"Au revoir," he said.
He took my hand and held it firmly while he looked into my face with a certain inscrutable expression.
Then he went off with the two horses.
My mother was sitting up in bed, the empty chocolate cup on the table beside her.
"Caroline! My child! I've been so worried."
"I hoped the message would explain."
"My dear child, staying out like that . . . with that man!"
"I had an accident, Mama."
"That's what they said."
"Are you suggesting that there was no accident? I'll show you my bruises."
I wondered then what tales she had made up to tell her husband when she had gone to see my father. I was becoming very unsympathetic towards her. I told myself I was overwrought. I had had an accident, but it was not of that I was thinking so much as the thought of Paul standing outside my window. I was sure he had wanted to come in and that he had been grappling with his conscience. I wondered what his feelings would have been had he known that I had wanted him to come. I was very innocent and ignorant in the ways of the world, and I should very quickly have betrayed my feelings to him.
My mother was saying: "What will people think?"
"What people?"
"Everton, Marie, Jacques, the Dubussons . . . everybody."
"Everton will think what you tell her to and Marie and Jacques what I tell them. The Dubussons and the Claremonts would have no uncharitable feelings about anyone. As for everyone else, Honi soit qui mal y pense."
"You always try to be clever. Olivia was never like that."
I said: "Please, Mama. I am tired. I had a fall from a horse and I want to go to my room to rest. I just came to see you to let you know that I am back."
"Where is Mr. Landower?"
"He left. He has taken the horses with him."
"Well, I hope no one saw him and that the servants don't gossip."
"I don't mind if they do, Mama. I have told you what happened and if people choose to disbelieve that, then they must."
"You are getting dictatorial, Caroline," she said.
"Perhaps I have been here too long and you would like me to go," I retorted.
Her face crumbled. "How can you say that? You know I should hate you to go. The very thought of it makes me ill."
"Then," I said coldly, "you must not make me want to go, Mama."
She looked at me in a certain surprise and said: "You're getting very hard, Caroline."
I thought: Yes, I believe I am.
That afternoon Paul came over to see me.
I was glad that there was no one about. Marie had gone into the town with Jacques to buy some stores and my mother was resting—and I presumed Everton was too.
I heard him ride up and went out to find him dismounting from his horse.
His first words were: "How are you?"
"Quite all right really."
"Are you sure? No after-effects?"
"None—only the expected bruises."
"I am so relieved. And now I have come to say goodbye. I am leaving tomorrow."
"Oh." My disappointment must have been obvious. "Come through into the garden," I went on. "It's quite warm in the sun."
We went through to the walled garden.
"I didn't expect I should leave so hurriedly," he said. "I was hoping we could have done more excursions into the mountains."
"With happier results," I added, trying to speak lightly.
"That was quite an experience, wasn't it?"
"Were they all right about the horses?"
"Oh yes. They said there are hazards in the mountains for people who are not used to them. May I tell Miss Tressidor that you will be coming to Cornwall soon?"
"Tell her that I want to come very much. I was all prepared to before you know, but my mother became ill."
"And you think she might become ill again if you made plans to leave?" He stopped short. "I suppose I shouldn't have said that," he went on. "But you must not stay here too long, you know."
"It is so difficult to know what to do. I shall discover though."
"I will tell Miss Tressidor that you want very much to visit her and will do so at the earliest possible moment. May I give that message to her?"
"Please do."
"I should so much look forward to seeing you again."
"Yes, it would be pleasant."
"I wish I could stay longer."
We were silent for a while as we walked to the seat set against the stone wall.
I sat down and he was beside me.
"What time do you leave?" I asked.
"At the crack of dawn. It's such a long journey and the train will only take me as far as Paris. I'll have to change there and then there is the crossing and the long journey to Cornwall."
We sat in silence for a while, but I had the impression that he was trying to say something to me.
I said: "Would you like some tea? My mother is resting. She usually does at this hour in the afternoon. Everton will take her tea at four o'clock."
"No ... no thanks. I just came to see you. I couldn't just go off without saying goodbye."
"Of course not. It was good of you to think of me."
"But you know I think of you! I have . . . over the last years. But then I thought of you as a child with flying dark hair and green eyes. You haven't really changed very much. Do you remember when we first met?"
"Yes. In the train. You detected my name on my bag in the luggage rack."
He laughed. "Yes, and there was a dragon guarding you."
"She still guards my sister and I expect will until her marriage."
"But you escaped from your guardians."
"Yes. Life has its compensations."
"You're a person who would value freedom."
"Very much."
"You are not in the least conventional."
"Certain conventions have come about because they make life easier. I think I approve of them. It is just the useless ones which I find restricting."
He looked at me earnestly. "You are very wise."
That made me laugh. "If you really mean that you must be the only person who thinks so."
He said: "Yes, I do believe it."
I felt he was on the point of saying something very serious to me. I waited eagerly, but the moment passed.
A cold wind had blown up and I shivered.
"You're cold," he said. "I should not keep you out of doors."
"Come into the house."
"Thank you, but I won't. There are certain things I have to do. I just came over to tell you I was leaving."
Desolation swept over me. When should I see him again? I wondered.
If he wanted to see me, perhaps he would come here.
He turned to face me. "I should go now."
I nodded.
"I shall never forget," he went on. "The mountains were beautiful, weren't they? There was a sense of being apart there . . . away from everything. Did you feel that?"
"Yes, I did."
"I felt that . . . well, never mind. I shall remember it ... the room, the balcony . . . and the damson pie. What was the rhyme?"
"Rich man, poor man . . ."
"No, not that one, the other one."
"Oh . . . 'He loves me He don't He'll have me He won't
He would if he could But he can't So he won't.' "
"Yes, that's the one."
"Fancy your remembering."
"I shall go on remembering."
"It was a pity I was so stupid as to fall off that nice little chestnut."
"At least it made our outing longer. Compensations, remember? Caroline . . . Let's drop Miss Tressidor. It's ridiculous after ... after . . ."
"Our adventure in the mountains."
"You will come to Cornwall?"
"When I can."
"You must, you know. It's a mistake to let oneself be used. There. Forget I said that. I just hope that you will come."
"I will," I promised.
"Before long?"
"Before long," I repeated.
He was looking at me intently now. "There is so much I want to say to you."
"Then say it."
He shook his head. "Not now. There isn't time."
"Are you in such a hurry?"
"I think I should go."
I held out my hand to him. He took it and kissed it.
"Au revoir, Caroline."
"Au revoir," I replied.
He looked at me appealingly and then suddenly he put his arms round me and held me tightly against him. He kissed me—not gently on the brow this time but on the lips and I sensed a sudden passion that was under an iron control. I could not help responding.
He released me with apparent reluctance.
"I must go. You see ... I must go."
"Goodbye," I said.
"Au revoir," he insisted.
I walked with him out to his horse. He mounted slowly and rode away.
I stood watching him, but he did not turn to wave goodbye.
A deep depression set in after he had gone. I wondered when I should see him again. I certainly would if I went to Cornwall. I would go to Cornwall. He had said: "Don't let yourself be used," and I knew to what he was referring.
I would speak to Everton.
My mother was clearly delighted that he had left. She dismissed him from her thoughts and gave herself up to the joys of contemplating the coming visit of Monsieur Foucard.
December had come. Christmas was imminent. Marie had decorated the house with holly and mistletoe and Jacques had brought in what he called the Noel log.
It seemed to me that we were celebrating the advent of Monsieur Foucard rather than the coming of Christmas.
He arrived a week before Christmas Day. He had his own carriage and his manservant and they had taken rooms in the auberge where Paul had stayed.
One of the first things he did was visit us. The household was in a flutter, but my mother was calm, knowing that others would have to take care of the arrangements and all she had to do was receive him, look beautiful and indulge in a mannered flirtation; and that she could do very well.
She was lying on a sofa in the small salon when he arrived. She was dressed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin and looked at least ten years younger than she actually was.
He came with an armful of hothouse flowers. I was present but he had eyes only for her. He sat by the sofa and they chatted vivaciously; after a while I made an excuse and left them together.
That was the beginning. His carriage was at the house every day. He took her out for drives in the country, to luncheon, to dinner. He dined with us.
"You must put up with our simple ways, cher Alphonse ..." (They were on Christian-name terms by this time.) "Once I could have entertained you in a manner worthy of you. It is different now ..."
She looked so pathetic and helpless that Alphonse's ever-ready chivalry must certainly come rushing to the fore.
I liked him. In spite of his bombast and flaunting of his worldly goods, there was a simplicity about him. His enthusiasm for his work, his belief in himself, his dedication, his almost boyish susceptibility to my mother's beauty coupled with his obvious speculation as to how such a beautiful woman could play the gracious hostess to his clients and replace his dead wife . . . these things endeared him to me.
I think he quite liked me—when he could spare a thought from my mother.
At first my mother was a little anxious because she said I looked older than my years and that made her seem older than she was. "And when you put on that air of knowing everything and talk in that clever-clever way, it makes you seem even older. Men don't like it, Caroline."
"If men don't like me, I shall retaliate by not liking them," I replied.
"That's no way to talk. But if you could wear your hair down . . . instead of piled up in that ridiculous way ..."
"Mama, I am nineteen years old, and there is no way of making me less."
"But it makes me seem old."
"You'll never be old."
She was somewhat mollified, and as Monsieur Foucard did not seem to be aware of my mature looks, she decided to forget them. She tripped about the house now. There was no talk of illness; she even gave up the afternoon rest. The new excitement in her life did her more good than all the ice-pads and lotions and creams for her skin. She glowed.
Christmas came. Most of the entertaining was done by the Dubussons. They had the space and were delighted to play hosts. They loved romance and it was clear that this was brewing between the affluent Monsieur Foucard and the very beautiful Madame Tressidor. The Claremonts were delighted because it was in their territory that the important Monsieur Foucard had found his contentment.
I don't think any of us were surprised when the announcement was made.
Monsieur Foucard delivered a long speech telling the company that he had been a lonely man since he had become a widower and now he had been given a new lease of life. He would be lonely no longer, for Madame Tressidor had paid him the supreme honour of promising to become his wife.
There was great rejoicing throughout the village, and nowhere more than in our house.
My mother was in a state of perpetual excitement. She talked incessantly of Alphonse's establishment in Paris and his house in the country near Lyons. He travelled about the country a good deal on business, and she would go with him.
"Bless him, he says he will not let me out of his sight!"
Everton was already talking about the Paris shops.
"They are the leaders in fashion, Madame, say what you will. No others can compete. I shall study them and we shall choose the very best."
"Oh Caroline," cried my mother, "I am so happy. Dear Alphonse! He has rescued me. I declare I could not have gone on much longer. I was getting to the end of my tether. It won't be a grand wedding. Neither of us wants that. After all, it's not the first time for either of us. There will be a great deal of entertaining later. It's so fascinating . . . all that perfume."
"Mama," I said, "I am delighted to see you so happy."
"There is so much to do. I shall keep on this house until I go to Paris. Alphonse thinks we should be married there. What a joy to escape from all this . . . squalor."
"It's hardly that. It's really a very charming house."
"Squalor compared with what I had."
"Everton will go with you?"
"Of course. How could I do without Everton?"
"And Marie . . . and Jacques . . . they more or less go with the house. I hope the Dubussons will find good tenants."
"Of course they will." She glanced sideways at me. "I suppose you will go and stay with Cousin Mary?"
I couldn't resist teasing her a little. "Cousin Mary is not really related to me, is she? She is Robert Tressidor's cousin and he has made it clear that I am no connection of his."
She was dismayed. "Oh! But you wanted to go!"
I laughed and could not stop myself saying: "You want me to go to Cousin Mary, don't you, Mama . . . now."
"It will do you good and you liked it there. You were so eager to go a little while ago."
"Yes, as eager as you were to keep me here then and as eager as you are for me to go now."
She looked stunned.
"I believe you are jealous, Caroline. Oh fancy that! My own daughter!"
"No, Mama," I said, "I am not jealous. I do not envy you one little bit. I am delighted that you have found Monsieur Foucard. And I shall go to Cousin Mary."
She laughed a little slyly. "You'll be able to renew your friendship with that man."
"You mean Paul Landower?"
She nodded. "Well, you liked him. I must say he went off very abruptly. He's not a bit like Alphonse."
"Not a bit," I agreed.
She smiled complacently. Life was working out well for her.
I could understand her gratitude to Alphonse. I had to admit I shared it. Alphonse was not only my mother's benefactor; he was mine
also.
Although everything was working out so satisfactorily it was not until Easter that the marriage took place. There was a great deal to arrange; shopping to be done; a visit to Paris for my mother and Everton where they could shop to their hearts' contentment.
I did not accompany them to Paris but remained in the house. There was a certain amount of packing to be done and every day when I woke up it was with the hope that Paul would come. I was indulging in my usual day-dreams. I had let myself imagine that he would ride to the house one day and would tell me that he had come back to see me because he had been unable to stay away. I believed that he had been on the point of saying something important to me when he had left—but for some reason had refrained from doing so.
Perhaps he had thought our acquaintance was too brief. He could not think I was too young now. So I let myself dream.
Therefore I was glad to stay in the house while my mother went to Paris. If he should return I must be there.
The spring had come, and I must say a rather regretful farewell to all the friends I had made. The kind Dubussons, the Claremonts who were so grateful to us for providing their greatest and most important business associate with such joy, to Marie with her memories of le petit soldat and Jacques who had still not succeeded in persuading his widow.
I was sorry to leave them and yet I was longing for complete freedom. I was looking forward to arriving at the station and finding the trap waiting for me. It all came back so vividly—the winding lanes, the lodge with the thatched roof and garden full of flowers and beehives, and Cousin Mary with her cool but staunch affection and her common sense. I wanted to see Jago again—and more than anything I wanted to renew my exciting friendship with Paul Landower.
I had written to Cousin Mary and told her that my mother was about to get married. She wrote back with enthusiasm. I must come as soon as I could.
I had also written to Olivia.
Her wedding would soon take place and she hinted that she would be very happy if I came. But that was something I could not do. Since Paul had come back into my life I felt less bitter about Jeremy—but I did not think I could face seeing him married to my sister.
Olivia understood. Her letters were cautious. She did not want to say too much about her happiness, but it shone through. I sincerely hoped that she would not be disillusioned, but I did not see how she could fail to be.