Sun in Splendour

by JH Fletcher

  A soft-bodied man of her own age, pop-eyed and chinless, slopped the contents of his recently-refilled glass as he engaged her in conversation — if an endless recitation of his own unremarkable exploits could be called conversation.

  I have not talked with a man for so long, she thought. Now I have to meet someone like this.

  And smiled, laughing a little, admiringly, when it seemed appropriate, and listened barely at all. Saw from the gleam in his eye that he thought he was onto a good thing and extricated herself by the simple expedient of talking to him, volubly, in French.

  That cut him off in full stride. She left him nonplussed, foolish mouth agape, and walked away across the room without looking back. Was tempted to leave altogether, but innate stubbornness prevented her.

  You wanted to meet people, to have the chance of a social life? So here it is. Enjoy it.

  Which she was far from doing.

  She found her way into the garden. There were other people, but she avoided them. Behind a low hedge she discovered a stone bench overlooking the harbour. She sat decorously for a few minutes, gathering strength to face again the social babble that she had believed she missed so much and now realised she had not missed at all.

  For the first time in months, she found herself thinking of Alain, of their life in Paris. It had been a life with its own rhythm; even poverty had been unable to disrupt it entirely. She remembered laughter, warmth, the shared excitement of a new painting, the thrill when Alain sold something, the cheap wine with which they celebrated. Most poignant of all, the sense of being one with another person, of being necessary in someone else’s life.

  And now?

  She sighed and fidgeted upon her garden bench. Now even the girls were off her hands. When they met her at the station they were still welcoming, but she was no longer a vital part of their lives. If anything were to happen to her — no point deceiving herself — they would soon get over it. It was her own fault; she had chosen to cut herself adrift. If she disliked the consequences, there was nobody else to blame.

  A voice said, ‘Good evening …’

  She looked up. A few yards away, a man stood and smiled down at her. The distance between them was a comfort, implying deference, an acknowledgement of what was permitted between strangers of the opposite sex. Although he had spoken. In Australia the rules of etiquette were less strict than in Europe; all the same, some would have considered it a transgression. Among them her employer, who had opposed her coming here at all; the thought gave Eugénie courage to acknowledge what Mrs Franklin would have regarded as inexcusable familiarity.

  Coming from France, you will find it difficult to understand the way things are done …

  ‘Good evening,’ she said.

  Still the stranger did not approach, but smiled. He seemed pleased that she had answered, where many might have ignored him altogether.

  ‘You are alone?’

  ‘As you see.’

  ‘Myself, also.’

  And silence, while Eugénie pretended to contemplate the blue reaches of the harbour.

  ‘I am not much for grand occasions,’ the man said.

  Eugénie had taken care not to look at him directly; had, nevertheless, observed that he was about ten years older than herself, formally dressed, with a well-fed but not unattractive face and the mouth of a man who could look after himself. Dark hair with a hint of early grey, well tended. A general air of being at home in his own world, of knowing instinctively where he was in space.

  A man not without his attractions.

  ‘Henry Pearman,’ he said, and inclined his head a fraction.

  She was conscious of the smallest tingle of nervousness, which she suppressed most vigorously. This was only the second man she had spoken to in so long a time. The first, that vacuous fool who was, no doubt, at this minute bleating his excruciating drivel at another victim, had regarded her not as a woman but an opportunity. Whereas this man … An opportunity, too, no doubt, but also a woman.

  And told herself she could not possibly know how he regarded her when they had exchanged barely a dozen words.

  ‘And you, I understand, are Madame Desmoulins.’

  For the first time, she looked him full in the face. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I asked our hostess.’

  ‘And followed me out here?’

  ‘Of course.’ And smiled, not formally, this time, but with genuine amusement and — yes — pleasure at what many would have called his impudence.

  Again she felt a tingle, less of nervousness than an awakening interest in this bold man. On the other hand, she understood that it would be unwise to let him imagine she was too approachable.

  ‘That is not the behaviour of a gentleman,’ she reproved him, very dignified.

  ‘Something I have never claimed to be,’ he said. ‘When I want something, I go for it. I see no point in beating about the bush.’

  She saw that he might well be such a man. She had never known anyone like that and wondered, fleetingly, how it would be to have a purposeful man in her life.

  ‘When you want something …’ she repeated. Deliberately, she let the words dangle, like a cord. Which he took up at once.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you, and did so. You will notice that the world has not come to an end.’

  ‘Why should you wish to speak to me?’ So she challenged him, her eyes fixed openly on his. The conversation had barely begun yet already she understood that the time for pretence had passed.

  ‘I ask myself the same question.’

  Eugénie laughed, a few decorous notes. ‘And have you an answer?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Again he smiled, more warmly this time. She realised that somehow, without her observing it, he had drawn closer to her. ‘But hope I may, in time.’

  ‘Be sure to tell me when you do.’

  Again she trailed her cord of words; again he took it up.

  ‘I shall certainly do that.’

  She transferred her attention to the view. ‘The harbour is very fine.’

  ‘It has that reputation.’ But was apparently less interested in the harbour than in herself. ‘Madame Chevalier mentioned a buffet,’ he said.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  His smile warmed eyes that could, she already knew, be as purposeful as the man. ‘I am always hungry.’

  She did not move upon her stone throne, from which she intended to dictate, most royally. ‘Do you know what I am?’

  Henry Pearman assessed her thoughtfully. She saw that he did not understand her question but was untroubled by it. Would be troubled by very little, she suspected.

  ‘I have already told you that.’

  ‘Not who,’ she corrected. ‘What. I am Madame Chevalier’s dressmaker. Whom she has invited out of kindness.’

  Or condescension.

  He waited for her to go on but Eugénie had no more to say. Again she watched the harbour.

  ‘So?’

  ‘A dressmaker cannot always do what a lady can.’

  ‘The buffet is for all the guests.’

  She was glad that he did not understand; with this man she would always need an edge. But took care to conceal her pleasure. Few men were confident enough to accept second place to a woman, even in conversation. She hoped this man might be an exception but would not put it to the test just yet.

  ‘I am not talking of that. The buffet is certainly available.’

  ‘But?’ Watching her.

  ‘But not, perhaps, the gentlemen who are Madame Chevalier’s guests.’

  ‘Do you want them to be available?’

  A smile was the safest response to that.

  ‘I have already said I am not a gentleman.’ He bowed with twinkling eye, most formally, as he offered his arm. ‘But am willing to accept what life offers.’

  She stood and took his arm.

  ‘In the way of the buffet?’

  ‘Of course.’

  As they went back into the house, Eugénie was con
scious of Madame Chevalier’s eye upon her. She ignored it. The invitation was unlikely to be repeated, which made it all the more important to take advantage of it while she could. The man at her side was, undeniably, of interest. Interested in her, too, it seemed: something she had not known for a very long time.

  They piled their plates, Henry more generously than she, and found a place to sit. Around them the babble of conversation was muted as guests tucked in while, from the terrace, a string trio squeaked and was ignored by those for whom the food held greater attraction.

  ‘Is your wife here?’ Eugénie enquired. And concentrated upon extracting bones from a piece of salmon.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  She stared. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I am not married,’ he said.

  Which changed the rules of the conversation, or might. Of course, he could be lying.

  She told herself that even to think such things was absurd. It had been much easier in Paris. The artists she had known there had acknowledged no such thing as etiquette, had also not believed in beating about the bush.

  ‘What do you do?’ she asked. ‘By way of a living?’

  ‘I am a banker.’

  To hear him say such a thing, so casually, brought home what she had already known: how utterly this world of buffets and bankers differed from her own.

  Only one way can I hope to enter it, she thought, and that I will not do. I will not be his plaything, if that is what he has in mind.

  Always assuming that he had anything in mind at all and that this was not simply a casual conversation without significance.

  Eugénie told herself she was unsure which of the two she wanted it to be, but that was nonsense. She knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to see Henry Pearman again, very much.

  ‘You asked me an important question,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should return the compliment.’

  ‘What question was that?’

  A waiter was passing, carrying a crystal jug of wine. Instead of answering her, Henry signalled to him, pointing at both their glasses.

  ‘Thank you,’ Eugénie said. ‘I do not want —’

  Too late. The waiter was gone.

  ‘Another glass won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ But she took her brimming glass and placed it on the mantelpiece before returning to her seat. While Henry watched. His expression was amused but cautious, too, as though he were seeing her properly for the first time. She was pleased; she sensed the need to demonstrate that, even in this, she would not be a plaything.

  In a composed voice she said, ‘And what was this question you wished to ask me?’

  ‘Whether you are married.’

  ‘I am a widow.’

  ‘I am sorry.’ Although his voice gave no sign of it. ‘Was this before you left Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Was about to tell him how her husband had been butchered by the military, but thought banker and did not. Instead smiled sadly, as a dutiful widow might.

  ‘Nothing to do with that Commune business, I suppose?’

  ‘He drowned.’ And so consigned the history of Alain’s death to history. ‘In the Seine.’

  ‘I had not realised …’

  She thought he was perhaps referring to her dress, which was grey and not the black of normal mourning.

  She smoothed her skirt. ‘It is the French fashion. Besides,’ and for the first time slanted a smile at him, ‘black does not suit me, I think. Whereas grey …’

  And for the third time, she left her words hanging, for him to take up or not, as he chose.

  ‘Grey suits you very well,’ he said. ‘Very well, indeed.’

  ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself?’ Vesta Franklin’s voice made it clear that she hoped nothing of the kind. ‘We are very busy,’ she said. ‘Mrs Lanning wants another gown for next Tuesday. Lady Cartwright’s ball, you know.’ Was tempted to enquire, spitefully, whether Eugénie would be attending that, as well, but decorum prevented her. ‘It will mean working through the weekend, I’m afraid.’

  Eugénie understood that the additional work had nothing to do with the Cartwright ball but was intended to punish her for accepting an invitation that she should more properly have declined. So be it. Over the years, Eugénie had learned to bide her time. Henry Pearman would be in touch, or not. In the meantime …

  ‘Very well, Madame.’

  The children would have to manage without her, for once.

  4

  ‘We wondered what had happened to you,’ said Aline, crossly.

  ‘I’m sorry, darlings.’ And hugged them both again. ‘I did write.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘They missed you,’ Martha said, but gently, understanding the circumstances very well, perhaps.

  ‘I couldn’t manage it.’ Eugénie dared to add, ‘Your sister felt —’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cutting her off, but in a way that made it clear that she really did understand.

  They had a happy day, or Eugénie told herself they did, but others were not so easily deceived. Returning to the station that evening, the horse’s hooves clopping in the cool and sunlit air, the spring scents of dust and new leaves about them, Martha said: ‘Something troubling you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Putting a brave face on it. She had heard nothing from Henry Pearman and, with every day that passed, knew that her chances of doing so grew smaller. What did you expect? she told herself crossly. You are nothing but a seamstress. Why should a banker be interested in you?

  Yet he had been; she would have sworn it. And had not seemed the sort to give up easily, where his interest was aroused.

  There will be other men, she consoled herself. But would there? Men, perhaps, but none like Henry Pearman, who had interested her very much indeed.

  Yes, she was troubled by his silence, her own disappointment, but there was nothing to be done. A woman had to be passive in such things; it was the way of the world.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ she said. ‘I am very well, indeed.’

  ‘And happy?’

  ‘Very happy.’

  * * *

  So, for several weeks, Eugénie’s life fell back into its old routine: Sundays in the mountains, weekdays in the shop, evenings alone in the small room that was all she needed now the girls had moved away. Outside her work she saw no-one and the long evenings of early summer, the even longer nights, passed slowly, indeed.

  Until, two months after Madame Chevalier’s reception, she received a note, hand-delivered, for which a signature was required. Mrs Franklin, eyes needle-sharp, at once issued a stream of orders designed to protect Eugénie from the temptation of reading private correspondence in her employer’s time. Correspondence that, by the stratagem of the signature, Mrs Franklin had been prevented from reading herself.

  Eugénie opened the letter during the few minutes she was permitted at midday. She knew no-one else who would send her a private message but would not permit herself even to think his name. It is something unimportant, she told herself. And told herself. An offer from some tradesman, perhaps. She did not think she would be able to bear it, if it were an offer from a tradesman.

  Her heart beat fiercely as she slit the envelope of heavy, cream paper. As she drew out the single folded sheet.

  Dear Mrs Desmoulins … You will forgive my writing to you … I shall be honoured if … Yours very truly …

  And the neat, confident signature.

  Henry Pearman.

  She let the letter slip between her fingers onto the table, feeling the blood pulse through her body.

  A request to accompany him to a dinner in the city. Next week.

  No comment about the weeks of silence. No apologies, no explanations. She thought and thought.

  She put the letter away safely. Mrs Franklin, nose tilted skywards, said nothing, but would have shed teeth to know its contents. Which Eugénie had no intention of divulging.

  That ni
ght, in her room, she worked on her reply.

  I much regret … An earlier engagement …

  She would not be picked up and put down, when it suited him. Under her breath, she repeated what had become her litany. She would be no man’s plaything.

  The following day she posted it, feeling death in her heart. Expected to hear nothing and did.

  Two weeks later, she was walking home on a warm Saturday evening. Taking her time, in no hurry to return to emptiness. Around her scurried passers-by; most of them, no doubt, with lives fuller than her own. She had trained herself to ignore them, and the lives they might have, focussing instead on each day, perhaps the following day, never permitting herself even the most fleeting glance at the grey emptiness of days extending to infinity.

  She became aware of a man lifting his hat, smiling at her. She felt her blood flood through her.

  ‘Mrs Desmoulins,’ he said gallantly, ‘you are looking well.’

  What an effort to smile back, to keep her face and voice composed. ‘So are you, Mr Pearman. So are you.’

  Dinner, then, at his invitation. At a most elegant restaurant, where she dined on oyster pudding, veal, and her companion’s apologies.

  ‘I am sorry I have been so remiss. For not being in touch sooner …’

  ‘But you were. You invited me to a dinner, only two weeks ago.’

  ‘Which you declined.’ She saw how he resented that and smiled, in her heart.

  ‘I am sure you were able to make other arrangements.’

  He conceded the point grudgingly. ‘Perhaps.’ He cut his veal neatly. So. Forked it into his mouth and chewed it. So. ‘I have been very busy. Extremely busy. This is a country with a great future.’ He spoke aggressively, as though the prospect were a threat, while his sharp teeth savaged the veal. ‘People say one should not discuss business with a woman. What is your opinion?’ Gunfire in his eyes, staring at her across the table.

  She understood his resentment very well. He was not used to the idea of treating her or any woman as an equal and was unsure how to go about it. She saw that he might not be able to handle too much pressure; might walk away, if she persisted.