Eliza’s Daughter

  As soon as he had gone, Mr Ferrars looked at his watch and said, ‘Elinor, I must be off to see old Goodman Boyce; I had a message from his wife that he is sinking fast. I should have been there an hour ago. I know I can leave you to – to settle the arrangements for Eliza.’

  ‘Of course, my love,’ she said calmly, and, turning to me as he strode out, measured me with her eye. ‘Clothes are the main item; is that bundle all your possessions, my dear?’

  Shamefacedly I said yes.

  ‘It is fortunate that I have it in my power to remedy the deficiency. Mrs Haslam expects her pupils to have a plentiful supply of clothing, though it must be plain, rather than fine. But my daughter Nell has already attended the school for two years – she is there at present for the Michaelmas term. She has been growing fast and though she is younger than you, I believe her outgrown things may serve you well enough. I have them upstairs, laid up in woodruff.’

  With a small crooked smile – the first I had seen – she added, ‘Nothing goes to waste in this house.’

  And so this was how Mrs Ferrars and I spent the rest of that day: stepping upstairs she fetched down a drawerful of neat grey woollen gowns, besides calico petticoats, chemises and other items, most of which required some alteration before they would fit me. Nell Ferrars, I gathered, was a tall girl. There was a cloak, a bonnet, even stockings and gloves, many of which had already been carefully and exquisitely darned.

  I was set to work turning up petticoats; Mrs Ferrars, herself a most superior needlewoman, evidently thought but poorly of my stitchwork. I struggled to improve it under her critical gaze. Meanwhile we talked: she asked me about my life at Nether Othery, and I supplied her with a carefully edited version of the doings there, but gave a fuller account of Lady Hariot’s story, which she heard with considerable sympathy.

  Then I ventured to inquire: ‘Ma’am – can you tell me anything about my parents?’

  She turned on me a startled eye, as if this were not a question that it was at all proper for me to ask.

  After a moment’s reflection, she replied, ‘Your mother – I understand – was a cousin of Colonel Brandon. Of your father – I am able to tell you nothing.’

  I sighed, and said, ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  With a comprehending look she said, ‘Why do you not call me Cousin Elinor? And my husband Cousin Edward? We are not, in fact, related – Colonel Brandon is my brother-in-law – but perhaps that will make you feel more comfortable with us.’

  Poor lady: I could see that she was not at all glad to have me, but was making the very best of the situation.

  I said, ‘When shall I go to the school, Cousin Elinor?’

  ‘I think we may have your clothes ready by next Saturday. On that day every week I send a package of fruit and vegetables to Bath on the carrier’s cart; you can go with it and my maid Cerne shall accompany you. That will incur the least expense for Colonel Brandon.’

  Incautiously I remarked, ‘I thought he was a rich man.’

  ‘So he is. All the more reason why we should take pains to see that his money is used carefully. And’, she added scrupulously, ‘it would not be appropriate to say that he was rich. Comfortably circumstanced would better describe him.’

  Care with money, I soon discovered, was the main element of life in the parsonage at Delaford. Everything spoke it: the darned curtains, the worn rugs, the plain and not very plentiful food. When Mr Ferrars came back from his pastoral visit, I noticed that he turned aside, at once, into the garden and set to work among his rows of vegetables.

  Presently, in walked two people from the street, a maidservant with a shrewd, resigned, humorous face, and a little old lady in a silk mantle and handsome bonnet. She was dressed much finer than Mrs Ferrars – though untidily; she had a vacant and wandering eye.

  ‘Well, Mother!’ Cousin Elinor greeted her. ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’

  The maid gave a sharp nod. ‘Walked as far as the turnpike, we did, mum; she’ll have a rare appetite for her dinner.’

  ‘Cerne was very impertinent,’ snapped the old lady.

  ‘She would go into Ford’s and order a forequarter of pork and eight pounds of sausages,’ explained Cerne with a grim smile.

  ‘I like pork,’ cried the old lady peevishly. ‘You know I do, Elinor! I should fancy a dish of fried pork for my dinner.’

  ‘Pork is far too rich for you, Mother; you shall have some nice mutton stew. (This is my mother, Mrs Dashwood),’ Mrs Ferrars added to me.

  Now the old lady’s eye lit on me. ‘Marianne!’ she exclaimed in a tone of rapture.

  ‘No, Mama. That is not Marianne, though a little like her in feature. But look again! Her hair is quite a different colour. Your Marianne will return home, all in good time, and then we shall be very happy to welcome her. And you will return to the Manor House. But in the meantime this is Miss Eliza Williams, who spends a few nights with us, and then she will go off to school in Bath, with Nell.’

  ‘I don’t like Nell. Nell is a very rude and unkind girl. Sometimes she gives me a push. And she always takes the biggest piece of cake. —But are you sure that is not Marianne? Somehow – somehow – her face makes me think of Marianne – when we were all living at Barton – when we were so happy – so happy – ’ Mrs Dashwood’s face crumpled. She began to cry a little.

  ‘Come, ma’am,’ said Cerne, not unkindly. ‘Let’s get your bonnet and cloak off. And then you’ll be wanting your eggnog.’

  They went upstairs slowly, with much urging from the maid.

  I could hear the old lady crying, ‘There’s a bird in the house! There’s a bird!’

  ‘No, ma’am, there is no bird.’

  ‘There is a bird, I tell you! House! House! Where have you hidden the poor bird?’

  ‘There is no bird, Mrs Dashwood.’

  A door closed, upstairs.

  Cousin Elinor explained, rethreading her needle: ‘When my sister Marianne (Mrs Colonel Brandon) is at home, my mother resides with her, up at the Manor House. It is more comfortable for her there than with us. And Marianne was always her favourite daughter. (I am explaining these things to you, Eliza, because in many ways you seem remarkably sensible and older than your years.)’

  ‘Thank you, Cousin Elinor. When will – will Cousin Marianne come home?’

  ‘In about a year, we hope. I have missed her a great deal since she has been in India – and Colonel Brandon also. They are our dear friends and neighbours. But – for various reasons – he thought it best to rejoin his old regiment and commanding officer, although it meant such a long journey. And it was thought best – my sister was happy to accompany him. She is of a – of a very adventurous temperament.’

  ‘They have no children?’

  ‘No.’ Cousin Elinor sighed. ‘That has been . . . a grief to . . . to the Colonel. But – as matters turned out – perhaps it was fortunate. I only hope that when they do return my brother-in-law will decide to sell out and settle down at last. But I am apprehensive that if General Wellesley is sent to fight Bonaparte in Europe, the Colonel will think it his duty to remain on active service. And in that case I don’t know what Marianne will do. She is so extremely devoted to her husband.’

  Cousin Elinor frowned, knotting her thread. It struck me that Elinor Ferrars was a very lonely lady. I supposed that she missed having her sister to talk to and was using me as a substitute, inadequate though I must be. Mrs Dashwood was plainly touched in her wits; Mr Ferrars seemed to be out of doors nearly all the time, visiting his parishioners or digging in the garden. Very different from Dr Moultrie! – (Though, when together, the pair seemed affectionate enough, in their mild way, a great contrast to the Vexfords.)

  To turn Cousin Elinor’s thoughts, which seemed melancholy, I asked about the school in Bath.

  ‘It is not a very big one, fifty pupils only. But of very high standing. Most sele
ct. Colonel Brandon, very kindly – he is the kindest, most generous man in the world – pays for our daughter to be a parlour boarder there. And my other sister, Margaret, is one of the teachers. But, in the meantime – Eliza – I hope you will not think this unfair on our part –’

  She paused, visibly embarrassed, biting her lips, plaiting together in folds the linen chemise that she was hemming.

  I waited in polite silence.

  ‘We have not entered you as a boarder, you see – Mr Ferrars did not think it right to render Colonel Brandon accountable for such a large expense in his absence – so I have written to Mrs Haslam explaining your – your circumstances, and entering you as a day pupil.’

  I must confess that my heart rose up at this information. I had not expected such a possibility. Indeed I had looked forward, with no little dread and dismay, to five years’ penal incarceration. But I kept my voice and expression carefully blank as I inquired,

  ‘With whom then shall I be lodging, Cousin Elinor?’

  ‘Your cousin Edward and I have an aunt residing in Bath – well, she is my mother’s aunt in fact – Mrs Montford Jebb; she is a widow and lives in – in somewhat straitened circumstances; she will be happy to give you lodging, and she is in New King Street, so that will not be too far for you to walk to and from the school in Queen Square every day. (Mr Ferrars is going to provide you with money to buy yourself an umbrella, for it rains a great deal in Bath.)’

  ‘You are both excessively kind to me, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, no, child; not excessively; indeed – ’ she paused, appearing troubled, and murmured something about her sister Marianne which I did not catch. Then she added, ‘We do no more than our duty, as your nearest connections. Your only connections.’

  I said politely: ‘I shall look forward to meeting my cousin Nell.’

  At that she seemed a little dubious.

  ‘Nell is about two years younger than you, my dear. She will be in a different class. Perhaps it may be best to wait until – to let her make the first overtures. Nell has – ’ Cousin Elinor considered, delicately working her way round a buttonhole, then said, ‘She has been used to be the only child of the house, you see. Her only brother – very sadly – died of a fall from his pony when he was five.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful,’ I said sincerely.

  ‘Yes. Yes it was. Really, Mr Ferrars has never – has never got over it. And so Nell – so Nell – well, we shall have to see.’

  Thus leaving me with no very buoyant expectations of my cousin Nell.

  Later that day, after a frugal meal of pease pie and whey, and stewed apples, and water to drink, I was occupying myself usefully in the garden, sweeping leaves when, unaware of my proximity just outside the window, Edward Ferrars said to his wife: ‘It is best she not be in this house too much. Better if she spends the holidays with Aunt Jebb.’

  ‘Because of the resemblance? You think he might come to hear?’

  ‘There might be talk. The resemblance is so curiously strong. If you recall, Brandon first observed it in Marianne. That was why he – And then your mother, you say, also –’

  ‘Hush! On croit que la petite est au dehors, pas loin d’ici,’ said Cousin Elinor, unaware that my French was probably better than hers.

  This overheard snatch of conversation suddenly filled my mind with the notion that perhaps I was the child of Marianne Brandon. If so, no wonder that Mr and Mrs Ferrars did not want me in their home. But – on the other hand – no wonder they thought it their duty to see that I was provided for.

  So who was my father?

  ***

  On the whole I found it a decided relief to set off for Bath, humbly, in the carrier’s cart, on the following Saturday, accompanied by two hampers of vegetables and the box containing my remade wardrobe. I felt very much as if I myself had been unpicked and made over in a new design. But the real self was still there, watchful, underneath.

  On the journey I talked a good deal to Cerne, the servant, who proved not unfriendly.

  ‘Best give a wide berth to Miss Nell,’ she advised. ‘If ever there was a spoilt, marred young ’un! And proud! She’d not give you the time of day if you had a diamond tied to every hair of your head. I can tell you, there was plenty about the village breathed easier when Miss Fine Airs went off to school. The only friend she ever made was young Ralph Mortimer over the valley. And he got sent away to Harrow. Mind – what young Ralph ever saw in her –’

  I asked about Mrs Jebb. ‘Is she a kind lady?’

  Cerne screwed up her nose reflectively. ‘Well – she’s a mortal deal different since she went to prison.’

  ‘Prison? ’

  ‘Didn’t Mrs Ferrars tell you?’

  ‘No, she certainly didn’t. Mr Ferrars started to say something – but then he was called away to a sick person. Cousin Elinor said nothing at all.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you how it was.’ Cerne settled to her task with relish. ‘For you did ought to know, ’count you’ll say something okward to the poor lady. Five years ago, ’twas, when Mr Jebb was still alive, and he stood by her through thick and thin most faithful, poor gentleman, but it cost him his health, and he was never the same after. He was out with his lady one day a-strolling, and she bought a card of lace at a draper’s shop near the Pump Room, and the next thing, the shopman came a-running after them declaring that Mrs Jebb had slipped two cards of lace into the packet, ’stead of just the one she’d paid for. And Mr Jebb said, no such thing, but let him look to satisfy himself, and so he looked, and – would you believe it – there ’twas! So the constable was called, and the poor lady was committed to jail, till Taunton Assizes. In Ilchester Jail, she was lodged, and the gentleman, her husband, along of her, for he said he’d never desert her in her troubles. And, mind you, iƒ she’d a been found guilty, she could a been hanged! The lace was worth five shillings, you see. Or, at the very least, transported to Botany Bay. Eight months, she continued in Ilchester jail, and then at the assizes, they brought in Not Guilty. In no more than fifteen minutes! They reckoned it was just a wicked try-on by the shop people, they’d slipped it in the parcel. And they’d expected Mr Jebb – who was a warm, and a well-respected man – would pay them hush money, so as to buy them off. But not he! Mr Ferrars reckoned he spent over two thousand pound in legal doings. Oh, there was such a crying and a kissing and a hooroaring when the poor lady was brought in Not Guilty. But it proved the death of him, poor man, he was never the same again, and his business failed, and he died; and after that she was obliged to live very quiet, for although found innocent, some of her former acquaintance fell away from her. She sold up the big house and moved to New King Street.’

  ‘Poor lady. What a terrible thing to happen.’

  I had found the frugal, punctilious and high-minded atmosphere at Delaford Rectory rather tiring and decidedly hard to live up to; I could not help wondering what life with Mrs Montford Jebb held in store, and looked forward to it with a good deal of interest.

  Chapter 4

  Mrs Montford Jebb occupied a small house in New King Street.

  ‘Of course when my late dear husband was alive, matters were very otherwise,’ she told me. ‘Then we resided in far more spacious and handsome premises, a large house in Paragon. But such accommodation would be sadly unsuitable for a lone, lorn widow.’

  To me, Mrs Jebb appeared neither lone nor lorn. Almost every evening three of her particular friends, Mrs Langley, Mrs Chamberlayne and Mrs Busby, came in to play whist, or she went to their houses; during the day, also, she went out a great deal, either on foot or in a chair, to take the waters, visit the shops and meet her acquaintance in the Pump Room or at circulating libraries. She lived comfortably, and kept two maids and a manservant.

  As soon as I had been led into her parlour, Mrs Jebb ordered me: ‘Take off your hat, child, and let’s look at you.’

  The bonnet was
a straw one that Mrs Ferrars had given me (hitherto my only headgear had been a ragged broad-brimmed hat woven of sedge, which Elinor had condemned as uncouth and fit only for the garden bonfire). I took off my hat and placed it carefully on a chair. It was trimmed with white ribbon and I was extremely proud of it.

  Meanwhile Mrs Jebb studied me and I studied her.

  She had once been, I thought, a massively built woman, but was now somewhat shrunk, perhaps by age and calamity. But her voice and manner were still commanding. Her face was very large and square, pale-complexioned, rather ugly, the lips much pursed and puckered, the nose bony. Her hooded eyes, light-grey, had a most unblinking, steady regard. Her hair was scanty and plainly dressed and her attire less stylish than what I had observed on ladies as we drove along the streets of Bath; but still it was evident that all her things were carefully chosen and of good quality. She wore handsome jewels.

  ‘Well, now, Pullett,’ Mrs Jebb suddenly demanded of the servant who had admitted me. ‘Look carefully at the gal. Does she have a colour? A ring? What have you to say about her? Does she give out light? Or darkness?’

  Much startled at these obscure questions, I turned my eyes on the maid Pullett, who bore an almost simple-minded appearance, with brown bulging eyes, long narrow face, clouds of soft dark hair beneath her cap and half-open mouth; I would, from her look, have put her down as slightly wanting in wit, but she answered at once quite sensibly (only I had not the least idea what she meant), ‘Oh, yes, ma’am, she’ve a ring. A good one. Blue, quite bright.’

  ‘In that case she may stay,’ briskly rejoined Mrs Jebb. ‘Take her things up to the back bedroom, Pullett. And you, child, sit down – on that chair, there – and answer my questions.’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but may I first go somewhere and relieve myself? It has been a long ride and there was nowhere along the way – ’

  Mrs Jebb nodded slowly, twice. I saw with surprise that I had surprised her, too, and in some way exceeded her expectations of me.