The Dubussons had asked us to spend the day with them and we had accepted.
My mother recalled past Christmases, which reduced her to even greater melancholy, and I promised myself that after Christmas I should definitely go to Cornwall. There I would be able to talk sensibly to Cousin Mary and discuss with her the possibility of doing something to earn money. I thought momentarily of Jamie McGill. Perhaps I could keep bees. Was it possible to make a little money that way? Jamie would be glad to teach me. Although I had enough money to live frugally it would be useful to earn money to augment my income. I did not want to go to London for there I should have to see Olivia.
At the beginning of November I went into the town to buy a few Christmas presents. I would need something for the Dubussons who were going to be our hosts for the day, and there were my mother, Everton, Marie and Jacques.
There was not a great deal of choice in the shops and I quickly made my purchases and went into the auberge where I was well known by now. There were no longer tables outside, so I sat in a room with windows looking out on the square, and there I ordered a glass of wine.
As I was drinking this a man came in and sat down quite near me. There was something very familiar about him. I stared at him. I must be dreaming. I had imagined him so often that for a few moments I could not really believe my eyes.
He had risen and was coming towards me. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, rather lean, with a somewhat slouching walk. I felt the colour rush into my face.
"Forgive me," he said, "but you are English."
I nodded.
"I think you are ... I think you must be . . ."
I was recovering myself. "You are Mr. Paul Landower. I recognized you at once."
"And you are Miss Tressidor."
"Yes, I am."
"I am so pleased to see you. We met such a long time ago. You were a little girl then."
"I was fourteen. I didn't regard myself as little. It's four years ago actually."
"Is it really?"
"I remember it clearly."
"May I sit down?" he asked.
"Please do. Going to Cornwall was a great event in my life. How is your brother?"
"Jago is well, thank you."
"He and I were quite good friends."
"He is more your age. A little older in fact. He is doing quite well."
I wanted to ask about Landower, how they liked living at the farmhouse. But I felt it might be a melancholy subject.
"I'll call for some more wine," he said. He leaned his elbows on the table and smiled at me. I felt rising excitement. Here was the man who had occupied my thoughts for so many months until Jeremy Brandon had replaced him. It was a strange coincidence that he should have arrived in France and at the very place where I was staying.
"Are you on holiday here?" I asked.
"No. I had business in Paris and again in Nice. I thought I'd have a look at the country while I was here. These small places are so attractive, are they not? And one gets to know people so much better than one does in the towns."
"I am staying with my mother," I said.
He nodded.
"She lives here now. She has been here some years."
"You like life here?"
"Life is interesting wherever it is."
"That's so. It's a pity everyone does not see it that way."
"How is Miss Tressidor? She is not a great letter writer so I don't hear as much as I should like to."
"She is well, I believe."
"I forgot your family and hers don't mingle."
"They do more now. I believe Miss Tressidor was hoping that you were going to visit her."
"Did she tell you?"
He nodded.
"I should have gone to see her but my mother was taken ill."
"She was very disappointed."
"I shall go to see her one day. How is everything at Landower?"
"Very well."
"I suppose . . ."I did not know how to put what I was going to ask, and decided it would be wiser not to talk of it. I said instead: "Where are you staying?"
"In this very auberge."
"Oh! Have you been here long?"
"I came yesterday."
"Is it to be a short stay?"
"Oh yes, quite short."
"Jago must be quite grown-up now. I hope everything really is well with him."
"Jago will always see that life goes as he wants it."
"When I was there, there were some people . . . What was their name? Oh ... it was Arkwright."
"Yes, that's right. They bought Landower Hall."
"Oh, they did buy it!" I wanted to ask about Gwennie Arkwright and I wondered how much Paul knew and whether Jago had ever confessed to what had happened in the minstrel's gallery.
"Yes, but now the family is back."
"Oh, I'm so glad."
"Yes, it came back into the family."
"That must be a great relief."
He laughed. "Well, you know, it was the family home for hundreds of years. One feels certain ties."
"Indeed yes. Jago always said that you would never let it pass right out of the family."
"Jago had too high an opinion of me."
"Well, it seems he was right."
"In that instance . . . perhaps. But tell me about yourself. What have you been doing?"
"I went away to school after I returned to London, and I came to France in fact."
"Then you have an impeccable accent, I am sure."
"I get by."
"That must be a great help. Do you come into the town often?"
"Yes, quite often. We're about a mile and a half out."
"How is your mother?"
"She is not well sometimes."
"I wonder if you will allow me to call?"
"But of course. She would be delighted. She likes to see people."
"Then while I'm staying here ... if I may . . ."
"How long will you be here?"
"I am not sure. Perhaps a week. I should not think longer."
"I daresay there will be a great deal to do at Christmas."
"There always is on the estate. All the old traditions have to be observed, as you can imagine."
"I can indeed."
I glanced at the watch pinned to my bodice.
He said: "You are anxious about the time. May I take you back?"
"Old Jacques, our gardener, is waiting for me with his trap."
"Then I'll take you to him. And . . . tomorrow . . . may I call?"
"Yes," I said. "We should like that." And I gave him details of our address and how to find us.
Jacques was waiting with some impatience. It was unlike me not to be on time.
Paul held my hand firmly in his as he said goodbye.
I returned his gaze and felt happier than I had since I had read that cruel letter of Jeremy's.
My mother was excited at the prospect of a visitor. He came in the morning and sat in the courtyard with me while an excited Marie prepared the dejeuner.
The midday meal was usually the biggest of the day as it was in most French households. My mother thought it most uncivilized to eat large quantities at midday; dinner was the great social occasion with her.
However, Paul was asked to luncheon.
My mother received him very graciously. His manner towards her was courteous but a little aloof. He was no Monsieur Foucard to be bowled over by her charms. She adapted her style to suit him and I marvelled at her expertise. Handling men and adjusting herself to what she believed would attract them was one of her obvious social assets.
As she was quite interested in Cousin Mary, of whom she had heard so much when she was married to Robert Tressidor, Cornwall, the life there and the two great houses made a long topic of conversation.
"I hear you have been quite unwell," he said solicitously.
"Oh, Mr. Landower, don't let's talk of my boring ailments," she said, and went on to talk of them at some length.
H
e listened sympathetically.
He turned to me. "Miss Tressidor, I remember when you stayed in Cornwall, you did a great deal of riding with my brother. Do you ride here?"
"Alas, no. I haven't a horse."
"I believe I could hire horses. Would you care to show me the countryside if I could do this?"
"I should like it very much."
"Caroline dear," put in my mother. "Do you think it's safe?"
"Safe, Mama? I'm perfectly safe on a horse."
"But a foreign horse, dear."
I laughed and saw that Paul was smiling.
"Horses don't consider nationality in the same way as we do, Mama. They are much the same the world over."
"But in a foreign country!"
"I should take care that no harm came to your daughter, Mrs. Tressidor," said Paul.
"I am sure you would. But I should be so anxious . . ."
I understood the way her mind was working. Much as she liked the monotony of her days to be relieved by the advent of visitors she was a little wary of Paul Landower. Every man she saw she assessed as a possible husband or lover; and it was quite clear that he was making no plans which involved her. Therefore, she reasoned, I must be the target of his aspirations; and she did not want me to go to him any more than to Cousin Mary. I could see the speculation in her eyes.
I had allowed her to prevent my going to Cornwall, but she should not stop my riding with Paul. The thought of riding with him filled me with ecstatic pleasure.
I said: "Do you think you really would be able to hire horses?"
"I'm certain of it," he said. "As a matter of fact I have already asked at the auberge. I have one bespoke, as it were. I am sure there will be no difficulty in getting another."
"I shall look forward to it."
After lunch I showed him a little of the countryside. I met Monsieur Dubusson who insisted on our going into the chateau to sample the wine his son had produced in his vineyard in Burgundy. Madame Dubusson greeted us with delight. They were very kindly people and already scented a romance. It was embarrassing in a way and yet I knew it came from the kindliness of their hearts and that they believed it was no life for a young girl—even though it might be her duty—to look after a mother who from time to time lapsed into invalidism.
Afterwards I introduced Paul to the Claremonts for, having included the Dubussons, I dared not leave them out. There was a great deal of talk about the flowers they produced and the essences they distilled; and they were very gratified to explain to a newcomer. From time to time the language became too fast and furious for Paul and I had the pleasure of translating.
As we were leaving Madame Claremont said: "By the way, Monsieur Foucard is coming for the Christmas holiday. Oh, he will not stay here. We are not equipped for such as he is ... not for more than one night. He is used to so much comfort. He will stay at the auberge in the town."
"Tell him I thoroughly recommend it," said Paul.
After we left the Claremonts we walked through the lanes and talked of the countryside and the Dubussons and Claremonts, the difference between the French and the English; and that seemed to me an enchanted day.
When I said goodbye to him he held my hand firmly and said: "Tomorrow morning. Say about ten o'clock. We'll go off somewhere and we'll find some little auberge where we'll stop for luncheon. How's that?"
I said it sounded perfect.
"Tomorrow then."
He stepped back, took off his hat and bowed; blissfully I went into the house aware of Marie peering through the kitchen window.
When I came into the hall, Marie was there. She said: "Oh, he is a very grand gentleman. So tall . . . He reminds me of mon petit soldat."
I suppose that was about the greatest compliment she could pay.
Later I heard her singing dolefully: "Ou t'en vas-tu, petit soldat." It was clear that Paul had found favour with Marie and Jacques as well as the Dubussons and Claremonts.
It was not the case with my mother. I guessed she had discussed him with Everton.
"So you are going riding tomorrow," she said as we ate that evening.
"Yes, Mama."
"I shall be very worried."
"I don't think so, Mama. You'll forget all about it as soon as we've gone."
"Caroline, how can you say such a thing!"
She saw what she called my mulish look setting about my lips and she knew that I was determined to go.
She said: "There's something mysterious about him."
"How mysterious?"
"Those dark looks."
"Do you think all people with dark hair are mysterious?"
"I'm not referring to his hair, Caroline. I know men."
"Yes, Mama, I'm sure you do."
"I should hate to see you make a terrible mistake."
"What sort of mistake?"
"To rush into marriage."
"Oh Mama, please! A man appears. He is a stranger in a strange land. He meets a fellow compatriot whom he saw once some years ago, he is friendly—and you talk of marriage!"
"He seemed persistent . . . hiring horses."
"It's nothing but a friendly gesture."
She looked pathetically down at her plate and I thought she was going to weep.
Poor Mama, I thought. She visualizes lonely evenings—no piquet, no one but Everton to talk to of past triumphs. And Everton is years older than she is. I am young. She is terrified of my going away. How strange that when I was a child she had no time to spend with me; now I am grown-up she cannot bear me to leave her for a day.
Then suddenly I remembered. The excitement of the day had completely driven this important piece of news out of my mind.
"I saw Madame Claremont today. She told me Monsieur Foucard is coming here for Christmas."
The change in her was miraculous.
"Is that so?"
"Yes, he is staying at the auberge."
"I'm not surprised. One could hardly expect a man like that to stay at the Claremonts'."
"I daresay," I said archly, "that we shall be seeing something of him."
"It may well be," she answered; and I knew she was already planning her wardrobe.
My words had had the desired effect. There was no further mention of my day's riding.
It was a day I was to remember for a long time.
The sun was bright although there was a sharp wind. It was good to be in a riding habit again.
I went to say goodbye to my mother before I left.
She was sitting up in bed sipping the hot chocolate which Everton had brought to her just as she had done each morning in England. Everton was seated on a chair making lists of clothes.
The Christmas wardrobe, I presumed!
What luck that Monsieur Foucard had saved the situation and made everything so much smoother! I had been determined to have my day but it was pleasant to achieve it with the minimum of friction.
I kissed her and she said: "Have a good day," almost absent-mindedly.
Paul was waiting with the horses.
"A little chestnut mare for you," he said. "She's a bit frisky but I told them you were an expert."
"She's lovely," I told him.
"Now you know the countryside, you'd better decide where we shall go."
"I only know the immediate environs. I never before had a chance to get away. Shall we go into the mountains?"
"That would be very interesting."
What joy it was for me to be on a horse, and I had to admit that my companion added considerably to my pleasure. It was almost like one of those dreams come true. He might not look exactly like the knight in shining armour whom I had visualized in my girlhood, but he was Paul Landower, the hero of my imaginings.
He talked about Cornwall just as Jago used to, about the estate and the house and Tressidor too. But for a great deal of the time we were silent for the road was so narrow that sometimes we had to go in single file.
At length we came to the foothills of the mountains where w
e paused to admire the grandeur of the scenery. On the other side of these Maritime Alps was the beautiful Mediterranean Sea.
"The air is like wine," he said, "which reminds me we are going to find that little auberge. Are you hungry?"
"Getting that way," I said.
"It'll be uphill for a while. Madame at my auberge told me that she can recommend La Pomme d'Or which we ought to find fairly easily. She says the damson pie is the best she ever tasted and has made me swear a solemn oath to try it. I dare not return and tell her I have not done so."
"Then it is a matter of honour for us to find La Pomme d'Or. I wonder why it is so called. After the famous golden apple which Paris gave to Aphrodite, as the fairest of women, I suppose, but I wonder how it got here."
"I fancy," he said, "that that is one of the mysteries we shall never solve."
The scenery was becoming awesome—mountains stretching as far as we could see; we passed gorges and silver waterfalls and streams trickling down the slopes.
"I hope the horses are sure-footed," said Paul.
"I daresay they've been in the mountains before."
"It must be getting quite late now."
"Time for luncheon. We should find the golden apple soon."
We came upon it unexpectedly. There it stood, white and glittering in the sunshine, built against the side of the mountain and facing a gap through which there was a glimpse of the sea.
We left our horses in the stable to be cared for and went into the dining salon.
We were welcomed warmly, especially when Paul mentioned that Madame at the auberge where he was staying had recommended La Pomme d'Or.
"She told us about the damson pie," he said. "It is hoped that it is available."
Madame was large and plump and I soon realized that she possessed in an even greater degree than usual that reverence for food which was characteristic of her nation. She put her hands on her hips, and shook with laughter.
"Believe it or not, Monsieur, Madame," she said, "I cook the most wonderful dishes ..." She put her fingers to her lips and threw a kiss to those revered objects. "My langoustines are magnificent. Crevettes . . . gigot of lamb . . . and such tarts as you never have seen . . . but always it is my damson pie."
"It must be gratifying, Madame," I said, "to be so famed for such an achievement."
She lifted her shoulders and her eyes sparkled as she told us what she could give us.