In what seemed like one fluid movement, the young man dropped to the grass beneath, reached up for Nathalie and swung her down beside him, grinning broadly at her squeals of delight.
‘Come on, Louis, climb over to Nathalie’s place and jump like I showed you.’
May was filled with alarm. If he should hurt himself . . . Some instinct stopped her from moving forward, from intervening between the two of them. In front of all of them, Jean-Louis now had to jump; she could see that it was a matter of honour.
He climbed carefully down to the fork where Nathalie had been sitting. Please, please, May prayed silently. Nothing broken, please.
His high, childish voice rang out: ‘Un, deux, trois . . .’
A bright flash of blue smock, a yell of approbation from the other two, and there he was: flushed, grinning, rolling on the grass under the spreading oak tree.
‘Excellent! Well done! You bent your knees at exactly the right time, just like I showed you!’
He ruffled Jean-Louis’s hair and turned at once to May.
‘Please forgive my manners: I’m Philippe Ondart, big brother to these two rascals. And you must be Mademoiselle O’Connor, all the way from Ireland.’
His tone was so light, so natural, that May felt no embarrassment at the unconventional nature of their meeting. He extended his hand and shook hers firmly. She liked his mobile, rather ugly face, his friendly manner. He made her think suddenly, achingly, of home.
‘Yes – pleased to meet you.’
He nodded.
‘As am I.’
He turned to the children.
‘Now remember, the tree-climbing was my idea. Let’s get washed and all have lunch together. Mademoiselle May, will you join us?’
He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he began walking towards the kitchen gardens, his coat thrown over one shoulder, his free hand holding Nathalie’s. May was taken aback. Lunch for the children, and for her, was in the schoolroom. Occasionally, on the day when Madame was not at home, the three of them ate in the kitchen with Jeanette and Genevieve. Isabelle, in keeping with her elevated status as housekeeper, preferred to take her meals alone. Somehow, May felt that young Monsieur Ondart had no intention of lunching in the schoolroom, or the kitchen either, for that matter. But the children were her responsibility, and after the fright they had just given her, she wanted to stay close to them. Besides, she was worried that she might have to defend herself when it became known that the children had been outdoors at an unapproved time.
She would soon know by Madame Ondart’s face what was expected of her now, and how her recent transgression was viewed. Behaviour appropriate to the situation would be indicated by the arch of an eyebrow, the coolness of a glance. May felt suddenly depressed, a headache beginning from too much sun.
Reluctantly, she followed the three figures in front of her towards the back of the main house.
Madame said nothing to her, nothing at all. She spoke, rapid-fire, to Genevieve, who whisked the two children away, silencing their protests as she shooed them from the kitchen.
Philippe was the soul of courtesy: he kissed his stepmother’s hand, answered her polite questions regarding his arrival, enquired after his father. May took her opportunity, murmured about getting ready for lunch, although nobody was listening, and made her glad escape up the back stairway to her room.
She wondered how much longer she could bear this.
The gong for lunch sounded a good half-hour later than usual. May made her way to the smaller of the two dining rooms. Madame was already seated.
When the children arrived, they looked scrubbed, their clothes had been changed, Nathalie’s hair severely braided.
May felt their shiny appearance as keenly as a rebuke.
Eleanor’s Journal
ON THE DAY of Hannah’s wedding, May was, if anything, even more beautiful than the bride. She was not quite as tall, but her looks were dark, almost exotic. She had the most perfect skin, clear and creamy. I remember feeling awkward, ungainly, all hands and feet, in her company. She seemed never to make an ungraceful movement. When I look back on the photograph of that day, I am still surprised at how lovely the three of us look. The photographer even succeeded in creating an illusion of poise for me – he gave me some flowers to hold on my knee, so that my over-large hands were concealed very prettily.
Hannah, everybody agreed, made a radiant bride. She had chosen an elegant ivory silk gown and coat dress for the occasion. The shade was a perfect complement for her fair hair and smooth skin. Mama’s dressmaker also hand-embroidered exquisitely, and the bodice of Hannah’s wedding-gown, the edges of her coat dress, and the long cuffs of her gauntlet gloves were crowded with all manner of fine stitching. Her hat, too, was of the latest style – wide and deep-crowned, its feathers and trimmings an exact match for the shade of her gown.
But I digress. I don’t think I really understood until afterwards what Hannah’s marriage signified for me in practical terms – it took some time for the realization to dawn that my sister would, in all probability, never live in the same house with me again. On the day, however, my fifteen-year-old self was concerned only with the beautiful pale pink silk dress that Mama had had made for me, and the fact that I was permitted to wear my hair up for the first time. May, at seventeen, was going through a period of being completely disdainful of me – she would now be the elder sister of our household, and she took care to prove it by ordering me to do this and that during the weeks coming up to the wedding.
Mama and Papa were, I remember, well pleased with the day. Everything was perfect, the cake, the wine, the flowers. It was many years later that I learned of Grandfather Delaney’s role in all of this. As with so many things in the previous six years, he had paid for everything to do with the wedding, and presided over the day like a grumpy old aristocrat, despite his rapidly failing health. I think the anticipation of the wedding had kept him alive – he was, in his own way, proud of his three Dublin granddaughters. He died two weeks after Hannah’s wedding and May was inconsolable.
I remember him, even on the wedding day, being gruff, almost rude to everyone. I wondered at the time why Mama and Papa allowed it. Mama hushed me every time I made mention of his bad temper. I understand now, of course, that she had had to endure his off-putting manner, like it or not – circumstances gave her no choice. I have learned to feel more sympathy for Mama as the years have passed. I know that she had to endure many things.
I had liked Charles the first time I met him in Belfast, and I liked him again now. His humour was always kindly, and he took the trouble to converse with me as though I were a real adult. He often behaved as if he and I shared some private joke, and he would frequently direct the most comical looks at me over his mother’s head, whenever she launched into another one of her interminable ‘what-a-wonderful-husband-I-had’ stories. I remember feeling so relieved that the MacBrides had all stayed in the Shelbourne for the week leading up to the wedding. I don’t think I could have contained myself had they – had she – been with us. Charles, however, made me laugh, often despite myself. I received a good number of Mama’s glances across the table, the ones with a half-raised eyebrow, warning me to be careful of myself, to mind my manners.
Constance MacBride was patently delighted with herself that day, too. I have to confess I warmed to her, and to both her daughters, Emily and Marianne. They had a wonderful sense of humour and had no shame in interrupting their mother’s lengthy and frequent stories. Emily, in particular, had a wicked glint in her eye whenever her mother’s tales took flight, and her cry of ‘Now, Mother!’, sometimes clear across the room, brought instant obedience, and silence, in its wake. She was as unlike her mother as it is possible for anyone to be. Where Constance MacBride was large and fleshy, Emily was trim, tidy, her body giving a great sense of compacted energy. Her eyes had a manner of darting from one person to another, impressing all who met her with her quick and lively intelligence. I enjoyed watching her, enjoyed
her mastery over her ever-imposing mama. Of course, I realize now that Emily had just as much mastery as her delighted mother permitted her. I see them now as a sophisticated vaudeville act, each part sparkling all the more because of the willing complicity of the other. It did not surprise me to learn a little later that Emily was, in all ways, the living image of her father.
It was she who took May under her wing, she who suggested that her mother’s old friend, Monsieur Ondart, would be the perfect person for May to stay with, if she were really serious about going to France.
I remember feeling somewhat put-out – not only was Hannah getting married and leaving home, but now May seemed all set, too, to begin her adventures. Soon, I should be the only one of us left at home, and I really wasn’t quite sure how I felt about that.
May: Summer 1899
FOR WEEKS, PHILIPPE’S arrival at Rouen train station was a regular event. Friday evening to Sunday afternoon his presence seemed to fill the house and gardens, whether he sat on the shady veranda with his father in the evenings, their cigar-smoke drifting lazily in and out of the heavy jasmine overhead, or played rough and tumble with Jean-Louis when Madame wasn’t looking. He appeared to be deeply attached to his young brother and sister, and May particularly liked watching him with Nathalie. He would kneel with her beside her flowerbed, occasionally helping her plant something new that Old Pierre willingly gave them from the greenhouse. He would watch as she pulled out any stray weeds and watered everything with care. May could see he was careful to let Nathalie do everything herself – his role was that of advisor.
‘Like this, Nathalie – see? You must soak the soil so that the water gets to the roots. It will just dry off the leaves in an instant, and then the plant hasn’t really had a drink at all. Do you see?’
The little girl’s adoration of him was sometimes painful to see; her glowing, open face was the palest, most angelic picture of innocent devotion. May found herself hoping that he would never let either of the children down. She hoped they would be old enough to cope when the inevitable happened, and someone else usurped the greater part of his affections.
As it was, the two children underwent a complete transformation in Philippe’s company. They no longer behaved like miniature adults, grave and silent about their studies, small creatures of unvarying routine. Instead, they played hide and seek and hunt the thimble, even climbed trees when Madame was not in evidence. May admired Philippe’s unselfconscious ease with them, his willingness to be open and childlike. She also got the sense that Madame was a little afraid of him: the children spent a great deal of time out of doors when he was around, and he simply seemed to ignore the distinction between the times which were permitted and those that were forbidden. May had seen a look pass between Madame and her husband on Philippe’s last visit. Whatever she saw in her husband’s face made her turn away, tight-lipped. She never intervened between Philippe and the children again.
After his return to Paris every weekend, May was the happy recipient of the children’s fund of high spirits: whatever magic Philippe had wrought with them spilled over into the schoolroom during the following days. They would be full of fun, ready to laugh at even her lamest joke, eager to cooperate. By mid-week, they would be naturally subdued again, and she had learned to coax them along with promises of their brother’s return. It never failed.
On this particularly hot, still Friday evening, they awaited his arrival from the station as usual. The whole week had been oppressive, the air humid and stifling. May found the intensity of the heat uncomfortable, and for once, Madame’s strictures regarding the outdoors sat easily with her. There was no pleasure in being outside. Within the house, at least the dim, shuttered rooms offered some cool escape. Outside it, the air was so warm and cloying that even the shade offered no real respite. May disliked the old feelings of suffocation which seemed to nudge to the surface when the heat was this intense.
Now, at nine o’clock in the evening, sitting with the children in the shade of the veranda, May was grateful for this, the pleasantest part of the day. Nathalie was getting tired of waiting. She jumped up and down impatiently every time she heard the slightest sound. The children weren’t even prepared for bed yet: Monsieur and Madame were away at a weekend house-party in Deauville, and May was determined to relax the regime just a little. In fact, the whole household was running more slowly: meals were unhurried, less formal affairs. The redoubtable Isabelle seemed to have thawed a little in the heat, agreeing to eat with the others in the kitchen rather than in her own quarters. Even the old house seemed more relaxed: it had been creaking and sighing all evening, like an old man easing his aching bones into rest. Genevieve had commented on it, too, but her no-nonsense prediction was for a massive thunderstorm.
Tonight, May had dressed with particular care. There had been no urgency in her preparations for dinner. Instead, she was filled with a sense of pleasant anticipation which puzzled her. She had grown used to the Ondarts’ stiff manner; it no longer had the power to upset her. But this evening, their absence had apparently made a huge difference to her – more than she would have thought. Why else would she feel such extremes of relief, of indolent well-being? She decided to wear her blue silk for the first time. Mama had had it made for her before she came away, but she had never worn it; her intuition had told her that Madame would frown upon it. It was not sombre enough, not unobtrusive enough, not – grey enough, somehow, for the governess of her children.
When May finally heard the scrunch of the carriage wheels on gravel, she was startled. She felt her face flush suddenly at the thought of Philippe. She was horrified at herself: what on earth was wrong with her? She stood up, partly concealed by the shade of the veranda, and looked wildly around the garden. She needed somewhere to hide: somewhere she could go until this extraordinary attack of confusion could be controlled. She couldn’t believe it: where had these feelings leapt from? They were impossible, absolutely impossible: she warned herself not to be foolish. She couldn’t possibly be in love with this man – she hardly knew him. The gap between them was much too great, their different nationalities, their backgrounds – and besides, Madame and Monsieur would never approve.
Nevertheless, she had her whole life mapped out in seconds, her thoughts wheeling, her brain whirling with all the impossibilities suddenly made possible. By the time the carriage drew to a halt in a shower of gravel, she had already married him.
The children threw themselves at Philippe as he alighted from the carriage. Amid their yells and laughter, May had time to compose herself. Her face felt cooler; she had managed to stop her hands from trembling. She had also had the time to laugh at herself. What an absurd imagination she had. She deliberately did not go towards the carriage, despite her custom. She must be careful. She would never let him know, never give him any indication of the madness she had just experienced. It must have something to do with the weather.
Later, when she was alone, she would look at her feelings calmly. They were childish, unfounded. She would never give him any indication.
As it happened, he came to her first.
She had returned to say goodnight, once the children were in bed. Exhausted from the unaccustomed lateness of the hour, they had both suddenly become quarrelsome, picking at each other, until finally Nathalie started to cry.
‘Enough!’ Philippe had said sternly. ‘Off you go, both of you. It’s late. No more fighting or we’ll have no games tomorrow.’
Meekly, they had both followed May up the stairs to the room they shared. They washed unwillingly, complaining constantly as they changed into their night-wear. She had had to speak to them a little sharply more than once. Perhaps Madame’s routine had a point, after all. By the time May left them, both children were sulking. Neither wanted a story. It was the first time she had ever left them in such bad temper. She stayed in her own room for ten minutes, waiting. Then she crept silently along the corridor to check. They were both asleep. Quietly, she made her way back downstairs t
o the veranda.
‘Will you join me?’
Philippe gestured to the chair she had vacated almost an hour ago. She hesitated. Genevieve appeared then with a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘A good chablis – and it has been cooling in the cellar. Let me tempt you.’
He waited until Genevieve curtsied and left to go back inside. He poured a glass and handed it to May. She had thought her resolve strong, had promised herself simply to say goodnight and retire to her room quickly before she could change her mind. But she was tempted despite herself, her determination suddenly dissolving. Besides any feelings she might have, which she was sure she could conceal, it had been a long time since she had had any real conversation. Her French was improving, but still limited. She found the language an uphill struggle. Philippe’s English, on the other hand, was excellent. It would be good to talk without strain, without her mind having to leap three sentences ahead of her thoughts to make sure that her grammatical structure was correct. She was constantly terrified of making mistakes in front of Madame. It was as though the woman waited for them, pouncing on every new indication of the inferiority of her governess. May was suddenly tired of being second best. A great wave of homesickness washed over her and she longed for home. Even Mama and Papa’s troubled company seemed better than what she had here, in a foreign country. She missed her sisters overwhelmingly; particularly Hannah. She didn’t want to be alone tonight.
She nodded, accepting the cool glass, beads of moisture already springing up on the delicate, lacy engraving around the rim.
‘Thank you. That would be very nice.’
He took her cue and immediately answered her in English. The relief was enormous. And the wine was good. All her heady emotions of that day seemed to quieten suddenly, to settle into place, and she began to feel comfortable in his presence. She was able to chide herself for her earlier foolishness. He was a nice man, a sensitive soul. They had the care of the two children in common. They were polite and courteous in each other’s company. That was all.
Another Kind of Life Page 22