Marianne m-1

by Жюльетта Бенцони

  'In spite of his looks, he's a gentleman—'

  Thus the final judgment pronounced by Francis's handsome lips. Even so, Marianne was none too ready to agree. Although his manners were perfectly correct, she sensed in Beaufort something purposeful and menacing which made her uneasy. Accustomed, early in life, to the fierce pleasures of the chase, she often found herself comparing human beings to the animals she loved but whereas Francis reminded her of a splendid thoroughbred, she saw Jason Beaufort as a hawk. He had the hawk's bold profile, bright eyes and the lean, rangy look that yet gave an impression of dangerous vitality. Even the slender brown hands emerging from cuffs of delicate white lawn recalled the talons of the bird of prey while the look in those bright blue eyes was unnervingly intent. All through the ceremony, Marianne had been uncomfortably conscious of it on her neck and shoulders. She had found herself avoiding those eyes because, for all her native courage, she found it hard to meet them.

  He was smiling, just now, as he looked at her. A thin, crooked smile revealing a lightning glimpse of very white teeth. Marianne's hand tightened on her husband's. She hated that slow, appreciative smile which made her feel somehow ashamed, as though the American were able to pierce through the mystery of her clothes and lay bare her girlish body. She actually shivered as she saw him abandon his idle stance and come towards her with his rolling sailor's gait. She looked away, pretending she had not seen the movement.

  'May I be allowed to offer my compliments and good wishes?' The American's lazy voice spoke from so close behind her that she seemed to feel his warm breath on her neck.

  Good manners obliged her to turn round but she left it to Francis to reply. His white hand clasped Jason's brown one as he exclaimed with a heartiness surprising to Marianne: 'You may indeed, my dear fellow! The good wishes of a friend have a value of their own and yours I know are genuine. We can count on your company?'

  'Delighted.'

  The blue eyes rested on Marianne's tight face and she thought furiously that he was aware of her dislike and amused by it. However, he had the good manners to go no further and merely bowed as the young couple moved away and turned their steps towards the duc d'Avaray and the bishop de Talleyrand-Périgord, who had come on behalf of Louis XVIII to honour the marriage of a countrywoman both of whose parents had perished in the Terror.

  These two were standing somewhat apart, in loftly isolation over by the fireplace, making up by an austere dignity of bearing for their reduced situation as exiles. The simplicity with which both men were dressed formed a strong contrast with the elegance of the Prince of Wales and his friends. Marianne, in her old fashioned dress, made a charming foil to their stiff, outmoded dignity. As the bride made her curtsey to the royal envoys, Francis had the momentary illusion that he was back at Versailles twenty-five years earlier and something of this showed in the involuntary respect with which he bowed. The smooth voice of the duc d'Avaray was already extending the royal felicitations to the young couple, then, turning to Marianne, the old nobleman went on:

  'Her royal highness, Madame la duchesse d'Angouleme[2] has been graciously pleased to send to you, my lady, this special token of her esteem. Madame has asked me to give you this, as a remembrance of her—'

  He held out a small locket of blue enamel set with brilliants enclosing a fine lock of white hair. When Marianne gazed uncomprehendingly at the strange gift, d'Avaray went on:

  'This lock was cut from the head of Queen Marie-Antoinette before her execution. Madame wished you to have it in memory of your noble mother who gave her life for the Queen.'

  Colour flooded the girl's face. Unable to say a word, she sank into a deep curtsey leaving it to Francis to express her grateful thanks. Her feelings were, in fact somewhat mixed. These continual reminders of the past at a time when she stood on the threshold of a new life which she passionately hoped would be filled with the love and worship of a single man were more painful than pleasant. To Marianne, her mother was no more than a friendly ghost, the image of a smiling face pictured in an ivory miniature, but on this day the image had grown to the point of obliterating her own personality. There were moments when she wondered if it were really Marianne d'Asselnat and not Anne Selton who had married the handsome Francis Cranmere…

  As he led her out into the hall to say their farewells to the prince, Francis glanced at Marianne's hands clasped round the locket.

  'An odd present for a young bride,' he murmured, 'I hope you are not superstitious?'

  She smiled bravely, thrusting away the momentary cloud.

  'What is given in good faith cannot bring bad luck. This gift is precious to me, Francis.'

  'Truly? I am glad. But, for the love of heaven Marianne, put the precious locket away in a box and don't wear it. Why do these damned demented Frenchmen always have to be waving the shadow of their frightful guillotine? I suppose it helps them keep alive their grievances and their thirst for revenge. And, I daresay, to forget that Napoleon is in power and they are only reflections of a vanished age.'

  'You are very hard on my poor countrymen, Francis. Do you forget how much Madame has suffered? And I find it strange, that you, an Englishman, have a good word to say for the Emperor.'

  'I detest Napoleon as much as I pity Madame Royale,' Francis retorted coldly. 'But I cannot approve of those who find it so easy to ignore the facts. But after all, politics seems to me a dry subject for your pretty head. Forget all about the revolution, Marianne, and concentrate on pleasing me.'

  Dinner that night seemed to Marianne incredibly long and tedious. There were few guests and little gaiety. Certainly, it bore little resemblance to a wedding breakfast. Besides the young couple there were only the abbé de Chazay, Lord Moira, Jason Beaufort and Ivy St. Albans and the guests had too little in common for lively conversation. The talk, at first commonplace, gradually died away. The abbé de Chazay whose thoughts were no doubt already on his coming journey and the carriage which waited, ready harnessed, at the door, spoke little, the American not at all, contenting himself with observing Marianne with embarrassing attention. Only Francis and Moira talked about horses and hunting. Lady St Albans, following the bride's example, took no part in the discussion.

  Ivy's dainty fingers were engaged in the mechanical rolling of little pellets of bread on the damask tablecloth. Marianne wondered why it was she could not bring herself to like this exquisite cousin of Francis.

  Apart from her never allowing anyone to forget her connection with Lord Cranmere and her way of treating Marianne like a slightly backward child, Ivy St. Albans was the perfect picture of gracious sweetness. Some years older than Marianne, she was of medium height but her fairylike slenderness and still more the knot of pale gold ringlets which she wore high on her head made her seem taller. She had very delicate features, illuminated by a pair of languishing china blue eyes but although her mouth was as small as all the current canons of beauty could demand, there was something about her which Marianne found faintly shocking. It may have been her smile which had too close a look of Francis, perhaps that irreproachable and utterly feminine elegance which made the young girl feel, beside her, both countryfied and overdressed.

  This evening was worse than usual. In her spreading lace-trimmed panniers, Marianne felt like some massive Chinese vase placed next to a fragile Tanara figurine. Her outdated furbelows only served to set off to advantage Ivy's wisp of a clinging muslin gown, the same blue as her eyes, cut low in the bosom to reveal the soft curve of her shoulders and caught in below her breasts by a chain of fine antique cameos that matched the fillet binding her fair curls. A long matching scarf completed an ensemble which, while stunningly simple, owed much of its effect to the perfection of the figure it covered. Ivy St. Albans, like many other Englishwomen, had taken to wearing muslin winter and summer because Napoleon was known to dislike it so much that the ladies of his court were virtually forbidden to wear it.

  Marianne could never picture Ivy in anything but muslin. She had been wearing a dress of whi
te muslin when Marianne met her for the first time, that day last summer in Bath. Lady Ellis had dragged a cross and distinctly unwilling Marianne away from her beloved woods with the two-fold object of taking the cure herself and at the same time introducing her niece into society. But the girl had felt instantly out of place amid the elegant crowds thronging the famous spa. There was too much noise, too many people, too much gossip, too many shrill, overdressed women and too many dandies with their bored and insolent airs and their passion for wagers.

  And then, one morning as the two women were driving along Milsom Street after making some purchases, Lady Ellis uttered a cry and ordered the driver to stop. A couple were passing by on foot and Marianne's heart beat unaccountably faster. The woman was beautiful, certainly, and the height of elegance in the simple white dress which served to set off a miraculous chip-straw bonnet covered with a froth of delicate lace but Marianne had no eyes for her except to envy her her escort. He was surely quite the finest man that ever was. Moreover, it was to him that Lady Ellis's rapturous exclamation was addressed.

  'Francis, Francis Cranmere! My dear child, how good to see you again. Don't tell me you don't recognize me?'

  The gentleman's handsome, disdainful mouth had curved into a smile.

  'Lady Selton!' He responded instantly, 'could you doubt my knowing you? England is full of women but I'll take my oath there is only one Ellis Selton. Your most obedient, my dear lady.'

  Removing the beaver hat he wore so elegantly tilted to one side, he bowed over Lady Selton's fingertips and her niece was able to observe, to her considerable astonishment, that her spinster aunt was quite flushed with pleasure. However, the young man's grey eyes immediately travelled on inquiringly to Marianne and she felt herself instantly purple with embarrassment. In her plain cambric dress adorned, thanks to the clever fingers of her maid, only with a single embroidered panel she felt suddenly horribly dowdy. Any comparison between herself and the lovely stranger was so little to her advantage that she felt ready to die of shame and was incapable of saying anything intelligible when her aunt presented her to: 'My dear Francis, the son of one of my oldest and dearest friends', and then to 'his charming cousin, Lady St. Albans'.

  A few words more, an exchange of addresses, and then they parted with promises to meet again. The carriage moved away with Marianne on the verge of tears. All at once, she wanted desperately to make this fine gentleman notice her, to dazzle him with her wit and brilliance, while he had probably seen her merely as some kind of silly schoolgirl. Her aunt had laughed and teased her about it.

  'But there,' she added with a sigh, 'I can scarcely blame you, these Cranmeres are irresistible charmers, and Francis is the living image of his father. No man could ever think seriously of competing with Richard Cranmere.'

  'Was he so very much admired?' Marianne asked in a small voice.

  'Oh, the women were wild about him, every single one – more's the pity—'

  The conversation had gone no further. Lady Ellis had lapsed into a reminiscent silence which the girl did not like to interrupt. She had learned later, by means of interrogating Jenkins, the old housekeeper, that her Aunt Ellis had once been madly in love with Richard Cranmere and had hoped to marry him but he had fallen instead for Marianne's mother, Anne, and Anne was already in love with a French diplomat. On her engagement to Pierre d'Asselnat, Lord Cranmere had gone away. His travels had taken him to India and it was there that he had married and that Francis had been born. The young man had returned home some ten years previously to take possession of a small inheritance not far from Selton Hall. At that time he had called frequently on Lady Ellis, drawn to her by their mutual passion for horses. Then, succumbing to the attractions of London, he had sold the little estate which must have formed the bulk of his fortune and they had not seen him since.

  'And probably will not see him again until the next chance encounter – in ten years time!' Marianne had sighed.

  But she was mistaken. Francis not only called on his old friend in the house she had taken for the season in Bath but, in September, he actually came to Selton Hall.

  These visits plunged the young girl into an ecstasy of excitement. To her romantic imagination, Francis became Tristan, Lancelot, the Swan Knight come from distant shores to break the spell which held her captive. No legendary hero could live up to him. Francis was a hundred times more wonderful than all the knights of the Round Table put together, Merlin and King Arthur included. She began to day dream about him, basing an infinity of delight on a look or a smile, and building up reserves of happiness on which to live until his next visit. Francis behaved, in fact, charmingly to her. To her great surprise he would even sit by her now and then and talk to her. He asked her about her life and her amusements and, thinking of his life in London where he kept company with the noblest and most brilliant of the realm, she was ashamed that her conversation was all about dogs and horses and the countryside. She was so greatly in awe of him that one day, when Lady Ellis begged her to sing for Francis she was unable to produce a single note. Her mouth was so dry that no sound came. By nature lively and unselfconscious, in his presence she became shy and gauche. It was true that on that particular evening, Ivy had accompanied her cousin and her fragrant presence was not calculated to boost Marianne's confidence. The lovely cousin with her sophisticated elegance and unfailing sweetness was a sore trial to her nerves. She was like the fairy Vivien – but Marianne had never been fond of Vivien.

  Her day of triumph had come out hunting when, for a whole day, she had galloped at Francis's side across muddy fields and through autumnal woods. Ivy, who disliked horses, had followed with Lady Ellis in the carriage. Marianne had Francis all to herself and she thought she would die of happiness when he complimented her on her faultless horsemanship.

  'I know few men who ride as well as you,' he told her, 'and no women.'

  There was a genuine warmth in his voice and in his eyes that flooded the girl's heart with joy. At that moment he really sounded like a lover. She smiled at him with all her heart.

  'I love to ride with you, Francis. I feel as if I could go on like this to the end of the world.'

  'Do you really mean that?'

  'But – of course! Why should I say it if I did not?'

  He made no answer. He merely leaned from his saddle and looked into her face and, for the first time, she was able to meet his gaze without embarrassment. Still he had said nothing but as he moved away he smiled briefly.

  'Good,' was all he said. Then, apparently forgetting all about her, he gave his horse its head, leaving Marianne to wonder whether or not she had said something stupid.

  After that day's hunting he had vanished for some time, and in any case her aunt's sudden illness had to some extent driven him from Marianne's mind. Then, one evening, two days before her death, Lady Ellis had sent for her niece.

  'I know I am dying, child,' she told her, 'but I shall go in peace knowing that I shall not leave you alone.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'That Francis has asked for your hand and you shall marry him.'

  'Mine? But – he has never spoken to me—'

  'Stop babbling. I have not much time – he is a man who cannot fail to make you happy. He is twenty-eight now and will be able to give you the guidance and support you need. Besides, in bestowing you on him, I am remedying an unjustice on the part of fate. Francis has no fortune of his own, now he will have ours – he will join you as the master of Selton – and when I am laying there, across the park, I shall be glad to think of my beloved home in your hands, both of you. That way, I shall never really leave you—'

  Exhausted from the effort of speaking, Lady Ellis closed her eyes and said no more. Marianne left the room torn between a curious mixture of terror and delight. It seemed fantastic that Francis should want to marry her, a simple country girl, when there were so many women all anxious to please him. It gave her an odd sense of triumph. She felt at the same time very proud and very apprehensive.
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  'I shall never be worthy of him,' she thought. 'I shall always be doing something improper, and he will think how silly I am—'

  It was this fear which returned, intact, to plague Marianne during her wedding dinner. She gazed with mingled joy and pride at Francis, sitting opposite her in the high-backed chair, long empty, that belonged to the master of the house. He sat in it so carelessly and naturally that the young bride was filled with admiration. For her own part, Marianne was all too conscious that she was now occupying the mistress's chair where, all her life, she had been used to seeing her aunt.

  Ivy's soft voice broke in on her thoughts.

  'I think it is time for us to withdraw, Marianne, and leave these gentlemen to smoke and drink in peace.'

  Marianne jumped, realizing suddenly that everyone was looking at her and that the servants had already placed decanters of port and brandy on the table. She got to her feet, blushing in confusion for forgetting the time.

  'Of course,' she said. 'We will leave you – I – I think I shall retire – a little tired—'

  Already she was beginning to panic. Visibly unsure of herself, she went to bid farewell to the abbé de Chazay who kissed her tenderly, unable to conceal his emotion. Inclining her head to the rest of the company, she let her eyes dwell a little appealingly on Francis as though begging him not to stay too long with his guests. Tonight was her wedding night and it belonged to her alone and no one had the right to rob her of even the smallest moment of it. But Francis merely smiled.