Birthday Present

by Pamela Oldfield

  To Letitia she said, ‘I’m sorry but he pushed his way in!’

  He turned to her at once. ‘Forgive me, Madame . . . ?’

  ‘Miss Evans,’ she corrected him primly.

  She, too, seemed fascinated by him, thought Rose, amused. Her own hopes were rising as Letitia had so far made no effort to send Gerard away. Rose could see the strong likeness between father and daughter, now that the two of them were together. The drama of the moment was not lost on Rose and it grieved her a little that she herself was not playing the main part. She envied Letitia this dashing father who had appeared from nowhere, eager to carry her off to France. Did Letitia know how lucky she was? she wondered enviously.

  Letitia said faintly, ‘This is my father, Miss Evans.’

  ‘Your father?’ She stared from one to the other, grappling with the significance of the remark. Confused by her deductions she said ‘Oh . . . should I bring another cup and saucer then?’

  He said, ‘Mais non! We ’ave champagne! Please bring us three glasses, Miss Evans – and another glass for yourself! We will all celebrate, no?’

  ‘Oh!’ Flustered, Miss Evans withdrew.

  Letitia murmured, ‘Champagne? Oh! Yes . . . that is . . . I don’t know . . . Rose?’

  Rose said quickly ‘Congratulations are in order! This is so exciting, Letitia!’

  Before Letitia could change her mind and spoil the moment, Rose said, ‘I’ll give Miss Evans a hand.’

  ‘Thank you, Rose.’ She looked shocked by the speed of events but her face was flushed and Rose thought she saw what might have been the beginning of hope.

  After Rose had left the room, she and Miss Evans lingered outside the door and heard him say, ‘You will love the farm, Letitia, and one day it will be yours. All of it. For you and your ’usband . . .’

  As Letitia stammered her doubts he said, ‘Mais oui, ma petite! Certainement. You will find a better man in France. Frenchmen know ’ow to appreciate a woman! The English . . . !’

  Rose imagined a Gallic shrug as he continued.

  ‘This Bernard is weak! Pah! I spit on ’im! If I meet him, I knock him down!’

  ‘Oh no!’

  It was rather unconvincing, thought Rose.

  ‘Mais oui! I am your father. I should do this! Who else will defend you, eh?’

  Rose rolled her eyes, imagining just how soothing his words must be to Letitia’s wounded pride, and she and Miss Evans exchanged delighted grins as they tiptoed further down the passage, the latter in search of four glasses.

  Reaching the stairs, Rose rushed up to her room to tidy her hair and add a discreet touch of colour to her cheeks and lips.

  It was Letitia’s big moment, she told herself cheerfully but she, Rose, should at least look presentable.

  Two days later only Marcus and Steven remained at Victoria House as Gerard had whisked his daughter away and Rose was invited to go with them. Marcus could have gone with them but he knew they were safe with Gerard and he wanted to make sure that Steven kept his side of the bargain and, if invited, turned up for the interview at the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich.

  Marcus had finally completed his project for Swan Lake and made arrangements to take the designs to the theatre the following week. A letter arrived for him later in the day and he read it carefully before taking it along to Steven who was lounging on the sofa in the garden room, reading an account which Colonel Fossett had lent him, about the only Royal Artillery battery to be involved at Lucknow. Marcus was pleased to see that as the time drew nearer, Steven’s interest in the army was growing and his arguments against enlisting no longer dominated their conversations.

  Steven glanced up. ‘You ought to read this, Marcus. All about the regiment. Widen your horizons! This chappie who won the Victoria Cross – he was only a captain. Captain F.C. Maude from the Royal Artillery. His was the only Royal Artillery battery at Lucknow. Colonel Fossett was there – all those years ago. He was a very junior officer then. It was a good show! Damned good!’

  ‘I’ll have a look through it,’ Marcus told him, ‘but at the moment there’s some news from closer to home.’ Marcus handed him the letter he had just received. ‘It’s from the da Silvas. I don’t know what Letitia would make of it. I’d like to know what you think?’ He sat down opposite his brother and watched as Steven began to read aloud.

  Dear Marcus, Please forgive us for not being in contact before now but as you can imagine, life has been very difficult here . . .

  Marcus said, ‘As it has here!’

  . . . and after the terrible business in the church we felt unable to face the rest of the world. Now, just as we hoped life might one day return to something akin to normality, we have to face another shock. Our son did not come down to breakfast this morning and we found a note on his bed. He and Carlotta have eloped without a word of warning . . .

  He glanced up at Marcus. ‘Good God! Is Bernard quite mad?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘This Carlotta seems to have her claws in him. It all seems a bit hasty. Thank heavens Letitia is miles away. The details will leak out as they always do and everyone will be talking about it. Another juicy scandal!’

  Steven read on.

  We have no idea where they are and I suspect it will be some time before we hear from them. Suddenly we have lost our son and the realization is hard to bear. Our world appears to be falling apart and my husband is in a state of collapse. I am at my wits’ end. I’m sure this news will not make your own difficulties any lighter but I thought you should be aware of the latest development. Sincerely and with deep regrets, Alicia da Silva . . .

  Steven whistled with exasperation as he handed back the letter. ‘I feel for them.’

  Marcus nodded. For a while they were silent.

  At last Marcus said, ‘Do you think he really preferred her to Letitia?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Maybe Gerard was right and he is a weak man. Maybe Letitia is better off without him.’

  Steven frowned. ‘They may well disinherit him. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. I wonder what Carlotta’s family think about it. Damned awkward for them, too.’

  ‘The question is, Steven, what shall we do about the letter? Letitia will have to know eventually.’

  Steven frowned. ‘Yes, but is this a good time? It might upset Letitia and Marie only has a few weeks left.’

  ‘I think maybe we should save it until later – but only if you agree.’

  Steven gave it some thought and nodded. ‘You’re right. I agree. Let’s do it.’

  As Marcus stuffed the letter into his pocket it dawned on him that this was the first time he had consulted with his brother on anything important to the family and that Steven had handled it well. As he turned to go he said impulsively, ‘Thanks, Steven.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Oh . . . you know. A problem shared . . .’

  Steven’s face lit up. ‘Two heads are better than one – remember?’

  ‘I’ll remember.’ Marcus grinned and was suddenly aware that a weight of responsibility had lifted from his shoulders. Steven was going to make it in the army, he decided. Somewhere, somehow, a corner had been turned.

  Across the Channel, Letitia and Rose had risen early, because Jean-Philippe had decided to show them his village and this needed to done before he took his boat out for the afternoon’s fishing. The village of Wissant was small but compact and centred round a large square where the fishing boats were parked between trips. Jean-Philippe did his best with very little English but Letitia had learned some French at her expensive boarding school many years earlier and somehow she now managed to translate Jean-Philippe’s rapid conversation for the benefit of Rose.

  ‘Launching the boats is difficult off this stretch of shore,’ she told Rose, ‘especially when there is a wind like today so the boats are wheeled into the sea on the trailers, and because there is no safe place to leave them between trips, they are wheeled back up the slope to the square and pa
rked there until needed again.’

  As she spoke, Letitia was trying, tactfully, to withdraw her hand from Jean-Philippe’s. Rose didn’t know whether to be amused or jealous. She was so accustomed to being the star attraction with her blonde curls, blue eyes and pretty features that it was a shock to realize that Gerard’s friend had eyes for no one but Letitia. Mortified, she found herself trailing round in their wake as he hurried them through the main street which contained several small shops.

  ‘Boulangerie!’ Jean-Philippe pointed to it.

  ‘Bakery,’ Letitia translated for Rose’s benefit.

  ‘Boulangerie – bakery.’ Rose nodded.

  Jean-Philippe said, ‘Hôtel!’

  ‘Hotel,’ Rose echoed. ‘Even I can understand that one!’

  They stood by the river and stared across the millpond, listening to the rush of water as it was scooped up by the large wheel and returned, splashing and gurgling, to the river.

  Letitia took a deep breath and said, ‘Est-ce que c’est le moulin?’

  Jean-Philippe nodded, beaming with pleasure at her grasp of his native tongue.

  Letitia rolled her eyes at Rose. ‘I asked “Is that the mill?” and it is.’

  ‘Moulin – mill.’ Safe in the knowledge that their guide spoke so little English, Rose added, ‘I think he has taken a fancy to you, Letitia.’

  ‘Oh no!’ She blushed. ‘I am done with men. All men!’

  They came to a parked boat from which the fisherman was selling his catch to a small queue of local people who, hearing an unfamiliar language, were watching the foreigners with cautious interest. They greeted Jean-Philippe with ready smiles and willingly made way for him as he bought some mussels and a crab. These he presented, roughly wrapped in a cloth, to Rose with rapid French which almost defeated Letitia.

  ‘They are for our supper,’ she said. ‘At least, I think so.’

  And I must carry the parcel, thought Rose, grinning, because Jean-Philippe cannot bear to release Letitia’s left hand and she is holding on to her hat with her right hand!

  Letitia said, ‘Marie doesn’t care for seafood but the rest of us like it.’

  Rose nodded. She was starting to feel like the proverbial ‘gooseberry’ and was trying to find a way to send Jean-Philippe and Letitia off on their own. She said, ‘Actually I am rather weary, Letitia. If you will forgive me, I’ll buy myself a coffee and wait for you two to finish the sightseeing trip. Tell Jean-Philippe I am sorry but my heel hurts.’

  To her relief Letitia made no protest. Rose watched as Letitia translated her polite lie and was a little miffed when she saw Jean-Philippe’s eyes light up at the prospect of having Letitia to himself. He smiled at Rose, however, and gave her a charming bow before taking hold of Letitia’s hand once more and spiriting her away.

  Minutes later, sitting at a small table outside the tiny café, Rose sipped her coffee and thought about the Bennley family. Steven might well become a soldier, poor Marie would die, Letitia might stay here with her parents and Marcus would stay on at Victoria House with his design work for the theatres. She wondered how he would enjoy being alone.

  Inside the cloth parcel, the crab began to fidget half-heartedly which disconcerted her and turned her thoughts from the Bennleys to the problems that she would face when she returned to England. She would have to find herself a home and a way to earn a living. She thought, with a shock, that without fully realizing it, she had decided that life on the stage was never going to be the way she had expected. Also that reading the Bible to Mrs Granger might be her only real talent. Unless . . . slowly but surely another idea was taking shape in her mind.

  In Wissant that evening, the atmosphere was exciting, even though it was evident to everyone that Marie’s weakness was increasing at an alarming rate, However, by tacit agreement, this was never referred to. They had eaten crab salad and followed that with a rabbit stew with rustic home-made bread, and the washing up had been done by Rose and Letitia. The latter was flushed and her eyes sparkled and Rose could see that the bitterness of the past years had been swept away by her reunion with her parents – and possibly by Jean-Philippe’s very obvious admiration. Letitia, Rose thought, might well decide to stay for a while with her parents. What was there for her back in England except the reminders of heartache and the curious stares of sympathizers? Letitia and her parents had a great deal of lost time to make up for and Rose knew she would be travelling home alone, a prospect which, while it didn’t enthral her, gave her no real anxiety.

  On reflection, Rose was rather sorry that Gerard had been persuaded by his daughter not to confront Bernard da Silva as he had intended. Letitia had insisted that the violent confrontation, which Gerard had felt necessary, would simply supply their neighbours with more gossip and the idea had been reluctantly abandoned.

  By nine o’clock they were all sitting outside in the cooler air, with the exception of Gerard who was enjoying his late night walk alone around his fields with a shotgun under his arm, checking, as usual, the safety of his animals and land.

  Marie, wrapped in a blanket, had refused to go to bed and was reliving the excitement of the celebrations on Bastille Day.

  ‘You should have been here,’ she assured Rose and Letitia. ‘It was a night to remember. Everyone gathered in the square in Wissant – which is more of a triangle than a square – for the little feast of bread and cheese or moules if you preferred them but I don’t . . .’

  Rose said, ‘Moules? Ah yes. Mussels.’

  ‘And there were hot potatoes cooked in their jackets in the ashes of a big bonfire. Mmm!’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I don’t like seafood but Mother had some and so did Papa. We sat under a big tent because it looked as if it might rain but it didn’t. And afterwards there were fireworks and they were so brilliant and extravagant . . .’

  Her mother said ‘And noisy! It was deafening!’

  Marie laughed. ‘It was, wasn’t it – and then that nice young man came to me and gave me a red rose! It was so romantic! And Jean-Philippe was there too and he has a good singing voice and while we waited for the fireworks to begin he sang for us.’

  Clarice said, ‘He’s going to call in again tomorrow.’

  Letitia asked, ‘Will he bring his wife?’

  Marie laughed. ‘He might if he had one but he’s a bachelor. It’s such a waste. Mother keeps telling him to settle down. She’s becoming quite a matchmaker, aren’t you Mother!’

  ‘He’s thirty-five. He should have a wife and family!’

  ‘A shame, then,’ Letitia said firmly, ‘that I am quite finished with men!’

  Rose cried, ‘Please Letitia, don’t say such a thing! Bernard’s just the one bad apple in the barrel! And you’re better off without him.’

  An awkward silence fell because her remarks were the first mention she had made about Bernard’s defection. To change the subject Rose said, ‘What exactly is Bastille Day? It’s to celebrate a battle, isn’t it?’

  Pleased to show off her knowledge of all things French, Marie said, ‘The French call it the Fête de la Fédération and it’s to celebrate the day the people stormed a prison and let out the prisoners and then the revolution started.’

  Clarice smiled. ‘July the fourteenth is very special to the French people.’ She glanced at her youngest daughter. ‘I think you should go to bed, Marie. You look tired and there will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow.’

  Marie nodded unwillingly and allowed herself to be carried inside and Letitia volunteered to brush her hair before helping her into bed.

  As Marie slipped down between the sheets she could hear the rest of the family making tracks for bed and closed her eyes. A little later she shared her prayers with her mother and then opened her eyes sleepily. ‘I wish Marcus and Steven could have been here with us,’ she said wistfully, ‘but one day we shall all be together.’

  ‘We will, my darling.’ Clarice kissed her. ‘Sleep now, Marie. If you need me, call me. Your bell is beside you.’


  Much later Clarice woke to the sound of the bell and made her way into the small moonlit room.

  ‘I had a strange dream, Mother,’ Marie whispered. ‘Will you stay a while and hold my hand?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ She leaned over and kissed her, then sat on the chair beside the bed. Taking Marie’s fragile hand in hers, Clarice prepared to stay with her until she fell asleep but it was not to be. Somewhere around midnight she became aware of a slight change in Marie’s breathing. Clarice’s heart began to beat faster. Could she have imagined it?

  ‘Marie?’ she whispered.

  ‘Mama, are you there?’ The words were low but clear. Marie’s eyes flickered open and closed again.

  ‘I’m here, dearest.’

  Having seen Clarice, Marie smiled faintly then gave a deep sigh. Her hand, already relaxed, became limp. Clarice’s heart skipped a beat.

  She waited. ‘Oh Marie!’

  As the minutes passed the warmth of life ebbed slowly from Marie’s hand and Clarice pressed it to her lips.

  ‘Goodbye, little one,’ she said softly.

  Shocked and grief-stricken, Clarice sat on dry-eyed through the long night until the prayed-for tears brought blessed relief.

  Seven days later Marie’s funeral was held in the church where she had been christened and confirmed. Clarice, Rose and Letitia had accompanied her coffin on the journey back to England but the following day Letitia and her mother returned to Wissant leaving Victoria House in the capable hands of Marcus.

  After they had gone and Marie’s body rested in the same grave as her grandparents, Steven and Marcus left it to Rose to see to the flowers that covered her last resting place. On Sunday July 27th Rose was kneeling beside the grave, removing any dead flowers, when the vicar found her. She stood up hastily, smiling.

  ‘Miss Paton, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Thank you for the service. Marie’s mother felt she should return to the family – and the church at Wissant was Roman Catholic which would have been awkward. She and Letitia will come over to England more often now because they will want to visit the grave.’