Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  Nick cut his thoughts off sharply at that point, as he had tried to do before. They had almost reached the turn to Larége; he swung up the hair-pin bends and parked the car in the square; then they walked down to Bonnecourt’s house.

  The interview with Madame Bonnecourt did not help much to stifle Nick’s dawning love for Luzia. The young girl proposed tomorrow’s expedition with the utmost delicacy and skill to the hunter’s wife; taking her time, and giving the rather timid little woman ample opportunity to ask her own questions.

  ‘Yes, he left yesterday’ she replied to the first of these. ‘Monsieur Nicolas will tell you; he saw him go.’

  Nick said his piece about the fly-out.

  ‘And how does he reach this place in Écosse’?

  Nick explained that his friend Monro was driving her husband to Gibraltar; from there they would fly to London, and M. Monro would later take him all the way to Scotland, to the propriété of his sister—‘where he will be the hunter of the red deer instead of the isard.’

  ‘This he would like, I think’ Mme. Bonnecourt said, looking more reassured. At a nod from Nick, Luzia took over.

  ‘Madame, we have a proposition to make to you—by your husband’s express desire. Madame Jamieson is a cousin of M. Monro, and spent much of her childhood at Glentoran; she knows the place like the inside of her pocket!—even to the very house where he and you will live. Monsieur Bonnecourt wished that you should meet Madame, and let her tell you about it. Would it be convenient to you to come, perhaps as soon as tomorrow? M. Nicolas and I could come and fetch you, in the morning, and bring you back in the evening, so that you could do some shopping as well.’

  Both Luzia and Nick were rather touched by Mme. Bonnecourt’s reaction to this idea.

  ‘Ah, Madame Jamieson! My husband thinks her a marvel. But is she able to see people? Surely she has just had this child, by an operation?’

  ‘Yes indeed—and owes everything, child and all, to the promptness of Monsieur Bonnecourt!’ Luzia said warmly. ‘But she is now very well, and would greatly like to see you, and tell you everything, and answer all your questions. There is so much you must wish to know!’

  Madame Bonnecourt was clearly pleased by this plan.

  ‘This is very kind. But—tomorrow; at what hour should we have to leave?’

  ‘Would a quarter-past nine be too early?’ Luzia asked, doing a rapid sum in her head. ‘As you know the drive takes nearly two hours, and at 12.30 Madame Jamieson has her mid-day meal; after that there is the period of repose. I should like you to have plenty of time with her. Could you perhaps do your milking a little earlier, just for once, to give you time to arrange all in the dairy, and dress?’

  Now the faded little woman almost glowed. ‘The Countess might be a farmer’s wife herself!’ she exclaimed to Nick. ‘she understands everything.’

  ‘And when you have seen Madame Jamieson, I thought that you and I could take our déjeuner in some nice quiet restaurant, and then go shopping together’ Luzia added, ‘till Monsieur Nicolas brings you back in time for the evening milking.’

  The hesitant little person suddenly became enthusiastic.

  ‘In Pau there is an excellent coiffeur’ she said. ‘I might be able to get a proper shampouin and mise-en-plis, for a change!—I so seldom get to Pau. I will ask my neighbour to milk the cows for me in the evening; certainly she will do this. Oh, must you go? Not an apéritif?’ Luzia had risen, and excused herself; they would be late for luncheon if they did not leave at once.

  ‘Alors, nine hours and a quarter tomorrow. You are so good.’ She came with them up the field, obviously to arrange with the voisine about the evening milking next day; they left her in towering spirits.

  ‘You did that beautifully’ Nick said, as they walked back towards the Place. ‘I’ve never seen the little creature so lively before.’

  ‘It cannot be altogether easy to be the wife of this Bonnecourt,’ Luzia replied crisply.

  ‘Why do you say that? You seem rather anti-Bonnecourt’ the young man said.

  ‘Only from a woman’s point of view. Probably he is a wonderful agent, and you and Dick assured me, some time ago, that he did not really murder his first wife! But I think he is selfish and careless about this one. Why can he not drive her down to Pau sometimes, to have her hair arranged? Till now, he had his car. When he married her she must have been pretty’ the girl said, getting into the Dauphine—‘Now she irons his shirts, and milks the cows!’

  Nick had never given much thought to Mme. Bonnecourt; she was just a dim figure in the hunter’s background, who occasionally brought in the glasses for drinks. He was struck by Luzia’s swift recognition of what her life was like. What an understander this girl was!

  ‘Perhaps you’re right’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen much of her.’ As he spoke he thought of his mental criticism of Dick, that he didn’t see things. Did he, Nick, not see them either?—or not quickly enough? If so, would he be of any more use to Luzia?

  That young woman, however, was now concentrating on Mme. Bonnecourt.

  ‘I am sure I am right’ she said, as they wound down the hairpin bends. ‘I am so glad that they go to Mrs. Reeder. She will have no romantic illusions about this Bonnecourt; she sees people as they are, as Miss Probyn does—Intelligence or no Intelligence! She will keep him in his place, and ensure that he treats his wife with proper consideration.’ Luzia had seen a certain amount of Edina Reeder during Julia’s various wedding celebrations in London, and had made a favourable assessment of her, with her usual speed.

  ‘I can’t see Bonnecourt coming much under the thumb of any woman’ Nick replied, doubtfully.

  ‘No? You idealise him, I think. In any case you do not know Mr. Reeder.’

  ‘Isn’t she Monro’s sister?’ Nick asked, still doubtful.

  ‘Yes. But is she who wears the trousers!’ Luzia replied, startling him by her acquaintance with this idiom. ‘It is not impolite in me to say this?’ she asked, noticing his surprise.

  ‘Not a bit—but where did you pick it up?’

  ‘I have heard Dick say it of Madame Monnier. Only some things are suitable for men to say, and not for us.’

  ‘No, I think that’s all right for you.’

  ‘I ask Miss Probyn. I want to see her today, and the baby.’

  In fact on their return Lady Heriot greeted the girl with a message from Colonel Jamieson that he would call at 4.45 to take her round to see his wife. ‘He said four, but I told him that you really must get a lie-down this afternoon. I’ll have tea sent to you in your room at four’ said her hostess, who had sensible middle-aged ideas of what constituted comfort.

  Julia had been a little anxious about this interview with Luzia; she was worried by Philip’s comments on the twins, and wondered how to tackle the subject. But it all went unexpectedly easily. After the girl had reported how eagerly Mme. Bonnecourt had accepted the idea of coming down to see her, and still more of getting a shampoo and set in Pau, Julia asked if they had had a nice drive? ‘You’ve never been out with Nick before, have you?’

  ‘No. Yes, it was nice. Nick is very nice—he thinks.’

  Julia waited. This sounded promising. After a pause—‘Miss Probyn, I should like to speak with you about this’ the girl said.

  ‘Do, by all means.’ She took a plunge. ‘Is Nick in love with you now, too?’

  Luzia half-laughed.

  ‘He has not said so; but I think he is, perhaps. At least he takes an interest in my circumstances’ she added, rather sharply. ‘Imagine!—he has looked out Gralheira on a map, and has seen that we have forests on the Serra, and asked me what Papa did with the resin from the pines? He says that resin is now very valuable, one can make plastics from it; we could have one or two small factories on the estate, and give employment to our younger people. I am sure Papa has no idea of these modern possibilities—Nick could help him greatly.’

  Julia, remembering the eight telephones on the Duke of Ericeira’s desk at Gralh
eira, could not feel that he was particularly old-fashioned; but perhaps the manufacture of plastics was a little outside his range of ideas.

  ‘Still, you can’t go and marry someone merely because he could be a help to your Father’ she said.

  ‘I will not marry anyone who cannot! When Papa dies, I must look after Gralheira; it will be mine, and the well-being of all those people will be for me to care for’ Luzia said energetically. ‘Listen, dear Miss Probyn: I do not marry Dick! Seven times he has asked me, and seven times I say No. But not once has he spoken of the modern uses for resin!’ She paused. ‘He thinks more of himself’ she concluded.

  ‘Could you love Nick?’ Julia asked, a little hesitantly.

  ‘I think that probably I could. It is just that till today we have barely spoken together—it was always Dick who came after me, and took me about. This makes all a little complicated; everyone assumes that it is Dick who is my suitor—Nick also’ Luzia added rather distressfully.

  Julia pondered.

  ‘Yes—of course Nick wouldn’t want to cut his brother out’ she said. ‘And you can’t very well propose to Nick.’

  ‘Miss Probyn, quelle idée!’

  ‘Quite so, dearest.’ She went on considering. Should she quote Philip? Probably wiser not to, yet.

  ‘I think your best plan’ she said at last, ‘is to get hold of Dick and tell him, once and for all, that you will never marry him—in a way that he can’t fail to understand. You told me yourself, before, that you hadn’t made up your mind, so I daresay your seven refusals weren’t very convincing.’

  Again Luzia gave a reluctant half-laugh.

  ‘Oh Miss Probyn, you are always right! And I see that 1 have been wrong—uncertain. I like them all so much!’ the girl said.

  ‘Who, the Heriots?’

  ‘Yes. They are good people: responsible. Even old Lord Heriot, who can be most terribly boring, does so much for Pau—committees, cemeteries! But now I do what you say—I give this poor Dick his congé.’

  ‘Tell Nick when you have’ Julia said.

  ‘This is not easy.’

  ‘No, but you’ve got to be fair to Nick too.’

  ‘I suppose so. Oh, it is complex! And so soon I must return to Papa. Tell me, when do you go to the Victoire?’.

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Bien. I come and pack for you, and instal you.’ She gave her former governess a kiss, and went away.

  Philip was waiting for her, and drove her back; naturally he came in for a drink, and when he left it was time to dress for dinner, so Luzia had no chance for her talk with Dick. Over coffee afterwards Nick reminded his Mother that he and Luzia would again want an early breakfast, in order to leave at 7.15 to go up and collect Mme. Bonnecourt.

  ‘Why on earth must Luzia make another first-light start?’ Dick asked. ‘Can’t you fetch Mrs. B. by yourself?’

  ‘I have said that I go’ Luzia put in, mildly but firmly. ‘This little person requires reassurance; I try to give it to her.’

  ‘Quite right’ Lord Heriot observed unexpectedly. ‘Terrible upheaval for her. Scotland isn’t at all like Larége. I’m glad you’re helping her all you can, Condesa.’

  Luzia looked at him gratefully. This unlooked-for support nerved her to arrange her interview with Dick that night, and get it over; she thought fast, but spoke calmly.

  ‘I am very glad that you approve, Lord Heriot. Do you use your study just now, or could I telephone?’

  ‘Telephone by all means,’ the old gentleman said, benignly.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Dick, could you come and get the connection for me?’

  In the study Dick asked who she wanted to ring up?

  ‘No one. I wish to speak with you; the telephone was an excuse.’

  ‘Well, speak away’ Dick said. He lit a cigarette with hands that trembled a little. ‘What is it?’

  ‘How many times have you asked me to marry you?’ Luzia tackled her problem as best she could—not very well, she felt.

  ‘Six or seven, and you’ve always said No.’

  ‘Did you believe me?’

  ‘No, not altogether. I thought if you really disliked me you wouldn’t have gone on coming out with me for drives, and so on. But what is all this? I’m sorry I was sour down by the Gave this morning, if that’s what’s eating you.’

  ‘No. What is “eating me” is that I did not make you believe me, and did go on driving with you. Of course I could not leave Mrs. Jamieson, but I could have been more—definite’ the girl said carefully. ‘Here I was in fault, and I ask your pardon. But now——’ she paused.

  ‘Well, what now?’

  ‘I am definite. Dick, I cannot marry you—never in this world! You must believe this.’

  The link between identical twins is mysteriously close; it led Dick more rapidly, and nearer, towards the truth than the events of the day alone could have done. Hurt and angry, he nevertheless behaved, at last, very well.

  ‘Do you think Nick is in love with you?’ he asked.

  ‘He has not said so. Till today we have hardly spoken with one another.’

  ‘I expect he is; who wouldn’t be?’ Suddenly he caught her hand. ‘Luzia!—dearest. lovely one—are you sure you can’t marry me? Oh, I do love you so much!’

  ‘No, I am sure. I cannot, ever.’

  ‘Why are you so sure just today, all of a sudden? Have you found out that you’re in love with Nick?’ the boy asked, bitterness surging up in him at last. Luzia made a desperate attempt at honesty.

  ‘I have learned more of Nick—but not that I love him. One cannot go so fast!’ the girl exclaimed, desperately. ‘Love is one thing; marrying is another. Love is often unwise; marriage should be wise—one cannot marry only for oneself!’

  ‘What on earth else would you marry for?—I mean, what’s the point of getting married, except loving a person?’ Dick had all the normal British ideas of romantic infatuation as the only basis for marriage; often a very shaky foundation.

  ‘One’s duties—one’s responsibilities!’

  ‘Oh, what rubbish! I never thought you were a prig’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘Do you mean you would make some mariage de convenance for money, or something?’

  ‘Not for money. We do not need it’ the girl said, with a sudden haughty expression.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I take that back.’ Dick rubbed his hands over his face and hair, pitiably distressed. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying.’

  ‘I think it is better that we say no more’ Luzia said, sadly. ‘I have no more to say; for you and me, this is finis. We shall only hurt one another if we go on talking.’ She got up. ‘Goodnight, Dick. Oh, I am sorry!’

  ‘Hold on a moment’ the young man said—even in his distress his Father’s rigidity about the telephone held him. ‘You haven’t had a call. We must make one, and put some money in the box, or he’ll notice. Who’d you like to call?—the Clinique?’

  ‘No, it is too late. Call the Victoire, and as soon as you get the number, disconnect’ Luzia said; troubled as she was, she could not help smiling at this particular form of English absurdity. Dick telephoned, instantly rang off, wrote the Victoire’s number in the book, and put some coins in the box.

  ‘Now I say goodnight to your Mother, and go to bed’ Luzia said, and escaped to the drawing-room, whence her kind hostess took her away to her room. ‘Between us all, I think we work you rather too hard’ Lady Heriot said. ‘Largely Colonel Jamieson, of course—these soldiers have no mercy! But all men are merciless. Sleep well, my dear.’ For the first time she kissed her young guest goodnight. When she had left the room Luzia cried. What had she meant? And how kind she was!

  Lord Heriot was still sitting in the drawing-room when his wife returned. Dick had not reappeared; Nick had gone off some time before.

  ‘Well, I like that girl’ the old man said, putting a fresh match to his cigar, and puffing away. ‘But I think it’s time she made up her mind which of them it’s to be, if she’s prepar
ed to marry either. First it seemed to be all Dick; now she goes out with Nick as well.’

  ‘Should you like her to marry one of them?’ Lady Heriot asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes. She can’t help being an R.C., though that’s a pity. But I think she’d do better to marry Nick than Dick—she’s too smart for Dick. Are they both after her, do you suppose?’

  Lady Heriot stared at him. In all their years of marriage her husband had never before come out with such a definite opinion on their sons’ characters; in fact she had not thought him capable of it. Mothers who are in the least observant get to have a sort of sixth sense about what is going on inside their children: Dick’s face at breakfast, Nick’s face at luncheon, had made her guess that something had gone wrong between Dick and Luzia, and that there was at least a possibility of things going right between her and Nick, which would be a much better arrangement; her husband was quite right.

  ‘I wish I knew’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘Nick would suit her much better, I agree; and I think she could be an enormous help to him—she’s very perceptive.’

  ‘Jolly him along when he gets low, you mean?’

  Lady Heriot smiled at her husband’s use of words; that was exactly what she meant, though she would have expressed it rather differently.

  ‘Yes. Only up till today Dick has been making all the running, and I’m so afraid of Nick not liking to make any move now, because he’s so fond of his brother.’

  ‘That’s all nonsense! If he finds he cares about her enough, he’ll make a move all right! The trouble is that really it’s all up to her—and she can’t possibly make any move. I think you’d better sound both the boys about it, and try to find out how things stand.’

  ‘I’ll see’ his wife said cautiously. Lord Heriot threw the end of his cigar into the fire, and went off to bed.

  Nick had been upset by Dick’s outburst over another early start for Luzia, skilfully as the girl had smoothed it over; when she asked Dick to help her to telephone he wondered what that betokened, and too nervous to sustain the usual calm dullness of family after-dinner conversation, he went out to stroll in the garden, and thought, long and wretchedly, about Luzia, Dick, and himself—always coming back to Luzia. It was clear to him that she oughtn’t to marry Dick; clearer now even than it had been that morning as they drove up to Larége. But how did she feel about it? Where did she stand with regard to Dick? And would he, Nick, really do her all that much better? Yes, a bit better, honesty forced him to admit—because he saw more. And now at last the young man gave free admittance to the thoughts he had twice tried to extinguish in the car that morning. He loved her as he had never loved anyone before, and could never hope to love anyone again.