Cat sprang at her. She knocked Marie-Thérèse to the ground. They rolled over and over, screaming and kicking and punching until they rolled against the long black skirt of a nun’s habit. After that, the end was swift.
The two of them stood in front of the Reverend Mother, Marie-Thérèse with her head bent, Catharine staring defiantly at the wall.
“Catharine. I should like an explanation.”
Cat continued to stare at the wall. She said nothing.
“Marie-Thérèse. Perhaps you would give me one.”
Marie-Thérèse did. She had plenty to say, and all of it exonerated her. The Reverend Mother heard her out, and then, alone with Cat, made one last attempt to secure an explanation. When Cat obstinately refused to give her one, the Reverend Mother sighed. She explained, quietly, that this kind of insubordination left her with no choice. She was not necessarily prepared to accept Marie-Thérèse’s account, but when she asked for an explanation from Cat, in a matter as serious as this, she expected obedience; she expected a reply.
She did not receive one; neither did Edouard or Hélène. Later the same day, after a flurry of meetings, Cat was expelled.
She was tutored at home for the remainder of the schoolyear, and then it was explained to her, gently and carefully by Hélène and by Edouard, that they had decided to send her to boarding school in England. She would go to a very famous school next September. Meanwhile, the summer would be spent in England, at Quaires.
Cat listened to all this in silence. She could not bear to look at her father for the pain and love and indignation she felt. She almost told them then; she longed to tell them, but she knew the words would hurt them as much as they had hurt her when Marie-Thérèse spoke them. So she said nothing.
“You do understand, Cat?” Hélène said gently. “We felt it would be best for you to begin again, somewhere else.” She paused, and Cat, who could see how hard she was trying, felt worse.
“We’ll go to Quaires,” Edouard said. “We’ll spend the summer there. It will be a marvelous summer. And then you can put all this behind you, Cat. It will be in the past.”
It would never be in the past, Cat knew that, but she did not say so.
“I understand,” she answered stiffly.
And she did, she thought. One summer at Quaires, and then banishment. They left for England in the middle of July.
The croquet lawn at Quaires lay to the southeast of the house, and was bathed by the morning sun. It was almost eleven o’clock, a perfect summer’s day. Christian, standing in the center of the lawn, in a crumpled white linen suit, swung his mallet back and forth meditatively, and surveyed the disposition of the croquet balls. Hélène, whom he had taught, watched him carefully; she had just played, she felt, an extremely crafty shot. From the terrace behind them, Edouard sat watching them contentedly, stretched out in the sun, the morning’s newspapers tossed to one side.
Christian frowned. Though he was capable of gallantry, it did not extend to the strategy of games, which he liked to win. He gave Hélène an amiable smile; he lined up his shot. There was a sharp click as mallet connected with ball. Christian ambled across to look at the damage done. He squatted down on his heels, and then, as Hélène approached, looked up with a lazy grin.
“I rather think that’s done for you. I rather think I’ve won.”
“Damn you, Christian.” Hélène looked down at her ball, which had been knocked smartly to one side, and at Christian’s, which had traveled smartly through the final hoop. Hers was now virtually unplayable. She sighed.
“Oh, all right. I concede. You’re a fiend at this game, Christian. I’m never going to beat you…”
Christian laughed, and put an arm around her shoulders. Together they strolled back across the grass to Edouard.
“Darling, you never had a prayer. He was determined to finish you off, and I know why. It’s time for the cricket to begin at Lords. You want to listen to the test match—admit it, Christian.”
“I confess.” Christian threw himself down in a chair.
“You could watch it on the television, if you’d prefer, Christian,” Hélène began.
“Watch it? Watch it? Certainly not. That wouldn’t be the right way to go about it at all. Far too modern. Quite un-English. No, I shall sit here, if I may, and listen to it on the wireless. I shall be entirely occupied until this evening. And if Edouard had any sense, he would do the same. Going up to London, on a day like this. You’re insane, Edouard…”
“What he means is, he’ll listen with great attention for half an hour, and then he’ll fall asleep…” Edouard stood up with a smile, and a glance at Hélène. “And I don’t want to go to London either, but it won’t take long.” He glanced at his watch. “An hour with Smith-Kemp at most, then I want to stop in at Eaton Square to pick up some gardening books…If the traffic’s not too bad, I should be back by three. Round about the time Australia bowls England out, I should imagine…”
Christian picked up a cushion and threw it at him. Edouard caught it.
“Absolute rubbish. I anticipate a heroic stand.” Christian yawned. “Give Charles Smith-Kemp my regards. Tell him not to forget the regulation glass of sherry. He ought to be in an Agatha Christie novel—have you ever told him that? The absolute model of the family solicitor, who might—just possibly—have been the very man who did the wicked deed in the late colonel’s library…”
“Not anymore.” Edouard smiled. “Charles has a new passion. He’s fallen in love with the modern world—high technology. Well, technology anyway. They’ve moved offices. Plate glass and rubber plants and the very latest thing in what he still calls typing machines. I’m to be given a tour of inspection…”
“Oh, God. Is nothing sacred?” Christian opened one eye. “What’s happened to the old offices?”
“They’re being pulled down. An insurance company is going to build a tower block on the site. Sorry about that, Christian—I don’t like it either.”
“Well, at least nothing changes here,” Christian said in a disgruntled voice. He lifted his hand in a lazy salute. “See you later.”
He reached across and switched on his transistor radio, one of his few concessions to modernity. As Hélène and Edouard turned back into the cool rooms of the house, the soothing tones of the cricket commentary drifted in the air behind them.
Edouard put his arm around Hélène’s waist; she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Will it be all right, Edouard?”
“Perfectly all right, I promise you. If necessary, we’ll take out an injunction, but I don’t think it will even come to that. Don’t worry about it, darling. I’m not worrying, and neither is Smith-Kemp. He says it’s open and shut: that film will never be made.” He bent his head, and kissed her. “Now—tell me—what are you going to do? You don’t want to change your mind and come with me?”
“Oh, Edouard—I’d like to. But I’d better not. I promised Floryan I’d finish going over the new designs—I need to look at those provisional figures. If I start now, I’ll be finished by the time you’re back…”
Edouard smiled. “You work too hard.”
This was a customary joke between them, and Hélène gave him a little push. The push turned into an embrace.
“And the children?” Edouard said eventually.
“They’ll be well occupied. Lucien and Alexandre are going to have a picnic lunch in the treehouse—to which I’m invited.” She smiled. “And Cat said she might go riding. If I finish in time, I’ll go with her.”
“Well, just don’t let her go near Khan, that’s all. I know she’s longing to ride him, and she mustn’t. It’s not safe.”
“Edouard, she won’t. Cat’s very sensible about things like that. Stop worrying. You must go—you’ll be late…”
“Oh damn—having to do this on such a perfect day. Damn Angelini…” He paused, and his arms tightened around her waist. “We did do the right thing to come here for the summer, didn’t we?”
“Yes. I do. I’m certain of it. It was just a phase, perhaps, as you said…” He glanced down at his watch. “God, you’re right. I must go. Don’t forget Christian’s wine—he likes the Montrachet. There’s some in the fridge. Oh, and if you could persuade Cassie not to iron my shirts. George regards that as his province, he mentioned it again this morning…”
“They like squabbling. They both enjoy it very much.” Hélène smiled. They crossed out from the house onto the gravel sweep at the front, and Edouard opened the door of the black Aston-Martin.
“I know they do.” He paused. “Unlike us.”
“Unlike us.”
Their eyes met; Hélène rested her hand in his.
“I love you,” Edouard said. He kissed her palm, and then folded her fingers over it, as if they could enclose the imprint of his lips.
He climbed into his car; the engine roared; he lifted his hand in a wave, and Hélène watched the car until it disappeared around the bend in the drive.
She lifted her face happily to the sun, and drew in a deep breath of the still, sweet air. In the trees that framed the drive there was a covey of wood pigeons. She listened for a moment to their soft murmuring, then she turned back into the cool shade of the house.
Cat came clattering down the stairs at full tilt as Hélène walked into the hall. She was dressed for riding, in jodhpurs and a white open-necked shirt; her riding hat swung from her arm.
“Isn’t it the most perfect day?” She crossed to Hélène, and gave her an impulsive kiss. “I thought I’d go for my ride now—before it gets too hot. May I?”
“I can’t come with you now, Cat…”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m not going far. We could all go out again this evening anyway, with Daddy. I’ll be back in time for lunch—and I’ll be starving. Please…”
“Oh, all right. But don’t go too far.” Hélène smiled. “Oh, and you won’t go near Khan, will you, Cat? Your father mentioned it specially…”
“Lord, no. I’ll take Hermione, I think. Poor old thing. She needs some exercise; she’s getting fat. I haven’t taken her out for days. Where did I leave my crop?”
“Where you always leave it. On the floor. Cassie put it with the coats and boots, I think…”
“Got it.”
Cat stopped and turned back with a smile. She tilted her head with a quick impatient movement which was very characteristic of her, and Hélène, looking at her tall slender figure, at her tanned eager face, and at the hair, which had now grown back after its savage cutting and once again curled and waved to her shoulders, thought, suddenly: how beautiful she is, my daughter.
Cat turned and ran out of the house, in the direction of the stables, and Hélène watched her, the love she felt for her suddenly painfully intense.
When she had disappeared from view, Hélène fetched some wine for Christian, who had, indeed, fallen asleep, and then walked through the quiet house to the room she used as a study.
It looked out to the west; in the distance she could just see the small figures of Lucien and Alexandre, hastening across the lawn with Cassie and their nanny. They seemed to be carrying an immense amount of equipment for this picnic. Baskets, and rugs, and cushions, and a cricket bat…She smiled, and began to lay out on her desk the designs for Wyspianski’s new collection, together with its provisional marketing details.
She worked on them, quietly and pleasurably, for almost an hour. Then, just after twelve, the telephone rang.
She picked it up herself, thinking it might be Edouard, who would have reached London by now. But it was not Edouard: the line buzzed; there was a breathy pause. Then, without explanation or preamble, Thad began to speak. He was calling from Heathrow airport.
For a moment, Hélène was so surprised that she could hardly speak; she could not even take in what Thad was saying.
“So, I’m coming down now. I have a car waiting. I can be there in less than an hour. Is your husband there?”
“No, Thad, he’s not. How did you get this number?”
“Someone gave it to me, I guess. And the address. Look, I have to see you, and I have to talk.”
“Thad, if you want to talk to me, you can do it through my lawyer.”
“I can’t. I don’t like lawyers. They fuck things up. I need to see you. Not just about this. There’s something else. It’s important.”
“Thad. Wait a minute…”
“You can always shut the door in my face.”
He giggled. Hélène heard the familiar rusty sound, on its rising note; then the dial tone droned in her ear. He had hung up. Annoyed, she replaced the receiver and opened her desk drawer. There lay the copy of the script Thad had sent; one copy—the other was with Charles Smith-Kemp. Paris and London, a love story of a sort: another reworking, by Thad, of episodes from her life. This time, though, she was determined the film would not be made. She pushed the drawer closed and returned to her work.
Once, Thad’s interference would have affected her so much that she would have found it impossible to concentrate on anything else. But not now. Now Edouard had made her responsible for this collection, and for the development of the whole jewelry division of de Chavigny. That mattered to her; she would not allow even Thad to intrude. She bent her head, and after fifteen minutes or so, almost forgot him.
Once, in the distance, out of sight from this side of the house, she heard the sound of hooves. Cat was leaving for her ride; she looked up, and smiled, then bent again to Wyspianski’s designs.
Just when she made the decision, Cat was not sure. Was it before she even left the house? Was it when she came to the stables, and looked at sweet-tempered Hermione, who was such a dull ride? Or was it when, hesitating between the other horses, she approached the stall where Khan was stabled, and he whinnied as she lifted her hand? She stroked him then, tentatively, for she knew he was unpredictable, and Khan blew gently down his nose, and nudged her with his velvety muzzle—Khan, sixteen hands high, the most beautiful black stallion she had ever seen—whom she had expressly been forbidden to ride.
She was not conscious of making any decision even then. One moment she was in the yard, the next she had fetched the saddle and tack. He stood docilely while she fixed them in place; when she led him out, he came as obediently as a lamb. Cat looked at him doubtfully; it was still not too late to change her mind. But it was such a beautiful day, and he was so beautiful, and she knew she rode well. She imagined the scene, later that afternoon.
“Oh, by the way, Daddy. I rode Khan…”
Edouard might be angry, but he would also be impressed. Suddenly the temptation was too strong to resist. She mounted him, and Khan let her mount without any sign of nerves. The moment she was on his back, Cat felt a winging confidence. She pressed her knees against his flanks, and urged him on; Khan obediently walked out of the yard, down the back drive, along the lane, up onto the bridle path that went on for miles over the Downs.
There was not one other person in sight. The sky was a cloudless blue; the sun warmed her arms; Khan had a mouth like silk, responsive to the slightest touch. With a feeling of elation, she urged him into a trot, and—as always when she was on horseback—all Cat’s anxieties fell away. Nothing seemed terrible anymore, not even the things Marie-Thérèse had said. They were distanced now, by the weeks in this place she loved. What did she care for Marie-Thérèse? She was petty. The things she said were petty, and in any case, Cat would never see her again.
A lark rose ahead of them, soaring into the sky, and Cat reached forward to stroke Khan’s powerful neck. She began to chant to him softly, the poem which ha
d given him his name:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree;
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea…
She loved the words, and Khan seemed to like them too. His ears pricked; he moved gracefully from a trot to a canter. It was so exhilarating that Cat wanted to shout aloud. She leaned with him, moving with the rise and fall of his body; Khan increased his stride.
If only her father were here to see her now. The thought came into her mind, and then went out of it again; for the first time since she had mounted she felt a dart of fear. Khan had begun to gallop; faster and then faster—she had never ridden so fast. She gave him his head for a while, then, when she felt herself tiring, she tried to rein him back. Nothing happened; the reverse happened. The more she pulled on the reins, the faster he galloped. It was then that she began to feel very afraid, and terribly alone. The horse sensed her fear; they always did.
She saw his eyes roll, his ears flatten; she felt a shudder pass through his body, and braced herself; then, again, his stride lengthened. They were already at least three miles from home.
“Amazing,” Charles Smith-Kemp said with languid enthusiasm. “Amazing, what some of these newfangled typing machines can do.”
He leaned over his secretary’s desk, and peered down into the workings of her typewriter, rather in the manner of a seer consulting the prophetic entrails of some bird. He straightened up, and the young woman gave him a bright smile. “Coffee, Mr. Smith-Kemp?”
“In about twenty minutes, Camilla.” He paused, and glanced at Edouard. “Unless you’d like a glass of sherry?”
“Neither, thank you. I’m eager to get back…”
Edouard repressed a smile. Clearly the glasses of sherry had been dispensed with, along with the old shabby paneled offices, the worn leather chairs, the atmosphere of a gentleman’s club. Perhaps coffee went with plate glass and rubber plants, gleaming chrome and dividing panels, he thought inconsequentially.
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