by Mira Stables
“How did you escape from France?” asked Fleur, with all the eagerness of a child demanding a story.
He smiled at her affectionately. Bitterness had left him now, cleansed away by the healing power of Martine’s love. “I escape because I am too slow to run away,” he said. And, at her puzzled face, went on, “We have warning that the mob will come — to kill, to loot, to burn. Not our own people, you understand, but the scum of the cities for the most part, with one or two stupid hot-heads drunk with words. It is a commonplace, so we are prepare. But then it is discover that the horses are all gone. They mean to make sure of us, see you. That is when all the others run away. Me, I am too lame to run. So I hide in the woods. Then I find many people — humble country people, who risk their lives to help me. So, after many months, I come at last to England — and to Chelsea!”
He did not tell her of the appalling fate that had overtaken the runaways, and blessedly, she did not ask. Her thoughts had gone back to the library at Blayden. She was remembering Marcus’s tale of the outlawed peasant who had fed and comforted him.
Presently she said, “And how did you discover Maman?”
He laughed. “You expect the grand romantic love story, is it not? Alas! It is your grandpère that I discover, at a concert at Ranelagh. In the old days we go on well together. He is lonely. I give up my lodging and go to live with him in Hans Town. It is convenient for my work, it is économique for both of us. So, when the little Fleur is sent to school and my Martine comes home, me voilà!”
To be sure, told so prosaically, it did not sound very romantic. But Fleur already knew her mother’s side of the story, and how, at that unexpected meeting, the old childish adoration had sprung to life again, enriched now by suffering, loneliness and loss; even, ironically, by shared poverty. Moreover, she had seen the pair in their daily life. Not an easy one. There had been many set-backs. M. de Trèvy had begun to establish a reputation for himself, in a modest way, as a violinist. The demand for his services at concerts and soirées had been steadily increasing. The accident to his wrist had put a stop to all that and he had been thankful enough to return to teaching at the St Quentin school. Their meagre savings were gone and now that there was a baby to provide for, there could be no denying that it was make and scrape with them. Yet they were happy, having each other, meeting each crisis as it arose in earnest consultation, working together in unthinking harmony. And Fleur, who had never lived in a truly happy home before, sunned herself in the warmth of this one and never missed the luxuries of High Barrows and Blayden.
She had insisted on paying her share of the household expenses, and, under Maman’s tuition, she was learning to cook and to clean. Had it not been for the continuing anxiety about her husband and the grief of being unable to speak of him freely in a household that wholeheartedly disapproved of her marriage, her husband and his family, she would have been as happy as a child playing at house.
During these early days she did not see much of Grandpère. Grandpère was engaged in the composition of a new ballet. Though, as he was the first to admit, ballet was by far too grand a term for so simple an affair. Nevertheless, one was still an artiste. However brief, however simple, it must still be perfect of its kind.
It was designed to be an added attraction at a gaming club much patronised by the ‘ton’. A most respectable establishment, run on the lines of a private house with everything about it of the most genteel. The owner had hit upon the notion that a short ballet, performed during the serving of suppers, would be quite a different touch from the musical entertainment usually offered by rival establishments, the more so because ballet was becoming increasingly popular. Martine and Paul were doubtful. Hardened gamesters, they declared, would not welcome such distraction. M. Lavelle agreed to this, but pointed out that the hardened gamesters would come in any case. The idea was to attract the younger men.
A heated argument then developed to which Fleur listened with appreciation. Arguments were frequent in this voluble household. But having been conducted with passionate intensity, they were then abandoned and promptly forgotten, so Fleur derived considerable enjoyment from them. This one was a three-cornered contest. Martine said indignantly that it was prostitution of a pure art to produce a ballet in such a setting, and that, furthermore, she did not approve of enticing young men into clubs where they would game away their money. Paul had no strong feelings on these moral issues, but doubted the success of such a startling innovation.
M. Lavelle said that no ballet of his production could do other than add lustre to the reputation of the art, even if he chose to present it in a debtors’ prison; that young gentlemen who wished to stake their blunt would undoubtedly do so, and possibly in some far less reputable club than Mr Rockstone’s; that no one could possibly prophesy what would or would not take with the fashionables — witness the fantastic success of Dr Graham’s Temple of Health in its early days; and finally, that since there was now another and shockingly clamorous mouth to be filled — here he gazed dotingly upon the grandson of whom he was inordinately proud — they needed the money which he was being paid for his services.
This seemed to settle the argument. In complete good humour, Grandpère stumped off to resume his labours.
During her first week in Hans Town, Fleur called each day at the Albany. There was no news. And Dearden was beginning to greet her with an obvious pity that stung her feminine pride. She felt that she presented a humiliating picture of an unwanted wife hanging around her husband’s abode in hopes of a kindly word. Moreover, the daily pilgrimage was a costly business since it meant hiring a carriage each time. Her money was melting away with disconcerting speed. Though they lived frugally enough, she found the shops difficult to resist. There were so many trifles, quite inexpensive, that one wanted to buy for a newly acquired family. She had told Maman about Grandpapa’s will, though she had not disclosed the exact provisions, saying only that the capital was tied up in trust for her children and that until she was older she had only fifteen pounds a year.
Maman had exclaimed that it was just the kind of Turkish treatment one might have expected from such an old skinflint, but no use to worry one’s head about what could not be mended. Grandpère, more worldly wise, grunted, “Meant to make you wholly dependant on your husband, did he? I daresay he made a handsome settlement. Well — he must have done. Stands to reason. The Blaydens wouldn’t have condescended to the bourgeoisie without.” He pondered this distasteful thought for a moment under frowning brows, then said abruptly, “It’s a bad family you’re married into, my girl. I don’t know the young one, though it’s little good I’ve heard of him, but I’ve seen enough and to spare of his lordship. He’s one that would sell his own daughter for the money to put on a horse.” Presently he added heavily, “Seems to me if that husband of yours never did come back from Belgium you’d be well clear of an unfortunate coil that never should have been if your Grandfather Pennington had consulted your mother, as was only right.”
Fleur’s lips drooped. It made her very unhappy when, as so often happened, her family commented unfavourably on her husband. And try as she would, she could not help wondering If there was some foundation for their disapproval, the more so because they were usually fair-minded and tolerant. Grandpère saw the woebegone face and said more cheerfully, “But that’s enough about the Blaydens. I’ve been thinking, my dear, it’s time you saw some of the sights of the Town. If tomorrow proves fine, how would it be if you and I went to see those lawyers of yours? We could go by boat, if you’d care for it, and come back by road. That way you’d see everything without getting too tired. And another thing. Why don’t you set this Mr Sickling to making some enquiries about your husband? Or at least arrange for him to take letters and messages for you so that you need not traipse to the Albany every day.”
Martine clapped her hands. “An excellent notion, Papa,” she approved. “We will make it a feast day, and I shall prepare a special dinner against your return.”
&
nbsp; So it was settled, and the two intrepid voyagers rose very early next day to be sure of catching the first boat.
Grandpère’s knowledge of the passing scene proved, alas, inadequate to his grand-daughter’s eager questioning, but fortunately it was amply supplemented by a bevy of helpful passengers. So kind they were to a country ignoramus that Fleur was quite sorry to bid them farewell when she and Grandpère disembarked at London Bridge. Their welcome at the offices of Sickling and Willets was impressive. Whatever her present penury, young Mrs Blayden was a valuable client. Mr Sickling was delighted to render every service within his power. But certainly he would accept messages and letters and forward them to Hans Town. And naturally — with a reproachful glance at M. Lavelle, whose suggestion it was — he would not divulge his client’s whereabouts to anyone save her husband without her express permission.
Emerging from these solemn precincts, Fleur’s purse comfortably plump once more and M. Lavelle delivered from a nightmare vision of an irate Lord Blayden arriving on his doorstep to demand his errant daughter-in-law, their holiday mood revived. If she would not object to the dust, suggested Grandpère, they might hire an open carriage for their return journey so that she would be able to see everything. Fleur thought this a capital scheme, so after a brief visit to St Paul’s Cathedral, which the girl declared she simply must see since she had heard so much about it, the two adventurers drove gaily off along the Strand in a very shabby landau with the top folded back.
A call at the Albany having produced the usual negative result, Dearden was instructed to send word to Messrs. Sickling and Willets if Mr Blayden returned. The landau then drove off, leaving the servant to stare after it rather grimly. He couldn’t blame her, that he couldn’t. It didn’t seem right to leave the poor young thing in such suspense. No wonder she was getting huffish. Dearden himself, knowing what he knew, was desperately concerned for his master’s safety. It was long past time that they should have heard from him. But the orders were that never, whatever the apparent necessity, were enquiries to be made, and he dared not disobey.
It was growing quite late when the aged landau eventually deposited the two travellers at their gate, very well pleased with their adventures and each other, and Fleur bubbling over with eagerness to tell of all that she had seen. It was fortunate, said Maman with pretended severity, that she had decided to make a cassoulet for dinner, since that was one dish that could never be spoiled by over-long cooking.
If the despatch with which the four of them disposed of it was any criterion, it had certainly not been spoiled! Maman insisted on washing the dishes before she made the coffee that they preferred to the more fashionable tea, and they settled down to a comfortable pose. When Fleur was done with recounting the day’s excitement, talk turned to Grandpère’s work.
“Have you found your Flora yet?” asked Martine, setting almost invisible stitches into the shirt that she was mending for her husband.
Grandpère scowled. “It is difficult,” he admitted. “It seems I shall have to make do with Meg Sturton after all. But it is a sad falling off. It is not even that the part presents any technical difficulty. But Flora is a goddess. For the Flowers it does not signify. If they are earthy, what matter? They are, after all, sprung from the earth. But my Flora should have a spirituelle quality — and that is what I cannot find. You could have done it, when you were younger. The child here might have done it, if she had ever been properly taught.”
Maman and Fleur exchanged glances — Fleur’s mischievous, Maman’s amused. “I was properly taught, when I was small, Grandpère,” offered the girl demurely. “Maman taught me herself.”
“To be sure she did,” said Grandpère indulgently, “and that is why you hold yourself up properly and move so well. But childhood lessons are not enough, petite. The secret of good style is —”
“Daily practice,” chanted two voices in unison.
Grandpère looked slightly affronted. “Precisely what I was about to say,” he agreed. “But I cannot see what is so amusing about a plain statement of fact.”
“Only that it is exactly what Maman was used to say to me, in just so solemn a voice,” explained Fleur, still smiling a little. And then, suddenly serious, “And I did it, too, Maman. It was a kind of spell, you see. Like sticking pins into a wax figurine, only mine was a good spell. If I performed my task faithfully, some day we would meet again. It worked, too, didn’t it?”
Martine did not answer at once. The lump in her throat at the picture of a lonely little girl so faithfully doing her exercises and seeking comfort in magic and charms made speech difficult.
“And did you really practise every day? All these years?” asked Papa-Paul — the name that he and Fleur had agreed upon — curiously.
Fleur nodded vehemently. “Truly! It was difficult at school. The bed rail served well enough as a barre, but there was no mirror, so I could not see my mistakes. But I did the best I could.”
“Dance for us, then,” demanded Grandpère. “This I must see before I will believe.”
Fleur jumped up at once. Martine looked anxious, knowing Grandpère’s standards and fearful that her darling could never measure up to them. “There is no room,” she protested, “and no music either.”
“There is room enough for me to judge her quality,” retorted Grandpère, “and as for music, I will play my flute for her. Or Paul, here, shall play his violin.”
Paul was already pushing furniture aside to make a space. “What shall it be, child?” asked Grandpère. “A galliard? A pavane?”
“No,” said Fleur sharply. “Not a pavane. I — I am not in the mood. Something gay. A jig — a hornpipe.”
“A dancer should know no mood save the mood of the music,” said Grandpère severely. “However, it shall be as you wish. Listen, then. This is your music.”
He played it through for her twice, a merry, lilting gypsy of a tune. She listened attentively, her lips curving to an elusive little smile. She would like to confound Grandpère for Maman’s sake, and a little, too, for her husband’s, who had liked her dancing. When the tune came to an end she nodded cheerfully. “I have it,” she said, and suggested that the two spectators should stand in the doorway to give her more room. “For this is a girl that I saw in the poultry market this morning. You will not be shocked, I beg, for I do not think she was greatly concerned with the behaviour proper to a lady!”
When the music began again she was ready for it, arms akimbo, head tilted in impudent swagger, nose in the air. Before their startled eyes a saucy country wench expressed her delighted anticipation of the day’s outing, drove her geese to the market, greeted her friends, chaffered with the customers, flirted with this one, snubbed another, drooped disconsolate because her sweetheart had not met her, then saw him coming in the distance and ran laughing into his arms.
Since all this display had been aimed at Grandpère, she rather naturally ended up in his arms instead. The precious flute dropped forgotten from his fingers as he enfolded her in a hug so fierce that she emerged breathless, declaring that it was all Maman’s fault. Since coming to London, not once had she done her exercises. And see — one tiny dance and behold her exhausted!
The laughing protest dropped into a deep well of silence. Fleur, who had thrown herself into a chair to recover her breath, looked up enquiringly. No one said anything. Had they not liked her dancing after all?
Grandpère, at least, looked cheerful enough. There was an air of brisk determination about him as he picked up the ill-used flute, set it aside without even examining it for possible injury, and brought himself a chair to put beside hers. Maman was watching him in patent anxiety. Did it matter so much, then, what he thought of her performance? Papa-Paul’s face was the most reassuring. He was quietly setting the room to rights. Catching her puzzled eyes, he smiled, made dumb-show of applause, then shrugged and raised shoulders and eyebrows to heaven in a ‘What happens next?’ appeal.
Maman sat down beside Grandpère who was noddi
ng contentedly to himself. Apparently she found this disturbing. She clasped her hands against her breast and said agitatedly, “She cannot do it, Papa. You must know that she cannot.”
Grandpère chose to misunderstand. “Cannot do it, my dear? Of course she can do it. Oh, she will never reach the heights. The talent is there, the style is excellent — never did I dream you were so good a teacher — but it is simple stuff and she is too old to begin on advanced work. A great pity. However, for my Flora she is perfect. Almost I believe you were prescient when you named her Fleur.” He beamed delightedly upon his daughter, though his eyes remained watchful and steady.
Fleur stared at him unbelievingly. Maman said, “You know very well that that was not my meaning. The child dances beautifully. So. But what of Lord Blayden, who frequents the Rockstone Club? What of her husband when he returns? Do you imagine that they will join in the applause for her performance, however artistically perfect it may be?”
Grandpère shrugged. “They will never know. It is Rockstone’s whim that the dancers shall be masked. Oh — just a strip of silk across the eyes and temples. A very good notion it is, too. There is something bewitching about a woman’s face with that added touch of mystery. And to some of the coarser types it lends an air of refinement,” he added frankly.
Martine seized upon this. “Surely you would not wish your own grandchild to associate with these low types,” she urged.
“They are not low types in the sense that you imply. Decent, hard-working girls, all of them. Rockstone made a point of it. It’s not a bagnio he’s running. Respectability is his stock in trade. Several of my Flowers are married. Rose, for instance, has three children. A little overblown, poor Rose, but she’s a good worker, and behind the mask she does well enough. Besides, she needs the money.”
Maman was silent. Fleur, who had been listening in amazed disbelief, said timidly, “Do you mean, Grandpère, that you are offering me the part of Flora in your ballet?”
