‘My…my nurse. The one who brought me here. The one you sent away.’
‘The native woman.’
‘Maddy was a Creole, Aunt Cassandra. She and Mama were friends. I loved them both. Very much.’
‘A most unsuitable woman to have charge of you. Your grandfather was right to get rid of her. So your mama laughed on St Marthe, did she? I am surprised. But then she always found something to amuse her. I daresay it amused her to run off with your father. Whether she was quite so amused when you were born, I do not know. You see, Fanny…’ Miss Shelwood paused here as if she was wondering whether to go on. Then her lips tightened and she said slowly, ‘Tell me your name.’
Francesca wondered why her aunt should make such a strange request, but she took a deep breath and answered quietly, ‘Francesca Shelwood.’
This time the pause was even longer. ‘Fanny Shelwood,’ said Miss Shelwood in a voice which boded no good for Francesca. ‘Fanny. Not…Francesca. Francesca is a ridiculously pretentious name. An absurd name for such a plain child.’
Francesca remained silent. This was an old battle, but, though everyone else now called her Fanny, she would remain Francesca in her own mind. Her mother—the mother she only dimly remembered—had called her Francesca, and she would never give it up. Her aunt waited, then went on, ‘Where did the name, Fanny Shelwood, come from?’
‘You said I had to be called Fanny, Aunt Cassandra.’
‘Are you being deliberately obstructive, Fanny, or simply very stupid? I refer to your surname.’
‘Grandfather said I was to be a Shelwood. After I came here.’
‘Quite so. Have you never wondered why?’ The little girl had been pleased that her grandfather wanted to give her his name. It made her feel more wanted, more as if she belonged. She had accepted it, as she had accepted everything else. She had never questioned his reasons. She shook her head.
‘It was because, Fanny, as far as we could tell, you had no other name to call yourself.’
‘I…I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Cassandra. I was called Francesca Beaudon at home on St Marthe.’
‘Francesca…Beaudon.’ Her aunt’s lip curled as she pronounced the name. ‘What right had you to such a name, pray?’
Francesca was completely puzzled. What did her aunt mean? She shook her head. ‘I…I don’t know. Because Papa’s name was Beaudon?’
Miss Shelwood leaned forward. ‘You had no right whatsoever to the name of Beaudon, Fanny Shelwood! None at all! Your father’s name is not for such as you. Richard Beaudon never married your mother!’
‘Of course Papa and Mama were married!’ cried Francesca in instant and scornful repudiation. What did this woman know about life on St Marthe? ‘Of course they were married,’ she repeated more loudly. ‘Everyone called Mama Lady Beaudon.’
‘Do not raise your voice to me, Fanny. I will not have it!’
There was a silence while Francesca wrestled with her sense of anger and outrage. Finally she muttered, ‘They were married. It’s not true what you say!’
‘Are you daring to doubt my word?’ A slight pause, then, ‘You must accept it, I’m afraid. And, unless you learn to control your feelings better, I shall wash my hands of you, and then where would you be? You might well go the way your unfortunate mother went—with disastrous consequences to herself and you.’
‘It isn’t true,’ said Francesca doggedly. She sounded brave, but deep down she felt a growing sense of panic. She was not sure of the exact significance of what her aunt was saying, but there was nothing good about it. There was a girl in the village who had a baby though she wasn’t married. Everyone was very unkind to her and called her names. They called the baby names, too. It was impossible that her darling mama had been like Tilly Sefton! ‘It’s not! It’s not!’ she said, her voice rising again.
Miss Shelwood said sharply, ‘Do stop contradicting me in that ridiculous way! What does a little girl like you know about such things? People called your mother “Lady”—’ Aunt Cassandra’s voice dripped contempt ‘—“Lady Beaudon”, because they did not wish to offend. It was merely a courtesy title!’
When Francesca remained silent she went on, ‘Deceive yourself if you wish—but tell me this if you can, Fanny. What happened after your mother died? Did your father keep you by him, as any real father would? He did not. He packed you off to England as soon as he could and we, your mother’s family, were more or less forced to give you a home and a name! And what have you heard from your father since you left the West Indies? Nothing! No visits, no letters, no money, no gifts—not even on your birthday. Why is that, Fanny?’
Once again Francesca was silent. She had nothing to say in defence of herself and her father. She had been hurt that she never heard anything from him, had tried to find out why, but her grandfather had always refused to mention the Beaudon name.
Satisfied that she had made her point, Miss Shelwood went on, ‘So you see, Fanny, a marriage is most unlikely for you, do you not agree? What have you to offer a respectable man? A girl without fortune, without name and—you have to admit that you are hardly a beauty. But you may stay here with me as long as I am alive.’
Even fourteen years later, Francesca still resented the cruel manner in which her aunt had told her of her situation. It had been like crushing a butterfly. For months afterwards she had cried herself to sleep or lain awake, thinking of her life with Maddy and her mother in the West Indies, trying to remember anything at all which might contradict what her aunt had said. But she had found nothing.
Her father had always been a dim figure in the background, especially after Mama had fallen ill and most of her time had been spent in the pretty, airy bedroom with fluttering white curtains and draperies. It was Maddy who had been the child’s companion then, Maddy who had sworn never to leave her young charge.
But, of course, Maddy had been forced to go when Aunt Cassandra dismissed her. Aunt Cassandra, not Grandfather. Francesca’s heart still ached at the memory of their parting. She had clung to Maddy’s skirts, as if she could keep her nurse at Shelwood by physical force, had pleaded with her grandfather, even with her aunt. But Maddy had had to go.
As Francesca grew older, she came to accept the hard truth about her birth, if only because she could not see why her aunt should otherwise invent a tale which reflected so badly on the Shelwood name. The rest of it—that she was poor and plain—was more easily accepted. It wasn’t just what her aunt said—everyone seemed to think that she was very like Miss Shelwood, who was tall, thin and pale, with strong features.
Francesca, too, was tall, thin and pale, and though she didn’t have the Shelwood eyes—the Shelwood eyes were dark brown, and hers were a greyish-green—her hair was very much the same colour as her aunt’s, an indeterminate, mousy sort of blonde. How Francesca wished she had taken after her small, vivacious mother, with her rich golden curls and large pansy-brown eyes, who had always been laughing!
A sudden rumble of thunder quite close brought Francesca back with a start to the present. She glanced up at the sky. The clouds were gathering fast—which direction were they travelling? Then a horn blared behind her and she nearly leapt out of her skin.
