‘It’s always hard to leave home,’ she said consolingly. ‘I know, because I’ve just done it. But perhaps you will like Africa more than you expect. There will be so much that is exciting to see.’ She remembered what Monsieur Lumière had said to her. ‘Such a change will be an adventure.’
He had shot an angry glare in his father’s direction, but at her encouraging words he looked back at her with an indulgent smile that seemed to warm her through. ‘You’re a kind little thing, Lisette. Pretty, too. Nobody else has attempted to understand my feelings or tried to help me see things in a better light.’ Then mischief danced in his lively eyes. ‘Maybe when I return from Africa, grey haired and burnt to a frazzle, you’ll take pity on me again and marry me.’
She blushed like a sunset, suddenly shy in the knowledge that he was teasing her, and was saved from making any reply by her father turning to address him. After that he was caught up in the male conversation for the rest of the journey and she took refuge in her book.
It was not until farewells were said in the hissing, steam-billowing atmosphere on the platform of the Gare du Lyon that Philippe spoke to her again.
‘Au revoir, Lisette. Wish me luck.’
‘I do!’ she answered fervently. Then, to her delight, he took her hand and bowed over it as if she were grown up. At her father’s side she looked over her shoulder at him as they went their separate ways, but he did not look back and she knew he had already forgotten her.
Outside the station it was pelting with rain, but her father’s carriage and pair was waiting for them and their luggage was soon strapped on to the back of it. Lisette could not see much of Paris apart from sodden awnings and deserted cafe tables as they were carried away through the city. Now and again her father pointed out places of historic interest, but the rain slashing across the windows impaired her view. Eventually the city was left behind as they drove into the countryside. By the time they arrived at their destination the evening sun had come out from the clouds for the last hour of daylight. It bathed the pale walls of the château with a watery glow that cast diamonds into the many windows and across the wet lawns. The château was not the grand edifice that she had expected, but to her delight was a charming mansion set among trees and formal flowerbeds with a welcoming air about it. A sense of excitement rose in her, for she was sure that something of her mother’s presence would still linger in the rooms she was soon to explore.
As soon as Charles entered the portals of his home he could tell by the buzz of voices coming from the Blue Salon that his wife was entertaining again. Handing his hat, gloves and cane to a manservant in the spacious entrance hall, he sighed deeply. He was tired from the journey and had hoped for a peaceful hour or two alone with Isabelle after her meeting with his daughter. Unfortunately Isabelle thrived on being surrounded by company, never tiring of parties and balls and soirées, involving him in a social round that never ceased. Yet he had learned early in their marriage that it was best to go along with her plans and not to cross her, for her displays of temper – never revealed before their marriage – were hard to bear and hurt him deeply.
Lisette, having removed her coat and hat, composed herself for the meeting with her stepmother, hopeful that everything would be as her father had promised. As double doors were opened for them she noticed how he straightened his back and added a certain jauntiness to his step as if to throw off his years as he entered the silk-panelled salon. She followed in his wake. At least a dozen people were present, every one of them nearer his wife’s age than his, and yet it was apparent immediately from the greetings that he was well acquainted with them all.
Isabelle had sprung up from her chair at the sight of him, a delighted expression on her face. With a rustling of her taffeta gown and a swing of pearls she rushed towards him with a radiant show of affection.
‘Charles! What a wonderful surprise! I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow!’
She was of medium height, full-breasted, with a narrow waist and the clear ivory skin that so often complements dark red hair, hers being glossy and abundant. Her slim hands, sparkling with rings, fluttered about him like joyous little birds as she kissed him in greeting.
Lisette observed his doting expression. She wondered if her presence was forgotten, but he turned to draw her forward with his hands on her shoulders and kept a gentle hold as he addressed his wife and everybody else in the room.
‘It gives me great pleasure to present my daughter, Lisette.’
Isabelle arched her back prettily as she flung out her arms, effusive in her welcome. ‘Darling child! Welcome home!’
Lisette could see that she was meant to go forward into that waiting, bosomy embrace, but somehow found herself remaining rigidly where she stood as if glued to the floor. She sensed that the woman’s display was entirely for the benefit of the onlookers and knew intuitively that there was no warmth in it for her. Then her grandmother’s training in good manners came to the fore and she bobbed a curtsey, voicing an adequate acknowledgment.
‘I thank you for your kind words, Belle-mère.’
Yet the damage had been done. Isabelle had caught the child’s wariness and her vanity was deeply offended. Everyone said she could charm a bird out of a tree, but embarrassingly this unwanted newcomer had failed to respond and in front of everyone present!
With her smiling expression unchanged, Isabelle came forward to put an arm about Lisette’s shoulders and parade her around the room for a greeting and a word or two with everybody. Yet it was not long before the housekeeper was summoned and Lisette was given into her care.
‘Do you remember my mother?’ Lisette asked eagerly as the housekeeper led her up the wide staircase.
‘No, I was not here when your mother was still alive. I came here when the present Madame Decourt employed all new staff after she and your father returned from their honeymoon.’
‘I’d like to see the room that was my mother’s.’
‘Then you must ask your father about it. I don’t know which one it would have been.’
Lisette found that her own room, which was a good size and wallpapered in pale green stripes, was light and airy with windows that gave a view of the château’s tennis court and a wooded glade. There was a desk for her studies, shelves for her books, and a comfortable chair with cushions. A mahogany wardrobe offered plenty of space for her clothes. A half open door revealed a marble bathroom, which was an individual luxury that she had never encountered before, for her grandmother’s house had been comfortably old-fashioned. The housekeeper did not stay, having sent for a young maid named Berthe.
‘I’m your personal maid, mam’selle,’ the girl said upon arrival, her frilled cap framing a neat little face that matched her appearance. ‘I’m new here, but I’ll do my best. I’ll start with the unpacking and from now on I’m to see to your clothes and any mending and brush your hair and so forth.’ The words had all come in a rush and her cheeks had flushed scarlet.
Lisette was nonplussed. She had never had her own maid before. Her grandmother had thought she should grow up learning to do everything for herself. ‘That’s nice,’ she said awkwardly. Then they smiled at each other and the tension melted away.
While Berthe unpacked the trunk Lisette arranged her own books and set out the keepsakes she had brought from Lyon, including a photograph of her grandmother that had been taken by Monsieur Lumière. Aristocratically featured, Madame Decourt sat in a high-backed chair with her graceful beringed hands resting in her lap. Her hair was as smooth as if painted on her head, with an arrow-straight parting in the middle, and she wore a black lace gown designed by Monsieur Worth, with pearls in her ears and ropes of them around her neck. Lisette suppressed a sigh.
When two menservants had carried away the emptied trunk and valises, Berthe unbuttoned the back of Lisette’s bodice and left her in her petticoats until it was time to dress for dinner as she always had done with her grandmother.
With her arms folded under her head, Lisette l
ay on her bed and thought about her stepmother. There was something smooth and catlike about Isabelle. Although normally very fond of cats, she felt that it would not take very much for her stepmother to show claws and fangs if displeased, and for her father’s sake as much as for her own she wanted to avoid that. She was not sure why she felt such an urge to protect him against any possible upset, but she had the feeling he had had to overcome Isabelle’s opposition in order for her to come here. Then her thoughts turned to the youth on the train. She hoped with all her heart that he would be happy in Africa.
Although she put on one of her best velvet dresses, Lisette ate a lonely meal downstairs as her father and Isabelle had gone out to dine with friends. That night she cried herself to sleep, overcome by a great wave of homesickness as she yearned with a deep and desperate aching in her heart for her adored grandmother and their time together that had gone for ever.
In the morning Lisette found that her query to the housekeeper about her mother’s room had been passed on. Isabelle explained matters well out of her husband’s earshot.
‘The whole château was quite dreary when I paid my first visit here, Lisette. So I persuaded your papa that bathrooms should be installed for every bedroom in the new fashion and decorators move in while he and I were away in Italy after our wedding. It’s why nothing is left as your mother would have known it. As for her bedroom and boudoir, those are mine now, but you may view them whenever you wish.’
Lisette thought how pointless that would be since every sign of her mother’s presence had been eliminated.
‘Now I’ll tell you about your new school,’ Isabelle continued. ‘It is an exclusive boarding academy for young ladies. The headmistress prides herself on its high educational standards and, since she hopes for all her pupils to make good marriages, practical instruction on the running of a great house from bookkeeping to knowledge of cookery is included with everything else. Unfortunately the school is quite far from here as it lies just outside Bordeaux, but you can always come home on vacation, even though weekends will be out of the question. So hasn’t a splendid choice been made?’ Isabelle clapped her hands together in one of her extravagant gestures as if she expected Lisette to follow suit.
‘Yes, Belle-mère,’ Lisette answered truthfully. She had supposed that she would attend a local school as she had done in Lyon, but this was much better as she would be well out of her stepmother’s way. ‘When shall I leave?’
‘I thought at the end of the week. Your papa will escort you.’
Later in the day, Charles frowned when his wife told him the departure date. ‘It’s rather soon, isn’t it? I wanted you two to get to know each other, and I had planned that Lisette should meet some of the local young people and begin to strike roots.’
But he knew the matter was settled. His wife’s mind was made up.
Isabelle waved prettily with a lace handkerchief from the steps of the château as Charles and his daughter departed on their way back to Paris, where they would take a train to Bordeaux. Although it was impossible, Lisette wished that Philippe could have appeared again, but he had probably embarked already for a destination that would be as new to him as hers was about to be to her.
Two
Lisette’s schooldays passed pleasantly. Learning came easily to her. Although she was sometimes in trouble through getting into one scrape or another, it was never for anything very serious and after some minor punishment was duly forgotten. Although she got on well with most of her fellow pupils it was an English girl, fluent in French, who became her special friend from the very first day.
‘My name is Joanna Townsend. I’m new here, Lisette.’
They were facing each other in the dormitory where they were to sleep with six other girls. Joanna had an impudent little face with a turned-up nose covered with freckles and smiling hazel eyes, her hair a tangle of bright, coppery curls.
‘Me, too,’ Lisette answered. ‘How did you know my name?’
‘By the label on your trunk. Let’s be friends.’
Joanna’s father had business interests in Paris where he lived with his wife and daughter, but in summer he took a house on the Brittany coast where Lisette was invited to stay and which Isabelle encouraged. The two girls swam and explored and picnicked with the young of other families until another summer was over and they travelled back to school together again.
As time went by Lisette found that whenever she was at the château for any length of time she drew closer to her father in a way that once she would never have believed possible. He liked her to stroll with him through the château park or accompany him on a carriage ride. It was as if he had a need to talk quietly with someone content to be with him on his own away from the constant ebb and flow of company at the château.
‘How are you getting on at school?’ He would ask, as grown-ups always did, but he seemed really interested. The two of them had outings to Paris, where he took her to important exhibitions at the Louvre and elsewhere, staying in his spacious apartment on the rue de Fauberg St Honoré. Isabelle had redecorated there too, but she was never with them and happily Lisette was able to sleep in the room where she was born.
These cultural visits were always the second time around for Charles, for he and Isabelle attended every prestigious preview.
‘So many people on those occasions are there to be seen instead of to see,’ he confided, refraining from saying that Isabelle was one of them. ‘It’s much better to come later as we are doing and look around at leisure.’
He also took her to magic lantern shows, puppet plays, concerts and, best of all, to the theatre. It was never to matinees, but to evening performances as if she were fully grown up, opening her eyes and her mind to the magic and drama of the stage. Being out at night also meant she glimpsed the Paris she was not yet old enough to visit. The lights shining out of the Moulin Rouge, its sails rotating against the stars. The dancing in the open-air cafes under rainbow-hued paper lanterns, the women’s skirts swirling, the men with their hats at jaunty angels. The sparkle of diamonds as wonderfully gowned women entered exotic nightspots with their escorts. She thought Paris was like a jewel in itself, dazzling and glorious, and Philippe’s words often came back to her about it being the only place in the world in which to live.
She had never forgotten him. His smile and kindly attention at a time when she was desperately unhappy had made a lasting impact on her that might otherwise have faded from her memory as swiftly as he had forgotten her. But it was as if he lingered at the back of her mind like a wisp of melody from a half-remembered song and would not go away.
It was a few days after Lisette had celebrated her fifteenth birthday with a party at the château that she heard Philippe Bonnard’s name again. She sat at breakfast with her father and Isabelle on the morning of her departure for the new school term after being home for Christmas and New Year.
‘I hear that young Bonnard has arrived back from Africa,’ her father remarked to Isabelle, who was pouring him a second cup of coffee. ‘It was a tragedy that he should lose his mother before he had even reached his African destination.’ He shook his head sympathetically. ‘There was no coming back for him then, but now his father has gone too, it has necessitated his return. I think his aunt should have delayed the funeral for his homecoming.’
‘I’m sure Mademoiselle Bonnard did what she thought best,’ Isabelle replied, her disinterested tone showing she held no opinion on the matter either way. ‘I met the young man briefly at the Villemonts’ recently. Madame Villemont told me how upset his mother was when he was sent away. It was as if she had had a premonition that she would not see him again.’
Lisette thought how tragic it was that Philippe should have been doubly bereaved when away from home. ‘The poor young man,’ she commented quietly.
‘Don’t waste your sympathy on him,’ her father advised, giving her a sharp nod. ‘From what I’ve been told, mourning isn’t keeping him from the nightspots and the gaming tables.’
‘You should not be so censorious, Charles,’ Isabelle remarked leniently. ‘It’s to be expected that he should wish to have some pleasure after being stuck in the back of beyond for such a long time. I think we should invite him to our next ball. We always include the younger group. There will be those among them whom he will know and it will help him to settle down again in society.’
For a moment or two Lisette wished she could be at that ball, but then she thought it would be pointless as Philippe would not remember her.
She went back to school and her own interests the next day, travelling with Joanna. They talked all the way as if Lisette had not spent more time at her friend’s home than she had at her own.
Some while ago Lisette had begun performing in school plays and latterly had been given leading roles. Charles, taking no heed of the distance he had to travel, always came to see her perform. Even when it was Shakespeare, which normally sent him to sleep, he was wide-awake in his delight at watching his daughter as Titania, Juliet or Rosalind and was quick to applaud. He also saw how unusually lovely she was becoming, although he doubted that her beauty would ever match Isabelle’s, but she was lithe and graceful and vivacious and her hair when loosened was a shimmering fair-gold cascade. He could tell she was exceptionally talented, but – mercifully to his mind – she had never spoken of any desire to go on the stage, being more interested in art, although it was Joanna who showed every sign of becoming a true artist.
When Isabelle was forty-one she gave birth to a son, who was named Maurice. Lisette’s six months with Joanna at a finishing school in Switzerland ended in time for the two of them to be back in France in time for the garden party held to celebrate the christening. Never before had either Lisette or Joanna seen a baby draped in so much silk, lace and ribbons. His angry little old man’s face was red as a tomato as he wailed lustily while being jogged around by his nurse, his mother preceding him, as he was shown off to guests. It was to everybody’s relief, including Isabelle’s, when his wailing faded from earshot as he was finally carried indoors.
Brilliance Page 2
