Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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The Mother had come to a decision. "It must be explained to him," she said. "To-morrow ycu, Sister Therese and you, Sister Eugenie, shall go to the inn and ask to speak to him. You must

speak to him with the utmost frankness. Ask him if he has any special interest in the child. If he is the man, he will know what we mean. Tell him that it is unwise of him to come here. The child is quickwitted. If he shows interest in her she may guess something near the truth. He must be asked not to come here, disturbing her, unless he has some proposition to lay before us."

The Sisters bowed their heads.

"It is to be hoped he has not," continued the Mother. "The child needs security, a life of serenity. I had hoped she might become one of us."

Sister Eugenie looked dubious and Th6rese shook her head.

"No, I fear not," went on the Mother. "But she must be guarded well until she is older. To put ideas into a head such as that one, might be to put sin there too."

"You are as usual right, ma Mere" said TheYese.

"So . . . see that she does not go out whilst he is here; and, to-morrow, go to him and say what I have told you. It is the best way."

The Sisters went out, leaving the Mother to hear again the shouts of the revolutionaries with the strains of the Marseillaise coming back to her over the years.

The clock ticked on. The seams were long. Melisande divided them up in her thoughts so that the material was the town and the needle herself walking through it. Here was the church, here the boat yard, here the baker's shop, the cottages, the inn, the river and the ruins of the chateau. She pictured the baker at the door as she passed. "A gateau for the little one?" It was delicious. She could taste the spices which the baker knew so well how to mingle in his delightful confections. Sister Therese and Sister Eugenie had not noticed. The baker winked. "We will deceive them," said that wink. "You shall have cakes because you are the prettiest* the most charming of the children, and it pleases me to give."

She could laugh to herself; she was far away from the sewing room. She went on past the cottages to the auberge, where he sat, smiling at her, without waiting for her to drop her sabot. He said: "You speak English so beautifully. I should have thought you were English. You shall leave the convent and come away with me." Melisande was remembering that last year a woman had come to

the Convent and taken Anne-Marie away; the children had watched her leave in a beautiful carriage. "That is her aunt," said the children. "She is going to live with her rich aunt and have a satin dress trimmed with fur." Ever since, Melisande had waited for a rich woman to come and take her away, but a man would do very well instead.

The door opened and Sister Eugenie came in. She went to the table and whispered a few words to Sister Emilie. Then Sister Emilie went out and left Melisande with Sister Eugenie.

Sister Eugenie looked at the shirt which Melisande had been stitching. She pointed with a thin finger to the stitches which were too long and too crooked.

"Take this book and read it aloud," she said. "Give me the shirt. I will finish it whilst you read."

Melisande took the book. It was the Pilgrim's Progress in English. She read slowly, enjoying the story of the man with his burden; but she would rather have heard the story of Melisande, of how she came to the Convent when she was a baby, and how a rich woman —or a man—came one day to take her away to a beautiful house where she spent the rest of her life eating sweetmeats and wearing a blue dress trimmed with fur.

Madame Lefevre saw the two Sisters coming towards the auberge. She paused to look through the window. Armand, sitting at the table, rose to greet the Sisters. Madame heard his loud Bonjour and the quiet ones of the Sisters. Armand was flattering and gallant as he was to all women. "I am happy to see you here. Our little inn is at your service."

Madame did not wait for their reply; she went downstairs to see them for herself. She greeted them with warmth as Armand had done.

"They come to see the English gentleman," said Armand.

"Alas!" said Madame.

"I have told the Sisters that he left this morning."

Madame nodded. It was sad indeed; she was filled with melancholy at the thought. "He decided last night," she explained. "He came to me and he said: 'Madame, I must depart to-morrow.' He went off early in the coach."

The Sisters nodded. They were secretly pleased; that much was clear. They thanked the Lefevres and went slowly away.

Armand lifted his shoulders; he was afraid to meet Madame's eyes, for he feared he was responsible for the Englishman's departure. He would not tell Madame of their little conversation.

But he would be back, Armand soothed himself. He would sit here and watch the children, and his eyes would linger on the little Melisande. She was English; he was English; that was good enough for Armand.

Madame stood for a while conjecturing why the nuns had called; then she turned and went into the inn, for she had her business to attend to.

Armand returned to his seat and his wine. One of the stall-keepers on his way to the market came by with a basket of produce to sell in the square; he called Hold, to Armand and sat down for a while to drink a glass of wine.

The Convent bell began to ring. It would soon be midday. He heard the children's sabots on the cobbles. Sister Therese came in sight with the crocodile. Therese peered about, calling a greeting. "Bonjour, Madame." "Bonjour, Monsieur." "Bonjour, mes enfants"

The children wound their way along by the river, their feet noisy in protest because the day was hot, and perhaps some of them remembered that yesterday the little Melisande had taken off her sabots and walked barefoot.

And there she was, eagerly looking towards the auberge. Looking for the bird who had flown, thought Armand. Ah, he has gone, my little one. You and I have driven him away.

The children passed on. Armand talked with his companion of the affairs of the town.

Life flowed on, as it had yesterday.

TWO

A,

.s the coach trundled along to Paris, the Englishman was thinking the same uneasy thoughts which always disturbed him when he made this journey. Each time he made it, he assured himself it would be the last. Yet again and again he came. He was drawn there by the quaint figure of a girl in ill-fitting black clothes with marvellous green eyes which brought him memories.

What use was there in making these journeys ? None. What did he get from them but the anguish of memories, the reminder of an episode which was best forgotten and which he could have shelved

with an easy conscience? He was rich, and wise enough to know that the most reliable salve for an uneasy conscience which the world could provide was money. He need never have concerned himself with Melisande again. He should have resisted the impulse to see her in the first place. If he had, there would have been none of these pointless journeys. And he had betrayed himself. That was disquieting. An inquisitive old innkeeper, on whom he had looked as a useful source of information, had probed his secret; and it was not what a man did that could bring trouble; it was what others discovered of his doings which chilled the stomach.

Sir Charles Trevenning was a man who rarely betrayed himself. He led a satisfactory life, missed nothing that he wished for, and if what he wished for happened to be something which it would be unwise for the world to know of, the world did not know. Yet he had betrayed himself to a humble innkeeper.

Such made uneasy thinking. Once before he had been caught off his guard, and what had followed? Pleasure, yes; delight, he might say if he were given to such fantastic expression; but surely such pleasure, such delight, had to be paid for. He had suffered some anguish, some misgiving, a moment of panic; but Sir Charles was not a man to pay more for a thing than that thing was worth.

When he had sat very straight, very controlled, at the table outside the Lefevres* inn, his outward appearance had given no indication of his inner turmoil which had been aroused by the little girl from the convent. When her green eyes had looked into his he had felt his calm expression cracking, as though it had been a shell. It was alarming. A moment outside a humble inn linked itself with another moment under the trees in Vauxhall Gardens; a humble child looked at him as a young woman had looked at him; and Sir Charles was aware of the weakness within him.

He, squire and landowner from Cornwall, magistrate and one of the most highly respected gentlemen of the Duchy, a man of wide financial interests in the City of London, whose friends in the country and town were of high social standing, had no right to be sitting outside an inn in a quiet French town, talking to an innkeeper. He should never have sat beneath the trees of Vauxhall. Had he wished to visit a pleasure garden, it should have been Ranelagh, to which he might have gone in his carriage with a party of friends. Looking back it seemed as though some unaccountable impulse had led him to Vauxhall, where persons of high degree did not go; where, it was said, one did not meet a creature above the station of cheesemonger. And had he not gone to Vauxhall he would never have sat outside a mean little auberge, talking to a bibulous, garrulous innkeeper.

So here he was now riding in a coach among humble people,

people who gabbled, gesticulated and sweated. He, the fastidious one, forced to that which offended his fastidiousness and yet was somehow irresistible. It was disturbing in the extreme, for it was as though he did not know himself.

He closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the vulgar woman in the corner seat of the coach. Her sprigged muslin gown with the vulgar leg-of-mutton sleeves was none too clean; her bodice was laced to bring her bosom into prominence; her monstrously large hat took up too much room in the coach; and he disliked the glances she threw at him.

But he had forgotten her in a second, for his thoughts were back to this position in which, because of an evening in Vauxhall, he found himself.

He was there at Vauxhall that summer's day sixteen years before. He saw himself a younger man, proud then as now, but with no knowledge of that weakness within him. He had crossed the river to Lambeth. Why? On what mad impulse?

Vauxhall in early summer! He saw it as though he were there: the avenues of trees, the tables set under the trees, the gravel paths, the pavilions, the grottoes and lawns, the ostentatious little temples which aroused the admiration of the vulgar; the porticoes, the rotundas, the colonnades, the music; the lamps which would scintillate as soon as it was dark; the fireworks, frothed syllabub and sliced ham, scraped beer and burned champagne; and the people on holiday aping their betters.

In the twilight the girls tripped past him in their watered tabbies and bombazines which rustled like the silk of ladies. There were girls in cardinal capes and gay bonnets, swirling skirts and cosy tippets; there were young men—apprentices in flowing cravats, brilliantly waist-coated, gaudy copies of Beau Brummel and the Count D'Orsay ... in that dim light.

That was how he had first seen Millie; but she was young and sweet enough to bear the light of day.

How had he come to be there? It had begun with his periodic desire to escape from Maud and the quiet of the country to the pleasures of the town, to see old friends, to visit the incomparable Fenella's salon, to hope that their friendship might briefly burst into something more exciting, more amusing, as it had done once and could so easily do again.

Perhaps old Wenna had something to do with it. Odd to be driven from his house by one of his own servants. He had never liked Wenna and he would have dismissed her if he had had his way. But Maud —pliable in most things—would never agree to that. Old Morwenna Pengelly had been Maud's nurserymaid when Maud was a girl of five (how many times had he heard that story ?) and Wenna no more

than fourteen; Maud was Wenna's 'Miss Maud' and would be so until they died. Why did he call her old ? She was nine years older than Maud and five years older than himself. That was not old. But there was an air of age about Wenna. It was impossible to imagine that she had ever been young. At fifteen she must have been a small wizened creature, watching over her Miss Maud and never giving a thought to those things which occupied the minds of other girls of that age. He should be glad. She was a good servant. But he did not like her hostility. There was no other word for it. And ever since her dear Miss Maud had first become pregnant, Wenna's hostility had increased. Foolish woman! But a good servant. No, certainly Wenna had had no part in his leaving home at that time. He had been stifled by the atmosphere of the house. Maud, who would bear a child in three months' time, had become the most important person in it; and he, the master, had been forced to take second place. He could escape to his life outside the house, of course, to his friends for a little gambling, a few dinner parties, supervising his estates, sitting on the bench, hunting; but he had had need of a complete change. Then, there had been the christening of Bruce Holland's boy.

He had said to Maud: "My dear, I think I shall have to go to London, confound it! Business threatens to make the trip necessary."

Then she had tried to hide the pleasure his words had given her, but she could never hide anything.

She had said: "Oh, Charles, how tiresome!" And, hardly able to keep the eagerness out of her voice: "When do you leave?"

She would be thinking: I shall have my meals with Wenna. We shall be comfortable. I shall no longer have to wonder what he is going to say next and how to answer him.

He had said airily: "Oh, in a week or two." And he had watched her settle cosily into her cushions.

He went to her and kissed her lightly on the forehead; he was well pleased with her. There were no irritating wifely questions from Maud. Did it occur to her that something besides business might detain him in London? Such thoughts would not occur to Maud. She was too pure. Her dear Mamma had never taught her to consider her husband's possible lack of morals; the only cause for alarm would have been any lack of fortune.

So, with Maud absorbed in the approach of motherhood, he needed the stimulation which London could give him.

He said: "Bruce expects me to put in an appearance at the christening."

"You must, of course."

He smiled at her calmly. He thought: If the child she is carrying is a girl we'll betroth him to this boy of Bruce's. He almost wished he would be cheated of the son he hoped for; it would be so neat if

it were a girl and could be paired off with Bruce's son; and he liked neat arrangements. No! He did not hope for that. He and Maud had been married for five years; and this was the first sign of fruit-fulness. His first-born must be a son. There had always been a son and heir at Trevenning. He had feared that Maud was not fertile, and he believed the fault was hers. She was completely without passion; she had dreaded their intercourse in the beginning, and the happiest state she had arrived at was indifference and absent-mindedness. Was such a state conducive to procreation ? He believed not. Fenella, in whose salon conversation was advanced, declared that it was not so.

Wenna, coming in saw him and, excusing herself, was about to hurry out, but he waved her excuses aside and declared he was about to depart.

A week later he left by post-chaise for London. The journey proved less eventful than usual. There was only one uneasy moment when, crossing Bagshot Heath, the postilions decided that a gallop was advisable; but they had come safely to the inn where Bruce Holland was waiting to greet him, and there he had enjoyed a meal of freshwater fish, roast fowl, cheese and salad such as could be enjoyed only at the posting inn and was not for humbler coach travellers.

He had stayed with Bruce, but his friend had not been such good company as usual; he was absorbed in Fermor Danby his new son. It might have been that Bruce's absorption had contributed towards that fatal visit to Vauxhall.

He had called on Fenella at the earliest possible moment. Fenella was as magnificent as ever. It was hard to believe there could be such a person until one saw her, heard her, and was part of that community of strange and brilliant people whom she gathered about her. Nothing could have been in greater contrast with the drawing-room at Trevenning than Fenella's salon in the London square. Her husband had squandered her large fortune before he died, and in her early twenties Fenella had found herself with neither husband nor fortune. She had thereupon set about retrieving the fortune; and she made it clear that no husband was going to take it from her. Lovers, declared Fenella, characteristically, were more satisfactory; a woman must look after herself and she needed lovers to protect her from would-be husbands. She was outrageously amusing and her friends and admirers said that she was in advance of her times. Tall, Junoesque, she had a taste for bizarre clothes. Clothes delighted her; she had defied all conventions by establishing her own dress salon for the service of ladies in high society. Fenella's dress salon was as no other; for everything Fenella did was as it had never been done before.

She had her delightful house in the London square; she had her girls to show her gowns. They mingled with the guests—noblemen and statesmen and their wives and friends, both Whigs and Tories. The politics of her guests mattered little to Fenella; she was a woman, she said, who liked to hear both sides of a question. The beautiful Caroline Norton was her friend, and among the guests who came to her drawing-room were Wellington, Melbourne and Peel.

It was said that many of her young ladies found wealthy protectors. There were some people who hinted that Fenella's was a rendezvous for the disposal of feminine wares other than tippets, gowns and pelisses, and that she derived great benefits from gentlemen of wealth and power by the services her young ladies helped her to render. There was bound to be idle gossip about a woman like Fenella.

She accepted the gossip concerning herself as though she enjoyed it equally with the scandalmongers. She grew richer in her elaborately feathered nest. Her morals were elastic. She was warmly generous and good natured, but a shrewd and hard driver of bargains. All those who worked for her were fond of her. She had a surfeit of friends and lovers. She was Queen in her half-world. Many could not understand how a woman—little more than a tradeswoman—could wield such influence and be accepted as the friend of so many men and women of standing. It was true that she was not received in the houses of the great; but Fenella did not wish to be received; she wished to receive.

Bruce Holland, hard-living man about town, typical of his generation, untouched by the new customs, was as much at home at Almacks as he was at a low cock-fight in the East End of London. He introduced Charles to London night life, to bear-baiting and dog-fights, to boxing matches between men of their own class or those frequenters of the water-front sluceries.

He it was who had taken Charles to Fenella's salon.

Once Charles had stayed behind to advise her about some investment of which he had particular knowledge, and he had spent the night in Fenella's company in that magnificent bedroom of soft carpets and thick curtains, of beautiful furniture and ornaments which Fenella had collected from her many admirers.

It had been an exciting experience, repeated on another occasion.

He would have been delighted if it had happened more frequently, but Fenella had many lovers and would not allow herself to become deeply involved with one. A comforting thought, he had believed; and the best possible sort of mistress with an outlook on life which could be called masculine. There would never be unpleasant complications with Fenella; no tears on parting; no regrets. Love for her was a passing joy, as delightful as champagne, to be sipped and

enjoyed, not stored and wept over. And in love she was never calculating, never mercenary. What pleasure it was to love and be loved by Fenella especially after experiencing those dubiously enjoyable practices indulged in with an indifferent and absentminded though legal partner!

But Fenella had failed him on that last occasion. She had assured him that she was delighted to see him, that he was her very good friend; her sparkling eyes recalled with pleasure their last encounter in her perfumed bedroom; but there was a certain vagueness in her smile, for Fenella's interest was absorbed by a young man, a protege of Melbourne's. Consequently Charles, deeply disappointed, had left the house in the square and wandered aimlessly towards the river.

He had not realized how far he had walked when he heard the pipe of a cockney voice. "A boat, sir? Cross the river, sir? VauxhalPll be pretty to-night, sir."

And so to Vauxhall.

As he had strolled through the avenues he had not seen the vulgarity of the place; he had not heard the shouts of the people. It was twilight and the crowds were impatiently awaiting the fireworks display. Somewhere in the distance a band was playing Handel's "Water Music."

Millie was sitting on a seat under a tree, her hands folded in her lap, and he would have passed her by but for the ruffian. This lout had sat down on the seat beside her. Charles stood still, arrested in his walk, because the girl was shrinking to one end of the seat, was trying to rise, but the man had her by the arm. Millie looked desperately about her, and her eyes fell upon Charles, who could do nothing but stride towards her and her unwanted companion.

"What are you doing to this young lady?" he demanded. It was the unmistakable voice of authority, and it startled the ruffian, who released his hold on the girl and shuffled uneasily to his feet as he took in the elegance, the fine cut of that magnificent coat, the cold arrogance of the man who is accustomed to being obeyed.

"I never done nothing . . ." he began.

Charles raised his eyebrows and looked at the young woman whose eyes appealed to him not to leave her.

"Be off with you," said Charles, raising his cane. "And if I catch you molesting young ladies again, it will be the worse for you."

The ruffian first backed away, then he ran. Charles stood looking after him. That should have been the end. But Millie had risen. She was small—not much more than five feet in height; he was immediately impressed by her gentle timidity and a litde moved by it-.

"I . . . thank you . . . sir," she stammered.

He was about to acknowledge her thanks and move on but, noticing afresh the helplessness and the melancholy in her pretty face, he said somewhat brusquely: "What are you doing here . . . alone?"

"I shouldn't be here by rights, sir," she said. "I came . . . because ... I had to come." Her eyes filled with tears. They looked bigger and greener thus. He saw that it was the contrast of dark lashes that made them so noticeable. "It was the last place we came to together, sir."

"It is no place for a young woman to be in at such an hour alone," he said, cutting short any confidence he feared she might be trying to make.

"No, sir."

He felt embarrassed. "My good woman," he said to emphasize the difference in their social standing, "no gentleman could pass a young person in such distress as you obviously were. Come, tell me why you linger here."

"It reminds me of him . . . of Jim ^ . . my husband."

"And he is no longer with you?"

She shook her head and brought out a handkerchief from the pocket of her linen gown.

He looked at her intently and asked: "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head.

"Come, come, tell the truth," he said. "When did you last eat?"

"I ... I don't know."

"That's nonsense."

"It was yesterday."

"So you have no money."

She twisted the handkerchief in her hands and looked at it helplessly.

"If you will not talk to me there is nothing I can do to help you," he said impatiently. "Perhaps you would prefer me to go away and not bother you."

She gave him another of those deprecating glances. "You are so kind," she said, and he noticed that her mouth was soft and trembling. Her smallness aroused both his pity and excited interest. "I . . . I feel better here, sir," she went on. "That is when I'm not being bothered."

He smiled faintly. "If you sit here alone you will continue to be bothered."

She smiled. "Yes, sir."

"Go home. That's the remedy." Her lips began to tremble again and he went on: "You're in some trouble." It was the worst thing he could have said, for she sat down on the seat and covered her face with her hands. He saw the gloves—black and neatly darned;

he noticed how thin she was. He felt that if he left her now he would never forgive himself nor would he forget her. It would be as though he had heard a call for help and refused to listen, as though he had passed by on the other side of the road. He felt in his pocket for money. No, he could not offer her money, not without ascertaining the cause of her distress.

He sat down on the seat beside her. It was getting darker every minute, so it was not likely he would be seen by anyone he knew. He was safe enough. He was discovering that he was interested so deeply that he was ready to take a risk.

"You are in deep trouble," he said, "and I am a stranger. But I might be able to help."

"You're so kind," she said again. "I knew that as soon as you stopped." Her awe of him was obvious, her recognition of his status flattering.

"The first thing is to have something to eat and drink," he said. "I believe that is what you need more than anything."

She rose obediently.

In the eating-house with its evergreen plants in ornamental pots, and its music, he took her to a secluded table, and there, with his back to the crowd, he gave her his full attention. He watched her devour a leg of roast chicken and sip the burned champagne, which put some colour in her cheeks and made her eyes look like translucent jade. Watching her, he felt benign. He thought of Cophetua and the beggar maid or a small boy dipping his toes into a deliciously cool stream. He was savouring a pleasure knowing that he could withdraw whenever he wished to. Though why he should find pleasure in the society of an uneducated girl he was not sure.

It was after she had eaten and when they sat back listening to the music that she told him her sad story. He could hear her voice now– a little hoarse and tremulous with that queer sibilance which he would have thought ill-bred a short while before.

"It fell out like this, sir," she said. "I came up to London from the country—Hertfordshire, that's where my home was. There was a lot of us, you see, sir, and they was glad to get rid of us elder ones, Mother and Father was. ... I had a chance to work in the mantua maker's and learn a trade. A girl from our village had gone to her, and when she come home for a little stay, she said she'd take me back with her because there was a vacancy where she was, you see. So I left home "

She made him see it—the woman with her young girls working in the great room, rising early in the morning, stitching through the long hours, living simply, having no pleasures but each other's company. Mistress Rickards, the mantua maker, was strict. She would never allow the girls to go out alone. They were never allowed

to go to any entertainments—not even a hanging outside Newgate Jail. Mistress Rickards was stern; she beat her girls with a stick when she thought they needed it; and she fed them on skimmed milk and texts from the Bible. They were with her to work, she told them continually; not to frivol away their time. If they worked hard they would one day be good at their trade, at which they could earn a living; then they would not starve in the gutter as some did. On the rare occasions when she took them out she would point at the beggars sitting on the street corners with their hired children, exposing their afflictions, their blindness, their ragged state, their sores. "Pity the beggars, ,, the poor things would chant miserably; and Mistress Rickards would threaten: "You'll come to that, Agnes, you lazy slut. You too, Rosie, you sluggard. Don't think you'll escape, Millie, you awkward girl. That's what you'll come to unless you learn your trade."

They had worked hard and they had been happy within their narrow lives. They used to sit at a bench by the window and the apprentices who passed by would look in and wave; each girl had had her apprentice to be teased about as she stitched and stitched to avoid the harsh prophecies of Mistress Rickards, the mantua maker.

"And one day," said Millie, in her hoarse yet childish voice, "I had to go to Mr. Latter, the mercer, for a piece of silk a lady wanted making into a mantle. Mistress Rickards went as a rule, but she'd eaten oysters the night before and they hadn't agreed with her. She sent me, and Jim was in the shop."

She softened when she talked of Jim. He was no longer an apprentice, she proudly explained, but the mercer found him too useful to let him go. So he paid him a wage to stay on, and Jim used to .say that he was the one who really managed the shop.

Their courtship had lasted ten months. Jim was a man with money. He wasn't afraid of Mistress Rickards. He said he was going to look after her and she needn't bother any more about learning a trade. He was going to see that she made mantles and pelisses for herself, not for others. She was going to be Mrs. Sand, she was.

She almost sparkled as she told him of the night they went to Vauxhall.

"There was fireworks, and we danced. I kept thinking of what Mistress Rickards would say when I got back. And when we did get back, there she was waiting, her hair in curlpapers and her cane propped up by the door. But Jim didn't care. He came in with me. He said: Tm going to marry Millie and don't you dare lay a finger on her.' "