‘Come on. We’ll see who it is,’ said Dickon. He started out of the gallery and up the staircase. I followed.
We were in a corridor. There were many doors there. Dickon threw open one of them. I followed him into a room. There was no one there. We went into another room. There were a few pieces of furniture in this one and it took us a little time to make sure there was no one hiding there. And as he pulled back the tattered brocade curtains about a four-poster bed we heard the movement again. This time it was downstairs. There had been someone in the house, and whoever it was had eluded us, for he or she must at this moment be climbing through the window by which he had come in.
We rushed down. Soon we were through the window and out among the overgrown shrubs. I felt overwhelmingly grateful to whoever it was who had saved me from Dickon and myself.
We rode silently back to the house. Dickon was clearly disappointed but not utterly dismayed. I realized he had high hopes for the future. I felt a certain elation. Never again, I promised myself.
Something in the house had saved me. It had sounded like human footsteps, but I wondered whether it was some ghost from the past. There was that ancestress of mine, Carlotta. She had had connections with the house at some time; she had actually owned it.
I had almost convinced myself that it was Carlotta returned from the dead who had saved me, and this was an indication of the state of mind into which I was falling. I had always regarded myself as a practical woman. The French are notoriously practical; and I was half French. And yet sometimes I felt as though since I had come to England I was being drawn into a web from which I would eventually be unable to escape.
It was an absurd feeling, but I had to admit that it was there.
The sensation came to me that I was being watched. When I returned to the house, if I glanced up to what I knew to be Griselda’s windows there would be a hasty movement. Someone was there looking down on me and dodging back hoping not be seen. I could put that down to an old woman’s curiosity and according to Sabrina she was a little mad in any case; but it was more than that. Sometimes I felt I was watched from the banisters, from the corridors, and sometimes I hurried to the spot where I thought I had seen or heard a movement and there was nothing there. An old woman could certainly not have been agile enough to get out of Enderby and climb through the window.
My grandmother’s health had improved since we had come and my mother said it was time we thought of going home. Sabrina and my grandmother were sad at the prospect.
‘It has been so wonderful to see you,’ said Sabrina. ‘It has meant so much to us all. It has kept Dickon with us. It is a long time since he has been at Eversleigh for such a stretch.’
I said that our husbands would be wondering why we did not return and my mother added that they had only agreed that we should come because the visit was to be a short one.
I was determined to see Griselda before I left, and one afternoon I made my way to that part of the house where I knew her rooms to be.
It was very quiet and lonely as I ascended the short narrow staircase and came to a corridor. I had judged it from where I knew the window to be from the shadowy watcher who had looked down on me.
I found a door and knocked. There was no answer, so I went to the next and knocked again.
There was still no answer but I sensed that someone was on the other side of the door.
‘Please may I come in?’ I said.
The door opened suddenly. An old woman was standing there. The grey hair escaped from under a cap; her face was pale and her deep-set eyes wide with the whites visible all round the pupil which gave her an expression of staring. She was dressed in a gown of sprigged muslin, high-necked and tight-bodiced. She was very slight and thin.
‘Are you Griselda?’ I asked.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded.
‘I wanted to meet you. I am going soon, and I did want to make the acquaintance of everyone in the house before I do.’
‘I know who you are,’ she said, as though the knowledge gave her little pleasure.
‘I am Madame de Tourville. I lived here once.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘before my lady came here. You were here then.’
‘May I come in and chat for a moment?’
Rather ungraciously she stepped back and I entered the room. I was amazed to see Jonathan rise from one of the chairs.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said.
‘Jonathan!’ I cried.
‘Jonathan is a good boy,’ said Griselda; and to him: ‘Madame de Tourville thinks she should see everybody so she called on me.’
‘Oh,’ said Jonathan. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, do,’ she said. ‘And come back tomorrow.’
She caught him and kissed him with emotion. He wriggled a little in her embrace and gave me an apologetic look as though to excuse himself for having been involved in such a demonstration.
As Jonathan went away, Griselda said: ‘He is a good boy. He looks after me and my wants.’
‘You never mingle with the family,’ I said.
‘I was the nurse. I came with my lady. I would to God we never had.’
‘You mean the lady Isabel.’
‘His wife. The mother of young Jonathan.’
‘And David,’ I added.
She was silent and her mouth hardened; her eyes looked wider and consequently more wild.
‘I’ve seen you,’ she said almost accusingly. ‘I’ve seen you … with him.’
I glanced towards the window. ‘I think I have seen you up there … from time to time.’
‘I know what goes on,’ she said.
‘Oh, do you?’
‘With him,’ she added.
‘Oh?’
‘I’ll never forgive him. He killed her, you know.’
‘Killed! Who killed whom?’
‘He did. The master. He killed my little flower.’ Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth quivered. She clenched her hands and I thought she looked quite mad.
I said gently: ‘I don’t think that is true. Tell me about Isabel.’
Her face changed so suddenly that it was startling to watch her. ‘She was my baby from the first. I had had others but there was something about little Isabel. An only child, you see. Her mother died … died giving birth to her just as …Well, there she was, my baby. And him, her father, he was a good man. Never much there. Too important. Very rich. Always doing something …. But when he was there he loved his little daughter. But really she was mine. He never tried to interfere. He’d always say, “You know what’s best for our little girl, Griselda.” A good man. He died. The good die and the evil flourish.’
‘I can see that you loved Isabel very much.’
She said angrily: ‘There should never have been this marriage. Wouldn’t have been if it had been left to me. It was the one thing I can’t forgive him for. He just had the notion that girls ought to marry and that Isabel would be all right just as others were. He didn’t know my little girl like I did. She was frightened … really frightened. She used to come to me and sob her heart out. There wasn’t anything I could do … though I would have died for her. So she was married, my poor little angel. She said, “You’ll come with me, Griselda,” and I said, “Wild horses wouldn’t drag me away from you, my love.”’
I said: ‘I understand how you feel. You loved her dearly just as a mother loves her child. I know. I have children of my own.’
‘And I had to see her brought here … to this house with him. He didn’t care for her. What he cared for was what she brought him.’
I was silent. I could agree with Griselda on that.
‘Then it started. She was terrified. You see, she had got to get this son. Men … they all want children … but it would be different, eh, if they had the bearing of them. She was frightened when she knew she’d conceived … and, then before three months had gone she had lost it. The second was even worse. That went on for six months. There was another after that. That
was her life. That was all she meant to him—except of course the money. And when her father died he got that too. Then he was ready to be rid of her.’
‘You said he killed her.’
‘He did. They could have saved her … but that would have meant losing the boys. He wouldn’t have it. He wanted the boys. That was it. He got them … and it cost her her life.’
‘You mean there was a choice?’
She nodded. ‘I was mad with sorrow. I was there with her. She would have me and even he did not try to stop that. He murdered her, just as sure as you’re sitting there, Madame. And now he has his eyes on you. What does he want from you, do you think?’
‘Griselda,’ I told her, ‘I am a married woman. I have a husband and children in France and I intend to go back to them shortly.’
She moved close to me and lifted her face to mine; her eyes seemed luminous in her wrinkled face. ‘He has plans for you. Don’t forget it. He’s one who won’t see his plans go awry.’
‘I make my own plans,’ I said.
‘You’re with him all the time. I know him. I know his way with women. Even Isabel …’
‘You know nothing about me, Griselda. Tell me more about Isabel.’
‘What more is there to tell? She was happy with me. She came here and was murdered.’
‘Do stop talking about murder. I know she died giving birth to the twins. You’re very fond of them, aren’t you?’
‘David killed her,’ she said.
‘David!’
‘It was both of them. Him forcing that on her … using her … my little Isabel, just to bear children when she wasn’t capable of it. Her mother had died giving birth to her. It was a weakness in the family. She should never have been forced to try it. Then there was David. He was born two hours after Jonathan. She might have been saved. But he had to have David, you see. He wanted two sons … just in case something happened to one of them. Between them they murdered her … him and David.’
‘Griselda, at least you shouldn’t blame David. A newly-born child! Isn’t that rather foolish of you?’
‘Whenever I look at him, I say to myself: It was you … It was your life or hers. They had Jonathan. That should have been enough.’
‘Griselda, what proof have you of this?’
Her wild eyes searched my face and she did not answer my question. She said: ‘He never married again. He’s got his two sons. That leaves him free for his women. He’s brought them here sometimes. I’ve seen them. I used to wonder whether there’d be anyone set up in Isabel’s place.’
‘Isn’t it time to forget the past, Griselda?’
‘Forget Isabel? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Why did you watch me?’
‘I watch all of them.’
‘You mean … ’
She leaned towards me again and said: ‘His women.’
‘I am not one of them.’
She smiled secretly. I remembered that moment in the minstrels’ gallery at Enderby and was ashamed.
I said: ‘Do you have helpers in your watching?’
‘I can’t get about,’ she said. ‘It’s my rheumatics. Had them for a long time. Makes getting about very hard.’
‘Do you see a good deal of Jonathan?’
She nodded, smiling.
‘And David?’
‘I don’t have him here. He was never what his brother was.’
‘So Jonathan comes on his own. What do you talk about?’
‘His mother. The past.’
‘Is it wise to talk about that to a child?’
‘It’s truth. All children should be taught truth. It says so in the Holy Book.’
‘Do you let Jonathan … do things for you?’
‘He wants to,’ she said. ‘He comes in all excitement. “What’s the scheme for today, Grissel?” he says … the little monkey.’
‘So he follows his father. He … spies on him?’
‘We all want to know if the master is going to marry again. It would make a difference to us all.’
‘As a nurse, don’t you think it is wrong to involve a child in these things?’
‘Jonathan’s not a child. He was born a man … like his father. I know much of what goes on. I learned through Isabel. I saw him through her eyes. Have a care, Madame. No one is safe from him. Remember he murdered my Isabel.’
I had a great desire to get away from the scrutiny of those mad eyes. The room seemed to be stifling me. I felt I was shut in with a crazy woman. She had accused Dickon of murder because his wife died giving birth to twins. She was teaching Jonathan to spy for her. The idea of that boy following us to Enderby … lying in wait there to spy on us, revolted me.
I wondered whether I should tell Sabrina what I had discovered. I felt someone should know, and yet who? My grandmother was not in a fit state to cope with the situation. Sabrina? My mother? Dickon?
I did not feel I could confide what I had discovered to anyone in this house. Then I thought: What harm can the old woman do with her spying? To Jonathan it was just a game. To spy on his father and report to Griselda! There was something decidedly unhealthy about that. But there was something unhealthy about the entire matter.
While I turned all this over in my mind, preparations for our departure went on apace and a few days after my meeting with Griselda, my mother and I were on our way to the coast.
The Wager
MY FATHER WAS AT Calais waiting for us when we landed. I was amazed and a little envious to see the overwhelming love he had for my mother, so strong that it could not be hidden. My mother took it for granted and I know felt the same towards him. I was sure she believed that this was how all married people felt towards each other. I often thought that her blind belief in such a bond was so convincing that my father, who was first of all a man of the world, was carried along in her belief. She was innocent of the world, it appeared, and here was an example of the strength of innocence. How different were Charles and myself. There was a passionate attachment, yes; we could say we loved each other with reservations. Yet I had almost succumbed to Dickon and I was sure Charles had his affairs. I accepted this as the state of marriage—the only way in which it could survive. How shocked my mother would be!
But it was heartwarming to see them together and he had a good deal of affection to spare for me. He saw me as the outcome of the great passion of his life. I was very happy to be in their company.
I stayed at Aubigné for a few days. They wanted me to stay longer, but I was longing to get home, to see Charles and my children. I remembered with pleasure that Lisette would be there too. Moreover it was not very comfortable to be in the château in which Sophie had shut herself away.
I should have liked to see her. I wanted to tell her that Lisette was back and it was almost like the old times and how often we talked of her and wished she were with us as she used to be.
‘She doesn’t grow any better,’ my father said, ‘and we have now ceased to try to make her do so. She keeps in her own apartments, presumably happy enough with Jeanne.’
I asked if I could pay a visit to her room but Jeanne let us know that it would not be wise and might bring back unpleasant memories for Sophie.
Armand greeted me with that special brand of cool affection and Marie Louise seemed more remote than ever. My father said her piety increased every day and there was no sign of a child and not likely to be.
Charles welcomed me boisterously and declared he had thought I was never coming back. Chariot hugged me tightly and so did Louis-Charles. As for Claudine, she had become quite a person and now and then uttered a word which was not unintelligible and could walk a few steps. The nicest thing of all was that she knew me and clucked with pleasure when I took her in my arms.
It was good to be home and I was immensely relieved that I had kept my head and my virtue. Here in my home it seemed incredible that I could ever have come near to losing them; and as the days passed Eversleigh with its mad Griselda and Enderby with its gho
sts seemed very remote—except perhaps Dickon. The memory of him stayed with me and came back to me vividly in unguarded moments.
Lisette wanted to hear all about it. I told her of Griselda. I did not mention my feelings for Dickon. I felt that was something to be kept secret. She listened and said it had been very dull at Tourville without me.
Charles had lost none of his interest in the war between England and the American colonies. In fact, I told him, he talked of little else.
‘Your people are fighting a losing battle,’ he said. ‘They should know themselves beaten.’
‘I cannot believe they are going to be beaten by colonists who are our own people in any case. It’s like a civil war.’
‘They are the worst. Moreover, my dear, they are going to have the might of France behind them.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Let me tell you something. Your English suffered a massive defeat at Saratoga and at Court they are talking of nothing else but what this means. Our Louis has made a pact with the colonists. What do you think of that?’
‘Against England?’
He grinned at me. ‘Poor Louis, he wants peace. They had a hard task persuading him that he was not running a risk of war. I was getting into a bit of a panic, I don’t mind telling you, because I was fearful that war might be declared while you were still in England.’
‘What would that have meant?’
‘Well, communications wouldn’t have been easy. You might not have been able to get back.’
‘You mean I should have had to stay in England?’
‘Don’t worry. I should have come to fetch you. But it might not have been easy. In any case we are not at war, but the British Ambassador has been recalled from Paris.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘That the English are not very pleased with us.’
‘I pray there won’t be war between our two countries.’
‘You are safely home now, Lottie, and here you are going to stay.’
That summer came early. Claudine was growing up. She had had her second birthday in February and could now chatter to us and run about. She was an enchanting child with a quick temper and a desire to have her own way; but she was also affectionate and her moods changed so quickly that there were dazzling smiles after tears and most of the household were her slaves.
Zipporah's Daughter Page 18
