Another Kind of Life

by Catherine Dunne

  Nothing could have prepared May for the sight of the carved, vaulted front door which brought the carriage to a sudden halt. She kept waiting for the journey to continue – surely they’d just stopped for a moment outside a church, or a castle; this couldn’t possibly be someone’s home. Then the carriage door was opened for her, and unseen hands flipped down the two small steps and helped her on to the shining gravel. In the moonlight, the building before her looked austere, somewhat forbidding. She adopted her mother’s no-nonsense tone inside her head as she chided herself for her silly notions, exhorting herself to be her age.

  A tall, dark-haired woman was standing just inside the portico. Her stance reminded May of Mama, the way she used to clasp her hands before singing one of her favourite arias. The gold jewellery, the arrangement of her hair, the fall of her elegant silk gown, all proclaimed her identity. This had to be Madame Ondart. She seemed to shimmer in the light and shade cast by the gas lamp. May felt very plain and gauche by comparison and stumbled in her nervousness as she made her way up the steps to the main door. The woman did not move towards her, nor did she extend a hand in greeting. She simply waited until May reached her.

  ‘Bonsoir, Madame,’ May managed. ‘Je suis May O’Connor.’

  ‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Vous êtes bienvenue.’

  The woman’s tentative smile seemed to fade as May came fully into view under the pale, single light. May was conscious that she was being scrutinized, measured up. She began to feel very uncomfortable. Wasn’t this woman behaving very rudely?

  ‘I’m sure you are tired after your long journey. Isabelle will show you to your room. I shall see you at breakfast. Goodnight, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘Goodnight, Madame.’

  And that was it. Madame swept off down the corridor, perhaps hurrying back to more interesting company. May could hear voices and laughter in the distance, a sudden burst of conversation as a door was opened; then silence. Isabelle, middle-aged and smart, led May to a room at the top of a long flight of stairs, and then left her at once, inclining her head finally as a silent acknowledgement of May’s existence.

  Numbly, May undressed and lay down on the bed, too exhausted even to take in her surroundings. She blew out the candle that had been left on a small, solid-looking table, and closed her eyes gratefully. But sleep eluded her; she felt uneasy, alert to all the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the house settling around her. Finally, she fell into an exhausted doze just as dawn was breaking, the sky streaked with pink and grey brushstrokes, just visible outside her window. The knock on her door at seven startled her: it took her a moment to remember where she was. A maid entered, bringing hot water. She curtsied hurriedly and left. The silence of her departure filled May with sudden misgiving. A great wave of homesickness left her breathless in its wake. It was all beginning to feel like too much. She already missed the warmth of Hannah’s embrace, the quiet seriousness of Ellie’s blue gaze. And she certainly did not feel that anyone had made any particular effort to make her feel welcome last night.

  Madame Ondart was already seated at the breakfast table. She looked up and inclined her head politely as May was ushered into the room.

  ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle O’Connor. I hope you slept well?’

  Her face seemed to May to be arranged in the contours of a smile, but no warmth reached her eyes. She was all surface, May thought, with that vague, feathery politeness which meant she didn’t really care about you at all. Her very formality seemed to be intensified by the heavy, ornate oak furniture and the morning light filtering dimly through half-closed shutters. May wished that her French was better: her reply sounded awkward and foolish even to her own ears. Madame barely acknowledged it.

  ‘Genevieve will bring breakfast to your room for this morning. I wish to speak to the children in the schoolroom before I introduce you. Is there anything you need?’

  She spoke slowly – perhaps making an effort to be kind? May shook her head.

  ‘No, Madame. There is nothing I need. Thank you.’

  ‘Very well. We shall discuss the children’s activities together when we meet in half an hour.’

  The young girl who had brought the hot water to May’s room now entered the room silently. May realized that she was being dismissed.

  ‘Merci,’ was all she could think of to say before making her mortified exit. Was this how she was going to feel for the whole year? This was not how she had imagined travel, new surroundings, exciting experiences. Nothing Constance MacBride told her had prepared her for this. She had expected warmth, the sharing of family news, the polite interest one would automatically display for even the most distant, the most remote of family friends. Instead, this was painfully awkward, reminiscent of not knowing your lessons as a child in primary school.

  A bowl of milky coffee was set on a small table in May’s bedroom. Genevieve put some croissants wrapped in a napkin in the centre, and a bowl containing sugar to one side. Then she curtsied hurriedly and left the room as silently as she had entered earlier that morning. May felt her face begin to crumple as she looked at the table. She swallowed hard, determined to contain her tears. She had never eaten breakfast on her own in her life. Hannah had always been there, and so had Ellie. She perched on the edge of the hard chair and tried to work out how to drink from such a large vessel with no handles. Nor could she eat. Even the bits of the pastry she first crumbled on to her plate lodged somewhere in her throat, refusing to soften. She wanted desperately not to be here.

  She was glad to make her escape, to follow yet again the swift, slight figure of Genevieve who led her to the schoolroom, where Nathalie and Jean-Louis sat waiting for her. She felt an immediate wash of affection for the two slight, serious figures, dressed alike in their dark blue smocks.

  ‘Bonjour, Mamzelle May,’ they each said in turn, shaking hands formally before resuming their seats, faces shiny, full of shy curiosity. May wanted them to like her. She only half listened as Madame listed off the children’s daily activities: English grammar, dictation, conversation, gentle walks while the morning was still cool, music practice . . . Instead, despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the shelves of books which filled the walls. The room was too sombre, too monochrome for children: she began to wish for more cheer. These two small lives seemed to be in need of being made brighter.

  May was glad when Madame left the schoolroom. It seemed to her that the children, too, relaxed at once, exhaling with relief once the door closed behind her. They both turned to May, looking at her expectantly. They were waiting for her to produce some sort of magic, she supposed. She asked to see their school books, which they handed over at once. As she flicked through their pages, unseeing, she tried to quell the feeling of hopelessness which had begun to overwhelm her. The truth was, she had no idea what she was going to say to them, how she was going to teach them. She had never expected to be thrown in so completely at the deep end.

  It was Jean-Louis who first broke the silence, speaking slowly, pronouncing the words as though he had been speaking French.

  ‘Mamzelle May, have you brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled, feeling suddenly easier. ‘I have two sisters, one is called Hannah, the other Eleanor.’

  It seemed to be so much easier after that. They named everything in the schoolroom for her, and copied from the small blackboard without being told. They were conscientious children, May thought, obedient to the point of apathy. She felt a little guilty, almost as though she were some sort of impostor. But she felt she could grow close to these two little souls, over time. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so strained between them: maybe they could visit the rest of the house together, a different room each day, and she could teach them all the words the textbooks demanded, and more besides. They could learn about the outdoors as they went walking together. She could even teach them about Ireland, she thought, suddenly remembering her much younger self and her fascination with the shape and detail of maps. Perhaps it would be possible, after all
, to be, if not happy here, then at least busy and productive.

  Lessons were for three hours each day and for the next week the children pored, uncomplaining, over their prescribed texts. These were dusty, worthy tomes that made May itch with impatience. They reminded her of the lowest shelves of Grandfather Delaney’s study, and she smiled at the affectionate memory. She had a sudden, sharp realization of just how much she missed him. She couldn’t have wished him to have lived longer. He had hated his inability to pursue his routine; his lack of independence; his stasis, as he called it. He had told May quietly one evening as she read to him that he intended to see Hannah married, but that he could not promise to be there for her. He had stretched out his old fingers to catch her tears, and whispered that she was his favourite. All his books, he’d said, all of them, were to be hers. All she had to do was make sure she found a husband who would make room for them in his heart as well as his house. She’d laughed, tearfully, as he’d made her promise to do that, to recreate his shelves in some other home where her children would bring her as much joy as she had brought him.

  In this room, however, unlike her childhood afternoons in Grandfather’s study, there was nothing to help her break through the children’s solemnity. Day after day, she tried to find something to make them truly curious, to make their eyes bright with interest.

  Then, about two weeks or so after her arrival, they told her about Philippe. They had begun to be more open with her by then, edging their chairs closer to her desk, becoming mischievous and childlike once Madame Ondart had left the schoolroom after her usual stiff morning visit.

  She’d prepared a lesson for them in English for the more relaxed hour after Madame’s departure: ‘My family’. She taught them clearly, patiently, and they rewarded her at once, scraps of English and torrents of French all tumbling out together as each of them vied to tell her about their Philippe, their big brother. At first she’d thought they must be mistaken: the age gap was so great. Twenty-five years old; Papa’s first son; carrying on Papa’s important business in Paris. Nathalie was standing by May’s chair at this stage, her eyes big, voice breathless with excitement. They’d seen a painting of Philippe’s mother in Papa’s study, Philippe had shown it to them. He’d said it was a secret, made them promise not to tell anyone he had let them in. Mamzelle May would say nothing to Maman, would she not?

  May suddenly understood: half-brother; although she did not correct them. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but it seemed to explain something of the relationship she had sensed between Monsieur and the present Madame Ondart. Although their first meeting had been brief, formal, May had been struck by an impression of distance between husband and wife, a distance that had more to it than mere disparity of years.

  At eight and six, Jean-Louis and Nathalie adored the very idea of their older brother. May looked at their delicate, fine-boned faces. They looked so pale, so earnest, despite the brief illumination which talk of Philippe had brought to their features. Fresh air, she decided. These children spent far too much of their lives cooped up indoors. What harm could sunshine do them? She was not supposed to keep the children out of doors after half past eleven in the morning: the intensity of the midday sun would make them ill, Madame insisted. They must stay inside each day from late morning until four o’clock, when the heat would no longer upset their stomachs, or make them tired and listless. May looked longingly at the grounds. June sunlight streamed through the vast window. From where she sat, she could see the lawns and part of the formal gardens which were dotted with inviting pools of deep shadow.

  She turned to the two bright heads, bent carefully again over the new words she had written for them to copy.

  ‘We shall take our last lesson for today in the gardens,’ she wrote in her careful French on the small blackboard, with the translation underneath. Nathalie’s face lit up at once.

  ‘I have a flowerbed of my own that Philippe helped me plant. I look after it on my own . . .’

  May smiled at her. It was the longest speech the little girl had made in almost four weeks of classes. Jean-Louis looked less certain until his sister simply stood up and took Mamzelle May’s hand. They both turned towards him.

  ‘Coming, Jean-Louis?’ asked May.

  She hoped he wouldn’t refuse, wouldn’t become all grave and closed as he was in his father’s presence. He didn’t take her hand, but he did decide to lead the way. May was interested that he brought them down the servants’ stairway at the back of the house, all the way through the kitchen gardens, around the side of the coach houses, and finally to the long green spread of the lawns. They could not be seen, she was sure, from any of the main rooms of the house. The subterfuge saddened her, for what it said about their lives. She decided to take full advantage of their seclusion.

  ‘Do you know the best game we can play? The one we call in English “hide and seek”?’

  They nodded, eyes full of mischief.

  ‘I will count to fifty with my eyes closed. You must find somewhere to hide in that time. Then I’ll come looking for you. But you must stay outside, in the open air. Gardens only, no hiding in the coach houses or outhouses. Agreed?’

  They nodded again.

  ‘Together or separately?’ she asked them.

  ‘Together,’ said Nathalie.

  ‘Separately,’ said Jean-Louis.

  May laughed.

  ‘For this first time, hide together. Next time, you can each hide on your own.’

  Jean-Louis wasn’t impressed, she could tell, but she had spotted something akin to fear in Nathalie’s expression. This was probably a big adventure – the first chink in the daily routine which they had to wear like armour. May wondered what their parents were protecting them from, out here in the peaceful countryside, miles from anywhere.

  She couldn’t find them.

  How could two children simply disappear off the face of the earth? May could feel panic begin to rise from the pit of her stomach. All she could see was Madame Ondart’s stern face in front of her eyes. What could she say, how could she explain? I’m sorry, Madame, I’ve just lost your children. Perhaps there were terrors lurking in these grounds of which she, May, knew nothing, could know nothing. Perhaps the children were kept hidden away among dusty books for good reason. May had no idea how long she’d been searching, but the sun had moved significantly since she had uncovered her eyes once she’d counted to fifty. It was lunchtime, at least: perhaps hunger would drive them out. There weren’t all that many places to hide, if the children had indeed stayed outdoors. The kitchen gardens were full of low shrubs, herbs, vegetables – nothing even a small child could hide behind. She’d paced the formal gardens twice now, senses keen, alert for any sound: but there’d been nothing. She passed through the little wrought-iron gate again, back out to the lawns. Some small movement made her look up. What she saw made her laugh out loud with relief.

  A great shout of blue announced Nathalie’s hiding-place in the fork of a giant oak tree. She sat absolutely still; May was sure that the child was holding her breath. How on earth had she got up there? More to the point, how was she going to get her down?

  She spread her arms wide, a gesture of defeat, a token of surrender.

  ‘Nathalie – you’ve won! It’s taken me far too long to find you – well done! Is Jean-Louis with you?’

  Nathalie shook her head.

  ‘No, Mamzelle May. He says you must find him too!’

  May smiled at her earnestness.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry? I can’t give you lunch up there!’

  ‘No – you must find Jean-Louis first!’

  The change in the little girl’s face was extraordinary. She was pink with delight, animated, her fair curls escaping from their restraints all around her small head.

  ‘All right – I’ll find him!’

  He can’t be far, May reasoned, but she wanted to find him quickly. She hesitated for a moment, standing under the welcome shade of the leafy oak. The unaccustomed s
un was strong; the light was almost white, blinding. It hurt her eyes, the heat burned the top of her head. She should have brought her hat, and hats for the two children. May did not relish the thought of explaining herself to Madame Ondart, or to Monsieur, for that matter, if any of them became ill due to her stupidity.

  ‘I believe this is what you are looking for, Mademoiselle?’

  The voice behind her startled her, and May turned quickly, almost stumbling in the process. Nathalie was laughing down at her. The little girl pointed to the bewildering sight of a grown man crouching in the second fork of the tree, just away to Nathalie’s right, and a good three feet above her. His coat and trousers were suited to the city streets, not to the precarious business of perching in an oak tree several feet above the ground. His white shirt looked rather streaked and bedraggled, his leather boots a strange growth among the leaves. His whole appearance made May feel a complex mixture of anxiety and relief. He didn’t look dangerous, his clothes were the clothes of a gentleman . . . and the children were safe. But should he have hidden them like that? And who was he anyway? She wasn’t sure yet whether she should be angry. Even as she was making up her mind, she realized who he had to be. He had his arm around Jean-Louis’s shoulders, his dark head a stark contrast to the boy’s white-blonde hair. Despite the difference in their colouring, their similarity across the eyes was startling. All three were looking at her with delight, enjoying her speechless gaze, watching her try to work out what she was seeing.