“I certainly am.” It was true enough. And she could feel the whole household stirring with the excitement of the arrivals. How characteristic it was of her mother to have retired so capably until the worst of it was over.
Greg had just emerged from old Mr. Tretteign’s suite. “Is Mr. Ross with his grandfather?” Christina asked him.
“Oh no, miss. Not in all his dirt. Mr. Tretteign will see him in an hour’s time.”
“Oh.” This too was characteristic. “I see. Then perhaps you will ask my grandfather if he will consent to see my mother after that. She is resting at present.”
Downstairs, Richard and her Aunt Tretteign fell upon her with questions. They had both missed the actual moment of the arrival since she had been resting and he practicing shots in the billiard room at the back of the house.
“But I know no more than you do,” she was protesting when Ross appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Ross! My darling boy!” Mrs. Tretteign could be relied on to act up to an occasion. “I’ve been in anguish about you. Where in the world have you been?”
“In France, Mother.” His dry tone told Christina that he was under no illusions about the extent of his mother’s “anguish.”
Now the exclamations began in good earnest, and Christina listened with amused respect as he parried some of his mother’s volley of questions and answered those that suited him. How he had got to France remained obscure, but he let it seem that his mission had been entirely in connection with his aunt and cousin. Christina’s mother, it appeared, had been involved in Moreau’s conspiracy against Bonaparte and it had become necessary for her to leave France without delay. She had, however, had influential friends, the Empress Josephine among them, and had contrived to secure papers—under false names—for herself, her daughter and him.
“You mean you left France openly?” Mrs. Tretteign was amazed. “But how?”
“On an American ship. Oh yes, technically they are not supposed to ply directly from a French port to an English one, but of course they do—it suits everyone to close a blind eye to the business. I won’t say we didn’t have some anxious moments when we were waiting for a fair wind—but, here we are.”
“And Mrs. Tretton proposes to stay?” Her sister-in-law sounded less than delighted at the idea.
“Well, I should think so. Where more properly than here? It must make you very happy, Christina”—for the first time he addressed her directly—“to be reunited with them.”
“Well, you know, it does,” she said.
“How long is it?” Was he digressing on purpose to avoid more difficult questions? “Six years—seven years—since you saw them last? You must find a great change in your sister.”
“I certainly do, seeing that she was only twelve when I saw her last I’m surprised I recognized her. Mamma has hardly changed at all though. But, poor Mamma, is this the end of her hopes of getting back at least some part of her family’s fortune?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You mean, she is penniless?” That was Mrs. Tretteign, sharply.
“Not entirely, I think. But anyway I’m sure Grandfather will do the handsome thing by them. One sight of Sophie! How could he help …” He stopped, coloring. “And that reminds me, it is almost my hour to see him. How is he? Greg says he’s not been well.”
“No, very far from it.” Christina put warning into her voice. “He’s better, now, but the doctor says any new cause of irritation might prove fatal. So, be careful, Ross.”
“I’m always careful. You should know that, Chris.”
“Should I?”
“Oh, Ross,” his mother echoed Christina’s words, “pray be careful. He’s been so angry with you. Why did you not even write?”
He laughed. “Dear Mamma, had it not occurred to you that the mail service between France and England has been—shall we say—suspended? But I’ll be careful.” An impartial smile all around and he turned and left them.
“Well,” said Richard, “it doesn’t look as if we are to learn a great deal about Ross’s adventures in France. How do you think he got there in the first place?” This, with a sharp glance, for Christina.
“I simply cannot imagine. Aunt, where do you think we should put my mother and sister?” She always tried to make a point of consulting Mrs. Tretteign about her domestic arrangements.
“Oh, where you will. I have no doubt you have it all settled long since. But I hope you will make it clear to your grandfather that he will have to increase the housekeeping allowance if he intends to let them stay. I don’t propose to go on short commons to feed a couple of refugees.”
“You are speaking of my mother and sister.” Retreating to her study, Christina was surprised to find herself so angry. But then, the whole day had been one of surprises. Amazing to have felt such a flood of emotion at this reunion. For so long now, her only feeling about her mother had been one of anger. She had been seventeen when the question of a return to France had arisen. Her mother had had letters from her family suggesting that if she returned their chances of salvaging at least part of the family estate would be much improved. Then the arguments had started. She had taken it for granted, at first, that her husband would accompany her, and had been amazed when he had flatly refused. Looking back, Christina could understand that amazement. Her father had always given in on minor points of domestic economy; had equally always been totally firm on the major issues. This time, he was firm.
Quarrels of a dreadfully increasing bitterness had followed. At the time, she had been completely, wholeheartedly on her father’s side. Now, looking back across the great chasm of time, she remembered phrases of her mother’s: “This barbarous country,” “I’ve done my best for your sake,” “No life …” and, always recurring, “What about the girls? What future is there here for them?” And, her father, shrugging, “Well, not the guillotine, at all events.”
In the end, inevitably, there had been a compromise. Father might be firm, but so was Mother; it must have been, originally, an attraction of similarity between them. She would return to France, with some lip service paid to the idea that, having succeeded in her mission, she might rejoin him. Then, of course, had come the question of the children. This was another evening that Christina remembered with anguished vividness. Twelve-year-old Sophie was already in bed in her curtained cot in the corner of the room. The rest of them had finished their frugal supper and were sitting at the rough log table, pushed close up to the wood fire. Outside, snow was falling as if it would never stop; inside there was the appearance of comfort, of amity.
“I shall take the girls, of course.” Her mother had thrown it across the table like a challenge.
“Of course?” Father had put the query lightly enough. “Well—Sophie, I suppose. She is too young to do without a mother. But—Christina? I think she must decide for herself. What do you say, Chris? France and the hope of luxury, or a log cabin and your old father to care for?”
“That’s not fair”—she could even remember her mother’s tone—”she’s too young to decide. It’s her whole life, remember. What chance has she of a respectable marriage, out here in the wilds?”
“You’d rather she married a Robespierre or a Danton? But, it’s true, it is a hard decision for a child to make. You must think about it, Chris, very carefully.”
She had been crying, she remembered, all this time, but had spoken up at once, ignoring the tears that slipped coldly down her cheeks. “I want to stay, Father. I don’t need to think about it.” And then, a wild appeal to her mother to stay too—wild, and useless. She did not like to remember it … or the painful days that followed while her mother made her arrangements, and waited for spring. Had she and her father really believed Mother would go through with it? Maybe not. She remembered another evening, a fine spring one, when, for the first time, they sat down at table alone together and made a gallant pretense at conversation. After that, Father had grown silent, withdrawn, though invariably kind to her. H
e had always worked hard, now he worked like a madman, and took a madman’s risks. Well—they had paid off. Until the last one that had ended in the Indian ambush, the slow and agonizing death. At least she had been there, when they had brought him home, to hold his hand and make him the promises he asked for. And she would keep them.
Betty was tapping on the door to announce that her mother was awake and asking for her. “Miss Sophie’s still dead to the world—oh, miss, ain’t it the most romantic thing, and her so lovely too!” Was there sympathy, as well as excitement, in Betty’s gaze? Very likely. Her grandfather was not a man to keep secrets. Her engagement to Ross, though never formally announced, must have been general knowledge in the servants’ hall. And now—what? Had the servants already reached the conclusion that she was trying to hold at arm’s length?
No time for these thoughts. “I’ll come at once, Betty.”
She found her mother already up and dressed in the highly becoming blue gown she had had Betty press for her while she slept. The elegant simplicity of line and cut all said Paris, and, Christina thought wryly, money. No, that was unfair; even in the wilds, when she had been reduced to making her own clothes, her mother had always contrived to look elegant.
“Will I do, love?” Her mother had read her thoughts. And then, without waiting for the unnecessary answer. “And now, tell me about this old tartar of a grandfather. How is he best handled?”
Christina could not help smiling. There was something admirable, practical and French in the way her mother took first things first. “Well …” She thought it over for a moment. “He’s used to having his own way, of course, in everything. I think, perhaps, my grandmother could manage him—I suspect he was devoted to her. But she died when Richard’s mother was born. I think he’s been lonely ever since.”
“I see.” Mrs. Tretton patted her elegantly smooth coiffure. “And the daughter-in-law, your Aunt Tretteign?”
“Infuriates him. Well,” dispassionately, “I’m sorry for her, but she’s a very silly woman.” She ought to tell her mother about Ross’s illegitimacy … about Ross … but how to begin? Besides, he had made that appeal. At least she must wait till she had talked to him.
“There’s a great deal I don’t know, isn’t there?” Her mother was alarmingly quick. “Never mind, there will be plenty of time … too much of it if this place is really the end-of-the-world it seems.”
“It is.” Christina had already wondered how much better her mother would find the Dark House than the American wilds. But here was Betty again, to summon Mrs. Tretton to old Mr. Tretteign’s rooms, and add, with an unbearably knowing look, “And Mr. Ross is in your study, miss.”
Ross was prowling about her room, picking up papers and putting them down again. “Oh, there you are, Chris. We must talk, you and I. But, first, how are they? Not too exhausted by their journey, I hope. How gallantly they bore it! Why did you never tell me—”
“Tell you?”
He looked, suddenly, embarrassed. “Why … about them. It seems so strange.”
“I suppose it does. As to being exhausted, they seem none the worse. Sophie’s still asleep.”
“That’s good. That will do her more good than anything. Chris …”
“Yes?”
“There’s so much to say.”
“Yes.” Indeed there was. She thought of their last meeting, of his wild accusations. Was she, at least, to get her apology?
He moved away to the window, then back again. Well, it was no wonder if he found it hard to begin. She took pity on him. “You’ve heard about Barnes?” Anything to get the talk flowing. “Yes. Poor fool. I sent a message, you know, warning them.” He was angry now. “I knew it was unsafe.”
“Yes—poor Barnes. And the others—in Dover gaol—can you do nothing for them, Ross?”
“How can I?” And then, at her quick exclamation, “Oh I’ll try. I might at least get them pressed for the navy.”
“They would think that better?”
“I expect so. But, they’re nothing. What about M. Tissot? You’re on terms with Trevis. Has he ever spoken of him?”
“Not a word. I can’t understand it. If M. Tissot betrayed the rest of your plans, why not you?”
“Some odd notion of gratitude, perhaps. After all, we saved his life, you and I. Oh—and that reminds me, Chris, I owe you an apology, do I not?”
“It’s no matter.” How trivial it all seemed now. There was worse, she suspected, much worse to come. “But, Ross, what about you? Is it safe for you to be here? Suppose M. Tissot is still lurking somewhere—he can betray you at any moment.”
“Let him!” Carelessly. “No need to look so anxious, Chris. I’m in good standing now. I brought Pitt news—bad news, it’s true, but what he had to know. Villeneuve’s out.”
“The French admiral? Good God, where’s he bound?”
“To rendezvous with the Spanish Fleet, no doubt, beat Nelson and clear the way for the invasion.”
“Dear God.”
“Yes. And not a word to a soul, Chris. I should not have told you, but somehow I have a habit of telling you things.”
“You can trust me.”
“I know. I should always have known. Chris …”
“Yes?”
He had moved away to gaze out the window at the gray prospect of marsh and sea. “Grandfather’s come round. He’s pleased with me—absurdly so. He thinks I’ve done something romantic—gallant.” His voice was bitter. “He does not realize, nor could I tell him, that it was less a question of my rescuing your mother than of her saving me. If her friends had not provided us with papers—it was touch and go for a while there in Paris. She’s a wonderful woman, your mother. You never told me.”
“I don’t think I quite knew.”
“And … your sister. Sophie.” He said the name as if it had a special magic. “You never told me about her.”
Christina managed a laugh. “When I last saw her she was twelve years old, with skinny plaits, and puffy-eyed with crying.”
“It’s hard to imagine … but, of course, she’s so young … a child—an enchanting child. You must be very happy, Chris.”
“Yes.”
“But … this is not what I meant to say.… The thing is this. I pointed out to Grandfather that everything is different now. It was monstrous, before, that he should have taken no thought for your mother and sister—in fact”—reproach in his voice now—“I cannot think how you came not to object. But, now they are here, it changes everything.”
“Quite so.”
“I’m relying on your mother, you know. She’ll bring him round, if anyone can. I told him, of course, that she knew nothing about that crackbrained will of his. And, I told him …”
“Yes?”
“Why, that it was crackbrained. You can’t do things that way, Chris. I can’t think why we allowed ourselves even to pretend to conform with his views. It was monstrous. I should not have let you. At least I hope I’ve made amends now. He tells me, by the way, that Richard is devoted to you.”
“Does he?” On monosyllables there was a fair chance of keeping her voice steady.
“Anyway.” He came back from the window to stand over her where she sat at her desk, her head bent low over her papers to conceal her face. “I think I’ve persuaded him that that will of his cannot possibly stand. I am relying on your mother to finish the business. So, it remains only to say how grateful I am to you, Chris. I had no right to ask it—I understand that now. You must forgive me—I think I understood nothing.”
“And now—you understand everything?”
“You’re not angry, Chris? I thought you’d be so relieved. Oh—it’s awkward, I know, but after all there was no official announcement. We’re just—back where we started from.”
“Precisely.” She made a little business of looking for a paper on her desk. “Ah, here it is. I was writing to summon Foxton when you arrived. You think I should finish the letter?”
“I hope so.
Ah—what’s that?” With a long stride, he was at the door of the room, and now she realized that, all the time they had been talking, he had been listening for something.
Sophie was at the top of the stairs, looking down at Richard, her dark curls framing her little face. “You must be my cousin Richard?” Once again the faintly rolled French r.
“Yes, and most enchanted to make your acquaintance, Cousin Sophie. How barbarous not even to have known …” He met her halfway on the stairs and bent to kiss her hand.
“No, no, not like that …” A little ripple of laughter. “Have you no graces, you Englishmen? A French sans-culotte would do it with more of an air. But Ross is worse—he doesn’t even try.” And then, as if noticing him for the first time, “Oh, there you are, Ross. You see, I am all ready for my tour of the chateau—what do you call it? Oh—I have it—the Grrrange. Will I do, do you think?” She took two dancing steps off the bottom stair, and whirled to show off the fit of her dark-green walking dress.
“You are far too fine,” said Ross. “You’ll get your skirts covered in mud, child. And as for those slippers!”
She put a tiny foot on the bottom stair and looked down at it reflectively. “They’re pretty, are they not? I brought you a pair, Tina, from Paris. I bought them three sizes larger than mine. I do hope that will be right. They’re all the rage there now. As to this dress”—back to Ross—”it’s just an old thing—who cares if it gets a little muddy? And you promised me something funny for my feet—I know, don’t tell me—pattens, they’re called. See what a good pupil I am! Ross has been improving my English for me,” she explained to Richard and Christina. “It was shockingly rusty when we first met, was it not, Ross?”
“It was indeed. You used to talk about gentlesmen, I remember, and sing a song about nymphs and sheephards. But, come, let us find you these pattens or it will be dark before we make our tour of the Grrrange.” He imitated her pronunciation as best he could.
Watch the Wall, My Darling Page 18