But life was exciting. To-morrow she would see the house; she would get to know it and all the people who lived in it.
As the firelight threw a flickering light about the room she thought of the cold bedrooms at the Convent. Even in winter there had been no fires in the bedrooms there.
She was just beginning to doze when there was a knock on her door. She started. The knock was repeated.
"Please come in," she called, and into the room came the woman she had seen when she had arrived at the house—the one whom they had called Wenna.
She stood by the door and for some inexplicable reason she alarmed Melisande. Perhaps it was because she looked fierce, angry. Why should she be angry with Melisande who had only just arrived at the house?
Melisande sat up in bed.
"I just wondered if you had all you needed," said the woman.
"That is so good ... so kind."
Wenna came slowly to the bed and looked down on Melisande. "I shouldn't by rights have disturbed you once you were in bed. I didn't think you'd be there yet though."
"But I am glad you came. It is a kindness."
"Well, you comfortable, eh? This must be a bit strange . . . after the place you come from, I reckon?"
"It is very different."
"Did Peg look after 'ee? She do dream so. I wondered if she'd brought what you wanted. She do seem piskymazed half the time."
Melisande laughed softly. Why had she thought the woman was angry? Clearly she was trying to be kind. "Peg was very good. Everybody is very good."
"Then I didn't have no cause to come bothering."
"It was no bothering. It was a goodness."
"You come from across the water . . . from foreign parts?"
"Yes."
"And lived there all your life?"
"I lived in a convent."
"My dear life! That must have been a queer place to live."
"It did not seem so. It seemed . . . just the place where I lived."
"I suppose you was put there by your father ... or your mother."
"I . . . suppose so."
"Seems a queer way of going on. Is it the foreign way then?"
"Well, they died, you see; and I had a guardian who thought I should be better in the Convent than, anywhere else. I think that was why I went."
"My dear land! Fancy that! And you never saw your father?"
"No."
"Nor your mother?"
"No."
"But this guardian of yours . . . you had him. He was something, wasn't he?"
"Oh yes, he v/as something."
"Poor young lady! Did he come to see you often, this guardian?"
"No. He just arranged things for me."
"And I suppose he was a friend of our master's like?"
"I ... I don't know. I don't know very much."
" 'Twas queer like, to keep you in the dark."
Melisande was uncomfortable. She wanted the woman to go, for now she had an idea that with all her questions she was trying to trap her into betraying her kind benefactor. That was something which Melisande had decided she would never do. All her life she would remain grateful to him.
"I only know that I have been looked after . . . fed and educated; and now that I am old enough this post has been found for me."
"I reckon you must feel pretty curious about all this. I know I would. I reckon I wouldn't leave no stone unturned."
"I lived with children most of whom did not know their parents. Thank you. It was good of you to ask. Peg has been very good and helpful. I am enjoying a comfort here."
Wenna was not going to be dismissed as easily as that.
She said: "Ah, a pity you didn't come earlier than this. This was a happy house not so long ago when my mistress was alive."
"It was a great tragedy. I have heard of it."
"She was an angel. I'd looked after her most of my life."
"I am very sorry for you. It is a tragic."
"And then to die! She was always delicate. I knew she'd catch her death sitting out there in the cold. She ought to have had her wrap. I'll never forget it. She was like an ice-block when I went out to her. It need not have happened. That's the pity of it. I know it need not have happened." Melisande was conscious of the intensity of this woman, of the passionate anger within her. "Then," she went on slowly, "I suppose if it hadn't happened you wouldn't be here . . . would you? You wouldn't be in that nice comfortable bed with a fire in your grate. You'd be in that Convent where you'd been brought up. That's what would have happened if the mistress hadn't died."
Melisande was uncertain what to say. She had a wild fancy that the woman was accusing her of being in some obscure way to blame for the death of her mistress.
She stammered: "I suppose Miss Caroline would not have needed a companion if her mother had lived. She would have married very soon and ..."
"Yes, she would have married, and when she married I should have gone with her. I shall go with her when she marries."
"You are very fond of her," said Melisande.
The woman was silent. After a while she said: "Well, there's nothing you want. Everything's all right?"
"Yes, thank you."
She went out. Melisande lay back staring at the door.
What a strange woman! Melisande could not get rid of the fancy that she had not meant all she had said and that she had had some strange purpose in coming to her room.
She could not sleep for a long time, and then she would doze and awake startled to find herself looking towards the door. It was almost as though she expected it to open and Wenna to come in— for what purpose she did not know; she only knew that it made her uneasy.
The weeks began to pass—exciting, wonderful weeks for Melisande, filled with a hundred new experiences.
There was a new world to be explored.
It had been an exciting discovery to look from her windows and see the sea not more than a mile away. She had stood delightedly at her window on that first morning and looked out across the bay to the great strip of land which was like a battering ram flung out into the water; she saw the clouds gathered over the headland and because it was early morning and the sun was beginning to rise, those pink-tinted clouds made a coral-coloured sea.
She was then to live in a beautiful place, in a large luxurious house; she had to make the acquaintance of so many people. The house seemed full of servants and it needed all her gay carelessness of English convention to make their acquaintance. They were inclined to be aloof at first. They were deeply conscious of social layers. It was true she was not on the same shelf as the master and mistress, but neither did she belong on theirs. But Melisande inconsequentially did not see these differences. The servants were people; they lived in the same house as she did; she was eager to know them. First she charmed Mr. Meaker and the footman; and her delighted wonder in the pies and pasties of Mrs. Soady's making soon won her the regard of that excellent cook. The maids were amused and delighted with her; she was never haughty and she could be relied upon to give them her considerate help. The menservants thought her a real charmer and no mistake. She was undoubtedly a great success.
Her foreign ways delighted everyone. Her quaint speech amused while it gave listeners a sense of superiority which was pleasant. She would laugh with them. "Oh, I have said a funniness. Do tell me what you would have said." She would listen gravely and thank them charmingly. Oh, she was a caution all right, they all agreed; a charming caution. She must know this and that. She was full of energy and no matter was too insignificant for her attention.
If only she could have been so sure of her success in the drawing-room as in the servants' hall, Melisande would have been contented. But the family embarrassed her in some way or another.
Sir Charles had so many engagements that she saw very little of him. Caroline never seemed at ease in her presence. Caroline was the mistress and wished that to be clearly understood; but Melisande felt that the one thing Caroline would really have liked
to ask her to do she could not, and that was to leave the house.
At the beginning Caroline said to Melisande: "I have never had a companion before. I have had governesses. I suppose a companion would be in the same class. My governesses always had their meals in the little room which adjoins the schoolroom. I think that is
where you had better have yours. You wouldn't wish to have them with the family, would you? Except perhaps on special occasions. I remember my governesses had luncheon with us once a week. That was so that Papa and Mamma could ask questions about my progress. Sometimes they wanted an extra woman for a dinner party. Then one of the governesses would be asked. But on all other occasions they had their meals in this little room. It's difficult. You see, you couldn't be expected to eat with the servants."
Melisande laughed aloud. "No? I would not mind. They are my very good friends. Mrs. Soady and Mr. Meaker ..."
Caroline's mouth tightened a little as it did when she found it necessary to repress the new companion.
"Most governesses would have been offended if they were asked to eat with the lower servants. And of course it would have been quite wrong. So I think it would be a good plan if you had your meals in that room. ..."
So Melisande ate her meals alone in the room. It was of no importance although she would have liked the company of Sir Charles and Mr. Holland or the servants. She was fond of company and it was good fun to laugh and chatter.
Caroline said on that first morning: "I don't know what Papa expected you to do. Lady Gover has a companion. She reads to Lady Gover every afternoon; but then Lady Gover is almost blind, and in any case I shouldn't want to be read to. She makes Lady Gover's clothes too. Of course, there's Pennifield . . . and Wenna does a lot of sewing for me."
"That makes me very happy. I do not like to sew."
Caroline's smile was icy. "There will be sewing for the poor each day. My mother used to read aloud from a good book while I worked. Perhaps we may take it in turns to sew and read." She was implying that it was not for Melisande to say what she liked to do; if it was part of her duty to do such a thing she should do it.
Melisande looked at her pleadingly and pressed her lips tightly together to prevent her indiscreet comment. She wanted to say: "Please like me, because I cannot bear to be disliked. Please tell me what it is you do not like, and I will try to change it."
But she merely looked prettier than ever and that was exactly what irritated Caroline. If she had been ugly—forty, prim and grateful—Caroline would have thought of ways to be kind to her. Caroline did not want to be unkind; she was only unkind to those she feared; and she feared this girl for all her poverty and dependence.
She had spoken to her father that very morning, going to his study even though she knew he did not like to be disturbed there.
"Papa," she had said, "I cannot understand why you have
brought this girl here. I do not want a companion. I have plenty to do preparing for my wedding."
"I think you should have a companion for a year or so—until you are married,'* he had answered. "I wish you to perfect your knowledge of the French language. You need a young lady companion when you go visiting."
"People will not receive her."
''They will receive her as your companion. She is a gentlewoman and well educated—better educated, I fear, than you are. She is quiet and modest and would, I am sure, be received anywhere."
"Quiet! Modest! I would not describe her so!"
"You are extremely selfish, Caroline. This girl needs a post. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"I am sorry for anyone who has to work, but that does not mean I want a companion. Why not find someone who does . . . someone like Lady Gover?"
"Lady Gover is very well satisfied with the companion she has. When you no longer have need of Miss St. Martin's services, I shall be obliged to find her another situation. In the meantime I should be glad if you would accept her as your companion and act as a well-bred young lady is expected to act—thinking a little of others less fortunate than herself."
Fermor was equally unsympathetic. When he said that it was a shame the poor girl had to eat alone, Caroline had retorted sharply: "You seem very interested in her."
"Interested! Well, she's a bit of a character. It's the way she talks. I find that amusing."
"She would find it uncomfortable if she were expected to have her meals with us, and I have no doubt that she thinks herself too good for the servants' hall. They always do. I remember there was always embarrassment about the governesses. One is always in danger of offending their susceptibilities. I suppose companions are the same. Genteel poverty is such a bore."
"Why not ask her which she prefers?" suggested Fermor. "I'm sure her ideas on the matter would be original."
"You forget that she is only a servant—although she's supposed to be a superior one."
He shrugged his shoulders; she sensed that he would have pursued the matter, but he was aware that she had noticed his interest in the girl.
Caroline had said that there should be an hour in the morning which they would devote to conversation in French,
During the first hour when this was in progress Fermor came into the library.
"You wanted me?" asked Caroline.
"No. I thought Pd take advantage of a little instruction myself. That is if Mademoiselle has no objection."
Melisande smiled warmly. Very ready, thought Caroline, to accept admiration. "There is no objection!" she cried. "There is only great welcome."
"Sit down then," said Caroline. "But do remember that nothing but French is to be spoken during this hour."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Fermor, lifting his shoulders in an attempt at suitable gesticulation.
Melisande laughed in great amusement, and there followed a torrent of French asking him if he had been in France, if so in what part, and if he had found any difficulty in making himself understood.
"Have pity!" he cried. "Have pity on a poor Englishman."
Caroline said sharply: "Really, Fermor, this is not what Papa intended."
"A thousand apologies." He began to answer Melisande's questions in French, so slowly and laboriously and with such an appalling accent—which Caroline was sure was greatly exaggerated—that Melisande could not understand until he had repeated some words several times. Then she would teach him how to say those words, and they would both laugh outrageously at his efforts.
Caroline watching them was tense with jealousy. She thought: It will always be like that. I shall never be able to trust him with an attractive woman. He'll never be different. He would not have thought of me if our parents had not arranged the marriage. He would have preferred someone like this girl—as he is preferring her now.
"Monsieur speaks very bad French," Melisande was saying with mock severity.
"It is time you took me in hand," he said in English. "Mademoiselle, it must not be only for an hour a day. You must talk to me often, for clearly I cannot go about the world in such ignorance."
How dare he! thought Caroline. He knows that I am watching, but he does not care!
"But French, Monsieur!" cried Melisande. "You have forgotten."
"Monsieur is very bad scholar, yes?" he said in broken English. "He deserves much punishment?"
"Fermor," said Caroline sharply, "Papa would say you are wasting time. He is most anxious for me to have French lessons. That is why Mademoiselle was engaged."
"I'll be good," he said, smiling from Melisande to Caroline. "I'll
sit, meek and mild, and speak only when spoken to . . . and then it shall be in French ... if I can manage it."
"It is only by speaking that you can improve," said Melisande. "You are very very bad, it is true, but I think you are eager to learn, and that is a very good thing."
"I am very eager," he said, putting his hand on his heart. "I am very eager to please you."
The hour progressed—for Caroline most unhappily. She was glad when she could stop the lesson.
"The very thing! After all that brain work I need a little exercise."
"Come on then."
"What about Mademoiselle St. Martin?"
Caroline was aghast. How could he suggest such a thing! He was not treating her as a servant; he was behaving as though she were a guest in the house.
Melisande said: "Alas, I do not ride a horse. It was not taught me in the Convent."
He laughed. "I suppose not. I can't help laughing. I just had a picture of nuns on horseback ... in full gallop, black wings flapping. They'd look like prehistoric animals, wouldn't they? But I say, Mademoiselle Melisande, we can't allow this, you know. You can't ride! That's impossible! I mean of course, that we must put that right. Hunting is the noblest sport. Didn't you know that? You must ride. I'll teach you. You are teaching me to speak French. I'll teach you how to manage a horse."
"But that would be wonderful. I should like to be a rider. You are very good. I am filled with happiness."
"Then it's a bargain. Shake hands on it. When will you be ready for the first lesson?"
Caroline said quickly: "You forget, Fermor, you're going back to London next week."
"I'll stay a little longer. There's nothing I have to go back for. I'll wait until Mademoiselle Melisande is cantering round the paddock before I leave."
"I think," said Caroline, "that as Mademoiselle St. Martin is employed by my father, and you propose teaching her to ride on my father's horse, it might be advisable to ask his permission first."
"You are right, of course," said Fermor.
Caroline smiled faintly. "I'll ask him if he approves."
"I'll do the asking," said Fermor. "Perhaps to-morrow, Mademoiselle Melisande, you shall have your first lesson."
"Thank you, but I should not wish to if it were not the desire of Sir Charles and Miss Caroline."
It began in Vauxhall Gardens Page 9
