by Joan Aiken
It was due to Dr. Bendigo’s robust exhortations that—in due course—Ellen was able to muster up sufficient fortitude to accept her exile to Brussels, and endure the severance from her mother without utterly breaking down.
“Pay attention to me, now, my dearie!” the doctor told her. “It’s for your own good I’m advising you! Heaven knows I’ve no wish to lose your company. But that’s a good school; we know as much from your sisters and your godmother. You’ll learn enough to make you an accomplished woman—able to make your own way in the world—which you’ll not do here at home, let me remind you. Moreover, your mother deeply wishes it, and she’ll fret herself miserably if you do not go with a good grace. You’d not wish that? Ah, no, I thought not. So just bite on the bullet, will ye, and let’s have no tears or tragedies—show your mama a smiling face when you go to say good-bye, and then I’ll take the day off and drive ye to Newhaven.”
What the smiling face had cost, only Ellen and the doctor knew, but she was glad she had managed it, for that was the last time she saw her mother.
Around Petworth now, she thought, the oak trees will be covered with a gold-pink mist of buds, the pear tree outside my window may be coming into flower, the garden will be full of birdsong. She thought mournfully of her old tabby cat Nibbins, the only creature at the Hermitage that she had missed since her mother died—but no, that was not quite true, she loved her young brother, Gerard, if only he would let one love him, if he were not so prickly and unapproachable.
Why, she wondered again, did Benedict trouble himself to come all the way to the Pensionnat just to tell me that Nibbins had died, to bring me that trifling bit of unhappy news? Out of pure spite? For what other reason could he have come?
He’ll be surprised to find me gone, thought Ellen; that is, if he should return to the Pensionnat—which is not too probable.
Her mind drifted away from Benedict. She knew very little about his life these days; he spent his university vacations in London, or traveling on the Continent; his friends were drawn from the circle in which he moved, that of his own father, Lord Radnor, dead seven years ago. His mother, Adelaide, in choosing Luke Paget for her second husband, had married to please herself and had disgusted her first husband’s family, who thereafter ignored her and discouraged her two sons from paying her more than the briefest visits.
Easingwold, the older, now the new Lord Radnor, had never in fact set foot inside the Hermitage, and Benedict’s visits had become less and less frequent. And Lady Adelaide, Ellen thought wryly, had not even succeeded in pleasing herself for long; heaven knew what she had expected of Luke Paget, but whatever that was, it soon became plain that she was not finding it, as her discontented looks began to proclaim. She lost no time in urging Luke to arrange matches for his two elder daughters, and dispatching the youngest back to school in Brussels; she ran her household with querulous extravagance, and took her place in the best local society as, from her own birth, and having previously been married to an earl, she was entitled to do; but all this seemed insufficient to please her. She had been in love with Luke Paget at the age of sixteen, obliged by her friends to marry more advantageously; now, too late, she seemed to have proved the truth of Lady Morningquest’s oft-repeated maxim that love matches never prosper.
…Poor Adelaide, thought Ellen, who had at first bitterly disliked and resented her stepmother. No one could possibly have replaced Ellen’s own mother, but Lady Adelaide—shallow, self-centered, and of a peevish, lachrymose disposition—had been peculiarly ill-equipped to do so. However, her situation at the Hermitage had soon begun to seem so lonely and uncomfortable that her stepdaughter, home for the weddings of Eugenia and Kitty, could feel no more than a mild dislike and tolerant compassion. Who would want to be married to Papa? Not I, for sure, thought Ellen. It is true that his looks are striking; I suppose that was what caught Adelaide’s fancy when she was a girl; but he is dryer than a sack of sawdust She has her carriage and her household and her little girl; but as Dowager Countess of Radnor she would have been better established, had far more consequence—and Vicky is a secretive little spoiled minx! I love the Hermitage—probably I love it more than any house I shall ever enter—but I could not live there happily in such company. Gerard detests Adelaide, Vicky is overindulged, Papa is cold and dry and wholly wrapped up in his own concerns. All he wanted was somebody to manage his house, and now he is assured of that, he will not trouble to speak more than three sentences a day to the wretched woman for the rest of her life. I sincerely pity her, and I am glad not to be in her position.
For the first time it occurred to Ellen to be thankful that Lady Morningquest, arriving in Brussels yesterday, had rescued her goddaughter from this possibility. Suppose Madame Bosschère, in her wrath, had dispatched Ellen back to England? I do not think she would have done so, decided Ellen. That would have meant explanations to Papa—which is not her way of dealing; she prefers quiet maneuvers, secret manipulations. She is a schemer, and that is why she always appears so successful; nobody hears about those plans of hers that go awry.
Perhaps she intends one day to marry Monsieur Patrice herself?
Ellen’s thoughts had run back into their old, painful groove, and, without realizing that she did so, she drew a long, unhappy sigh, clasping her gloved hands tightly in her lap.
Lady Morningquest, who was writing letters on a small rosewood desk, glanced up and laid down her pen.
“You look fatigued, child, and no wonder!” she said. “I daresay you were up half the night restoring order after Madame’s fete. It is hard on you to be obliged to set out for a new position today. Fortunately in Paris your duties will be less exacting; and your surroundings by far more luxurious!”
“I wish, ma’am, that you would be so good as to tell me a little about the Countess de la Ferté and her family?”
“Certainly I will, child. I had that intention.” Lady Morningquest put away her pen. “Louise, as you may recall, is my niece by marriage, my husband’s sister’s daughter. She used to visit us at the Embassy in Paris, and attended the Couvent des Anglaises with my elder daughter, Dorothea; and they shared a coming-out ball. At this she met Raoul, Comte de la Ferté, and both of them fell head over heels in love. I am very greatly opposed—as I have often told you—to young persons contracting love matches.” She paused to look frowningly down her long, thin nose at her thin, knobbed, patrician hands. “I sincerely hope that you will never contract such an alliance, child. Matches arranged by a young person’s friends are by far more satisfactory in every way. What can a young girl, straight from the schoolroom, know of such matters? However, in this case all seemed satisfactory enough; Raoul comes from one of the wealthiest and most ancient families in Normandy, Louise had a small competence of her own; perhaps he was a little wild, but no more than may be expected of such a young man, born with a gilt spoon in his mouth. Louise was received into the Catholic Church, no problem there, and the young people appeared to be devotedly attached. Her parents died within a short time of one another; they contracted the same putrid fever a year after the marriage.”
“Poor girl,” Ellen murmured. “She must have felt very isolated.”
Lady Morningquest raised her brows. “You think so? But she had Raoul’s family, which is extensive; he has, I believe, nine younger brothers and sisters; and his parents appeared content enough with their daughter-in-law. But now all has gone amiss; Raoul conducts himself scandalously—I need not particularize about this to a girl like you, but his misbehavior is notorious. And although he inherited a large estate when his father died, he is apparently in process of dissipating it all by gambling. He frequents the worst establishments in Paris, and has set up a gaming room in his own hotel.”
“Good gracious,” said Ellen rather inadequately. “And there are children? Who will be my pupils?”
“One only—which is the crux of the matter. Raoul’s aunts and uncles have come to me in di
stress many times. There is only a daughter, Menispe, now four or thereabouts, and no sign at all of a male heir. It is said that Louise and Raoul pursue wholly separate lives—she does not confide in me; as for the child, she has a quite disastrous existence, pampered by either parent when they remember her, and at other times left to run wild.”
“Menispe will be my charge?”
Ellen’s heart sank even lower. Two warring parents and a spoiled child—what a prospect! Of what value would her qualifications, her faculties, her intelligence, be here? She said doubtfully, “It seems to me, ma’am, that they need someone with twice my age and experience.”
“Just what I said to Madame Bosschère,” said Lady Morningquest. Did you indeed? thought Ellen. “But, as Madame reminded me, someone with twice your years might not have the energy and resilience required to deal with the situation at the Hôtel Caudebec. And Madame was most vehement in expressing her confidence as to your sagacity and presence of mind.”
Well she might be, in the circumstances, was Ellen’s internal comment. And little will her high opinion avail me where I am going. Why did I allow myself to be catapulted into this situation?
She glanced restlessly round the railway compartment. Its mahogany and plush and brass fittings began to seem like a prison—a trap. The poorest peasant girl, out there on the plain hoeing beans, had more freedom.
“Don’t look so doleful, child,” said Lady Morningquest. “Here we are at Clermont. I will tell Markham to make tea; that will put you in better spirits.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You will have ample opportunity to acquire interesting new acquaintances in Paris,” pursued her godmother briskly, as the maid lit a small spirit stove and boiled water. “Louise, I understand, conducts quite a salon—she has become acquainted with philosophers and poets, playwrights and politicians. In her house you may come across Ponsard, who wrote the tragedy Lucrèce; Mérimée; Flaubert; Meilhac, the author of those charming operettas; and Monsieur Dumas—not to mention some less desirable persons such as that Baudelaire, and a whole nest of Russian writers who prefer Paris to the snows and barbarities of St. Petersburg.”
“Indeed?” Despite her dejection, Ellen felt a prick of interest. “And does the Comte de la Ferté also cultivate these literary personages?”
“Quite the contrary! This is one of the difficulties. Louise has a female friend—” Lady Morningquest’s face lengthened into austerely disapproving lines. “Germaine de Rhetorée, who was at school with her in Bonn, and whose tastes are even more literary—indeed I understand she has published some writings herself—like that disreputable Dudevant woman who calls herself George Sand. Germaine passes a great deal of time with Louise—far too much time, in my opinion. I cannot think her influence a wholesome one. If you can wean my husband’s niece from that friendship, I believe it will be an excellent thing, and will remove one of the principal grounds for the union’s failure to flourish and bear fruit. After all, why should not you become a friend to Louise? You are a sensible little thing, and, I am informed, have excellent understanding.”
“The Comtesse is hardly likely to make a confidante of her governess,” Ellen observed dubiously. She felt that altogether too many responsibilities were being laid on her.
“Tush, child. Your birth is every bit as good as that of Louise Throstlewick; the Pagets need humble themselves to nobody, I believe. Your father is an English country gentleman (if he is a blinkered, bigoted, stiff-necked ass),” Lady Morningquest added, but she added this to herself. “Your great-uncle was a bishop, one of your great-aunts was married to a cousin of Mr. Pitt, and another was a great friend of Lord Egremont. Your connections are unimpeachable.”
“But I am still a governess.”
“It doesn’t signify. On the Continent, English ladies who teach are considered quite entitled to a place in society—if they come of good family, that is; matters are more liberal here than in England.”
“That was why I managed to persuade Papa to permit me to teach in Madame’s school,” agreed Ellen.
“I was surprised he allowed it, I confess. No doubt Lady Adelaide advised it.”
“There was really no room for me at home. Lady Adelaide finds it necessary to have more servants than Mama used—and the Hermitage is not a large house.”
If Lady Morningquest had not been so highly bred she would have sniffed. “Adelaide ffoulkes is a shallow-minded, headstrong, selfish woman. In marrying her, your papa made a shocking mistake! However, that can’t be mended. Nor can the fact that she has hustled your sisters into a pair of very ill-judged marriages.”
“Good gracious, Lady Morningquest!”
“I daresay Kitty has got thirty thousand a year, but what use is that to her married to a man with a name like Bracegirdle, and living where she does? And I am told he is a sad miser, won’t let her have a penny over her pin money even if she goes on her bended knees; so what use are his millions to her? While as for Eugenia—I don’t say that Valdoe is disreputable, but the man hasn’t two farthings to rub together, or enough energy to remedy the case, and Blanche Pomfret says that Valdoe Court is falling down.”
“I hope matters are not as bad as that, Lady Morningquest.”
“Quite as bad, child, if not worse. So I trust you won’t allow Adelaide ffoulkes to push you into such a regrettable alliance.”
Ellen reflected that, not five minutes since, her godmother had pronounced on the undesirability of young persons choosing for themselves; but she said, “So long as I remain away from Petworth and don’t trouble her, I don’t believe that Lady Adelaide will concern herself about me at all.”
“True enough. Well, child, try if you can to set matters on an even keel at the Hôtel Caudebec. Do, pray, discourage Louise from seeing so much of that Germaine de Rhetorée. Camille and Arsinoë, they call themselves,” Lady Morningquest added, and this time her sniff was audible. “After two mythological heroines who suffered ill treatment at the hands of men; though what ill treatment Germaine has to complain of, except not being left so much money by her father as she hoped, I am sure I don’t know. But if you can civilize that wretched little child, and establish a better relation between Louise and Raoul, I confess I shall be greatly obliged. I am speaking to you now, my dear, as if you were a much older person, because I know you have a good head on your shoulders and can be trusted.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
But Ellen, sighing as the dusky suburbs of Paris crept out like a gray tide to meet the train, felt neither wise nor capable. The ménage in the Hôtel Caudebec sounded dauntingly sophisticated, downright terrifying, indeed; how shall I ever be able to justify Lady Morningquest’s confidence in me? she wondered. How I wish I were back in the Pensionnat, about to supervise the evening’s lecture, with Monsieur Patrice on the estrade.
I wonder what he said when he discovered that I had gone.
Blinking away tears, she turned to gaze at the high, slate-roofed houses.
“Ah, there is the Sacré-Coeur,” said Lady Morningquest. “Now we shall soon be home. I shall tell my coachman to take you on to the Hôtel Caudebec, child, after he has driven me to the Embassy. It will be much better for you, in your dealings with the servants, if you arrive in a private carriage—they are an ill-regulated crew, and in any case the status of a governess in a private household must always be defined by herself. If you do not establish from the start that you are a lady, and to be treated as one, the domestics are sure to take advantage.”
“You are very thoughtful, ma’am.” Ellen’s spirits sank still lower.
“That’s right, Markham; put my papers away in the secretary… And then, child, when you have righted matters in the la Ferté household, we must see about finding a respectable parti for you,” said Lady Morningquest, taking her feet from the foot warmer so that Markham could hand it to the manservant.
Ellen redde
ned, embarrassed at having her future so casually discussed in front of servants. She said hastily, “I beg you will not trouble yourself about my affairs, Lady Morningquest.”
“Highty-tighty, child! Someone has to, since your father has virtually cast you off. And your mother was my dear friend; remember that.”
“I do, ma’am; and I am obliged to you; but I am sure I shall be able to make my own way in the world.”
“Humph! Well we shall see.”
The Embassy carriage was waiting at the station, and took them speedily to the ambassadorial residence in the rue St. Honoré. Here, however, Lady Morningquest’s careful plans received a check. It appeared that, not five minutes previously, her high-spirited youngest son, Thomas, escaping his tutor to run to the hall and look for Mama’s arrival, had slid down the marble stair rail, fallen onto the stone floor below, struck his head, and been picked up senseless. The household was in uproar; Monsieur l’Ambassadeur was from home; a doctor had been sent for but had not yet arrived; and the tutor, Mr. Culpeper, a gentle, scholarly man, was wringing his hands, not knowing what to do for the best.
Lady Morningquest had the whole situation organized in a trice; the boy carried to his chamber, hot and cold compresses called for, and a messenger dispatched to find Lord Morningquest and bring him home. In due course the doctor arrived, and was closeted in the boy’s chamber, with his old nurse and Lady Morningquest, for a long, anxious period. Meanwhile Ellen waited in the large cold formal drawing room, feeling decidedly out of place and unwanted, much tempted to order the Morningquest coachman to drive her on to the Hôtel Caudebec, but reluctant to go without taking leave and thanking her godmother for all her kindness and consideration, however undesired.
