Eliza’s Daughter by Joan Aiken Page A

Vexfords.)
    To turn Cousin Elinor’s thoughts, which seemed melancholy, I asked about the school in Bath.
    â€˜It is not a very big one, fifty pupils only. But of very high standing. Most select. 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.
    â€˜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,
    â€˜With whom then shall I be lodging, Cousin Elinor?’
    â€˜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.)’
    â€˜You are both excessively kind to me, ma’am.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Oh, how dreadful,’ I said sincerely.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Because of the resemblance? You think he might come to hear?’
    â€˜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 –’
    â€˜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