Another Kind of Life (29 page)

When May finally heard the scrunch of the carriage wheels on gravel, she was startled. She felt her face flush suddenly at the thought of Philippe. She was horrified at herself: what on earth
was wrong with her? She stood up, partly concealed by the shade of the veranda, and looked wildly around the garden. She needed somewhere to hide: somewhere she could go until this extraordinary
attack of confusion could be controlled. She couldn’t believe it: where had these feelings leapt from? They were impossible, absolutely impossible: she warned herself not to be foolish. She
couldn’t possibly be in love with this man – she hardly knew him. The gap between them was much too great, their different nationalities, their backgrounds – and besides, Madame
and Monsieur would never approve.

Nevertheless, she had her whole life mapped out in seconds, her thoughts wheeling, her brain whirling with all the impossibilities suddenly made possible. By the time the carriage drew to a halt
in a shower of gravel, she had already married him.

The children threw themselves at Philippe as he alighted from the carriage. Amid their yells and laughter, May had time to compose herself. Her face felt cooler; she had managed to stop her
hands from trembling. She had also had the time to laugh at herself. What an absurd imagination she had. She deliberately did not go towards the carriage, despite her custom. She must be careful.
She would never let him know, never give him any indication of the madness she had just experienced. It must have something to do with the weather.

Later, when she was alone, she would look at her feelings calmly. They were childish, unfounded. She would never give him any indication.

As it happened, he came to her first.

She had returned to say goodnight, once the children were in bed. Exhausted from the unaccustomed lateness of the hour, they had both suddenly become quarrelsome, picking at each other, until
finally Nathalie started to cry.

‘Enough!’ Philippe had said sternly. ‘Off you go, both of you. It’s late. No more fighting or we’ll have no games tomorrow.’

Meekly, they had both followed May up the stairs to the room they shared. They washed unwillingly, complaining constantly as they changed into their night-wear. She had had to speak to them a
little sharply more than once. Perhaps Madame’s routine had a point, after all. By the time May left them, both children were sulking. Neither wanted a story. It was the first time she had
ever left them in such bad temper. She stayed in her own room for ten minutes, waiting. Then she crept silently along the corridor to check. They were both asleep. Quietly, she made her way back
downstairs to the veranda.

‘Will you join me?’

Philippe gestured to the chair she had vacated almost an hour ago. She hesitated. Genevieve appeared then with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

‘A good chablis – and it has been cooling in the cellar. Let me tempt you.’

He waited until Genevieve curtsied and left to go back inside. He poured a glass and handed it to May. She had thought her resolve strong, had promised herself simply to say goodnight and retire
to her room quickly before she could change her mind. But she was tempted despite herself, her determination suddenly dissolving. Besides any feelings she might have, which she was sure she could
conceal, it had been a long time since she had had any real conversation. Her French was improving, but still limited. She found the language an uphill struggle. Philippe’s English, on the
other hand, was excellent. It would be good to talk without strain, without her mind having to leap three sentences ahead of her thoughts to make sure that her grammatical structure was correct.
She was constantly terrified of making mistakes in front of Madame. It was as though the woman waited for them, pouncing on every new indication of the inferiority of her governess. May was
suddenly tired of being second best. A great wave of homesickness washed over her and she longed for home. Even Mama and Papa’s troubled company seemed better than what she had here, in a
foreign country. She missed her sisters overwhelmingly; particularly Hannah. She didn’t want to be alone tonight.

She nodded, accepting the cool glass, beads of moisture already springing up on the delicate, lacy engraving around the rim.

‘Thank you. That would be very nice.’

He took her cue and immediately answered her in English. The relief was enormous. And the wine was good. All her heady emotions of that day seemed to quieten suddenly, to settle into place, and
she began to feel comfortable in his presence. She was able to chide herself for her earlier foolishness. He was a nice man, a sensitive soul. They had the care of the two children in common. They
were polite and courteous in each other’s company. That was all.

‘You must miss your own home from time to time – you have sisters, am I correct?’

He was looking at her kindly, his expression open, interested in her.

To her horror, May felt her eyes well up. How had he known? How could he have seen inside her thoughts? It felt as though he had seen through her, to her most vulnerable centre, and decided to
ambush her with understanding. It had been almost three months since anybody had spoken to her with such gentleness. She was unable to answer. Her throat felt as though it had closed over. She bent
her head, not wanting him to see. A moment later, tears splashed on to her gown, and they continued to fall, uncontrollably. She could hardly breathe. It was impossible to stem the tide –
holding back was beginning to suffocate her. The feeling was the same as on the day Sister Raphael had locked her into the map cupboard. But now she also felt shame, anger at having exposed
herself, and a deep longing to have someone’s arms around her. She stood up, mortified, poised for flight. She couldn’t look Philippe in the eye. Dear God, what must he think of
her?

She could sense that he had stood up, too, could hear the concern in his voice as he took the wine glass from her hand. His kindness only made everything worse.

‘I’m sorry – please forgive me – I should never have touched upon such a sensitive subject . . .’

She stretched out one hand towards him – a gesture to say please, leave me, don’t come any closer. Instead, he took it, and she felt the warm shock of his lips on her palm. She
looked up at him, amazement and hope fighting in equal measure, already threatening to overcome her disbelief.

‘May . . .’

She thrilled at the way he said her name. She forgot about her embarrassment, her tear-stained face, all the reasons why this was impossible. She felt all the strength ebb from her body. She
wanted to lean against him, to use his solid presence to keep her feet on the ground.

He drew her closer to him. He kissed her eyes, her wet cheeks, her mouth. His voice was urgent, full of emotion.

‘I love you, May. Don’t you know that? I’ve loved you since that first day in the garden. I haven’t been able to think of anything else.’

He held her so tight she could hardly breathe.

‘Do you remember?’

She nodded. Her first glimpse of him – a strange growth among the leaves – as he hid with the children in the oak tree, was etched for ever in her memory. Each time she thought of
him, that was the Philippe she saw. No other meeting since had erased the powerful impact of that first time. The city clothes, the crumpled shirt, the delicious shock of his incongruity in a
country garden. And his face: mobile, pleasantly ugly, full of humour. She had not forgotten.

She pulled away and looked at him, still unable to speak. He was sincere, she was sure he was, but this was almost too much, too soon.

‘Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you feel how I care for you?’

He whispered to her, pulling her close again, burying his lips in the softness of her neck.

She shook her head. Tentatively, she wound her arms around his back. They stood like that for what seemed to be a whole lifetime. May had the strangest sensation that she had come home, that all
her previous life had been directing her towards this astonishing moment. She wanted it to last for ever. The sound of his voice, telling her he loved her. The scent of jasmine, released in a heady
rush by the huge, fat drops of rain that had suddenly started to fall. The feel of his warm shoulders under her trembling hands. He loved her. That was all that mattered.

C
HARLES’S PRIDE IN
Holywood was palpable. A few days after the return from their honeymoon, he and Hannah escaped, like guilty children, from
under Constance MacBride’s maternal gaze, and made their way, alone, to their new home in Stewarts Place.

‘Let’s make a run for it, before Mama comes down to breakfast,’ Charles had urged, his face assuming the contours of a naughty child. Hannah was ready, willing above all to
find room to breathe far away from the oppressively benign presence of her new mother-in-law.

Charles insisted they drive from Belfast on this, their first occasion to visit Holywood. He wanted to show the many beauties of the scenery to his new wife: the convenience of the Belfast and
County Down railway could wait for another, more prosaic occasion.

Hannah was excited at the prospect of visiting her new home. She only half listened to Charles as the carriage took them through Ballymacarrett and Strandtown. ‘Bunker’s Hill,’
he was saying, ‘this is the place that gave its name to the famous Bunker’s Hill in America. Did you know that, my dear?’

Of course, Hannah hadn’t known it, and he was pleased and gratified at her apparent surprise. He was warming to his theme.

‘See those hills there? They have the function of stopping the south-east and southerly winds that sweep across the bay, making the climate of Holywood ideal for those of a delicate
constitution.’

He affected the sonorous tone of a solemn, stuffy newspaper report.

‘Delicate like me?’ she asked, archly.

He nodded vigorously.

‘Just like you, my dear, and my dear susceptible Mama.’

Hannah laughed. The idea of Constance MacBride as a delicate flower in need of shelter from the prevailing winds was a truly ludicrous one.

‘Does this mean that she’ll be coming to live with us?’ she teased.

Charles looked genuinely horrified.

‘Not for a moment. Mama is very firmly entrenched among the comfortable groves of south Belfast. She does very well there.’

His tone was firm, as though reassuring himself.

Hannah smiled at him.

‘Pray, Mr MacBride, do continue.’

He stopped, mid-sentence.

‘You, young woman, are making fun of me.’

She lowered her eyes demurely.

‘Not at all; I find your monologue most instructive.’

She raised her eyes to find him laughing at her. She knew that this couldn’t continue, that it wasn’t possible to be this happy for ever. When Charles returned to work, when she had
a home to look after, when all the messy, intricate domestic details began to take over – then, perhaps, she would really know what her life was going to be. But for now, she was so elated
she was almost afraid to breathe, lest everything around her shatter.

The memory of their honeymoon was still vivid. She could see the tulip fields stretching away from her. She would never forget the shock of their deep, flat masses of colour, rippling away
towards the horizon. She had lazed in the shade while Charles painted: she was surprised at how good his eye was. Then Amsterdam with its canals and barges; a thriving, picturesque city, she had
loved its busyness, its exotic streets, its
difference
from anything she had ever seen. She thought how May would have loved it.

Good food, good wine – Hannah was dazzled at the way Charles knew his way around all the things which made her feel shy and uncertain. On their last night, she was filled
with regret: she really didn’t want to go home.

He had teased her out of her low mood, making her laugh over nothing. She wanted the feeling of intimacy to last; she didn’t want to give up feeling carefree so soon.

Finally, he raised his glass to her.

‘There’s just one thing, my dear.’

His face was so grave that she felt suddenly frightened. What had she done? In what ways had she disappointed?

‘When we go home, it would be advisable for you to change your appearance somewhat.’

She stared at him blankly, not comprehending.

‘Do you understand?’

She shook her head, feeling tears prickle. She knew it couldn’t have lasted. She felt all her happiness drain away, as though something inside her had slowly begun to deflate.

He twirled the remains of wine in his glass. When he spoke his voice was very soft, with no trace of mockery.

‘You’ll need to temper your happiness a little. It wouldn’t do for all to believe that you’re a wanton woman. Mama would be scandalized.’

At first, she blushed furiously, mortified, not knowing where to look. Then she caught his eye, her words choking somewhere between sobs and laughter. She would never get used to his teasing;
she never saw it coming, never knew if its sometimes too-keen edge contained a criticism of her. Now he had taken her hand, kissed it, his eyes full of remorse.

‘Ah, I’m sorry, Hannah – that wasn’t fair of me. I’ve gone too far. Forgive me.’

She was going to have to learn to give as good as she got. Now she looked across the table at him challengingly.

‘Then your sainted Mama will have to get used to it. That, or you can learn to sleep in the coal-house.’

It was something she had never expected. Ever since their first night in the Shelbourne when she had lost all fear of him, their physical intimacy had grown quickly. She was glad that he had
been able to teach her, that they had not fumbled and agonized in the way that so many of Mama’s hints had prepared her for. She enjoyed his lovemaking, enjoyed his frank delight in her
response.

‘We’ve been very fortunate, you and I,’ he said quietly.

She nodded.

‘I know.’

And now they were on their way to Stewarts Place. A modest home, Charles had told her, just for now until the property in High Street became vacant. He had had his eye on it for some time. A
much grander house, he had assured her, with several good bedrooms.