Emergency in the Pyrenees

by Ann Bridge

  Lady Heriot’s and Julia’s conversation was really highly satisfactory to them both, each filling out gaps in the other’s knowledge. Julia could be satisfied at last, completely, that the Heriots would warmly welcome a match between Nick and Luzia; even more important, that they had no feeling that the girl had played with one twin, and then jilted him for the other.

  ‘Dick is always so impetuous’ Lady Heriot said at one point; ‘he dashes at every pretty girl he sees, with loud cries, and runs them to death! Whereas Nick has very little self-confidence; he’s altogether more serious, and rather slow to make up his mind about people. I don’t believe he has ever been seriously in love before. But do you think this lovely creature might marry him, in the end? We think her almost perfect—she is so sensible, and honest; not the most common characteristics of great beauties!’

  Julia was determined not to betray any confidences, but she did allow herself to say that she thought Luzia probably might marry Nick, if he pursued the matter. ‘It was all a little difficult for her, happening as it did; I think they both purposely left it rather in the air, partly out of consideration for Dick, and because of the hurry—and—and everything. But she had already quite made up her mind not to marry Dick.’

  ‘Yes; he told me so himself. And she was right; even his Father recognised that. I think she has behaved perfectly, in really a most trying situation’ Lady Heriot said. Then she pursued her main question. ‘But you think she might marry Nick? We feel she would be absolutely the right person for him.’

  Julia thought for a moment; she spoke carefully.

  ‘Lady Heriot, Luzia has continental ideas about marriage, which personally I think so much wiser than our English ones! She does not hold with dashing to the altar merely to satisfy her own emotions; she looks on it as a family affair. If Nick still wants to marry her three or four months hence, he should write and ask himself to Gralheira, so that he can meet her Father, and see the whole set-up. If he and the old Duque get on—and I feel sure they would; he’s an absolute darling, is the Duke, and knows a good man when he sees one!—I think it might well come off. I gather Nick has various ideas for improving the estate, and of course presently that will belong to Luzia; she is the heiress, and she feels her responsibility in that respect acutely. But Nick would have to decide whether he wanted to spend most of his life in Portugal; that would be inevitable. They don’t believe, there, in absentee landlords.’

  Lady Heriot was slightly taken aback by this pronouncement; she was silent for a little while.

  ‘It sounds rather cold-blooded’ she said at last. ‘Do you mean that she would only marry someone her Father approved of?’

  ‘Not quite that. I think she would rather wrestle with the estate alone, unmarried, than marry someone she couldn’t love. But she would never marry anyone who didn’t care tuppence about the well-being of their hundreds of tenants!’ Julia exclaimed energetically—‘And who couldn’t show decent filial affection to her old Father. Would you like to have a daughter-in-law who didn’t give a blow for you and Lord Heriot?’ She was quite upset by Lady Heriot’s use of the word ‘cold-blooded’.

  ‘No, we should hate that’ Lady Heriot said, pacifically. ‘I see your point. In fact I think I rather agree with you that our English idea of marriage isn’t necessarily the best—only it is so ingrained. Of course people at home gird at parents abroad for making mariages de convenance for their children, but look at the mariages d’inconvenance that our young people make for themselves!’

  Julia laughed, relieved; they parted on excellent terms. Lady Heriot asked when Colonel Jamieson would be leaving? ‘Of course then you’ll have no car. But do please let me know if you want to shop or anything; Pau is rather a good place to get layettes. Pierre or one of the twins will always be delighted to drive you. Well, of course not the twins after term begins; but that’s not till October.’

  * * *

  The old sage-femme’s suggestion of giving Philip Bernard a bottle when Julia moved to the Victoire had put an idea into Jamieson’s head, especially after this was followed by a further day-time one to allow Julia to see Luzia off.

  ‘Look here’ he said a few days before he was due to leave—‘Couldn’t that creature be given two successive bottles in one day? Wouldn’t do him any harm, would it?’

  ‘I don’t suppose so—why?’

  ‘I thought we might take a picnic lunch up to Larége. We’ve never been there together; I should like to look at it again with you. Would it fit in?’

  Julia worked it out. The Philipino was now a fortnight old, and was thriving so well that the intervals between his feeds had been extended to two-and-a-half hours.

  ‘Yes’ she said, after a pause. ‘If I nursed him at 9 we could get off before half-past; then if he had a bottle at 11.30, and again at two, I shouldn’t need to be back before 4.30. That would give us three hours up there—how lovely! I’d better just have a word with the old trout, but I’m sure she’ll agree.’ Julia had as usual established excellent relations with the old sage-femme, who agreed heartily. ‘Pau is still hot; the air of la montagne will do Madame good.’

  They went two days later. Philip had a sense of occasion, and was determined that this should be a good picnic; he did not rely on the almost certainly dim sandwiches of the Victoire’s providing, but went into the town and bought pâtés en croutes, butter, cream cheeses, tomatoes, salad, and a supply of Melba toast from the Hotel de France, which he coerced the kitchen staff at the Victoire into reviving in the oven while Julia was nursing the baby; he put this in a biscuit-tin borrowed from Lady Heriot. ‘Is there any wine up there?’ he asked his wife, before she went round to the clinic, ‘Or shall we take some?’

  ‘Oh no, there’s masses; sherry and all. I made a list for the Stansteds of what extra I bought, and left for them.’

  I hope we shall need to alter the list’ the man said cheerfully. ‘All right—hurry along and feed greedy-pig.’

  It was a perfect autumn day, warm and still. In the lower valleys all the woods were russet; higher up, on the slopes, there were silvery patches left from the first early snowfall—dead leaves dotted them like golden and copper coins. Julia exclaimed at their beauty.

  ‘Yes, it’s a nice place’ Philip said, pleased. Presently the circle of limestone peaks, the curved silver saw of the frontier ridge, opened up in front of them, more silver than ever with the light dusting of snow.

  ‘But that is quite magical’ Julia said. ‘Oh, I am glad we came today.’

  They called at Barraterre’s to get the key of the house; Mme. Barraterre greeted Philip with an enthusiasm which amused and rather touched Julia. ‘And now Monsieur the Colonel has a son—the one thing that was lacking! Madame Bonnecourt told me that you were in Pau, but I had not hoped for the pleasure of seeing you. And Madame so much en beauté!’ Mme. Barraterre went on, turning to Julia. ‘After all these adventures. How is le petit?’

  Julia said that the little one was doing splendidly.

  ‘This good Monsieur Bonnecourt!—what a providence that he was at hand in this emergency’ Mme. Barraterre exclaimed. ‘But where is he now?’ she asked, with a sudden keen glance at Jamieson. ‘He has not been seen here since he drove Madame down to Pau in the middle of the night. His wife is evasive; she will only say that he has gone abroad, and that she expects to follow him soon.’

  Philip was a little disconcerted by this, though of course it was Larége all over.

  ‘Yes, he was offered a good appointment abroad, and accepted it, so I hear’ he replied casually. ‘But now, Madame, if we might have the key? We have not too much time; my wife must return to Pau to feed the child at a certain hour.’

  ‘Ah, Madame nourishes it herself? That is good.’ Mme. Barra-terre could take a hint as well as anyone; she brought the key, realising that further questions would be useless—M. le Colonel could be as silent as the tomb if he chose.

  ‘Now you wrote something about a car-turn, quite near the house’ P
hilip said to Julia as he started the engine. ‘How do we get there? It’s since my time; we used to park here in the Place. Do we go the way one used to walk?’

  ‘Yes.’ As her husband twisted the car round the several narrow and sharp right-angled turns which ultimately led out onto the broadened track to the car-turn, narrowly missing one of the maisons des Sarrazins at a corner, Julia was struck afresh by the utter impracticality of her Philip’s original plan for the later months of her first pregnancy. Without the car-turn, let alone the Heriot twins, how could she have managed? But she was not going to let that spoil their first day at Larége together; she pushed the thought out of her mind.

  ‘That’s very handy’ Philip said, turning the car when they reached the spot. ‘Can’t think why it wasn’t done years ago.’ He carried the picnic-basket (also borrowed from Lady Heriot) along to the house; Julia preceded him, and unlocked the door. The big room was flooded with sunlight; thanks to Luzia and the sturdy Emma everything was spotlessly clean; the glasses, cups, and plates which Julia set out on a tray glistened in the brilliant light. They found the garden-table and chairs which had been parked by Dick in the down-stairs bathroom, formerly the maison des cochons; Philip carried these out to the spring, while Julia switched on the water and the electricity, unearthed the corkscrew, and collected a bottle of sherry and another of the old farmer’s red wine from the familiar place under the great walnut table. When Philip came back for the tray she said slowly, looking round her—‘I do love this place.’

  He was overjoyed. ‘Darling, do you really?’

  ‘Yes. I think it’s perfect. Absolute simplicity, complete beauty; and yet everything one needs. Where else does one find that? And what a place to bring a child up in!’

  ‘Children!’ he said, putting his arms round her.

  ‘Dearest, let’s go and eat’ Julia said after a moment or two. ‘I have to live by the clock, now! That old chatterbox Madame Barraterre wasted a lot of time.’ But at that moment there came a knock on the half-door—there stood little Mme. Bonnecourt.

  ‘I see you as you leave the inn’ she said, ‘so I come to speak with you. It is not inconvenient?’

  ‘Not in the least, Madame.’ Julia said kindly. ‘Come and sit down in the garden. Philip, could you get a chair and another glass?’ She led her unexpected, and unwanted, guest along the narrow path under the house to the little lawn, where Philip had set out the table and chairs in the shade of the small trees, with their pale trunks, by the spring; he followed, opened the sherry, and suggested that they should drink Bonnecourt’s health.

  ‘We hear that he is safely arrived in Scotland’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I have received a letter—so quickly. He is charmed with the place and the house, and the occupation—already he has killed a stag! So what I wished to tell Madame is that I have already completed my arrangements to leave.’

  ‘How excellent’ Julia said, although rather taken aback by this promptness. ‘What have you done about the cows?’

  ‘Ma voisine will take them over, and stall them with hers, and milk them, provided that she can have some of our pasturage, which of course I have agreed to. It is on a profitable basis’ Mme. Bonnecourt said; ‘she will pay a certain sum monthly, since she gets the milk.’

  ‘To whom will she pay it?’ Julia asked, most reasonably mistrusting most of the Larégeois, and confident that the neighbour would be quite incapable of remitting money to Scotland.

  ‘To Madame Barraterre. I went to consult her about the house—to arrange that it should be aired from time to time, and fires made, so that all does not deteriorate, in the winter especially. And imagine, she has an old relation who wishes to come and live in Larége this winter, perhaps longer, in order to be near her! Is this not wonderful? Now the house will be occupied, and kept dry and warm. And when she takes the rent of the house, Madame Barraterre will also collect the money for the milk.’

  Julia was relieved by this. Mme. Barraterre was one of the few fairly trustworthy people in Larége, really forced to a certain degree of honesty by prolonged contact with her foreign—largely English—clientèle. But she pursued her enquiries. What rent would the ancient relation of the inn-keeper’s wife pay?

  ‘Voyons, Madame, if the house had been left empty, I should have had to pay for the lighting of fires, or suffer damage to my effects! So I ask only a little above the rent that Madame told me I should pay for the house in Écosse; Madame said 4 francs a week, so I ask ten. Mme. Barraterre is delighted; she agreed at once.’

  Julia could well believe in this delight; she wondered privately how much Mme. Barraterre would get as a rake-off on the deal? Ten francs a week was a ridiculous rent for a furnished house; in fact she almost began to doubt the existence of the aged relation, except that few people would wish to live in Larége in winter. But she was not going to discourage the hunter’s wife, now so happy over her plans; she merely said how glad she was that everything had worked out so well, and that Mme. Barraterre was so helpful.

  ‘Yes—so now I can be ready to leave at any time! I thought perhaps I might travel with Madame, when she returns to Écosse? I have never been outside France.’

  Philip had listened to this conversation with a certain astonishment, especially at Julia’s evident understanding of the set-up at Larége, which he had known all his life, after only a few weeks’ stay. But at this point he intervened. Julia would have her hands full bringing the baby home; he was not going to have her saddled with the care of Mme. Bonnecourt on the journey as well.

  ‘We will communicate with Madame about this. But rest assured that all arrangements will be made’ he said, pleasantly but firmly, ‘and that we shall let you know in good time.’ He got up. He was longing to be rid of the nice little woman; all this had not been in the least his idea of a picnic with Julia at his adored Larége.

  But Mme. Bonnecourt stood her ground; actually she achieved this by remaining firmly seated in her chair.

  ‘One little moment. Madame, when you and I were speaking of our new house there, I forgot to ask if it was furnished? Shall I need to take anything?—sheets, blankets, de la vaisselle at least?’

  In fact Julia had forgotten this too; when she was telling Mme. Bonnecourt about Glentoran she didn’t herself know whether Ach-an-Draine was furnished or not. Usually estate houses are not furnished. But thanks to Major Hartley’s considerate message, which Philip had read out to her after he had jotted it down at Lord Heriot’s desk, she was able to reassure the hunter’s wife now. (Edina must have been combing out the attics, full of unused furniture, the linen-room, and the china-cupboards at Glentoran.)

  ‘No, chère Madame. All is provided. I apologise that I did not mention this sooner.’

  Philip was relieved by his wife’s last words; when she began to reply he was disturbed lest she should mention the telephone call, and Bonnecourt’s own message. But of course with Julia he need not have worried. At length satisfied, Madame Bonnecourt took herself off—Philip saw her up to the path.

  ‘Well, thank God that’s over’ he said when he came back. Julia had been unpacking the lunch-basket and setting out its contents on the table—’ Darling, what extravagant deliciousnesses’ she said.

  ‘I thought we might eat well, as it’s our first meal here together,’ the man said, opening the country wine and filling their glasses. He sniffed his own, and then drank. ‘This is very good—where did you get it?’

  ‘The twins took us to a farm where old Lord H. gets his. Oh look, Philip, I think we ought to alert the Heriots about all poor little Madame’s arrangements, so that they can keep Mother Barraterre up to the mark, and see that she really does pay what’s due for the milk and the rent. She’s better than most of them here, but an eye ought to be kept. I bet Lady Heriot can put the fear of God into her.’

  ‘I agree. In fact I think the best plan would be to arrange for the money to be handed over each month to the Heriots by Madame Barraterre; I don’t suppose she’d have much
of a clue about remitting to Scotland.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll fix that; I’m sure Lady Heriot will play—they dote on Bonnecourt. Thank you for saving me from taking little Madame to England’ Julia pursued. ‘But who is to take her?’

  ‘I think she’d better come with me, next week. I’ll ring the Office tonight from the Heriots, and tell them to get Colin down to London to take her straight up to Glentoran. I can write a note here before we leave, telling her when to be at Pau, and drop it in on her. But now, dearest, do let’s forget about the Bonnecourts, and have some food, and think about the Jamie-sons!’

  Julia laughed. She was more than ready to think about the Jamiesons. They ate their delicious meal to the sweet accompaniment of the sound of water dropping into the pool below the spring behind them, and the deeper music of cow-bells coming up from the meadows below, where the cows had been put out to get a last feed of fresh grass before the winter, now that the aftermath had been cut. She spoke of these things, and of the happiness that such homely sights and sounds had brought her throughout her stay.

  ‘You do like it, I see. You don’t think I was mad to suggest your coming here?’ Philip asked, looking anxiously at her.

  ‘Well yes, in a way I do’ Julia said frankly. ‘Luzia coming was Mrs. Hathaway’s idea, and you didn’t even know about the Heriots, or the car-turn! How you expected a pregnant woman to hump all her supplies from the Place herself I can’t imagine—besides fetching the water, and the milk, and emptying la pou-belle! It was a dotty idea, darling, really. But I don’t hold it against you’ she added quickly, seeing his face. ‘In fact I’m glad you were so dotty, since it’s worked out all right, because I have loved it so.’

  He caught her hand.

  ‘Dearest, you must forgive me. I hadn’t in the least realised what you would be up against—it all seemed so easy the last time I stayed here.’ He paused. ‘Luzia thought mud of me about it, too’ he added, with belated honesty.

  So that was what Luzia had been up to when she talked to him about ‘life at Larége’, Julia thought, amused. Poor Philip! She put her other hand on his.