Anna (59 page)

“Not Bath, Taunton,” Lord Yarde corrected her.

The old lady bent forward.

“What's that?” she asked.

“Taunton,” Lord Yarde repeated.

The old lady shook her head.

“Don't know them,” she said. She bent forward and began picking at the bird again.

Lord Yarde faced Captain Webb again.

“Surely you can find a good-sized tree somewhere on the farm where it wouldn't matter,” he continued.

“Have
you
seen Pelham?” the old lady demanded suddenly: she was speaking to Lady Yarde now.

Lady Yarde smiled encouragingly.

“Is that the fair one?” she asked.

“Pelham!” the old lady shouted louder still.

Lady Yarde nodded. She turned to Anna.

“What a wonderful memory dear Cousin Amy has,” she said. “She remembers everyone.”

Anna agreed politely and dropped her eyes to her plate again. At the moment when Lady Yarde had spoken to her, Anna was not at Tilliards at all. She was far away, back in Rhinehausen in fact. She was at her own table, with Berthe beside her. But it was not Berthe alone that she was seeing: it was her father. He had stepped out of the past and was there in front of her. And he was smiling: his eyes were fixed full on her. In that instant it was as though she had never left him; and then, as suddenly, she saw him as he had been that last time when he had not spoken. The smile was there no longer, and only the lost look in his eyes remained. Perhaps, she realised, it was her own loneliness that had made her think of his: or the fact that, as a girl, she had sat through so many other meals when two men—Herr Karlin and the Baron it had been then—had carried on a conversation of their own which they did not want interrupted. Whatever it was, her mind had been detached from
everything around her and, at the sound of Lady Yarde's voice, she had started.

“This mustn't happen,” she told herself. “I mustn't let myself remember. It's only
now
that matters. I must pay attention and try to be a good governess. Then people will want me, and one day I shall be able to save enough money to have Annette with me again.”

But the old lady was speaking again.

“Did you shoot this bird?” she demanded.

“One of us did,” Lord Yarde answered.

“It's full up with shot,” she complained. “I shall be breaking my teeth on them.”

“It's really wonderful about Cousin Amy's teeth,” Lady Yarde said to no one in particular. “She's still got most of them.”

“And what's that I hear about a new thatch on the Mill cottage?” Lord Yarde was asking. “The cottage isn't worth it.”

“But the water's coming in,” Captain Webb answered.

“Isn't there anywhere else they could live?” Lord Yarde demanded.

“The other cottages are full,” Captain Webb told him.

Lord Yarde shrugged his shoulders.

“You know best,” he said. “I should have thought there were plenty of empty ones.”

“Well, fortunately it doesn't matter very much,” Lady Yarde observed. “It's been such a dry winter. There can't be much water getting in because there hasn't been much coming down.”

“I saw the Fawcetts in town,” the old lady said abruptly. “She doesn't look as young as she did.”

“She can't be,” Lady Yarde answered. “She is fifteen years older than I am.”

There was a pause, and Lady Yarde turned the conversation.

“Hector,” she said brightly, “we've none of us said anything to Mademoiselle … to our new governess. She comes from Paris, you know.”

Lord Yarde pulled himself up and smiled ferociously.

“Really,” he said.

“She's French. Aren't you, my dear?” Lady Yarde remarked.

“My mother was French,” Anna answered. “My father is German.”

Lord Yarde was bending graciously forward.

“How extraordinary,” he said.

“I've just remembered,” the old lady interjected. “It wasn't Bath. It was somewhere else.”

The butler began putting out the finger bowls and Lady Yarde turned to Delia.

“What a good girl you're being,” she said. “I really believe that for once we shall get right through lunch without a single word from you.”

She tried to reach out and pat the child's hand, but she was too far away.

Anna looked up and caught Captain Webb's eye. For a moment she thought she caught a flicker there. But, when she looked again, there was nothing. He was simply sitting there, very upright, in the dignified dark suit he wore on Sundays.

“I think I like him better in tweeds,” Anna reflected. “He looks so miserable in black somehow.”

She was alone now in her little sitting-room, seated at the round table with the red plush cloth over it. There was a pad of notepaper in front of her and she was writing carefully, printing the letters of the words in big block capitals so that a child could read them.

“I think of you always,” she wrote, “and I pray for you every night. You must pray for me, too, Annette. God is very pleased when he hears little children praying, and He listens specially. I want you most of all to pray at the Angelus because I shall be praying then, and our prayers can go up together. Be good and obey your teachers. Ask them if you can write to me, and remember that you have a mother who loves you more than anything else in the world, even though she can't be with you. Everyone here is very kind and they would be very excited to think that your mother has a little girl whom they have never seen …”

There was the sound of a footstep outside. The door opened, and Lady Yarde stood there. She was wearing the delightfully surprised expression that was natural to her.

“I didn't send for you. I came myself,” she announced. “I came to see if you were happy here.”

Anna rose and stood by the table waiting.

“Very happy, thank you, Lady Yarde,” she answered.

“But I'm interrupting you,” Lady Yarde said apologetically. “You're writing a letter.”

“I was only writing to my little girl,” Anna told her.

“Your little girl,” Lady Yarde repeated slowly. “Yes, yes, of course. I'd almost forgotten that you'd got one.”

She paused and stood there, her foot tapping.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I do hope you won't go on missing her. I know she'll take your mind off your work.”

The Honourable Gervase Yarde was coming home on five days' leave and his mother was arranging a little amusement for him.

“There is a shoot on the Tuesday,” she said. “And the Wycke-Handforths and Lord Besterton are coming over on Wednesday. And there's the meet on Thursday.” She paused. “We still haven't fixed up anything for Friday.”

She paused and then threw up her hands in delight.

“I know,” she exclaimed. “Of course. A dance.”

In the excitement of the idea she went over to the fireplace and rang violently for the maid. She wanted her address book straight away.

But over by the fireplace she stopped and turned towards Anna.

“You
do
think it's a good idea, don't you?” she asked. “You haven't said anything.”

“I think it would be lovely,” Anna replied. “I'm sure that Delia would enjoy it.”

Lady Yarde smiled indulgently.

“How nice of you to think of our little Delia,” she said. “But of course she's far too young. It's altogether too late for her. She'd only fall asleep. She might come to the first part. But I don't approve really. I should have to think about it.”

She paused again, considering.

“And you,” she added brightly. “You can help me with the invitations.”

She patted Anna's hand as she said it, and gave her a little smile of her own.

“I know you'll make a great success of it,” she said. “You've got such nice formal-looking handwriting.”

The maid came in, and Lady Yarde turned towards her impulsively.

“My address book,” she said. “The big red one. And my spectacles. They're somewhere. I had them just now.”

As soon as the maid had gone, Lady Yarde began thinking aloud again.

“I'm so glad I thought of it,” she went on. “I'm sure it's a good
idea. He finds it terribly dull coming here, I'm afraid. And I do so want him to enjoy himself. I'll get the house really full for him.”

She paused, and smiled indulgently at Anna once more.

“And it'll be very interesting for you,” she said, “addressing all those envelopes. You'll find you will get to know the names of everybody in the county.”

The home-coming of the Honourable Gervase Yarde was dashing and in style. He had driven over tandem and, once inside the gates, he came sweeping up the drive, his long whip cracking constantly.

Up in the schoolroom there was a lesson in progress.

“Sur le pont d'Avignon tout-le-monde y danse,”
Anna was saying. “It's a song that they sing a great deal in France. It's a children's song and they're very fond of it. I'll play it to you afterwards if you like. And because it's a song you mustn't say it as though it were prose.
Sur le pont d'Avignon tout-le-monde y danse
…”

“Why not play it to me now?” Delia asked.

Anna shrugged her shoulders.

“The child is not serious,” she told herself. “She would rather do anything than learn.”

She opened the piano and began to play. But it was only for an instant that the playing lasted. There was the sound of hoofs and the jingle of harness outside. Delia got up and rushed over to the window.

“It's Gervase,” she screamed. “He's come.”

And without another word she ran out of the room.

When she had gone, Anna went slowly over to the window herself. The Honourable Gervase Yarde was just getting down from the high, perilous-looking driving seat. He had thrown the reins to one of the footmen and, holding his bent arms shoulder high to his chest, he was preparing to jump. Anna had a glimpse of a plump red face with the formidable Yarde nose projecting from it, and a head of close fair curls. His scarlet jacket looked dangerously tight across the shoulders as he stood there and Anna noticed that he was really a rather fat young man.

But he jumped like an athlete and landed perfectly.

Then the edge of a buttress cut him off from sight and Anna was left staring at the empty gig.

“So he's the one that all the excitement is about,” Anna told herself.

And then she turned abruptly away and went back to her place at the schoolroom table.

“How like a housemaid I'm getting,” she thought. “Peeping out from the curtains to see the son of the house arriving.”

Lady Yarde had changed her mind again and decided that Delia should come to the dance. In the result a French dressmaker from Chislehurst had come over to try a new frock on her. At first Lady Yarde had resolved that Delia should go very simply in the frock she had worn at the last children's party. But she was growing so rapidly, she was almost a woman by now, Lady Yarde reminded herself. She needed something more suitable. Anna had been asked to help to choose it for her.

“It's a pity I'm so fat,” Delia said at the last fitting. “I make it bulge so.”

“But you look charming,” the dressmaker assured her. “It is a perfect young figure. I would not have it the least different.”

“I would,” Delia replied. “And the more riding I do, the wider I get. Some people are like that.”

The French dressmaker did not attempt to reply: she merely smiled politely in Anna's direction. She was not anxious to be drawn into any further conversation. She was a good hard-working woman, this dressmaker, and she had discovered from long experience that a French accent allowed her to charge just that little extra that really made her business pay. It was therefore disturbing after nearly eleven years in Chislehurst as a Frenchwoman to be brought face to face with a woman who tried to talk to her in a language which she could not understand. What made it so embarrassing was that the French accent had by now become natural to her; the accent, and the little excited gestures of a Parisienne.

When she had left Delia turned to Anna.

“What are
you
going to wear?” she asked.

Anna smiled.

“I shan't be going to the dance,” she said. “There will be plenty of people there without me.”

“But you must come,” Delia answered. “I don't want to go if you don't.”

Anna shook her head.

“This is a dance for
your
friends,” she said.
“Your
friends and your brother's. I shouldn't know anyone.”

“You'd know me,” Delia declared. “Besides you
are
one of my friends. I shall ask Mama.”

“No, don't,” Anna begged her. “Please don't. You mustn't do it.”

Later that afternoon Lady Yarde sent for Anna. She was obviously upset. At first she said nothing. She simply sat where she was, her mouth working. Then she took out her handkerchief and pressed it into the corner of each eye.

“Why didn't you come to me direct?” she blurted out suddenly. “Why did you have to ask Delia instead? You've upset both of us now. A child can never understand reasons.”

“But, your Ladyship,” Anna answered, “I hadn't thought of coming. It was all Miss Delia's idea. I specially asked her not to speak to you.”

“Asked her not to speak to me,” Lady Yarde repeated. “Didn't you want to come?”

She had picked up her bottle of smelling-salts and was applying it first to one nostril and then to the other.

“It was simply that I felt I would be out of place there,” Anna said quietly. “It is not my house in which the dance is taking place and I should know no one. You have been so kind to me that I did not want you to think that you had to invite me out of pity.”