by Joan Aiken
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Waiting at home was a letter from her middle sister, Mrs. Bracegirdle.
Imagine it! Miserly old B. had to attend a conference of manufacturers in London, so actually brought me with him, in order not to forgo a chance of my acquiring household linen cheap in summer sales. I was able, therefore, to go down into Sussex and pass a night at the Hermitage, for I had received alarming accounts from Eugenia regarding Papa’s new housekeeper. My dear Ellen—matters are quite as bad as E. represents—if not worse! The woman, Mrs. Pike, is odious—encroaching, sly, sickeningly condescending, with an eye like a fishhook and a voice like a ratchet! Papa permits her to deal with all household affairs, and she is undoubtedly feathering her own nest as fast as she is able. Pa continues stingy as ever (it is no wonder that he and Lady Adelaide found me a husband like B.). The household accounts cd be written on thread paper. Pa seems well enough recovered from his Accident, tho’ he still has a decided limp. He is morose, taciturn, and more disagreeable than ever; also—which he never was before—afflicted by a strange, visionary fancy, somehow related to a stone that was dug up in Chichester Cathedral, and his past activities as a Justice of the Peace in judging criminals. I confess I did not make much effort to understand it. This Maggot in his Mind makes him no easier to live with—he and Gerard were at continual odds. Gerard had been taking pianoforte lessons from old Gotobed the church organist—which put Pa in a passion—since Ld Chesterfield said piano playing was no occupation for a gentleman, an observation quoted by Pa at every meal. Also, Gerard has struck up a friendship with Dr. Bendigo and, through him, made the acquaintance of some wholly undesirable personage, a shepherd, or gamekeeper, or some such. Naturally, Pa forbade the association, but G. is excessively hard to control; he slips away like quicksilver. He is just as sullen and uncouth as ever. School wd do him a World of good, but the Dr. still thinks it wd impair his health.
I called on Aunt Fanny but she was not at home; out, I was given to understand, at some Cottager’s bedside. She and Gerard are two of a kind.
But, my dear Ellie, the main burden of my letter is this: Eugenia and I are seriously apprehensive of the possibility that Pa will take this odious Mrs. Pike for his third wife! There are but too many indications of this.
You know Papa’s nature [before “nature” another word had been many times scratched out; evidently Kitty had had second thoughts about some attribute of her father which Ellen, as an unmarried girl, could not be supposed to comprehend]—he is not a man to live patiently without connubial connection [Kitty went on more confidently]. His glances, his gestures, demonstrate a growing infatuation all too clearly. And, Ellen, it wd be a shocking misalliance! The woman is far from being a lady, it wd sink our family in the estimation of every person of quality in the county. She is vulgar, low-natured, and scheming. Gerard and Vicky both detest her. Further, there is a story that she has a child, or children (so Eugenia says); where they are is not known, but you may imagine that, once she had Pa in her toils, they wd soon be installed. And consider the inheritance! It would be outrageous if Mama’s fortune were to be willed away from her own children to this Hateful woman and her low Brood. Yet, if she got her clutches on Papa, that might well happen.
Therefore, my dear Ellen, it is your plain Duty to give up this position in Paris and return to Sussex. In any case you are best away from such a disgracefully licentious city. Benedict Masham (who, by the bye, passed his final examinations with great credit) lately visited the Radnors at Matlock Chase, and rode over to pay his respects. He gave me to understand that the household in which you reside leaves a great deal to be desired. What can Aunt Morningquest have been thinking of, to place you there? But such great folk consult only their own convenience. Do, pray, Ellie, leave Paris at once and return home—I truly believe that the future comfort of our family depends on you! And Paris is no place for a girl your age—you will never find a respectable man to marry you once it is known that you have made any considerable sojourn there.
Yr affec. Sister,
Catherine Bracegirdle
Ellen could not withhold a smile as she read this artless missive. It was plain that Kitty, married to a parsimonious, Dissenting ironmaster, living in a small Derbyshire manufacturing town, strongly begrudged her younger sister’s freedom and independence in Paris, and wished to deprive her of the pleasures pertaining to such an existence. Ellen was not swayed in the least by Kitty’s argument about their mother’s money. Matilda had wished this to be portioned out between her three daughters after their father’s death, but there were no legal bonds constraining Luke to do this. Kitty and Eugenia evidently placed considerable dependence on the future acquisition of their mother’s fortune; Ellen, now that she had been put in the way of earning her own living, gave it less importance. Still, she thought, sighing, perhaps it is selfish in me not to make some push to rescue Kitty and Eugenia’s portions. Only how could I set about it? If I did return to the Hermitage—where I should be wholly unwelcome—how could I make any attempt to detach Papa from this female, if he is set on marrying her? I am indeed sorry for Gerard and Vicky, if they are unhappy, but I have no power to dismiss Mrs. Pike, unless she be caught in any actual wrongdoing. And to conduct a kind of inquisition into her dealings would be most repugnant. Besides, I cannot keep guard over Papa forever. If he is resolved on marriage, he is certain to achieve it, sooner or later.
As for Benedict, she thought, glancing at the final paragraph of the letter once more, as for Benedict, I hope he is soon dispatched to Pernambuco or Trincomalee! What gives him the right to meddle in my affairs? Household in which I am living leaves much to be desired! Insufferable impertinence! Odious interference! I daresay it is due to that officious call of his that Kitty paid her visit to the Hermitage; otherwise I am sure she would prefer to remain in London while she had the chance. And what moved Benedict to call on Kitty? He always detested her.
Now Ellen recalled again Germaine’s astonishing comment: “No wonder that poor Benedict is so bouleversé about you.” Could that, conceivably, be true? But no, Ellen knew better—she and Benedict had been on such hostile terms for so long—since that unfortunate affair of Dolly Randall—that she could not possibly be mistaken in the matter. Germaine must have spoken ironically.
Feeling decidedly ruffled, Ellen consigned the tearful, sleepy Menispe to her bonne for early supper and bed, then carried the feuilleton of Poe’s story to Louise in her golden boudoir, where she reported that the trip to the dentist had been successfully achieved.
“Très bien,” yawned Louise indifferently. “No doubt my belle-mère will be delighted. Thanks, Miss Paget… You will be attending the soiree tonight?”
“Is there to be one?” Ellen was surprised. “I had thought—while the Dowager Comtesse was in Paris—”
“That old trout? I do not intend to let my intellectual activities be curtailed by her presence. Of course there will be a soiree, as usual. (Fortunately the old Comtesse will be dining with a whole concourse of stuffy relatives in the rue St. Honoré. Raoul wished me to go, but”—she shrugged—“I said it was out of the question.) No, I asked if you would attend this evening because I am given to understand by Camille that an acquaintance of yours, from Brussels, may be there—a Professor Bosch, de Bosch, some such name?”
To her own astonishment Ellen felt a wave of heat sweep over her, from toes to scalp; she almost fainted at the intensity and suddenness of the sensation. Murmuring some brief acknowledgment, she got herself out of the room; Louise, absorbed in the Poe story, hardly noticed her going.
Back in her own room Ellen attempted to analyze the surprising turmoil of her own emotions. If she had been able to weep, she would have done so now—and yet she hardly knew why. She had imagined that the strength of her feeling for Monsieur Patrice was gone by; dwindled to a mere affectionate regard, overlaid by all the new impressions that occupied her mind. She had indeed thought about him less;
there had been so much to distract her. Yet, all the time, the suppressed feeling had, it seemed, been growing; fed, not stifled, by these new perceptions. She felt herself suffused by a fierce longing to see him. And yet how could she bear to, so briefly, and in a room filled with other people, strangers? It would be torture. How could she bear to watch him conversing, making himself agreeable, to others—to Louise, Germaine, Princess Matilde, Madame Viardot? He was a great devote of opera, doubtless he would have seized the opportunity to hear Viardot in her current role of Orphée. Sudden fierce jealousy, an emotion hitherto unknown to Ellen, almost overwhelmed her. What can be happening to me? she asked herself in despair. These feelings are disgusting—uncalled for—it is ludicrous that I should entertain them for a single minute.
Yet she felt them; and felt, too, a deep resentment against Germaine de Rhetorée for having, like Benedict, seen fit to meddle frivolously in her affairs; why did Germaine take it upon herself to lure Professor Bosschère to the Hôtel Caudebec? Did she do it for Ellen’s sake, or for some devious purpose of her own?
I won’t attend this evening’s soiree, resolved Ellen suddenly and fiercely. I am not a puppet, to be manipulated for Germaine’s amusement. It would afford me no pleasure—in fact it would be pure pain—to see Monsieur Patrice in such circumstances, to be obliged to greet him under Germaine’s observant eye. In any case, he will hardly notice my absence, in his pleasure at having gained the entrée to such a circle.
Fleetingly a memory came back to her, of some similar occasion: “Won’t you come with us, Ellie?” and her own reply, haughty with resentment: “No, thank you, I don’t choose to!” because she had not been the only one singled out for an invitation. When had it been? Benedict had been connected with it somehow…
Instead of changing, after she had eaten her dinner, into her new dark-blue cashmere, and going down to the music room, Ellen remained, therefore, in her own chamber, working on a chapter of Germaine’s novel. But then it occurred to her that she might be summoned; the Professor might express a wish to see her. She had best find another refuge. Seizing a pen and a bundle of manuscript, she hurriedly made her way toward the library, approaching it by a circuitous route, in order to avoid the risk of encountering the arriving guests, and entering by a small outer door, used by servants who brought coal for the fires.
The library was dimly lit, but from the adjoining music room, where the soiree was already in full flow, a blaze of light streamed into the courtyard, and, even through the closed double doors, a gale of conversation and laughter could be heard. Perhaps he is already there, thought Ellen, settling herself at a small table; perhaps among those voices the notes of his are mingled.
By degrees she realized that she was not alone in the room. A quiet step could be heard in the gallery overhead, and presently somebody descended the stair. Glancing up, expecting to see the old Abbé in his snuff-powdered cassock, Ellen was a little embarrassed and surprised to find that it was Raoul de la Ferté.
“You here, Mademoiselle Paget?” He, too, sounded surprised. “I thought that you would be next door—attending my wife’s gathering?”
“I felt no inclination for it this evening,” said Ellen. She gave no explanation; she was a little disconcerted by this encounter. “Does my presence here incommode you, Comte?”
“No, not in the least. I shall be going out directly, to my aunt’s dinner party.” Indeed he was dressed for the occasion, and carried a silk hat. Ellen wondered again if it could possibly have been Raoul whom she saw that afternoon in the Passage Langlade.
He seemed in no hurry to leave, despite his words; he lingered, turning over the pages of a journal. Ellen quietly applied herself to her work.
“It is a strange sound; is it not?” he remarked after a while, inclining his head toward the roar of talk from the next chamber. “The greatest intellects of this nation—or so my wife would have me believe—engaged in bawling out light chat at the tops of their voices.”
He spoke so acidly that Ellen felt bound to dispute, or at least qualify, his view.
“You do not, then, approve of conversation as a recreation, Comte?”
“Oh—” He spun his hat moodily on his finger. “It is probably because I am no adept myself; doubtless you would say that was sour grapes! I like to read, to ponder on what I have read, but I have no skill at expressing my opinions aloud. Sometimes I sit in here, of an evening, listening to all that chat next door—like parrots screaming in the forest—and ask myself, what is the point of it all? No record is left of what they say. Who will recall it—or be one centime the better for it?”
Ellen felt a pang of pity for him, sulking in here alone like an unwanted child, listening to the sounds of animation from next door.
“But I think you converse very well, monsieur,” she told him gently. “You express your thoughts with clarity and sense; what more is required?”
His melancholy face lit in its rare smile. “Nothing more, perhaps, by you, Miss Paget! But then, to you I find it easy to talk. Perhaps you should be giving me conversation lessons, as well as teaching Menispe her letters.” He glanced at the watch on his fob. “It is time I went. Have you sufficient light for your work? Ring for more candles if you require them.” He walked toward the door; hesitated; came back. “Miss Paget—has my wife—has Louise expressed any opinion to you about this—this family council that is to be held?”
“I am afraid not to me, monsieur; the Comtesse and I are hardly on confidential terms.”
“I regret that,” he said. “I think you would be more likely to give her good advice than—”
At this moment the intercommunicating door to the music room swung open. Louise walked through, her head turned to call a remark over her shoulder.
“I will find it in the dictionary. You will see that the Duchesse is right—”
Then, facing forward, she discovered the presence of the other two. Her evident surprise was instantly replaced by a haughty composure.
“Oh! I beg your pardon. I had not the least intention of interrupting a private conference—”
“There was nothing in the least private about our conversation,” Raoul said irritably. “The encounter was accidental—Miss Paget was working here and I—” but Louise had already picked up a volume and withdrawn, shutting the door with exaggerated caution as if not to disturb them. Raoul uttered a smothered malediction and left the library.
Much later, long after the uproar of talk next door had died down and the guests had departed, Ellen returned to her own chamber. There she found two notes, delivered in her absence. One, from Germaine:
“What became of you, Callisto? I longed to see you in the salon, entertaining your Bruxelles bear. What mysterious English mood can have kept you away? Pique, because it was my invitation, not yours, that brought him? Chagrin? Or simply ennui? But he is most amusing—a truly clever man—a most entertaining conversationalist! Though not, I think, a genuinely creative mind—and, mon dieu, ma chère, he certainly has a conceit of himself! I think I was able to cut him down a little. He expressed sincere disappointment at not seeing you—all the appropriate regrets—made all the proper inquiries—sent all the most correct messages. But, Callisto, I warn you, he is not a man to possess! You might as well wish to appropriate the river flowing by. Dismiss him from your heart—if not your mind. There are others more deserving! Tout à toi—Camille.”
The other note was the Professor’s, in his tiny, cramped, intelligent hand, expressing, as Germaine had said, all the appropriate regrets, proper inquiries, and correct messages. “It is a cause of great disappointment not to see you, for I return to Brussels tomorrow early, being obliged to deliver a lecture at the University tomorrow evening. I shall hope, however, during next year, to send you a small but sincere token of my enduring regard. P.B.”
Ellen tore up both notes and dropped them in the fire.
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The family council at the Hôtel Caudebec was a formal affair. It lasted several days, each member of the family, apparently, being entitled to a lengthy expression of opinion. Elderly representatives of the la Ferté tribe had traveled in from Rouen, from Lyons, from Orléans, from Caen, even from Italy, where one aged uncle was a cardinal. Another was a bishop, two were marquises, and an elderly duc had promised to attend but had been prevented at the last moment by gout. But even without him the assembly was formidable enough: elderly ladies in rusty black with necklaces worth 150,000 francs round their scrawny necks; snuffy old gentlemen, their sparse locks carefully smoothed with bandoline, their whiskers dyed and waxed, their stays creaking under leather waistcoats. A duchesse who was the second cousin of Raoul’s mother had a mahogany ear trumpet, which she waved menacingly, like a trident, at anybody who came near her.
Ellen was privileged to get a brief glimpse of the assembled family, for Raoul asked her to bring Menispe to greet her relatives at the opening of the formal discussion. Fortunately Ellen was able to plead, truthfully, that the child’s jaw was still sore and swollen from her visit to the dentist so that she could hardly speak, and the exposure was a short one.
“Just curtsey to the ladies, that will be all you need do,” Ellen encouraged the child, when Véronique had put her into a silk dress and done her best with the wispy flaxen hair which fell out of curl two minutes after it had been under the tongs. The pair of them went into the great salon, where all the old trouts, as Germaine called them, were assembled, and Ellen led Menispe round the wide horseshoe of elderly personages, who variously patted her head, told her to be a good girl, or exclaimed that she did not look in the least like her father. Then they were able to withdraw, Ellen sighing with relief that her charge had not thrown a tantrum or in any way disgraced herself. But, poor Louise! Fancy having to face such a tribunal!
