The Adultress (39 page)

I said: “How shall we get to Ranelagh? Shall we ride?”

“Good heavens no. We shall go in the traditional manner. We shall wait till dusk and then we shall take a wherry along the river. We shall alight at Ranelagh; we shall walk through the enchanted glades and at the Rotunda there is a treat in store. There is a young genius who has come to this country for a short tour. I was determined to hear him. He is but eight years old and a composer already.”

“Is that possible? A boy?”

“Possible with this boy. Apparently he was astonishing people when he was but six years old. It will be interesting to hear if he is really as good as we have been led to believe. He has come to England from Salzburg with his father and sister. Marianne, I think. A musical family, it seems. He will play some of his own compositions on the harpsichord.”

“I so look forward to hearing him.”

“As well as Master Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart we may also hear the chorus from
Acis and Galatea
and “Oh, Happy Pair” from
Alexander’s Feast.
I think that Tenducci is singing the solo.”

“I can see it is going to be most entertaining. I wonder you live in the country when you could obviously find so much to enjoy here.” I waved my arms as though to embrace the town.

He said quietly: “I had my reasons. …” And there was that in his voice which told me I should ask no further questions on that matter.

We sat for a long time in the Rainbow Inn and when we came out we left the horses there and walked down to the river. There we took a boat and were rowed along the river past Westminster and right out to Hampton.

The red-brick manor house, which had been transformed into the palace of Hampton Court, looked magnificent.

“A palace of great importance in the country’s history,” commented Charles. “I have heard it is an interesting place. The Tudors enjoyed it and King William and Mary were fond of it. The alterations they made have transformed it into a most magnificent palace.”

“I should love to explore it,” I said.

“It’s full of ghosts and shadows, they say. Memories leaping out from every corner. I have heard that the ghost of Catherine Howard appears in the gallery along which she is reputed to have run seeking the king when she knew she was accused. Poor girl, remembering the sad fate of her cousin Anne Boleyn, she must have known what hers would be.”

“There must be pleasant memories, too.”

“It’s strange how the unpleasant ones are those to be remembered. I heard that our present George won’t go there because it is said his father once boxed his ears in the state apartments. As there were others present he felt so humiliated that whenever he sees the place he remembers the incident.”

“Poor George. People seem to enjoy humiliating him.”

“It must be something in his nature which provokes the teasing spirit.”

“And being a king that must be doubly hard to bear.”

“Don’t let’s waste sympathy on him. It’s not going to help him in any case. I should like to go along the river to Windsor but if we are going to get to Ranelagh to hear our child genius there would not be the time.”

Oh, what a happy day that was, sailing along the river, among hundreds of others who had had the same idea as we had. I thought the company added to my pleasure. It was good to see so many people laughing, calling to each other; there were some who had music on board, and the sound of it was very sweet to me.

We took the wherry just as it was beginning to get dark and we went along to Ranelagh.

The pleasure garden was like a fairyland. Thousands of golden lamps illuminated the scene and as we stepped ashore we heard the strains of music coming from a band hidden somewhere among the trees.

Charles took my arm as we started to walk through those laid-out paths paved with gravel and bounded on each side by hedges and trees.

Beautifully dressed women with male companions strolled by. Pleasure was in the air; one knew that everyone here was bent on enjoying the evening.

“There are more and more attractions every year,” said Charles. “Every time I come I notice something new. It can’t be much more than twenty years since the grounds were purchased from Lord Ranelagh and what has been done with them is amazing. We will eat before the concert begins. I believe it is possible to get an excellent cold collation and that is by far the best.”

I allowed myself to be led into that enchanted garden. We walked past grottoes, lawns, temples, waterfalls, delightful colonnades and rotundas with their decorated pillars and statues. The lamps were beautifully arranged to look like constellations. Because it was a warm, fine night tables had been set under the trees and here we sat and enjoyed the cold collation Charles had mentioned and watched the passersby until we left for the concert in the Rotunda.

I was enchanted by the music. Everything was of the newest fashion. For the first time I heard the cello, that instrument which was only just being introduced into the country, and to hear the great Pasqualino perform was wonderful. The band played the overture from Doctor Ame’s
Thomas and Sally
, which was wildly applauded. But the great event of the evening was the appearance of the child prodigy. I admitted afterward to Charles that I was prepared to be skeptical. It did not seem possible that a boy so young could play to compare with the experienced, but that he should compose was surely just too much to believe. Stories about the boy had been circulated to arouse people’s interest and bring them to the Rotunda to see him. There they would be entertained by superb artists and forget that they had been brought there under false pretenses.

Just talk, was what I thought, an unusual story to arouse people’s curiosity enough to bring them to the child.

How different was the truth! He came onto the stage—a small figure, dressed like a man in a blue coat and embroidered waistcoat, white cravat and frilled lace cuffs. His breeches, knee-length, showed beneath the waistcoat as his coat was unbuttoned and he wore silken hose and black shoes with silver buckles. I heard that his clothes were copied in a larger size from his gala suit, which had been presented to him by Maria Theresa of Austria on the occasion of his playing before her two years before when he was six years old. On his head was a crimped wig tied back with a black ribbon. Dressed thus in an adult style seemed to have the effect of making him seem more of a child than he actually was.

There was an air of self-assurance about him as he sat down at the harpsichord; and a silence reigned which I can only describe as indulgent. The audience had settled to hear a clever child perform for them.

But how mistaken we were! As the boy sat there and played we were transported from this fashionable rotunda. I don’t know whether others felt as I did, but it seemed to me that I was flying through space and the music so delicately played, so inspiring and yet so mysterious, was carrying me along.

I glanced sideways at Charles. He was sitting very still, completely entranced.

I think a good many of us that night realized that we were in the presence of genius.

When the boy stopped playing there was silence for a few seconds before the applause rang out.

The boy bowed calmly and then walked off the stage with dignity. I could see a man waiting for him in the wings and I presumed this was his father.

We did not want to hear any more music that night. To hear that child play his own composition was something I wanted to carry away with me, to remember forever, as I was sure I would.

Charles whispered: “I can see you were as impressed as I was.”

“It was wonderful. I couldn’t believe it was that little boy who was playing as he did.”

“Let’s get out into the fresh air. We can take a little walk if you wish before we get the wherry back.”

I said I should like that.

Silent, still under the spell of the music, we were leaving the rotunda when I heard a voice cry: “Charles.”

A woman was coming up to us. She was exquisitely dressed in a gown of blue silk cut away in the front to reveal an embroidered petticoat in white satin. On her head was a most elaborate hat of white straw on which was perched yards and yards of blue ribbon the same color as her dress, niched in the front and culminating in an enormous bow at the back where it was tilted forward over her elaborate coiffure.

The woman went on to call her companion. “Ralph! Here, Ralph. Who do you think I’ve found? Charles … Charles Forster.”

A man appeared, fashionably dressed in velvet frogged coat with large turned back cuffs, long waistcoat, fine silk hose and buckled shoes; under his arm he carried a cocked hat.

“Charles!” he cried. “My dear fellow, what a delightful surprise. Haven’t seen you for years … since … er …”

Charles said: “I am escorting a friend of my sister’s. Mistress Ransome. … Dr. and Mrs. Lang.”

We bowed.

“Have you just come from the Rotunda?” asked the woman. “Did you see the child prodigy? Quite interesting, wasn’t he? Wonderful for his age. What about supper … ?”

“We ate before the performance and I really think I should be taking Mistress Ransome back to her friends.”

“Oh, come, Charles,” said the woman. “There’s no need to rush, surely? We were talking about you the other day, weren’t we, Ralph? We said it’s such nonsense of you to bury yourself in the country. You ought to come back. All that trouble is forgotten now. People soon forget. Nine days’ wonder and all that. I doubt whether anyone would remember if you came back now.”

Charles had turned rather pale. I felt the magic of the evening slipping away.

Ralph said: “Sybil’s right, Charles. Anyhow let’s talk of pleasant things. You and your friend must sup with us. We have a table near the colonnades. It’s very pleasant there and you can hear the band in the background.”

“No,” said Charles. “Thanks, but we must go. Goodbye.”

“Are you in town for long?” asked the man.

“No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Pity. I should have liked to talk. I wish you’d bring Mistress … er … Ransome? along to see us before you go.”

“Thanks but there’s no time. Good-bye.”

“Au revoir,” said the woman.

Charles took my arm. I could feel the tension in him.

He was silent on the way back and I knew that that chance encounter outside the Rotunda had spoiled the day for him.

He was different now. The mask of melancholy which I had flattered myself I was helping to remove was now in place firmer than ever. I wished I could have asked him about the nine days’ wonder, whatever it was, which people would have forgotten by now.

One thing I had learned. It was that—whatever had happened—which was responsible for his melancholy. There was some tragedy in Charles Forster’s life and he could not forget it.

The wonderful companionship which we had shared during that magic day had gone; he was aloof, absentminded; and most of the time seemed hardly aware of me.

The journey back to Eversleigh seemed tedious. I rode between Isabel and James most of the time. I was of course pleased that James was coming back with us for a brief visit because I was sure Jean-Louis would be delighted to see him. At the back of my mind the thought persisted that I might even yet be able to persuade him to come to us.

As I was saying good-bye to the Forsters, who were about to ride on to Enderby, Jethro came hurrying up. He looked very solemn and I knew at once that all was not well.

He looked at me with unhappiness in his eyes and I said quickly: “What’s happened, Jethro?”

“It’s the master,” he said.

I felt myself go cold with fear.

“It was an accident. He fell from his horse.”

“He’s …”

“Oh, he’s all right, mistress. I mean he’s not …”

“How bad, Jethro?”

“Well, it happened two days back. They got him to his bed. He’s not moved from it since. The doctor’s been with him … the one who came in Dr. Forster’s place.”

I nodded impatiently. “I will go to him … at once.”

“You may be shocked, mistress. The horse threw him, you see. ’Tweren’t her fault. Master’s leg troubling him made him an unsure rider sometimes.”

Charles was beside me. “I’ll wait,” he said, “in case you want me to see him. Derek, you and Isabel go on to Enderby. I’ll be with you soon.”

“I’m going straight to him now,” I said.

I ran up to our bedroom. Jean-Louis was lying in bed. He looked different—his face was white and drawn. But his eyes lit up at the sight of me.

I went to him, kissed him and then knelt beside the bed.

“Oh, my dearest … what happened?”

“It was my fault,” he said. “I was careless. This old leg … and the pain in my back … Weil, I was off my guard and old Tessa threw me.”

“And the doctor … ?”

“He wants Dr. Forster to look at me. I can see he’s a little grim, although he won’t commit himself.”

“Grim?” I asked.

“Well, I believe he thinks I won’t walk again.”

“Oh, Jean-Louis! And while I’ve been away …”

I thought of that day … the meal in the Rainbow, the trip down the river and most of all the enchanted evening. And while I was enjoying all that Jean-Louis was lying in great pain.

I vowed to myself that I would look after him for as long as he should need me. I must do that … to make up for the way in which I had wronged him.

“You mustn’t be upset, dearest Zipporah,” he said. “It might not be so bad. The doctor seems to think a chair on wheels … You see, I don’t seem to be able to use my legs.”

He looked up suddenly. Charles had come into the room.

“I’ve come to see you,” he said. “What happened?”

Jean-Louis told him what he had told me.

“May I examine you now?”

“Oh, do please,” I said.

Charles turned to me and said: “Perhaps you would leave us.”

I went out. Poor Jean-Louis. Why did this have to happen to him! He was such a good man. I thought if Dickon had never started that fire in Hassock’s barn this wouldn’t have happened. Jean-Louis, who had been an excellent horseman before his accident, had become a clumsy one afterward. I felt waves of hatred against Dickon.

It was stupid. It was unfair. Dickon had acted as any mischievous boy might in making a fire in the barn.