The Defiance of Frances Dickinson, page 48
Wendy Parkins was born in Sydney and grew up on the north coast of New South Wales, in Gumbaynggirr country. After studying at the University of Sydney, she began her academic career in Perth before going on to positions at universities in New Zealand and the UK, where she was Professor of Victorian Literature at the University of Kent. Her memoir, Every Morning, So Far, I’m Alive, was published in 2019. She lives in Ōtepoti/Dunedin.
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First published in the UK in 2024 by Legend Press Ltd, 51 Gower Street, London, WC1E 6HJ, info@legendpress.co.uk | www.legendpress.co.uk
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Feathered darkness
(July 1845)
Frances
Farley Hill Court, Berkshire
July 1845
A nightjar rattles. Unbaptised children turn into nightjars if they die, it is said.
My new daughter, pink and plump and not yet two weeks old, sleeps in the nursery upstairs. When I was a girl in that same nursery, curtains drawn against the lingering twilight, a nightjar’s strange churring would tell me I was not the only creature awake, impatient for dawn and for the freedom of park and wood once more.
The bird strikes up again, like a grating whirr within my own feverish head. All is quiet in the house. Earlier, I heard Mama’s door close and Hester’s soft tread pass quickly by. Mother retires early when John is here. No further sound will come from her room; she sleeps deeply after her black drops.
I turn over onto my back and stretch out each leg carefully, feeling that dark, sticky wetness between them. So much blood this past seven years! Worst of all, those glistening clots after a missed flow or two. At first, I had grieved those losses, like that time – in that other place – when I had lain on the floor of my chamber as a dragging ache took hold of me. By then I knew all too well what was happening yet I did not move, staying where John had pushed me down until Betty, my only ally, came to light my fire and found me. She stripped away the bloodied underthings past saving, bringing towels to staunch the flow and carrying away the terrible gobbets that made me shiver to behold, cold to my core.
The dark stain on the rug beneath me that day was so deep it had been a week or more before the rug could be restored to its place, the bare boards of my room a daily reproach. I cringed to think of the servants scrubbing and blotting, cursing me for their extra labours. Ever after, in the right light, I could still make out a shadow on the rug, the stain of failure, but also – tell no one – the trace of a life saved in the losing. Yes, a life saved, I truly came to believe. She who had left nothing but that shadow would never know what it was to walk that wretched house, to be bruised and betrayed there. She was free, unbound, just as her mother longed to be. Or perhaps he – an even more blessed release, if so. He would never be raised to be one of them.
* * *
Dr Bulley says Cecile must be my last, that the blood loss has been perilous and ought not to be risked again. There is damage, he says. He insists, too, that I consider a wet nurse, much to Mama’s disapproval. She had deferred weaning her only child for so long that it was considered almost vulgar in a lady of her station but you scarcely ever cried, everyone marvelled at that, she always says. I grew up robust and fearless, a little wild even. I never sickened – unless from too much indulgence in the kitchen, where Cook knew my taste for all things sweet – until I left this home and went north to that place.
Strangely, my girlish strength seemed to return to me here in the months before Cecile was born. I walked out most days, taking a familiar path to a glade where I could lie at my ease among sun-warmed bracken. Late one afternoon, watching golden strands of web waft in the warm air above me, the flesh on my belly suddenly tightened and I knew my time had come. I lumbered back to my feet and slowly retraced my steps; Cecile was pulled from me with the first streaks of the next day’s dawn.
* * *
When I looked out my windows this morning, having forced myself to get up and walk unsteadily about the room – I must get strong again, quickly! – I saw a row of bedsheets billowing in the breeze. It is Friday, I think, but there has been so much linen stripped from my bed that the maids have been firing up the laundry coppers almost daily. I hope they do not curse me here, too. God knows I am heartily sick of the mocking whiteness of freshly-laundered sheets that become clammy and soiled as soon as I lie in them, and of stale nightdresses, spotted rust-red below, with crusty yellowed patches across my breasts.
I seep, I leak, I cannot be contained. I am ebbing away like a foul tide, and yet John will not leave me alone, coming to my chamber last night after arriving from Scotland, still out of temper with my refusal to be brought to delivery in the house where those little never-babies dwell. A go by, I have heard such creatures called, as if merely passing shades that leave no mark, no pang, no scar.
He had cursed at the mess resulting from his efforts, but I squeezed my eyes shut and kept silent, straining to hear any night sounds from the feathered darkness beyond. After he had finished and gone, I had that dream again, waking with an acrid dryness souring my mouth and the sheet somehow twisted round my throat.
List! A step outside the door, too heavy to be Dinah, checking if I require a night draught or a change of linen. My heart thumps wildly, and, in response, I feel the throb of bruised flesh deep within, the hot sting of torn skin between my legs. I cannot suppress the sob that rises, even though I know that my weakness only inflames him. It is too much to bear. He will destroy me, of that I am certain.
And not me alone? Thoughts of my daughters flood my mind, like small apparitions spirited down from the floor above; the new babe and her three sisters, sleeping in their chamber beside the nursery. I see my own blue eyes staring back at me from their trusting faces and their presence is so strong I smell their young freshness like the first tart apples of the season. Oh, my poor girls, we must take flight!
1
What followed who shall tell?
(June 1838–January 1839)
Frances
Farley Hill Court, Berkshire
June 1838
After much reflection, I have come to the conclusion that Miss Austen was misguided. It would pain Mother’s dear friend, Miss Mitford the authoress, to hear me say so. I usually bow to Miss Mitford’s knowledge on all matters literary and she will brook no criticism of Miss Austen, but so I have concluded and so I commit to this page.
I understand that Miss Austen intended it as a witticism that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife (I may not have that quite right, by the book) but what of a single lady in possession of a good fortune, like myself? Miss Austen’s Emma had only a solitary unwelcome suitor in the form of Mr Elton to contend with, and she was twenty-one. I have been fending off dogged young men (and their mothers) from a tender age, and gentlemen of more consequence than a lowly vicar at that.
Nevertheless, since I was a girl with cropped hair – as Mother preferred for her tearaway daughter – I set my sights on becoming a countess. I wanted to be more than mistress of Farley Hill, leading a life of idle comfort, although I am sure I did not know quite how the lot of a countess might differ from that. Still, the idea of settling forever in the county of my birth was not one to be contemplated, even were I to find an obliging Mr Knightley of my own!
So I bided my time happily enough, awaiting my first London season when I believed a dozen eligible noblemen would vie for my hand, among whom – at last – would emerge the favoured one to whom I would yield, uttering a quiet but heartfelt consent to his impassioned proposal in due course. But even such a nobleman’s son must have more than a title before I would consider bestowing my fortune on him. There must also be an abundance of curling hair and a loose cravat around a manly throat as he knelt to pledge undying devotion to his love, his angel, his life, with the promise of a corsair’s life of adventure by his side.
I must say, in my defence, that such fancies of lords or dukes were not entirely preposterous. Was I not well acquainted with families of high rank and had I not been presented, at twelve, to Queen Adelaide at Windsor Castle? With my hair not quite grown out – so that it could neither be plaited nor curled in an acceptable style – and travelling seventeen miles in the carriage in my first ever white silk dress, I must have been a sight that day. The only child present, I recall being close enough to see that the circlet of diamonds on the queen’s head was kept in place by an uneven row of black hair pins like a wattle hurdle, as if she had dressed in a frightful hurry and wouldn’t sit still for her maid. That vision of regal disarray threatened to rob the event of all its enchantment until I beheld the dazzling spread of bonbons and sugarplums, merely picked at by court
One noble family in particular courted the intimacy of the Dickinsons – by which I mean just Mother and myself, we two alone at Farley Hill Court since poor Father’s death – and it was the daughter of that family, the brave and jolly Lady Penelope, with whom I later shared my plunder of royal sugarplums. Three years my senior, Penelope was a raider of birds’ nests, a wader in rivers, a walker of rooftops, but despite her title was not an heiress like me. Her youngest brother, however, was heir to a considerable fortune through another branch of their family. This little gentleman of my own age was destined for me, I became aware, though we rarely spoke to each other when he was home from Eton as he considered girls of any sort, whether sisters or prospective brides, beneath his interest.
When I reflected, though, on how both my mother and Penelope’s parents shared such a fond hope for our union, I came to feel a strong misgiving for holding so low an opinion of the little lord (for so I always referred to him in my head). I was very partial to his parents, who had shown me nothing but kindness on my visits to Easthampstead Park, and joining our families in marriage at some still far-distant time would secure me a place in their lives and hearts forever. And I might then have a sister, too, my dearest friend in the world, Lady P, and together we two might persuade the little lord to take us on travels who knows where! So while I cherished secret hopes for my first London season when it should arrive, I vowed to behave more charitably towards Penelope’s brother in the meantime.
Thus it was that early last summer, I put this intention into action during a visit from Penelope’s family to Farley Hill – a grand undertaking, as the Marquess’s visits always were, with carriage and outriders fit for a state occasion. The day was fine and the visit had begun with a stroll in our grounds. While Lord Downshire engaged Mother in sustained conversation about farming, to which he was quite devoted, the Marchioness turned aside to inspect the contents of our glasshouse, a modest offering of tuberoses and other sweet-smelling plants and climbers in which Mother delighted. The Marchioness was a study worthy of Tintoretto as she swept gracefully through the greenery, trailing pale silks as soft as they were voluminous. I, to my shame, had already torn a rent in my dress and stained my sash by sliding down a green bank at Penelope’s behest. Now, though, Penelope followed behind her mother as meek as a lamb, having managed to maintain a Parisian bonnet above her sleek black hair without any disarray from our brief escapade, even wearing unsullied gloves, something I baulked at in warm weather.
Penelope, however, was outdone by her brother on this occasion, Arthur being rather a slave to fashion, with his short-fronted tailcoat nipped so tight at his waist that it was as though he had been laced into it, and an abundance of linen at his throat that quite obscured his chin. When eventually the party passed indoors again and was sitting stiffly in our best reception room – Penelope looking as grave as if she had never fired off a pair of pilfered pistols in her life – I saw my opportunity to extend an olive branch to the little lord.
The day is still so fair. Would you care to take a walk further afield with me? I asked him, and was pleased to see expressions of delight on our elders’ faces.
Oh yes, he replied, languidly. Very agreeable, when there is plenty of game.
Oh, I couldn’t say. Perhaps then you would rather not go? Only it is very pretty, I assure you.
He looked at me then as if he wished me I won’t say where, but I persisted with my mission, rising to leave the room, and was rewarded again by his father’s smile as his son followed me.
Now Farley Hill Court is no Easthampstead Park, but the summer garden is always something to lift the heart, surveyed from where we both now stood on the stone terrace, ornamented in the Italian style with vases and festooned balustrades. Like the Boboli in Berkshire, I like to think, although I have never seen Florence. Beneath the terrace steps, garden beds with blooms of every colour punctuated swathes of lawn extending to an open sweep of parkland dotted with oaks and giving way, in turn, to a deep wood of pines.
Although I had gazed on this scene in every season, I thought I had never seen it to such advantage and I turned to my companion, forgetting for the moment his temperamental reserve. Is it not beautiful? I asked. I am sure nothing can exceed it.
The little lord looked quite astonished at my sentiment. Very pretty, he said coolly. Certainly a good country for hunting. Do the hounds often meet here?
Very often, I said, turning away in shame at my ill-advised display of enthusiasm. Still resolved on my course of action, however, I led the way across the park and out of the iron gates.
Where are you going? he asked.
I was going to take you across the common, and through a neighbouring park that is currently uninhabited. The family to whom the place belongs, the Anderdons, are abroad.
He did not demur, so we continued, soon entering the Anderdons’ gates to take a path canopied with chestnuts and bordered by laurels and holly, the whole rather unkempt and unpruned, allowing white anemones to dot the dappled shade. All this time as we walked, though, he uttered not a word until the prolonged silence became painful.
Do you think this picturesque? I asked.
Well, rather out of order, on account of the master’s absence, I suppose, he said. But what a hideous house!
We had left the shelter of the trees by now and were crossing our neighbours’ park, from which the façade of the empty house was visible. I had never thought it hideous but now I saw that its irregularity, reminding me so of something from Mrs Radcliffe, may not have appealed to an Eton man of more urbane tastes.
Is this all there is to be seen? he continued, stifling a yawn.
Well, the place I most wanted to show you lies beyond the rose garden, but I am afraid it will not please you.
He indicated with a languid gesture for me to continue and so I did, coming to rose beds riotous with blooms and heady with fragrance, surrounding a broken fountain in their centre.
My little lord cast a contemptuous glance around . Why surely, Miss Dickinson, you don’t admire this bear garden?
I blushed, stammering something about old Mr Anderdon’s passion for collecting antiquities and how he took little interest in anything beyond his collections, except of course for travelling to Italy each year and always bringing me back a trinket.
The little lord was unmoved. Still, I remained committed to my ill-considered expedition and, indicating the narrow path to a truly wild place, led the way until Arthur came to a halt, his coat-sleeve caught on a bramble.
What strange place is this? Had we not better go back? I am not exactly equipped for so savage an expedition. I see nothing ahead but an old gravel pit and this furze is most disagreeable.
Seeing my special place through his eyes now, I blamed myself for a fool. I begged his pardon and we turned back, reaching Farley Hill’s terrace once more, where the Marquess was taking in the prospect.
Well, young people, he said, have you enjoyed yourselves?
Miss Dickinson prefers rather rough walking, I heard Arthur say to his father as I passed inside.
Penelope sprang from her seat and pulled me away from where our mothers sat talking over the tea table in the small anteroom we call the China Closet. I thought you had eloped! she said, taking my arm and turning me back towards the terrace.
No fear of that, I said.
Well, do come into the garden with me, I am tired to death of sitting among your mother’s horrid china in that tiny room. Such ugly things she has, Fanny! Has your bailiff’s dog had her puppies yet?
But the day had lost all its charm and I was impatient for the carriage to be brought to the door so the illustrious party could depart. Eventually the plumed horses stood pawing the ground, the outriders in liveried readiness. The Marchioness who never, even in her sleep I believe, forgot her status, advanced to the carriage with her usual slow dignity, accompanied by Penelope, bored once more, while the little lord mounted his horse and raised his hat in a manner that could not be more disdainful than if he had snubbed his nose at me. When the whole party was out of sight, I ignored my mother’s urging to return inside with her to talk over the day, instead striking off across the park again, where I burst into a passion of tears. If all the world is like Arthur, I cried, then I hate the world.
