A Mother's Love (11 page)

Harriet laughed happily, thanking them both for their good wishes, but Annie and Clara reacted exactly as she had expected them to, bidding her farewell with ill-concealed jealousy.

‘I don’t think I’d care for all that foreign food,’ Annie said, making a point of sounding unenthusiastic, which her husband Robert seconded in all innocence.

‘I agree. Give me good plain English food any time.’

‘The people there aren’t like us,’ Clara imparted as though wild horses wouldn’t have dragged her there. ‘However will you get on if you can’t be understood? It’s not as if you can speak the language.’

‘Matthew does. He speaks very good French.’

‘He would.’

‘He learnt at Oxford. German too. And Latin …’

‘Yes, we know. We all know he’s been to Oxford.’

Mary was full of fear at the thought of her daughter crossing that stretch of water between Dover and Calais – as though it were the Atlantic. ‘I do hope it’s not rough, dear. You don’t want to be seasick on your wedding day. And don’t worry about Sara. She’ll be as good as gold with us. I expect she’ll miss you, but it’s only a week. And you will be careful, won’t you? For Sara’s sake – for all our sakes.’

Her father added his own warning as the guests assembled to wave the happy pair on their way and she kissed everyone goodbye. ‘Don’t drink the water unless it’s boiled,’ he shouted over the calls of bon voyage. ‘Don’t want to get yourself dysentry. That’s what killed a lot of our boys fighting out in the Sudan and in South Africa, as much as any bullets did.’

‘I’m not going to South Africa, Dad,’ she laughed as Matthew helped her up into the cab. ‘I’m going to Paris. They’re as civilised in Paris as we are.’

Though looking at some parts of the area where she lived, she wondered about civilised. Paris had to be cleaner.

At Victoria they gave their trunks and bags into the charge of the porters and boarded the train. They settled in a first-class compartment with only one other occupant, a middle-aged man in a dark morning suit and top hat who spent much of the journey rustling through the
Manchester Guardian.

Shy and awkward, Harriet sat opposite Matthew, hardly speaking, lest their fellow passenger guess their newly wed state. But he already had, occasionally looking up as he turned a page to glance briefly from Matthew to her, and she was sure she saw his lips twitch now and again beneath that well-trimmed grey moustache as though privately amused before returning his gaze to a new page. If Matthew felt awkward, he carried it off well. But even he said very little.

The carriage grew hot as the afternoon sun moved round. It shone into her eyes and she wished she could change sides to be out of its glare, but she felt too self-conscious to move.

‘It’s hot,’ she whispered to Matthew, who immediately leapt up with a forthright ‘Do you object?’ to the man, who graciously shook his head – again, Harriet thought, with a quirk of the moustached lips.

With the window down, the air was a relief, but the soot smell from the engine and the black smuts landing on her new green outfit and her trim-matching hat made her wish she hadn’t complained. Yet she dared not reverse her request, and sat trying not to inhale the reek of smoke passing by the open window. She felt thirsty, too, and uncomfortable, her new corset, still needing to mould to her figure, biting into her ribs. She was glad when they reached Dover.

Amid the rumble of trolleys trundling trunks on to the quayside for loading and the chatter of passengers and those seeing them off, they mounted the gangway to the boat. Harriet walked up it cautiously.

‘I hope the sea’s smooth,’ she whispered to Matthew, and felt his hand tighten reassuringly upon hers as he helped her climb.

The Channel, however, was as calm as a duckpond. But for the heavy thud of engines that seemed to pound right through her chest, they fairly glided. They must have gone faster than it appeared, for the boat ploughing through the oil-flat water stirred up a breeze Harriet hadn’t expected as she walked with Matthew around the deck, obliging women to hold on to their hats. But the tang of the sea had got into her blood and in a fit of abandonment she discarded her own hat and held it in her hand. Her glowing auburn hair, neatly coiled, exposed to the elements, she felt gloriously free in her married state.

Under a celestial blue sky of amazing dimension to her unaccustomed eyes, which took her breath away, she leaned over the rail to take in its even deeper reflection in the sea, fascinated by the white purity of foam hissing serenely below her from the bows cutting through the tranquil water. The breeze ruffling her hair was wonderfully warm.

Luxuriating in its sensuous caress, she longed to reach Calais, where Matthew had pre-booked an hotel for the night before they went on to Paris. In the privacy of their room, she saw herself revelling in his kisses, responding to his caresses, and she shivered deliciously as the sea breeze fondled her hair, her skin. She hardly ate any of her dinner, served in the boat’s ornate pink and blue restaurant, for thinking about their first night together.

When in the dusk they disembarked, she was speechless with wonder, unable to believe they were on French soil, foreign soil, no longer England. It was all so strange, so different, the voices around her alien to her ears, loud, garbled, angry almost. She grew anxious.

‘Why’re they all quarrelling?’

Matthew laughed out loud, as though he too saw no reason to keep his own voice down, English reserve cast off like an old hat.

‘It sounds that way because you don’t understand their language.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘I shall teach you, my love, so that next year when we come again, you’ll speak as fluently as any of them. I shall teach you much more than that, my darling,’ he added slowly, lowering his voice, and Harriet shivered pleasurably at the double meaning. Suddenly she felt very French, very liberated, could hardly wait to reach the hotel, where she would become in every essential Matthew’s wife.

But once they were in their hotel room, the sensuality of sea breezes, the exotic allurement of being in France, the undertone of Matthew’s promises, all faded from her mind. It was all so different from what she had expected.

The tension of undressing in a cavernous bathroom; having to pass Matthew standing gazing out of the open window so as not to look at her and embarrass her; the very act of slipping into the narrow bed that promised to bring them purposely closer together; the way the bed yielded even to her light weight with a faint groan – it all began to feel sordid. She drew the covers up to her chin but still felt so terribly exposed.

Then, as Matthew, still without looking at her, moved in turn to the huge bathroom to get ready for bed, came the waiting, unnerving her. Long before he lifted the covers and slipped in beside her, she was already rigid, her teeth clenched against his first preliminary caress.

And there, in the darkness, Will’s intense blue eyes surveyed her, his virile body floating in her head, the memory vivid of his hands forceful with brutish need for satisfaction. ‘Men,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘we’re all the same, fobbin’ you off with lovin’ words when it’s your sex we need, and this new one’s no different from me, you’ll see.’

It didn’t help that Matthew was obviously as nervous as she, that he was being so gentle, so thoughtful of her. She found herself fighting against him. ‘Matthew! I can’t! I’m sorry. I can’t …’

‘It’s all right, dearest.’

He tried to be even more gentle, but the mere touch of his hands on her flesh set Will laughing, and her cringing.

‘Oh, Matthew … please … I’m sorry …’ He was already moving away from her, trying to pull his nightshirt back down over himself without making the movement too obvious to her.

They lay side by side, both of them rigid now.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whimpered. ‘I don’t know …’ There was no way of explaining. But he turned his face towards her and kissed her cheek gently, whispering, ‘I understand. Goodnight, my sweet.’ He turned carefully on his side.

After a while she heard his breathing become regular, but she lay awake, ashamed of her stupidity now that Will had faded away, wanting to reach out to Matthew, to say she was sorry; needing to snuggle close to him. But fear of his natural reaction to any such move kept her where she was, lying still and very alone.

In Paris, Matthew proved himself the most attentive of husbands, if no longer an ardent lover. ‘I understand, dearest,’ he said tenderly, a little perplexed on the second night of her distraught pleading and abject apology. ‘Whenever you are ready, my sweet.’

He was so wonderful, so understanding, that she felt all the more guilty. But however much she vowed to herself that she would behave like a proper wife, there would come this overwhelming fear, this tensing, the moment he touched her. As the week progressed he became even more perplexed and, she was sure, more impatient with her. Though he insisted that he understood.

‘I know, it takes time. Don’t blame yourself. It’s quite natural. I’m sure it must be,’ – the last echoing a certain doubt.

The days were so different. Hand in hand they hurried off each morning on a tour of discovery. There was so much to see, not enough time to see it all. The new wrought-iron wonder of the Eiffel Tower, the highest structure in the world, amazed Harriet though she could not bring herself to climb it despite Matthew’s cajoling. Roaming the bohemian quarter of Montmartre, watching artists there in the streets painting pictures, perhaps one day to become as famous as those whose pictures they viewed at the Louvre, her eyes popped.

‘We’ve got to buy some of their paintings, Matthew!’ And pointing to one market stall after another, ‘Oh, that vase Matthew! And, ooh, look! That statue! Oh, Matthew – can we have it? Can we?’

‘How can we carry them all back home?’ he laughed, but nevertheless indulged her, arranging for what they purchased to be sent on.

Leaning over bridges they gazed down at their reflections in the quietly flowing Seine; felt very much in love. Lost in each other they ate out in the warm June sunshine. Sitting at pavement tables in full view of passers-by who did not so much as glance at them was an experience that delighted Harriet. So did the ever-present aroma of percolating coffee and freshly baked breads. They often dined out too – after a theatre or merely strolling around.

It was all so enthralling. At the theatre she was dazzled by the lights; the hubbub of conversation all around; the men in their evening dress of silk-lined cloaks and silk top hats; the ladies in fashionable gowns of all colours, feather and lace fans flapping, gloved hands brandishing them like weapons with every word uttered, jewellery glittering under a myriad of gas chandeliers as they were handed down from their coaches. The coaches drew up one behind the other in a seemingly endless queue; as one at the head drew away empty, another would join the rear. It was obvious that many people owned their own vehicles, their own livery.

‘Everyone’s so elegant,’ she whispered as Matthew helped her down from the carriage he’d hired to convey them to the Paris Opera, very aware of her own ordinary gown of blue crepon. Until that moment it had seemed the height of fashion, flounced and beribboned, bishop sleeves ballooning – as part of her trousseau it had cost her a pretty penny – but now she shrank against Matthew, himself as well dressed as any man there as they moved forward with the crush towards the glittering golden foyer.

‘I really must look for something more suitable while we’re here, Matthew. I feel dowdy in this thing.’

Matthew only laughed, brown eyes lovingly taking her in. ‘You look ravishing enough to eat. And very expensive.’

Nevertheless, the next day she had to drag him to the Rue de Rivoli for a dress she’d seen earlier: fawn shot silk, with a lace-trimmed basque waist, a cape of frilled lace, and bouffant sleeves to the elbow then tight to the wrist, the skirt fluted and edged with yet more lace. She would have loved something exclusive, for evening only, but even she realised that at Paris prices such luxuries were beyond Matthew’s pocket. The dress would easily double for day and evening. There were gloves to match, and a lace-trimmed hat, but Matthew also picked out for her a tiny hat with lace and roses for evening wear.

‘You’re so good to me,’ she whispered, barely able to wait to get back to the hotel to don her new outfit before going out yet again to discover more of this wonderful place.

Her arm threaded through Matthew’s, she giggled coyly beneath the gaze of the hotel’s proprietor, Monsieur Petit. They had not, of course, confessed to being newlyweds, but he beamed at them just the same, from long experience recognising all the signs.

‘Enjoy your fine day,
monsieur
,
madame.
It goes slow,
oui
? But then …’ Bunched fingers exploding a kiss into the air, he raised his large bulbous eyes ceilingward, which could have indicated heaven or the nuptial pleasure apparently to be re-enacted above him, his broad smile familiar with secrets as old as time yet as new as today.

They returned the smile, polite but embarrassed, and hurried on.

‘Annie and Clara’ll be green with envy when I tell them about all this,’ Harriet gloated, embarrassment forgotten as they ate a simple but beautifully served cold lunch at a pavement table beside the quietly flowing Seine, washing it down with an inexpensive wine now that funds were getting a bit low. ‘I bet they’ll be badgering their husbands to take them here when I tell them all we’ve seen.’

Public gardens, parks, palaces, boulevards, the breathtaking Arc de Triomphe, the lovely tree-lined Champs Elysees, the awe-inspiring Notre Dame – and still they had seen only half of what Matthew had planned to show her, even though they took a fiacre to get around more easily. He was already trying to teach her some French, making her repeat after him,
fiacre –
cab, but she failed miserably, making him chuckle, fiddling with his moustache, as he always did when amused. He was growing it longer, and twiddled the ends to make them stand out more stiffly. The habit made him look debonair, and she loved him so much. Yet when the day ended and they crept into bed, always the ghost of Will came between them – at least, so it seemed to her; Matthew’s attempts to make love becoming Will’s groping hands.