Eliza’s Daughter (23 page)

‘But – good heavens,' I said faintly, thinking that ‘put their heads together' was hardly an accurate description, ‘the
risk
that she took – that they took – ' And several different kinds of risk, I thought. For were they really so philanthropic in their motives, simply seeking to give the Duke an inheritor for his mansion? Or did they in fact love one another, was it an affair of the heart, rather than pure disinterested benevolence? For the Duke was, after all, twenty-seven years my mother's senior, and Michael Ravensworth no doubt a handsome young captain, a dashing and romantic figure? Well, I should never know. Certainly not from the Duke, who had loved them both equally and seemed sincerely grieved. Perhaps – I could not help thinking – matters had turned out well for the Duke – though tragically enough for the younger pair – all of them being spared sad discord and disillusion in later days.

‘Did you ever meet my father, sir – Mr Willoughby?'

No, he said, he had not.

‘But my friend Sir John knew him well; Sir John will tell you anything you wish to know. Ah, he was a sad scapegrace, I fear. But still, as he is your parent, my dear Lizzie, we will not disparage him too much. As to his whereabouts now, I know nothing; but perhaps Sir John will be better informed.'

***

In the meantime it was strange – most strange and ghostly – to live in the great house at Zoyland where my mother, whom I had never met – not to remember at least – had contrived to leave such an imprint of her personality. There were dogs she had reared, birds she had tended – for Eliza, it appeared, was devoted to animals; she had owned parrots, monkeys, even a tortoise, a grass-snake and a hare; some of these, in the interim, had died of natural causes; some – the monkeys, for instance – had been found too poignant or too tiresome a reminder and had been dispatched to other homes; but a great red-and-grey parrot still sat on a perch in the morning room and once in a long while would raise its heavy head and scritch out,
‘Good day, Eliza!'
in a harsh voice that never failed to send a freezing shiver down my spine. An old spaniel, which had been her favourite, would sometimes come and sit with its head upon my knee.

In a drawer of her bureau, in the little room that she used as her study, I found papers – notes, jottings, household reminders – in a hand strangely like my own – a list of suggested gifts for the domestics at Christmas-time. And a footnote to the list: ‘But what shall I ever give
him?
So good – so universally kind – but already so amply supplied with all his needs – except the one – oh, me!'

And on a loose page at the end of this collection, I found some handwritten lines under the superscription,
Willoughby
:

In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys

Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise;

Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow

Breathed forth in happier days, are irksome now

Denied that smile 'twas once my heaven to see

Such scenes, such pleasures, are all past to me.

Poor Eliza! Sadly, sympathetically, I wondered how long my mother had continued to entertain such feelings for her faithless lover – and was mildly relieved, when I discovered, some months later, that she had not composed the lines herself, but merely copied them from the works of Cowper.

I visited her grave very regularly – sometimes with the Duke, sometimes alone. He, almost daily, brought fresh flowers to it – generally of a violet hue if it could be managed, for that, he said, was her favourite colour. The grave lay at the farthest end of the little churchyard which adjoined the pleasure gardens of Much Zoyland house, so that to reach it one need only cross the lawn and pass through a lych-gate.

‘I can see the stone from my bedroom window,' the Duke told me fondly. ‘So, I think she cannot be lonely there. And it is a solace to me to see the stone.'

On it he had inscribed
My dearly loved Eliza,
and the date of her death.

Tucked into the volume of Cowper's verses (in which I found the foregoing lines) I later discovered another piece of handwritten verse which touched me deeply:

To my Daughter

Dear Child! I cannot hear thee cry

I cannot see thy face

For us, all life must saunter by

And yield no meeting place.

Yet through Death's final Gate, I trust

Thy countenance to see

That Doom, which turns us all to dust

Can hold no fears for me.

These lines I have found nowhere else, so concluded that they must be Eliza's own.

Besides these things there were countless cushions that she had embroidered, tapestries that she had stitched, views and landscapes framed upon the walls that she had painted in water-colours or in crayons. There was a whole drawer full of fans – silk, ivory, lace, parchment, plumes – to which, sorrowfully, I added the one she had given me. There were her books – novels, chiefly, but also some volumes of essays and poetry – shelved in an alcove.

It was strange indeed, thus slowly to become acquainted with her.

There was even an old hack that she had been used to ride, out to grass in a paddock. I had never learned to ride in proper fashion – though, of course, with the boys, I had from time to time scrambled bareback over the moors on rough Exmoor ponies – so riding lessons now took their place on my timetable, along with singing and music lessons, languages and literature.

Although I had myself been a teacher at Mrs Haslam's school, I was soon – though in the most kindly and considerate manner – made to understand that there were grave gaps and deficiencies in my education.

‘But sir – to what end is all this?' I said to the Duke one day, when he handed me a volume of memoirs which he said would enlarge my knowledge of European history.

‘Education, my dear Lizzie, is an end in itself. You are already a young person of considerable parts; you have intelligence and a mind of your own; that mind requires to be fed; with learning at your command you need never be at a loss. You will have resources, you can entertain yourself. And,' he added, ‘those about you.'

‘If I could be trained for some post or position,' I said, thinking of Hoby and his waterways.

‘Ah; that, my dear, I am afraid is out of the question.'

The Duke spoke with kind finality, and went off on his own concerns.

While riding about the park at Zoyland, while dutifully following my mother's example in stitchery (but without her proficiency), while practising my piano and taking voice lessons from Dr Fantini, a most exacting teacher – I had ample time to think and reflect and remember.

I thought of Mrs Jebb a great deal, and related her story to the Duke.

He, as always, displayed the liveliest interest in my narration. ‘You have such a knack of depicting character, my dearest Liz! I can almost fancy she were here in person. I am sure I should have taken great pleasure in her company.'

‘I am sure that you would, sir; and she in yours. But, to this day, I cannot determine whether she really did steal that first piece of lace or not. The gloves I know she took, but I am fairly certain that was just to tease the shopkeeper, who had been pestering her. But if she did it, what was her reason? Her motive? She commanded a comfortable income. She had no need to steal.'

‘I would hazard the guess,' said the Duke, ‘that she was bored, and needed the fillip of danger to enliven her days. Ladies, as well as men, need these stimulants, I believe. In my time I have known members of the fair sex who were wild gamblers. Or who followed the hunt like Valkyries.'

I looked at him in astonishment. His explanation was so simple, so obvious! And it occurred to me that the same explanation might account for my mother hazarding her life, taking her terrible chance.

And yet it never struck the Duke that the same conditions, the same constraints, might apply to me also . . .

‘Do sing your new canzonet, my dear,' said the Duke. ‘I like it so much. And then we will fetch in Solomon, and you and he shall play those Haydn duets.'

Music was the Duke's greatest passion. He was in ecstasies, listening, and was happy to sit for hours, beating time upon his buckskinned thighs – or on his kettledrum – and singing out loud whenever the music presented a theme that
could
be sung.

Naturally, as it was not yet July, and the Houses of Parliament were still in session, the Duke departed at intervals for his London mansion to take part in debates.

‘Later on I shall be wishful to bring you up to town with me, my dear Liz,' he told me, ‘to bear me company as your lamented mother always did. Indeed I could hardly bear to pass a day without her! And I am growing to feel the same about you. But I must not be selfish, and you are better employed at this present in learning your books and singing your scales here at Zoyland.'

To tell truth, I wondered a little whether his wish for female company, my mother's and now mine, was motivated in part to prove something about himself to the Polite World: that he could still command the affections of an elegant, accomplished young person. Or was it from pure affection? Affection, without doubt, played its part; I missed his company – always good-tempered, always well-informed and lively – when he was up in town. But it gave me more time to read, think and be myself.

‘This is a
good
berth,' said Pullett. ‘This is the best berth I ever was in. Or you, for sure, Miss Liza. Mind you never do anything to offend His Grace.'

Pullett had struck up a cordial relationship with Mrs Budgen, the housekeeper at Zoyland; and the two ladies spent hours together, mulling over the talents, propensities and defects of my mother, and deciding which of my qualities descended from her.

‘That hand, now! Wherever can she have had it from? Her mother's was the same. But we don't know who
her
father was.'

‘Some gypsy, for sure.'

They nodded their heads sagely together.

The Duke, surveying my hands with concern, though without the least repulsion, told me that if I wished he would pay for the best surgeon in Europe to operate on both hands, reduce my number of fingers to the norm and alter the large hand to ordinary dimensions. I thanked him most sincerely, and said I would give the matter a great deal of thought before coming to any decision, an attitude of which he approved.

Pullett was against tampering. ‘Leave matters be, Miss Liza,' she said. ‘As ye were made, so should ye remain. Doubtless Providence had some end in view.'

Another counsellor of the same opinion was Tark, the head groom, who used to accompany me on rides when the Duke was in London.

‘Never touch that elf-hand, Missie,' he said. ‘'Twould be fell unlucky. And so I'll tell His Grace, if you wish it.'

‘Why, Tark? I believe you, but why?'

‘Ah,' he said. ‘My old grandma had gypsy blood. From Savernake Forest she come, where there was a big tribe of 'em, those days. And she'd say that a hand like yours, with six fingers, was mighty lucky, and a sign that, soon or late, it'd win ye your heart's desire – some such thing.'

‘I see. Well, it has been lucky once already,' I said, remembering the rescue of Triz. What a long time ago that seemed!

I told the Duke about my friendship with Mr Bill and Mr Sam, and he was deeply interested.

‘I have all their verses, of course. And I believe your Mr Sam comes sometimes to lecture in Bristol. Would you wish to hear him, if he does so again?'

‘Oh,
sir
! Could I?
Could
I?'

‘No reason in the world why not.'

Indeed, in the autumn of that year, I do not recall whether it was October or November, the Duke was kind enough to take me, as he had promised, on a special excursion to Bristol, to hear Mr Sam speak on literature at Mangeons' Hotel. The Duke had lately been suffering somewhat from the gout, and thought a course of treatment at Bristol Hot-Wells would not come amiss; so thither we proceeded with both objects in view.

I will not conceal that to leave Zoyland for a few days now and then, to tread the streets of a city, visit shops and circulating libraries, was no great hardship for me. The Duke hired a house in Dowry Square and sent servants and linen ahead to make sure that all would be comfortable, since the weather was sharpening and setting in for what later became a memorably cold winter. Meanwhile, over on the continent of Europe, Napoleon's empire was collapsing into ruins.

And I sometimes wondered if, now that the fighting was as good as over, Colonel Brandon and his lady would return to England – though, even if they were to do so, as matters now stood it did not seem likely that this event would affect me in any way.

In Bristol – despite the attractions of Hot-Wells, the Pump Room, the shops, the coffee houses and the excellent public library – I was, of course, devoured, possessed with one expectation, one feeling only – the thrilling knowledge that soon I was to see my dear Mr Sam again.

The Duke cautioned me, very kindly, very solicitously.

‘I am afraid, my dear, that you may find him sadly changed. I have heard from several sources that he is not a well man; he drinks intemperately and, they say, takes a deal too much laudanum. Eh, bless me! These poetical fellows, they do drive themselves with a cruel spur.'

On the night of the lecture, the Duke's agent procured for us excellent seats in the front row of the ballroom at Mangeons' Hotel, so that I was able to see only too well the sad changes in my dear Mr Sam.

He arrived late, with no apology for this, and proceeded to talk with terrific speed and intensity. His subject was Shakespeare.

The very moment he began speaking, I forgot all about his changed appearance – he had grown stouter since I saw him last, and therefore looked shorter; his face was plumper and flushed, and his hair somewhat thinning, lighter and greyer in colour than I remembered; his eyes remained exactly the same, large, dark, soft and dreamy; his clothing was decidedly soiled and unkempt, neckerchief disordered, and his right leg greatly swollen.