Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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He had thought of Melisande continually since he had had the letter.

He could not make up his mind what to do. Perhaps he would go to see Fenella. She had advised him once, and her advice had been good; moreover she had gained wisdom with the years, and he was sure she would be only too happy to help him solve his problem.

As he sat there the door opened and Wenna came in. She looked at him in some surprise and her sharp eyes went to the letter in his hands.

He said: "Oh, Wenna, her ladyship wants a wrap."

She had come near to the table and he noticed that she continued to look at the letter. He felt uneasy. He laid it down and immediately wished he had not done so. He said quickly: "It is getting chilly out there."

"I'll go and get it... at once," she said.

When Wenna went out with it, Maud said: "I thought he had forgotten. It was a long time ago that I asked him."

"Men!" said Wenna fiercely. "Thinking of nothing but themselves ! Why, you'm chilled to the bone. You shall come in at once and I'll get 'ee a hot drink."

"Wenna, Wenna, what of my guests? You forget I'm not your pet now. I'm the hostess."

"You'll catch your death," prophesied Wenna, as she had prophesied a thousand times. But this time she was right.

The next morning her mistress was shivering yet feverish when she went in to her, and two days later she was dead.

There was great excitement in the Auberge Lefevre.

"It is Monsieur himself!" cried Madame. "Ah, Monsieur, it is a long time since we saw you. Come in. Come in. Your room shall be prepared for you. You will drink a glass of wine with my husband, will you not? Then we shall see about food for you. RagoUt ... a little of that crimped sole that you like so much ? Or the roast beef of your own country perhaps?"

"Thank you, thank you," he said.

"We shall make you comfortable here."

"I do not know how long I shall stay."

But Madame was away, calling her servants, preparing the warming pans, arranging for hot water to be carried to his room since he had a passion for the bath.

Madame herself would cook the meal. She would trust no other.

The Englishman drank a glass of wine with Armand.

He has aged, thought Armand. There is silver in his hair now.

They talked of town matters; but Armand was knowledgeable beyond the affairs of his own town. He shook his head. "There is a murmuring in the great cities, Monsieur. We hear it even here in the country. It is like a storm in the distance, you understand, Monsieur? This Louis Philippe and his Marie Amelie—are they going the same way as Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette ? There are some who say they are neither for the aristocrats nor for the people. They meddle with the ministers of State, they bribe the juries and they dictate to the press. Frenchmen do not like this, Monsieur, and they are not calm like the people of Monsieur's country. They are

happy, your people. They have a good Queen, have they not, kept in control by her pious German husband?'*

The Englishman might have replied that England had her troubles; he might have mentioned the Luddites and the men of Tolpuddle, the rising struggle over the corn law*, the concession already granted to one class by another in the reform laws; he might have mentioned the terrible inequalities between rich and poor which were—to those who saw it in a certain way, which he did not —a shameful disgrace to any nation; but of course the inequalities in France were even greater. But the Englishman said none of these things. He preferred to listen to the Frenchman, to shake his head and condole.

Moreover he was thinking of the reason for his visit.

But he did not hurry. It was not in his nature to hurry. He had rehearsed what he would say when he was confronted with the girl whom he had not seen since she had dropped her sabot at his feet.

He ate the excellent fish which Madame had prepared for him; he scarcely noticed Madame's special sauce, but he assured her that it was delicious. Then he retired early that he might be fresh for to-morrow's task.

Melisande stood before her class of little children. Outside the sun was shining. There was a butterfly trying to get out of the windows– a white butterfly with touches of green on his wings. She was thinking of the butterfly rather than of the children.

Poor little butterfly! He was imprisoned in the room even as she was imprisoned in the Convent. She knew nothing of the world; she only knew a life which was governed by bells—bells for rising, bells for prayers, bells for petit dejeuner, for the first class, for the second, for the walk through the town and so on through the days; and every day was alike except saint days and Sundays, and any saint day was like any other saint day, any Sunday like another.

What were the excitements of the days ? Little Jeanne-Marie had the colic; little Yvette had learned to read. Melisande loved little Jeanne-Marie; she was delighted in the triumph of little Yvette; but this was not living.

She spent much time in dreaming of wonderful things which would happen to her, of knights who rode to the Convent and

abducted her; she pictured herself riding away with one of them to an enchanted castle, to Paris, to Rome, to London, to Egypt—all the wonderful countries of which she had read in the geography lessons. When she drew maps with the older children she would picture herself sailing up that river, climbing that mountain.

Sometimes when she was sent to the market with the garments or the garden produce which were to be sold, she would loiter and talk to the stall-holders. The eyes of old Henri would light up when he saw her, and she saw in the gaze of his young grandson that she was too pretty a girl to live in a convent all her life. She would linger at the auberge and try a piece of Madame's rich gateau; Armand would let her see how he admired her while he awaited the answers to the questions he asked her with such burning curiosity. "And how long shall you stay at the Convent, Mademoiselle Melisande? Do you never hear news of some relatives in the outside world?"

Now she went to the window and opened it, but the silly butterfly did not seem to know how to get out even then. She seized it gently and released it.

"It is flying away, home to its children," said young Louise.

"To its little house and its baby butterflies," said Yvette.

She looked at the children, her green eyes momentarily sad. These children were obsessed by the thought of homes, of families in which there was a mother and father. They longed for a home– a real home however humble; they longed for brothers and sisters. She had ceased to long for such impossibilities; she wanted to escape into the world because she felt herself to be a prisoner.

As the butterfly flew away the door opened and Sister Eugenie came in.

Melisande sighed. The classroom in an uproar over a butterfly! She would be reprimanded for this. Why was it that her smallest misdemeanours always seemed to be brought home to her?

But Sister Eugenie did not seem to notice the disturbance. She was looking straight at Melisande, and there was a faint colour in her cheeks; her eyes, beneath her stern headdress, looked as excited as they ever could look.

"I will take the class," she said. "You are to go to la Mere at once."

Melisande was astonished. She opened her mouth to speak, but Eugenie went on: "Go at once. Oh, but first tidy your hair. La Mere is waiting."

Melisande hurried out of the classroom along the corridors to the dormitory. Over the bed which was slightly bigger than the others hung a mirror. The bed and the mirror were hers; now that she was nearly sixteen, it was her duty to sleep in the dormitory with the small children.

Her hair, as usual, was untwining itself from the plaits which

hung over her shoulders. No wonder Sister Eugenie had noticed it!

She hastily replaited it. What could the Mother want with her? She had dallied in the market square only yesterday; she had gossiped and laughed and chattered with Henri. Was that it? "Now, now," had said Henri's grandson. "No flirting with the young lady, Grandpapa!"

She had laughed with pleasure at the time; but what if the nuns had overheard ? What a sin! What a penance would be hers!

She began to frame excuses as she went along to that room in which the Mother spent most of her time studying religious books and looking after the affairs of the Convent.

"Come in," said the Mother, when she knocked.

A man was sitting by the table. She caught her breath with surprise and felt the blood rush into her face. She knew that man. She would have recognized him anywhere because he was not like anyone else she had ever known. He was the Englishman who had sat outside the auberge.

"Melisande," said the Mother, "come here, my child." As Melisande approached the table, the Mother went on: "This is Mr. Charles Adam."

Melisande curtseyed to the stranger.

"Speak to him in English, child," said the Mother. "He would prefer that. Mr. Adam has come to see you. He has something to say to you, and he thinks it would be better if he told it to you himself. I am going to leave you that you may talk with him."

"Yes, ma Merer

"He is your guardian, Melisande. Do not forget ... in English. He will wish to know how proficient you have become in that tongue."

The Mother rose and laid a hand on Melisande's shoulder; she gave her a little push towards Mr. Adam who had risen and was holding out his hand to shake hers.

The door closed on the Mother.

"This is a surprise to you," he said.

"My . . . guardian?" she said.

"Yes . . . yes."

"But you did not say. I mean . . . outside the inn . . . when I dropped my sabot. You did not tell me then. I should have been so excited. I did not know . . ."

She stopped. She was becoming incoherent as Sister Emilie said she was when she was excited, and it was only the fact that it was not so easy to translate her thoughts into English which stopped the flow of words.

"I am sorry," he said. "I could not explain then. It is difficult even now . . ."

"Of course, Monsieur." She looked at him with delight, taking in every detail: the elegant clothes, the hair slightly greying at the temples, the rather cold grey eyes, the stern mouth; she decided he was somewhat formidable, but everything that a guardian ought to be. He was not the sort of man about whom Therese need have the slightest qualm—nor the Mother, 'it seemed. How odd! Here she was alone in a room with a man for the first time in her life. Her lips curled up at the corners.

"So, Monsieur," she said, "you are my guardian."

"I ... I knew your father."

"Oh, please tell me. I have so often wondered. What Was my father like? Where is he now? Why was I left at the Convent? Is he still alive?"

"Your father was a gentleman," he said.

"And my mother?"

"Your mother died very soon after you were born."

"And my father also?"

"You . . . lost him too. He asked me to look after you."

"And it was you who sent me to the Convent?"

"The education which has been given you here is as good as any you could get. ... I was persuaded."

She laughed and, because he looked surprised, she said: "I am only laughing because I am pleased. No one has been really interested in me before."

"I had thought you might make the Convent your permanent home."

Her face fell. She felt as the butterfly would have felt if, after she had shown him the fresh air and freedom, she had brought him back into the schoolroom.

"I am not good enough to be a nun," she said. She was sad suddenly ; her lids hid the brilliance of her eyes and all the joy seemed to have gone out of her face. "I did not feel the ecstasy of prayers and fasting. Little Louise said that when she worked on the angel's wing in the altar cloth she felt as though she had wings and was flying up to heaven. When I worked on the angel's robe, I just felt it was tiresome and hurt my eyes. You see . . ."

But of course he was not interested in little Louise and her feelings, nor in the weaknesses of Melisande.

She noticed that he ignored what she said and went on with his speech as though he were unaware of her interruption. She must keep quiet, for only by letting him do the talking could she know what he wished to say, and curb this aching curiosity within her.

"But," he went on, "it seems you are unsuited to convent life. So I have come to take you away if you wish to leave."

She clasped her hands together. They were trembling with excitement.

"I have one or two propositions to put before you." He looked at her eager animated face. "I am told that you know something of teaching. That means you could earn your living as a governess. I am told that you would be a good needlewoman if you would apply yourself to such work. It is possible that I may find a situation for you."

She was thoughtful. Perhaps, he thought, she saw herself escaping from one prison to another.

He made up his mind suddenly then. He had not until this moment been quite sure whether he could act so daringly. This was one of the most reckless moments of his life. It would be so simple to take her to Fenella. Fenella would have helped him as readily now as she had once before.

But Melisande was so charming—those shapeless ugly garments could not hide that. She was Millie re-born . . . Millie turned into Melisande. Millie had been pretty and appealing, but this girl had real beauty. Millie was uneducated; this girl's intelligence shone through her beauty. That look of alert enquiry in the green eyes might have been inquisitiveness, but it was enchanting. How could he resist the temptation to bring his own daughter into his home, to watch her day by day? How could he allow her to take a menial post in another household ? He seemed to hear Millie's voice saying: "I want her to have a gros de Naples gown and a mantle ..."

She shall! he decided. He would, for once, forget to be cautious; he would override all difficulties.

"I have a situation for you," he said slowly.

"Oh . . . yes?"

He went on quickly: "My wife died recently. I have a daughter a few years older than you are. She needs a companion. Would you like to live in my house and help to cheer my daughter ? The work would not be arduous. I should like you to be happy in my house. You would have all the comforts . .. the privileges ... of my daughter herself."

Her eyes were shining, for he had changed. She had thought for a moment that he was going to lay his hands on her shoulders and kiss her.

"Yes please," she said. "Please."

"When will you be ready to leave?"

"Why, now!" she cried.

"I think in a few days' time would be more convenient. You will need time to prepare."

She was smiling, and she spoke as usual without considering. "I believe," she said, "that you were very fond of my father."

He turned away from her sharply; then suddenly he turned his head and said over his shoulder: "What makes you think so?"

"To have cared so much about me . . . whom you didn't know . . . to be so pleased because I am coming to live in your house."

When he turned back to her his face was without expression. "Let us hope," he said, "that everyone will be pleased."

It was impossible to keep the secret. The auberge hummed with it.

"What did I tell you ?" cried Armand, delighted. "Now, Madame, you see that I am a man who can put two and two together."

But Madame was sad. "He will never come to see us again. And we shall lose Melisande too."

"You have grown fond of her," said Armand pensively. "She is a beautiful girl. You should rejoice since she is going to her father's house. She will have silks and satins, a handsome husband and a fine dowry."

"But we shall not see her in her silks and satins. We shall not see the handsome husband; and none of the dowry will be spent at our inn."

Armand was philosophical. "There will be others . . . other gentlemen who come to see their daughters . . . other gentlemen to sit with me and watch the children."

"That would be too much of a coincidence," retorted his wife.

"Indeed no," murmured Armand; "it would be life."

They watched them depart on the coach which would take them to Paris—that incongruous pair; the Englishman with the melancholy expression and the vivacious young girl in her sombre convent clothes.

Madame was openly weeping, and Armand wiped a tear from his eye as he returned to his bottle of wine.

It was not until they were in Paris that Charles changed his identity. Now it was safe, he thought; and he would have to tell her before they reached England.

"I was Charles Adam to the nuns," he said. "But that is not my real name. It is Charles Trevenning."

"Trevenning," she repeated with her French accent. "Is that so then?" How true it was that she spoke first and thought afterwards. "This ... it was a . . ." She struggled for the word. "It was a necessary . . . ?"

"The position was a little difficult. My friends . . . being unable to see to these matters for themselves ..."

"You mean my parents?"

"Yes. And I . . . with a child on my hands."

She nodded. "It was an awkwardness," she said. "A great awkwardness," she repeated, delighted with the word. Her eyes were sparkling. She had read forbidden books. There had been a lady staying at the auberge who had spoken to her and, being interested in her, had given her several books. She had smuggled them into the Convent. One grew tired of PilgrirrCs Progress and the Bible. How enthralling were those books! What excitement to read of the outside world, where there was love, death and birth—all of which, it seemed so often, should never have taken place.

She was not as ignorant as people believed of life outside convents. She saw his point. Her parents had died and left him a baby. That was an awkwardness indeed. There would be scandal—and scandal was a frequent ingredient of the forbidden books. She understood perfectly why he had had to be Charles Adam. "But," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, "the nuns would never have told."

"It seemed wiser," he said. "Will you remember then that I am Charles Trevenning, Sir Charles Trevenning. There is another matter. You must have noticed that you and I attract some attention. That is because people wonder about our relationship. It might be wiser if at this stage of our journey I call you . . . my daughter."

She nodded vigorously and with delight. "It is an honour," she said. "It pleases me."

He was relieved to find her so intelligent. He was becoming more and more drawn to her with every passing moment.

"And," he went on, "there is the matter of clothes. While we are in Paris we will try to find something more suitable for you."

She was enchanted by the idea of buying new clothes.

It was necessary to stay some days in the French capital, and he was determined to make her presentable before they left; he wished her *o look like an English schoolgirl, who, having been met by her father after completing her stay at a finishing school, was going home.

He was sure that she attracted attention because of her incongruous clothes, because she talked too much, because she was excited by everything she saw. He believed that she would calm

down. But he found that he could not make her into the girl he wished her to be; she was, above all things, herself. He pictured her vaguely in a discreet dress of dark tartan with a little cape about her shoulders; he saw her in a neat bonnet which would help to subdue the brilliance of her eyes.

When they entered the shop he said to the saleswoman in his stiff French: "This is my daughter. I want her to have a discreet outfit."

But he had reckoned without the saleswoman . . . and Melisande. The latter had already seen a beautiful gown with frills and flounces, with a low-cut bodice and leg-of-mutton sleeves. She stood before it, her arms folded across her breast.

"But it is too old for Mademoiselle," said the saleswoman tenderly.

"But it is so beautiful," said Melisande.

The saleswoman laughed understanding^ while Melisande joined in excitedly; and they talked in such rapid French that he could not possibly follow the conversation.

"It is a travelling dress that is wanted," he began.

"Monsieur?"

"A travelling dress ..."

"I want a dress of scarlet!" cried Melisande. "Of scarlet and blue and gold. I want all the brightest colours in the world, because I have lived in a convent and never worn anything but black . . . black . . . black "

"Black is for when you are a little older," said the saleswoman. "Then with those eyes that will be beautiful. Black ... I see it . . . with the bodice cut low and frills and frills of chiffon."

"It is a travelling dress we want," he insisted.

But the saleswoman had taken Melisande away and as he heard the child's excited squeals of laughter and sat on the chair they had provided for him, he thought of Millie Sand at Hampstead and all she had wanted for this girl. Then he could smile at those excited voices. Could Millie see her daughter now? Of course she could. Wasn't it a tenet of his belief that those who passed away could look down on those who were left ? Then she would be looking down and saying: "I knew I could trust him."

He did not notice how the time was passing for he was going over it all again—that long-ago romance of which this girl, who had caused him such acute embarrassment and would cause him more, was the living reminder.

And when at length she came and stood before him he scarcely recognized her.

She was dressed in a travelling dress of black and green; it nipped in her tiny waist; it gave her a slight and charming maturity which had not before been visible. She was wearing a green bonnet of the

same silk with which the black dress was trimmed. There were petticoats, she gleefully told him; and there were other undergarments. She lifted her skirts to show, but the saleswoman restrained her.

"Such spirits! It is a pleasure, Monsieur, to dress one with such spirits. And there is a little dress with a wide skirt and a sous jupe crinoline to accompany it . . . which would be so useful for the special occasion, you understand?"

As he looked at Melisande he thought of the pride which would have been Millie's if she could see her daughter now. She had been educated as well as girls of the richest families; and now she was charmingly dressed by a Paris House, the most elegant in the world.

He said smiling: "The result is charming. And the little dress . . . yes! She must have that also. And perhaps another if that is what she will need."

The saleswoman, was enraptured. Melisande was enraptured.

The clothes should be sent to their hotel.

"You have spent much money," said Melisande.

"You needed the things."

She jumped up and, putting her arms about his neck, kissed him.

The saleswoman laughed. "It is understandable . . . Mademoiselle's gratitude to her kind Papa."

"The best of all Papas!" cried Melisande, her eyes gleaming because of the secret they shared. They must act their parts when they were travelling, her eyes reminded him; because if people thought they were not father and daughter there would be a scandal.

When they went into the streets heads turned to watch her. Perhaps, he thought, it would have been better to have left her in her convent clothes.

To travel with Melisande was like going over the familiar ground for the first time. How delighted she was with everything! The smallest things that happened to her became the greatest jokes. To travel on a railway! She had never believed she would enjoy such an adventure. How she delighted in her seat in a first-class carriage! And how sorry she was for those who must travel third! Her moods were changeable. They almost tripped over each other. Now she was delighting in the pleasures of Vauxhall—for he had been unable to

resist the impulse to take her there—then she was weeping for the plight of the beggars, the crossing sweepers, the old apple women.

He was partly sorry, partly relieved, when they were on a train again steaming westward.

"It is time now," he told her, "for us to stop our little pretence."

"I am no longer to be your daughter?" she asked.

"I think we should be wise to adopt another relationship."

"Yes?"

"We will say that you have been introduced to me by a friend because you want a post, and as my daughter will be lonely, I have taken the opportunity of providing a companion for her."

"I see that you do not wish them to know how good you have been to the daughter of your friend. You do not like being thanked."

"But I do. I like it very much."

She shook her head and gave him her warm smile. "No. When I thank you for my clothes, for the happiness you have brought me, you do not like it. You try to change the subject."

"You thank me too often. Once is enough. And now you must please do as I say. I think it advisable for people to think that you are the protegee of a friend of mine. You have been brought up in France; you need a post, and I thought it would be an excellent idea for you to come and stay with my daughter as her companion. As I told you, she has just lost her mother. She was to have been married soon, and that, of course, will be postponed for at least a year. Meanwhile you can help with her clothes; you can walk with her, do embroidery with her, play the pianoforte with her and teach her to speak good French."

"It shall be as you say," she said solemnly. "I will do all that you wish. My tongue has often been indiscreet but it shall be so no longer. Every time it is in danger of saying what it should not, I shall remind it of all you have done for me, of all the happiness you have brought to me, to the Paris dressmaker, to the nuns and to Monsieur and Madame Lefevre."

"Oh, come, I am not such a universal benefactor!"

"Oh yes, you are. To me—that is clear. To the dressmaker because you buy so much and make good business for her, to Monsieur and Madame Lefevre because you are rich and Armand makes up his stories about you, and you are Madame's special guest; and to the nuns because if you had not come for me I believe I should have run away and that would have given them much sorrow."

"You see the rosy side of life."

"I love all rosiness," she told him. "It is because I must wear ugly black all the time I was at the Convent."

Then suddenly she kissed him again.

"It is the last time," she said. "You are no longer, from this

moment, my father who has come to take me from my finishing school and buys me beautiful clothes in Paris; you are the wise man who takes the opportunity of bringing me as a companion to his daughter."

Then she sat upright in her seat, looking demure, the picture of a young lady going to her first post.

They took the post-chaise when they reached Devon, for the railway had not yet been extended into Cornwall.

Melisande was thoughtful now. The bridge between the old life and the new was nearly crossed. She was thinking with some apprehension of the daughter who was a little older than herself.

They came along the road so slowly that it was possible for her to admire the countryside which was more hilly than any she had ever seen. The roads were so bad that again and again the wheels were stuck in ruts, and the driver and postilion had to alight more than once to put their shoulders to the wheel.

Melisande noticed that Charles was becoming more and more uneasy as they proceeded. She herself grew quiet, catching his mood. He was uneasy because of her, she knew; he wondered perhaps how his daughter would like the companion he was providing for her.

He told her stories of the Duchy while they waited for a wheel to be mended. He told of the Little People in their red coats and sugar loaf hats who haunted this wild country, of the knackers who lived in the tin mines; they were no bigger than dolls but they behaved like old tinners. The miners, in order to keep in their good graces left them a didjan which was a part of the food they took into the mines with them. If they did not leave the knackers' didjans they believed terrible misfortune would overtake them.

Her eyes were round and solemn; she must hear more of these matters. "But who were these knackers? They were very wicked, were they not?"

They could be spiteful, he told her; but they could be bribed to goodness if they were left their crout. They were said to be the spirits of the Jews who had crucified Christ.

"How shall I know them and the Little People if I meet them?"

"I doubt whether you will meet them. Soon you will see old miners. The knackers are like them, but they could sit in your

hands. The Little People wear scarlet jackets and sugar loaf hats."

"What if I had no food to give them ? I could give them my handkerchief, I suppose. Or perhaps my bonnet." Her eyes were mournful at the thought of losing her bonnet.

"They would find no use for the bonnet," he said quickly. "It would be much too big. And you may never meet them. I never have."

"But I want to."

"People are terrified of meeting them. Some won't go out after dark for fear of doing so."

She said: "I should be terrified." She shivered and laughed. "All the same I want to."

He laughed at the way in which she peered out of the window.

"These are just legends," he said. "That is what people say nowadays. But this is a land of strangeness. I hope you will be happy in it."

"I am happy. I think this is the happiest time of my life."

"Let us hope it will be the beginning of a happy life."

"I was far from unhappy in the Convent," she said, "but I wanted something to happen . . . something wonderful . . . like your coming for me and taking me away with you."

"Is that so very wonderful?"

She looked at him in astonishment. "The most wonderful thing that could ever happen to anyone in a convent."

He was alarmed suddenly. He leaned forward and laid his hand over hers. "We can't say that anything is good or bad until we see the effect it has upon us. I don't know whether I am doing the right thing. I trust I am, my child."

"But this is the right thing. I know it. It is what I always wanted. I wished and wished that it would happen . . . and you see, it has."

"Ah," he said lightly, "perhaps you are one of those fortunate people whose wishes are granted."