The Weeping Ash

  Eleven

  Thomas’s mother died the night she had been taken ill. Fanny was sitting with her at the time of her death, but the old lady had sunk into a stupor several hours before and did not regain consciousness; the precise moment of her passing was marked only by the cessation of her soft, shallow breaming. Fanny folded the thin freckled hands together and then knelt and silently prayed, commending the troubled spirit to its maker.

  Outside, a few birds were just beginning, cautiously, to try their morning notes. It was very early, before five o’clock; the sun was not yet visible over the eastern hillside. After the heavy rain that had fallen during the night, the valley was filled with mist.

  Fanny debated with herself as to whether she ought to call Nurse Baggot. There did not seem to be much purpose now, since all was over, in disturbing the woman’s repose; she had been up until midnight and might as well be allowed to have her sleep out. Reluctant, however, to stay in the close, fetid sickroom, longing for purer air, Fanny softly opened the door and slipped downstairs; throwing her old pelisse over her shoulders, she made her way to the back door, undid the chain, making as little noise as possible, and stood on the step, drawing in lungfuls of the damp, cool freshness, which seemed loaded with garden scents—she could detect the fragrance of clove pinks, wallflowers, early roses, narcissus, and the cascading fruit blossom in the orchard. After such delicious refreshment, to turn back into the dark, shuttered house seemed out of the question. Fanny was shod in house slippers and dared not seek her pattens for fear of rousing somebody; the rain-soaked lawn was therefore debarred to her. She turned, instead, up the graveled lane which, being on a slope, remained sufficiently dry, and walked slowly past the orchard, gazing up at the opulent garlands of white-covered boughs tracing their fantastic designs against the gray-blue sky. She knew, remorsefully, that she ought to regret the old lady’s passing, but in all honesty she could not; she had tried to love Mrs. Paget, but there had been little lovable in that querulous, selfish, sly, self-pitying character. It occurred to Fanny, moreover, with a lightening of the spirit, that there was now no occasion for Nurse Baggot to remain in the house; which would run very much more easily without her rather disagreeable presence.

  But I won’t think of her now, resolved Fanny; the morning is too fine for that; and having walked as far as the gate at the top of the lane, she stood gazing longingly out into the silent street, wondering if she dared take a turn around the town. Not a soul was stirring and it seemed wholly improbable that anybody would see her or that such an escapade would come to the ears of Thomas.

  Intrepidly, Fanny ventured out, almost tiptoeing over the damp cobblestones. She felt as if the silent town belonged to her alone; as if she, rather than the people obliviously sleeping inside them, owned the tiled, thatched, and timbered houses and the little patches of bright garden before them stuffed with primroses, wallflowers, and forget-me-nots. Only in the market square were there signs of human activity; a pair of smocked carters drowsily unloaded a wagon stacked with turnips, greens, wooden milk churns, and dairy produce.

  Up past the church Fanny went, along the narrow street called Bywimbles, and now she remembered that she must write a note to Mrs. Socket, commanding to her care Mrs. Rapley, the bedridden mother of Tess’s cousin Tom, who had been seized by the press gang. She wondered which of the little rickety houses was occupied by Mrs. Rapley; they formed a huddled row between the church and Petworth House, jammed close together against its great enfolding wall, as if for warmth and protection.

  Fanny entered the church, which was quiet, dark, and still held some of the warmth of the night; here she knelt again and, after praying for the repose of Thomas’s mother, said another prayer for Thomas himself, and asked guidance in her own difficulties, particularly in her relationship with her husband. “Let me seek to do what is right,” she prayed humbly, “that is all I ask.”

  Soothed and strengthened by this brief interlude, she walked out, along the rosemary-bordered graveyard path, and back toward the street. By the lych-gate she was surprised to see a woman who might be in her midthirties, but so thin and worn that she looked older; she was dressed plainly, like a servant, in brown bombazeen gown, white handkerchief, wool stockings, and trodden shoes; but, strangely enough, she wore a fine lady’s hat, or what had been one once; now it was sadly crushed and worn, its feathers draggled; under its frayed brim her face looked pale and wild. She gave Fanny a nervous, calculating glance, as if assessing her alms-giving capacity.

  “Can I be of any help to you?” gently inquired Fanny, since the woman continued to stand in her path. “I am afraid I have no money on me, but—”

  “No, no, it’s not money I require. I have a very little money, I have sufficient, I am in no anxiety about that,” returned the woman, in such a quick low mutter that it took a moment for Fanny to understand her. Strangely enough her voice was not that of a servant; it had a certain refinement. “No—no—what I need is a lodging, nothing too fine, just a room, a quiet room, and it must be cheap, very cheap; I have been wandering about the town all night because I did not know where to apply, whom to ask; can you perhaps tell me of a house where I might find such a room? A lodging with a single lady would be best; I do not wish to be in the company of men, no, no God forbid!”

  Fanny wondered what had happened in the poor creature’s life to give her such a distaste for men; then, recalling the horrible occurrence of the day before, she had a sudden inspiration.

  “In the little house close by the church there is a Mrs. Rapley who is bedridden, and her son has just been—has just gone for a sailor; I think she might be very glad to have a quiet, respectable lodger; if it was somebody who would do a few errands for her, I daresay she would not ask too much rent.”

  “Close by the church? I should like that. Yes, that would suit me excellently,” replied the thin woman, always in that soft, slightly distracted mutter.

  “But you had best wait awhile before disturbing her,” said Fanny. “It is full early yet. And you—you have references, I suppose—as to respectability, you know?”

  “Oh yes, I can furnish references.” The woman gave a soft, odd coughing laugh. “References, ay, ay, plenty, plenty of references. I have friends in the town!”

  “Then if I were you I should wait a little—”

  “Wait a little—yes, I will wait. I will take a stroll out into the fields, until people are stirring—the fields are pleasant at this time of year, are they not, with the lady’s-smocks and bluebells, the primroses and cowslips and kingcups by the brook? Yes, yes, the fields are pleasant enough in summer!” And, swinging awkwardly on her heel, she walked away. Fanny stood gazing after her, wondering if she had done right in directing this poor crazed wanderer to Mrs. Rapley.

  But I will mention it to Tess, she thought. I will give Tess leave, by and by, to slip up and see if the woman is lodging with her aunt; if she does not seem satisfactory, I will tell Mr. Socket. He will know what to do for her.

  The church clock now striking six reminded Fanny that she had better not linger, or the servants would be stirring, and astonished to see her. Rapidly, therefore, she walked along East Street to where the Hermitage lane ran down past its orchards.

  Reentering the gate, she was startled and appalled to discover an inscription in six-foot-high letters splashed in white paint across its wooden slats: SCOUNDRELLY MURDERER! they proclaimed raggedly; the paint from the final R had run down and made a white pool on the gravel below. Could I have missed noticing that on my way out? Fanny wondered, aghast, and then realized that the paint, in fact, was still wet, the white still trickling down; somebody, might have come and painted the message while she, Fanny, was walking around the town or in the church. Thomas will be almost mad with rage, she thought, and then remembered that there had been a similar incident on the previous evening; he had sent Jem to wipe away the offending inscription. Well, she must do the same; perhap
s, with luck, Thomas need not come to hear that the unpleasantness had been repeated. Jem should be at his work by now, cleaning the knives and boots, fetching water from the well. Or Goble might be in the garden. Who could have done it? A relative, perhaps, of the impressed Tom Rapley had furiously splashed up the word before setting off to his morning’s work? But just to have had a kinsman taken up by the press gang hardly seemed sufficient cause for such venom?

  At the foot of the lane, Fanny was relieved to see the bent figure of Goble in his sacking apron and leather leggings, carrying a bale of straw to the strawberry bed.

  “Goble!” she called softly. “Here a moment, if you please!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Goble, some wicked person has written shocking words on the gate—will you wash them off, please, before Captain Paget goes that way?”

  “Words, ma’am?” He looked as puzzled as if she had addressed him in a foreign language.

  “Unkind—untruthful things.” Fanny could not bring herself to repeat the inscription. “Pray wash it off as soon as possible, Goble.” She was going on toward the house but, on reflection, turned to add, “Oh, Goble, I am sorry to inform you that old Mrs. Paget was taken ill and died last night. I know that you—were fond of her.” She was not truly certain if this had been the case, but at least there seemed to have been some kind of a bond between the old lady and Goble, who had been prepared to push her about the garden in her wheel chair and exchange disconnected, rambling remarks with her. Fanny went on, “When you have cleaned the gate, would you be good enough to pick some bunches of flowers that I may put in her chamber.”

  Goble looked at her vacantly. Sometimes, of late, Fanny had wondered if he were beginning to fail in his wits, his manner was so strange, wandering, abrupt.

  “Died?” he repeated. “Eh—died? Who died then?”

  “The old lady—my—Captain Paget’s mother. Old Mrs. Paget. Whom you were used to push about the garden in her basket chair.”

  A spark of understanding came into his eyes. “Oh! Ah! The owd ’un. But her weren’t Missus Paget. Missus Wilshire, her were.”

  “Yes, I am sorry, you are in the right of it,” Fanny said gently. “We had fallen into the habit of calling her Paget, because my husband preferred it. Will you pick some flowers for her, please, Goble?”

  And she went into the house.

  But, behind her, she could hear Goble muttering to himself, over and over, “Her weren’t no Paget. Wilshire, her were.”

  * * *

  The funeral arrangements for old Mrs. Paget took a week and necessitated the deferment of Thomas’s trip to London to purchase accoutrements for the Petworth troop. This put him in a bad mood, as did the discovery, communicated by her lawyers in the Isle of Wight, that the old lady’s fortune had been totally sunk in her annuity and there was no more to come; Thomas discovered to his great chagrin that he was out of pocket over the whole affair and would have to pay the funeral expenses himself.

  The black temper thus engendered should have been a warning to Fanny not to raise other dangerous topics, but she was so anxious to have the matter settled before his departure for London that she risked his displeasure.

  “Thomas,” she said to him timidly as he was shaving on the morning of his departure. “Now that your mother is—is no longer with us, should we not dispense with the services of Mrs. Baggot?” He swung around, razor in hand, and stared at her with so intent a gaze that she became even more nervous, but persevered. “After all, there is very little for her to do now—indeed I hardly know how she occupies herself all day long—and—and her wage must constitute a considerable part of the household expenses, which I know you are always concerned to reduce—”

  She faltered to a stop under the ferocity of his expression. He said venomously:

  “Just because you have taken that poor woman in dislike is no reason wholly to overlook the interests of the rest of the household. But that is always your habit! Selfish, sullen—never thinking of others’ convenience, but only of your own? You know full well why I do not permit you to accompany me to London. Because I cannot trust you out of my sight, after what happened last time. Are you prepared to tell me now what you did with yourself during that period when you were gone?” he suddenly demanded, grasping Fanny’s arm so tightly that the bruises and nail marks remained on her skin for days afterward.

  “Are you?”

  “No, Thomas, I cannot do that,” she said quietly, clenching her knuckles to prevent herself from crying out with pain.

  “Tell me, curse you!”

  “I cannot,” she repeated.

  “Then damn your eyes for a sly, secretive bitch! And you expect me to dismiss Mrs. Baggot—why, she is the only one in this household that I can trust! Who is to advise Mrs. Strudwick? Who is to take little Patty for walks, pray, if Mrs. Baggot leaves? Who is to instruct Bet in sick-nursing? Who is to rub my back, which, of late, has been giving me such shocking pain that, without her ministrations, I sometimes do not know how I am to endure to the day’s end?”

  Fanny’s mouth fell open under the injustice of this tirade. She did not like to say that never, to her knowledge, had Mrs. Baggot been seen walking with little Patty or instructing Bet; she murmured:

  “I did not know, husband, that your back pained you; I could rub it for you, I am sure, if you would tell me where it troubles you—your mother used to like me to rub her back—”

  “You? Of what use are you?” he said savagely. “All you are good for—” And he added such a string of obscenities that she stood in stunned silence with her face the color of chalk, so frozen that she could not even put her hands over her ears. “Mrs. Baggot remains in the household!” he concluded. “So let me hear no more on this matter!”

  However the arrival, soon after breakfast, of the one-legged Captain Holland, who was to accompany Thomas on his mission, raised the latter’s spirits again, and he bade farewell to his family with a briskness that was his closest approach to geniality, and urged his daughters not to be idling during his absence but to work hard at their tasks, and perhaps he might bring them a ribbon apiece from London. “But only if you are good, mind,” he added.

  Fanny, seizing advantage of this milder-seeming mood and the public occasion, displayed a note which had just arrived by messenger, and, as her husband turned to bid her a cold good-bye, said to him:

  “Thomas, here is an invitation just come to hand from Lady Mountague, asking me to spend the day with her at Cowdray Park next Friday. Will it—will it be proper to accept?”

  Thomas’s expression betrayed his conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he did not wish to lose this promising and eligible connection. On the other, he wanted to deprive Fanny of any possible pleasure. After a moment’s struggle, he replied shortly:

  “Very well. You have my permission to accept. You must take the girls with you, Patty and Bet. It will be of value to them to study the usages of good society, to see how things go on in an aristocratic establishment.”

  He climbed into Captain Holland’s chaise, which was to carry both men to London. His daughters waved their handkerchiefs, the driver cracked his whip, and they were gone; Fanny stepped back into the house with a wonderful lightening of her spirits and sat down to write an acceptance of Lady Mountague’s invitation.

  The next few days passed in unusual and delightful good humor and calm; the absence of Thomas and the peevish melancholy spirit of old Mrs. Paget rendered the household so much more agreeable that there seemed a benign spell over the Hermitage. It soon became plain that Mrs. Baggot had been instructed by Thomas to keep a sharp watch over his wife, and for the first two days of his absence Fanny was half humiliated, half entertained by the pertinacity with which Mrs. Baggot followed her about wherever she went. By degrees, however, this surveillance slackened; it was evident that the nurse had received extra pay in advance for these services
and that some of this had been laid out in spirits; on the third day she was not to be seen, and a strong odor of gin and peppermint was exuded from her chamber. Happy in the termination of this disagreeable espionage, Fanny now spent as much as possible of her time working in the garden, where her assistance was accepted by Goble with a sort of morose resignation. Even, very occasionally, her suggestions were followed, though never without modification, argument, and the lapse of a certain amount of time—“Do you not think, Goble, that a border of heartsease and forget-me-nots would look pretty around the wellhead, inside the brick path?” “Dannel it, missus, why do ’ee allus be ettling to clutter up the place wi’ such dung-headed notions? Who needs posy flowers about a wellhead?”

  “But it would be something pleasant for you and Jem to look at, Goble, as you draw the water?” At such a nonsensical suggestion he only snorted derisively and added, as if that clinched the matter, “’Sides, I can’t shift they heartsease afore we gets a haitch o’ rain; soil be unaccountable dry.” Yet, a few days later, the pansies and forget-me-nots would be planted around the well, just as she had envisaged them. She soon learned not to be too quick and obtrusive in her thanks, or she would elicit some sour, sarcastic snort and muttered comment about “Okkerd grummut fanteagled notions”; it was better to let a number of days elapse and then casually remark, “The pansies are looking well after the rain, Goble.” “That’s as may be, missus.” A sniff. “Don’t some mouldiwarp dig ’em all up, they’ll maybe do.”

  The garden was a pleasant place, these days, with Goble muttering Biblical texts to himself among his rosebushes in the formal beds, little Patty bouncing her ball against the stable wall, Bet with her needlework under an apple tree, and Jem tunelessly whistling as he scythed the grass; no Thomas in the garden house to reprove Fanny if she paused from her labors to stroll the length of the yew-tree walk and lean over the wall, gazing at the valley’s green bowl, where a cuckoo called all day long.

  On Friday there came a check to all this amiability. Little Patty appeared at breakfast with a thick red rash covering her face which, on further inspection, proved to extend all over the rest of her body. She was irritable, querulous, and lachrymose; bursting into a passion of screams and tears when Dr. Chilgrove, on being summoned, diagnosed a sharp case of nettle rash and recommended that she be kept in bed on a low diet.