Gossamer Cord

by Philippa Carr

  If I had known then that Violetta would become engaged to Jowan Jermyn and in the course of events would become my neighbor, I might never have left Tregarland. But what was the use? It was done now. Characteristically, I had plunged into this adventure. It was the sort of thing I had been doing all my life—but never so irrevocably as I had now.

  I had realized it was a mistake—perhaps the greatest of my life. What I had felt for Jacques was slowly slipping away. Not only for me, but for him. I recognized the signs. As for myself, here I was, in a foreign land, dead to all I had known in the past … my sister … my beloved family … my husband, who, after all, had cared for me, and my child.

  It was no use. I deserved whatever was coming to me. I knew I did. But that did not make it any easier to bear—in fact, it only made it harder because of the knowledge that it was my own actions which had brought it about.

  One day when I was wandering rather aimlessly round the secondhand bookshops, I met the Baileys. It was one of those encounters which happens simply because one meets fellow countrymen abroad, like that other occasion when we had met Dermot. He had heard us speaking English in the cafe near the schloss and had stopped. Then he noticed me. I believe that he would have found some way of getting to know me, but it was the language which had first attracted his attention.

  I had paused by a shelf to look at a book—a very old one called Castles of France. As I stood there, a middle-aged man standing close to me reached out to take a book from a shelf and, as he did so, another book was dislodged. It was a heavy one and it fell, grazing my arm as it dropped to the floor.

  The man turned to me in dismay. “Mademoiselle,” he stammered, “Pardonnez-moi.”

  The accent was unmistakably English and I replied in our tongue. “That’s all right. It hardly touched me.”

  “You’re English,” he said with a delighted smile.

  The woman who was obviously with him was beaming at me. I guessed that they were in their late forties. Their look of pleasure at finding a compatriot amused me.

  “And you knew that we were,” added the man.

  “As soon as you spoke,” I said.

  He grimaced. “Was it so obvious?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said.

  We all laughed. We might have passed on and that would have been an end of it, but the man showed concern about the book which had hit me. He picked it up and said: “It’s rather heavy.”

  He replaced it on the shelf while the woman said: “Are you on holiday?”

  “No. I’m staying with a friend.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.”

  “I hope the book didn’t hurt you,” said the man. “Look. Why don’t we sit down for a bit? Have a coffee. There’s a nice place a step or two away.”

  “I do like those little cafes,” said the woman. “And isn’t it a relief not to have to think how to say what you want to for a little while? And if you do get it out fairly well, they rush back at you so fast that I for one am completely lost.”

  I was thinking: Why shouldn’t I have a coffee with them? It will be something to do.

  So I found myself sitting with them in the cafe near the bookshop. They told me they were Geoffrey and Janet Bailey. He was working in the Paris branch of an insurance company and they had been here for six months or so. They were not sure how long they would stay. They had a house at home near Watford, convenient for the City, and they had a married daughter who lived close by who was keeping an eye on things for them.

  They asked where my home was.

  “Well … er …” I said. “It’s in Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall! A delightful place. Geoff and I thought of having a cottage there. In fact, we might retire down there, mightn’t we, Geoff?”

  He nodded.

  “Looe,” she went on. “Fowey … somewhere like that. We have had many a holiday there. Are you near there?”

  “Not very far …” I was getting a little embarrassed. I could not tell them then that I used to live there before I ran away with my lover.

  I felt a sudden insecurity. I had really thought of Tregarland’s as my home. But I had abandoned all that. Their mention of their home and retirement had had an effect on me. They could see ahead. I could not.

  Then Geoffrey Bailey said: “I don’t like the way things are going, do you?”

  “Things?” I said vaguely.

  “The political situation. This man Hitler … what will he be up to next?”

  “Didn’t Mr. Chamberlain come back with that agreement from him?”

  “Oh, you mean Munich? Do you trust Hitler? Our people in London don’t like the way things are going, Czechoslovakia and all that. It will be Poland next … and if he dares … well, I think we shall be in it … deep.”

  “Well, let’s hope for the best,” said Mrs. Bailey. “I’m so glad we spoke to you in that bookshop.”

  “My clumsiness turned out well in the end,” added Geoffrey.

  They talked about Paris then and I was relieved that they asked no more questions about me. They thought I was staying with a friend; but I must have seemed somewhat reticent about my background.

  However, it was only a casual meeting and I should not have got as far as drinking coffee with them if they had not had a guilty conscience about letting a book drop on me.

  I was wrong about its being a casual meeting. They insisted on seeing me home, as they said, and they took me to the house. I did not ask them in but said goodbye in the street.

  I think that after that Mrs. Bailey was so determined to see me again that she did. It was not really difficult.

  She was a motherly type of woman, and I realized later that she had sensed that there was something rather mysterious about me. The fact that I had been evasive about my home had not escaped her. I was staying with friends apparently indefinitely, but I had said nothing of these friends. I must have given an impression of frailty. Violetta had always said that drew men to me. I looked helpless and they longed to protect me. Perhaps Mrs. Bailey felt this, too.

  In any case, I had caught her interest and the idea had come to her that I might need help.

  About a week after our encounter, when I came out of the house, I saw her strolling towards me. She expressed surprise, which did not seem quite natural, and I guessed at once that she had been looking for me since our meeting. She said why didn’t I go along with her and have a nice cup of tea in their apartment. Not that the tea tasted like it did at home, but it would be more comfortable than a cafe, and she would enjoy being able to talk to someone in English.

  I was persuaded. Jacques had gone out and if he did return it would do him good to know that I could amuse myself quite happily without him. So I went to the Bailey apartment.

  It was a pleasant place in a block of such apartments. She told me that it was the company’s and staff used the place when they were over to work, which several of them did for spells from time to time.

  We had a pleasant two hours together, which I thoroughly enjoyed, until I realized that she might expect to be invited back. I supposed I could do it. Jacques wouldn’t object. It would have to be when he was out, for I was sure he would find the Baileys dull and not his type. He was worldly and sophisticated. It was those qualities which had attracted me in the first place. But the Baileys were comforting. I knew instinctively that in an emergency they would be there. And I was not sure of Jacques. That was the truth. It was beginning to be brought home to me how very rash I had been.

  Mimi

  IT WAS SUMMER—THAT long, hot summer when war clouds were gathering over Europe. I was not particularly interested in the war situation. I was too deeply concerned with my own affairs—but then, as Violetta had said, I always had been.

  I was feeling definitely uneasy. Things were not the same between Jacques and me. I had a feeling that something was going on all around me—something which I should know because it was important to me.

  Georges Mansard, the wine merchant, came frequen
tly and I looked forward to his visits. With my usual vanity, I thought he might be falling in love with me and, as Jacques seemed less ardent, that was gratifying.

  I began to ask myself during those summer days what would become of me. It was, of course, a question I should have asked myself before I embarked on this adventure, but, as I have admitted, I always ask myself these questions too late.

  What a fool I had been! I knew I had been bored at Tregarland’s but my sister was not far off, and my parents would always have provided a refuge. And now they believed me to be dead. It is only when one realizes how much one may need a refuge that it becomes of paramount importance.

  I looked forward to those days when Georges Mansard took me to the wine bar for a glass of wine. He asked a great many questions. I was a little evasive about myself, but I expect I betrayed a good deal.

  He was very interested to know if I did any work for Jacques.

  “You mean modeling?”

  “That … or anything else.”

  “What else should there be?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Just … anything.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  He did say on another occasion: “Still not helping Jacques with his work?”

  “No.”

  “He just paints all the time, does he?”

  “He is out a good deal.”

  “Traveling around Paris?”

  “Yes, and sometimes farther afield.”

  “And never takes you with him?”

  “No. He has not done so.”

  “It would be very pleasant for you to see a little of France.”

  “Very pleasant,” I said. I went on: “My friends, the Baileys—those English people I met in the bookshop … do you remember?”

  He nodded. He had been very interested in them at first and asked a lot of questions about them, and then seemed to forget them.

  I went on: “They are always talking about Hitler. They think there will be war.”

  “My dear, everyone in Paris thinks there will be war.”

  “And you?”

  He lifted his shoulders and rocked to and fro as though to say he was not sure. It could go any way.

  “If it comes to that, the Baileys will go back to England at once.”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see how I could.”

  “It would be better for you. You should consider it.”

  “I don’t see how I could, after what happened.”

  “Nevertheless …” he murmured.

  I saw the Baileys frequently at that time. I told Jacques about them and he had not seemed very pleased.

  “But they are very friendly people,” I said. “They take a parental interest in me and I have often been to their apartment.”

  Rather as Georges Mansard had done, he asked questions about them and did not find them very interesting. When I said that, as I had visited them many times, I thought I should return the hospitality, he shook his head rather irritably and said, “We don’t want them here. They sound very boring.”

  I supposed they would be to him, but I felt I owed Janet Bailey some explanation, and one day, over a cup of tea, I blurted out the whole story to her. I went right back to the beginning, the meeting in Germany with Dermot, our whirlwind romance and marriage, the birth of Tristan, and the realization that I could endure it no more.

  She listened intently as I did so and I saw her expressions of bewilderment, horror, and amazement that I could abandon my baby son.

  It was a long time before she spoke.

  Then she turned to me. “You poor child,” she said. “For that is all you are. A child … just like Marian. I’d say to her, ‘Don’t touch the stove, dear.’ That was when she was three years old. ‘If you do, you’ll burn your fingers.’ Then, as soon as my back’s turned, out come her little fingers. A nasty burn, but, as I said to Geoff, ‘It’s experience. That will teach her better than anything.’”

  “I’m afraid my experience is more than a burned finger.”

  “I think you should go home. You don’t want to stay with this Frenchman, do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s good enough. If you don’t know, you’d better get away and the sooner the better. That sister of yours … she seems a sensible sort.”

  “I must show you a picture of her. It’s a miniature. I couldn’t leave it behind when I went.”

  “Why don’t you write to her?”

  “She thinks I’m dead.”

  “Yes, it is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, Dorabella, how could you!”

  “I don’t know. Looking back I don’t understand how I could.”

  “It was a heartless thing to do,” said Mrs. Bailey slowly.

  I stared ahead and felt the tears in my eyes.

  Suddenly she put her arms around me.

  “I think you have been rather a spoiled baby,” she said. “But babies grow up. I think you should … now, quickly. It’s not right for you to be here. What is the artist of yours like?”

  “He is good looking … very worldly … very sophisticated.”

  She nodded. “I know. It’s a pity you couldn’t see things a bit more clearly. I know the sort. And when it’s over, what shall you do?”

  “I just don’t know.”

  “There’s a way out. You could go back and tell your people all about it. They’ll be shocked … but I reckon they’ll be so glad to have you back that they’ll forgive you.”

  “I don’t know if I could face it.”

  “I’ve got a daughter of my own. I know how mothers feel. I know how Geoff and I would be if it were Marian in this mess. Not that she would be. She’s happily married with two of the sweetest little things you ever saw—a girl and a boy. But if it were us, we’d be saying, ‘Give us back our daughter and never mind the rest.’ Look here, my dear, do you mind if I talk this over with Geoff?”

  “No,” I said. I felt as though I were drowning and they wanted to help me at all cost.

  After that I saw them very often and we always discussed my position.

  Geoffrey was of Janet’s opinion. Some means must be found of getting me home.

  In the midst of all this I met Mimi.

  It was one afternoon. I had been visiting the Baileys. I had come home a little earlier than usual. I sat down in the salon, thinking over my conversation with Janet. She had been telling me that the company had suggested that, because of the way things were going in Europe, it might be necessary for their staff in Paris to make a hasty exit.

  “It is looking more and more grim,” she said. “Things are really working up to a climax. Geoff says that it was inevitable after Hitler had taken Czechoslovakia. That really was the last straw. And now, all this talk of Lebensraum and his designs on Poland … I know he says he has no quarrel with Britain … unprepared as we are, Geoff thinks that if he sets foot in Poland we shall declare war.”

  I have to confess that my own affairs concerned me so much that I had little thought to spare for those of Europe, which indicated how foolish I was, for Europe’s troubles were those of us all.

  However, that day I was early coming back, and as I sat in the salon the door opened and a woman, whom I had never seen before, walked into the room with the casual air of one who is very familiar with her surroundings.

  She was attired in a peignoir merely, and her feet were bare. For a moment I thought I must be in the wrong house. Her long black hair hung loose; she had almond-shaped dark eyes, a pert retroussé nose with a short upper lip. She was tall and I could detect beneath her peignoir her full bosom and narrow hips. She was very attractive.

  I had risen to my feet in amazement and then, immediately behind her, I saw Jacques.

  He said casually: “Hello. You are back then. This is Mimi.”

  “Mimi?” I said.

  “Mimi the model,” she said. She had a very strong French accent.

  “I am Dorabella,” I stammered.

>   Her gaze flickered over me. I returned it, summing her up as coolly as she did me.

  Then I said to myself: But it is natural that an artist’s model should be in an artist’s studio in a state of undress since she would have been posing for him.

  “Dorabella has come from England,” said Jacques.

  He went to the cabinet and poured out wine.

  I felt bewildered. I was asking myself what relationship there was between Jacques and Mimi. I really knew. But Jacques did not seem in the least embarrassed. Then I supposed he would not. That worldliness which I had once so much admired was obvious, but now I was less enchanted by it.

  I tried to appear as nonchalant as they were.

  “Mimi,” I said lightly. “‘They call me Mimi, but my name is Lucia.’”

  Mimi looked puzzled and Jacques said: “La Bohème.”

  I went on. “I am Dorabella from Così fan tutte, and my sister is Violetta from La Traviata. You see, my mother was very interested in opera.”

  Mimi nodded. “It is amusing, yes.”

  “Very,” said Jacques coolly, implying that it was not in the least so.

  We sat there sipping our wine; they talked in French too rapid for me to follow all the time. I caught names of various people, some of whom I had met, but I could not really get the gist of their conversation. Once or twice they turned to me and said something in English.

  I finished the wine, set down my glass, and said I had something to do.

  I guessed the relationship between them, and I was not quite sure how I felt about his infidelity. Being myself, my first consideration was what effect it would have on me.

  What a position I was in! Here was I, alone in a strange country, having left my own in a manner which would make it difficult for me to return. We were on the brink of war. The man whom, in my absurd dreaming, I had imagined I would be with forever, had made it clear that he had never intended our liaison to be anything but a passing one.

  What a fool I had been! Never in my worthless life had I been in such danger. In every other petty escapade my sister had been at hand to rescue me. Now she was mourning me for dead.

  What should I do? Where should I turn?

  As usual, one side of me sought to placate the other. She is only a model. Artists have their models. They are casual in their behavior.