Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

"You are very kind," she said, "to one who is . . . not your daughter."

She could bear no more and, turning, she ran out of the room.

She, who wanted to love all the world, despised too many people in it. There were three men whom she had wanted to love: Sir Charles, the rescuer, the man of dignity, the man of honour who trembled for his reputation; Leon who acted a part, gentle Leon, such a contrast to Fermor, sinister Leon who said he could not swim and had allowed a little boy to die when his death would enrich him and bring him all his desires—that dignity of which he had talked with passion, that security, that plantation in New Orleans; and Fermor, who had no sense of honour, who had nothing but his own violent appetites, who would stoop to any meanness, any unkindness to satisfy his carnal desires.

Yes, she wished to get away, to shut herself in with herself, to understand more, to leave this world where men looked like heroes and, beneath their shining armour, were cowards or brutes.

She lay on her bed for a long while. Caroline came to comfort her —Caroline her sister. Poor Caroline, who was as defenceless as herself in this wicked world of men.

PART THREE

FENELLA'S SALON

Wh

hen Fenella Cardingly received the letter from her old friend Charles Trevenning she lay back in bed gently fanning herself with it and smiling as she did so.

Polly Kendrick, her personal maid and constant adorer, came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her expectantly, like a spaniel hoping for a walk or a titbit. Polly's treats were the pieces of gossip Fenella threw to her from time to time. Polly was good-hearted and grateful, but Fenella knew that not even her private affairs were held sacred by Polly. Polly must know everything; she gave faithful service in exchange for her share in her mistress's confidences.

Fenella, mischievous by nature, liked to keep Polly in suspense, so she continued to look round the ostentatiously luxurious bedroom, still smiling, still fanning herself with the letter.

The bed was a large one; Fenella herself was large and she liked her possessions to be in proportion. It was a modern bed; Fenella was modern. The back piece was inlaid with mother of pearl designs. In these could be seen nymphs—large nymphs of the same proportions as Fenella's own—and gods who bore a striking resemblance to some of the famous figures of the day; no shepherds these, but fine handsome gentlemen of dignity and poise. The sheets were of silk—pale blues or pale mauves; the quilt was of the same blue and mauve decorated with gold thread. The bed itself was set upon a dais and the steps which led up to this were carpeted in blue; there were heavy blue curtains which could be drawn, shutting off the steps and dais from the rest of the room. The walls about that alcove in which the bed was placed were covered with tapestry in which nymphs and gods, similar to those on the bed-back, were depicted. Once there had been mirrors where the tapestries now hung, but Fenella had had these taken away some years ago. She had told Polly—to whom she told most things—that when gentlemen came into the sanctum she could delude them into believing that they resembled the figures on the bed-back. They took on greater stature, she had declared, new virility; but the mirrors had lately proved a deterrent and the tapestries were so much more effective. "You go on," said Polly at that, for her devoted affection made up for her lack of respect, "it's your own figure that's made you take the mirrors away, Madam dear." Fenella had laughed and not denied it. She was growing old; but there was still much in life

to delight her; her life was as rich and colourful as her establishment.

In the bedroom there were many vases and statues—all presents from admirers—and every object was of high value. The painted ceiling was decorated with nymphs and gods similar to those already in evidence.

To Polly—child of the slums of St. Giles's—the house of Fenella Cardingly was an exotic palace over which Madam reigned as supreme Caliph; but Polly was the Grand Vizier of especial powers; and Fenella's life was not more full of pleasure and excitement than was Polly's.

Polly was small—no more than four feet eleven inches in height; she was so thin that she resembled a child, except that her face betrayed her age; her features were small and wizened, but her close-set darting eyes were so bright that they gave her a look of intelligence while they betrayed her overwhelming inquisitiveness. Beside Fenella, five feet nine inches, with her large bust and hips, dark hair —which Polly declared grew darker every year—large round brown eyes, jewelled and clad in colourful garments of fantastic design, Polly was an excellent foil. Polly Kendrick and Fenella Cardingly lived in their magnificent world, and neither of them could imagine what life would be like without the other.

Fenella's carriage had run over Polly one day; this had happened at the time when Fenella had been disastrously married, and before she had reigned in her own right in the social world she had made her own. In those days Fenella had been the wife of Ralph Cardingly, and it was not until he died that she had found her own personality and had created this world of excitement, extravagance and impudence of which she was the undisputed queen.

To the poor waif of the slums whose daily lot had been starvation and bestiality, Fenella had become goddess-mistress; and to Fenella the loyalty of this poor little woman had become very precious indeed. From the beginning they had played an important part in each other's lives. Polly had been saved from a life of misery; Fenella had been goaded to greater daring in order to shine more brightly in the eyes of her slave.

And what excitement Polly glimpsed through the love affairs of their young ladies! They were hers, she considered, as much as Fenella's. All lived fantastically in Fenella's temple, for Fenella had, with Polly's help, created a fantastic world about them.

Fenella grew rich. She sold lotions for the beautifying of women, and concoctions to restore virility to men. Any member of either sex could trust Fenella. They could come to her temple unseen and leave it, as she said, new men and women. That she had a dressmaking establishment in the upper rooms of her large house was well known. Her young ladies—the six goddesses of grace, as she

called them—wore the clothes designed in her workrooms when they mingled with her guests. They were all different types and she was constantly replacing them, for so many of her goddesses left her after a brief stay. Her temple was but a resting place, she was fond of saying.

She rarely went out nowadays, but when she did and she by chance saw a lovely girl in a shop, or even in the street, she would offer to take her in and train her. It was a great opportunity for those girls. To meet Fenella was to meet fortune. These girls who, had they not met Fenella, would have had little but poverty to look forward to, invariably found a protector when they were in Fenella's care and, if they were wise—and Fenella brought up her girls to be wise—they would learn how to protect themselves in readiness for that occasion when the protector no longer protected. There were other young ladies whose fathers paid considerable sums of money that Fenella might teach them poise, grace, and how to charm; and when these young ladies passed out of Fenella's charm school, which they would do by way of the entertainments she gave, they would invariably find the sort of husbands their parents wished for them.

It was typical of Fenella that she entwined the respectable with the not so respectable. She could be a duenna for young ladies of fortune whose parents had not the entry into society; and she could be procuress as regards her poorer beauties. She had her open dress salon and also her discreet trade in those commodities which people wished to buy in secret. In one of the rooms of this establishment was her Bed of Fertility. It cost a great deal of money to occupy the Bed of Fertility for one night. The room in which it was placed was very similar to that in which Fenella sat reading the letter. There were dais and rich curtains; and the tapestry which lined the walls depicted the progress of lovers through many stages. There were beautiful statues and pictures—all of lovers. Some, it was said, would pay the price of a night in that chamber merely to see the pictures. But, said Fenella, the bed was for the married who wished for children and had been disappointed in that respect. To sleep in it meant that almost certainly a child would be conceived. The motive behind Fenella's letting the apartment was a righteous one.

That was how it was in their domain over which she presided. Respectability by itself was dull; eroticism was revolting. But what a combination Fenella had to offer! Eroticism paraded side by side with respectability!

Now, watching her, Polly knew from Fenella's smile that something was about to happen. She waited patiently.

"Well," said Fenella, "why do you sit there?"

"Madam dear has had some news?"

"You will know soon enough."

"Oh ... so it's a new arrival."

"Who said so ?"

"Madam dear, you can't diddle Polly."

"You're an inquisitive old woman."

"Two years younger than yourself, Madam dear. So I wouldn't talk about old women if I was you."

"That's where you're wrong. You were born old; I was born to be eternally young."

"Don't you believe it, Madam dear. You look every bit of forty-five."

"Go away, you insect."

"First tell me what's in the letter?" begged Polly.

"Just to get rid of you then. Pour me some coffee."

"Cream, Madam dear? You're getting fatter, you know."

"I like my fat and I like my cream. Well, Polly, you shall know. We're to have a new young lady."

"Madam dear! When?"

"Soon, I think."

"And who is she?"

"A dear little bastard."

"Ah, one of them: 9

"You remember the Cornishman ?"

"Yes, I remember him."

"We owe him a duty, Polly. He came here one day hoping to stay the night. I was in love with someone then—I forget who, but that is not the point . . . except that he went away—the Cornishman, I mean—and became involved with a little seamstress. There was a child . . . this child."

Polly made delighted clicking noises with her tongue.

"So we're responsible, eh?"

"He is sending her here. Melisande St. Martin. He reminds me that I helped to christen her."

"It's a pretty name."

"She might have been Millie but for me. Heaven knows what she might have been but for me."

"She would never have been born but for you . . . according to you."

"I had her sent to a French convent. She is an educated young lady now."

"What are you going to do . . . find a nice husband for her ?"

"We'll do our best, Polly. That's why he is sending her to us. She's to come here to learn dressmaking. If she's pretty we'll soon get her married. If she is not . . . well then she can work in the sewing-rooms."

"That'll be seven of them. You never had seven before. I don't

like sevens. We lived in number seven ... in Seven Dials. There was seventeen people in three attics and seven of 'em died of fever. My mother died having her seventh baby. ..."

"Don't be so superstitious, Polly."

"Why, you're as superstitious as any!"

"Never. There's a reason for everything. Always remember that."

Polly jerked her thumb upwards. "What about the bed then? What reason is there between them sheets, eh?"

"People go to the Bed of Fertility believing they will succeed. That's half the battle, Polly. Believe in getting something, and you're half way to having it. That's what I've done. Go and tell the girls they're to have a new little friend. But first bring me pen and paper and I will write to my dear friend at once, telling him that we are expecting his little Melisande."

Melisande was travelling first-class in the train which carried her across the country eastwards away from Cornwall. She felt bruised and bewildered, and there was growing within her a resentment against those people who had seemed to take her life in their hands and send her whither they wished. Was she to have no say in her own way of living ?

A thought had come to her that when she reached London she might run away, that she might not look for those people who would be meeting her there; she might tear up the paper with the address on it which she carried in her pocket; and she might never let any of them interfere with her again.

Had she been of a different nature she would have gone back to the Convent. She believed that was what Sir Charles had hoped she would do. How pleasant that would have been for him! He could have washed his hands of her—such a neat ending that would have been! She would not give him that satisfaction. Moreover how could she live as the nuns and the Mother Superior did? They had taken a brief look at life and had found it as disturbing and disillusioning as she had; they had decided to devote their lives to the service of God. But she was of a different nature. Life in the quiet Convent was even less attractive to her—she had to admit—than living on the defensive against wicked men.

"But one learns," she said to herself. "One learns to understand these wicked men. One learns how to fight them. Had I been wiser

I should have been duped neither by Fermor nor by Leon. Had I been wiser I should have understood why Sir Charles came to the Convent and took me away. I should have known, when he did not acknowledge me as his daughter, that he loved his position and his reputation more than his own child. If I had known these things there would have been no shock, no disillusion.''

The strange fact which had emerged from her unhappy experience was that Fermor, the self-confessed villain, was no more to be despised than the others. These are the men, she decided, the creatures who made convents necessary, for if men were like saints there would be no need for holy women to shut themselves away.

Fermor was a wicked man, a would-be seducer; but she remembered that he had said he would rather be a bad man with a streak of goodness in him than a good man with a streak of badness. Perhaps Fermor's type appealed to her more than the hypocrites, and that was why she still thought of him with regret. Now she would admit that the happiest time at Trevenning had been when she was with him. If there was badness in him, there was also badness in her, for while she had enjoyed his company had she not known that he was betrothed to Caroline?

How right he had been when he had told her that time passed for her as it did for the lovely rose. Time had passed. She would never see him again; and she would admit, now that she was far removed from temptation, that she, not being good like the nuns, wanted to live in that gay world he could have shown her, to share with him that excitement which he had promised.

She could scarcely think clearly even now of the days between her discovery and her departure.

She had been bewildered, and when she was bewildered she was usually hasty. She would not have believed Leon guilty but for her knowledge of men which had come to her through Fermor and Sir Charles. Fermor had always laughed at her simplicity. And had she not seen Sir Charles, squirming when confronted with the truth, losing all nobility in that undignified fight to protect his reputation?

If she herself had done wrong she would hate to admit it perhaps; she would certainly seek to justify herself. But to deny one's own child! She would never be guilty of that.

And Leon ? She could not shut out the memory of his talking with such fire of what he longed to do. And the boy had stood between him and those desires. She could not believe that he had planned to murder Raoul. She believed that he had succumbed to temptation in a weak moment. She could picture it all so clearly; the raging winds, the storm, and the little boy—the spoilt little boy who would insist on going where he wanted to—running along the jetty and being blown over. To plunge in and try to save him would have

been to risk Leon's own life; to leave him to drown was to realize all those dreams. So much money was involved. She could not forget his tortured face, his ready belief that people were talking of him . . . surely before he could have known they were. Qui s*excuse s'accuse, the nuns used to say; he had excused and accused himself.

A week after the accident he had been seen swimming, by several people on several occasions in a quiet spot.

She was glad that he had gone away and that she had not been compelled to see him again. The note she had written to him was short and to the point.

Dear Leon, —I know now that you can swim. It seems that several people have seen you swimming. I realize that I have been very foolish. I did not understand you. I do now. The temptation was too great for you. You will understand why I do not think we should see each other again.

Melisande.

She had explained everything to Caroline; and she had asked both her and Sir Charles in no circumstances to tell Leon where she was.

She knew then that she was afraid of seeing Leon, afraid that he would somehow appeal to her pity and—as so many people seemed to do—arrange her future for her. There was one thing which was very clear to her. She must escape from Leon. She wanted to escape from Leon more than anything.

Now she must make a clean break with the past.

She thought then how strange her life was. She had lived close to the nuns, knowing them intimately; each day was like another; and then suddenly she had been whisked away to an entirely new life. Now she must go to another new life, a completely fresh set of people. The various sections of other people's lives must surely overlap.

Only yesterday she had said goodbye to Mrs. Soady, Mr. Meaker and the other servants, Xo Caroline, Fermor and Sir Charles. They had all appeared sad to see her go; and she had a feeling that they were sure—as she was—that they would never meet again.

Sir Charles had called her to his study soon after that sad encounter when she had told him of the servants' gossip. He had been stern, remote, almost as though he disliked her. He told her of the arrangements he had made for her; she was to go to the house of a dressmaker and learn the trade. It would be very useful to her, and Madam Cardingly was a clever woman who would look after her and teach her many things besides.

She asked no questions. She showed no interest. She was wishing she could run away.

He had tried to give her money before her departure and she had haughtily refused it. Now she realized that that had been foolish. She should have taken it—surely he owed her that!—and launched out on her own.

He did prevail upon her to accept a little. "You may need it during the journey, you know."

"I have a little money which I have saved while I have been here."

He had smiled pleadingly. "Do please take this. I should be so glad if you would. . . ."

And she had softened and accepted.

The train had crept into the station and here she was in London.

She alighted and looked about her. A porter came to her assistance because she had stepped out of a first-class carriage. She saw the notice: "Porters are not allowed to carry for third-class passengers." She shivered. Here was a further reminder of the position of the poor.

"I am being met here," she told the porter.

He touched his cap and, as she was about to pass on, a little woman came hurrying towards her. She resembled a witch, thought Melisande, with her small wizened face and her darting eyes.

"Now you're Miss St. Martin, I'll bet," said the little woman, grinning at her; and her face was transformed into a friendly one by that eager grin.

"Yes."

"Then you're my pigeon. I'm Polly Kendrick come to meet you."

"Polly Kendrick! I have not heard of you."

"No, you're expecting Madam Cardingly. Madam don't go out much. I've come in her place."

"It is a goodness."

"Ah, you're foreign. Madam was telling me. An educated young lady from France. And pretty too. Screaming cats! You're going to make the young ladies look after their beaux!"

"The young ladies!"

"We've got lots of 'em. Here, don't want to stand about, do we? I've got Madam's carriage waiting for us. Here, you," she said to a porter, "bring the lady's baggage. Now, come on. All the way from Cornwall, eh? And travelling alone? Hope no one tried to kidnap you. That would be a lark . . . before you got to Madam's, wouldn't it?"

Melisande was smiling; there was something about this woman to make her smile. The eager interest had made Melisande feel that she was wanted.

They got into the carriage and the driver whipped up the horse.

Polly Kendrick did not stop talking. "Now I can see you proper. My word, you're a beauty, you are! Madam's going to like that.

Madam's got a weakness for the pretty ones." Polly nudged her. "So have I. Madam says she likes 'em because they're a reflection of her own youth; they're what she was once. / like them—she says —because they're what I never was. There's Madam for you. Full of that sort of talk. Clever, Madam is. The cleverest I ever struck. None like her. Never was. Never will be. Madam will look after you. Madam 'ull see you're all right. Madam's going to love having you with us . . . it's them others as is going to get their pretty noses put out of joint. It makes me laugh. Miss Genevra with her baby blue eyes; Miss Lucie with her curves. . . . They're going to meet a rival. But that's life for you. Can't have it all your own way, can you? Now, what is your first name?"

"Melisande."

"It's pretty. . . . Madam christened you. You can trust Madam to find the right name."

"Madam christened me?"

"Oh yes, Madam christened you all right." Polly nudged and bent closer. "This is a secret. Your father came to see Madam, and she had another lover, so he went out and met your mother. She was a little dressmaker and your father met her at Vauxhall where she was being pestered. Well, your father fell in love with her and they had a little love nest. Result: little you."

"I ... I see."

"Didn't you know? Screaming cats and fighting dogs! My tongue runs away with me. Never mind. Keep it dark I told. But I think, don't you, dearie, it's best to know. I've had a good life and it's all on account of keeping my eyes and ears open. Madam says that's all very well, but it's opening my mouth, as well as me ears and eyes, that'll get me into trouble. There's Madam for you."

"And Madam christened me?"

"Why yes, because when you was born and your poor dear mother died, your poor dear father didn't know which way to turn. So Madam named you Melisande and had you sent to a convent in France. There's Madam for you!"

"So Madam has been a sort of foster-mother . . ."

"Madam's foster-mother to the world. God bless her. But what am I going to call you, dearie? I know, Melly. That's pretty, ain't it? Little French Melly. Why, dearie, your eyes are green . . . real green. None of our young ladies has real green eyes. You'll be the first."

"Please tell me of these people. I have no idea where I'm going. It is a bewilderment. I know that I am to go to Madam Cardingly to learn the dressmaking—though I do not think I shall be very good at the work."