Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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"Everything be damp!" declared Mrs. Soady. "My shoes do get the mildew in them overnight."

Mr. Meaker complained of his rheumatics. Peg only was grateful for the weather. It meant that her young fisherman—for Tamson's charm had worked—could not go out, and everyone knew that fishermen kept from the sea needed a terrible lot of comforting.

Melisande was uneasy now and then. She would wonder whether her onion pierced with pins had been as effective as Peg's wax image. Melisande was by nature gay, and the first shock of finding herself in a somewhat alarming position had given place to a certain exhilaration. She must live for the moment. She was only just past sixteen and each week seemed an age in itself; she found she could not think very seriously of the future. As for Fermor she understood his feelings for her. She was certain that she herself was inclined to wickedness. Had not the nuns always told her so ? Fermor was wicked and, like Satan, was tempting her to sin. Any wickedness at the Convent, so said the nuns, had invariably involved Melisande. So now, naturally enough, Fermor was tempting her because he opined that she would be very likely to fall into temptation. One should love the saints and abhor the sinners; but one could not help being very interested in the sinners; and she, poor little orphan, had been excited because, for the first time, someone had spoken to her of love.

No one had talked of love in the Convent. The baker had given her the gateau; and that was friendship. The affection of the Lefevres was also friendship. Sir Charles had brought her here, and that was kindness. But love was like parsnip wine; it went to your head.

So, she decided, she must be forgiven for thinking of him. He was merely tempting her as one of the devils with the pitchforks depicted on the altar cloth, had tempted St. Anthony and St. Francis. She wondered if St. Anthony and St. Francis had enjoyed being tempted.

Peg would often steal to her room to talk to her, for Peg felt that there was a bond between them since they had gone to Tamson's together. Peg would set down the tray and rock on her heels while she talked of her fisherman, twirling her hair, her eyes soft.

Peg thought suddenly that it was on account of Mamazel that she had fallen in love with the fisherman. Before Mamazel had come she had thought a powerful lot of Master Fermor. Peg had to be in love with someone, and Peg was no dreamer; love for her had to be reciprocated. Master Fermor had been absentminded when she had taken in his hot water, and it was because his thoughts were ori Mamazel. So Peg had promptly looked about and found her fisherman.

"I think my spell worked," said Melisande. "Tamson Trequint is wonderful."

"Her's pretty good. Though Mrs. Soady's stye be no better. 'Tis that old tom-cat. He's a terrible creature. There's no magic in him. Mamazel, I never heard of nobody ever wanting love turned from 'em before."

Pegs thoughts struggled for expression, but she could not find the words. She wondered what became of people like Mamazel. Governesses there were, she knew. There were governesses at the Danes-boroughs' and the Leighs'. But they were not the sort whom love could touch. There were companions too. There was the one at Lady Gover's. They were all middle-aged and Peg was vaguely contemptuous of them. But what could governesses and companions do ? There was no one to marry them. They couldn't marry the gentry like Mr. Fermor and Frith Danesborough; and they couldn't marry the miners and the fishermen. It was a sad thing to be a governess or a companion. But to be a young companion—that was a very queer position.

She wondered what would happen to Melisande when Miss Caroline married. Would Miss Caroline take her with her ? She'd be mazed if she did. But could Mamazel stay at the house if she did not? Who could she be companion to ?

It was too complicated for Peg, so she let her thoughts drift back to her fisherman. That was uncomplicated. If anything should come of it they'd marry and she'd go away to his cottage on the quay. Her story was set in a familiar groove. It was Mamazel's which could twist and turn in any direction.

"Mamazel," she said at length, "what'll 'ee do when Miss Caroline do marry?"

Melisande was silent for a while. Then she said: "I ... I don't know."

Peg looked at her with vague sympathy, and Melisande did not want sympathy. She said almost defiantly: "It is a secret, is it not? It is the mystery. How do any one of us know what will become of her? It is that which makes of life an . . . excitement. When I was at the Convent, I did not know what was coming. And then one day . . . I leave ... I leave the nuns and all that I have known for so many years. I have seen them every day and then ... I never see them any more. It is all a change. There is a new country ... a new house . . . new people. Everything is new. It is like stepping from one life to another. That can be a sadness. But it is an excitement to wonder what will happen next."

Peg stopped twirling her hair to stare at Melisande.

Melisande continued: "It may be that I shall go away from here. It may be that I go to a new country, to a new house, to new people." She added, still defiant: "That is how I wish it to be. That is an excitement. You do not know; it is all there before you . . . waiting for you . . . but you do not know."

There was silence. Melisande had forgotten Peg. She remembered her childish dreams. When the rich woman had come to the Convent for Anne-Marie, Melisande had dreamed that a rich woman came for her, took her away to spend her life eating sweetmeats and wearing a silk dress. That was a foolish dream but it had been pleasant dreaming it. It had helped her over the monotonous days. Now there were other dreams. Perhaps Caroline would fall in love with John Collings and wish to marry him. Perhaps Fermor would discover that he wished to marry Melisande. Perhaps he would change a little. He would still be himself yet there could grow in him a kindness, a tenderness. Anything could happen in dreams, and dreams would not be suppressed. They were as vivid now as they had been in the days when she had dreamed of sweetmeats and silk dresses. Perhaps these dreams were as flimsy, as unlikely of achieving reality?

In the house everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

Sir Charles, often shut away in his study, sitting back from the window, seeing but unseen, watched the girl he had brought into the

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house. He was aware of the conflict between Fermor and Caroline, and that the most foolish thing he had done in the whole of a fairly-exemplary life was to have become Millie's lover, and the next most foolish thing was to have brought Millie's daughter into his home.

Melisande was her mother reborn, it seemed to Sir Charles. In bringing her here he had sinned against his daughter Caroline, as in loving Millie he had sinned against his wife Maud. He recognized the passion Melisande had aroused in Fermor; he understood it. But what could he do? Could he send Melisande away? He believed that wherever she went Fermor would follow. It seemed there was nothing Sir Charles could do but watch and wait.

Wenna was waiting for the whispers to start. They had not yet begun to spread. Here they were through October and into November, and it was weeks since she had told the secret to Mrs. Soady. The cook was being unusually discreet. Had she whispered the secret to Mr. Meaker and had he warned her to silence ?

Caroline was waiting fearfully. Fermor was affectionate; he talked often of their marriage. She wished that she did not know so much.

Melisande too was waiting. She could not believe that life was not good. Dreams did come true if they were dreamed as vividly as Melisande dreamed them. They would not come true in the way she dreamed them, for she was no seer, no white witch who could see into the future; but nevertheless they would come true.

She wished that she had not gone to the witch in the woods. She had acted impulsively as usual. She should have waited. She should have asked for a spell to make Caroline turn to John Collings and to change Fermor into a loving husband for Melisande.

Surely this must come to pass. Life was a goodness; and Melisande was Fortune's favourite.

Fermor too was waiting. He was experienced and he knew what was passing through Melisande's mind. He was an eagle watching his prey. His emotions alternated between a passion which was almost brutal and an unaccustomed tenderness. He had laid plans for trapping her, but always that unaccountable tenderness would enter like a forbidding parent watching over a recalcitrant child. On the moors she had not known of her feelings. She was young—even younger than her years. That was due to the Convent life when she had been shut away from realities; but she would learn quickly. He could appraise her at times in the same cool manner in which he would select a horse. There was an air of breeding about her and there was too an air of simplicity. He intuitively knew that she was the result of a love affair between a person of breeding and another of humbler station in life—perhaps a lady and her servant, he ruminated; there were such cases. And her education had been given her by the aristocratic partner in her conception and birth.

Sir Charles was aware of the secret of her birth, Fermor felt sure. He had tried to extract that secret; but Sir Charles was determined to communicate nothing. He could imply with a look that he considered vulgar curiosity an unpardonable offence against good manners.

But Fermor hated inactivity. His desires must be satisfied while they were warm and palpitating. He was afraid of his own feelings, though he scarcely liked to admit this. There were times when he thought of marriage with Melisande. It would be disastrous of course. Even here in Cornwall it would be disastrous. What was he going to do with his life? Parliament was what his father had in mind for him. It could be a life of absorbing interest and adventure. To have a hand in government affairs, to make history—that appealed to Fermor. His father had friends in those quarters which would make advancement certain. Peel, Melbourne and Russell were his friends. There were many young men looking for advancement; it would be ridiculous to make the way more difficult by marrying the wrong young woman merely to satisfy a brief passion. Melbourne had figured in an unsavoury divorce case, but Melbourne was a man of power who had been Prime Minister. He had come through, but not exactly untarnished—no one could do that– although he had survived the scandal. Yet it was growing clearer that, in an England where a young queen was becoming more and more influenced by her priggish German husband, there would be a tightening-up of class distinctions, and a misalliance could ruin a man's career.

Moreover Fermor had been moved to passion before. Passion was fleeting. Many women had loved him and he had loved many women. Was he going to be foolish over one? Such folly was for callow young men, for inexperienced boys.

She must be made to see that that for which she hoped was impossible.

His father was asking why he did not return to London. It was imperative for him to attend certain social gatherings. By shutting himself away in the country he was shutting himself away from his opportunities of making valuable friends.

So Fermor decided to end the waiting.

He went to Sir Charles's study.

Charles was nervous. He had expected a call from the young man. He wondered what he would have done in his place. He could never have married Millie, but Melisande was an educated young lady. He could see the temptation. Yet in his young days life had been easier. The conventions had been less rigid in the Georgian era than in that of Victoria.

"I have come to tell you, sir," said Fermor, "that my father is

128 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS

urging me to return to London, and before I go I think we should have a definite date for the marriage. I know Caroline's mother has so recently died and that we are in mourning for her, but in view of the great distance between here and London and the rather special circumstances—our marriage was planned before the tragedy—I wonder whether you will agree that we might hurry on arrangements. Perhaps it would not be considered lacking in respect if the celebrations were quieter than was at first planned."

Charles looked at the young man. He is hard, he thought; harder than I was. He would not have fallen artlessly in love with a little mantua-maker.

Charles felt weary suddenly. It was for all these young people to live their own lives. Melisande must fight her own battles. It was foolish to blame himself, to feel he must shoulder all responsibility. To think as he had been thinking, was to blame or honour every father for what happened to his sons and daughters.

"Do as you think fit," he said. "As you say, these are special circumstances."

"Then," said Fermor, "let us have the wedding here at Christmas. Next week I shall return to London and be back in December."

Sir Charles agreed to this, and whei Fermor went out, he was smiling. He had put an end to the waiting.

Melisande wished to be alone.

Her charm had worked after all. Caroline was at last happy.

They were working on the garments for the poor when Caroline said: "Let us not read this morning. I am so excited. The date for my wedding is fixed."

Melisande bent closer over the flannel petticoat which she was stitching.

"It is to be Christmas Day," went on Caroline. "There is not much time. Why, it is less than two months ... six weeks. That is not very long. I want you to take a message to Pennifield this afternoon. Tell her she is to leave everything and come at once. She will be busy during the next few weeks. There is so much to do."

"Yes. There will be much to do."

"Fermor said it was absurd to wait longer. I fear people will talk. A wedding so soon after a funeral! But Fermor says these are special circumstances. To tell the truth I do not think he greatly

cares what people say. But our wedding was arranged before Mamma died."

"Yes," Melisande answered, "it is a special circumstance."

Caroline looked at Melisande with something like affection. She thought: After six weeks I shan't see her again. Poor girl! What will she do? I suppose she will go to some other house. But she is so pretty that she is bound to be all right. She might even find some man in a good position to marry her.

Caroline was in love with the world that morning.

Melisande continued to sew in silence.

She envies me, went on Caroline's thoughts. She was sure he was in love with her. She does not know him. He always looked at girls with a speculative eye, and she is nothing more to him than the parlourmaid he kissed when he was fifteen. As his wife she would have to curb her jealousy, to remind herself that such affairs were of little importance to him. Some men drank more than was good for them; Fermor probably did that too. Others gambled. He was doubtless a gambler. He liked women too. One must shut one's eyes to his faults, for with them went so much charm, with them went all that Caroline wanted from life.

Melisande was glad to escape from the sewing-room and Caroline's exuberant chatter. She was glad to escape to her room and glad that Peg brought her luncheon tray to her there.

"My dear life!" cried Peg. "You ain't got much of an appetite."

"I have not a hunger to-day, that is all," she explained.

As soon as possible she set out for the little cottage where Miss Pennifield lived with her sister. Perched on the cliffs it was a minute dwelling place with cob walls and tiny windows. The industrious Misses Pennifield had made the sloping garden a picture with wallflowers, sweet smelling cabbage roses and lavender. There were many cottages like this one in the neighbourhood. There was only one floor which was divided by partitions, made so that they did not reach the ceiling in order that the air might circulate. At the windows were dainty dimity curtains and the coconut matting on the floor was very clean and neatly darned in places. They had some pleasing pieces of furniture which had belonged to their grandparents. There was a buffette fixed high in the wall and as this had glass doors their precious china could be seen. There were two armchairs and a table at which they worked. On the mantelpiece over the tiny fireplace were brass candlesticks, relics of the days when their family had been better off; there were two china dogs and some pieces of brass. Their home was their delight and their apprehension; they were always terrified that they would not have enough money to keep all their possessions. In hard times they had already sold one or iwo of their treasures. It was a nightmare of both sisters that one

day they would grow too old to work and that they would lose their cherished home, bit by bit.

But there was no question of that to-day. The Mamazel had come to tell them of work.

Melisande sat at the table and listened to their twittering chatter.

"Well, there'll be dresses, I vow, and petticoats and all that a young lady would be wanting for her marriage. There b'ain't much time. Six weeks, did you say! Six weeks!"

Miss Janet Pennifield, who was not the expert seamstress that her sister was, and only helped on occasions, took in washing to help the family income. There seemed always to be clothes drying on the rocks and bushes at the back of the cottage.

Now she was brandishing a pair of Italian irons which she called 'Jinny Quicks' and used for ironing the frills on ladies' caps and the like.

"Well, I shall be able to bring home work, I don't doubt," said Miss Pennifield, "and you can give a hand, Janet. Oh, my life, 'tis soon to have a wedding after a funeral, but if Sir Charles consents, you may be sure 'tis right enough."

Melisande was aware that their merry chatter and their gaiety was tinged with relief. They had six weeks of hard work before them—six weeks of security.

"I should be scared if I be asked to do the wedding dress," said Miss Pennifield suddenly.

"You'll do it," said Janet. "You'm the best needlewoman this side of Tamar."

Miss Pennifield turned to Melisande: "You'll take a glass of Janet's elderberry."

"It is so kind, but I have much to do at the house."

"Oh, but Janet's elderberry ... 'tis of the best."

She knew that they would be hurt if she refused; she knew that she must compliment Janet and tell her that it was the best she had tasted and ask them not to tell Jane Pengelly, because many a glass of elderberry had she had at Jane's and she had on as many occasions assured her that it was the finest in the world.

"There!" said Miss Pennifield. "You try that. Just a thimbleful for me, my dear, while you'm about it."

Miss Pennifield stared suddenly at Melisande, the glass in her hand shaking so that she spilled some of the precious elderberry. "But, my dear, I see now why you'm quiet!"

Melisande blushed faintly. Had she conveyed her pity for these two, with their few possessions and their desperate longing for security? "I . . . I . . ." she began.

Miss Pennifield went on: "What will 'ee be doing . . . when Miss Caroline do marry ? I mean 'twill be a new place for 'ee then.

Oh, my dear, 'twas careless of me. I didn't think. . . . Here we be laughing and drinking elderberry when you ..."

"I will be very well, thank you," said Melisande. "But it is a kindness to think of me."

"I reckon you'll find a nice place," said Miss Pennifield. "There's many as would be glad to have 'ee, I don't doubt a moment. And being with Miss Caroline, well . . . 'tweren't all saffron cake and metheglin, was it?"

"No," said Melisande with a little laugh, "it was not."

"Though mind you, she be better now. Sir Charles is a good and kind gentleman. He wouldn't turn 'ee out before you was ready to go. 'Tis a pity Lady Gover be satisfied. I wonder if Miss Danes-borough is in want of a companion. There's Miss Robinson at Leigh House. Now you'd be very happy there teaching Miss Amanda . . . if Miss Robinson were to leave."

"It is a goodness to find these places for me. Let us drink. This is a delicious."

Miss Pennifield insisted on refilling her glass. Janet was nodding her sympathy. They were embarrassed, both of them, because they had rejoiced in their good fortune which might so easily turn out to be bad fortune for the little Mamazel.

When she said she must go they did not seek to detain her and she was glad to hurry out into the damp warmth of the November afternoon.

She hesitated at the top of the cliff and looked down into the sandy cove bounded on one side by a formation of rocks and on the other by the short stone jetty.

The sea, silent in the misty light, was like a sheet of dull grey silk to-day. Without thinking very much where she was going she started down the cliff side.

There was a narrow footpath, very steep and stony. Now and then she paused to cling to a bush, and wondered why she had chosen this difficult descent. The path came to an abrupt end and was lost among a clump of thick bushes. She slipped, caught a prickly bush and gave a little gasp of pain. Ruefully she examined her hand and looked back the way she had come. She saw the narrow footpath winding upwards and it looked steeper than ever. She decided that she would continue with the downward climb. The tide was out and she would walk along the shore past Plaidy to Milendreath. It was a long way round, but she wished for solitude.

She looked out to sea. The gulls were swooping and drifting. Their cries were mournful and the thought came to her that they were saying goodbye to her.

The visit to the Pennifield cottage had depressed her. Of course she would have to go away. There would be no excuse for her to stay.

She would have to go to another house—as a companion or a governess. It would all be so different. She thought sadly of Sir Charles's coming to the Convent, of the happy time in Paris. But Sir Charles at Trevenning was a different man from the one she had known in that first week of their acquaintance. As they had come nearer and nearer to Trevenning he had seemed more and more remote.

Perhaps she could ask Caroline or Sir Charles what was to happen to her when Caroline married. And standing there on the cliffs she was aware of a surging anger. Why should her destiny always be dictated by others ? Why should she not manage her own affairs ? Yet how could it be otherwise? She had discovered a little of what happened to the people who were alone in the world. She remembered some of the poor whom she had seen in Paris and London; she recalled the man whom she had seen whipped through the streets of Liskeard; and as long as she lived she would never forget the mad woman chained in the cottage.

"What will become of you?" Fermor had challenged. And he had one solution to offer her.

She could hear his voice:

"I will love you all the day, Every night would kiss and play, If with me you'll fondly stray Over the hills and far away ..."