I began to feel uneasy. Had she noticed Jonathan’s way of trying to be alone with me? Had she seen the way in which he watched me with that look in his eyes which made them glow like two intensely blue flames?
Then she surprised me. “I must talk to you about Louis Charles.”
“Louis Charles!” I was amazed. I had not thought very much about Louis Charles.
She proceeded slowly, and rather painfully I imagined, for she hated talking about her first husband. “Your father was a man who… liked women.”
I smiled at her. “That does not seem so very unusual.”
She returned my smile and went on: “And in France they have a slightly different code of morals. What I am trying to tell you is that your father was also the father of Louis Charles. Lisette and he were lovers at one time and Louis Charles is the result of that liaison.”
I stared at her. “So that is why he was brought up with us!”
“Not exactly. Lisette was married off to a farmer and when he was killed… that fearful revolution again—she came to us, bringing her son with her. I am telling you this because Louis Charles is your half brother.”
Understanding dawned. She was anticipating a love affair between Louis Charles and myself. She stumbled on: “So you see you and Louis Charles could never—”
“Dear Maman,” I cried. “There is no danger in any case. I would never want to marry a husband who looked down on me. Charlot has taught him to do that and he follows Charlot in every way.”
“It is just a brotherly feeling,” she said quickly. “Charlot is really very fond of you.”
I was relieved. I had thought she was going to talk about Jonathan—but my relief did not last long, for she continued immediately: “Then there are Jonathan and David. With a household of young men… and one young woman among them… there are bound to be complications. I think both David and Jonathan are very fond of you, and although their father is my husband, there is not a close blood relationship between you.”
I flushed and my confusion seemed to answer her question.
“Jonathan is so like his father. I knew Dickon when he was Jonathan’s age. I was even younger than you are… and I was in love with him even then. I would have married him, but my mother stopped it. She had her reasons… and perhaps she was right at that time. Who shall say? But it was long ago. It is the future which concerns us.” She wrinkled her brows. “You see, there are two brothers—twins. They say twins are very close. Would you say that Jonathan and David are very close?”
“I would say they are poles apart.”
“I agree. David is so thoughtful, so serious. He is very clever, I know. Jonathan is clever too… but in a different way. Oh, he is so like his father, Claudine. I… I think they are both getting fond of you… and that could present a problem. You are growing up so quickly. Dear child, always remember that I am here to talk to… to confide in…”
“But I know you are.”
I felt that there was so much she wanted to say and that she was not quite sure of my ability to understand. Like most parents she saw me as a child, and it was hard to change that image.
What she was really doing was warning me.
There was a great deal of activity at Eversleigh. The running of the estate was not all that occupied Dickon and his sons. Dickon was one of the most important men in the South East; and he had many interests in London.
David loved the house and the estate, so Dickon had wisely made that his province. He spent hours in the library, to which he had added considerably; he had friends who would ride out from London and perhaps stay with us for a few days. They were all very erudite and as soon as meals were over, David would conduct them to the library, where they would sit for hours sipping port and talking of matters which were of no interest to Jonathan and his father.
I liked to listen to their conversation at dinner and when I joined in—or tried to—David would be delighted and encourage me to air my views; he often showed me rare books and maps and drawings—not only of Eversleigh but various parts of the country. He was interested in archaeology and taught me a little about it, showing me what had been found at various sites and how a picture of ancient days could be built up through artefacts. He was passionately interested in history and I could listen to him for hours. He gave me books to read and we would discuss them, sometimes walking in the gardens, sometimes riding together. We would stop now and then for refreshment, perhaps at some old inn, and I would notice how much people liked him. They showed him a certain deference, and I was quick to realize that it was a different kind of respect than that which was given to Dickon or Jonathan. They demanded it—not in so many words, of course, but by their attitude of superiority. David was different; he was gentle, and respect was given him because people responded to his gentleness and wanted him to know it.
I enjoyed being with David. He stimulated my interest in so many subjects, and matters which might have been dull became exciting when he explained them to me. I could see that he was advancing my education far more rapidly than my governess was doing, and I was beginning to cast off that French accent, and it was only occasionally that it showed itself. I was growing very fond of David.
I sometimes wished that Jonathan had not been there to complicate matters.
The two brothers were diametrically opposed in almost everything. They looked different—which was rather odd, for feature by feature they were alike; but their entirely different characteristics had set their stamp on their faces and nullified their resemblance.
Jonathan was not the man to settle down to look after a country estate. He was concerned with interests in London. I knew that banking was one of these; there were others. My stepfather was a man of very wide interests—rich and influential; he was often at Court, and my mother accompanied him there, for he never went away without taking her with him. It was as though, having come to happiness late in their lives, they were determined not to miss one hour of each other’s company. That was how my grandfather and grandmother had been. Perhaps such are the ideal marriages, I thought—those to which people come when they are mature in judgement and knowledgeable in the ways of men and women. The fires of youth blazed forth and could burn out; but the steady fire of middle age, stoked with experience and understanding, can burn brightly for life. My mind was stimulated and enriched by my sessions with David; with Jonathan I experienced different feelings.
His attitude was changing and I sensed a certain impatience. Sometimes he kissed me and held me against him, and there was something very meaningful in his manner towards me. I knew, in a way, what that meant. He wanted to make love with me.
I might have had a romantic feeling towards him. I could not pretend to myself that he did not arouse new emotions in me such as I wanted to explore; but I did know that he had dallied with some of the serving girls. I had seen them look at him and I had watched his answering response. I had heard it whispered that he had a mistress in London and that he visited her when he was there—which was frequently.
All this I would have expected of Dickon’s son, and if I had felt indifferent towards him it would not have bothered me; but I thought about it a good deal. Sometimes when he helped me down from my horse, which he did whenever he could, although I was quite capable of dismounting on my own, he would hold me closely and laugh up at me, and although I quickly wriggled free I was rather alarmed to discover that I did not really want to. I had an inclination to smile at him invitingly and let him proceed with what he was planning to do—because I knew how much I wanted to experience it.
At Eversleigh there were portraits of our family—men and women—and I often studied them. The men were of two kinds—I mean of course in one respect only, for their characters were quite diverse and they could not be neatly divided; what I mean is that there were those who were physically demanding and others who were not. I could pick them out by a certain expression in their faces—the sensuous and the austere. There was one ancestress—he
r name was Carlotta—who embodied all the former; I believe she had had a colourful life with a leader of the Jacobite faction; and there was her half sister Damaris, mother of Sabrina, who was in the second category. My mother was a woman who understood passion and needed it in her life. Jonathan made me feel that I was the same.
So there were many times when I felt weak and ready to respond to his invitation. It was only because of who I was that he did not hustle me into a physical relationship. He could not treat his new stepmother’s daughter as he would some friend in London or any of the servants in our or other households. Even he would not dare to do that. My mother would have been furious and she would have made sure that Dickon was too; and Jonathan, bold as he was, would not wish to incur his father’s wrath.
Right up to the time of my seventeenth birthday we played our tantalising game. I used to dream about Jonathan—that he came to my room and into my bed. I even locked my door when the dream became too vivid. I always took great care never to meet his eyes when he practised little familiarities, the meaning of which I was fully aware. When he went to London I used to imagine his visits to his mistress, and I would feel angry and frustrated and jealous, until David soothed me with his interesting discoveries of the past. Then I could forget Jonathan in just the same way as I forgot David when I was with his intriguing brother.
It is all very well to play these games when one is growing up to sixteen, but when one has reached the mature age of seventeen—which is a time when many girls are considered to be ready for marriage—it is a different matter.
I became aware that my mother—and I suppose Dickon, too—would like me to marry either David or Jonathan. I was sure that my mother would prefer David because he was quiet and serious and his fidelity could be relied on. Dickon regarded David as a “dull dog,” and I imagine he thought that a lively girl such as I was, would have a more exciting time with Jonathan. However, he would certainly give his blessing to either match—and so would my mother.
It would keep me with them, and my mother—to whom the only fly in her marriage ointment was that fertility was lacking—would have grandchildren under her roof.
“In a few weeks you will be seventeen,” said my mother, eyeing me with a sort of wonder, as though for a girl to reach that age was a feat of extreme cleverness. “I can’t believe it. Seventeen years ago…” Her eyes clouded as they always did when she thought of those years in France. She did often, I knew. It was impossible not to. We were always hearing of the terrible things which were happening over there, how the King and Queen were now the prisoners of the new regime, and of the terrible humiliations to which they were submitted. Then there was the bloodshed—the guillotine with its horrible basket into which the severed heads of aristocrats dropped with appalling regularity.
She, too, often thought of poor Aunt Sophie and Armand, and wondered what had become of them. The subject would now and then be raised at the table, and Dickon would wax fierce about it, and there were often arguments between him and Charlot in which Louis Charles joined. Charlot was a problem. He was becoming a man and had to decide what he was to do with his life. Dickon was for sending him to the other estate at Clavering—and Louis Charles with him. That, Dickon thought, would get them both out of the way. But Charlot declared that he did not intend to manage an English country estate. He had been brought up in the belief that he was to have charge of Aubigné.
“The principle of management is the same,” Dickon reminded him.
“Mon cher Monsieur.” Charlot often introduced French phrases into his conversation, particularly when he was talking to Dickon. “There is much difference between a great French castle and a little English country estate.”
“Indeed yes,” said Dickon. “One is a ruin… overrun by rabble; the other is in perfect working order.”
My mother, as she always did, interposed between her husband and her son. It was only because he knew that these altercations distressed her that Dickon did not carry on the battle.
“Seventeen,” she went on now. “We must have a real celebration. Shall we have a dance and invite the neighbours, or would you like just a dinner party with a few selected friends? Then we might arrange for a trip to London. We could go to the theatre and do some shopping…”
I said certainly that appealed to me more than the dance and the neighbours.
Then she was serious. “Claudine, have you ever thought about… marriage?”
“I suppose most people give it a thought now and then.”
“I mean seriously.”
“How can one unless one is asked?”
She frowned. “There are two, I believe, who would be ready to ask you,” she went on. “In fact I think they are waiting for the all-important birthday. You know who I mean, and I know you are fond of both of them. Dickon and I have talked of it. It is something we should be very happy about. There is something unusual about twins. We had twins in the family some years ago—Bersaba and Angelet—and do you know, eventually they each married the same man… Angelet first, and after her death, Bersaba married him. That was before the family were at Eversleigh. It was Bersaba’s daughter Arabella who married into the Eversleigh family—that was at the time of the Civil War and the Restoration. So you see it goes back a long way. But why am I telling you this? Oh… twins. Although they are so different—as Bersaba and Angelet were by all accounts—they both fell in love with the same man. I think it is rather like David and Jonathan.”
“You mean they are both in love… with me?”
“I’m sure of it, and so is Dickon. You are attractive, you know, Claudine.”
“Oh, I am not beautiful like you, Maman.”
“You are very attractive, and it is obvious that you will soon be called on to make a choice. Claudine, tell me, which is it to be?”
“Isn’t it rather unseemly to choose between two men when one has not had a proposal from either?”
“It is only for my ears, Claudine.”
“Dear Maman, I hadn’t thought…”
“But you have thought of them.”
“Well—in a way…”
“David loves you steadily… wholeheartedly. He would be a very good husband, Claudine.”
“You mean that if I were asked by both of them you would prefer me to take David?”
“I would accept your choice. It is your decision, dearest child. They are so different. It is a situation fraught with difficulties, for whichever one you choose, the other will still be there. It worries me quite a lot, Claudine. Dickon laughs at me. He has his own ideas of these matters and I don’t always agree with him.” She smiled reminiscently. “In fact,” she went on, “I hardly ever agree with him.” She made disagreement sound like the ideal state. “I am concerned though. I wish it could have been different. But, Claudine… I am so selfish. I don’t want you to go away.”
I put my arms round her and held her close to me.
“There was always something rather special between us, wasn’t there?” she said. “You came when I was a little disillusioned with marriage. Oh, I loved your father and we had some wonderful times together, but he was never faithful to me. To him that was the natural way of life. I suppose I had been brought up differently. My mother was so English. You were such a comfort to me, my little Claudine. I want you to make the right choice. You are so young. Talk to me. Tell me. Let me share your thoughts.”
I was bewildered. Certainly I hadn’t thought of having to make a choice. But I could see what she meant: the growing seriousness of David and his obvious delight in my company against the impatient gestures of Jonathan. Yes, I could see that the time of indecision was coming to an end.
I was glad my mother had prepared me for this.
I said to her: “I don’t want to choose. I want everything to go on as it is. I like it this way. I love being with David. It is exciting to listen to him. I have never heard anyone talk as he does. Oh, I know he is rather silent in company, but when we are alone…”
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She smiled at me lovingly and said: “He is a good young man. He is the best of young men…”
And that seemed significant. But I could not bring myself to talk to her of the emotions which Jonathan aroused in me.
I was to have a new dress for the party, and Molly Blackett, the sewing woman, who lived in one of the cottages on the estate, came to make it for me.
She cooed over the yards of white satin and blue silk which were to make up the dress. I was to have paniers of blue which would part to show a white satin petticoat; and the bodice was to be decorated with tiny white and blue flowers embroidered in silks; the sleeves stopped short at the elbow, from which flowed cascades of fine white lace. It was a style which had been introduced by Marie Antoinette, and when I saw it I could not help thinking of her in her prison waiting—and no doubt longing—for death; and this dampened my pleasure in the dress.
Molly Blackett made me stand for what seemed a very long period while she knelt at my feet with a black pincushion beside her into which she would jab the pins with a ferocious joy when she discarded them.
She chattered all the while about how beautiful I was going to look in my dress. “The white is so suitable for a young girl and the blue will match your eyes.”
“They aren’t that shade at all. They’re dark blue.”
“Ah, that’s the point, Miss Claudine. The colours will make your eyes look a darker blue… in contrast, you see. Oh, these colours are just right for you. My word, time passes. I remember when you first came. It seems like yesterday.”
“It is three years ago.”
“Three years! And your dear mother now with us. My mother remembers her well. She sewed for her mother. That was before she went away to France… and after that she sewed for the first Mrs. Frenshaw. Things have changed now.”
I was standing there only half listening. She had taken off the bodice, having rearranged the set of the sleeves, which had not pleased her, so I was left with the skirt about my waist and nothing but the shift at the top.
Voices in a Haunted Room Page 2