Текст книги "Zipporah's Daughter"

Автор книги: Philippa Carr

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‘What would you have done … if you had lost?’ I asked him. ‘Would you have left Eversleigh … your exciting life in London?’

He smiled secretly. ‘I try to make a point of not doing what I don’t want to,’ he said. ‘I can imagine nothing more dreary. To tell the truth—but just for your ears only—I am really on the side of the Colonists. I think our government are behaving as foolishly as the French and should never have levied those taxes which sparked it all off. But don’t tell a Frenchman that. I take back nothing of what I have said about them. Frenchmen are making another of their mistakes which could rebound. You should come home to England, Lottie. You’d be safer there. I don’t like what I see here. There is a cauldron of discontent … simmering at the moment, but there will come a time when it will boil over, and this War of Independence … or rather the French participation in it … is adding to the fuel under the pot. Foolish aristocrats like Lafayette and that husband of yours can’t see it. A pity for them.’

‘Don’t preach to me, Dickon. I believe you were determined to get him away.’

‘I must admit that I do not like to see him being so intimate with you.’

I laughed. ‘He is my husband you know. Goodbye, Dickon.’

‘Au revoir.’ he said.

The next weeks were given over to Charles’s preparations. He arranged for Amélie and her husband to come to the château and stay during his absence. Amélie’s husband had considered himself fortunate to marry into a family as rich as the Tourvilles and was only too ready to install himself in the château. As for Amélie, she was delighted to be home again.

So within a few weeks of Dickon’s visit, Charles left for the New World.

It was several months since Charles had left and I had heard nothing from him. For some weeks I could not believe he had really gone; then I wondered why he had gone so readily. It was true that he had indulged in that foolish game of chance, but I sensed that in his heart he had wanted to go. It showed me clearly that he must have been finding our marriage vaguely unsatisfactory. He had married me and desired me greatly in the beginning; he still did, for there had been nothing perfunctory about his love-making and on our last night together he had been definitely regretful, declaring again and again that he hated leaving me. On the other hand, the excitement of adventure was on him and he was eager to start out on a new way of life—for a while at any rate.

I was sure he thought he would not be away for more than six months. Yet I could not forget that he had gone with a certain amount of eagerness.

Then Dickon? What had been his motive. To separate us, I believed.

During the months I heard nothing from Dickon but Sabrina sent messages expressing the wish that I would come to Eversleigh. ‘Poor Clarissa, she is very weak now,’ she wrote. ‘She would love to see you.’

My mother received the same appeal and perhaps if she had suggested going I would have gone with her; but she did not. My father must have persuaded her that he needed her more than anyone else. Moreover the situation between France and England was worsening, and the more help France poured into America, the more difficult it was for the English to subdue the Colonists, and the greater was the rancour between our two countries.

So there were many reasons why it would not be wise for me to pay a visit to England at this time.

We had settled into the new routine at Tourville. Amélie and I had always been friendly in a mild way; her husband was a gentle person, very honoured and delighted to live in the château and take over the management of the estate. His own business affairs had been small and he was able to incorporate the two without much difficulty. As for my parents-in-law, they were delighted to have their daughter back. I think they understood her more than they had Charles, so his absence did not appear to concern them as much as I had thought it would.

I spent a great deal of time with the children and it was enjoyable to watch them growing up. Lisette was my constant companion and I was more in her company than that of any other of the adult inhabitants of Tourville.

I remember well that spring day when Lisette and I sat together in the garden. Claudine was running about on the grass and the boys were out riding with one of the grooms.

We were talking about Charles and wondering what was happening in that far-off land.

‘Of course,’ I was saying, ‘it is difficult to get news through. I wonder if there is much fighting.’

‘I imagine he will soon grow tired of it and long for the comforts of home,’ said Lisette.

‘Well, at least he did what he said he would do.’

‘Dickon rather forced him to it. Have you heard from Dickon?’

‘No, but from Sabrina.’

‘I wonder …

‘Yes, what do you wonder?’

‘About Dickon … whether he just likes to stir up a little mischief or whether this is part of a great design.’

‘A little mischief,’ I said; and just at that moment I saw a maid running across the lawn and behind her a man. I stood up but I did not recognize him immediately. It was my father, and I had never seen him look as he did then. He seemed to have aged by at least twenty years and what was so unusual for him, he was carelessly dressed and his cravat was ruffled.

I knew something terrible had happened.

‘Father!’ I cried.

‘Lottie.’ There was desolation in his voice.

He took me into his arms and I cried out: ‘What is it? Tell me … quickly.’

I drew away from him and saw the tears on his cheeks.

I stammered: ‘My mother … ’

He nodded, but he could not speak. Lisette was beside me. She said: ‘Is there anything I can do?’

I replied: ‘Perhaps you would take Claudine and leave us. Father,’ I went on, ‘come and sit down. Tell me what has happened.’

He let me lead him to the seat which Lisette had just vacated. I was vaguely aware of her taking a rather bewildered and inclined-to-protest Claudine across the grass.

‘You have just arrived. You must be worn out. Why … ’

‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘your mother is dead.’

‘No!’ I murmured.

He nodded. ‘Gone! She’s gone, Lottie. I shall never see her again. I could kill them … every single one of them. Why her? What had she done? God preserve France from the rabble. I would hang them all … every one of them … but that’s too good for them.’

‘But why … why my mother?’ I was trying to think of her gone, but I could only think of this poor broken man who now had to live his life without her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ I begged. ‘Talk … please … I must know.’

‘How could I have guessed how it would be? That morning she went off into the town … just as she had so many times before. She wanted to go to the milliner’s. She talked about the hat she was having made. She asked me about the colour of the feathers.’

‘Yes,’ I said soothingly. ‘And then she went to the milliner’s … ’

‘In the carriage. She had two grooms with her and her lady’s maid.’

In the carriage! I remembered it. A glorious vehicle with his crest emblazoned on it in gold.

‘I did not know that the day before one of the agitators had been preaching in the town. He had stirred them up to riot. It is going on all over France … not in any great degree and we don’t hear where it is happening, but they are working the people up in the remotest places … ’

‘Yes,’ I urged him. ‘Yes?’ I felt he was putting off telling me the dreadful truth because he could not bear to speak of it.

‘While she was in the milliner’s the riot started. It was at the bakery. She came out and must have heard the people shouting. She and her maid got into the carriage. It was immediately surrounded by the mob.’

‘Oh no,’ I murmured, and I recalled the occasion when I had been with the Comte and we had heard a man preaching revolution. I had never forgotten the fanaticism in his eyes.

‘The coachman tried to break through the crowd. It was the only thing to do.’

‘And then … ?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t bear to think of it. Some of those criminals seized the horses … tried to stop them. The carriage was overturned and the frightened horses tried to dash through the crowd. One of the grooms was saved, though badly hurt. The rest … ’

I put my arms round him. I tried to comfort him, but that was impossible. He sat for what seemed a long time, saying nothing, just staring blankly ahead.

I don’t remember much of the rest of that day. A shock such as this one had stunned me as it had him.

It was a week since he had come to tell me of my mother’s death but I still could not entirely believe that it had happened. I know my father tried to convince himself that he was dreaming, and that this overwhelming tragedy was a nightmare which he had conjured up out of a fevered imagination. The only comfort we could derive was from each other. We talked often of my mother, for that seemed to soothe us both and we were constantly together. I knew he could not sleep and Amélie, who was very sympathetic and eager to do all she could to help, made soothing possets conducive to sleep and I made him take them before retiring. In this way he did get a measure of rest. Sometimes he slept late into the mornings and I was pleased because that shortened the day.

I was in his room one morning when he awoke and for a few seconds he seemed happy, not remembering where he was. Then I glimpsed the man I had known. But for how briefly! It was tragic to watch the realization of what had happened dawn on him. I knew that he was never going to be happy again and he was not an old man.

While he stayed on at Tourville I devoted myself to him entirely. I realized then how deeply I had loved my mother, although we had drifted apart when she had separated me from Dickon and I had nursed a grievance against her. Now she was gone, I could understand how she had felt, how she had been ready to sacrifice herself for me. I wished that I could have told her that I understood and how much I had loved her. What she would have wanted me to do more than anything was to care for my father, and this I would do. Theirs had been one of the most romantic love-stories I had ever heard of. The idyllic adventure of youth, then the reunion in middle age when they had both grown wiser and realized what they could offer each other. Their perfect love had a bitter, tragic ending. Did every good thing in life have to be paid for? I wondered.

To see him now, this poor broken man who had once been so suavely sure of himself, wounded me almost as much as the loss of my mother. We had taken to each other on sight, and now there was a close affection between us. He had first brought me to France and looked after me when I needed special care; now it was my turn to look after him.

He seemed to be unaware of the passing of the days. He wanted to be with me all the time, to talk of my mother—of his first meeting with her, the excitement, the passion they had shared … and then the long years without each other. ‘But we never forgot, Lottie, neither of us … ’ And then the coming together, and the perfection of that later relationship. ‘It was a miracle,’ he said, ‘finding her again.’

I was thoughtful. She had written to him, telling him of my existence and the need to save me from an adventurer. Dickon! I thought, Dickon again. He moulded our lives. It was always Dickon.

There was comfort in thinking of him now because it took my thoughts momentarily from our tragedy.

One day my father said: ‘Lottie, I wish you could come home. Come back with me … bring the children. I think life would be bearable if you did.’

I replied: ‘I could come for a while, but this is my home. When Charles returns … ’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘A selfish thought. But if only it could be …

‘We shall see each other often. You must come here and I will come to you.’

‘Dear daughter,’ he said, ‘how different you are from the others. But then you are her daughter too.’

‘Perhaps this will change Sophie. Perhaps now that she knows you need company … your own about you … ’

‘Sophie thinks of nothing but her own hurt. Armand … I never had much in common with him. He goes his own way. He is indifferent to me … to his wife … to our family … indifferent to life, I sometimes think. I have had one child who is dear to my heart. Oh, Lottie, I wish you would come home with me.’

He knew that I could not do that. I must wait here for Charles’s return.

I tried to make him talk of other things, but there were so many dangerous subjects. I dared not mention the state of the country because that would remind him of that terrible scene which had resulted in my mother’s death. Neither Sophie nor Armand was a happy subject. The children were a great help. Charlot delighted him and I was glad to see a friendship springing up between them. Claudine was interested in him and would sometimes allow him to pick her up, when she would peer into his face and scrutinize him.

She said to him: ‘Are you my grandfather?’

I saw tears in his eyes when he told her that he was.

‘You’re crying,’ she accused, looking at him in horror. ‘Big people don’t cry.’ She added: ‘Only babies do.’

I took her from him because I saw his emotion was too great for him to bear. He loved the child, though. He might be proud of Charlot but I think it was Claudine with her frank comments who had first place in his heart.

With the three of us together I think we could have found some semblance of happiness and I wished that I could go back with him.

The next best thing was that he should stay at Tourville and this he did, seeming in those first weeks to be unaware of the passing of time.

He talked to me a great deal of his past life. There had been many women between that first encounter with my mother and the reunion. ‘Yet never once did I stray in deed or even thought when she was with me. Perhaps that does not seem very remarkable to you, but for the man I was it was little short of a miracle.’ He went on: ‘I am pleased to see your friendship with Lisette.’

I am very fond of her,’ I replied. ‘It is not always easy for her. She was educated with Sophie and me and she was with us so much, and then there were occasions when it was brought home to her that she was only the niece of the housekeeper. I think she felt that a little.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have done what I did.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It seemed best at the time.’

‘It was good of you to allow Tante Berthe to have her niece with her.’

There was a faraway look in his eyes and he said at length: ‘I think perhaps I should tell you how it came about. It started years ago when Lisette’s mother came to the hôtel to bring some gowns for my first wife. She was a seamstress employed by one of the fashionable dressmakers, and if any alterations were required, Lisette’s mother used to come to the house to do them. She was very pretty … a dainty, slender girl. I came upon her struggling in with a bundle of materials … far too heavy for her. I carried them for her up the stairs to my wife’s room. That was the beginning of our acquaintance. I was interested in her. Her name was Colette. The inevitable happened. I visited her. She lived in one of those little streets close to Notre Dame … narrow, winding, not very salubrious, where the dyers had their tubs. I was often splashed by the red, blue and green streams which flowed down the gutters. She had two rooms in a house which was run by an old crone. On those days I found it quite an adventure to visit such an area. It meant dressing as an artisan. I was quite young then, so don’t judge me too harshly. I learned that Colette had come down in the world. Like many girls, she had come to Paris for a life of greater excitement than she could enjoy on her father’s farm. She was one of a strictly religious family and longed to escape from it, but she soon found that life in Paris was not what she expected. She could sew well but that was not enough to give her a living. She found a protector … some tradesman who was a little better off than she was. He left her after a while and then she found another. She was not a prostitute. She just took the occasional lover to keep her going.

‘She was a brave woman, Colette, but not very strong and it would have been better for her to have stayed in the country. I did not want to get very involved, being at that time concerned with another lady, but there was something about Colette’s refined looks and air of vulnerability which I found appealing, and I was not, in those days, one to think of restraining myself. What I wanted I took thoughtlessly.

‘So I visited Colette in the house near that nauseating Rue des Marmousets. I would stay for an hour or so and give her enough money to keep her for a month. She was delighted with the arrangement. I forgot her for a while and when she came to the house again my interest was revived, so I went to see her once more.

‘While I was there I was aware of something strange. A noise … a sort of presence. I became rather uneasy. I was in a low-class area. Colette knew who I was. I began to fear that she might have someone hidden there who would take an opportunity to rob me … or even worse. It was a most unpleasant sensation. I dressed hurriedly, gave her the money and escaped.

‘But I was quite fascinated by Colette. She had an air of innocence and I could not believe that she would be a party to anything dishonest, let alone any act of violence. I had gone there simply dressed, taking with me just the money I would give to Colette, but she would have that in any case, so that ruled out robbery. Blackmail? That was laughable. No one would have been very shocked if it were learned that I visited a girl who had invited me to do so. My wife? She knew that I had many mistresses and had raised no objection. No, the thought of someone’s being secreted in those two little rooms for the purpose of harming me was ridiculous. I laughed at myself and when I next met Colette she aroused the same desires in me and very soon I paid her another visit.

‘I heard the strange noises again. I felt the same uneasiness, and I knew for certain that we were not alone. Suddenly I could bear it no more. I had to know. I went to the door between the two rooms. To my astonishment there was a key in it and the door was locked from the side on which I stood. I unlocked it and opened it and there looking up at me was one of the prettiest little girls I had ever seen. She was clearly terrified. She ran past me to Colette and started to cry, “Maman, I didn’t move, I didn’t.” I looked from the child to Colette, who said, “Yes, she is mine. It is a hard job to keep her. When my friends come she must stay hidden.”

‘I can’t tell you how moved I was. For one thing Colette was so frail, the child so pretty; and the fact that I had entertained suspicions made me ashamed of myself and filled me with pity for the brave young woman.

‘After that, my relationship with Colette grew. I wanted to help the child. I bought clothes for her. She was only four years old, I learned. Colette told me that she tried to arrange to do a lot of work at home which was often possible for a seamstress. Then she knew that the child was all right. When she had to leave her she was in a state of dreadful anxiety. I was horrified. I gave her money so that there was always enough for them to eat and so that someone could look after the child when Colette was away. That went on for about a year. Colette was embarrassingly grateful.

‘She told me her story. It was not an unusual one: the coming to Paris, believing she would make her fortune there, perhaps marry a man who was wealthy by the standards she had been accustomed to. She said her family would not help her if they knew because they would be horrified to learn that she had an illegitimate child, but on consideration she thought her elder sister might. Berthe had always been the forceful member of the family and had looked after them all; she had been very upset when Colette had left home. Colette could not bear to tell them of her circumstances.

‘She had not been in Paris long when she found her tradesman. She had believed he would marry her. He had been devoted, but when the child was born he did not care for such responsibilities and his family arranged for him to marry another tradesman’s daughter. He came to see Colette for a while but the visits became less frequent, and then suddenly she learned that he had left Paris and she heard no more of him.

‘So there was poor Colette with a child to support when she found it was all she could do to support herself. She tried bravely. She was a good girl, Colette, admirable in many ways. I did not realize how ill she was. She was suffering from consumption as so many of those girls do, working in stuffy rooms, not having sufficient food … and warm clothing.

‘I did not see her for some time as I had been in the country and when eventually I went to her room I found her confined to her bed. She had at last sent for her sister and that was the first time I saw Berthe. I realized that Colette was dying, for in no other circumstances would she have sent for her sister. Berthe was clearly an admirable woman—stern, not very demonstrative but one who would do her duty as she saw it.

‘I talked to her and she said it would be difficult to take the child to the country. The family was strictly religious and would not take kindly to a bastard. Colette would have known that and it was only because she was desperate that she had begged Berthe to come to her and perhaps suggest some plan.

‘The sick woman for whom I had some affection, the stern but worthy aunt and the beautiful child all touched me deeply. I found the solution. It was that Berthe should come as a housekeeper. She was the sort of woman who would soon become skilled in the management of a household or anything she undertook. She should bring the child with her and the little girl could be brought up in my household.

‘As soon as I made this suggestion I saw that it was the way out for us all. Colette would die in peace; Berthe would have the sort of post which appealed to her and settle her family problems at the same time; the child would be well cared for and my conscience eased. You may be surprised to hear, Lottie, that I had a conscience in those days. But I did … and on occasions it would make itself heard to my discomfiture.’

I said: ‘It was good of you. And so Lisette came to the château.’

He smiled faintly. ‘I shall never forget Colette’s face when I told her what we were arranging. I was overwhelmed by her gratitude, which was embarrassing because what I was doing cost me little effort. She said I was a saint who had brought great happiness into her life and she would die in peace knowing that her little girl would be well cared for.’

‘It was good of you,’ I said, ‘although you could do it. Not all people bother themselves with the problems of others.’

‘And what did I get from it? The most excellent of housekeepers. So you see the advantage was mine. Colette died soon after that. I saw her lying in her coffin with a look of peace on her dead face which I shall never forget.’

‘Poor Lisette! Does she know of this?’

‘She wouldn’t remember very much—probably vaguely those rooms in which she used to be shut away, I don’t know. She couldn’t have been much more than five when she was taken away. She was told that her parents were dead and that Tante Berthe had taken their place. I don’t think the poor child got much pampering from Tante Berthe, but she would be given good food and brought up rather strictly—which might have been good for her. I gave orders that she was to share Sophie’s lessons and when you came she was with you and Sophie. I don’t know whether it was the right thing to have done. She was one of us … and yet not one of us,. I have always been a little anxious about Lisette.’

‘Lisette can take care of herself, I think.’

‘You know her better than any of us. You and she became friends right from the time you came here … you and she more than Sophie.’

‘Lisette was always easier to know. She and I had a good deal of fun together.’

‘Well, you know who she is now. Lottie, I don’t think it would be wise to let her know the story. Much better to let her go on believing that she is the child of a conventional marriage, which I agreed with her aunt was what she should be told.’

‘I shall say nothing of what you have told me. I can see no good in bringing it up now.’

‘No. She is a proud girl and might be upset to know she is the daughter of, well … not a prostitute but a poor girl who took the occasional lover in order to make ends meet.’

‘I think you are right. Poor Lisette! But she was fortunate really. I wonder what would have happened to her if Tante Berthe had not come along, and you too. Tante Berthe I suppose would have taken her to that farmhouse from which Colette ran away. One can imagine what sort of life Lisette would have had there. I think you can be pleased with what you did for Colette and her daughter.’

‘It has relieved me to talk to you of Lisette.’

Yes, I thought, and it has taken your mind off your own tragedy for a little while at least.

Of course he could not stay at Tourville indefinitely, and it was with great reluctance that he left. I told him that I would bring the children to visit him and whenever he felt the need to be with me he must come. I would welcome him at any time.

On that note he left—a poor, sad, broken man.

The months slipped past quickly. I went to stay at Aubigné. It was a sad house now. My father had become morose, though, Armand told me, he was in a much better mood since I had come. He and his father quarrelled a good deal and it was certainly not always Armand’s fault. Armand was a man deeply concerned with his personal affairs; he interested himself in the estate but not too much; he liked to go to Court; he was the sort of man who, because he had been born into the aristocracy, considered that those who had not been were beneath him. Such an attitude was not accepted as readily as it had once been; and my father told me that one or two members of the great families were beginning to wonder whether something should not be done to raise the condition of the poor. My father was one of these people.

He was a very honest man and he admitted to me that such thoughts had not come to him until he had realized that it might be expedient to have them.

Marie Louise was still barren and entirely devoted to her religion, which took the form of long prayer sessions and frequent celebrations of Mass in the château chapel. Sophie had become more of a recluse than ever, and with those rooms in the tower being more or less apart from the rest of the household, there was beginning to be attached to them one of those legends which spring up in such places. Some of the servants said that Jeanne was a witch who had arranged for Sophie’s mutilations so that she could have power over her. Others said that Sophie herself was a witch and her scars were due to intercourse with the devil.

What disturbed me was that no attempt was made on my father’s part to stifle such rumours. Tante Berthe did her best and that was very good, for she was one who was accustomed to being obeyed; but although the stories were never repeated in her presence that did not mean they were not in the maids’ bedrooms and the places where the servants congregated.

So it was not a very happy household.

Lisette enjoyed being there—for I had taken her with me—but she did not altogether relish coming under Tante Berthe’s scrutiny. ‘I am a married woman now,’ she said, ‘and even Tante Berthe must remember that.’ At the same time she loved the château, and said it was such a grand old place and Tourville was nothing compared with it.

My father took such pleasure in my company and talked most of the time about what he and my mother had done together; how they had been completely happy in each other’s company. As though I did not know!

‘We were singularly blessed to have such a daughter,’ he said, but I believed that when they had been together they had thought of little else but each other. It was only now that he had lost her that he turned pathetically to me.

He visited us at Tourville and I was inclined to think that he was happier there than when at Aubigné. There were not so many memories. Besides, the children were there and it was not always easy to travel with someone as young as Claudine. So I prevailed on him to come to us, which he often did.

It pleased me. It meant that I did not have to be in that grim house with Sophie brooding in her turret. The Tourville family were always happy to see him. I thought then that I had been very lucky marrying into such a family. They might not be so grand as the Aubignés but they were most certainly kindly, and the atmosphere at Tourville was in complete contrast to that of Aubigné, bland, comfortable; Lisette called it flat and unexciting, whereas at Aubigné she felt that anything might suddenly happen.

Amélie was happily married; her husband was a gentle, rather meek man, colourless but extremely kind … rather like Amélie herself. My father-in-law, I imagine, got on better with his son-in-law than he had with his less predictable son. Charles was of a fiery temper; he might be more significant as a person but not always so easy to live with and my parents-in-law, who liked to live in peace, were very happy with present arrangements.

We talked often of Charles. We had heard nothing of him. It was not possible to get news. He was so far away for one thing and how letters could be sent from a country engaged in war I could not imagine.

From time to time we had visitors at Tourville and some of them had returned from America so they were able to give us a little news of what was happening there. One or two of them had been with Charles, so we knew he had arrived safely.

They were earnest young men, those returning warriors. They talked enthusiastically about the struggle for independence.

‘Men should be free to choose who governs them,’ one young man said. He was very young, idealistic, and his pleasant features glowed with enthusiasm.