Текст книги "It Began in Vauxhall Gardens"

Автор книги: Jean Plaidy

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"I must be."

"Perhaps my daughter will take you to one of our wishing wells. There you can make your wish, and we will hope that the piskies will grant it."

She said: "I will wish now." She closed her eyes. "I am wishing for . . ."

"No," he said laughing, "don't tell me. That would break the spell."

"What a wonderful place this is! There are Little People, piskies and knackers. I am going to be happy here. I am going to be so good a companion for your daughter that you will be very glad you decided to bring me here."

She was silent thinking of all that she would wish for herself and others.

And eventually they went on with their journey.

It was dusk when they turned in at the drive of Trevenning. The woman at the lodge came out to curtsey and open the gate. Melisande wanted to ask a good many questions about the woman, but she sat still, her hands folded in her lap. She must remember that their relationship had changed. He was becoming more and more remote, more stern; she must continually remind herself that she was only his daughter's companion now.

She could see the hilly slopes about her, the great gnarled trunks of trees, the masses of rhododendron bushes, the pond, the great sweep of grass and then the house.

She caught her breath. It was bigger than she had imagined– almost as big as the Convent, she thought; but it was a home and would be homely. How rich he must be to live in such a house! No wonder he had paid the Frenchwoman's bill for clothes without a murmur.

The carriage drew up on the gravel before the front door. As she alighted from it she was aware of the stately grandeur of grey granite walls and mullioned windows. A manservant was waiting in the porch. He took his master's cloak and hat.

"Is Miss Caroline in?" asked Sir Charles.

"Yes, Sir Charles. She is in the library with Miss Holland and Mr. Fermor."

"Tell her I am home. No ... we will go there ourselves."

They were in a lofty hall, the walls of which were hung with portraits and trophies from the hunting field; rising from this hall was a wide staircase; and there were doors to the left and right. Sir Charles opened one of these and, as she followed him, Melisande was aware of the watching eyes of the manservant.

Now she could see a room lighted with candles; books lined one of its walls; there was a thick carpet; she was conscious of velvet curtains and an air of magnificence.

"Ah, Miss Holland . . . Caroline . . . Fermor. . . ." Sir Charles approached the three people who had risen from their chairs and were coming towards him. Melisande saw an elderly lady in pearl grey, a tall young man and a fair girl who was dressed in deep black.

Her hair, worn in ringlets, looked almost silver in contrast with her black gown.

Sir Charles greeted the three ceremoniously before he turned and beckoned Melisande forward.

"This is Miss St. Martin, your companion, Caroline. Miss St. Martin, Miss Holland, the aunt of Mr. Fermor Holland who is affianced to my daughter. And Mr. Fermor Holland . . . and my daughter, Miss Trevenning."

Caroline stepped forward. "How do you do, Miss St. Martin?"

Melisande smiled and the young man returned her smile.

"Welcome, Miss St. Martin," he said.

"I am sure Miss Trevenning will be delighted with your company," said Miss Holland.

"Thank you, thank you," said Melisande. "You are all so kind."

"Miss St. Martin has been brought up in France," explained Sir Charles. "It will be good for you, Caroline, to improve your French."

"You speak perfect English," said the young man, his blue eyes still on Melisande.

"Not perfect, I fear. Though I hope soon to do so. Now that I am in England I realize that there is a ... a wrongness about my speaking."

"Not a wrongness," said the young man. "A charm."

Melisande said: "But you make me feel so happy ... so much that I have come home. You are all so kind to me here .. . everyone."

Caroline said: "You must be tired after your journey, Miss St. Martin ... or would you prefer us to call you Mademoiselle?"

"It does not matter. Miss ... or Mademoiselle . . . please . . . say which is easier for you."

"I suppose you're used to being called Mademoiselle. I'll try to remember. I have had them prepare a room for you. Perhaps you would like to go straight to it?"

Before Melisande could answer there was a knock on the door and a woman came in, a small woman with black eyes and cheeks glowing like a holly berry in winter.

"Ah, there you are, Wenna," said Charles.

"Have you had a good journey, Sir Charles?" asked Wenna, and Melisande was struck by the odd expression on her face. She did not smile; there was no welcome in her face; she looked as though she hoped he had had a very bad journey indeed.

"Quite good," said Sir Charles.

Caroline said: "Wenna, this is the young lady whom my father has brought to be my companion."

"Her room be ready," said the woman.

In that moment Melisande was deeply bewildered. She was conscious of the uneasiness of her benefactor; of Caroline she knew

nothing, for Caroline at this moment was wearing a mask over her features. The elderly lady was gentle and meek; she would be kind. The young man Fermor was kind too; he was offering her the kind of friendship which she had come to expect. She had seen it in old Henri's eyes, in those of his grandson, in those of Armand Lefevre and of many men who had smiled at her during the journey, who had opened windows for her or handed her something she had dropped. They had all smiled as though Melisande was a person whose friends they would wish to be. And that was how Fermor was smiling.

But now she had caught the eyes of Wenna upon her. They startled her, for they were almost menacing.

PART TWO

TREVENNING

Jo Melisande was at Trevenning.

Sir Charles drew the curtains about his bed and lay down; he was shut away from the house, he felt, shut away from the room with a hundred memories of Maud.

Have I done right? he asked himself again and again. How could I send her to work in another household where she would be welcomed neither in the servants' hall nor as a member of the family but in that unhappy limbo somewhere between?

But he must act with the utmost caution. He had done a very daring thing in bringing her here. He must be careful to show her no special favours. He had been rather reckless during the journey; her charm had disarmed him; he had enjoyed letting people think that they were father and daughter. There must be no breath of scandal at Trevenning. He must have a talk with Caroline. He must ask his daughter to treat Melisande kindly; perhaps he could hint at a tragedy. He began to work out some plausible story; but he rejected that; he must not add to the mystery concerning Melisande.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He felt the physical discomfort which came to him after a long journey; he seemed still to be swaying with the movement of the carriage, and when he closed his eyes he still seemed to see the passing countryside. He kept thinking of her, her sudden laughter, her joy in everything that was new to her, her pity for those who seemed unfortunate. She was a charming girl; if it had been at all possible he would have delighted in claiming her for his daughter. But there was one thing he feared more than anything else: it was that scandal should touch his name. It had always been thus with Trevennings.

When he thought of that he knew he would have been wiser to have taken her straight to Fenella. He should never have forged a link between Trevenning and the Convent Notre Dame Marie; his two daughters should never have met.

Yet, although he regretted his rashness, he was sure that if he could go back in time, he would do exactly as he had already done.

But—he promised himself—no more risks.

Caroline lay in bed thinking of the newcomer. She had not drawn the curtains about her bed. She was uneasy. She had not failed to notice the looks which Fermor had given the girl and she thought she knew the meaning of those looks.

The girl had both beauty and charm; she had that indefinable something which Caroline was sufficiently aware of to know that she herself did not possess it. She herself was pretty; she had a fortune and she was in every way marriageable; yet Fermor had been unable to prevent himself showing his admiration of the girl.

Her father had written of Melisande St. Martin as though she were a woman of forty, prim, a woman for whom they should be sorry. How could they be sorry for a girl such as Mademoiselle St. Martin?

Already she had seemed to cast knowledgeable looks at Fermor, had revelled in his admiration; already Caroline saw her as a coquettish trouble-maker who would scheme with all her might to make her position firmer. She was glad that Fermor would soon be leaving Cornwall. He had stayed—with his aunt Miss Tabitha Holland as chaperone—until her father returned, to console her because she was so distressed at the loss of her mother. He had consoled her, and she had been happy until her father had arrived, for Fermor had been tender rather than ardent; it was as though he had welcomed the constant company of his aunt. That seemed strange when she thought of the looks she had seen him cast at Peg and Bet, the two maids, and had remembered that long-ago scene with the parlourmaid. She had rejoiced in his restraint; she looked upon it as a sign of the respect he had for her.

He had said however that he did not see why they should wait a whole year. He had declared he would speak to her father and his people. "Perhaps we could have a quieter wedding if that would offend conventions less." He was impatient of conventions; he was by nature headstrong and ardent; that was probably why he enchanted her. She had felt temporarily sure of him until that moment when she had seen him look at the stranger and delight in her.

But he will soon be gone, she assured herself. And who knows, perhaps I can find some means of sending her away before he returns.

In the servants' hall Meaker sat at the head of the table. Supper, when they all gathered together to exchange gossip and discuss affairs of the household, was the high-light of their days. Mrs. Soady, the cook, could be relied upon to provide a loaded table; there were pies and pasties to keep up their strength; and it was Mrs. Soady's delight never to let them know what was beneath the piecrust. Sometimes it would be a taddage pie made of delicious sucking pig; at others a squab pie with layers of apple, bacon, onions and mutton with a squab at the bottom of the dish. There would be giblet pies and lammy pies, tatty pies and herby pies. There would be no secret about the popular pasty nor that favourite star-gazy pie, for in the first place there was no disguising the shape of the pasty, and the pilchards' heads peeping out of the pastry betrayed the star-gazy for what it was. No table of Mrs. Soady's was complete without a dish of cream with which Mrs. Soady liked to see all her pastry anointed; and there was always plenty of mead and cider with which to wash down the food. And with Mr. Meaker at one end of the table and Mrs. Soady at the other, they were a happy family in the servants' hall at Trevenning.

There was one notable absentee that night, but Wenna did not always join the others at table. When Lady Trevenning had been alive and she was always waiting on her ladyship, Wenna would have her meals at odd moments. Now she had continued the practice in the service of Miss Caroline. Wenna was a specially favoured servant.

On this day there was no talk of affairs outside the house. Mrs. Soady did not, as she often did, talk of her sister, the wise woman, and the members of her wonderful family. Mrs. Soady belonged to a 'pellar' family, and in such families supernatural power was handed down through generation after generation from an ancestor who had assisted a mermaid back to the sea. Mrs. Soady's sister, as well as being a member of such a family was a seventh child and a footling into the bargain (she had been born feet first) and everyone at the table had been reminded that being born feet first was an indication of great powers to come; so the Soady family were generally one of the favourite topics.

Mr. Meaker could not allow his family to be completely overshadowed. They were not 'pellars', but they were invalids and had suffered from all the most terrible diseases known to man. Mr. Meaker had not been so long at Trevenning as some of the servants; he had served other masters, and, according to his accounts, the houses in which he had served were not only much grander than Trevenning, but all the inhabitants had been martyrs to their various ailments. Such conversations, sponsored by Mrs. Soady and augmented by Mr. Meaker, went down very

well with 'fair-maids' and pasties or one of Mrs. Soady's mystery pies.

But to-night, of course, there was no talk but of Miss Caroline's new companion.

Peg, who had shown her to her bedroom, was looked to for special information because she had actually helped the newcomer to unpack her bag. The trouble with Peg was that being rather silly she kept choking with laughter and had to be slapped on the back or given water or mead to drink in order that a threatened attack of hysteria might be counteracted. Mr. Meaker had warned her before about hiccups. A member of one of his families had started an attack just like Peg's, and it had lasted six weeks before it killed him.

"Now you, Peg," said Mrs. Soady with a trace of irritability, "don't 'ee be so soft, don't! And give over giggling. Now what was there in the bag?"

"Oh, not much, Mrs. Soady . . . but what she had was terrible queer. And she had a black frock and a green bonnet . . . green, I tell'ee!"

"Well that ain't telling us nothing," said Mrs. Soady. "Mr. Meaker saw that much."

Mr. Meaker was glad to seize an opportunity. "And a handsome wench, she was, Mrs. Soady. Healthy and shapely." He curved his hands to indicate the curves of Melisande, smiling as he did so.

"Give over!" said Mrs. Soady. "I'll warrant Mr. Fermor had his eyes on her."

"He had indeed, Mrs. Soady," put in Bet. She looked slyly at Peg. Bet lacked Peg's buxom charms so she was glad Mr. Fermor had noticed the stranger, for that would put Peg's nose out of joint. Bet knew—if others didn't—what Peg was. Peg came from West Looe, Bet from East Looe; they were natural rivals. Peg always took Mr. Fermor's hot water up in the mornings, and sometimes she stayed a long time and came out flushed and giggling. Bet knew; and it would serve Peg right if others knew and Peg was sent packing to that cottage on the quay whence she came.

"And what did you see, Bet?"

"Well," said Bet, with a titter, "I don't rightly think that Miss Caroline is all that pleased with the companion her father's brought from London."

Mr. Meaker said: "Master Fermor is a real gentleman. There's many like him. I remember Mr. Leigh up to Leigh House. Not the present Mr. Leigh, but his father. He was a man for the maidens. Some say it brought on his end . . . prematurely." Everyone looked with respect at Mr. Meaker who had the manners and speech of a gentleman and who liked to baffle them with the use of words

unfamiliar to them. Mr. Meaker looked round the company and laughed. "I remember old Lil Tremorney; she was in his bed . . . regular, so I heard, when she was employed up to Leigh House."

"Now, Mr. Meaker, there's young people present," said Mrs. Soady, "and young people as is in my charge.''

"I beg your pardon humbly, Mrs. Soady ... I beg it humbly. . . . But facts are facts and best faced."

Mrs. Soady wanted to get back to the subject which interested her.

"And from foreign lands they say she do come."

"She do talk like to make you fair die of laughing," Peg put in; and others who had heard her speak confirmed this.

"She be French, I've heard," said Mrs. Soady. "Like as not Mr. Meaker will tell us how we calls a young woman that's French. T'ain't Miss, I do know for sure."

Mr. Meaker, who was delighted to be called upon to give information, explained that French ladies if unmarried—and they could be sure this young person was—were called Mamazel.

"There now!" said Mrs. Soady admiring Mr. Meaker's knowledge of the world. "Fancy that."

"When I was serving the tea," said Annie the parlourmaid, "after dinner 'twas ... in the drawing-room ..."

"We know when you serve tea, Annie," said Mrs. Soady sharply.

"Well then I heard Mr. Fermor say to her: 'You're very charming . . .' I think it were . . . and I forget what else."

"You should remember better," said Mrs. Soady. "What did Miss Caroline say?"

"She were terrible put out—you could see that."

"I can't think what's come over the master," said Mr. Meaker. "If he were a man like old Mr. Leigh it would not be outside my comprehension to see him bring a young female into the house. But we know the master for what he is; and for the life of me I cannot see why Miss Caroline wants a young female companion."

"And such a pretty one!" said the footman.

"Well," said Mrs. Soady, helping herself to more taddage, and pushing the dish along the table to be passed to Mr. Meaker, "I'd like to see our young lady married, that I would . . . and that quick."

"What about the recent death in the family, Mrs. Soady?" asked Mr. Meaker.

"I don't know, I'm sure; but I do know that that wedding ought not to be put off too long. There's no knowing what'll come to pass . . . and now we've got this young female in the house ..."

She stopped for a mouthful. Everyone was eating, but while they savoured the delicious food, they were all thinking of Mr. Fermor and his roving eye which reminded Mr. Meaker of old Mr. Leigh.

They were sorry for Miss Caroline; and they thought of the newcomer who was—in the footman's opinion—the prettiest, tiddliest little thing you'd find from Torpoint to Land's End.

Melisande lay in the big fourposter bed. Her clothes had been unpacked by Peg and were now hanging in the wardrobe. She had bathed in the hip bath with the hot water which Peg had brought her. She was living in luxury, she told herself.

The room was charming and a fire burned in the grate, although it was summer time, sending a flickering glow to reveal the velvet curtains and the carpet which were the colour of ripe rich plums. She had blown out the candles before getting into bed, for the fire gave her all the light she needed. She had drawn back the window curtains and peered out, but it was too dark to see anything.

What a different bed from the one which had been hers at the Convent! This was an ancient bed; most things in the house seemed ancient; it was a real fourposter, with an ornate tester, and silk curtains about it.

As she stretched luxuriously she reminded herself that she was really a sort of servant in this house. It would be necessary to please Caroline; and she would not be easy to please. The young man, Mr. Fermor—he would be very easy to please. Ah, if she were to be his companion, how much easier that would be!

She laughed at the thought. He had sat near her while she had drunk the strange tea in the drawing-room. She had been talkative, too talkative. "We never drank tea in the Convent," she had told him. "It has a strange flavour. I like it ... oh yes I like it. I like everything that is English. It is all an excitement . . ." And he had laughed and leaned towards her and asked questions about the Convent. She who did not know how to restrain herself, and had not even thought it necessary to do so, had rattled on, occasionally breaking into French. "I have learned English, yes. But to write it . . . that is easier. To talk . . . one must think fast . . . and the words do not always come. ..." What shining blue eyes he had! She liked him. Yes, she liked him very much. He made her feel happier than anyone had since she set foot in England, more than Sir Charles had when he had been so kind. Why, she was not sure. Was it because all the time he seemed to be telling her how much he wished to be her friend ?

"You have an unusual name," he had said, "Melisande. It is charming. I wonder why you were called Melisande." "How can we know the reasons for the names when we do not know our parents!" she had said. And somehow that had shocked them all. . . all except the young man. "Mine is a family name," he told her, "handed down and down through generations. Fermor. It's as unusual as yours." That had made a bond between them. He was very friendly. He had said that they must have seen when she was in her cradle how charming she would be when she grew up, and they had given her the most charming name they could think of because of that. "It is you who are charming," she had said, "to say these charming things to me and make me feel so happy."

She had acted wrongly. She realized that. Sir Charles was not pleased; nor was Caroline. They were queer people, those two, not like herself and Fermor. That was another bond between them; they said what they wanted to say.

Perhaps she had been bold; she had talked too much. She had forgotten that she was but a servant in the house. "Be humble," Sister Eugenie had said. "Remember it is the meek who inherit the Earth."

Caroline had watched them all the time. She had said: "I am sure Mademoiselle is very tired." And the way in which she said Mademoiselle made Melisande feel that she was indeed a servant in this house. Then Caroline went on: "I am not going to allow her to be exhausted by your chatter."

She had made another mistake. "Oh, but I am not exhausted. I am so happy to talk here."

Caroline had purposefully pulled the bell rope and little Peg had come.

"Bring candles," Caroline had said. "Mademoiselle St. Martin is very tired. You can light her to her room."

The maid had led the way upstairs after Melisande had said goodnight to Sir Charles and Fermor. Caroline walked beside her as they ascended.

"What a large house," cried Melisande. "I had no idea that it would be so big."

"It has been the home of my family for years and years," Caroline had said, seeming more friendly now that they had left the young man in the drawing-room.

"That is very exciting for you. To say: 'My grandfather, my great-grandfather, my great-great-grandfather lived here. . . .' And / never knew my father . . . nor my mother."

Caroline had clearly been taught to ignore what might be embarrassing. She had pointed to the effigies which were carved on the