It began in Vauxhall Gardens

by Plaidy, Jean, 1906-1993

Caroline had unburdened herself to Wenna, just as she always had during the days of her childhood. "Come, tell Wenna." That had been their cry at all times—when she was happy or afraid. When she was a little girl and had had bad dreams she would present herself at Wenna's bedside and whisper: "Tell Wenna." Wenna treasured such memories. And during that trip to London Caroline had been captivated by the handsome domineering boy who was only, a few months older than herself. He had finally approved of Caroline, but in a patronizing way. He had even told her she had pretty hands.

  So now Wenna was reminding her of this > and she saw the soothing effect her words produced.

  "That be right, b'ain't it?" she asked the dressmaker.

  "It is indeed," said poor Miss Pennifield.

  "Now slip it off and let Miss Pennifield stitch it. And I shouldn't try it on again. My dear life, it'll be spoilt before you wear it. There . . . that's right. Now you're looking a little flushed.

  I'm going to make you lie down and have a rest before the guests arrive.'*

  "They won't be here for ages, Wenna."

  "You never know. Master Fermor will be that eager. Nothing would surprise me."

  That pleased her again. The dear sweet creature, thought Wenna. She'm so pretty when she do smile.

  Purposefully Wenna helped her to put on her dress.

  "I'm not going to lie down," said Caroline. "You foolish woman, do you think I'm an invalid?"

  "Very well then. But you'll stop fretting, my handsome, and you'll go and change into your watered silk . . . just in case the visitors arrive early. Then take a book and go to the hammock and wait there."

  "Wenna, don't order me," said Caroline.

  But she went all the same.

  Miss Pennifield took the white satin away to the sewing-room with obvious relief, and Wenna was left alone with Lady Trevenning.

  "Wenna, I don't know what we should do without you," said Maud, a little tearfully.

  She was tearful on all occasions now, it seemed to Wenna; tearful when she was happy, tearful when she was sad, tearful when she was grateful. It was a sign of weakness, Wenna believed; and she knew that it irritated Sir Charles. Wenna disliked all men, but she hated Sir Charles. He had failed to make her mistress happy; Wenna did not know why; he was always courteous and gentle. He spent much time in London, and Wenna believed she knew the purpose of those visits. "Another woman!" she would say to herself. "Nothing would surprise me. He may be deceiving that poor woman as well, for all we know. I vow he's got a regular little love nest tucked away somewhere." The supposed secret woman qualified for her pity when she thought thus; at other times Wenna hated her with a scorn almost as great as that which she had for the master.

  "Poor Miss Caroline!" said Wenna tenderly. "She's a little upset. What girl wouldn't be! With her betrothal about to be celebrated and a handsome young man coming all the way from London and all!"

  "A handsome young man whom she has only seen a few times, Wenna. I do hope she'll be happy."

  "She seems fond of him, Miss Maud, my queen."

  "But what does she know of marriage? It reminds me . . ."

  Wenna nodded. It reminded her too. Her innocent Miss Maud twenty-two years ago entering into marriage with the man her parents had chosen for her.

  "There," said Wenna, "you lie back and close your eyes. Here's

  your hartshorn. I'll sit beside you and finish off your new white petticoat. Then if you do want anything I'll be here."

  Maud nodded. She was very docile; and Wenna knew how to manage both her precious ones—Maud and Caroline.

  Now she looked into her mistress's face and thought of the young girl of twenty-two years ago—young, like Caroline, flattered, delighted, yet frightened.

  If only they knew! thought Wenna angrily.

  No man had spoken for her, and she rejoiced in that fact. They had sense enough to know when they met one who was too sharp for them.

  She thought of Sir Charles who was in one of his absentminded moods to-day. Wenna guessed something was afoot. She did not quite know what, except that it had something to do with the secret wicked life he led. This morning she had seen a letter lying on his table. It was in a spidery foreign hand. It had come with papers from his solicitors in London. He had said nothing to Miss Maud about it; she would have told Wenna if he had. As if Wenna did not know how to prise their secrets from Maud and Caroline!

  Maud was lying back with her eyes shut, the hartshorn held lightly in her delicate fingers. She looked very small and pale. Sir Charles had said: "Maud, if you would only take a little exercise it would do you the world of good." And poor Miss Maud had ridden to hounds and come back exhausted, so that Wenna had had to nurse her with her possets and her remedies.

  Wenna, knitting the thick woollen stockings she made for herself or stitching at the undergarments which she made for her mistress— she would not allow Miss Pennifield to make her ladyship's undergarments—would jab her sewing needle into fine linen as though it were a rapier with which to attack the master, or click her knitting needles as though they were clashing swords.

  She imagined the shameful things he must be doing with his secret woman in London. Her mental disparagement of Sir Charles grew in proportion to her love for Miss Maud.

  When she had been young—one of many children living in one of the cottages by the quay—and they had been glad to get her into one of the big houses, her parents had said: "We'd like to see Wenna settled, for she'll never find a husband." And wouldn't want one! thought Wenna fiercely. I get on like a barn afire without.

  Maud opened her eyes and Wenna said: "The master do seem put out this morning. I do hope nothing's wrong."

  "What do you mean?" asked Maud.

  "There was a letter came with his papers. It looked like foreign writing and he seemed worried after getting it."

  "A foreign letter," said Maud. "It would be some business, I daresay. I believe Sir Charles has interests in foreign lands."

  She spoke lightly. Business in her mind was something men were concerned with, necessary and to be tolerated, but far beyond the understanding of ladies. Wenna smiled sardonically; she had no such flattering opinions of the business of men.

  Caroline was swinging to and fro in the hammock, thinking of Fermor. She saw herself in the white satin dress. It was beautiful, but would it look beautiful to him ? When she had stayed in London she had felt very smart in her green striped dress and matching pelerine—until she had seen the London girls.

  She and her father had visited Fermor's parents; her mother had been too ill to accompany them. She remembered now the first time she had seen Fermor. It was in his mother's drawing-room. He had been a little resentful, knowing that their parents intended they should marry one day. He had shown this resentment by taking as little notice of her as he need. He did talk to her about his father's country house as though he thought the country was all she could possibly know anything about. The parents whispered about them. "How charming young people are," his mother had said. "Love's young awakening is so affecting!" That had embarrassed Caroline and rendered Fermor gruffer than ever.

  When they rode together in the Row he seemed to like her better, for she was a good horsewoman, and she fancied that he would always want people who belonged to him to be perfect.

  He tried to pretend that he was much older than she was, but she reminded him that it was only a few months. "But you have never been away from the country before," he retorted. "That makes all the difference." "A few months can only be a few months wherever you live," she answered with spirit. He pretended to be very shocked. "What! Contradicting a gentleman! That is very bad manners." "What about contradicting a lady? In the country gentlemen are supposed to be polite to ladies." "Is that why they are supposed to be such bumpkins?" he had asked; and he had the last word on that subject. She believed he always would have the last word.

  But during the ball which was held at his parents' house he had changed a little. She and he were considered t
oo young to attend

  and had sat in a gallery with his grandparents and some elderly aunts to watch the dancers. She believed she had looked rather pretty in her blue silk party dress. Then he had said: "You have pretty hands. They don't look as if they could manage a horse as they do." It was a sign of approval. He was becoming reconciled to the fact that one day he would have to marry her.

  After that he had become boastful; he had told her of incredible adventures in the streets of London; how he had been a highwayman at one time robbing the rich for the sake of the poor. In some stories he was a terror, in others a hero. She liked his stories though she did not believe them, but it was comforting to think that he took the trouble to make them up for her amusement. They had been allowed to drive in the carriage through the streets of London. He pointed out the Peelers in their top hats and blue tail-coats and white trousers. He asked her to take particular note of their truncheons. He told her that the streets of London were full of dangerous criminals; and he had taken a great delight in pointing out people in the crowd. "There is a murderer!" "Oh look, there's a pickpocket." And to please him she had cried out in assumed fear.

  He had been ready to like her during those days. They had been taken to Hyde Park to see the Fair which had been erected there to celebrate the wedding. She had been thrilled by the fluttering flags, the bands and dancing, the boats on the Serpentine; the fireworks had especially enchanted her. A servant had been in charge of them and they had been allowed to eat ices which were sold in one of the tents, for everyone was saying that ices were a refined luxury.

  On the way back, she remembered, he had told her of an execution he had seen outside Newgate Jail: he had also seen pickpockets ducked.

  London had seemed to her a delightful and charming place, and Fermor the most delightful person in it.

  She wished she had not seen him kiss the parlourmaid on that last night. Neither of them knew that she saw. He was not yet fifteen but big enough for twenty; and the parlourmaid was a fluffy, giggling sixteen. She had slapped him, as Caroline would not have dared to do. "You . . . Master Fermor ... up to tricks again!" Caroline had gone shivering to her room and had been rather glad that her father would take her home next day.

  She had not seen him since. That was three years ago. The journey between London and Cornwall was a tedious one, particularly on the Cornish side of the Tamar where there was no railway. Wheels were continually stuck in the ruts, carriages overturned, and isolated travellers were a prey to weather and worse. It was not a journey to be undertaken except on serious business.

  And now she was nearly eighteen and her betrothal was to take place on her birthday. She wanted to be married; she believed she wanted to marry Fermor; but into her pleasantest thoughts of him would come a Fermor she had met only by accident, Fermor whom a parlourmaid had slapped and accused of being up to his tricks . . . again. Again!

  So . . . she was afraid.

  He came to find her in the hammock. She had heard the arrival and was expecting him.

  "Caroline . . . Caroline!" he called.

  She studied him with excitement and pleasure. He was very tall and blue-eyed. He was bronzed, the same braggart whom she had met in London, yet more than three and a half years older than he had been then, and it seemed, far, far wiser, completely sure of himself, already seeming to be a man of wide experience.

  Smiling he took her hand and kissed it; she watched him solemnly. Suddenly, laughing aloud, he tipped her out of the hammock.

  "Unceremonious," he said, in the short clipped speech which had not been his before, "but necessary. How tall are you, Caroline? Why, scarcely up to my shoulder. Let me look at you- You're prettier than you were." He kissed her swiftly on the cheek. "Well, haven't you something to say to me? Some greeting? How does a young lady greet her affianced husband?"

  She tried to think of something to say and could not.

  "I was told I'd find you here," he said helpfully.

  She said shyly: "Do you remember when we last met? It was just over three years ago, wasn't it? They made us talk together and they whispered about us."

  "Why yes, I remember."

  "And we hated each other because they were going to make us marry."

  "Nonsense! I was enchanted from the minute I set eyes on you."

  "That is not a true thing to say."

  "Well, it's a very nice thing," he said.

  She laughed and he put his arm through hers.

  "I'll show you the gardens," she said.

  As they walked he told her how he had spent the time during the waiting. He spoke as though he had scarcely been able to endure

  the dreary days between their last meeting and this one. They had despaired of educating him, he told her. So he had made do with the Grand Tour. He was just back. The sun had been hot in Italy— hence his sun-baked appearance.

  "I like it," she said shyly.

  They were determined to be pleased with each other. Everybody was pleased, except Wenna. She, thought Caroline, would like me to hate him so that she could comfort me.

  She led him into the house for she knew she must not be too long alone with him unchaperoned. She sat next to him during dinner; after dinner she talked with him. And that night she could scarcely sleep for thinking of him, but she kept remembering that occasion when she had seen him on the stairs with the servant.

  She reminded herself that she had nothing to fear. Her parents had arranged the marriage; it was a convenient marriage. Of course love matches were supposed to happen without the aid of parents. But theirs should be a love match which had been arranged for them. Caroline could not bear that it should be otherwise.

  It had all happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly. The day of the great ball had come and everyone had been well and happy then. Caroline had worn her white satin and Fermor had said she looked like an angel or a fairy. They had danced together; and the gentry from the surrounding country had drunk their health in champagne. They were truly affianced; and she wore a diamond ring on her finger to prove it.

  The villagers had looked in at the great windows. Some, very daring, had come quite close, and had had to be turned away by Meaker the butler.

  It was a hot night. Who was it who had suggested they should go out and dance on the lawn? Why not? There was a moon and it was so romantic. The young people had begged for permission to do so. Their elders had demurred, yet with that hesitancy which means consent. Mammas and Papas had sat on the terraces to watch.

  The dew was falling and Lady Trevenning, sensitive to cold, was the first to notice it. She looked for a servant whom she might order to bring her a wrap. Sir Charles was standing near her,

  "What is it, Maud?" he asked.

  She adjusted the lace scarf about her shoulders. "It's a little chilly. I need a wrap."

  "I'll go and get one," he said.

  He came into the porch. There was a young girl sitting on the seat there—a young man beside her. Her dress was black and she was very small. He saw her green eyes as she lifted her head to smile at him.

  She was quite different, of course. He recognized her at once as Jane Collings the daughter of his old friend James, the M.F.H. But for the moment she had made his heart beat faster. He thought of the letter which he kept in his pocket, and as he went into the house he forgot why he had come in; he went to the quiet of the library and taking out the letter read it through once more. It was from the Mother Superior of the Convent Notre Dame Marie. She was anxious on account of Melisande. The child was now nearly fifteen and had learned all that the nuns could teach her. She was bright but not serieuse. The Mother had had a long talk with the child and with the nuns who had taught her, and none of them thought that the Convent was any longer the ideal place for Melisande. The girl was restless; she had been caught slipping out of the Convent without permission. She liked to visit the auberge and if possible talk to strangers who stayed there. It was disquieting and the Mother was perturbed. Would Monsieur let them know his wis
hes? It was the advice of herself and those nuns who knew Melisande so well that the child should be taken from the Convent—much as they would miss her and the money Monsieur had paid them so regularly. It was their considered opinion that Melisande should be put to some useful work. She was educated well enough to become a governess. She might be good with her needle if she would apply herself more diligently. The Mother sent her felicitations and assured him that she was his sincere friend Jeanne de l'lsle Goroncourt.

  He had thought of Melisande continually since he had had the letter.

  He could not make up his mind what to do. Perhaps he would go to see Fenella. She had advised him once, and her advice had been good; moreover she had gained wisdom with the years, and he was sure she would be only too happy to help him solve his problem.

  As he sat there the door opened and Wenna came in. She looked at him in some surprise and her sharp eyes went to the letter in his hands.

  He said: "Oh, Wenna, her ladyship wants a wrap."

  She had come near to the table and he noticed that she continued to look at the letter. He felt uneasy. He laid it down and immediately wished he had not done so. He said quickly: "It is getting chilly out there."

  "I'll go and get it... at once," she said.

  When Wenna went out with it, Maud said: "I thought he had forgotten. It was a long time ago that I asked him."

  "Men!" said Wenna fiercely. "Thinking of nothing but themselves ! Why, you'm chilled to the bone. You shall come in at once and I'll get 'ee a hot drink."

  "Wenna, Wenna, what of my guests? You forget I'm not your pet now. I'm the hostess."

  "You'll catch your death," prophesied Wenna, as she had prophesied a thousand times. But this time she was right.

  The next morning her mistress was shivering yet feverish when she went in to her, and two days later she was dead.

  There was great excitement in the Auberge Lefevre.

  "It is Monsieur himself!" cried Madame. "Ah, Monsieur, it is a long time since we saw you. Come in. Come in. Your room shall be prepared for you. You will drink a glass of wine with my husband, will you not? Then we shall see about food for you. RagoUt ... a little of that crimped sole that you like so much ? Or the roast beef of your own country perhaps?"