Pool of St. Branok

by Philippa Carr

  Jean Pascal, who was more fluent in our language than his parents were, said that they had brought some of their most valuable tapestry with them. They had been going to have it repaired in France, but if there was someone who could repair it as well as ours had been done, perhaps it would be possible for theirs to be done here.

  “It was a young girl living quite near here who restored these two years ago,” said my grandmother. “She is very clever with her needle, as you see. She is a professional seamstress and does embroidery on garments and such things which are sold in the shops in Plymouth … at quite high prices I imagine.”

  Madame Bourdon became very excited.

  “If you could tell my mother where to find this embroiderer, she would be very grateful to you,” said Jean Pascal.

  My grandmother was thoughtful. She glanced at my grandfather. “It’s Leah,” she said, “and that makes it a little awkward. You know how Mrs. Polhenny was about letting Leah come up here.”

  She turned to our guests. “I will speak to the girl’s mother and ask her if she will allow the girl to go to High Tor. You see, her mother likes her to work at home.”

  “We will pay well …” began Jean Pascal.

  “Leave it to me. I will do what I can.”

  We left it at that and there was a great deal of talk about tapestry. Apparently the Bourdons had some priceless pieces in their collection—one from the Chateau of Blois and another which had been in Chambord.

  “It was risk bringing them over,” said Jean Pascal, “but my mother could not bear to leave them behind, and some of them did get a little damaged in transport.”

  When they left, my grandmother assured them that the next day she would go to the Polhenny cottage and would let them know the result immediately.

  The next afternoon my grandmother said she was going to beard Mrs. Polhenny in her den and would I care to accompany her? I said I would.

  We walked into the town, talking about the Bourdons and the possibility of Mrs. Polhenny’s allowing Leah to go up to High Tor to do the work.

  “It would mean she would have to stay up there for several weeks, I expect.”

  “Why should she not go each day?”

  “Well, I think she needs the very best light to do the work. She might get there and find the light no longer any good. I think she would have to be on the spot.”

  “Why shouldn’t Mrs. Polhenny want her to stay there?”

  “Mrs. Polhenny sees evil all around her … even where it doesn’t exist … and she expects the worst. She wants Leah to live in the shelter of her own home where a watchful eye can be kept on her.”

  We reached the cottage. The windows gleamed, the pebbles on the path looked as though they had been freshly polished, the porch steps had been recently scrubbed. We knocked at the door.

  There was a long pause. We listened and thought we could hear a movement within. My grandmother called out: “It’s Mrs. Hanson and Rebecca. Is that you, Leah?”

  The door opened and there was Leah. She looked flushed, uncertain and very pretty.

  “My mother is not in,” she said. “She was called up to Egham Farm. Mrs. Masters has started.”

  “Oh,” said my grandmother, and then: “May we come in for a moment?”

  “Oh, yes … of course. Please do,” replied Leah.

  We were taken into the parlor. I noticed that the brass ornaments had been polished to a dazzling brilliance. There was a sofa with two cushions placed at symmetrical angles; the antimacassars on the backs of the chairs were spotless and there were arm covers on the chairs to prevent contamination from those who sat in them.

  We scarcely dared sit.

  “Shall I ask Mother to come and see you when she returns? I don’t know when it will be. You can never be sure with babies.”

  “Well, this actually concerns you, Leah,” said my grandmother. Leah must be about eighteen years old after all. It was an age to make one’s own decisions. But she was clearly a meek girl and Mrs. Polhenny was a formidable parent. “You know the French people?”

  “Those at High Tor,” said Leah.

  My grandmother nodded. “They took luncheon with us yesterday and while they were there they saw the work you had done on the tapestries.”

  “Oh, I loved doing that, Mrs. Hanson.”

  “I know you did. It was a change, wasn’t it? Well, apparently they have some fine tapestries up there. They mentioned Gobelins. You know of them, Leah? Of course you do. They are some of the finest in the world. They are very ancient and in need of repair. Having seen what you did to ours …”

  Leah looked excited.

  “In fact, they would like to talk to you about repairing theirs.”

  “Oh, I should love to do that. I get a little tired of working rosebuds and butterflies on ladies’ petticoats.”

  “This would be different, wouldn’t it? And fancy … they have been worked by people hundreds of years ago.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “You would be expected to stay up there while you did the work. You would need the best of light and the journey to and fro would be a little too long … there and back.”

  She nodded. Then she said: “My mother did not like my being away from home … even with you.”

  “Well, that is what I came to discuss. I promised Monsieur and Madame Bourdon that I would ask you. They would pay you very well. I imagine you could name your price.”

  I studied her. She was very pretty; and now that she was excited, this was more obvious.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

  “That would be very acceptable,” replied my grandmother.

  She left us. We looked round the little room and I knew what my grandmother was thinking. It had an unlived-in look. I could not imagine that this was a very happy home. There would be too much striving after what was right and proper in the eyes of that martinet Mrs. Polhenny—and little thought of pleasure.

  While we were drinking tea and nibbling homemade biscuits that lady herself came in.

  She came straight into the parlor. She was surprised. Her eyes rested momentarily on me and I wondered if I was doing something I should not and perhaps spoiling the perfection of her brown velvet-covered armchair.

  “Mrs. Hanson …” she began.

  “You must forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Polhenny,” said my grandmother. “Leah has given us tea and your oatmeal biscuits are delicious.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Polhenny, smiling, “I’m glad she made tea for you.”

  “How was it at the farm?”

  “Another boy.” Her face softened. “A lovely healthy boy. They’re pleased. Rather a long labor but everything going well. I shall be keeping my eyes on them. I’ll be getting back later today.”

  “I’m glad all went well. We came to talk of a rather interesting proposition. We have mentioned it to Leah.”

  “Oh, what was that?”

  “You know we have those French refugees up at High Tor?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And Leah made such a good job of our tapestries. When they came to luncheon with us they saw what she had done. The fact is they would like her to do the same for them. Apparently they have some valuable pieces up there and they want someone to repair them. They would like Leah to do it.”

  Mrs. Polhenny was frowning. “Leah has plenty of work here.”

  “This would be different and more highly paid, I imagine.”

  That did bring a glimmer of interest into Mrs. Polhenny’s eyes.

  “It would mean her staying up there for a week or two … perhaps even more.”

  Mrs. Polhenny’s face hardened. “Why couldn’t she go every day?”

  “Well, it is a little far … that journey twice a day … and then there is the matter of catching the best of the light. It’s intricate work.”

  “Leah wouldn’t want to be away from home.”

  “Don’t you think she would enjoy a change? She’d be very comfortable up
at High Tor and they would be very grateful to get the work done. Madame Bourdon was quite lyrical about her tapestry. You can see she loves it.”

  “Leah has plenty of work here.”

  “Do think about it, Mrs. Polhenny.”

  “I think a young girl’s place is home with her mother.”

  “But she wouldn’t be far away.”

  “Couldn’t they send the tapestries here?”

  “Impossible. They are big, I expect … and very valuable.”

  “They could get somebody else.”

  “They like Leah’s work. She is especially talented. This would be good for her. People might visit them and see her work … as they visited us. You don’t know what would come of it. You know we have the Emperor Napoleon and Empress Eugenie in England now. They are friends of Monsieur and Madame Bourdon. Who knows, Leah might be working for royalty.”

  Mrs. Polhenny looked skeptical. “They’re a sinful lot, from what I hear.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Polhenny, you can’t believe all you hear. I think this would be an excellent chance for her.”

  “I don’t like my daughter to be away from home at night. I like to know she’s here … and I’m in the next room to her.”

  “Don’t refuse right away. Think about it. Leah loved doing our tapestry. How much more interesting such work is than plain embroidery.”

  “With foreigners!”

  “They are the same as we are,” I said.

  Mrs. Polhenny gave me a stern look. In her opinion, I was sure, young girls should be seen and not heard.

  “Let’s leave it like this,” said my grandmother. “But think what it would be worth … financially.”

  “I’d want her home every night.”

  “I don’t think that would be feasible. She has to catch the best of the light and you know how predictable the weather is. A light morning can turn to a dull one and her journey would be wasted. And it is a little far. Just think about it. In the meantime, I’ll have a word with Madame Bourdon.”

  So we left it at that.

  As we walked away my grandmother said: “Sometimes I think Mrs. Polhenny is a little unbalanced. It’s a pity. She’s such an excellent midwife.”

  “And a good housewife too, it seems. There’s nothing out of place in that cottage. It’s uncomfortably clean.”

  My grandmother laughed. “It’s what is called a fetish and I don’t think that is a very healthy thing to have. Then, of course, there’s Leah. She can’t have a very happy life. Poor girl, it must be difficult to live up to that perfection. And the way she guards the girl … it’s really unnatural.”

  “She seems afraid that Leah might do something … terrible.”

  My grandmother nodded and said: “I do hope she will see sense. I tried to persuade her. I thought I detected a glimmer of interest when I talked of money.”

  “Yes, so did I.”

  “Well, we’ll have to wait and see. I’ll write a note to Madame Bourdon and tell her of the reluctance. Perhaps if the money were tempting enough …”

  So we should have to wait and see.

  A letter came from my mother. She was wonderfully happy, she wrote, and she hoped I was enjoying Cornwall. What she was looking forward to about coming home was seeing me. She hoped I would be in London when she arrived. We would stay a few days there and then go down to Manorleigh. It was going to be so exciting.

  “You will be able to help us in the political work. It will be great fun and I know that you will enjoy it. Oh, Becca, we’re going to be so happy together … the three of us.”

  So she wanted me there when she returned.

  I showed the letter to my grandmother.

  “She’s very happy,” she said smiling. “It comes out, doesn’t it? You can sense it. We must be happy for her, Rebecca. She deserves to be happy.”

  “I must be there when she comes back,” I said.

  “Yes, your grandfather and I will go up with you. I should like a few days in town.”

  So it was arranged.

  The last day arrived. I rode in the morning, Miss Brown was busy packing. In the afternoon I took a walk to the pool. I saw Jenny on the way. She was singing softly to herself happy in the certainty that she would soon have her baby.

  She was certainly, as my grandmother would say, unbalanced. I suppose the same description could be applied to Mrs. Polhenny because of her preoccupation with sin.

  We heard that she had succumbed to the lure of money, that Leah had completed her commitments to the Plymouth customers, and was going to take a rest from such work and go up to High Tor to repair the Bourdon’s tapestries.

  The next day we left for London. We went to Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis as we usually did. My mother and her husband were due to arrive in London the day after we did.

  I was apprehensive, realizing how peaceful it had been in Cornwall and how preoccupied I had been with the matter of the Bourdon’s tapestries and Mrs. Polhenny’s addiction to virtue, as well as with Jenny Stubbs singing happily in the lanes.

  That was far away and now I had to face the grim reality.

  I thought Uncle Peter was strangely quiet. Usually he dominated the scene. When I asked him how he was he said he was well and busy as usual and very much looking forward to the return of the married couple.

  “Now we shall see something,” he said. “Benedict is not the man to stand still.”

  The pride and admiration in his voice annoyed me. Why must everyone have this immense respect for the man!

  The day came. The cab arrived at the door. We were all waiting to greet them. And there was my mother, looking beautiful and I noticed with a pang—half regret, half pleasure-looked as radiant as she had before she left, or perhaps even more so.

  I flung myself into her arms.

  “Oh Becca, Becca,” she said. “How I’ve missed you! Everything would have been perfect if you had been there.”

  Benedict was smiling at me. He took my hands in his. My mother was watching us … willing me to show my pleasure. So I smiled as brightly as I could.

  She had brought a china plaque for me to hang on my wall. On it had been painted a picture of a woman who bore a strong resemblance to Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia of which I had once seen a copy and had loved it. She had remembered this.

  “It’s lovely,” I said.

  “We chose it together.”

  And again I smiled at him.

  After dinner, I was to go back with them to his London house and I was not looking forward to it. I felt it would indeed be the beginning of a new life.

  There was a great deal of talk at dinner. Aunt Amaryllis wanted to hear about Italy and the honeymoon; Uncle Peter was more interested in what plans Benedict had.

  “We shall go down to Manorleigh as soon as possible,” said Benedict. “I don’t want my constituents to think that I am an absentee Member.”

  “There’ll be lots for you to do, Angelet,” said Aunt Amaryllis. “I know how it is with Helena.”

  “Garden fêtes to open … bazaars … charities for this and that,” said my mother. “I’m prepared.”

  “It will be nice to be at Manorleigh,” went on Aunt Amaryllis, “and you’ll have the town house as well. What could be more convenient?”

  “It’s a blessing that Manorleigh happens to be so near London,” said Benedict. “It’ll make the journey to and fro so much easier.”

  “What on earth would have happened if your constituency had been in Cornwall?”

  “I can only thank Heaven that it was not.”

  I wished it had been. Then I could have been with my grandparents for much of the time. But I would still visit them … frequently. I must remember that. If ever life became too difficult with him … I had my escape.

  When the meal was over I left with my mother and her husband for his house. My grandparents were staying with Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis and going back to Cornwall in a few days.

  As we walked to the house, my mother link
ed her arm through mine. He was on the other side of her; they were arm in arm. Anyone seeing us would have thought what a happy family we were and none would have guessed at the turmoil within me.

  I felt lost in the big house and a desolate sense of not belonging. It was such a grand house. As soon as I entered it I felt as though every part of it was looking down its nose, demanding to know what I was doing there. Everything looked as though it had cost a great deal of money. There were heavy red curtains, their rich folds held in place by thick bands which in any other house one would have dismissed as brass. The walls were white and looked as though they had been freshly painted. The furniture was elegant—of an earlier period—Georgian, I think, to fit the house. Above the wide staircase hung an enormous chandelier. It was at the top of that staircase that my mother and her new husband would receive their guests. Beyond, on the first floor, were the enormous dining and drawing rooms. I could never feel at home in such a house.

  My room was large and lofty with a tall window which looked down on the street. It was heavily curtained in deep blue velvet and there were lace curtains to shut out the street. My bed had a blue headpiece to match the curtains and there were hints of blue in the carpet. It was a beautiful room but not one to feel at home in.

  I was glad when we left for Manorleigh.

  There was a house which I could really love if it had not been his. I felt I could escape a little more in the country. There were the stables, so it was possible to ride often. Manorleigh itself was a small town but as Manor Grange was a short carriage drive outside it, it seemed to be in the country.

  This was the constituency so there was a good deal to do there. Benedict was determined to show all the people who had elected him what an excellent M.P. he was and they were encouraged to call and discuss their problems.

  Eager to be the perfect wife, my mother threw herself whole-heartedly into his life. It was a busy one. They would travel round the constituency which extended several miles into the surrounding countryside and it included many villages and several small towns.

  “Your stepfather does not wish anyone to feel neglected,” said my mother.

  It was an embarrassment to mention him. She would have liked me to call him Father but even for her I could not do that. As for him, I was not sure what he wanted. He was too clever not to know how I felt about him, even though my mother tried to pretend that my hostility did not exist. He would not let it be of any great concern to him. It was my mother who was unhappy about it although she showed nothing. I was glad of that because if she had told me how unhappy my attitude made her I should have had to do something about it and I did not want to. I realize now that I had a certain satisfaction in harboring my resentment.