"I can't guess. Tell me."
"Mr. Robert Ellis Tressidor, pioneer of good causes, saviour of fallen women, advocate for the poor unemployed."
"Oh no! It couldn't be."
"Sure as I'm sitting here. He just sat up in bed and stared at me. I said, 'Good evening, Mr. Tressidor.' He couldn't speak, he was so dumbfounded. His confusion was terrible. I even felt sorry for him. He was trembling. I doubt anyone's ever been caught so red-handed, you might say. It was his face that was red. And I didn't wonder at that. I reckon he could see the headlines in the paper. He said, 'What are you doing here? You're supposed to be a respectable parlourmaid.' That sent me into hoots of laughter. 'Me?' I said. 'It's clear what I'm doing here, sir. The funny thing is what are you doing here, Mr. Protector of Fallen Women. Helping them to fall a bit farther?' I was scared really and when I'm scared I always fight hard. Not for a moment did I doubt that he was in a worse position than I was. I was there in my dressing gown. All he had was the sheet to cover him up. It was the funniest thing I ever saw. Me . . . the parlourmaid standing there and him the high and mighty, one of God's good men, lying naked on a bed.
"He calmed down a bit. He said, 'Rosie, we shall have to sort this out.' All very cajoling, equals now, none of the master and parlourmaid. He was a very frightened man. He said, 'You shouldn't be living this life, Rosie.' 'Should you, sir?' I asked. 'I admit,' he replied, 'to a certain weakness.' That made me laugh. Then I saw the possibilities and I said, 'I could make things very difficult for you, Mr. Tressidor.' He didn't deny it. I could see he was thinking . . . hard. It was in his eyes. Money, he was thinking. Money straightens out most things and he was right about that. 'Rosie,' he said. 'I'll make it worth your while.' And I said, 'Now you're talking.'
"I can laugh now. Him in the bed there and me standing there in my dressing-gown—and we made terms. He wanted me out of the house. I understood that. He couldn't have me there all the time reminding him. And he wanted me out at once. He would give me a large sum of money as the price of my silence. He became quite human in his fear, and, by God, Caroline, he was afraid. He could see what I could see. 'Philanthropist Robert Tressidor discovered in a brothel . . .' Well, we made an amicable arrangement. He would pay me well and I should leave at once. I should go to an hotel for the night ... at his expense, of course, and stay there until something could be arranged for me. He owned a great deal of property in London and he would see what could be done about accommodation for me. He gave me all the money he had on him and promised to pay me a large sum. That would be an end of it. He had no intention of giving way to further blackmail. I did not want that either. It's a dangerous game. All I wanted was a good start in life—just what some people get by being born into it and others have to fight for. He quite understood my desire to break away from a life of service—my ambition, he called it, and he had a great respect for ambition. After all he had a good deal of it himself. He was frank in a way, and do you know, I liked him better lying there in bed naked and being a bit humble . . . and in a way understanding . . . than I ever had the virtuous philanthropist. I said, 'Look here, Mr. Tressidor, you play fair with me and I'll play fair with you. I could expose you to the papers. There's nothing they'd like better than that sort of scandal. You'd be ruined.' He admitted this, and said that he would honour his promises to me. But I was clever enough to understand he would not endure perpetual blackmail. He would pay the initial amount but that must be the end of the matter. I agreed. I'm not a blackmailer by nature, but I'm a girl who has to fight, and when you've got all the odds against you, you can't be over-nice. There! What do you think of that?"
"I can't stop thinking of him . . . always pretending to be so good . . . the way he behaved to my mother. Is the world full of deceitful people?"
"Quite a large number of the population, I shouldn't wonder. There! Was I right to tell you?"
"It's always best to know everything."
"You've got to fight through life as I have had to. It's better to know people. The world is not always a pretty place. Oh, I reckon some go through and never see the seamy side. But look at your father ... I mean Robert Tressidor. He was a man who had desires like most men. I know the sort. There were a lot of them like that at Crawley's. They're what they call sensual, and they can't get what they want at home. They have to play the gentleman there and maybe are ashamed to do what they really want, so they go for girls like me. Then they can do what they like. They don't have to worry about showing themselves for what they are. That's what it's all about."
"I'm glad you told me, Rosie. I want to know everything. I never want to imagine things are not what they seem again. I think I hate men."
"Oh, there are some good ones among the bad. Hard to find, it's true, but they are there."
I shook my head. I kept seeing my father—why did I have to go on calling him my father?—I kept seeing Robert Tressidor cowering in that bed.
"It upset him terribly," went on Rosie. "I reckon it killed him really. He had that first stroke soon after that. He must have been almost out of his mind . . . when he thought what it could mean. I wouldn't have gone that far, though. I reckon I've been paid fair and square. Didn't stop him changing that rotten will about you, though, did it?"
I shook my head. "Why should it?"
"Oh, he was very pompous and sanctimonious about your mother. We heard quite a bit when that little thing was going on. Such a great good man with such a naughty wife! How could she? And all the time there was sir, going to Crawley's for a little bit of slap and tickle on the sly."
"It's so horrible," I said.
"Do you think I'm awful?"
"No."
"A woman who sells her body, who's not averse to a little blackmail?"
"I'm glad you got something out of him, Rosie. It's the hypocrisy, the deceit, I can't bear. You were never like that."
"Open as the day, that's me. Well, I had to leave that night, you see. That's why I wasn't there to let you in. I had to pack up and be right out of the house by the time he came back. It was part of the bargain."
"I understand, Rosie."
"It took me a long time to decide whether to tell you or not. Then I heard you were going to France. How did I know? Servants! They talk. I mix a bit on the edge of society, too. There's gossip. They were all talking about you being cut out and not his daughter and all that. That's common knowledge. And I thought, 'Poor Caroline. She's got a hard row to hoe.' And I thought I'd ask you to come and I'd tell you this. If ever you wanted a friend, Rosie's here to help you. I'd ask you to stay here, but that wouldn't be right for you. I do have the occasional gentleman friend ... my own choice though this time. And I've got a bit of a reputation. One of these days I might settle down. I saw a little fellow the other day playing in the Park with his nanny. I thought . . . I dunno, there's something about kids. Who knows, your old friend Rosie might fall for that lark one day. And when, and if, I do, I'll have the right sort of place to bring it up. There! But remember this, if ever you think I could be of any help to you, you know where I am."
"Thank you, Rosie," I said.
She rang for the tea to be cleared away. I watched her with faint amusement mingled with awe.
She was a very clever woman, and in spite of the fact that she had been a part-time prostitute and was confessedly a blackmailer, she seemed to me to be a better human being than quite a number I could name.
I made my way thoughtfully back to the house.
Yes indeed, I was growing up fast.
NIGHT
IN THE
MOUNTAINS
I had come to Paris with the Rushtons as we had arranged, and they had very kindly seen me onto the train which was to make its journey to the South of France.
It was difficult to believe that so much was happening to me. The journey did not bother me. Going away to school had given me a certain self-reliance, and this was not my first visit to France, although I was scarcely a seasoned traveller.
As
I looked out of the train window I kept telling myself that I must put behind me all that had happened. I must start a fresh life. I might well discover that my true place was with my parents. I was romancing again.
I think what had shocked me almost as much as the knowledge that it was not me but my inheritance that Jeremy had wanted, was what I had just heard of the man whom I had believed to be my father. I could not keep out of my mind the picture of him on that bed. I could understand his need for sexual satisfaction but not his hypocrisy. How could he make those speeches about fallen women when he himself was indulging in the practices he pretended to deplore?
"There's lots like him," Rosie had said, and Rosie knew men.
And Jeremy? I would never forget opening that letter and realizing that I had been living in a fantasy world.
But it was over. I had to start again.
And here I was speeding through the French countryside . . .past farms, buildings, fields, rivers, hills. At least I was going to my mother and she wanted to see me. I thought of Captain Carmichael. He would be with her, I supposed, and the thought of that cheered me. I had been fascinated by him when I was young, and not at all displeased to discover that he was my father.
It seemed a long journey. Miss Bell would have said: "France is a big country, much bigger than our own." I smiled fleetingly. Miss Bell would have known the exact proportions.
That was long ago—in the past. I had to turn my back on all that life—stop thinking of it, because when I did I could only see those two deceivers—Jeremy Brandon and Robert Tressidor.
When I arrived at the station and left the train a trap was waiting for me.
I was told that Madame Tressidor was expecting me, and that the journey was not very long.
My fluent French was a great help to me, and my driver was delighted that I could speak the language. He pointed out the line of mountains in the distance and told me that beyond them was the sea.
We stopped before a house. It was white—neither big nor very small. There were balconies at two of the windows in the front and bougainvillea made a colourful purple splash against the walls.
As I alighted a woman came out of the house.
"Everton!" I cried.
"Welcome, Miss Caroline," she said.
I took her hand and in my excitement would have kissed her, but Everton drew back, reminding me of her place.
"Madame is glad that you were coming," she said. "This isn't one of her good days . . . but she wants to see you as soon as you arrive."
"Oh," I said, feeling a little deflated. I had expected my mother or Captain Carmichael to be waiting to greet me, though I was glad, of course, to see the familiar Everton.
"Come on in, Miss Caroline. Oh, there's your baggage."
The driver helped carry it into a tiled hall.
I thanked him, gave him some coins, and he touched his cap. Everton was coolly aloof.
There was a bowl of flowers on the table in the hall and their pungent scent hung in the air.
"This is a very small establishment," Everton explained. "We only have one domestique—as they call them here—and a man for the garden twice a week. You'll find it very different from . . ."
"Yes, I suppose so. May I see my mother now?"
"Yes, come up."
I was taken up a staircase and into a room. The shutters were closed and it was dark.
"Miss Caroline is here," said Everton. "I'll open the shutters, shall I, just a little?"
"Oh yes. And are you really there, my darling? Oh, Caroline!"
"Mama!" I cried, and running to the bed threw myself into her arms.
"My dear child, it is wonderful to see you. But you will find everything here ... so different."
"You're here and I'm here," I said. "I like the difference."
"It is so wonderful that you are here."
Everton went quietly to the door. She looked at me for a moment and said: "You must not tire her." Then she went out.
"Mama," I said, "are you ill?"
"My dear, let us not talk of unpleasant things. Here you are and you are going to stay with me for a while. You can't imagine how I have longed to see you."
I thought: Then why didn't you make an effort to do so? But I said nothing.
"I used to say to Everton, if only I could see my girls . . . Caroline particularly. Of course, you see how I live now ... in penury."
"I thought it seems a very pleasant house. The flowers are lovely."
"I'm so poor, Caroline. I could never really adjust myself to poverty. Did you know we have only one domestique and one gardener . . . and not full time at that."
"I know, Everton told me. But you have her."
"How could I do without her?"
"Apparently you don't have to. She seems as devoted as ever."
"She's a bit of a tyrant. Good servants often are. She treats me as though I'm a baby. Of course, I suffer quite a lot. There is so much I miss. This is not London, Caroline."
"That is obvious."
"When you think of what life was before . . ."
"Mama," I said, "what of Captain Carmichael?"
"Oh Jock . . . poor Jock. He couldn't stand it, you know. It was idyllic in the beginning. We didn't seem to mind the poverty at first. We neither of us had been used to it, you know."
"But you were in love. You had each other."
"Oh yes. We were in love. But there was nothing to do here. For me ... nothing. For him, too. No racing. He loved the races. And then, of course, there was his career . . . the Army."
"He gave all that up ... for you."
"Yes. It was sweet of him. And for a while it was wonderful . . . even here. Your father ... I mean my husband ... so vindictive. You know all about that now, I gather, from Mr. Cheviot. He's been a good friend. He looked after everything, you know. He sends the money regularly. I don't know what I should do without that. My income from my father is infinitesimal. Jock had very little apart from his soldier's pay, and you know, that's not much. He was always in debt. No one should attempt to hold a commission in the Queen's regiments unless he has a good income."
"But what happened? Where is he now?"
She took a lace handkerchief from under her pillow and held it to her eyes. "He's gone. He died. It was in India. It was some awful disease he caught there. He had to resign his commission, you see. Poor darling, it was all because of the scandal, you know. He went out there. He was going into some sort of business with people he knew. He was going to make a lot of money and come back to me. But the Army was the only thing he really wanted to do. The Carmichaels were all soldiers. He'd been brought up to it. But he used to say it was all worth while ... in the beginning."
"And he died!" I couldn't believe that laughing charming man, whose company had been so delightful, was dead. "It is such a short while ago really. Only four years . . . the Jubilee, you remember. But so much has happened that it seems like an age."
"Four years ... is that all? Four years ago and I was in London. There was so much to do there. Do you know, I have had hardly any new clothes since I have been here. One would have to go to Paris. Such a journey. Of course, Everton is good . . . but what do we know of the fashions down here?"
"I suppose that is the last thing you have to worry about."
"We came here. We had to get out of England. That was one of Robert's conditions. He wouldn't have us there. He made me a small allowance on condition that I did not see you girls. That broke my heart. Particularly because of you, Caroline. Olivia was his daughter. I hated him, Caroline. I didn't want to marry him. He was the catch of the season ... or one of them. So rich, you see, already making a name for himself. Well, he decided he would marry me as soon as he saw me, and although I would have preferred someone else, I had to take him. It was expected of me and everyone said how lucky I was. Oh Caroline, I can't tell you how I hated him. I could not bear all that goodness. Do you know, he used to kneel by the bed before getting into it, praying for God's bles
sing on our union, and then . . . and then . . . but you wouldn't understand, Caroline."
I thought of the man visiting Mrs. Crawley's lying naked in the bed, waiting for Rosie and I said: "Yes, Mama, I think I do."
"Bless you, my darling. Well, now you are here. I don't know how I go on living here. It's been so dull . . . ever since Jock went . . . and even before. There is nothing to do. If only I could go back to London. If only I had the money. When I think of all Robert had, I realize what a fool I've been. I had endured it for years . . . and only another four to go. Then I should be there . . . where I long to be."
I said: "It is very beautiful here. The scenery, coming down in the train, was quite dramatic."
"I'm bored with scenery, dear. What can you do with mountains and trees and flowers, except look at them?"
"What of your health, Mama?"
"Oh my dear, a dismal subject! I have to rest every day. I don't get up until ten. Then I will sit in the garden until luncheon and after that I rest."
"And in the evening?"
"Dull! Dull!"
"Are there no people around? Are you quite isolated?"
"There are people. They are very dull, though. I can't grasp their tiresome language very well. Did you see the chateau as you came in from the station?"
"No. So there is a chateau, is there?"
"Yes. The Dubusson family. At first I thought that might be interesting. The Dubussons are very old. Madame looks about ninety; there is a son and his wife—rather dismal. It's very run-down. They seem quite poor. Like fanning people. Quite hospitable, though. I sometimes visit and they have come here. There are one or two families in other houses scattered about. Then there are people who grow flowers and make perfume. And the town is a mile and a half away. So you see how we are situated."