The Girl from Paris

by Joan Aiken

  “In your self-centeredness and pigheadedness, I begin to think you do! Can you not see that your father is to be pitied? I believe he truly loved your mother—”

  “He never showed it! He sent me away from home—who would have been a comfort to her when she was ill—and, and he married your mother before the grass had grown on her grave—”

  “Oh, my dear girl! Use the sense your creator gave you. My featherbrained mama was on the catch for him, because she had once felt a girlish attachment for him and believed him to be a hero—a Phoebus—something quite other than what he was; a notion of which she, poor fool, was rapidly disabused once she was married to him! And he was lonely; was simply looking—blindly and precipitately—for someone to replace your mother; which he still is.”

  “And why should Mrs. Pike not be that?”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “Mrs. Pike! Just wait till you see her!”

  “If—if she is so undesirable,” went on Ellen doggedly, “and if your aunt Blanche and the Bishop and my sisters have not been able to convince Papa of the fact, why should you believe me capable of doing so? You do not—seem to have much respect for my other abilities.”

  “I know nothing of your other abilities! The point is that you will be on the spot. There is almost certainly something discreditable about the woman, which you will be able to discover.”

  “In other words, you want me to be a spy?”

  “In order to keep your hands clean, you would allow your father to become ensnared in a disgraceful alliance?”

  This had an uncomfortable echo of Germaine de Rhetorée. Benedict went on, in a milder tone, “Oh, I am aware that it may be disagreeable, returning to the Hermitage; your father will be surly, Mrs. Pike is an odious woman—and you have been used to earn your own living, it will be hard to be once more in a position of dependence. But can you not consider your brother and your little sister, how glad they will be of your company?”

  Determined not to be mollified, Ellen said, “I doubt that! Vicky hardly knows me, she has not seen me above four or five times in her life. And Gerard is always wrapped up in his own concerns. Had you considered, moreover—Papa will very likely not permit me to remain at home for long. He will be expecting me to find another situation.”

  “It is more likely that you will find a husband,” remarked Benedict. “I don’t doubt all the local beaux will be clustering round, now you have acquired such a Parisian polish. I believe Wheelbird, the attorney’s clerk, still calls regularly to inquire for news of you—”

  Here he made a tactical error. Ellen hit back savagely. “Indeed? And does pretty Dolly the dairymaid still inquire after you, I wonder?”

  Benedict’s expression became blank. He replied with glacial calm, “Dolly Randall has been happily married to a young farmer at Lickfold for five years. His name is Tom Barren and they have three children.”

  “How satisfactory,” said Ellen with equal calm.

  They eyed one another like gladiators.

  “If I were to accept some Petworth suitor,” said Ellen after a pause, “I should hardly be in a position to prevent Papa from marrying Mrs. Pike, should I?”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine it will take you very long to send Mrs. Pike packing,” Benedict replied blandly. “Remembering the rapidity of your action over Dolly, I credit you with some skill in a campaign of that kind.”

  “And then—having established Papa with a more respectable housekeeper—have I your leave to return to Paris?”

  “Why should you wish to return to Paris? To get into another scrape?”

  “I was not in a scrape! I love Paris. I have friends there.”

  “Who, for instance? That snaky de Rhetorée girl?”

  “People of intellect! Why should you feel free to catechize me? Writers, men of letters, whom I talked to at Louise’s salons. People who are capable of conversing intelligently!”

  “Oh, I see. Minds of true elegance and refinement! Of course, we poor English rustics can’t be expected to converse intelligently.”

  “Do you think you are doing so now?”

  “Come, Ellie! Don’t let us quarrel!” His tone, his expression were coaxing, but then he added fatally, “I daresay your head has been a little turned by all the attention you may have received—English young ladies are not so common in Paris, after all. No doubt Raoul de la Ferté, poor fish, went out of his way to be polite, but still, I fancy—”

  Ellen said in a shaking voice, “It may interest you to know that I passed last night with Raoul de la Ferté!”

  The silence that fell between them then was like the blank pause while a duelist stares at the blood pouring out of him, before he realizes that he has a mortal wound.

  “You did what?”

  “You heard what I said.”

  He had gone very white, under the bronze; after a moment or two he asked, “Do you propose to marry him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then I shall take the next boat back to Paris and go after him with a horsewhip.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort. You would be making a great fool of yourself.” With angry joy, Ellen realized that she had gained the ascendancy in this painful battle. What it had cost would take some time to assess. “You would be creating just the kind of scandal you seemed so anxious to avoid. And for what? He and I will never see each other again.”

  Benedict stared at her for several minutes. At last, swallowing, he said hoarsely, “It seems I have been mistaken about you. I believed that, despite your obstinacy, you had high principles. You are not the person I took you to be.”

  “Evidently not!”

  Benedict muttered, “And he—he—I knew his reputation as a rake and a gambler—but I could never have imagined—” His voice died away, he stood gripping the rail with white knuckles, staring out over the whipped-cream breakers.

  Ellen thought, wearily, dreamily, of the hours she had spent last night in the ice-cold library, while the candles guttered, and the ashes of the dead fire crumbled in the hearth, as Raoul, crouched on the floor, his head in her lap, had wept out his wretchedness and remorse, and talked, endlessly talked, about his troubled relations with Louise, and about his little lost daughter. “Menispe—Menispe—how could she? I would never—never—Oh, what have I done? How can I possibly atone for this guilt?”

  Ellen said levelly to Benedict, “Perhaps you should give up trying to interfere in other people’s lives. To do that advantageously, some kind of rapport or sympathy, I believe, is necessary…”

  “Pray say no more, Miss Paget. I am indeed sorry that I ever meddled in your affairs.”

  The rest of the crossing was passed by them in silence. The air became bitterly cold as they neared England, and Ellen began to feel chilled to the bone and rather sick as well, partly from the motion of the ship, more from the bitterness of the quarrel. Fortunately the cliffs of Dover were now in sight—their progress had been hastened by the force of the following wind. The Kentish coast appeared unutterably damp, gray, and dismal; Ellen began to feel as if she were returning, not to another kingdom, but to another planet.

  * * *

  The last stage of Ellen’s journey was taken alone.

  She had not spoken to Benedict again after the quarrel on the boat; at Dover station he had silently escorted the two sisters to a ladies-only compartment on the London train, installed Kitty’s maid next door, and then taken himself off to a divan car, where he could smoke. There had been time to telegraph Mr. Bracegirdle, so at the terminus, as soon as Benedict had ascertained that the ladies were in safe hands, he removed himself at speed, courteously raising his hat to Kitty, bestowing on Ellen not a single glance.

  At the time of his wedding to Kitty six years earlier, Mr. Bracegirdle had been a thickset Yorkshireman with reddish hair, a florid complexion, and protruding blue eyes.
He had then been forty (a first wife had died in childbirth) but had looked considerably more than eighteen years older than his bride. Now the age disparity seemed to have lessened, due to Kitty’s matronly appearance and stout girth. Ellen was obliged to acknowledge to herself that the couple seemed well matched; their greeting was calm, but they appeared to have a good understanding. Bracegirdle’s hair was now brindled with gray; otherwise he looked much as he had done at the wedding. The protuberant eyes turned upon Ellen, surveying her person and her blue Parisian costume with a complete lack of enthusiasm.

  “Well, miss. Seems ye ha’ got yourself into a right pickle over there in Frogland. Lucky for you I could spare Kitty to step over and fetch ye back, or ye’d have ended up in a Frog jail, happen.”

  “I do not think it would have come to that, Mr. Bracegirdle,” Ellen said, restraining an impulse to tell him to mind his own business. “But I am obliged to you and my sister, naturally, for your concern on my behalf.”

  “Humph! Well, get in, get in”—for he had a cab waiting. “We’ll discuss it at dinner. Brown’s Hotel, cabman, and look lively.”

  Kitty, however, declared that she was still suffering from the effects of mal de mer, and insisted on dining off a tray in her bedroom; it was easy for Ellen, similarly, to plead fatigue and avoid the threatened discussion. But Mr. Bracegirdle pinned her down next morning in the hotel coffee room.

  “Now, see here, miss—I’ve invested a fair bit of capital and time in this business—sending Kitty off to France, kicking my heels here in London waiting for her—I joost want to make certain that investment’s repaid.”

  “I am not fully certain that I understand you, Mr. Bracegirdle,” replied Ellen coldly.

  “You onderstand me perfectly well, miss! Let’s have none of these finicking, Frenchified manners, if you please. Kitty and I—and Eugenia too—want you to put a spoke in that woman’s wheel. You know who I mean—the Pike woman. Your pa’s a well-found man—a bit clutch-fisted, but there’s nowt wrong wi’ that, I’m the same road meself, all the more to put by for a rainy day; I married your sister Catherine in the reasonable expectation of a share of his brass by an’ by, an’ I don’t aim to see it all squandered on some fly-by-night widow. A—no argufication, now!” as she opened her mouth to protest. “I’ve met the woman—lady, she calls herself—an’ I could tell, as soon as look at her, that she’s out o’ the wrong basket—bent as a buttonhook, or my name’s not Sam Bracegirdle. You ain’t a fool—you’ve been about the world a bit—you’ll soon see what I mean.”

  Kitty now slowly descended the stairs—her plump face still imbued with a waxen pallor—and at once added her arguments to those of her husband.

  Deciding that dispute would be a waste of breath—though she found Mr. Bracegirdle detestable, and her sister hardly less so—Ellen said simply, “My opinions carry no weight with Papa—why should my presence affect the matter?”

  “Pooh, pooh! You’re a canny lass—I daresay there’s a hundred and one ways ye can discourage the business. Show the woman oop a bit—open his eyes to her faults. Find out all ye can about her—there’s bound to be summat shady. And, if necessary—send for us. At least ye’ll be on t’spot, and your presence will prevent your pa compromising himself—or the woman saying he has.”

  Resolving privately that she would do none of these things, Ellen, for the sake of peace, at least let it be understood that she would watch the situation and keep the Bracegirdles apprised of how matters stood at the Hermitage. Then it was time for her to catch her train at the Pimlico station while they went north.

  “Mind an’ remember what I’ve said, now!” was her brother-in-law’s parting injunction as he saw her into her cab. “It ain’t convenient for me to keep stepping down into Soossex, so we’re relying on you!”

  * * *

  Sitting in the small local train between Pulborough junction and the new Petworth station, Ellen meditated wryly on the difference between earned money and the kind that comes by gift or bequest. Earned money, honestly come by, did nothing but good; while the other kind seemed instantly to poison or vitiate the relations between donor and recipient. Louise had hated her husband, because his wealth had supported her; Germaine, straightforward and self-respecting in her dealings with journals and publishers, became a ruthless parasite on Louise and Raoul, exploiting them without remorse or pity. Kitty and Eugenia, brought up on strict Christian principles, seemed to throw all these principles to the winds at the mere possibility of losing any part of what was not theirs by right, but was merely what their father might choose to bequeath to them.

  It is his own fortune to dispose of as he pleases, thought Ellen, gazing at the pale stubble fields as they slipped by. Thank heaven I have a little money saved, so that I need not be dependent; thank heaven I have the means of earning my living again in the future. Making up to someone for their money is so odious!

  But then—with some discomfort—she thought of how Germaine would sneer at this sentiment, and call her a self-satisfied English prig. It was easy to be virtuous if one was secure. And the thought of Germaine led on to Benedict’s accusations, which were too painful to be reviewed just at present. Attempting to put them from her mind, she turned her eyes again to the landscape. It was seen from a new angle, for she had never returned home by train; the railway had reached Petworth only two years before. A somewhat unsettled aspect of the country close at hand made this evident: the banks were still raw-looking, covered with willow herb and thistles, fields had been oddly divided, and the hedges had not yet grown back. It made Ellen mournful to see well-loved copses and meadows thus mutilated; yet, she reflected, it is wonderfully convenient to be able to travel down from London in little over an hour! Now the South Downs were in sight, a bare undulating line of hills beyond the Arun marshes; now, in the Rother Valley, copses on the gentle hillsides closed off the more distant view. The trees were dark green, dull with the tarnish of summer’s end, the land lay tranquil in mild hazy weather, a pause of silence and recollection before the winds of autumn.

  Here every tree, stile, and thatched cottage was a well-known friend. It is queer, thought Ellen, that the sight of the country makes me so happy when my heart is charged with misery, and there is nobody ahead to welcome me, no one I love or wish to see except Dr. Bendigo and Aunt Fanny—dear Aunt Fanny!

  She climbed out onto the short wooden platform and found that she was the only person there.

  “Has Mr. Paget’s carriage not come to meet me?” she asked the porter as she handed him her ticket.

  “There’s been no carriage here s’ arternoon, missie. The omnibus’ll be waiting yonder, though, if ye want to get into Petworth.”

  He took Ellen’s bags, and she followed him toward the Railway Inn, wondering if this was a deliberate snub from her father—or had he not received Sam Bracegirdle’s telegram?

  As she neared the inn—built since her last visit—Ellen’s spirits were revived by the sound of music, played on flute, fiddle, and tabor. On a patch of green before the public house, twelve men were practicing a morris dance. It was only a rehearsal, Ellen could see, for they did not have on the traditional bells or ribbons; but they danced well and seriously, with great spirit, weaving in and out of an elaborate figure. The music was provided by two men, a little shriveled grasshopper of a fellow and a white-haired elder, who sat on a bench by the open inn door, and a boy, who stood behind them and played the fiddle. The tune—a lazy, teasing, seductive lilting rhythm called “Merry Milkmaids”—had been long familiar to Ellen; she smiled unconsciously at the sound, quickening her pace. She could see the horse bus waiting by the green, and the driver leaning against the shaft. Evidently he was in no hurry, and watched the dancers with a critical eye, sometimes shouting a comment. As Ellen reached the bus, the figure came to an end. The dancers, smiling and panting—for the day, though gray, was sultry and warm—flung themselves on the trampled turf. Sev
eral, including the boy fiddler, went into the inn, and reappeared with mugs of cider. The boy did not return. The cider was passed about the group; also pieces of fruitcake.

  A fair-haired young man came up to Ellen and solemnly offered her a piece of cake. He looked a little like Benedict.

  “Morrisers’ cake—for luck, missie!” he said, smiling.

  Sweet fruitcake was the last thing she wanted after a hot journey, but Ellen took a piece.

  “Welcome back from furrin parts, missie,” he said as she nibbled it.

  “Why, you are Ted Thatcher—I hardly knew you! You have grown so tall. How is your mother? Does she still have trouble with that hand?”

  Now several of the men came up and greeted her—diffidently, offhandedly but she knew there was genuine warmth underneath. Long-buried memories returned, and she was able to address each by name.

  “Mr. Goble—Penfold—Gatton—Pullin—”

  “Reckon your dad’ll be pleased to have you home, then. ’Twas a bad business when his lady got herself killed. Not far from here, just up the hill, ’twas. And now he’s found hisself a ’countable proud-stomached housekeeper from Wiltsheer. Fair put the wind up my wife’s cousin Sukey at the Hermitage, that Mrs. Pike do!”

  “Hush thy mouth, Tom Gatton; Missie Paget ’on’t want to hear thy tales—”

  At this point the driver intimated that he was ready to set off. Ellen, the only passenger, gave him her sixpence and climbed on board the bus. As it started on its mile-long journey (Lord Leconfield, owner of Petworth house and park, had not wished the railway to pass too close and disturb his guests, or deer)—“I admire that your brother didn’t ride back into town with you,” said the driver.

  “My brother? What can you mean?”

  “Warn’t that Mus’ Gerald I see goo into the pub?”

  All the country people called Gerard Gerald, Ellen remembered. She said, “My brother? That boy who went inside? Surely not?”

  “Ah, I reckon as ’twas,” the driver persisted. “Since owd Doc Bendigo died, he do spend a deal of time down thurr.”