Keeping the World Away (20 page)

The boy was born almost a month early, but was thriving, and within another month Priscilla had recovered sufficiently for her mother’s presence not to be necessary. Within the time she had been in her daughter’s house she had found a competent housekeeper and engaged two trustworthy other servants and, unless Priscilla was very foolish, her difficulties should be over. So Lady Falconer could go back to London and reopen the Hampstead house. She would stay with her friend Pamela in Kensington at first and open her house bit by bit. The arrangements she had made for her sons would still stand – no need for them to come home when the holidays began – and as for her husband and Charlotte, they would not care where she was. They hardly had the courtesy to keep her informed of where
they
were. Postcards were few and the total of letters was precisely one, and that not very satisfactory. They did not seem to have met anyone of interest, though she knew several people who had just returned from Paris, and no one she mentioned it to had ever heard of the Hôtel de Nice in Montparnasse where they were staying. ‘Montparnasse?’ they queried, looking vaguely horrified.

Lady Falconer herself was unacquainted with Montparnasse. Indeed, she could not claim to be familiar with any part of Paris except for the Hôtel Crillon. It grieved her a little that Charlotte would return able to say (as people did, after only one week) that she knew Paris quite well, though of course it would be the art of the city she would know and nothing much else. The effect of this experience might be startling. Charlotte might return transformed, able to socialise and be graceful in company, with all the rough edges of her personality smoothed over. But Lady Falconer doubted it. In all probability, she and her father would speak to no one and no one would care to speak to them, and
no
lessons would be learned. Charlotte would come back as gauche as ever.

She frowned heavily as she alighted from the cab in front of her house. The frown deepened and never left her face for the rest of the day.

*

On their last day in the Hôtel de Nice another Englishwoman came to stay. Charlotte spent a long time over dinner trying to fathom how she knew this woman was English and thought it something to do with her complexion, which was what she had once heard Priscilla’s described as: ‘peaches and cream’. It had not made sense to her at the time. She had looked at a peach, holding it in her hand and studying it carefully, and could not see any resemblance to Priscilla’s skin. The cream part was easier but still not entirely fitting. But now she found herself looking at the woman’s face and hearing ‘peaches and cream’ in her head. The women she had seen in Paris all week did not have this startlingly fresh complexion, the skin so pearly white and smooth with the faintest blush of pink in the cheeks which clearly was not rouge. Or perhaps her Englishness sprang from her hair, so golden, almost white-gold, piled neatly on top of her head. Most Parisian women seemed to be dark-haired and did not pile their hair up in this rather old-fashioned way.

It might, Charlotte allowed, be simply the clothes. She did not know how but Parisian women dressed differently. They simply did. She knew the word was ‘chic’ but wherein lay this chic-ness she did not know – it was something to do with
how
garments were worn and not what they were. The Englishwoman was dressed rather oddly. She wore a long blue skirt over which she had what Charlotte could only describe (to herself) as a high-necked shift in a lighter blue. It fell below her waist, where it was cinched with a silver brocade belt. On top of it she wore a velvet jacket with silver buttons. The jacket was purple which, with the blue, looked odd. Pretty, and unusual, but odd. The lady spoke French but it was, Charlotte could tell, the same sort of French as her father’s, which is to say correct and fluent but with an unmistakable accent that was not French.

They were, that evening, the only three in the dining room. On other evenings Sir Edward had elected to go to restaurants but tonight preparations had to be made for an early departure and so it seemed sensible to stay in the hotel. The food on offer was limited but good – charcuterie, pâtés, grilled meat or fish, cheeses – and the new guest appeared to enjoy it as much as they did themselves. Charlotte saw her looking in their direction once or twice, and smiling, and she wished that her father would say something. Eventually, at the coffee stage, he did. He asked her – in English – if she would care to join them in the courtyard for coffee. ‘It is very pleasant there,’ he said, ‘and much cooler.’

The courtyard was not large but there were flowers and greenery at the edges, and in the middle was a tree with a bench seat running round it. There was room for three to sit side by side, with Charlotte in the middle. Normally, this would have embarrassed her, but there was something so relaxed and friendly about the way they were all obliged to sit that she was not. A little table was brought out and set in front of them, and coffee brought and poured. Charlotte did not drink coffee but she inhaled the aroma enthusiastically. Her father began a polite conversation, offering the information that they were to leave for Florence in the morning, and that they had spent a delightful week looking at art. The woman asked if he were an artist himself, and when he said no Charlotte interrupted to say that indeed he was and that he could draw beautifully. Sir Edward, smiling, demurred, saying that their companion should not be misled by a daughter’s loyalty, and that being able to draw tolerably well did not make one an artist. But Miss Tyrwhitt – by now they had exchanged names – disagreed. She said that on the contrary, drawing was essential to any artist and that at the Slade, where she had studied, her professor had valued drawing above all else. This led, inevitably, to a discussion about the Slade and its suitability for young women to study there. Miss Tyrwhitt vowed it was a perfectly proper establishment, where men and women were separated in the Life classes, and discipline was strict. ‘Your daughter,’ said Miss Tyrwhitt, ‘would do very well there, I am sure.’

Charlotte longed to ask her why she was in Paris, but her father was already asking her if she was a painter and if so what was her subject matter. The answer was yes, she was, painting in both oils and water-colours, and that she painted flowers, not perhaps the sort of floral pictures he might imagine but bolder compositions. She had, she volunteered, exhibited at the New English Art Club the year before. Charlotte could tell that her father was impressed, and so was she. It seemed to her marvellous that this woman, who clearly was not afraid to travel, and to stay in hotels alone, actually had a profession and followed it seriously. Miss Tyrwhitt protested that she was not a particularly good artist, certainly not compared to her other women contemporaries at the Slade, one of whom was tremendously gifted. She mentioned names but they were meaningless to Sir Edward as well as to Charlotte. They learned that her father was a clergyman, and that he too had taken his daughter on a tour of Europe’s art galleries just as Sir Edward was taking Charlotte. ‘You will remember it all your life,’ she told Charlotte, ‘and get a great deal from it. It will entirely reshape how you think about life and what you are to do with yours.’

*

Ursula felt better after the little interlude with Sir Edward and his daughter – more relaxed, not so tense, not so worried about seeing Gwen the next day. She had never confessed to her friend that she had lost the valise and her painting with it, and it troubled her to be deceitful. Her distress had been awful – she had wept for days and been quite unable to sleep, going over and over in her mind the process of the packing and labelling and despatching of her luggage. The fault, she was sure, though, had not been hers. Nobody to whom she spoke in her search for the lost valise seemed the least surprised at its disappearance – rather, they said that it was amazing more pieces of luggage did not go astray.

She had thought of writing to Gwen and telling her what had happened but it seemed too cruel. Gwen might say she did not care, that the painting had been a first attempt and a failure, but
on
the other hand, in her present state of mind, it might depress her more. It was a risk Ursula did not wish to take. It was more than a year now since she’d seen her friend and she was supposed to be visiting to cheer her up in the new room she did not like, in the Rue de l’Ouest. Gwen knew, now, about Rodin’s latest mistress and was suffering accordingly. Ursula did not want to tell her about lost valises. She would amuse her instead by describing Sir Edward and his daughter, with their solemn respect for art. The girl, Charlotte, adored her father, it was plain to see. Ursula had loved her boast that he was a fine artist himself. Maybe he was. He had not, she noticed, made any extravagant claims for Charlotte’s talents. It was always a strangely touching sight, a father with a devoted, admiring daughter. She supposed that once upon a time she had felt the same about her own father.

Gwen had never felt that way about hers, she knew.

*

It had been a pity to bid goodnight to their new acquaintance and to know they would not see her the next day, or indeed, probably, ever again, just when the relationship seemed so very promising. Charlotte had never met anyone like her, and neither, she could tell, had her father. Miss Tyrwhitt was their main topic of conversation in the train all the way to Italy. ‘I wonder why she is not married, Papa,’ Charlotte could not help speculating, but her father would not be drawn beyond saying, ‘Some story there, I imagine, death of a fiancé most likely’ (which for him was quite indulgent). Charlotte promptly imagined it too, but though this gave her a pleasant few minutes she rejected the idea. ‘No,’ she suddenly said out loud, ‘she has
chosen
not to marry, I am sure of it. She is married to her art. She prefers it.’ Sir Edward smiled and murmured, ‘Very well, she is married to her art, and it makes a much better husband for her, I am sure.’

‘I should like to be married to art,’ Charlotte said, ‘but I am not worthy of it.’

‘Dear me, Charlotte,’ her father protested, ‘why not worthy?’

‘Not good enough at drawing or painting for it to be my whole world.’

‘I should think not. I am sure it is not Miss Tyrwhitt’s whole world either. It cannot be a woman’s whole world.’

‘Can it be a man’s?’

Sir Edward hesitated. ‘Perhaps. A man is better able to let art dominate his life and sweep aside interruptions.’

‘Interruptions?’

‘Distractions, breaks in concentration owing to other events.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Papa?’

‘A woman …’ began Sir Edward, and then stopped. As so often with Charlotte, he found himself verging on the kind of philosophical conversation which led into questions from her that he had difficulty answering as straightforwardly as he would have wished.

‘A woman?’ prompted Charlotte.

‘A woman has children to occupy her.’

‘Not all women have children. If women are not married, there are no children to be a distraction. A woman then can be like a man and have the same dedication, can she not?’

‘Perhaps,’ Sir Edward said, weakly.

‘Well then,’ Charlotte said, satisfied. But then she recalled what had begun this dialogue and said, ‘Still, I am not good enough. I could never dedicate myself to art. I need something else, but what?’

‘You are barely sixteen, Charlotte, you cannot yet know what you want.’

‘Caroline was …’

‘We will not talk about Caroline, if you please.’

‘But why not, Papa? Why can we never talk of her? Why is it so wrong even to mention her?’

‘It is not wrong. It is distressing, and better left alone.’

‘Well then, Priscilla. Priscilla is only twenty and was barely nineteen when she married …’

‘Where on earth is this leading?’

‘You said that I could not know what I want in life because I am only sixteen and my point is that my sisters were not much older when they knew what they wanted.’

‘Did they?’

‘Why, of course. Priscilla longed to be married …’

‘She longed, I think, for a grand wedding and the status of wife.’

‘Oh, Papa! That is cynical, is it not?’

‘And the truth, I am afraid, a truth, Charlotte, not to be repeated outside this railway carriage.’

‘I am discreet, Papa.’ Her father smiled, so she repeated this. ‘I am known for my discretion, I assure you.’ He smiled even more broadly. ‘At any rate, Priscilla chose to be married,’ she carried on, ‘and the unnamed one chose adventure and uncertainty and a wandering life.’

‘Is that what you call it? How very romantic it sounds.’

‘Now you are being horribly sarcastic.’

‘You tempt me too far for me to resist.’

‘If we could name names and talk freely I would explain what I mean about your eldest daughter, but as I am forbidden …’

‘You are indeed forbidden, and your point is taken. You feel that sixteen ought to be quite old enough for you to know what you want from life. I accept that, madam, but nevertheless I suggest that it need not concern you unduly that you do not, in fact, know. The knowledge will come soon enough.’

‘Good,’ said Charlotte, and did not speak again until they arrived in Florence.

*

Jessie was waiting in the hall, her coat still on, her box at her feet. ‘Oh, ma’am, oh milady!’ she gasped, hand to mouth. Lady Falconer did not speak. It was all too obvious what had happened. The ornate mirror above the hall table had gone and so had the silver tray and the runner from the floor, brought back by Edward’s father from Afghanistan. Calmly, she asked Jessie, ‘We have been burgled?’

‘Yes, milady.’

‘Have you inspected all the rooms?’

‘No, milady, fearing who might still be about, fearing …’

‘Have you sent for the police?’

‘No, milady, knowing you were about to arrive, and thinking it best that …’

‘Very well, Jessie. We will telephone for the police and until they arrive we will have some tea and be sensible. There is no use in being agitated. The deed is done.’

And most thoroughly done. The opinion of the policeman who turned up with gratifying promptness was that the burglars had known what they wanted. Lady Falconer observed, drily, that this was most discerning of them. There was no real mess, apart from the glass broken in the pantry window and the lock forced off the kitchen door – the burglars had been tidy, smashing nothing else and opening but not emptying out any drawers (‘unusual’ the policeman said). The list of what had been taken consisted of small items of furniture, all of the silver and the safe, containing most of Lady Falconer’s jewellery. Itemising these jewels proved trying. She remembered the pearls and the diamonds well enough, necklaces, bracelets and rings, but listing the gold chains and lockets and the various brooches, some amethyst, some rubies, proved more difficult. ‘Thousands of pounds,’ the policeman murmured. ‘And of great sentimental value,’ Lady Falconer sternly rebuked him.