Eliza’s Daughter (21 page)

‘Looking for my parents.'

‘But why?' She was bewildered. ‘What difference can it make to you if you find them? I never had the least inkling as to who my mother might have been. Does that ever trouble me? Not a whit!'

‘But you do at least know your father? He set you up in your tavern?'

Fanny's father, like Hoby's, I gathered, was a government minister, a high-up official in the Board of Trade. While not officially acknowledging his love-child, he was on friendly terms with her and frequently visited her establishment.

‘Come in with me, Liza – do!' she offered cordially. ‘I am planning to open a coffee shop; in Jermyn Street, probably. You could manage it for me! That would be better than teaching music to a parcel of whining schoolgirls and getting yourself tumbled in the Bath woods by a troop of nasty macaronis.'

‘But, Fanny – I told you –'

‘Yes, well – ' She brushed my denial aside. ‘And, pray, where's the sense in wasting time searching for your pa and ma? If they had wished to seek you out, they would have done so. Now, here's my direction – ' She handed me a card. ‘Think it over, love, if you must, but don't delay too long. Come and see me. I promise you, there's no future for you in music,
or
in teaching – not a jot, not a sop. No one will hire you now, not after the Bath affair. And we females from Byblow, you know, can have no hope of ever being accepted by the Nobs – we have to manage as best we can. And we get along not too badly, I assure you!'

‘I daresay you are right,' I agreed sadly as she surged to her feet, round, cheerful, buxom and vulgar. I tucked away her card and in doing so found another which, up to this moment, I had forgotten, folded into my waist pocket. Bringing this out, I studied it.

‘Dr Giovanni Fantini. Do you know this name, Fanny?'

‘Why yes – I've heard it,' she said vaguely. ‘He is some musical fellow.'

‘White's Club, where is that?'

‘Oh, it is one of the grand clubs. In St James's. Where all the old gagers foregather. Do you know, Liza, how I first guessed that you were in town? One of the girls who works for me – little Sue Scrope – do you remember her? She swore up and down that she'd heard your voice one night – singing in Bond Street. Pho, pho, my love, I told her, Liza would never demean herself to do such a thing. (For if you wish to ruin yourself, once and for
all,
my dear, that is the way to go about it.) And you have now to be extra careful because of the Bath Bucks, besides coming from you-know-where.—Now, my love, do not stay a day beyond your week with old Madam Widdence – do you know what
her
nickname is? The Scarlet Pimperness! – but join up with me, and we shall have such larks! Lassy me, is that the time? I must flit directly! Sam, can you fetch me a hack?'

Off she bounced. I took my way back up Albemarle Street and returned, presently, to Florinda's, since my wish to survey the patrons of those premises was not yet appeased.

And Fortune smiled on me. After an hour or so, in walked the very person I hoped to see: Miss Margaret Dashwood. She was with another lady who took her way upstairs, apparently to be fitted for a gown; Miss Dashwood rather wistfully scrutinized some ribbons and trimmings, but not as if she had any intention of buying.

‘Miss Dashwood,' I said in her ear.

She spun round as if stung.

‘Miss FitzWilliam!' she gasped. ‘Good heavens! How – how very amazing. I had – had no idea that – that you were here – in town.'

She glanced about her apprehensively, as if terrified that some of her acquaintance might see her talking to me.

‘Miss Dashwood – may I speak to you for five minutes? May we go outside?'

She looked in a hunted, nervous way up the stairs; but the lady still had not returned.

‘Wh – why, yes, certainly; that's of course.'

Twittering, she accompanied me into Hanover Square, just a step away.

‘Miss Dashwood, I wish you would tell me anything – anything at all – about my father. Willoughby. Because – after all – you did know him quite well – did you not?'

‘Oh,' she said breathlessly. ‘Well, you must understand, I was just a child – only thirteen or fourteen – when he, when he was making up to my sister Marianne. He really – he really did seem then as if he loved her. He seemed quite besotted about her. And Marianne doted on him. Indeed, we thought it would kill her when he gave her the go-by. He was so very handsome. And attentive! Only of course afterwards we feared it was all a take-in, because just a few months before that he had, it seemed, been so very thick with Miss Wil – with your mother. And then, only a few weeks
after,
proposed to Miss Grey!'

‘But your sister – was she happy with Colonel Brandon?'

‘It was like weak tea after strong liquor,' said Margaret Dashwood unexpectedly. ‘For her. Nothing would ever be the same. That was why she would never consent to have Brandon's child. That was why she would never see
you.'
I gasped. She went on, ‘Oh, I was supposed to know nothing of all this. I am an unmarried lady – not fit for my ears.' She laughed angrily. ‘Of course, we all knew that the Colonel was paying for your upkeep in Somerset. But Marianne refused most vehemently ever to have you at Delaford. Or visit you. Or even permit the Colonel to visit you.'

‘And my mother? Where was she meanwhile?'

Miss Dashwood shrugged. ‘Who knows? Died in some spunging-house, doubtless – like
her
mother before her.'

She gave me a sharp look. Life had dealt Miss Dashwood various knocks, I thought, in the few years since she had taught at Mrs Haslam's school. Her escape from that institution had not been all freedom and frolic.

‘And Willoughby?' I asked.

‘If I were you, Miss FitzWilliam – ' she began. Then her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder. ‘Oh, mercy – ' she breathed.

An oddly familiar drawling voice behind me said, ‘Why, demme! If it ain't my charming sister-in-law. Mag! Mag Dashwood! Looking as guilty as if she'd been caught with her fingers in the church collection plate! And holding a confidential ladies-together yarn with – why, 'pon my soul! If it ain't the Sweet Singer of Bond Street! The Mayfair nightingale! Was anything ever so fortunate!' He peered at me with languid impertinence. ‘Here was I – and my dear lady the other night – all agog to know your name – so that if we should chance to hold a musical party, you might be the chief performer –'

‘Not I!' interrupted his dear lady, who had also been scanning me in a decidedly shrewish manner. ‘I beg you won't include me in your schemes, Mr Ferrars! For I've not the least wish to be connected with this person, not in any way whatsoever. And I'm mightily surprised at you, Miss Dashwood, that you should lend yourself to converse with such a creature!'

But Margaret Dashwood, affrighted, had flitted away from us and hurried off round the corner. I coolly made my excuses, in spite of his calls of ‘Hem! Hem! Excuse me, ma'am! Your servant!' and walked away eastwards, very much annoyed at the interruption, and that I had got so little good out of Margaret Dashwood.

If that impertinent fellow was her brother-in-law, then he must be Robert Ferrars, Edward's younger brother, who had superseded Edward in his mother's affections. But what a contrast between the two brothers! I was not fond of Edward – who could be? – but he was decidedly superior to Robert.

Next day Mrs Widdence came up to me in a most affable, insinuating and smiling manner to say that she had heard tell that I had a beautiful voice, melodious as any nightingale. As to that, said I, opinions might differ, but I had a
trained
voice and could sing, and had given public recitals in Bath.

I waited for her to divulge her purpose in approaching me.

‘Well,' explained Mrs Widdence, ‘in that very ungenteel, low-class establishment as calls itself Tivoli, run by a woman who has the sauce to style herself Madame Deloraine, though to my certain knowledge she's no more Madame and no more Deloraine than that spittoon; plain Jane Higgs she was born in Hackney – '

She paused to catch her breath. I recalled a very superior-looking modiste which I had passed in Bond Street the previous afternoon. Tivoli was the name on the gilded sign.

‘– In that place,' continued Mrs Widdence, ‘they gives musical entertainments. Young ladies playing on the harp and fiddle. To amuse the customers, you know, and 'tice folk in from the street.'

Now, of course, I could see whither she was steering, but chose to remain politely blank until she had explained herself further.

‘I was a-wondering, now, Miss FitzWilliam, if you might see your way to giving us a song or two – of an afternoon, you know – in the Bond Street saloon, of course, not here – if you've no other pressing engagements, that is . . . ?'

Her inquisitive eyes raked me and my unimpressive attire. Plainly, she was dying to know why I spent so much time in her premises, studying the customers.

‘Nothing too lively or – or skittish, you know, Miss FitzWilliam, but just a few elegant ballads, now and then – I esteem as how that would be a very superior class of entertainment to offer the clients. Don't you agree?'

‘And what would you think of paying me, Mrs Widdence?'

At this she looked rather blank, and said after a moment or two,

‘But it would be a 'tisement of you, Miss Fitz, make your name known among the Nobs. I'd no thought that you'd expect
payment
for it – '

I mentioned the sum that I was paid for those concerts in Bath. Mrs Widdence seemed even more shaken.

‘As to that – I don't know – ' she demurred. ‘Seeing as how you pass so many hours in the showroom already. It's not as if –'

‘Ah but, you see, Mrs Widdence, I have my reputation to consider.'

At which she threw me a very sharp look and said touchily, ‘Might I ask what there would be besmirching to your reputation about entertaining my clients, who are drawn, I'd have you know, from the very highest circles?'

‘Oh, I say nothing against your clients, Mrs Widdence, but I must not make myself too – too available, you know.'

‘Well, well,' she began, a little placated.

‘I tell you!' I said, as if the idea had just come into my head. ‘I will give a recital for your Bond Street customers in return for three weeks' free lodging for myself and Pullett. How would that be?'

‘Humph!' she said. ‘You're a young lady as has her two sides screwed tight together, I can see, Miss Fitz! You strike a hard bargain. Well – we'll give it a try. Now – as to what you will wear – '

She wanted me to wear one of her creations – some atrocious bronze-green satin confection. But I was adamant.

‘I'd not be able to sing a note, Mrs Widdence, wearing a robe that was not mine and not paid for. It would shred my voice all to ribbons. And the gown too, like as not!'

She agreed to my terms, though dissatisfied.

‘It'll be no 'tisement of my goods, Miss Fitz, none at all, if they see ye sing looking like a plucked gosling.'

‘I will find something suitable, Mrs Widdence. Pullett shall furbish up one of my evening gowns and make it presentable.'

With that she had to be content. It was agreed that my first recital should take place on the following Saturday, and Pullett spent some of the intervening time in mending the black-and-white muslin that I had worn for the Bath concerts. Very disapprovingly – she did not like this scheme at all.

***

Mrs Widdence's
magazinière,
a tall, willowy lady, magnificently done out in a violet silk gown and lace streamers (and who happened to be really French, escaped years before from bloody doings in Paris), announced to the customers in ringing tones that a musical performance was about to begin.

‘
Mesdames, mesdemoiselles, messieurs! Silence!
É
coutez, s'il vous plaît!'

A few heads turned, curiously.

I took a deep breath and began.

I had asked if I could sit on the counter, but Mrs Widdence did not at all approve of that suggestion.

‘It would give a touch of informality and – and licence to the proceedings, which I do not care for, Miss Fitz. Like some – some creature in a bar! No – you had best stand with your back to the counter – you may have a chair in front of you, so that the clients will not jostle you.'

With that I had to be content.

And it was far harder – immensely harder – than the Bath recitals, where at least we performers were set apart from the audience, on a dais; harder, even, than my desperate venture in the public street, where I was comfortably anonymous, and the passers-by were free to loiter or walk away as they chose.

But here I could sense a kind of annoyance – resentment – affront – as people who had come in simply to buy a pair of gloves – or study colours of ribbons, or to ogle the saleswomen – found themselves willy-nilly exposed to a douche of song.

I sang ‘Where the bee sucks' to Mr Arne's setting – unexceptionable, I thought – and another Shakespeare ditty, ‘Sigh no more ladies,' by Mr Smith. Then, as I felt I was barely holding my audience, who seemed indifferent, if not positively scornful, I broke into the ballad ‘O, she looked out of the window', which had been so successful in Bath. Here, at least, it caused the listeners to stand still for a few moments and slightly abate their chatter – and I ended with a melancholy ballad, ‘The maid betray'd', which happened just then to come into my head.

The reason that this song had been running through my mind was because I had passed several of the preceding days in searching through all the spunging-houses of the city, on a vain search for my mother.
Her
mother, as I now knew, had been discovered by Colonel Brandon in such a place, having been abandoned by husband and lover both, and reduced to her last extremities. And it seemed mournfully possible that, since she was not to be heard of in any other locality, my own mother too might have sunk to a similar condition. Her plans for setting up her own gaming-house might never have come to fruition.

But I had not found her; nor had I encountered anybody who knew anything of her history. I had, though, listened to a sufficient number of other histories – wretched, heartbreaking tales of poor girls enticed to the city on false promises, sunk in a morass of debts which they had no possible means of paying off – since the sale of their own persons, which at first had seemed a simple way out of the difficulty, had proved merely a vicious spiral, yielding continually less and less as their freshness faded, and incurring, as well, the hazard of danger and disease.

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.