by Jess Foley
In Bath Blanche continued with her life as governess in the Marsh household. And she was happy there – or as happy as her circumstances would allow – and as the months passed she grew increasingly fond of Mr Marsh and his mother, and they of her – which fondness also took in Jacko, who soon had the run of the house. Blanche had developed, too, a warm relationship with Clara, a bright little girl who responded gratifyingly to the affection and care bestowed on her.
In the meantime she and Marianne continued to correspond regularly, but the periods between those times when Marianne was able to pass on news of Gentry seemed to Blanche to be never-ending, and as the days and the weeks stretched on the ever-present fear of his danger often made life seem unbearable. But then at last she would receive another letter from Marianne, and once more she would breathe easily – for a little while – then to begin to worrying again until she received further word.
As it did for many of those who waited through the anxious times of the war, the coronation of the new King that August seemed to Blanche as if it might as well be taking place in another country. How could she become involved in any celebration when Gentry was so far away and in such a perilous situation, and when she had no idea at all of where Ernest might be?
That autumn, however, one of her most heartfelt prayers was answered. Early in October she received a letter from the Transvaal. And at once, on glimpsing the handwriting, she saw that it had come from Ernest.
He had addressed it to her at Hallowford House, and Mrs Callow had sent it on to Bath.
After apologizing for not writing since leaving her in Colford he wrote that after spending a considerable time in Bradford – which experience he did not elaborate upon – he had decided to volunteer to join the fight against the Boers. Following his decision he had subsequently joined the Royal Wiltshire Fusiliers and had recently arrived in the Transvaal. He did not dwell on any of the miseries and discomforts which, Blanche was certain, he must be enduring, but devoted most of the letter to other, less distressing matters. Much of his letter concerned Blanche herself; and he was anxious to know how she had fared since he had left her. His last inquiry was of Jacko.
As winter approached Marianne wondered what to do as regards assuming control of her inheritance, for she would be twenty-one in December. She and Gentry would never live in Hallowford; Gentry had made that clear; his business interests were those of his father in Messina – in property, and in the soap factory. There was no future in wool in England’s West Country, Gentry had said, and he was not prepared to give up Sicily for the damp climate of England. Marianne’s intention, therefore, on reaching her majority, was simply to sell all her interests in England. But she would do nothing about it until Gentry returned. When he did, they would marry and he would assume control of the matter.
In the meantime, while fretting over what she should do, she received from her uncle, Harold Savill, a letter asking if she intended to return to Hallowford to assume her inheritance on the occasion of her birthday. After this inquiry his letter continued:
… Though, I must add, I hardly think that December would be a particularly good time to travel from Sicily to England. Also, if you intend to sell your property as you have intimated, I feel you would do well to wait until the spring; the dead of winter is never a propitious time for buying and selling in the property or industrial market – and particularly in the West Country right now where the comparative scarcity of certain resources, such as coal, has to an extent already devalued the wool manufacturing industry. Not that you need be concerned about the success of the Savill mills, however, for our progress is good. It is just that the general climate does not make the present time the most advantageous for buying and selling in such a market.
He ended his letter with advice to wait until the spring or summer and then review the state of the market before disposing of her assets.
Marianne was relieved to get his letter and was glad to take up his suggestion. She was regularly receiving her allowance from him, and she was glad now to avoid the necessity of having to take action without Gentry being beside her. Early in December she wrote back to her uncle asking him if he would agree to continue for the time being in his present role. She added:
As you suggest, I shall return to Hallowford in the spring or early summer. Whether or not I come alone will depend upon this dreadful war that just seems to drag on and on. I pray that it will be over soon, in which case I shall soon be married, and I shall of course travel with my husband. In the meantime I feel I cannot ask Mr Edward Harrow for help or advice as I am afraid he is not strong and I do not wish to burden him with my responsibilities. As for him travelling with me, I’m afraid that such a prospect is out of the question. The journey to England on the occasion of Papa’s death exhausted him enormously and I could not dream of asking him to undertake the same rigorous journey again. However, as I say, I shall be there at some time in the spring or early summer, at which time, I am sure, you will be very pleased to be relieved at last of your responsibilities.
Thinking then of her promise to Blanche – which had never been far from her mind – she went on to inform him that she had determined upon making a settlement on Blanche, which would help to relieve Blanche’s situation in her present limited circumstances. To this end, she added, she would be grateful if he would send her, Marianne, an account of her realizable assets so that during the coming weeks she could determine the extent of the settlement she should make.
Harold replied saying that he would draw up an account of her assets, and that in the meantime he would see that Blanche was provided for.
One December day soon after her twenty-first birthday Blanche and Clara prepared to set off to walk together to the centre of the city. The excursion was to be something of a Christmas treat for Clara, for they were going to see the brightly illuminated store-window displays with all the luxury of their Christmas goods – after which they were to take tea together in one of the tearooms. That done they would meet Clara’s father at his shop, following which the three of them would return home.
The December day was mild and the sky was clear. On reaching the crowded town centre Blanche and Clara began to make their way from store to store, gazing into the brightly lighted windows, Clara frequently exclaiming in delight at the goods on display.
When they had looked around the shops for some time they made their way to a tearoom. On entering they found the interior crowded and Clara gave a little groan of disappointment. ‘Oh, there’s no room for us, Miss Farrar.’
‘Be patient, dear,’ Blanche said consolingly. ‘There’ll be a table in a minute or two.’
As her eyes moved over the occupied tables the sweep of her gaze came to a stop and she found herself looking into the eyes of a man who sat alone at the other side of the room. Hastily she looked away again. Standing there, however, she was aware, through her peripheral vision, of the man’s eyes still upon her. And then he was rising, moving across the floor in her direction, coming to her side, stopping there.
‘Excuse me …’
At his words, delivered with a slight accent, she turned to him. Expensively dressed, he looked to be in his late thirties. He was tall, with thick, dark hair; good-looking in a rather heavyset way. As she looked at him Blanche suddenly realized why she had noticed him: there was something familiar about him.
‘Excuse me if I’m bothering you,’ he said, ‘but we’ve met before.’ He smiled at her. ‘You don’t recall?’
A moment more and then recollection came to her. She smiled and nodded.
‘Yes, of course. You’re – you’re a friend of Mr Harrow’s. We met in London.’
He nodded. ‘Alfredo Pastore.’ His smile grew wider. ‘It’s Miss – Miss Farrar, isn’t it? Miss Blanche Farrar …’
‘Yes, it is.’ With Alfredo Pastore’s dark eyes smiling warmly into her own, Blanche put her hand on Clara’s shoulder. ‘And this is my friend, Miss Clara Marsh. Clara, this is Signor Pastore.’
As Clara smiled shyly in return the man said, glancing around:
‘It’s quite crowded in here. Will you come and join me at my table?’ As Blanche hesitated he added quickly: ‘Oh, don’t refuse – for Clara’s sake at least. I’m sure she’d like to sit down.’
Smiling, Blanche agreed, and Pastore turned to lead the way. Taking Clara’s hand Blanche followed him as he threaded his way across the room. When they reached his table he took their coats and hung them up, and then asked what he could order for them. Consulted first, Clara, notwithstanding the season, said she would have a vanilla ice. Blanche ordered a tea-cake and some tea. When Pastore had attracted the attention of the waitress and had given the order he turned back to Blanche, smiling at her across the table. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘tell me what you’re doing in Bath.’
Blanche told him that she was living in the city where she was employed as Clara’s governess. In return Pastore told her that he was in the area on business. ‘My father had several commercial connections in Bath and the surrounding areas,’ he said. ‘But they’re more or less finished now. I’m just here to finally wind them up.’ When his work was done, he said, he would be returning to London before returning to Sicily.
‘Palermo, isn’t it?’ Blanche said. ‘If I recall correctly, your home is in Palermo.’
He nodded, pleased. ‘I’m flattered that you remember so much about me.’
Blanche said, ‘The trip to London when we met was a very special occasion for me. It isn’t likely that I would forget it so soon.’
Pastore went on to say that he would be returning to Sicily in another month when he had finished his business in England. ‘January is not the time to be in Britain,’ he said. ‘I prefer a milder climate.’
The waitress appeared then with the order. When she had gone again Clara concentrated on her vanilla ice while Blanche poured the tea. As they ate and drank she and Pastore chatted pleasantly together, until Blanche looked at the time and exclaimed that they had better be going.
‘Oh, please,’ Pastore said, ‘don’t go yet.’
‘I’m afraid we must.’ Blanche was taking coins from her purse to pay for their order – which payment Pastore refused, saying he wouldn’t dream of accepting it. As he got their coats he asked where they were going, and on being told insisted on accompanying them.
The bill paid, the three left the tearoom and joined the throng on the pavements again where Blanche, holding Clara by the hand, led the way through the streets towards George Marsh’s draper’s store. On reaching its doors Blanche and Clara glanced in and saw Marsh busy at the rear of the shop. Quickly Clara left Blanche’s side to go in to see her father. When the door had closed behind the child Blanche held out her hand. As Pastore took it she thanked him for the tea.
‘It was a great pleasure for me,’ he said.
‘Well …’ She smiled at him, releasing his hand. ‘I must go in …’
‘Oh, but – one moment …’ He stood aside to allow a customer to get by. Blanche waited. He went on:
‘I’d like to call and take you out – if you’re agreeable, of course.’ As Blanche hesitated he added: ‘It would certainly be a great kindness to me, you can be assured of that. I don’t know anyone in the area and I get rather tired of eating alone, and spending all my leisure time in my hotel room and taking long walks on my own.’ He grinned. ‘I enjoy my own company – but only up to a point.’
As he finished speaking the shop door opened and George Marsh appeared. Clara had told him of the man they had met in the tearoom and he had come to see for himself. Blanche introduced the two men and after they had exchanged the necessary pleasantries and shaken hands Pastore added that he was an old friend of Blanche’s former guardian’s business associate, and that he was in Bath on business for a few weeks before returning to Sicily.
The brief meeting between the men ended with Marsh inviting the other to come for dinner one evening. Pastore accepted the invitation with a little bow, after which they passed some further words of conversation and then Marsh, saying that he must get back to his customers, took his leave and went back into the shop.
When the door had closed behind Marsh, Alfredo Pastore said, ‘Well – it appears that I have your employer’s approval – so will you agree to help me pass a little of my time while I’m here in the city?’
Still Blanche hesitated. She had enjoyed the meeting, but she could see no point in repeating it. Before she could say anything further, however, Pastore was saying:
‘You must have some free time. When is that?’
‘Well, tomorrow, Sunday, but –’
‘Then may we meet?’ He paused, smiling. ‘At least for the sake of auld lang syne – as you say.’
‘Signor Pastore, I –’
‘Alfredo – and say – at three o’clock tomorrow? I shall wait for you here.’
‘Oh, but –’
He was backing away. ‘I’ll wait for you tomorrow.’ Without waiting for an answer he was turning, and with a final wave, melting into the throng.
Blanche had no particular interest in keeping the appointment with Alfredo Pastore the next afternoon, nor any special wish to do so; but the engagement had been made and she felt that she couldn’t really do anything else but keep it. When she had finished getting ready she left her room and started down the stairs – near the foot to be met by Clara who, seeing her dressed to go out, asked if she might go with her. For a moment or two Blanche was tempted to say yes, but even as she briefly pondered the question it was settled by Mrs Marsh who, coming into the hall and catching the gist of the matter, told Clara that Miss Farrar needed a little recreation and that they would see her later.
Approaching the shop – shuttered for Sunday – Blanche found Pastore waiting for her. Smiling as he caught sight of her he moved forward to greet her, and Blanche, seeing the warmth of his welcoming smile, felt suddenly glad to be there. She had spent too long confined to the house, and it was good to get out for a while. It was good, too, she felt as the afternoon wore on, to be with someone as attentive and solicitous as Pastore proved to be.
Although crisp and cold, the afternoon was bright, and together they wandered into the park and strolled slowly along the paths. Afterwards he took her to a café where they sat over steaming cups of coffee and toasted muffins. He talked to her of Palermo, where he lived – a beautiful city, he said – and something of his business interests – sulphur mining, a growing interest in shipping, and the export of citrus, olives and soap.
He told her a little, too, of his personal life. He had been married once, long ago, he said, but his wife had left him to go away with a singer. He spoke of the man as ‘a tenor with a second-rate opera company’. Some years after his wife’s departure, he said, he had learned that she had died in a train accident.
His face betrayed little emotion as he spoke of his wife, her desertion of him and her ultimate death.
‘You had no children?’ Blanche asked him.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
Having told Blanche something of himself he changed the subject and concentrated upon Blanche herself. He had been surprised, he said, not only to find her in Bath, but also to find her working as a governess.
Blanche said, ‘As regards my work you made the mistake of assuming that I was wealthy, that I had no need for employment.’
‘I suppose I did.’ He shrugged. ‘But – it doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘Not to me.’
Under some prompting from him, she told him a little of her own life. When she had finished he said: ‘And where are you going now?’
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps you have certain plans.’
‘Plans?’ She frowned. ‘What plans?’
‘I’m thinking of your employer, Marsh.’ He paused briefly, then observed: ‘He’s a widower.’
Blanche responded quickly: ‘Signor Pastore – Alfredo – Mr Marsh is my employer. Nothing more.’
‘Forgive me.’ He sounded contrite.
‘I have no plans or hopes of becoming the second Mrs Marsh.’
‘Please – forgive me. I was impertinent.’
There was a little silence between them, then he said: ‘But I still don’t have an answer to my question.’
‘Which was?’
‘Well – what is to become of you?’
When she didn’t answer he said:
‘You’re a very beautiful young woman, Blanche. And you’re obviously clever, too. But here you are, working as a governess, while burying yourself in the domesticity of some quiet English family. Is that what you want out of life? You could obviously have so much more.’ Then quickly, before she could answer, he added: ‘Or am I being impertinent again?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Avoiding his eyes she gazed down into her cup. He was right, she said to herself. Where was she going? Or could it be that she was already there? Could it be that everything that had so far happened had been leading her to this, the situation she was now in – that of governess to the draper’s daughter? The uncertainty of her own life seemed to be unending. Was this it? Or was there to be more? Was this the end of her particular road?
Over the following days Blanche saw Pastore on several further occasions. On one evening he took her to the Theatre Royal to see Anton Chekhov’s play, Three Sisters, which had opened in London so successfully earlier in the year. On another occasion he took her to a concert at the Corn Exchange where the pianist and orchestra performed the romantic, beautiful second piano concerto recently written by the young composer Rachmaninoff. When it was over Blanche had come away in a dream.
Now, on New Year’s Eve, Pastore was to call for her to take her to dinner at one of the premier hotels in the city.
She had just finished arranging her hair when she heard the sound of a motor car coming to a stop outside the house. Moving to the window she pulled back the curtain and peered down. Such vehicles were being seen more and more frequently on the streets of Bath lately, but she knew no one who owned such a vehicle. Now, as she watched, she saw the driver, dressed in cap and goggles, muffler and long coat, get down from the vehicle and move towards the house. The ring of the front door bell echoed up the stairs, and a minute later the maid was knocking at the door and announcing to Blanche that there was a gentleman to see her.