It began in Vauxhall Gardens

by Plaidy, Jean, 1906-1993

  "You are interested in other people's lives because you have a sympathetic nature."

  "That is flattery perhaps. Sister Therese said I was inquisitive . . . the most inquisitive child she ever knew, and inquisitiveness is a sin

  "I think that in you it is a charming sin."

  "How can a sin be charming?"

  "Most sins charm, don't they? Is that not why people find them difficult to resist?"

  Fleetingly she thought of that charming sinner whom she was trying in vain to banish from her mind. But there he was—recalled by a few words.

  "I think," she said, "that this is becoming an irreligious conversation." She laughed. The wine had made her eyes sparkle and Sir Charles, turning to her, looked into her animated face and said: "May I know the joke?"

  "I was saying to Monsieur de la Roche that I am very inquisitive, and that is a sin or a near-sin; and he says that sins usually charm and that is why they are difficult to resist."

  "And are you so very inquisitive?"

  "I fear so."

  There was a lull in the conversation during which Mr. Danes-borough was heard to refer to Joseph Smith, the founder of that strange sect called the Mormons, who had been murdered that year.

  They all found the Mormons a fascinating topic, and the subject was taken up with animation round the table.

  "Of what do they speak?" asked Leon de la Roche.

  "Oh, the Mormons—a religious sect of America. I know little of them except that their religion allows them to have many wives."

  "I have no doubt," Mr. Danesborough was saying, "that Mr. Brigham Young will follow in Smith's footsteps."

  "They say he already has ten wives," said the lady on Mr. Danesborough's right.

  "Disgusting!" said Miss Danesborough.

  Mr. Danesborough said that he was not sure that a thing could be condemned until all the facts were known, whereupon everyone looked at the parson with mild exasperation and affection. He was the most extraordinary of clergymen; and it was doubtful whether his queer views would not have landed him in trouble, but for his wealth and family connections.

  "But surely," protested the lady on his right, "it says in the Bible somewhere that a man should only have one wife."

  Sir Charles said unexpectedly: "Solomon had a good many; and hadn't David?"

  The young man next to Caroline said: "Men have murdered their wives because they wanted another. Now if, like the followers of Brigham Young, they could have as many as they could afford, such murders might be avoided."

  Melisande caught Caroline's eye then and she knew that the conversation had set them both thinking of Fermor. Were they both thinking that if they were Mormons they might both be preparing for marriage?

  Melisande spoke her thoughts aloud. "But I suppose even Mormons only marry one woman at a time."

  She had spoken in English and shocked glances were cast in her direction. This was a most improper conversation to be carried on at the table of a clergyman, and Mr. Danesborough was as guilty as anyone; but even if the men liked to make bold comments, it was not expected that ladies should do so.

  Miss Danesborough hastily changed the conversation, and Leon de la Roche bent towards Melisande and said: "Now that we have met formally, you must visit us. Mrs. Clark would be pleased to give you luncheon or dinner. If you came to luncheon Raoul would be delighted, I am sure."

  "Thank you. I will ask Caroline. If she can spare me, I should very much like to come."

  "We will invite Miss Trevenning too. Perhaps then there will be more hope of your coming."

  "I shall look forward to that."

  When they were in the drawing-room and the men were still at the dinner table, Melisande told Caroline that Leon proposed asking them to luncheon. "Would you wish to go?"

  "Why, of course," said Caroline.

  "I am glad."

  "I am to come as a sort of chaperone?" said Caroline with a friendly grimace.

  152 IT BEGAN IN VAUXHALL GARDENS

  "He did not say that."

  "Well, I have no objection. You can't, you know, go calling on gentlemen alone."

  How charming she is! thought Melisande. How friendly! It is because Fermor is not here.

  And later during the evening the invitation was given and accepted. Caroline and Melisande were to have luncheon with the de la Roches in two days' time.

  They were silent riding back in the carriage, and when they returned to the house, Caroline said to Melisande: "Come and help me. I don't want to wake Wenna at this hour."

  So Melisande went to Caroline's bedroom and unhooked her gown and brushed her hair for her.

  "It was a successful party," said Caroline, looking at Melisande's reflection in the mirror. "Everyone was admiring you. Did you know that . . . Melisande?"

  Melisande blushed with pleasure, not because of Caroline's remark but because for the first time she had used her Christian name.

  "No," she said.

  "Please call me Caroline now. We don't want to stand on too much ceremony, do we? They were admiring you, Melisande. I believe everybody thought you were a connection of the family."

  "Do you think so . . . Caroline?"

  "I am sure of it. I wonder if Monsieur de la Roche thinks it."

  "No. I told him I came from the Convent."

  "Well, it clearly made no difference to him. He is rather interesting, don't you think?"

  "Very interesting."

  "And certainly taken with you!" Caroline laughed lightly and Melisande knew that even now she was thinking of Fermor. She wished Leon to be interested in Melisande and Melisande in Leon ... and it was because of Fermor.

  The door opened and Wenna looked in.

  "Why didn't you call?" she began, and stopped, seeing Melisande.

  "Oh, Wenna, I didn't want to disturb you. Mademoiselle is helping."

  Wenna said: "You should have called. Wouldn't you like me to . . ."

  "No, no," said Caroline impatiently. "Go back to bed at once, Wenna."

  "All right, all right. Goodnight then."

  Both girls said goodnight and the door was closed in silence.

  Then Melisande said: "She does not like me. I wish it were not so. She watches me . . . sometimes there is a hatred."

  "That's Wenna's way, and of course it is not really hatred."

  "That way is, for me."

  "Melisande . . . don't worry about Wenna. Everything will be all right."

  Caroline, smiling into the mirror, saw two weddings—her own with rermor and Melisande's with Leon de la Roche. After the wedding she and Fermor would never see Melisande again.

  "Yes," she repeated, "everything will be all right."

  At the supper table in the servants' hall the relationship between the French Mamazel and the French Mounseer was being discussed with eagerness. Mrs. Soady sat, lips pursed, as she always did when this subject was under discussion, smiling to herself as she listened to the chatter about her.

  Every now and then Mr. Meaker would dart a look at her.

  It was not like her to keep a secret for so long. It must be a very special secret; she must have been warned; the need for silence must indeed have been deeply impressed upon her.

  "It's a clear-cut case of romance," said the footman.

  "It's a lovely story," said Peg. "And Mamazel's so pretty she might be a princess in disguise."

  That remark made Mrs. Soady's lips twitch. This secret, Mr. Meaker had already guessed, had something to do with the Mamazel.

  "Though," said Bet, "you'd hardly call that mounseer a prince, would you?"

  "Well," admitted Peg, thinking fondly of her fisherman, "he might not be everybody's fancy, but by all accounts he's a very nice gentleman."

  Bet said that when she thought of a prince in disguise she thought of someone like Mr. Fermor. "You know," said Bet, "always singing and laughing, and big and strong and ever so goodlooking."

  "Good looks," declared the footman earnestly—he had no pretensions to
them himself—"are a matter of opinion. . . . To snails other snails are good looking. There's no accounting for tastes."

  "But they're not snails!" pointed out Peg. "And Mr. Fermor's so very goodlooking. He makes most others seem plain . . . terrible plain."

  "Yet," said the parlourmaid, "if two snails do find each other handsome, perhaps two French people do. I reckon 'tis because she's

  a mamazel and he's a mounseer that they like each other all that much."

  Mr. Meaker said, as he passed his plate up for a helping of nattlin pie: "I hear the boy's not all that pleased about this friendship between our Mamazel and his uncle."

  All eyes were on Mr. Meaker who slowly piled cream on to his nattlin.

  He filled his mouth and masticated slowly. "These painted ladies," he said, studying the potatoes on his plate, "ain't all that much better than painted lords."

  "Oh, yes they be," said Mrs. Soady sharply. "Painted ladies be the best sort of 'taters I ever knew. And how did you get to hear about the little 'un and our Mamazel, Mr. Meaker?"

  "Well, I had cause to go into the town, and while I was refreshing myself at the Jolly Sailor who should come in but Mr. Fitt, him that is coachman to the Mounseer ... or I should say to the little 'un. That's a strange household, seeing that this boy is the master, having all the money, and Mounseer nothing more than one of these tutors, though he be a relation. The little 'un is a Duke or a Count or something . . . though that may be different in French. This Mounseer is his guardian, but he has little of his own, so I did understand."

  "And what did Mr. Fitt say about the little boy and our Mamazel?" persisted Mrs. Soady.

  "Well," said Mr. Meaker, picking up his glass of mead and taking a gulp before proceeding, "it seems that the boy is spoilt . . . very spoilt. It seems that though he first found our Mamazel and took quite a liking to her, he don't like any to have the stage but himself —so to speak. And the Mounseer has been spending too much time with Mamazel for the liking of his little lordship."

  "Spoilt brat he be!" said Mrs. Soady. "Who do he think he is? Why, 'tis a beautiful romance, I'll swear, and no more than Mamazel deserves."

  "Why yes, Mrs. Soady, 'tis rightly so, but you see the boy be the master ... or so Mr. Fitt tells me. If he lives till he's twenty-one he'll have a fortune, and the Mounseer will be left a little money. If the little 'un dies, 'tis the Mounseer that the fortune goes to."

  Bet said with a giggle: " 'Tis a wonder he do take such care of the little'un!"

  "Now, Bet!" said Mrs. Soady sharply.

  "That's foreigners for you!" said the footman.

  "The things they be up to!" said Mrs. Soady. "The idea of leaving a fortune to a little 'un like that."

  "'Tis a queer set-up," admitted Mr. Meaker. "It was a very interesting conversation I had with Mr. Fitt."

  Mrs. Soady was watching Mr. Meaker. There he was, enjoying all

  the attention that was focussed on him and thinking himself so clever, so full of knowledge.

  If he did know what I do know! thought Mrs. Soady. Him and his Mr. Fitt!

  And when they were alone together she said to him: "You and your Mr. Fitt!"

  Then she sat down in a chair and laughed.

  "What's so funny about Mr. Fitt?"

  "I could tell you something, Mr. Meaker, that would make your eyes pop out of your head."

  "Reckon you could, Mrs. Soady."

  "It 'ud startle 'ee more than anything Mr. Fitt could tell 'ee."

  "Reckon it would, Mrs. Soady."

  Mrs. Soady, tempted, trembled on the brink of disclosure. Mr. Meaker bent towards her, his eyes beaming, flattering, begging for the secret.

  "Oh well," said Mrs. Soady, "reckon you ought to know. You're the head of the men servants, and 'tain't right you shouldn't know. But, mind 'ee, Mr. Meaker, 'tis between us two."

  "Why, yes, Mrs. Soady. Won't get no farther than me."

  "You've been wondering why Mamazel is treated as she is. You've been asking yourself why she's been treated like one of the family. Well, I'll tell 'ee. She is one of the family."

  "One of the family, Mrs. Soady?"

  Mrs. Soady chuckled. "A member of the family all right. She's the master's own daughter."

  Mr. Meaker's eyes were round with wonder and appreciation.

  "Though," said Mrs. Soady, "what they do call illegitimate. In other words ..."

  "A bastard!" whispered Mr. Meaker.

  The weather was mild all through November and into December. There was great activity in the house. The preparations for the wedding on Christmas Day went on and, although they had first decided that it must be a quiet wedding, the original plans grew and so many guests were asked that it would be quite a grand occasion after all.

  Letters came from Fermor to Caroline. Melisande would watch her receive them, take them to her room and emerge starry-eyed.

  He must be a good letter-writer. He would be. But nothing he would say could be trusted. Melisande had gathered that only once did he refer to her in those letters. Caroline had read out to her what he had said: "Felicitations to your father, old Wenna, and all men and maidens who inhabit Trevenning—not forgetting the 'little Mamazel" That was all.

  Sometimes it was more than a pleasure, it was a necessity to escape from the house and the bustle of preparation. How shall I feel when he comes back again ? wondered Melisande. How shall I feel on the day he marries Caroline?

  It was a comfort to find Leon waiting for her on the shore at that spot where they had first met and which had now become an accepted meeting place. If there was nothing to detain her in the house, she would often make her way there. If the boy was inclined to come out, they would both be there; if not, Leon would come alone. Melisande could not help feeling relieved when Raoul did not come; he was bright and intelligent, often amusing, but every now and then a certain resentment would leap into his manner. He liked Melisande but he did not care to see her take too much of Leon's attention; when he thought this was happening, his manner would become a little overbearing. Leon was, she was sure, the most patient man in the world. Raoul was avid for information, and often she was able to turn that resentment into interest for small creatures they found in the rock pools. By giving him her attention she could soothe his vanity and his arrogance, and she spent hours in the library at Trevenning trying to discover interesting facts which she could impart to the boy. He might have been a charming child, she often thought, but the vast fortune which was to be his and the power it gave him over the people about him had completely spoiled him.

  Melisande was glad therefore one day during the second week of December to arrive on the shore and find Leon alone. He was stretched out on the sand, his back propped up against a rock; and when he saw her he leaped to his feet. There was no mistaking the pleasure in his face.

  "I was so hoping you'd come," he said.

  "It is just for half an hour. I must not stay longer. It gets dark so early."

  "I'll walk back with you, so you needn't fear the dark."

  "Thanks. But I shall be expected back soon. There is a good deal to do. Do you realize that it is only two weeks to Christmas?"

  "And the wedding. I suppose the bridgroom will soon be coming."

  "We don't expect him until a day or so before Christmas."

  "Melisande. . . . May I call you that? It is what I call you in my thoughts."

  "Please do."

  "Then to you I may be Leon?"

  "Yes, when we are together like this. I think when others are present it should be Monsieur de la Roche and Mademoiselle St. Martin."

  "Very well. That shall be our rule. What will you do after the wedding, Melisande?"

  "Sir Charles has spoken to me. He has suggested I might stay."

  "After Miss Trevenning has gone?"

  "Yes. I can make myself useful in the house. There is much I can do, he says. His daughter will be gone and she will take Wenna— one of the servants—with her; the house will be depleted, Sir Charles
says, for Caroline and Wenna had certain duties. He suggests that I take over those duties. I think I shall enjoy this, and it is great good fortune."

  "He seems a very kind man.'*

  "He is a kind man. Few know how kind. But I know. I have seen that kindness. He says that there will be duties for me, and that I seem to be making a home there. He says the Danesboroughs like me . . . and others. He mentioned you. He said that now I have friends here, I would not wish to leave."

  "It's the best news I've heard for a long time."

  "For you?"

  "For me. I have wondered what it would be like here if you left."

  "Don't you like this place?"

  "I have liked it very much since we met. Our friendship has made a great difference to me." He picked up a stone and threw it into the sea. They watched it hit the water, rise and fall again. "Well, now our friendship goes on."

  "I hope it will go on for a long time. But you will not stay here for the summer."

  "In the summer I suppose we must go to a different climate. We should go to Switzerland . . . high in the mountains."

  "That sounds very pleasant."

  He smiled his melancholy smile. "I am ungrateful, you are thinking. I am disgruntled. Sometimes I rail against fate. I say, 'Why should some be born to riches, others to poverty?' "

  "I am surprised that you should have such thoughts."

  "All poor men have them. It is only the poor who worry about inequality and injustice."

  "You long to be rich?"

  "I long to be free."

  "Free? You mean from Raoul?"

  "My position is a difficult one. I often ask myself if I am good for the boy. I ask myself, 'Is this living? What are you? A nurse? A

  tutor? A woman could play the first part better, and there are scholars who could make far better tutors than you could.' "

  "But it was the wish of Raoul's parents that you should be the nurse, the tutor. He is of your own blood. No one could love him as you do.'!

  "You are right and I am ungrateful, as I said I was. It is because you are so sympathetic that I pour my troubles into your ear."