And the next moment she was in his arms.
‘Please don’t cry,’ he begged, brushing away the tears with his lips.
‘I tried to do what was best for us. A-and you are b-behaving as if it were all my fault!’ she sobbed.
‘It was just that you seemed to be siding with my mother against me.’ Even now he could not suppress his hurt.
‘Oh no, never that!’ Mercy was so startled she stopped crying. ‘I’d never do that, ever! But it seemed the only solution. True, we’ll be living our lives to suit your mother, only for a while, though. And won’t we be suiting ourselves in the long run, with all of our problems solved? Besides, she is your mother. It’s bad enough to have to give up my family, I don’t want to make things worse between you two!’
‘My mother was the cause of the rift not you, so don’t worry on that score. And as for making things worse…’ Peter began to kiss her ear. ‘Since the day I married you things have been getting steadily better.’
He pulled her closer and gently began to undo the tiny buttons of her nightgown.
* * *
With daunting speed the servants were dismissed, the lease on the house surrendered, and they were on their way to Brittany.
At first Mercy regarded setting up home in Brittany with some misgivings. She had always wanted to travel, but to live in a foreign country upon Agnes Lisburne’s instructions smacked too much of enforced exile. She had agreed to it, but she did not have to like it.
Peter was particularly loving towards her these days. He was almost too eager to please. It was as if, having failed her so badly, he was determined to make amends. Mercy knew that her love for him was as strong as ever; it was her faith in him that had been damaged. Then she came to see that her view of him in the early heady days of their marriage had been unrealistic. He was a man, with faults and weaknesses. How much better it was to love the real Peter, frailties and all, rather than some imagined perfect creature.
Poole accompanied them to Brittany, and there was one new member in the entourage, Miss Herriot, who was to take change of Mercy’s education.
Emily Herriot came with impeccable references, having been governess to the children of Agnes’s cousin for twenty years. She was a small-framed woman who seemed to be made of sprung steel, so brisk were her movements. She also had a habit of taking charge.
‘I expect her to ask if I’ve washed the back of my neck at any moment,’ protested Peter in a low voice.
Mercy smothered her laughter. She found the starchy governess rather alarming, although they shared a dislike of Poole, which was a good point of mutual sympathy.
Their new home was a solid, stone-built house, furnished in the traditional Breton manner with large, splendidly carved pieces. It may have been because she was living by the sea once again, or perhaps it was because the slower pace of life suited her but whatever the reason, once her initial qualms at living abroad had died down, she felt more at home in Trevignac then she had ever done in London. Only the absence of her family prevented life from being ideal. There were her lessons, too, to give her days a sense of purpose. The curriculum was a narrow one, drawn up by Agnes and strictly adhered to by Miss Herriot; but Mercy never complained. She was conscious of how much leeway she had to make up and therefore worked hard.
To find that none of the servants spoke English had been something of a shock at first.
‘Nonsense! What better way to learn a language than by speaking it!’ Miss Herriot briefly dismissed her misgivings. ‘I’ll teach you each phrase you need to know and then you can repeat it to the appropriate person.’
This learning parrot-fashion was not an unqualified success.
‘You had the right words, my sweet,’ Peter assured her, controlling his merriment with difficulty after listening to one of her attempted conversations with the cook. ‘Miss Herriot has taught you well in that respect, but I’m afraid you are being defeated by her accent. Poor Cook couldn’t understand a word.’
‘Do you mean that Miss Herriot can’t speak French?’ asked Mercy incredulously.
‘I’m sure she can write it very well. It’s her accent – it isn’t one you would hear in France.’
The knowledge that the governess was not infallible reduced her to more human proportions in Mercy’s eyes and made her less awe-inspiring. ‘I think I’d better rely on you for help with my French,’ she smiled.
‘That’s a good idea if you want to be understood,’ he grinned, squeezing her affectionately.
She was pleased to see that he, too, was enjoying his stay in Brittany. She had been afraid that, because they were his mother’s instructions, he would be resentful and unhappy. But he was obviously content. He had the ability to make the best of things with a good will, a quality doubtless perfected during a lifetime spent with Agnes. Sometimes he would go sailing when the weather allowed, and he had made friends with the local doctor with whom he played chess. Most of all he seemed happiest when talking to the country people. Unlike Miss Herriot, his French was fluent, and Mercy could soon determine the difference in accents. One aspect of their lives which did not please her, however, was the appointment of a lady’s maid. For months she had held out against employing someone simply to help her dress and look after her clothes, but Miss Herriot was adamant.
‘Every lady must have her own maid,’ she said in tones which implied any other arrangement was not proper. ‘Mrs Lisburne was quite definite on that point.’
‘Does the girl you’ve chosen speak English?’ asked Mercy.
‘No,’ admitted Miss Herriot. ‘All the more opportunity to practise your French.’
‘Very well, I’ll see her,’ sighed Mercy.
Peter was all in favour of the new addition to the household. ‘Marie-Jeanne seems a jolly sort of girl,’ he said, soon after she had arrived. ‘I was talking to her this morning and I was quite impressed. Miss Herriot did well to find someone so capable. I think she’ll make my beautiful wife even more lovely and desirable, so that everyone will say how lucky I am!’
Even when cosseted in Peter’s embrace and comforted by his words Mercy was still not sure about the girl. There was something about her she could not like, despite her careful manners. There was a voluptuous, almost carnal air about her which reminded Mercy vaguely of Dolly, but a Dolly minus the good nature and generous heart. At times Mercy thought she caught her new maid looking at her with an expression which bordered on contempt. She wished she had a command of French, and the nerve, to reprimand her for the disdain in those haughty brown eyes.
By contrast the lessons with Miss Herriot were proving far less of an ordeal than she had feared. She worked hard at the studies, appreciating the patient instruction given to her by the governess. In turn Miss Herriot was clearly delighted to have so willing and able a pupil, so much so that, in time, she ignored the narrow timetable laid down by Mrs Lisburne and included such subjects as politics and international affairs.
‘I think you will find this interesting,’ the governess said one day, taking a copy of a magazine from a leather attache case. ‘This is Votes for Women. I hope you will find it a thought-provoking publication. I would be most grateful if you would read it discreetly. I would not like it known by Mrs Lisburne that I subscribe to such a periodical; she would not approve.’
‘You mean I should keep it from my husband?’ said Mercy doubtfully.
‘Goodness, I was not thinking of Mr Lisburne! I meant that manservant of his.’
‘Poole? What has he got to do with it?’
‘You don’t know? How do you think Mrs Lisburne is so well informed of all that goes on here? Take my advice, dear. If there is anything you do not wish to get back to the Villa Dorata then keep it well away from that Poole fellow.’
This news stunned Mercy, even more than the discovery that Miss Herriot was a covert suffragette. She was heartened to find she had such a staunch ally in the governess though it served to increase her dislike of the manservant. When she told Peter, however, he
took the news philosophically.
‘I suppose we should have suspected something of the sort,’ he said. ‘It’s extremely annoying.’
‘Aren’t you going to dismiss him, or at least speak to him about it?’
‘I think not. He has served me very well all the time he has been with me. And he has been honest in other respects. Besides, you know the way my mother works – the poor fellow probably had no choice in the matter.’
Mercy looked at him for a moment, irritated by his calm acceptance of the situation. He still did not seem to take her disapproval of Poole seriously, despite Miss Herriot’s disclosure. Then she realized that she could expect no other reaction from Peter, it was the generous side of his nature that made her love him so much. She flung her arms about him.
‘I can think of no other man who would behave so charitably!’ she exclaimed. ‘You are wonderful!’
‘I know,’ said Peter complacently, ‘but I like hearing it from your lips.’
Mercy laughed and kissed him. Then she kissed him again.
‘Now I feel I am truly appreciated,’ smiled Peter. ‘I was beginning to wonder when I saw you reading Votes for Women.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all. I think I would rather like being married to a New Woman. It might prove exciting. All I ask is that you don’t chain yourself to railings too frequently, or throw bricks through the windows of 10 Downing Street more than once a week. I wouldn’t like you to get talked about.’
‘I promise to restrain myself,’ Mercy assured him gravely.
She marvelled again at her good fortune in being married to a man like Peter. On her wedding-day, nearly two years ago, she had been convinced that she could not love him more; but she knew that this was not true – that love seemed a very poor thing compared to what she now felt for him.
The golden days of autumn clung for a long time on the Breton coast, then made way for the cold sea mists of winter. Mercy found her studies very absorbing; Miss Herriot introduced her to subjects the existence of which she had barely been aware, though even the liberal governess looked askance when Mercy insisted upon taking lessons in cookery.
‘It seems such a waste not to learn about French cuisine now I’ve got the chance,’ Mercy pointed out. ‘Madame Le Clos is a renowned cook, and she only takes a few pupils, so I was lucky to be chosen. Besides, as she doesn’t speak any English it will be good for my French.’
‘Ah, if it benefits your French then I’m sure there can be no objections,’ Miss Herriot replied, her eyes twinkling.
Mercy’s studies did not always go well. One grey morning, although she applied herself to her lessons she found it hard to settle. She felt slightly off colour, due, she suspected, to shellfish at dinner the previous evening. Miss Herriot watched her struggle with her first exercise in French grammar and then a rather knotty essay on political theory before she remarked, ‘The rain seems to have stopped. Shall we take a stroll for half an hour, just to get a breath of fresh air before lunch? You are looking peaky.’
Mercy closed her book with relief and ten minutes later they set out, well wrapped up against the chill wind. They had not gone far when Mercy realized she did not have a handkerchief.
‘It’s no use. I must go back and get one,’ she said. ‘This cold wind is making my nose run.’
‘That is not a remark I would recommend using when you return to the Villa Dorata,’ chided Miss Herriot.
‘I know,’ laughed Mercy. ‘And no doubt I should stand in the hall and ring for Marie-Jeanne to fetch one for me, when it is far quicker for me to go up and get it myself. Wait here, I won’t be long.’
Mercy hurried back up to the house and went up to her room to get the handkerchief. Of Marie-Jeanne there was no sign but as she walked swiftly along the corridor she thought she heard the maid laughing. The small door leading to the servants’ quarters was open and as she passed it she was sure she heard Marie-Jeanne’s voice followed by that of a man. So Marie-Jeanne was entertaining an admirer in her room, was she? The sheer audacity of it almost took Mercy’s breath away.
‘Mademoiselle Marie-Jeanne is in for a surprise,’ she muttered grimly.
As Mercy hurried upstairs her rubber-soled outdoor shoes made no sound on the wooden treads. The maid’s door was ajar, and it swung open silently at her touch. She had given no thought as to what she might find, though remembering Marie-Jeanne’s air of latent promiscuity she should have anticipated the scene which met her eyes.
Two naked figures moved together on the bed, the faded coverlet pushed aside by their writhing. Marie-Jeanne, her eyes closed, had twined her legs about the man’s body.
Mercy stood, unable to move, her attention no longer on Marie-Jeanne. Her eyes were taking in the man’s bare back – the scattering of freckles so golden across his shoulders, the blond hair tapering so perfectly into the nape of his neck, the curve of the vertebrae beneath his white skin sweeping into the arc of his narrow waist. She gazed in mute fascination, unwilling to admit to herself that they were so familiar, so beloved.
She must have made a noise for suddenly they both turned and looked at her, their expressions ludicrous in their horror. The hysterical urge to laugh that welled up within her faded at once, and she rushed forward.
‘Out!’ she screamed at the maid, advancing towards her. ‘Get out!’
What she meant to do to the girl she did not know. All she wanted was to make her hurt, to give her some of the anguish she was feeling now.
Marie-Jeanne saw the expression on her face. Rolling out of bed, naked as she was she ran out of the room, screaming in terror. Mercy snatched at her hair, but the maid evaded her, leaving a few dark strands twined in her fingers.
‘Mercy!’ Peter disentangled himself from the bedclothes and came towards her.
‘No!’ She put out a hand to push him away. ‘No!’ she repeated, her voice low with anguish and disgust. ‘You smell of her!’
Then she turned and stumbled down the stairs. She was vaguely aware of a figure coming along the corridor and Miss Herriot’s voice saying, ‘Wherever did you get to, my dear? I found your handkerchief. You had dropped it…’ But Mercy took no notice. She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.
Once inside she did not know what to do. She sat on the bed, then got up again, walked back and forth, then flung herself into the big carved chair, rocking herself frantically back and forth. Time and again, like something from a ghastly bioscope picture, the scene she had just witnessed passed before her eyes. Peter lying with another woman, pleasuring himself with someone else’s body. Nothing she did could ease the pain.
When he came in, fully dressed now, Peter found her sitting on the bed, her knees crooked up in front of her, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, as if such pinioning was the only way to stop herself from disintegrating. He came and sat beside her, but she gave no sign that she was aware of his presence.
‘I’m sorry…’ he said.
Still she did not move.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I thought you had gone out.’
That stung a response from her.
‘You thought I’d gone out! Is that the only excuse you can give?’
‘I didn’t want to upset you.’ He looked uncomfortable but his face registered remarkably little guilt. ‘It was nothing serious.’
‘Nothing serious! You call rolling about naked with my maid nothing serious?’ She could not believe what she was hearing.
‘Oh really, Mercy! You’re reading far too much into this.’
‘I’m reading into it exactly what I saw. How long has this affair been going on?’
‘It isn’t an affair – don’t exaggerate its importance.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘An interlude… a dalliance…’ He searched for a suitable word. ‘The sort of thing which goes on all the time.’
She stared at him. ‘Not in my home!’ she cried. ‘Not with my husband!’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Peter seemed startled at the idea.
‘Then, why? What have I done wrong?’
‘You’ve done nothing wrong, darling. You’re my wife and I love you desperately.’
‘Yet you go to another woman!’ Mercy’s sobs were shaking her whole frame.
‘That has nothing to do with love.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s hard to explain – a sort of need, I suppose.’
‘A need I can’t fulfil?’
‘You could call it a different sort of need. Oh, sweetheart, I wish you wouldn’t distress yourself over this. It isn’t important. I keep telling you that but you won’t believe me.’
Mercy looked at him through her tears and saw that he was remarkably calm about the whole thing.
‘How did you expect me to behave?’ she asked.
‘Well, just ignore it. That’s the usual thing wives do.’
‘Whose wives?’ Her astonishment at his attitude was even beginning to break through her pain.
‘Wives in general, I suppose. The done thing is to turn a blind eye.’
She stared at him in disbelief and saw he was being quite serious.
‘You are unfaithful to me, you break my heart – and you expect me to turn a blind eye?’
‘But I wasn’t unfaithful.’
‘Then what do you call going to bed with my maid?’ ‘That was something else entirely, nothing which affects you and me!’
He believed it! That was the incredible thing! He was clearly sorry to have distressed her but he genuinely could not see why she was so upset! Is this how it is in high society? Mercy wondered. Are husbands allowed to satisfy themselves where they please and their wives pretend not to notice? If so, she wanted none of it.
‘Go away!’ she cried. ‘I want to be by myself!’
‘But I don’t like leaving you when you are so upset.’ ‘Please!’ It was a cry of anguish that Peter could not ignore. Reluctantly he left the room.
To Dream Again Page 12