It began in Vauxhall Gardens

by Plaidy, Jean, 1906-1993

  "That's where you're wrong. You were born old; I was born to be eternally young."

  "Don't you believe it, Madam dear. You look every bit of forty-five."

  "Go away, you insect."

  "First tell me what's in the letter?" begged Polly.

  "Just to get rid of you then. Pour me some coffee."

  "Cream, Madam dear? You're getting fatter, you know."

  "I like my fat and I like my cream. Well, Polly, you shall know. We're to have a new young lady."

  "Madam dear! When?"

  "Soon, I think."

  "And who is she?"

  "A dear little bastard."

  "Ah, one of them: 9

  "You remember the Cornishman ?"

  "Yes, I remember him."

  "We owe him a duty, Polly. He came here one day hoping to stay the night. I was in love with someone then—I forget who, but that is not the point . . . except that he went away—the Cornishman, I mean—and became involved with a little seamstress. There was a child . . . this child."

  Polly made delighted clicking noises with her tongue.

  "So we're responsible, eh?"

  "He is sending her here. Melisande St. Martin. He reminds me that I helped to christen her."

  "It's a pretty name."

  "She might have been Millie but for me. Heaven knows what she might have been but for me."

  "She would never have been born but for you . . . according to you."

  "I had her sent to a French convent. She is an educated young lady now."

  "What are you going to do . . . find a nice husband for her ?"

  "We'll do our best, Polly. That's why he is sending her to us. She's to come here to learn dressmaking. If she's pretty we'll soon get her married. If she is not . . . well then she can work in the sewing-rooms."

  "That'll be seven of them. You never had seven before. I don't

  like sevens. We lived in number seven ... in Seven Dials. There was seventeen people in three attics and seven of 'em died of fever. My mother died having her seventh baby. ..."

  "Don't be so superstitious, Polly."

  "Why, you're as superstitious as any!"

  "Never. There's a reason for everything. Always remember that."

  Polly jerked her thumb upwards. "What about the bed then? What reason is there between them sheets, eh?"

  "People go to the Bed of Fertility believing they will succeed. That's half the battle, Polly. Believe in getting something, and you're half way to having it. That's what I've done. Go and tell the girls they're to have a new little friend. But first bring me pen and paper and I will write to my dear friend at once, telling him that we are expecting his little Melisande."

  Melisande was travelling first-class in the train which carried her across the country eastwards away from Cornwall. She felt bruised and bewildered, and there was growing within her a resentment against those people who had seemed to take her life in their hands and send her whither they wished. Was she to have no say in her own way of living ?

  A thought had come to her that when she reached London she might run away, that she might not look for those people who would be meeting her there; she might tear up the paper with the address on it which she carried in her pocket; and she might never let any of them interfere with her again.

  Had she been of a different nature she would have gone back to the Convent. She believed that was what Sir Charles had hoped she would do. How pleasant that would have been for him! He could have washed his hands of her—such a neat ending that would have been! She would not give him that satisfaction. Moreover how could she live as the nuns and the Mother Superior did? They had taken a brief look at life and had found it as disturbing and disillusioning as she had; they had decided to devote their lives to the service of God. But she was of a different nature. Life in the quiet Convent was even less attractive to her—she had to admit—than living on the defensive against wicked men.

  "But one learns," she said to herself. "One learns to understand these wicked men. One learns how to fight them. Had I been wiser

  I should have been duped neither by Fermor nor by Leon. Had I been wiser I should have understood why Sir Charles came to the Convent and took me away. I should have known, when he did not acknowledge me as his daughter, that he loved his position and his reputation more than his own child. If I had known these things there would have been no shock, no disillusion.''

  The strange fact which had emerged from her unhappy experience was that Fermor, the self-confessed villain, was no more to be despised than the others. These are the men, she decided, the creatures who made convents necessary, for if men were like saints there would be no need for holy women to shut themselves away.

  Fermor was a wicked man, a would-be seducer; but she remembered that he had said he would rather be a bad man with a streak of goodness in him than a good man with a streak of badness. Perhaps Fermor's type appealed to her more than the hypocrites, and that was why she still thought of him with regret. Now she would admit that the happiest time at Trevenning had been when she was with him. If there was badness in him, there was also badness in her, for while she had enjoyed his company had she not known that he was betrothed to Caroline?

  How right he had been when he had told her that time passed for her as it did for the lovely rose. Time had passed. She would never see him again; and she would admit, now that she was far removed from temptation, that she, not being good like the nuns, wanted to live in that gay world he could have shown her, to share with him that excitement which he had promised.

  She could scarcely think clearly even now of the days between her discovery and her departure.

  She had been bewildered, and when she was bewildered she was usually hasty. She would not have believed Leon guilty but for her knowledge of men which had come to her through Fermor and Sir Charles. Fermor had always laughed at her simplicity. And had she not seen Sir Charles, squirming when confronted with the truth, losing all nobility in that undignified fight to protect his reputation?

  If she herself had done wrong she would hate to admit it perhaps; she would certainly seek to justify herself. But to deny one's own child! She would never be guilty of that.

  And Leon ? She could not shut out the memory of his talking with such fire of what he longed to do. And the boy had stood between him and those desires. She could not believe that he had planned to murder Raoul. She believed that he had succumbed to temptation in a weak moment. She could picture it all so clearly; the raging winds, the storm, and the little boy—the spoilt little boy who would insist on going where he wanted to—running along the jetty and being blown over. To plunge in and try to save him would have

  been to risk Leon's own life; to leave him to drown was to realize all those dreams. So much money was involved. She could not forget his tortured face, his ready belief that people were talking of him . . . surely before he could have known they were. Qui s*excuse s'accuse, the nuns used to say; he had excused and accused himself.

  A week after the accident he had been seen swimming, by several people on several occasions in a quiet spot.

  She was glad that he had gone away and that she had not been compelled to see him again. The note she had written to him was short and to the point.

  Dear Leon, —I know now that you can swim. It seems that several people have seen you swimming. I realize that I have been very foolish. I did not understand you. I do now. The temptation was too great for you. You will understand why I do not think we should see each other again.

  Melisande.

  She had explained everything to Caroline; and she had asked both her and Sir Charles in no circumstances to tell Leon where she was.

  She knew then that she was afraid of seeing Leon, afraid that he would somehow appeal to her pity and—as so many people seemed to do—arrange her future for her. There was one thing which was very clear to her. She must escape from Leon. She wanted to escape from Leon more than anything.

  Now she must make a
clean break with the past.

  She thought then how strange her life was. She had lived close to the nuns, knowing them intimately; each day was like another; and then suddenly she had been whisked away to an entirely new life. Now she must go to another new life, a completely fresh set of people. The various sections of other people's lives must surely overlap.

  Only yesterday she had said goodbye to Mrs. Soady, Mr. Meaker and the other servants, Xo Caroline, Fermor and Sir Charles. They had all appeared sad to see her go; and she had a feeling that they were sure—as she was—that they would never meet again.

  Sir Charles had called her to his study soon after that sad encounter when she had told him of the servants' gossip. He had been stern, remote, almost as though he disliked her. He told her of the arrangements he had made for her; she was to go to the house of a dressmaker and learn the trade. It would be very useful to her, and Madam Cardingly was a clever woman who would look after her and teach her many things besides.

  She asked no questions. She showed no interest. She was wishing she could run away.

  He had tried to give her money before her departure and she had haughtily refused it. Now she realized that that had been foolish. She should have taken it—surely he owed her that!—and launched out on her own.

  He did prevail upon her to accept a little. "You may need it during the journey, you know."

  "I have a little money which I have saved while I have been here."

  He had smiled pleadingly. "Do please take this. I should be so glad if you would. . . ."

  And she had softened and accepted.

  The train had crept into the station and here she was in London.

  She alighted and looked about her. A porter came to her assistance because she had stepped out of a first-class carriage. She saw the notice: "Porters are not allowed to carry for third-class passengers." She shivered. Here was a further reminder of the position of the poor.

  "I am being met here," she told the porter.

  He touched his cap and, as she was about to pass on, a little woman came hurrying towards her. She resembled a witch, thought Melisande, with her small wizened face and her darting eyes.

  "Now you're Miss St. Martin, I'll bet," said the little woman, grinning at her; and her face was transformed into a friendly one by that eager grin.

  "Yes."

  "Then you're my pigeon. I'm Polly Kendrick come to meet you."

  "Polly Kendrick! I have not heard of you."

  "No, you're expecting Madam Cardingly. Madam don't go out much. I've come in her place."

  "It is a goodness."

  "Ah, you're foreign. Madam was telling me. An educated young lady from France. And pretty too. Screaming cats! You're going to make the young ladies look after their beaux!"

  "The young ladies!"

  "We've got lots of 'em. Here, don't want to stand about, do we? I've got Madam's carriage waiting for us. Here, you," she said to a porter, "bring the lady's baggage. Now, come on. All the way from Cornwall, eh? And travelling alone? Hope no one tried to kidnap you. That would be a lark . . . before you got to Madam's, wouldn't it?"

  Melisande was smiling; there was something about this woman to make her smile. The eager interest had made Melisande feel that she was wanted.

  They got into the carriage and the driver whipped up the horse.

  Polly Kendrick did not stop talking. "Now I can see you proper. My word, you're a beauty, you are! Madam's going to like that.

  Madam's got a weakness for the pretty ones." Polly nudged her. "So have I. Madam says she likes 'em because they're a reflection of her own youth; they're what she was once. / like them—she says —because they're what I never was. There's Madam for you. Full of that sort of talk. Clever, Madam is. The cleverest I ever struck. None like her. Never was. Never will be. Madam will look after you. Madam 'ull see you're all right. Madam's going to love having you with us . . . it's them others as is going to get their pretty noses put out of joint. It makes me laugh. Miss Genevra with her baby blue eyes; Miss Lucie with her curves. . . . They're going to meet a rival. But that's life for you. Can't have it all your own way, can you? Now, what is your first name?"

  "Melisande."

  "It's pretty. . . . Madam christened you. You can trust Madam to find the right name."

  "Madam christened me?"

  "Oh yes, Madam christened you all right." Polly nudged and bent closer. "This is a secret. Your father came to see Madam, and she had another lover, so he went out and met your mother. She was a little dressmaker and your father met her at Vauxhall where she was being pestered. Well, your father fell in love with her and they had a little love nest. Result: little you."

  "I ... I see."

  "Didn't you know? Screaming cats and fighting dogs! My tongue runs away with me. Never mind. Keep it dark I told. But I think, don't you, dearie, it's best to know. I've had a good life and it's all on account of keeping my eyes and ears open. Madam says that's all very well, but it's opening my mouth, as well as me ears and eyes, that'll get me into trouble. There's Madam for you."

  "And Madam christened me?"

  "Why yes, because when you was born and your poor dear mother died, your poor dear father didn't know which way to turn. So Madam named you Melisande and had you sent to a convent in France. There's Madam for you!"

  "So Madam has been a sort of foster-mother . . ."

  "Madam's foster-mother to the world. God bless her. But what am I going to call you, dearie? I know, Melly. That's pretty, ain't it? Little French Melly. Why, dearie, your eyes are green . . . real green. None of our young ladies has real green eyes. You'll be the first."

  "Please tell me of these people. I have no idea where I'm going. It is a bewilderment. I know that I am to go to Madam Cardingly to learn the dressmaking—though I do not think I shall be very good at the work."

  "You . . . dressmaking! With them eyes!"

  "With these hands, I thought."

  "Oh! I'll tell Madam that. Madam will like that. She likes the sharp retort. The gentlemen like them too ... as long as they're not too sharp like. They're as good as other things . . . some other things . . ." Polly went off into laughter again. "No, I expect Madam will want a pretty girl like you to show off the dresses. That's what her goddesses do. Of course, she wasn't sure what you'd be like. If you'd been like me . . ." The thought sent Polly off into more laughter. "Well then, you'd have had to work with your hands all right. But being like you are . . . your face is all you'll need."

  "I do not understand this."

  "Well, seeing we're nearly there, there won't be time to tell you. Madam's waiting to see you. She won't thank me for keeping you from her. She said to take you straight to her when we came in. You're to drink tea with her. Madam's very fashionable. She drinks tea in the afternoons as well as after dinner."

  The carriage had drawn up in a quiet Georgian square. As they alighted Melisande looked up at a tall house with six steps leading to the wide porch, on either side of which were pillars decorated with intricate carvings. There were balconies on the first and second floors and on these balconies were flower-boxes at this time full of evergreen plants.

  The door was opened by a man in livery.

  "One of our new young ladies, Bonson," said Polly with a wink.

  Bonson bowed and gave Melisande a warm smile.

  "Come on, dearie," said Polly, "Madam don't like to be kept waiting."

  On the hall floor was a red carpet which swept up the wide staircase. At the turn of the staircase was a tall window with a window seat facing the next flight. Here there was a statue of a beautiful woman with long curly hair hanging over her shoulders.

  "A gentleman said it reminded him of Madam," said Polly. "That's why she keeps it there. He gave it her, of course."

  "It's lovely. Is she,as lovely as that?"

  "In her time, dearie; none like her. Time passes. That's a sad thought for you beauties. When I think of time passing I can't help laughing. Time can't take much fr
om me. What you never have you never miss, so they say. But you miss it all right; what you can't do is lose it."

  They had left the great hall with the hanging candelabra, the mirrors and the fine pieces of furniture, and had mounted the stairs.

  "Madam's a one for mirrors," whispered Polly. "Though not so much now as one time. Here we are."

  She flung open a door.

  "Madam," she cried. "She's here. Our seventh and the loveliest of the lot."

  Melisande was aware of splendour, of more thick carpets, of heavy furniture, of statues and huge ornaments, of heavy velvet curtains. There was a perfume in the air; there was a great mirror on one side of the room which made it appear larger than it was. Between the velvet curtains she caught a glimpse of the balcony and beyond it, the green of the square.

  Fenella Cardingly was stretched on a chaise longue, her large body covered by a blue silk wrap; this robe was open at the throat to show the beginning of a magnificent bust; a jewelled ornament of diamonds and sapphires held the cloth together. The black hair was elaborately dressed and there was flashing ornament on it. She held out a white hand, sparkling with gems, and said: "Welcome, my dear child! Welcome, little Melisande!"

  Polly was pushing Melisande forward as though she were some treasure she had discovered and was eager to show.

  "There," said Polly, "do you like her?"

  "She's charming," said Fenella. "Kneel down dear, so that I can see you better."

  Melisande felt as though she were kneeling to the Queen.

  Fenella took her face in her hands and kissed her forehead.

  "I hope you'll be happy, my dear."

  "You are very kind," said Melisande.

  "That's what we intend to be. And it's going to be a pleasure to have you. Polly, go and tell them to bring us some tea. I want to talk to Melisande for a little while."

  Polly grimaced and hesitated. "Get along, you insect!" said Fenella.

  Polly went out reluctantly.

  "I expect she chattered during the ride from the station. Here, my dear, bring a chair and sit close to me so that we can have a chat."