It began in Vauxhall Gardens

by Plaidy, Jean, 1906-1993

  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."
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  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

  walnut banisters. "They represent members of the family. But you need daylight to see them."

  "I look forward to to-morrow. I am sorry that I arrive in darkness. I shall sleep to-night in a house I do not see. It will be a strangeness."

  Caroline had been silent. She had been aware that Peg, who must be listening, was with them. She had been thankful for Peg's stupidity, for one did not want such conversation repeated in the servants' hall. She had been glad when they were in the bedroom and Peg had set down her candle and lighted those in the sconces.

  "Go and fetch hot water for Mademoiselle St. Martin," had said Caroline. "Or would you like her to help you unpack first, Mademoiselle?"

  "There is so little to unpack."

  "Peg," Caroline had commanded, "unpack the bag, please."

  "Yes, Miss Caroline."

  While she had been doing this, Caroline had gone to the window and Melisande followed.

  Caroline had said: "You can't see a thing. It's as dark as a shaft, as the mining people say." She drew the curtains then. "There, that's better. I hope you will be happy here. We are a sombre household just at this time. My mother*. . ."

  "Yes, I hear . . . from your father. I am so sorry. It is a very great sadness. I know how sad. My own mother I never knew, but that does not mean I cannot have the sympathy. When your father told me . . ."

  Caroline had cut her short. "It was so unexpected. She was not strong but when it came ... we were unprepared."

  Tears had filled Melisande's eyes. She who had never known a mother, who saw all mothers as idealized saints—a mixture of the Mother Superior and Madame Lefevre—believed the loss of a mother to be the greatest tragedy in the world.

  Caroline had said almost angrily:
"But if she had not died . . . I suppose you would not be here."

  A short silence had followed during which Melisande had thought: She is angry with me. This is a sadness. She has taken a dislike to me.

  Peg had unpacked the bag and gone for hot water. Caroline had turned to Melisande and said quickly: "My wedding had to be postponed."

  "I am sorry. That must make unhappiness for you."

  "We are disappointed . . . both of us."

  "I understand."

  "Mr. Holland has tried to persuade his people and my father that we should not wait. But there is . . . convention, you know. It distresses us both."

  "Convention?"

  "Yes. The need to behave as people would expect... in a manner which is due to our position."

  Melisande had been about to speak but Caroline had gone on quickly: "When my father wrote saying he was bringing you, he seemed to imply that you were quite a different sort of person.'*

  "What sort of person?"

  "He wrote saying that he had found a poor person who needed a home, and as Mamma had just died and my wedding had been postponed, he knew I must be lonely, so he had engaged her on the spot. He made her appear to be about forty, very poor, grey-haired, very prim and . . . grateful. At least that is the picture I had in my mind."

  "I am poor!" Melisande had cried with a smile. "And if I have not yet forty years then I shall one day. Prim I could be; grateful I am. I hope I shall not always disappoint."

  "Oh no ... no. I am sure you will quickly understand us . . . and fit in with us. Your English is a little quaint . . . but I'm sure you will soon be as one of us."

  Soon after that Peg had come back with the hot water, and telling Melisande that if there was anything she wanted she must pull the bell rope and someone would come and attend to her wants, Caroline said goodnight and left her.

  So Melisande had undressed, washed in the hip bath, put on the cotton nightgown which she had brought with her from the Convent and got into bed. And now she found she was too excited for sleep. She could not stop thinking of the people whom she had met, and chiefly she thought of Fermor and Caroline; the one who so clearly wanted to be her friend, the other of whom she was unsure.