She wiped her eyes with her hand, and the sight of it set my heart aching, for, despite her condition, she was still such a child.
‘I did not know if you would come,’ she sniffed.
‘You should have trusted me; you should have written to me sooner. I have been so worried about you, not knowing where you were, whether you were safe or happy, nor even knowing if you were alive or dead.’
She hung her head.
‘I wanted to write to you, but somehow there was always something to prevent it,’ she said in a small voice.
‘You had better tell me everything, from the beginning,’ I said, sitting down on a chair by her side, for I thought it would be a relief to her to tell me all. ‘You met him in Bath?’ I prompted her, when she did not begin.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He was there visiting friends.’
‘Does he have a name?’ I asked her.
‘He does, but I cannot tell you.’
‘You mean you will not. Why is it such a secret? He has seduced you, Eliza. He deserves to be brought to account for his crime.’
She shook her head. I tried to coax her but she was resolute, and I pressed her no further, hoping she would tell me of her own free will before much more time had passed.
‘Your friend knew him? ’ I asked her.
‘Yes, Susan knew everything. We met him in the circulating library one morning, when we were exchanging our books.’ Her voice took on strength, and her face gained some animation. ‘He was lively and friendly, and we saw no harm in talking to him, for he was a gentleman, and we were in a public place with lots of people around us. Indeed, he seemed to know most of them. He had many friends, and it was clear that he was well thought of and well respected. He talked to us about the books we were borrowing, and he recommended some we should try. They were perfectly respectable, and we thanked him for his recommendations. He made us a bow and he said he hoped we would enjoy them. As we went home, Susan said he had been much taken with me. I thought so, too, but as it had been a chance encounter, I did not think I would see him again.’
‘But you did?’
She nodded.
‘Yes, we seemed to be always coming across him.’
‘When you were out without a chaperon?’ I asked her.
‘We did not go out alone. Susan’s father was infirm, but he always sent her maid with us.’
‘And did she stay with you? ’
‘No, not all the time,’ she admitted.
‘But Susan was always with you? ’
‘Yes, for the most part.’
I looked at her enquiringly.
‘Once, I met him without Susan, for we were late leaving the house and so Susan went on to the milliner’s with her maid, where she had some business, whilst I went ahead to the library. I met him on the way and he carried my books for me. How he made me laugh!’ she said, her face brightening as she spoke of him. ‘He was always so good-humoured. And after that, I seemed to be always seeing him. He offered to escort us home one day and we accepted his offer, but then, as we were walking past the coachmakers, he said he had to collect his curricle. He said he would take us home in style, but as there was only one spare seat and as Susan had some shopping to do, it was arranged that he should take me home and that Susan would join me there later.’
‘And her maid went with you? ’
‘No, her maid went with Susan.’
‘And did she not object to your going in the curricle alone?’
‘No. She said I was a lucky girl to have such a treat.’
I gave a sigh. ‘I see.’
‘And then he offered to take me driving the following day, and Susan and I met him at the corner of the street. She was a great friend to me. She knew I was falling in love with him, and so she helped us to see each other. I had told her all about my mother, you see, and how my mother had been prevented from marrying the man she loved, and how it had ruined her life. And so Susan said nothing to anyone, for she was not going to behave like Mama’s maid and betray me.’
‘And did you never think that it was wrong?’ I asked her.
‘How could it be wrong to fall in love?’ she asked me innocently.
‘And could you not have told me about him?’ I said gently.
‘He said we would surprise you, and how romantic it would be to elope.’
I shook my head, and she looked perplexed.
‘I thought that you, at least, would understand, for you were going to elope with Mama.’
‘That was different,’ I said. ‘Your mama and I had known each other for many years. We knew each other in all our moods, and we knew that we could trust one another. We intended to marry in church, and we only planned to elope because my father wanted to force your mother into marrying someone else. But no one was trying to force you into a distasteful marriage, my dear.’
The door opened and the landlady entered with a tray of tea. I eyed the cups dubiously, but it was obvious that Eliza was used to drinking from cracked cups, for she set them on the table without a thought and proceeded to pour the tea.
‘He’s dead, is he?’ asked Mrs Hill, hovering by the door. ‘I knew how it would be.’
Eliza’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Indeed, he is not,’ I said.
‘Ah, well, that’s a blessing,’ she said. ‘It’s an injury, I suppose. I was talking to my brother. “There’s a lot of people falls down stairs and breaks their neck,” he said to me. Poor dear,’ she added, looking at Eliza.
‘Thank you, we must hope for the best,’ I said, not wanting to give her any details, and then waited until she left the room.
Eliza handed me a cup of tea. I took it and drank it, more to encourage her than because I wanted it, and she seemed better for the drink.
‘You said you eloped, but in your letter you said you were not married?’ I asked her.
Her eyes filled with tears.
‘No. But he said we would be. He told me we would be married as soon as we reached town. It would be easier in town, he said, because no one would know us there and so no one could object on account of my age. And then we would go to Delaford and see you.’ She smiled. ‘I was looking forward to it so much. I wanted you to meet him, for I was sure you would like him. And it pleased me above all things to know that I would be a respectable wife and that you would be able to acknowledge me as your friend and that you need not be ashamed of me.’
I was startled.
‘I have never been ashamed of you!’
‘Susan’s maid said that people whose parents were not married are always a source of shame to those around them.’
‘Susan’s maid would have been better attending to her own concerns,’ I said angrily. ‘But go on. What happened when you reached town?’
Her face fell.
‘He found there was something wrong with the licence. I do not know what it was, something trivial, but it meant he would have to get another one. But then there was some difficulty about it, so he decided it would be better if he contacted a church in the neighbourhood and asked them to read the banns. So then we had to wait another three weeks for the banns to be read.’
I began to see how it had happened. She had been lured to London with the promise of marriage, and then lured to stay by circumstances; which, I did not doubt, had been manufactured, for her seducer must have known that no clergyman in England would officiate at a marriage with a sixteen-year-old bride unless her parents or guardians approved of the match.
‘And after the three weeks were over?’ I asked.
‘The clergyman who was to perform the ceremony was ill,’ she said.
She turned her handkerchief over in her hands, and I knew she suspected that it was a lie, but that she did not want to face it.
‘So you had to wait until he was better?’ I asked her gently.