The Rich Are with You Always

by Malcolm Macdonald

"They always say things like that in June. Wait till August."

  Chapter 34

  The following day they had no set plans until after lunch. Nora got up looking forward not only to John's return that evening but to a quiet morning lazing on the sands beneath a big parasol with Sarah and Sam. But Sam said he had a surprise to show her; and Sarah, obviously put up to it by him, claimed she would prefer to sit in the shade on the terrace and do a water colour of the garden at La Gracieuse. So, excited, wondering what surprise her brother could conceivably have arranged, she set off with Sam in the britzka for Trouville.

  The mystery deepened when, instead of going seaward at the foot of the hill, they turned up the right bank of the Touques as if making for Deauville. Had Sam discovered something there? Did he know of her schemes?

  But they stopped before the bridge and Sam told the groom he could go home again and meet them back in the centre of the town in two hours. Nora repeated the instructions in French, just to make sure. Then she turned back to Sam, expecting him to lead her off somewhere at once. But he waited until the carriage was out of sight and then took her in its wake, halfway back into the centre. "We must be careful," he said.

  "Why? What of?"

  "Not 'of'—for. You'll see." He would say nothing more as he led her this way and that through the streets, doubling back often, like a fox laying a foil. When he was certain they were not being followed, he darted down a narrow, stinking court and knocked at a door. Almost at once it was opened, not wide, as he obviously expected, but just to a slit—enough to pass out a note. As soon as he had the paper in his hand the door slammed again. Absolute silence reigned. No child, nor even a cat, was at play in the court. No eyes beheld them from any of its windows; no one beat a carpet or scraped a cauldron or swilled out their slops. It was an unbearable, unnatural silence.

  Sam read the note, shielding it from her. He smiled. "The artful dodger," he said. "Come on."

  And she was so relieved to be out of that place that she ran after and even overtook him. Still offering no explanation, he led her down to the riverbank and then the rest of the way back to the centre.

  "Where are you taking me now?" she asked.

  "To the beach." He smiled. "Isn't that where you wanted to go today?"

  The beach was less than a furlong from the centre. As soon as they arrived, she saw, about half a mile away, a tall figure in a cloak, with a wide-brimmed black hat. A poet, she imagined, or a painter. He was the only figure on the beach, apart from two children and a nurse nearby.

  "It must be him," Sam said, and began a fast, exhausting walk along the sand. But soon he had to slacken, for Nora made no attempt to match his pace. Her heart sank at the thoughts aroused by the sight of the romantic poet-painter, and Sam's puppy eagerness to reach him. What had Sam done? Was this some indigent artist he had picked up with in Paris? She could just imagine him saying "Oh, but I can help. I have a sister who's very rich. Come up to Trouville and meet her. She's bound to be interested. And she's bound to want to help." It would be just like Sam.

  How could she say, politely, that she had better calls on her time and money than to devote either to mendicant little talents? She couldn't. Sam would be so hurt and humiliated. She'd have to give this…person…something or it would spoil Sam's holiday—which was like saying it would spoil his entire year. For Sam's sake, she would have to be pleasant to…to…Daniel!

  The day suddenly dislocated its joints; the sky went brilliant and black in turn; she lost all sense of movement though she still moved forward. The person she would have to be nice to, for Sam's sake, was their brother Daniel. Bearded. Dressed like a Frenchman. He even managed to stand and walk in a new way. But the flashing grin and the warm Leeds dialect of "Eay, Nora luv!" were pure Daniel. She had forgotten how fetching he could be. She had forgotten the compulsion of his confident smile, the total assurance he carried everywhere he went. For a weak moment she almost relented.

  She let that impulse fetch a smile to her drained face. She let it lift her arms toward him. And she let it force out the delighted cry "Daniel!" and make her hug him and kiss him—even while the darkness and the ice returned within. How dare he! she thought. How dare he imagine he could charm his way back into her life, after the way he had deserted her and left her destitute with Sam and the two children to rear.

  "Thou looks well, Nora," he said. "Thou 'ast fleshed out."

  "Aye," she said. "You're far from starved yourself, I see. Revolution must pay a good dividend."

  He parodied shock and a hint of accusation. "Sam tells us thou bears a grudge."

  "Aye," she said flatly.

  He sighed. "I don't blame thee bein' radgy."

  "Radgy!" she cried. "More than bloody radgy, I tell thee! Thou got my eckle up the day thou left, and it's been sky 'igh ower eight year." Spittle flew from her lips; she was trembling; her breath shivered. It took Daniel completely aback; and Nora herself was more than a little surprised at her own sudden vehemence.

  "Nay—don't barge now!" Sam called in dismay.

  "Thou left me speyed down wi't family. I were dickey-up in a week." Anger and the chance to shout it to the wind in the elemental language of their common childhood fired her. Long years of poverty had filled those words with a special resonance; to use them now brought out again the risk-all abandon of those times, before responsibility had taught her caution. She became once more a woman of first instincts.

  "Aye. I grant thee that." Daniel wilted before her.

  "And then our Wilfrid an' little Dorrie dead. And Sam and me heart-sluffed. And where was our great lad o' wax? Slammockin' in jail, beyond our ken or ken of us."

  "Nay, luv, fair jannocks!" Daniel protested. "It weren't my orderin'."

  "Eay—don't fratch!" Sam pleaded.

  "Nay, Sam," Nora told him. "We sh'll have this now or it's never. Our Daniel were born a shuffletoppin' an' 'e'll die a shuffletoppin'."

  Daniel stood at bay, steeling himself not to be afraid of her. "What I were born and what I've since become, the likes o' thee'll never fathom, see thou." Now that the shock of her assault was passing, he grew bolder. He turned full face to her.

  But Sam, taking advantage of the momentary silence, leaped between them and grabbed a hand of each. "Praya!" he shouted. "Please!"

  There was nothing—there never had been, never could be anything—that anyone could say to warm Nora to Daniel once again. Nor did she think he could ever feel anything but shame for the way he treated them; if he was now ready to pretend otherwise, it could only be that he saw some advantage in it. So, not wanting to hurt Sam any more for this ill-thought-out gesture of his, she broke his grip on her wrist and, turning on her heel, walked off in the direction of Trouville.

  "Aye," Daniel called after her. "Turn thy back on thy own folk—as thou 'ast turned thy back on thy own class these many years. Traitor!"

  She looked around at him, contemptuous beyond anger. "From thee," she called, "I sh'll own that name wi' pride! And I'll tell thee for naught, Daniel— never look to me for succour. Do that, an' I sh'll flay thee. An' that's Wilfrid an' Dorrie speakin' an' all."

  Daniel drew in breath to reply but Sam's "Nay Dan, leave loose wi' thee!" quieted him. Nora left them and walked back to La Gracieuse on her own.

  Sam returned an hour later. She was waiting for him and ran across the entrance court to meet him. He looked most disconsolate. She put an arm around him. "Eay, thou great soft cuddy!" she said. "Why do a thing like that?"

  To her dismay Sam burst into tears. "I love the pair of ye," he sobbed. "That much!"

  She stood beside him, lost and bereft of comfort for him. "You've heart and stomach," she said. "But no brain nor sense. That man and me can never meet, not on any terms."

  Sam ran off across the yard; he did not appear for lunch.

  When Rodie heard of what had happened, she went up to Sam's room and comforted him enough to bring him downstairs and sit with them on the terrace. Yet in a curious way, it was Jo
hn who did more to restore Sam than any of them. He returned late that afternoon, eager with the good news that they had been awarded the Rouen–Dieppe contract. But when he heard what had happened that morning his face darkened and he turned angrily on Sam.

  "You've no more sense than Old Man Fuzzack," he said. "Did you not know your Daniel is wanted by the French government? There's fifty thousand francs on his capture, alive. Did you know that?"

  Nora turned sick to her stomach on hearing this news, and she too rounded on Sam. Yet she could see the shutters falling across his eyes, and he became a stoic, much-put-upon servant taking a rating from his master and mistress. Contrition turned from a feeling into a technique. "I'm sorry," he said, "to both of you. I just thought that, being family, like…"

  She saw Sarah nod agreement out of the corner of her eye.

  "Thought! You didn't think at all," John said. "You didn't think of your host, Monsieur Rodet, who depends in part on government work. How many new contracts would he get if it came out that guests of his had held clandestine meetings with wanted men? You didn't think of us. We too rely on, if not the direct patronage, at least the goodwill of people in government and high places. You talk of family and you mean one ruthless and callous renegade. We've family enough without that. There's a family of seventeen thousand relies on your sister and me."

  As Sam repeated his apology, Nora stood up to leave, offering no polite word of explanation. John followed her. "I'm surprised at you…" he began.

  "I'd no idea he was wanted," she said. "I spent less than a minute with him." She was putting on her shawl and bonnet. "I flared up at him right off. And I told him I'd flay him if he ever sought me out again."

  "Where are you going?"

  "To the prefect," she said calmly. "I know where Daniel's lodged. At least I hope I can find it again."

  Even John was a little taken aback by that. "Your own brother," he said.

  "You're as bad as Mistress Sarah," she answered. "I've got interests in these parts to look after too, see? The last person I'd let interfere with them would be Daniel. Don't tell Sam."

  She returned just before dinner with a new silk cravat for Sam. "Just to show that, though we're vexed with you, we've not lost our fondness," she said. He took it as the closing of the incident. "I'll not involve you and the Rodets with him again," he promised. And so an uneasy, smiling peace was patched up—enough to last to the weekend and with all the year to mend in.

  "Well?" John asked. "Taken?"

  "No such luck," she answered. "He'd gone already."

  "And the house?"

  She grinned. "An ordinary maison de tolérance, class C, mainly for sailors. A lot of them leave and collect messages there, so there was nothing to blame the owner for. The prefect was more concerned that we and everyone should keep quiet about Daniel having been here; the last thing he wants is word to get out that a wanted renegade came and went on his demesne without hindrance. I gave solemn word I'd turn Daniel over if ever it was in my power again. So I think we're saved, and all damage repaired. My God, I hope so!"

  Chapter 35

  Next morning it was a quiet, somewhat chastened party that set out for Coutances. John, his "holiday" over, returned to England. Sam was so quiet that Sarah stopped the coach in Caen and went out to buy him some fine cotton shirts. "It'll cheer you up, I know," she said. "I remember when I was at the Tabard, with a mountain of work ahead, nothing helped me face it like the wearing of nice new linen!" And Sam, indeed, was almost his old self after that act of kindness.

  Nora's letter changing their arrangements had arrived at the Auberge Clément only the previous afternoon, so Gaston had not had enough notice to rearrange bookings and guests to accommodate all three of them. In fact, only one room was vacant.

  "But you, Madame, and Madame Cornelius, may sleep at my sister's. I have arranged it," Gaston said.

  It was still midafternoon, on a fine June day. The sky was almost cloudless and a slight breeze blew off the sea, enough to make a pleasant coolness under the blazing sun.

  Nothing seemed to have changed. Sea gulls still wheeled above the rooftops of the little town, rapacious for scraps. Under the eaves of the room where Cornelius had died, the bees still built their prototype swarms, never quite managing to emigrate. The dog with the bark of a despairing man still yapped at the passing minutes. Even the same children seemed to laugh and quarrel in the same tones at the same causes. The scrape of the stable door, the slosh of water over the cobbles, the singing and laughter of the maids, the smell—all were just as they had been exactly twelve months ago.

  "I think I will go up to the cemetery now," Sarah said. "It would he hard to sleep tonight knowing I could have gone and didn't."

  The remark surprised Nora. How quickly, she thought, love had turned to duty! But she was glad to be left alone; she had a whole year's accounts to inspect.

  Gaston had made great profit of his time at the Adelaide in London last winter. There were no scraps of food kicked into odd corners. Flowers stood in bowls on the tables and sills of the public rooms. Everything was polished. The exterior had been repainted and whitewashed—which made it unique in the whole of Coutances, which observed the French habit of painting exteriors only when the property was new or when it changed hands in a dull market. And there were even cushions on some of the chairs. On the door was a proud notice: English spoken within.

  The changes, unfortunately, did not reflect in the receipts, which were barely up on previous years. She was disappointed. Having been so enthusiastic last year, she had expected to see the effect of the changes almost immediately. But Gaston, though his relative loss was much greater, was more philosophical. "It must take time," he said. "People cannot know of all these grand changes at once. We have much better quality people this year, even at the same quantity. They will spread the word. Next year you will see."

  And Nora had to be content with that. At least the accounts were immaculate and the inn had made a modest profit.

  That evening, when they had finished several rounds of three-handed whist, Nora hid a yawn and said it was time for bed.

  At once Sarah said: "Sam and I have talked it over, Nora dear, and we are adamant you shall not be turned out of your own inn. If Sam and I go to the sister's, there will be no need for Gaston to accompany us. And I know Gaston's sister because Tom and I stayed there last year, before we bought this place."

  Nora offered token resistance to this kindness and then gave in, thanking them both and confessing it had been a tiring day. It's their life, she thought; no affair of mine. She felt a century older than both of them.

  The sister's was only three streets away, in the shadow of the cathedral; but it was not quite as Sarah remembered it, for during the previous year the woman had bought the adjoining cottage in the terrace. With Gaston's help she had refurbished its rooms as guest rooms and they were used, as now, to accommodate the excess from the inn, and as guest rooms for the sister's own business.

  Darkness was just falling as she let them in at the neighbouring front door, which butted right against hers. "Next year," she said, pointing to the party wall, "we have an arch here." It was almost an apology for leaving them alone. "I light your candles," she said. Sam told her they would manage.

  As soon as they were alone they fell into each other's embrace—as they had done for the first time in the cemetery that afternoon—and kissed and breathed each other's names and kissed again, until all the light had gone. The cathedral clock struck half past eleven. Outside, Gaston's sister, who had watched in vain for the gleam of candlelight at the windows, went quietly back indoors, shaking her head. These English—they come to France for one thing only, she thought.

  But for Sarah, scandal had ceased to exist. The kiss of a man's lips on hers again, the voice of a man breathing her name reverently in her ear, the press of his strong arms about her, the pressure of him—these stirred her ardent spirit beyond the reach of any voice that did not cry out Enjoy! Live!
She did not think of the night that lay ahead, but the whole of her mind and body rose up to welcome it. She was on the point of saying "Take me to bed," when Sam whispered: "I suppose we had better say good night, Sarah."

  The sudden stiffness of her body astonished him; it revealed a dimension to his holiday flirtation which he had not even considered. "Don't you think?" he added.

  "Let's not think, Sam," she said. The pressure of her hand was toward the stairs; she withdrew from him a bare inch in that direction.

  "Mrs. Cornelius…" he began, confused.

  "Sarah," she said. And when he still did not move or speak she added, "You must have thought of this."

  "No," he whispered. "Not once. Not in the most-secret moment."

  "Oh." She was deflated. "What does that make of me?" Then, before he could respond, she said: "Suppose you think of it now, then?"

  She wished she could see his expression. She pressed herself back into his arms and buried her face on his shoulder. He swallowed audibly. "You would think so ill of yourself in the morning," he said at last. "And worse of me."