Time for Silence

by Philippa Carr

  “And you brought him into the school!”

  “Only once. There was something he wanted to see about the building. It was so exciting…creeping round in the dark…with a torch, of course.”

  “You might have been caught!”

  “Disaster!” she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

  “You would have been expelled.”

  “I don’t think so. Grandpère Bourdon would have stopped that. Madame Rochère is very fond of him. I think he must have been her lover years ago when she was young and beautiful. I believe my grandfather has been the lover of half the women in France. He wouldn’t let me be expelled.”

  “You are very daring…and now you are wretched because of this Carl.”

  She was silent.

  “Well,” I said. “I’m glad I know. You are just a deserted maiden, pining for her lover.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. I don’t know why I’ve told you.”

  “Because, in spite of everything, we are still friends.”

  “I suppose so…”

  “I was getting quite worried about you. You’ll get over this. There will be others.”

  She smiled at me faintly.

  “Thanks for coming, Lucinda.”

  She was more gracious than she had been for a long time.

  “I’m glad I did,” I answered. “Good night.”

  The next day we made the journey back to school. My parents came with us as far as Dover, as they had before, and Aunt Belinda with them. Then they went back to London and we spent the night with Aunt Celeste at Valenciennes. Jean Pascal Bourdon and the Princesse were still at the Château Bourdon in the Médoc.

  Soon we were settling in for the term. I was glad to find that I had the same dormitory companions, and we all greeted one another joyously. Lucia had left and Annabelinda had a room to herself.

  She will like that, I thought. But I was sure she would miss Lucia.

  It must have been about a week after we were back when Annabelinda fainted during the English class. I was not there, of course, but I heard about it immediately.

  She was taken to her room and the doctor was sent for.

  I was worried about her. I knew she was not herself. I was beginning to think that it must be more than the melancholy over a lost lover.

  The doctor was closeted with Madame Rochère for some time after he had seen Annabelinda. I went along to her room, but was stopped by Mademoiselle Artois as I was about to enter it.

  “Where are you going, Lucinda?” she asked.

  “To see Annabelinda. I have heard that the doctor has been to see her.”

  “Annabelinda is not to be disturbed.”

  “I shan’t disturb her. She is really like my sister. We have been together a great deal…always.”

  “That may be, but Annabelinda is not to be disturbed. Now, go to your class.” She looked at her watch. “Or you will be late,” she added.

  I could not concentrate on anything. She was ill. I wanted to be with her. However much we sparred, she was still a part of me…like my parents…and Aunt Celeste. I could not bear to be shut out.

  For two days she remained in her room and I was not allowed to visit her. I began to think she was suffering from some infectious disease.

  Then Jean Pascal Bourdon arrived at the school with the Princesse. He was taken straight to Madame Rochère and stayed with her for a long time.

  During the day I was sent for by Madame Rochère.

  “The Princesse and Monsieur Bourdon are here,” she told me—as if I did not know. “They would like to speak to you. They are waiting for you in my sitting room. You may go along to them now.”

  I wondered what this could mean, and I hurried along.

  The Princesse kissed me on both cheeks. Jean Pascal was standing a few paces behind her; then he came forward and, taking both my hands in his, kissed me as the Princesse had and smiled at me tenderly.

  “My dear Lucinda,” he said. “I can see that you are anxious about Annabelinda. The poor child is quite ill. We are going to take her back with us to Bourdon. We shall look after her there, and we hope that in a few months she will be her old self.”

  “Months!” I said.

  “Oh, yes, my dear,” put in the Princesse. “It will be several months.”

  Jean Pascal went on. “I am telling her parents that she will need special care, which naturally she cannot get at school. After all, it is a school, not a hospital. I am asking my daughter and her husband to come over to Bourdon, where we shall be. So they will soon be there, I hope. You will miss Annabelinda, I know. But you have settled in now, have you not?”

  I murmured that I had. I felt bewildered. I could not believe that Annabelinda was so ill that she had to leave school for several months.

  He was watching me covertly. He said suddenly, “Has Annabelinda talked to you?”

  “Well…she did a little.”

  “About…how she was feeling?”

  “Oh, er…yes. We did talk in London before we left. She was upset about…er…”

  “About…er…?”

  “About a friend of hers.”

  “She told you that, did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “This friend of hers?”

  “He came here as a gardener.”

  “I see,” said Jean Pascal abruptly. “Well, she is ill, you know, and she will need some time to recover.”

  “Is she coming back to school?”

  “I daresay she will when she is well. I wouldn’t say anything about this gardener, if I were you.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t. I thought Annabelinda didn’t want me to.”

  “I am sure she wouldn’t. She just spoke to him in the gardens, of course.”

  “Oh,” I began, and stopped abruptly. Jean Pascal gave me an intent look; then he was smiling.

  “I hope you will come to the château sometime,” he said. “Perhaps before you go home for the summer holiday. That’s a good time of year…when the grapes are nearly ripe, you know.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “We are leaving today and taking Annabelinda with us. I hope you won’t be lonely without her.”

  “I have Caroline, Helga and Yvonne and others.”

  “I am sure you have lots of friends.”

  “Annabelinda is not going to…” They both looked at me in horror as I stammered, “…not going…to the…”

  Jean Pascal laughed. “Mon Dieu, non, non, non,” he cried. “She will be all right. She just needs quiet and rest and attention, which she can get at Bourdon. When you see her in the summer it will be the old Annabelinda whom you knew.”

  “I have been worried.”

  “Of course you have, dear child. But there is no need. We’re going to nurse her to health. You will be amazed when you see her. In the meantime you must work hard and please Madame Rochère, who gives you quite a good report, I might tell you. And…just don’t talk too much about Annabelinda. She doesn’t like being ill. Nobody does, and when she comes back she won’t want people to think of her as an invalid.”

  “I understand.”

  “I knew you would. Bless you, my dear. I am so looking forward to seeing you in the summer.”

  “I, too, my dear,” said the Princesse.

  That afternoon they left, taking Annabelinda with them.

  I missed her very much. I always felt an emptiness when she was out of my life. I missed the skirmishes, her scorn, her contempt, for I knew that beneath it all there was a certain affection.

  I wondered how she was progressing and I was delighted when I received a letter from her:

  Dear Lucinda,

  How are you getting on at school without me? My mother came to Bourdon. They have all decided that I must stay here for a while. They say the climate is so much better for me than it is at home. I shall be all right in time, they tell me. Grandpère has a lot of influence here and knows all the people who can be of use. He suggests you come here before you go
home in the summer. He’s confident that I shall be completely recovered by then. But I may need a little rest, so I’m to stay on here until I’m ready to go back home.

  I wish you were here. I will look forward to your coming when school finishes at the end of July for the long summer break. Don’t say you must hurry home to see your parents and that brother of yours. You must come and be with me first.

  Annabelinda

  She sounded more like herself. I wrote and told her that I would stay for two weeks at the Château Bourdon before going home, if that were agreeable. That was long enough, I stressed, for I was longing to see my parents after the long term away.

  School went on as usual. There was a midnight feast. Caroline had brought a cake with icing on the top when she came back from the Christmas holidays and this was a great treat. But nothing seemed quite the same without Annabelinda.

  “What’s wrong with her?” asked Caroline.

  “Some awful illness which takes months to cure,” I replied.

  “Consumption, I suppose,” said Caroline wisely.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “People do go into declines.”

  “She hasn’t looked well for some time. So perhaps it is that.”

  “They usually go to Switzerland for a cure,” said Helga. “It’s the mountain air or something.”

  Switzerland? I thought. Carl Zimmerman came from there.

  I was thinking more and more of Carl Zimmerman. The illness had started after he had left. It was pining for him which had brought it on.

  I started to wonder about him; I would walk about the grounds remembering our encounter with him. I went to look at the cottages, one of which had been occupied by him.

  There seemed to be someone in one of them. I studied it. It was clearly inhabited. I strolled around and then went back to the house.

  And the next afternoon I found myself wandering that way again.

  I walked around to the back of the cottages. They had gardens there, and in one of them was a woman hanging out washing.

  She called good afternoon to me and added, “You’re from the school. I’ve seen you round here before.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I suppose you work for the school?”

  “Not me. My husband does. He works in the gardens. There’s plenty of work there.”

  “I suppose so.”

  She came toward me. She had a pleasant, happy face. I noticed that she was going to have a baby…and quite soon. She leaned her arms on the wall and surveyed me.

  “Have you been long at the school?” she asked.

  “I came last September.”

  “Where do you come from? England, I guess.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Well, you pick them out. It is the way you speak French perhaps.”

  “Is it as bad as that?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “And it is not bad at all. I know what you are saying.”

  “Oh, good. Did you know Carl who worked here for a time?”

  “Oh, yes. Not much of a gardener, my Jacques said. I knew him. Didn’t stay long.”

  “Why did he go away so soon?”

  “I don’t think he ever meant to stay. One of those here-today-and-gone-tomorrow types.”

  “Well, I’d better get back.”

  “Good-bye,” she said cheerfully.

  A week or so later I saw her again. She looked a little larger.

  “Hello. You again,” she said. “You seem to like this place.”

  “I like to get out at this time of the day, and it is pleasant in the gardens.”

  “Spring really is here.”

  “Yes. It’s lovely.”

  “It’s time for my rest. I have to rest now, you know.”

  I knew what she meant. “You’re…very pleased about it, aren’t you? I mean…the baby.”

  “So you’ve noticed.” She laughed loudly, indicating this was a joke, as her condition was so obvious.

  “Well…er…I did.”

  “A young girl like you!”

  “I’m not really so young.”

  “No. Of course you’re not. Young people know about such things nowadays. You’ve guessed right. I am pleased. We always wanted a child, Jacques and me. Thought we were never going to have one and then the good God saw fit to grant our wish.”

  “It must be wonderful for you.”

  She nodded, blissfully serene.

  I went away thinking about her.

  One day when Miss Carruthers took us on another tour of Mons, we had a chance to visit the shops again and I bought a baby’s jacket. I proposed to take it to the woman in the cottage. I had discovered her name. It was Marguerite Plantain. Jacques Plantain had been employed on the school estate for many years, and his father and grandfather had worked for the Rochères before there had been a school.

  Marguerite was delighted with the jacket. She told me how she enjoyed our little chats over the wall. I was invited into the cottage on that occasion. It was very small, with two rooms upstairs, two downstairs and a washhouse at the back.

  She took great pleasure in showing me the things she had prepared for the baby. I was very interested and told her that I hoped it would arrive before I left for the summer holidays.

  “School closes at the very end of July,” she said. “Leastways it always has. Well, the baby should be here a week or so before that.”

  “I shall want to know whether it’s a girl or boy. I’d like a little girl.”

  “You would!” She laughed at me. “Well, it is for the good God to decide that. Jacques wants a boy, but I reckon he’ll be mightily pleased with whatever is sent us. All I want is to hold this little one in my arms.”

  Spring was passing. Summer had come. Only one more month before school finished. I was enjoying school more than ever. Caroline and I had become firm friends and I was quite fond of the other two.

  Country walks, paper chases, plenty of fresh air. That was the best medicine, said Miss Carruthers. There were complaints from Mademoiselle Artois because we left the dormitory untidy. Dancing lessons, piano lessons…through the long warm days. But I was always missing Annabelinda and waiting eagerly for some news of her.

  She did write now and then. She was getting better. She thought she would be really well by the time I joined her. It was very hot at Bourdon and they were all complaining about the effect the weather was having on the grapes.

  “I look forward to seeing you, Lucinda,” she wrote, “and hearing about all that’s been going on in that old school.”

  And I was certainly looking forward to seeing her.

  In the middle of July, Marguerite gave birth to a stillborn son. I felt very unhappy because I could not bear to think of her suffering. I knew how desperately she wanted that child, and now, poor Marguerite, all her plans and hopes had been in vain.

  The blinds were drawn at the cottage. I could not bring myself to call. I feared she would remember our conversations about the baby and that would make her more unhappy.

  I did not go near the cottage for two weeks, but I continued to think about her. Then one day, when I did walk that way, I went to the back of the cottage and looked over the wall. In the garden, in a perambulator, lay a baby.

  I could not contain my curiosity. The next day I went there again. The perambulator and the baby were in the garden. I went around to the front of the cottage and knocked on the door.

  Marguerite opened it and looked at me. I felt the tears in my eyes. She saw them and turned her head away for a second or two.

  Then she said, “My dear, it was good of you to come.”

  “I didn’t like to before…but I thought of you.”

  She laid a hand on my arm. “Come inside,” she said.

  I did so. “I was so very sorry…” I began.

  “It was a bitter blow. I just wanted to die. All our hopes…all our plans…and then to end like that. Sit down. I am glad you came. I’ll not forget. The little coat you bought�
��it will be used.”

  “It seems so cruel…”

  She nodded. “I was wicked. I cursed the good God. Jacques did, too. We were beside ourselves with grief. It was our dream, you see…both of us. We waited so long, and then…it ended like that. It was more than we could endure. And I cursed the good God. I said how could He do this? What have we done to deserve it? But God is good. He had His reasons. And now He has given me this little one to care for. It is one of His miracles. It eases the pain and I love him already. It is not like my own…but they say it will come to be like that…and it seems so…a little more every day.”

  “So you have a baby after all?”

  “Yes. He is mine now…mine forever. He needs me and I need him. Poor mite. He has no mother, no one to care for him. So I am going to give him that loving care I would have given my own.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “It was Madame Rochère. She heard of this little one. She said, how would it be if I took him in place of the one I had lost? I didn’t say yes then. I didn’t feel there was anything that could replace my own. Then she said this little one needed me…and although I might not realize it, I needed him. It wasn’t the money, of course.”

  “The money?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s being paid for. He’s got no mother, but there are relations who will pay to have him cared for. Jacques and I…we shall be richer than we ever dreamed. But it is not the money….”

  “I am sure it isn’t.”

  “We talked it over. I said, that baby will be ours forever. I don’t want anyone to come and take him away. If he’s mine, he’s to be mine for always. And they said that was how they wanted it to be. There’s money put away for him. Every year it will be sent. He’s not to want for anything. And, my dear, I love him already.”

  “It’s a wonderful story, Madame Plantain. It’s like a miracle. You lost your own baby, but if you hadn’t, this little baby wouldn’t have had you to look after him.”

  “Oh, they’d have found someone to do that. This sort of people have money and can arrange things. But with me, it’s not the money. It’s the baby. He’s a little dear. I reckon he knows me already.”