Season of Light (33 page)

Beatrice unpacked an apron from her basket and set to work replacing uneaten food with fresh, folding her father’s used linen, changing the sheets on the bed and laying out clean clothes. Help was jealously refused from Asa, who was told to accompany the professor as he took exercise in the passage outside. As they paraded up and down, the old man’s hand was a frail pressure on her arm and each step was cautious, as if the ground were moving beneath his feet. Because the doors of the other cells were open they didn’t speak except when Paulin exchanged a word with a fellow inmate.

When they were allowed back into the professor’s cell Beatrice closed the door, despite the stale, hot air. The women sat on the unsteady bed, the prisoner on the single chair. He poured wine for his visitors, as he might have done had they been in his study in Caen. Despite his age and apparent fragility, Asa quailed before him, recognising that this was the moment when her life would tip forward at last.

‘Mademoiselle Ardleigh, my daughter, as she’s no doubt told you, brought you here against her better judgement. The truth is I am too old to be afraid and the world has become so unstable that it seems to me one might as well do as one wishes, as far as one can.’

Asa tried to thank him but he held up his hand. ‘My difficulty has been in knowing how best to conduct this conversation. I have brought you here for three reasons but I know that your response will be different, depending upon the order in which we discuss them. I shall therefore put my cards on the table as simply as I can. First I need to tell you that two days ago Beatrice brought me this letter which arrived at our house in Caen. You were sick, I understand, and knew nothing about it.’

He nodded at Beatrice, who produced a sheet of closely written paper which she laid on the bed.

‘You will doubtless wish to read the letter,’ said the professor, ‘since it concerns you, and until we have discussed the contents, I have no idea how I might reply to it. In the meantime, I believe you were sent letters and a handkerchief by my son. We couldn’t risk you bringing me the letters, in case you were searched, but I’d like to see the handkerchief.’

The letter was written in John Morton’s small, competent hand, and was dated 18 June.

Dear Professor Paulin
,

May I introduce myself as John Morton of Surrey, England. This will seem to you a surprising and perhaps unfathomable letter, and you must forgive me for imposing on your time. I was given your address by our governess, Miss Caroline Lambert, formerly of Littlehampton, who is the daughter of your late friend, Martin Lambert
.

The truth is we are all at sea and know not where to turn. My wife’s dear sister, Thomasina Ardleigh, who you may perhaps remember meeting in Paris five years ago, and to whom, as I recall, your family was very kind, is causing us grievous concern. She, together with her paid companion, a French woman, has disappeared without trace. We have no doubt that their sudden departure was planned – there is no question of foul play – though this offers us little relief; the opposite in fact, under the circumstances. Even more disturbingly, we now have reason to believe that they may be in France
.

The two women left home in a trap belonging to Thomasina’s father, who, becoming concerned about his daughter’s prolonged absence, discovered that she’d never arrived at her proposed destination. He then traced the equipage to a village beyond Portsmouth, where it was in the possession of a farmer
.

Unfortunately a week had elapsed before we discovered Thomasina gone, and now we have wasted yet more days riding about the country in search of her. She left no note, except to a Mrs Susan Shackleford, at whose house she was lately staying, in which she expressed regret that they would probably not meet again. We have made enquiries about the companion in London and drawn a blank. It would seem hardly conceivable that Thomasina could have been so foolhardy as to venture to France, had it not been firstly for the evidence of Portsmouth and secondly that an even more disturbing possibility has come to light
.

As I have said, it grieves me deeply to burden you with the intimate difficulties of strangers, and I appreciate that this letter might appear to you so impenetrable that you will wish to discard it at once, but Miss Lambert, who happens also to be Thomasina’s closest friend, has revealed to us – in my view somewhat late in the day – that it’s possible Miss Ardleigh may have formed an attachment while in France all those years ago. Miss Lambert suggests that following an unwelcome proposal from a suitor at home, my wife’s sister may have decided to pursue her former association. As I write these words, I feel them to be improbable. Thomasina is wayward and opinionated, but surely not so deceitful as to have harboured a connection all this time. However, my wife, who urges me to explore every avenue, insists I explain this to you. Miss Lambert further tells us that she recently gave Thomasina a map of France, and letters headed with your address. Hence this letter
.

Sir, if you should see or hear of Thomasina Ardleigh, or could, through any contacts you might have, make enquiries on our behalf, you would earn our undying gratitude. She is a girl of normal height and girth, brown haired. (My wife adds, with an exceptionally good figure, hair waving and thick, and blue-green eyes.) We believe she has taken with her one pink and one striped gown. The companion is small, slightly built and dark haired, very French in manner and aspect, as I recall only too well. I need hardly tell you that we are all beside ourselves with anxiety and are exhausted from riding up and down to London at the whim of even the smallest suggestion or rumour. Hence this letter, which I am aware in the particular circumstances of your country and ours may not reach you, though we have found connections who have promised to ensure that it does
.

My wife, who is far from well, sends you her kindest regards
,

I am, sir, your grateful and obedient servant
,

John Morton

‘You’re weeping,’ said Paulin. ‘Didn’t you expect your family to care?’

‘I hoped they wouldn’t discover I’d gone until I had found Didier and written home.’

‘Surely that was a foolhardy plan. You left England nearly three weeks ago, I believe. How could they not have missed you in all that time?’

‘I did not expect to be taken ill.’

‘Well, it seems you have created something of a storm.’

‘I can’t bear to think of my father galloping about the countryside like that. And my poor sister. What shall I do?’

‘You or I must write at once to this John Morton, that much is clear. What we shall say will depend on how you feel, once we have talked about Didier. My daughter tells me that my son’s letters to you seem genuine, albeit vague and terse. And this handkerchief is indeed the one my wife gave Didier as she lay dying. She hemmed it herself and we would recognise those crooked little stitches anywhere – she disliked sewing intensely, as Beatrice will testify. But I cannot for the life of me imagine why he has contacted you in this fashion. It is not like my son to be obtuse.’

‘That’s why I came to visit your family in Caen. I have no idea where your son is.’

‘Mademoiselle, as I’m sure Beatrice has told you, you have wasted your time. The extent of the estrangement between us is such that Didier, though well aware that I am in prison, has made no attempt to visit me, nor has he written since last autumn. We receive news of my son only second-hand, so all we know is that he has been sent south, to view the fortifications in Toulon.’ The professor spoke in the old, measured way, his head held high and his pale blue gaze unflinching.

‘I don’t understand, sir. When I knew you both in Paris there was such affection between you.’

‘You thought so? Whereas I recall even then that my son had grown impatient with me. He spared us very little of his precious time and we were forever waiting about for him, weren’t we, Beatrice?’

Beatrice, intent on darning the elbow of one of her father’s shirts, said nothing.

‘The truth is that the rift between us grows ever deeper. There are certain issues about which I have spoken and written that particularly irritate my son and his Montagnard friends in Paris. In today’s France there are to be no shades of opinion. I happen to believe in freedom of conscience. Inconvenient, I know. I also think it’s wise to consult history and philosophy before imposing radical change. That is why I have been condemned.’

‘I’m amazed, in the circumstances, that you could bear to see me today,’ said Asa.

When the professor gave a sudden shout of laughter his resemblance to Didier was startling; the flash of brilliance in the eye, the way his lower lip became a shallow crescent. ‘I confess, when Beatrice told me about you my first thought was, Well, this will be entertaining. It’s very dull in here, mademoiselle. The other reason is that I held my friend Monsieur Lambert in great esteem – I’m so sorry to hear of his death – and therefore feel honour bound to look after you. But above all I recognise that my son has ill treated you. If I’d known what he was up to while you were in Paris, I would have knocked him down. He and I have fallen out over many things but I did not think he would stoop so low as to seduce a young English girl.’

‘I was equally to blame, sir.’

‘I disagree. You were very young and inexperienced, and far from home. But then the tragedy is that I’m not as surprised as I ought to be. The boy knows no boundaries. None of them does. And he cares nothing for his roots.’

‘I’m sure that’s not so. I remember him speaking fondly of his schooldays in Caen.’

‘He did, did he? And yet you must have heard that Caen is on the brink of insurrection, hell-bent on self-destruction. I shake in my shoes when I think of the retribution that may descend on my city. Those men in Paris will stop at nothing to bring us to heel, but I know that my son will not lift a finger to save us, because it would be political suicide for him to do so.’

‘Perhaps he’s not aware of the true state of affairs? I can’t believe he could be so changed that he would not care that you’re in prison.’

‘It grieves me to speak of my son thus. All my hopes for him have been dashed. Although to be truthful, I have always thought that Beatrice should be the one to rule France, not her brother.’ When the professor reached for Beatrice’s hand she put down her sewing, kissed his fingertips and allowed Asa a glimpse of her proud eyes. ‘My daughter has always been steady and faithful. If she were in Didier’s position now, she would not be galloping south to Toulon, but home to Caen. But it is Didier, not Beatrice, who has been promoted so high and so far. My son was never too bothered about how things were done, as long as there was progress and change. At school he was competent but he did not shine. When his best friend, Jean, excelled him in examinations Didier was furious because he thought he should have done better. It was as if Jean had cheated him, whereas in fact Jean had simply worked harder.’

‘This is not the Didier I knew,’ pleaded Asa. ‘I had never met anyone like him. It seemed to me that he had an incisive and brilliant mind, and was entirely on the side of what is right.’

There was a long silence. The professor, it seemed, was not used to being contradicted. ‘You knew Didier at his very best. He fitted the Paris of 1788; his hopes, his desires, were exactly in accord with the time. Even now his ambition is undimmed. His new address is in the Place Vendôme, if you please. Ironic, isn’t it, that my boy, my so-called champion of the people, should have chosen to live in the former haunt of aristocrats.’

Though Paulin paused, Asa could think of no defence for this.

‘And the main purpose of his visit to Caen last autumn – or rather in late summer, right at the beginning of September – was to warn me to keep quiet. He accused me of undermining the progress of the Revolution by championing the cause of the priests who had refused to sign the oath of allegiance. While he was here in Caen, incidentally, many of those same priests were summarily tried and executed in Paris. He told me I failed to see the larger picture. I believe what he meant was that I was damaging his career. It seemed rich to me, as it must to you, that a boy whom I’d educated so that he might have the ability to engage with ideas should tell his own father to be silent. There is no state or institution so terrifying, Mademoiselle Ardleigh, as one that is too browbeaten to challenge the decisions of its own leaders.’

After a pause Asa said, ‘And yet, Professor, none of this explains his letters to me.’

‘I quite agree. In fact one would think that the last thing Didier might wish for at this point in his career is an entanglement with an English woman. That’s why I was so curious to see you. Beatrice told me he’d proposed marriage when you met in Paris. We are amazed that he did not withdraw that proposal long ago. Being married to an English woman would hardly enhance his chances of political promotion.’

The cell was so cramped that Asa’s knees were an inch or so from the professor’s and the window was too small to admit more than a breath of air. She longed to escape, not just the enclosed space, but the professor and his daughter, and their relentless criticism of Didier.

‘I said there were three reasons why I wished to see you. The first was the letter from England; the second to speak to you about the state of things between me and Didier; which brings me, reluctantly, to the third. It is not my business to know the nature of the understanding between you and my son. It is my business, however, to disclose something to you. I can find no easy way of telling you but hear it you must. We know that Didier, for the last couple of years at least, has been keeping a mistress in Paris.’

‘I see that you are shocked,’ continued the professor after a pause, ‘though you say nothing. You are an intelligent woman, mademoiselle, so the first thing you will want is proof. The point is, we are well acquainted with the woman in question and she has made no secret of her relations with my son. She is a local girl called Estelle Beyle. She and her older brother were close friends of my children. Estelle was infatuated with Didier from a very young age. In fact, in the old days, when he and I could speak of such things, I used to joke with him that he had gone to Paris to escape her. But in the end she followed him. For all I know they may even be married. But then, on the other hand, why would they bother since marriage, like every other institution in our new France, has been deemed expendable?’