out of sight. In truth I had some regret at missing the fair, but knew full well that, although Hoby meant kindly now, after they had drunk a fair quantity of cider, as they were bound to do, the boys would grow wild and silly and their company would be worse than none.

  I wandered along the deserted village street. Tom and Hannah had left already, in hopes of picking up early bargains. Biddy also was gone; along with them, I supposed; at all events her door was locked; I felt faintly surprised that she had not left me in charge of Polly and Triz. Given this freedom, I took myself off in the direction of Growly Point, past the horsepond and the Squire’s orchards of gnarled, wind-twisted apple trees.

  Growly Point was one of my favourite spots. The Squire’s house was perched on top of the headland, along with a chapel and a stable block; behind it huddled a stand of wind-slanted beeches, and before it the gardens rolled down the hillside in steps and ledges, with a small brook meandering among them, which lower down formed the boundary alongside the public footpath. This was a stone track that led through a wishing-gate and on, past meadow and plough-land, to a dip in a low cliff.

  Passing through the lych-gate I made my usual wish ‘that Mr Bill and Mr Sam come back’, then hurried on, glancing up to the left where some of the gardens were in view filled with great drifts of late daisies and roses, and pink-and-white tall-stemmed flowers, their name unknown to me; but most of the garden was screened by high evergreen hedges. Until I reached the cliff top and looked back, the house itself was not visible. Then it seemed huge and menacing, with two great twisted brick chimneys like wolves’ ears, and all its windows glaring at the sea.

  On the footway I was not trespassing, I knew, yet the spread of those wide, watchful windows gave me, as always, a prickle on my shoulder blades. I sped round a corner of the path. Here it led steeply, through a cleft in the cliff, down to the shore. But I turned westwards and made my way farther along the cliff top until I reached a kind of den, or nest, where I had been used to come after the departure of Mr Sam and Mr Bill. In this sheltered nook, among thistles and dried grass, and sloe and bramble-bushes, I could with luck spend hours peacefully doing nothing but watch the comings and goings of the tide.

  And the tide here was worthy of attention. A track led along the shore from Ashett, but natives of the place took it only with discretion and a number of incautious strangers were drowned every season, despite being warned. For the shore here, beyond the point, was treacherous, formed not of sand, but from curious strips of flat striated rock running in mazy patterns, many of them so regular that they appeared to be the work of man, others so irregular that they seemed like the distracted jottings of some giant pencil. Mr Sam had loved to study them from the cliff top and try to describe them in his notebook. Among these rock ledges it was all too easy to be caught by the incoming tide, for it rushed into the bay very fast, and the channels between the strips of rock varied greatly in depth and the water gushed through them in wayward spurts and torrents.

  Down below the spot where I sat, the rock strips ran in huge concentric curves like the markings on a giant oyster. Blue crescents of water showed where the tide was turning; gulls and oyster-catchers whirled and swooped and cried and paddled, feasting on the mussels and whelks and barnacles before they should be covered by the incoming water.

  . . . I sat and longed for the company of Mr Bill and Mr Sam. I remembered those words – ‘long and lank and brown, as is the ribbed sea-sand’. Perhaps Mr Bill had been looking at this very beach when they came into his mind; the curved formations could easily be the ribs of some great beast. Over the next headland a great pale lopsided hunter’s moon sailed upwards, and I remembered how dearly Mr Sam loved the moon. ‘She is the only friend,’ he said, ‘who can accompany you without walking.’

  When I am grown, I vowed, I will go in search of those two men. When I am a woman and have money of my own, I will travel, I will find them. And I made great plans for earning money; I would write plays and tales and verses, as the two men did; I would have my tales published and make a fine name for myself. And besides that, I would be very beautiful, so that people would love me and never notice my hands.

  So I sat and dreamed. And the afternoon floated by like a wisp of cloud, like the soaring moon. As for the boys and the fair, I never gave them another thought, although before I had felt no little pain at being obliged to refuse Hoby’s offer and hurt his feelings. Sometimes he came here to Growly Head with me, and when we were alone together he seemed like a different person. Yet he would soon forget his offer and my refusal, I knew, and simply dismiss me from his mind as a queer little body, full of wayward fancies.

  ‘Child! How still you sit!’ said a voice above me. ‘I have been watching you these two hours and you have never shifted a single inch, I do believe, during the whole of that time!’

  I gave a violent start of surprise, almost, in my confusion, tipping myself over the edge of the cliff.

  ‘Oh, ma’am! How you startled me!’

  ‘Hola!’ she said, laughing. ‘Don’t fall down on to the rocks! Now I am sorry that I took you unawares. That jump you gave when I spoke made up for the whole two hours’ inactivity.’

  She must herself have been sitting equally motionless. For now I saw her plainly – a lady seated quite still in a hammock of grass, up above me and on the opposite side, as it were, of my little gully. The dress and shawl that she had on were thinly striped in straw-colour and grey, and she carried a green lacy parasol; her whole costume might have been designed, and perhaps was, to melt into her background and render her almost invisible. Her face was thin and brown, very tanned; her hair, plainly dressed in bands, was fair, almost grey. She seemed faintly familiar; I thought I must have seen her in the village, but not for some time. Around her neck, on a velvet ribbon, she carried a little pair of field-glasses.

  Her eyes were very strange.

  ‘Don’t hurry off, my child,’ she said, as I began to scramble to my feet. ‘You have as much right here as I . . . perhaps more. Are you from Ashett?’

  ‘No, ma’am. From B-Byblow – from Nether Othery.’

  ‘I believe I may have seen you there. Do you – are you an orphan?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I live with Mrs Wellcome.’

  A light came into her eyes at that. She made a move as if she would have questioned me; but then changed her mind.

  Inquisitively, as a child will, I studied her eyes.

  They were a beautiful dark grey but one of them, the left, was cast or twisted sideways, so that while the right one met my own gaze, the left stared away over my shoulder. This gave a queer effect; a
s if the whole of her mind was never, at any one time, fully upon oneself or upon what she was saying.

  ‘I have been watching the birds,’ she said, smiling, touching the field-glasses. ‘Like you, I take great pleasure in sitting and observing what is to be seen. But in future I shall have less leisure for doing so.’

  ‘I – I am sorry for that, ma’am,’ I said politely. ‘If so be as you enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh no. Oh no, it has been an enforced holiday. Tomorrow begins a new era.’

  I liked listening to her. Her language, her low musical voice reminded me of my two lost friends. But all the time, at my back, I felt the great house with its pricked ears, its staring eyes. As she rose to her feet I scuttled hurriedly up the slope. She sighed.

  ‘Goodbye, my child.’

  ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ I curtseyed and fairly ran off up the hill towards the wishing-gate, wondering where the lady came from.

  ***

  Back at home chaos and consternation reigned. Hannah and Tom were returned from the fair. (I noticed a stout bundle of calico, and so knew what the next two years’ dresses would be made of; no doubt Tom’s tools were in the shed.) The boys, all three, lurked in the back kitchen. Some neighbours were in the parlour. All attention was trained on Biddy, who sat enthroned by the hearth. She was in tempests, in storms, in floods of tears.

  ‘My little Polly! Oh how, oh how could such a calamity have happened? Oh, oh, I’ll never be happy again.’

  Others besides villagers formed her audience, I noticed: Mr Willsworthy from the Hall – why was he here? Also Dr Moultrie, back from conducting his funeral at Over.

  ‘I was gathering mussels on the shore – to make a mussel pie –’

  Why in the world would Biddy Wellcome do that? I wondered. She never gathers mussels. She never ever makes a mussel pie. The only thing Biddy ever does in the kitchen is make herself a cup of tea, and tell the foster-children to gobble down their taties and be off to bed.