Philippa Carr - [Daughters of England 09]

by The Adulteress

There was a treaty which was called the Alliance des Trois Cotillons—the alliance of “three petticoats.” which referred to the agreement between Madame de Pompadour, Maria Theresa of Austria and Empress Elizabeth of Russia. It was important to us because no sooner had it been signed than England declared war on France.

  Gerard’s country and mine were enemies—they had always been that, of course, but now they were engaged in a war … fighting on opposing sides. I wondered whether this would bring him back to England … secretly. … For a time I used to look out for him, telling myself that he would suddenly appear. Nothing of this sort happened and then I asked myself whether love affairs like that which there had been between us were commonplace with him. Could it be that he loved violently, dramatically … and then passed on to the next?

  That was something I could not bear to contemplate. I had been shameful but at least for me it was for no petite passion, no passing whim of the moment.

  And so the time began to slip by.

  I had acquired an excellent nanny for Lottie. She was a great-niece of Nanny Curlew who had long since retired. But, said my mother, it was always wise to keep nannies in the family and we could be sure that a relative of Nanny Curlew’s would have been brought up to serve nobly in the honorable tradition.

  And so it proved. From the moment she was installed in the household we knew we had a treasure in Nanny Derring. Dickon had scornfully rejected nannies some time ago, and because they could deny him nothing, the guardian of his nursery had been found another post and Dickon now went to the vicarage for lessons, which he shared with the vicar’s son, Tom, and which were taught by the resident curate. In due course he would go away to school.

  Lottie grew more beautiful every day. She was very pretty with magnificent eyes—dark blue, fringed with incredibly long almost black lashes. “Her eyes are darker than yours were at her age,” said my mother. “Hers are violet. They always said that my mother, Carlotta, had violet eyes.”

  Remarks like that always unnerved me temporarily. I wondered whether my mother noticed it.

  Lottie also had a good deal of dark hair. It was almost black.

  “She looks like a little French doll,” said Sabrina.

  “French!” I cried.

  “Well, Jean-Louis had a hand in it, didn’t he?” said Sabrina. “Sometimes I get the impression that you think you are wholly responsible for her.”

  I must be careful. It could be over some small thing that I would betray myself. There was every reason why Lottie should look French. After all, the man who was supposed to be her father was of the same race as her actual one.

  Jean-Louis adored her and she was fond of him. I was deeply moved to see him carry her round on his shoulder. I knew it was painful for him because to do so he abandoned his stick, but she loved it and was always trying to clamber up. She was now beginning to talk and was enchanting, murmuring to herself usually about Lottie—which was the word she used more than any other. Everything belonged to Lottie, she seemed to think; she was demanding, showed a lively interest in all around her, loved us to sing or tell her nursery rhymes and she had an endearing habit of watching our mouths as we talked or sang, trying to imitate us. She was the center of our life. Jean-Louis said to me as he watched: “I still cannot believe that we really have a child. Sometimes I dream that it was all fancy and wake up in such gloom … until I remember or she comes in [which she was beginning to do now] at an early hour in the morning to be with us.”

  She did more than anything else to ease my conscience, but sometimes I would have a fearful sense of foreboding and when I looked back at all I had done and how I had brazenly carried off my deceit I was still amazed at myself.

  People talked about the war but not with any great seriousness. There had always been wars and as long as they remained outside our country we were not greatly concerned. When there were triumphs for us we heard a great deal about them; when there were disasters they were briefly glossed over. We did hear about the execution of Admiral Byng, though. He had lost Minorca to the French and was accused of treachery and cowardice. People were shocked by the case and for a time talked of little else. Prime Minister Pitt had tried to persuade the king to pardon him but to no avail, and he was shot on the quarterdeck of his ship in Portsmouth Harbor.

  Jean-Louis was indignant. “It’s harsh and unjust,” he said. “Byng might have failed through bad tactics but that does not merit execution.”

  James Fenton said that such executions were performed for reasons other than justice. The French were evidently very interested in the outcome. The writer Voltaire said he was slain “pour encourager les autres” and solely for that reason. Someone else said that Byng was afraid of too much responsibility and was shot to let those about him know that in war those who could not take quick decisions were no use to their country.

  In any case the interest in the case seemed to bring the fact that we were at war home to a good many people.

  “How will it affect the war?” I asked James.

  “Oh, the capture of Minorca is a feather in the French cap.”

  Such talk always set me wondering about Gerard. It seemed so strange that we who had been so close, should now be so far apart that we had no idea what the other was doing. I wondered what he would think if he knew there had been a child.

  It was when Lottie was two years old that I had the irresistible urge to return to Eversleigh.

  I talked it over with my mother and Sabrina. “I think a great deal about Uncle Carl and that strange ménage of his. I said I would visit again. Do you think I should?”

  “Lottie is a little young to travel,” she said.

  “I had thought of leaving her here. Nanny is well able to look after her. Jean-Louis is not really fit for a long journey … no, I thought of …”

  “Not going alone!” cried my mother.

  “Well … I went before.”

  Dickon happened to have come in while we were talking. He was now getting on for thirteen—very tall for his age, full of self-importance, arrogant, ruthless, I judged him to be. He did not improve as he grew up.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  “I’ll be perfectly all right … with the grooms. I’ll go as I went before.”

  But Dickon was set on going, and as my mother and Sabrina always went out of their way to satisfy his demands they came up with the idea that Sabrina and he might go with me. And no sooner had it been suggested than Dickon was so taken with the idea that he would not have it otherwise than that we should go together.

  I wrote to Uncle Carl and had an enthusiastic reply. He would be delighted to see us, and asked us to come as soon as possible.

  It was spring—the best time for traveling; the days remained light for longer and the weather was more to be relied on.

  Both Dickon and Sabrina were in high spirits. It was true that Dickon wanted us to move faster, which the grooms pointed out to him was not possible if the saddle horse was to keep up with us. “Let him come on after,” said Dickon.

  I said: “You know we must all keep together. You must have heard that often enough.”

  “Highwaymen. Everybody’s scared of highwaymen. I’m not.”

  “No, for the reason that you have never encountered one.”

  “I’d soon frighten him off.”

  Sabrina said: “Dickon!” half reproving, half admiring; and I merely ignored him.

  The journey passed without mishap and on this occasion we arrived at Eversleigh in the early afternoon.

  Sabrina remembered the place well and grew reflective, excited but a little sad. I guessed so many memories—some not very pleasant—were stirring in her mind. She had spent the early part of her childhood at Enderby and in the days before Eversleigh Court had passed into Uncle Carl’s hands it had been a very orderly, rather conventionally run estate.

  Jessie came out to meet us. I noticed that she displayed a little more discretion in her appearance than she had on that first occa
sion. She wore a blue muslin dress with a frilly white fischu and cuffs. There was only the smallest patch beside her left eye.

  Evalina was there with her mother, almost a young woman now. I guessed she must be about fifteen years of age.

  “His lordship is excited about your visit.” Jessie told us. “He has ordered that you are to be taken to him the minute you arrived.”

  Oh yes, she was creating a different image. Now it seemed that his lordship gave the orders in the house: on the previous occasion it had clearly been Jessie who did this.

  Evalina and Dickon eyed each other with interest, but Dickon’s main attention was for the house. He was rather quiet—which was unusual for him—gazing about him. I could see that he was impressed.

  “Your rooms are all ready for you,” said Jessie. “And I was wondering if you would like a light snack, say … or wait for supper.”

  I looked at Sabrina, who hesitated, I knew, because she thought Dickon would certainly be hungry. However, for once he did not seem interested in food. He was indeed taken with his surroundings.

  I said I was prepared to wait. Sabrina said the same.

  “Well then, would you like to come straight to his lordship?” She looked at me. “It was his orders,” she said.

  So while our baggage was brought in we went to Uncle Carl’s room. He was seated in a chair by the window. He looked exactly the same as I remembered him—parchment-wrinkled skin and those strikingly lively dark eyes.

  He turned to us and gave an exclamation of delight.

  “Ah … you’re here. Come in. Come in. Oh, this is a pleasure. Now … you’re Sabrina. Ah yes, of course … Damaris’s girl. Good girl Damaris, and of course my dear Zipporah.” He gripped my hand and held it firmly. “And this …”

  “He’s Richard, we call him Dickon … my son,” said Sabrina.

  “Yes, yes … indeed. Welcome … welcome … Now, Jessie, have you given them something to eat?”

  “Why bless you, they’ve only just come and it was your orders that they was to be brought straight to you. They say they’ll wait till supper.”

  “Well … well. Bring chairs for them, Jessie.”

  She did so, smiling at us, the stones in her ears twinkling.

  “Now is there anything else you want before I leave you for a little family chat? When you’re ready pull the bell rope. I’ll have hot water sent to your rooms. I expect you want to wash and change. You must be tired after your journey.” She turned to Uncle Carl and lifted a finger. “Don’t forget they’ve had a long journey.”

  “No. I don’t forget. It was good of you to come to see me. Would you want to go straight to your rooms?”

  “In a little while,” I said. “But it is wonderful to see you looked after so well.”

  His bright eyes looked straight into mine. “Jessie takes good care of me … thank you.” I was not sure whether or not he winked at me.

  We talked awhile; mostly he was recalling the past. Sabrina was more conversant with that, being older than I and having been part of the earlier scene. Dickon got up and walked round the room examining the paneling and the wonderful old fireplace which was intricately carved with scenes from the Wars of the Roses.

  I had never known him so quiet.

  Uncle Carl asked solicitously after Jean-Louis and thanked me for the letters I had sent since we had last been together. It was all very conventional conversation and I began to think that it all seemed very normal and quite different from on that previous visit. After a while Dickon pulled the bell rope and it was Jessie who came up to take us to our rooms. She behaved with decorum and only occasionally stepped out of her role as housekeeper to assume that of mistress of the house.

  I had the same room as I had had before, and I felt poignant memories flooding over me. I went to the window through which Gerard had climbed. Behind me was the bed on which we had spent that last ecstatic and melancholy night.

  I wished I had not come. The memories were all bitter now.

  Sabrina came in. She sat on my bed and smiled at me.

  “I wasn’t expecting it to be so … normal.

  “No.” I said. “Nor I. What did you think of Jessie?”

  “Too flamboyant. Too much carmine and white lead.”

  “She’s very subdued compared with what she was. Do you think she gives herself an air?”

  “In a way. I expect it’s because she is so useful. She runs the household, that’s obvious … and from what I’ve seen does it rather well.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s different. …”

  “Oh, I expect she was just trying to show how important she was to the household. Perhaps now that’s obvious and she feels she doesn’t have to assert herself. She’s blowsy. Probably on the stage at one time and now feels this is a good safe place to settle in.”

  “But you know she got Uncle Carl to sign a paper. …”

  “I remember your telling us. Well, that was long ago, wasn’t it? She seems to have settled down. Not the ideal housekeeper. I suppose … but we’ll watch her while we’re here. Dickon, by the way, is completely fascinated by the place. He thinks it so interesting. He’s going to explore tomorrow, he says.”

  “I noticed how interested he was.”

  “He is so enthusiastic about old places. It’s wonderful to see him so excited. He can be very serious at times. I know you haven’t forgiven him for Hassock’s fire … but he mustn’t be made to feel he’s to blame for Jean-Louis’s accident. He mustn’t, Zipporah. I know what that sort of guilt can do to an impressionable child. I suffered it myself.”

  “I don’t think Dickon suffers from that. I don’t think he gives it a thought.”

  “There are things you don’t understand about Dickon. I know you think your mother and I spoil him …”

  “I understand how you feel about him. He’s your son.”

  “I’m so proud of him,” said Sabrina. “He’s beginning to look so like his father.”

  Dear Sabrina! Hers had been a tragic life, in a way. I went to her and kissed her.

  “It’s so fascinating to be here … in the old place I know so well.”

  “I don’t think we should stay more than two weeks.”

  “Why, Zipporah, we have only just come. You don’t want to go home already.”

  I thought: I do. I am going to be miserable here… … There is too much to remember.

  “You hate leaving Lottie. Admit it.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I want to be with her.”

  “It’ll soon pass … and we shall be on the road again.”

  I nodded fervently, wishing that I had never come.

  I spent a restless night, haunted by dreams. Once I woke up and thought there was a rattle on the window. I got out of bed foolishly expecting to see Gerard there. Oh, I should never have come. There were so many memories.

  Although the atmosphere of the house had changed subtly and it now had a more conventional aspect, there were one or two incidents to remind me of the past.

  I had an opportunity to be alone with Uncle Carl and he smiled at me knowingly, making me feel that there was a secret between us.

  “It’s right,” he said, “that you should come now and then … Zipporah. Come more often. You must keep an eye on things, mustn’t you? Because one day you’ll be mistress here. That was the will, you remember.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “You and your heirs will live here one day. And gradually all the ancestors will be at rest. Oh, it’s a very comfortable life here for me. You’re a clever girl. You saw how it should be done, didn’t you? Life is good here. … You said something to Jessie … did you?”

  “I pointed out that her well-being depended on yours,” I said.

  He gave a deep laugh in his throat and went on laughing: For a moment I thought he was going to choke.

  “That was it. Oh, I’m cosseted, Zipporah. Mustn’t be upset … they’ve got to keep me alive, haven’t they?”

  “Th
ey are here to look after you. And you have not signed any more pieces of paper?”

  He shook his head and looked crafty. “Nothing,” he said. “I’ve not been asked to. You must have explained it all pretty clearly. Clever girl, Zipporah. You’ll be a good mistress of Eversleigh. I feel very pleased with myself.”

  “You still have the same agent?”

  “Oh yes, Amos Carew is still here … couldn’t easily do without him.”

  “I see. Well, everything seems to have worked out satisfactorily.”

  “Clever Zipporah!” he said.

  I was amazed that he could calmly contemplate keeping a housekeeper who might possibly want to get rid of him—but why couch the language in such terms? Why not say, who would be prepared to murder him if the stakes were high enough?

  How could he tolerate such a woman! But it was of course that sexual magnetism. She had that, I was sure, and it would appeal very strongly to a certain type of man. It was her weapon, and heaven knew she used it to advantage.

  Still, -I no longer felt uneasy. Uncle Carl would be well looked after until the day he died, for it was very necessary for Jessie to keep him alive.

  Dickon, true to his word, explored the house from top to bottom. Evalina showed him round. It was Jessie’s suggestion that she should. He was completely entranced by the place and when he asked that he be permitted to accompany Amos Carew on his rounds of the estate, and he was allowed to do so, he came back, eyes shining.

  “It’s worth three of Clavering,” he said.

  He went out a great deal with Amos Carew and the two of them seemed to he getting really friendly. Amos told Sabrina that he was more than an interested observer. On one or two occasions he had given Amos a hand with the estate work. He really enjoyed it and had a flair for it. “He seems to grasp a problem in no time. He’s got a gift for estate management, if you will forgive me saying so, madam,” he told Sabrina.

  She was very proud of her son. It was the first time Dickon had ever shown interest in work of any kind. We had heard from the curate that he was a reluctant scholar, quite different from Tom Sanders, the vicar’s son with whom he shared his lessons.

  Quite often Sabrina and I rode together. I think we both shared mixed feelings about these excursions—indeed about the entire visit. Sabrina’s memories were not so recent as mine nor so poignant; they were melancholy, though. She hated to go past the lake near Enderby where once she had had an accident while skating and was saved by her mother, whose death, many said, had been hastened by the event. And yet … her horse always seemed to lead her to Enderby. There was an irresistible urge to go near the place where she had been unhappy. I understood perfectly because it was the same with me. I also found it hard to keep away. When we went out on foot I could never resist stepping over the broken palings and walking into the haunted patch. Perhaps I felt that Gerard would suddenly appear there as he had the first time I saw him.