So Jean-Louis and I were married, and he was a good husband to me; ours was the typical country existence; we went on, untroubled by outside events; there might be wars in Europe in which the country was involved but they affected us very little. We went from season to season, from Good Friday gloom to Easter rejoicing, to summer church fêtes on the lawn if the weather was good and in our vaulted hall if it were bad, to harvest festivals when everyone vied to produce the finest fruits and vegetables for display, to Christmas and all its rejoicing. That was our life.
Until this day when we had the message from Eversleigh Court.
My mother was pleased to see us as she always was.
“I’m so glad you could come today,” she said. “I do want to talk to you about poor old Carl. Sabrina has given you an inkling, hasn’t she? I am so sorry for him. He sounds so pathetic in his letter.”
She slipped one arm through mine and the other through that of Jean-Louis.
“I thought just a family party so that we could really talk. Just Sabrina, myself and the two of you. Jean-Louis, dear, I do hope you will be able to manage to go with Zipporah.”
Jean-Louis then began to launch into a description of the problems of the estate. He loved talking about them because they were of such paramount importance to him. He glowed with enthusiasm and I knew it would be a great sacrifice for him to spare time from it.
We went into the hall—which was very fine and, as usual in such buildings, the central feature of the house. It was a large house—meant for a big family. My mother would have liked Sabrina to marry again and live there with her children; I am sure she would have liked Jean-Louis and me to come there and have a family. That was what she wanted to be, the center of a big family; and all we had was Dickon.
It seemed now that Sabrina would never marry again. My mother might have done so too because she had been quite young when my father was killed. But they had both set up an image which they worshiped: Dickon—the hero of my mother’s youth, whom she had adored through her life and who must have clouded her relationship with my father. It was ironic that she should still go on worshiping him even when he had proved faithless and turned to Sabrina. If he had not died a soldier’s death at Culloden would he have remained on his pedestal? Those were the questions I began to ask myself afterwards. … Looking back it seemed to me that I saw life with the unpleasantness discreetly covered; I saw all that people wanted me to see, and I never attempted to lift the cloth of conventionality and look beneath.
Young Dickon had come as a salvation to those two bereaved women, and this boy—Dickon’s son—had, so they believed, given them a reason for living. Planning for him, they had subdued their grief; they had found a new object for worship.
The house was as much home to me as the house which I had shared with Jean-Louis for the last ten years. Here I had grown up among the elegant furniture and tasteful decorations—the result of my father’s love of beautiful things.
I stood in the hall and looked at the two elegant staircases winding upward—one to the east wing, one to the west wing. Such a large house for so few people! My mother often thought that, I knew, and she was grateful that she had Sabrina to share it with her. I had said to Jean-Louis that if ever Sabrina should marry and go away we should have to go to the hall to live. Jean-Louis agreed, but I knew he so cherished his independence and he loved our house because it was a symbol of that. He never forgot that he had been left to my mother rather as a changeling child. There was something very noble about Jean-Louis in a quiet way which makes my conduct all the more reprehensible … but I must get on with my explanations as to how it came about.
There we were at supper in the dining room. The house had been left as my father had made it, and my mother would never willingly have it altered. Even the card room—the most important in the house—was left as it had been in his day, although there were no gaming parties nowadays, only a quiet game of whist occasionally when neighbors came in to join my mother and Sabrina—and of course there was no play for money. My mother was very much against that—puritanically, so some said, but of course we understood why.
Now we sat on the carved japanned chairs with their gilt decoration, which had been in the family for the last hundred years and of which my father had been rather proud, at the oak table with the apron of carved features imitating a fringed hanging which I remember my father’s telling me had been made in France for someone at the court of Louis XV. He would often throw out information like that in the midst of light bantering chatter, which, I think, was perhaps why I had always found him so fascinating.
The butler was at the sideboard ladling out the soup which one of the maids was serving when the door was opened and Dickon came in.
“Dickon,” said my mother and Sabrina simultaneously in those voices I knew so well, a little shocked, remonstrating and at the same time indulgently admiring his audacity. It seemed to say. This is wrong but what will the darling child do next, bless him!
“I want to have supper,” he said.
“Dearest.” said my mother, “you had your supper an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” said Sabrina. “It’s bedtime.”
“Because,” said Dickon patiently, “I want to be here.”
The butler was looking into the tureen as though it held the utmost interest for him; the maid was standing still holding a plate of soup in her hand; uncertain where to put it.
I had expected Sabrina to send him back to bed. Instead she looked helplessly at my mother, who lifted her shoulders. Dickon slid into a chair. He knew he had won. In fact, he had no doubt that victory would be his. I was fully aware that I was seeing a repetition of a recurring scene.
“Well, perhaps this once, eh, Sabrina?” said my mother almost cajolingly.
“You really shouldn’t, darling,” added Sabrina.
Dickon smiled winningly at her. “Just this once,” he said.
My mother said: “Carry on serving, Thomas.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Thomas.
Dickon threw me a look which held triumph in it. He knew that I did not approve of what had happened and took a delight not only in getting his own way but in showing me what power he had over these doting women.
“Well,” said my mother, “I must show you Carl’s letter. I think then”—she smiled at Jean-Louis—“you will make a special effort to go … soon.”
“It’s a pity it is rather an awkward time of year.” Jean-Louis frowned a little. He hated disappointing my mother and it was quite clear that she was very eager for us to go to Eversleigh quickly.
“Well, young Weston is quite good, isn’t he?” said Sabrina.
Young Weston was a manager we had. He was certainly showing signs of promise but Jean-Louis cared so much about the estate that he was never very happy when he was not at the head of affairs. His desire never to leave Clavering had worked out well because we none of us wanted to go to London as my father used to. He had generally come to the country rather reluctantly and then only because of the card parties he gave; he had much preferred town life and had left everything in the care of Tom Staples and men like him. We had had several agents since Tom Staples’s death but Jean-Louis was never entirely satisfied with them.
“He’s hardly ready yet,” said Jean-Louis.
My mother reached over and pressed my husband’s hand.
“I know you’ll manage something,” she said. And of course he would. Jean-Louis was always eager to please everyone, that was why … But I must stop reproaching myself in this way.
Now that she knew that Jean-Louis most certainly would take me to Eversleigh my mother went on to reminisce about the old place.
“So long since I have seen it. I wonder if it still looks the same.”
Sabrina said: “I daresay Enderby hasn’t changed much. What a strange house that was! Haunted, they said. Things did seem to happen there.”
I knew va
guely something of Enderby. It was nearby Eversleigh Court and the two houses had been connected because my grandmother Carlotta had inherited the place. There had been a tragedy before that. They weren’t our family, but someone had committed suicide there.
Sabrina shivered and went on: “I don’t think I ever want to go to Enderby again.”
“Are there really ghosts there?” asked Dickon.
“Common sense,” I replied.
“I like ghosts,” he said, dismissing me and my common sense as he was prepared to dismiss anyone who interfered with his pleasure. “I want there to be ghosts.”
“We must arrange it then,” said Jean-Louis.
“I was happy in Enderby,” said my mother. “I can still remember coming home from France and how wonderful it was to be in the heart of a loving family … something I shall never forget … and it was my home for a number of years … with Aunt Damaris and Uncle Jeremy.”
I knew she was thinking of those terrible early days in France when her parents had died suddenly through poison, it was said—and she had been left in the care of a French maid who sold flowers in the streets when the house was disbanded.
My mother had spoken of it often. She remembered her mother, Carlotta, the great beauty of the family, wild Carlotta, with whom I was later to become obsessed but who was at that time just a dazzling ancestress to me.
“You will be interested to see it all, Zipporah,” she said.
“It won’t be necessary to stay more than a few weeks, will it?” asked Jean-Louis.
“No, I shouldn’t think so. I think the old man is very lonely. He will be so delighted.”
Dickon listened avidly. “I’ll go instead,” he said.
“No, darling,” replied Sabrina. “You’re not invited.”
“But he’s your relation too, and if he’s yours he’s mine.”
“Well, it is Zipporah he is inviting.”
“I could go to be her companion … instead of Jean-Louis.”
“No,” said Jean-Louis. “I have to be there to take care of Zipporah.”
“She doesn’t want taking care of. She’s old.”
“All ladies need taking care of when they make journeys,” said my mother.
Dickon was too busy consuming cold venison to answer that.
Jean-Louis said that he thought the best time would be in three weeks. He could then make the necessary arrangements, providing we did not stay for more than two weeks.
My mother smiled at him. “I knew you’d make it possible. Thanks, Jean-Louis. I will write immediately. Perhaps you could send a note at the same time, Zipporah.”
I said I would and we finished dinner.
Dickon was yawning. It was long past his bedtime, and when Sabrina suggested he might like to go to bed he did not protest.
I went with my mother to write the note, leaving Sabrina and Jean-Louis together making desultory conversation. There was a bureau in the old card room and I said I would do it there.
“Wouldn’t you like to come to the library?” my mother asked. “It’s more comfortable there.”
“No, I always like to be in the card room.”
I went in and sat at the bureau. She stood beside me and touched my hair. “You were so fond of your father, weren’t you?”
I nodded. “You look rather like him,” she said. “Fair hair … almost golden, those blue eyes … startlingly blue; and you’re tall too, as he was. Poor Lance! What a wasted life.”
“He died nobly,” I said.
“He would … He squandered his life as he did a fortune. … It was all so unnecessary and it could have been so different.”
“It is so long now.”
“Memories linger on for you, and you were only a child when he died. Only ten years old.”
“Old enough to know him and to love him,” I said.
“I know. And you feel close to him here.”
“I remember him here. … He was happier here in this room than anywhere else in the house.”
“Here he had his gaming parties. They were the only thing that made the country tolerable to him.” She frowned, and I turned to the letter. It was brief. I thanked my kinsman for the invitation and told him that I with my husband would be visiting him in about three weeks. We would let him know the date of arrival later.
My mother read what I had written and nodded her approval.
Shortly afterward Jean-Louis and I left for home.
We had fixed the date of arrival for the first of June. We should go on horseback with two grooms for company and another to look after the saddlebags.
“Carriages,” said my mother, “are far more dangerous, with so many highwaymen about. It is so much easier to attack a cumbersome coach; and with the grooms and Jean-Louis you’ll be well protected.”
There was another letter from Lord Eversleigh. He was almost pathetically pleased. When Sabrina read it she said: “One could almost think he was calling for help … or something like that.”
Calling for help! What an odd thing to say. I read the letter again and could not see that there was anything in it except that an old man who had been separated too long from his relatives was eager to see them.
Sabrina shrugged her shoulders and said: “Well, he’s delighted you’re going.”
I felt rather glad. Poor old man, he was clearly lonely.
It was a week before we were due to leave. I was sitting in the garden working on a square of tapestry for a fire screen when I heard the sound of voices. I recognized Dickon’s imperious tones, and on impulse, putting down my tapestry, I went to the edge of the shrubbery and saw him. He was with another boy, Jake Carter, son of one of the gardeners, a boy who worked in the gardens with his father now and then. He was about Dickon’s age and Dickon was often with him. I believe he bullied the boy shamefully and was not at all sure that Jake wanted to be with him. He had probably received threats if he did not comply, and indeed so besotted were my mother and Sabrina with Dickon that they might have listened to any complaint he made about a servant if the boy showed his displeasure if they refused to.
The boys were now some little distance off, but I could see they were carrying something which looked like a pail, and Jake was holding a paper which seemed to be crammed full of something.
I watched them disappear in the direction of Hassocks’ farm which bordered on our grounds. The Hassocks were good farmers of whom Jean-Louis heartily approved. They kept their barns and hedges in good order, and Farmer Hassock was constantly in discussion with Jean-Louis about methods of improving the yield of the land.
I returned to my tapestry and after a while went indoors and up to my still room, where I set about preparing the containers for the strawberries, which I wanted to have picked and preserved before I went away.
It must have been an hour later when one of the servants came running up to me.
“Oh, mistress,” she cried, “there’s fire over at Hassocks’. The master has just ridden over. I thought you should know.”
I ran out and saw immediately that one of the barns was blazing. Several of the servants had come hurrying out to join me and we all went together across the gardens into the Hassocks’ field and toward the barn.
There was a lot of commotion. People were running about and shouting to each other; but I saw that they were getting the blaze under control.
One of the maids gave a little cry and then I saw Jean-Louis. He was lying on the ground and some of the men were trying to lift him onto a piece of wood which looked like a shutter.
I dashed over and knelt beside him. He was pale but conscious. He smiled at me wanly.
One of the men said: “Master have broken his leg, we think. We’ll get him to the house … and perhaps you’d send for the doctor.”
I was bewildered. The barn was smouldering black and scarred, with now and then a flame jutting out. The acrid smell of burning made us cough.
“Yes … quickly …” I said. “Get him to the house. One
of you go for the doctor … at once.”
One of the men servants dashed off and I turned my attention to Jean-Louis.
“Bit of mischief … looks like,” said one of Farmer Hassock’s laborers. “Looks like someone started a fire in the barn. Master were first in. The roof fell on him and got his leg. … A mercy we was working close by and got him from under.”
“Let’s get him into the house quickly,” I said. “Is he all right on that shutter?”
“Best for him, mistress. Doctor’ll soon put it to rights.”
I noticed that Jean-Louis’s leg was in a strange position and guessed there was a fracture. I was the sort of woman who could be calm in a crisis, suppressing my emotions and fears and putting all my efforts into doing what was necessary.
I knew that we had to set that fracture in some way before moving him and I determined to make an effort to do so, although I was inexperienced of such cases. I sent the maids running into the house for the tallest, straightest walking stick they could find and something we could use for bandages.
They had placed Jean-Louis very carefully in his improvised stretcher and I took his hand. I guessed he was in pain but it was typical of him that he should be as concerned about my anxiety as his own suffering.
“I’m all right,” he whispered. “Nothing … much …”
Then the walking stick, which I could use as a splint, and the torn-up sheets arrived. Carefully my helpers held his leg in place while I very gently bandaged the limb to the stick. Then Jean-Louis was carried into his bed, by which time the doctor had arrived.
It was a broken leg—nothing more—said the doctor. He complimented me on my prompt and right action in setting the bone at once—so saving a simple fracture from becoming a compound one.
I sat by his bed until he slept. Then I remembered those agonizing seconds when I had thought he might be dead and the terrible desolation which had swept over me. Dear Jean-Louis, what should I have done without him? I should be thankful for all the happiness we had together; I must not feel a slight resentment against a fate which had made me barren.
Jean-Louis had scarcely fallen into his sleep when my mother with Sabrina and Dickon arrived.
Philippa Carr - [Daughters of England 09] Page 2