The Birthday Present (27 page)

‘They are for our supper,’ she said. ‘At least, I think so.’

And I must carry the parcel, thought Rose, grinning, because Jean-Philippe cannot bear to release Letitia’s left hand and she is holding on to her hat with her right hand!

Letitia said, ‘Marie doesn’t care for seafood but the rest of us like it.’

Rose nodded. She was starting to feel like the proverbial ‘gooseberry’ and was trying to find a way to send Jean-Philippe and Letitia off on their own. She said, ‘Actually I am rather weary, Letitia. If you will forgive me, I’ll buy myself a coffee and wait for you two to finish the sightseeing trip. Tell Jean-Philippe I am sorry but my heel hurts.’

To her relief Letitia made no protest. Rose watched as Letitia translated her polite lie and was a little miffed when she saw Jean-Philippe’s eyes light up at the prospect of having Letitia to himself. He smiled at Rose, however, and gave her a charming bow before taking hold of Letitia’s hand once more and spiriting her away.

Minutes later, sitting at a small table outside the tiny café, Rose sipped her coffee and thought about the Bennley family. Steven might well become a soldier, poor Marie would die, Letitia might stay here with her parents and Marcus would stay on at Victoria House with his design work for the theatres. She wondered how he would enjoy being alone.

Inside the cloth parcel, the crab began to fidget half-heartedly which disconcerted her and turned her thoughts from the Bennleys to the problems that she would face when she returned to England. She would have to find herself a home and a way to earn a living. She thought, with a shock, that without fully realizing it, she had decided that life on the stage was never going to be the way she had expected. Also that reading the Bible to Mrs Granger might be her only real talent. Unless  . . . slowly but surely another idea was taking shape in her mind.

In Wissant that evening, the atmosphere was exciting, even though it was evident to everyone that Marie’s weakness was increasing at an alarming rate, However, by tacit agreement, this was never referred to. They had eaten crab salad and followed that with a rabbit stew with rustic home-made bread, and the washing up had been done by Rose and Letitia. The latter was flushed and her eyes sparkled and Rose could see that the bitterness of the past years had been swept away by her reunion with her parents – and possibly by Jean-Philippe’s very obvious admiration. Letitia, Rose thought, might well decide to stay for a while with her parents. What was there for her back in England except the reminders of heartache and the curious stares of sympathizers? Letitia and her parents had a great deal of lost time to make up for and Rose knew she would be travelling home alone, a prospect which, while it didn’t enthral her, gave her no real anxiety.

On reflection, Rose was rather sorry that Gerard had been persuaded by his daughter not to confront Bernard da Silva as he had intended. Letitia had insisted that the violent confrontation, which Gerard had felt necessary, would simply supply their neighbours with more gossip and the idea had been reluctantly abandoned.

By nine o’clock they were all sitting outside in the cooler air, with the exception of Gerard who was enjoying his late night walk alone around his fields with a shotgun under his arm, checking, as usual, the safety of his animals and land.

Marie, wrapped in a blanket, had refused to go to bed and was reliving the excitement of the celebrations on Bastille Day.

‘You should have been here,’ she assured Rose and Letitia. ‘It was a night to remember. Everyone gathered in the square in Wissant – which is more of a triangle than a square – for the little feast of bread and cheese or
moules
if you preferred them but I don’t  . . .’

Rose said, ‘
Moules?
Ah yes. Mussels.’

‘And there were hot potatoes cooked in their jackets in the ashes of a big bonfire. Mmm!’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I don’t like seafood but Mother had some and so did Papa. We sat under a big tent because it looked as if it might rain but it didn’t. And afterwards there were fireworks and they were so brilliant and extravagant  . . .’

Her mother said ‘And noisy! It was deafening!’

Marie laughed. ‘It was, wasn’t it – and then that nice young man came to me and gave me a red rose! It was so romantic! And Jean-Philippe was there too and he has a good singing voice and while we waited for the fireworks to begin he sang for us.’

Clarice said, ‘He’s going to call in again tomorrow.’

Letitia asked, ‘Will he bring his wife?’

Marie laughed. ‘He might if he had one but he’s a bachelor. It’s such a waste. Mother keeps telling him to settle down. She’s becoming quite a matchmaker, aren’t you Mother!’

‘He’s thirty-five. He should have a wife and family!’

‘A shame, then,’ Letitia said firmly, ‘that I am quite finished with men!’

Rose cried, ‘Please Letitia, don’t say such a thing! Bernard’s just the one bad apple in the barrel! And you’re better off without him.’

An awkward silence fell because her remarks were the first mention she had made about Bernard’s defection. To change the subject Rose said, ‘What exactly is Bastille Day? It’s to celebrate a battle, isn’t it?’

Pleased to show off her knowledge of all things French, Marie said, ‘The French call it the
Fête de la Fédération
and it’s to celebrate the day the people stormed a prison and let out the prisoners and then the revolution started.’

Clarice smiled. ‘July the fourteenth is very special to the French people.’ She glanced at her youngest daughter. ‘I think you should go to bed, Marie. You look tired and there will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow.’

Marie nodded unwillingly and allowed herself to be carried inside and Letitia volunteered to brush her hair before helping her into bed.

As Marie slipped down between the sheets she could hear the rest of the family making tracks for bed and closed her eyes. A little later she shared her prayers with her mother and then opened her eyes sleepily. ‘I wish Marcus and Steven could have been here with us,’ she said wistfully, ‘but one day we shall all be together.’

‘We will, my darling.’ Clarice kissed her. ‘Sleep now, Marie. If you need me, call me. Your bell is beside you.’

Much later Clarice woke to the sound of the bell and made her way into the small moonlit room.

‘I had a strange dream, Mother,’ Marie whispered. ‘Will you stay a while and hold my hand?’

‘Of course I will.’ She leaned over and kissed her, then sat on the chair beside the bed. Taking Marie’s fragile hand in hers, Clarice prepared to stay with her until she fell asleep but it was not to be. Somewhere around midnight she became aware of a slight change in Marie’s breathing. Clarice’s heart began to beat faster. Could she have imagined it?

‘Marie?’ she whispered.

‘Mama, are you there?’ The words were low but clear. Marie’s eyes flickered open and closed again.

‘I’m here, dearest.’

Having seen Clarice, Marie smiled faintly then gave a deep sigh. Her hand, already relaxed, became limp. Clarice’s heart skipped a beat.

She waited. ‘Oh Marie!’

As the minutes passed the warmth of life ebbed slowly from Marie’s hand and Clarice pressed it to her lips.

‘Goodbye, little one,’ she said softly.

Shocked and grief-stricken, Clarice sat on dry-eyed through the long night until the prayed-for tears brought blessed relief.

Seven days later Marie’s funeral was held in the church where she had been christened and confirmed. Clarice, Rose and Letitia had accompanied her coffin on the journey back to England but the following day Letitia and her mother returned to Wissant leaving Victoria House in the capable hands of Marcus.

After they had gone and Marie’s body rested in the same grave as her grandparents, Steven and Marcus left it to Rose to see to the flowers that covered her last resting place. On Sunday July 27th Rose was kneeling beside the grave, removing any dead flowers, when the vicar found her. She stood up hastily, smiling.

‘Miss Paton, isn’t it?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Thank you for the service. Marie’s mother felt she should return to the family – and the church at Wissant was Roman Catholic which would have been awkward. She and Letitia will come over to England more often now because they will want to visit the grave.’

‘Marie is in God’s hands now.’

Rose nodded. ‘But I wish she wasn’t, if you understand me, your Reverend  . . . No disrespect.’

‘I do understand but we have to trust Him.’ When she failed to agree he went on quickly. ‘So there are just the two brothers left at Victoria House  . . . and your good self.’

He’s wondering about me, thought Rose, unchaperoned with the two men. ‘I’m staying there at the moment because I have nowhere else to go; where I was staying my friend was murdered but I shall find work soon and move on.’ As she said it, her heart contracted a little at the thought that she would no longer be part of the Bennleys’ circle but it was almost inevitable that she would have to leave. Unless  . . . She decided then and there to tackle Marcus later about her latest idea.

Mrs Bray was still not back at work and Miss Evans prepared them a simple supper of cold meats and salad. Later, in the study, they sat in silence, busy with their own thoughts. Marcus, slumped in his chair behind the desk, seemed preoccupied and Rose, on a chair in front of the desk, was feeling an unusual lack of self-confidence. Maybe today was not the right time, she told herself, wanting to delay the matter. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the edge of the desk, and tried to read Marcus’s expression. He looked harassed as usual.

He glanced at her. ‘What’s bothering you, Rose?’

‘Bothering me?’

‘You’re not normally so quiet.’ He smiled to show her that this was not an implied criticism.

‘Ah!’ It was now or never, she thought, and took a deep breath. ‘Marcus, do you think Mrs Bray will ever come back?’

‘I was wondering the same thing.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘The trouble is, Miss Evans told us from the start that she didn’t want full-time work. She is actually a reasonably good artist and earns most of her money selling her watercolours but she isn’t averse to earning a little extra now and then.’

Rose’s hopes rose dramatically at his words. ‘So you will need a new housekeeper?’

‘It’s beginning to look that way.’

‘Could I do it, do you think? I could learn more recipes and there would mostly only be the two of us now that Steven is in the army. I can clean the house and do the washing  . . . If you gave me a room of my own you could take it out of my wages.’

There was an awkward silence.

She struggled on. ‘I could do just mornings if you preferred  . . . or some days on and some days off. I’m quite adaptable. I wouldn’t get in your way and I wouldn’t touch your things in the study.’

His expression was unreadable. ‘But Rose, what about your stage career?’

‘Stage career? Oh that!’ She rolled her eyes somewhat sheepishly. ‘Actually I’m having second thoughts about that. Not that I couldn’t make it to the top if I still wanted to,’ she insisted hastily, ‘but it seems you were right and it’s not a very respectable way to earn a living and  . . . I wonder how many other Mr Markhams there are in the business, lurking about in the shadows. Poor Connie! I wouldn’t want to end up like her.’ She gave him an imploring look and shook her curls.

‘It’s a thought,’ he said slowly, ‘but there’s another problem. You might get married and then  . . .’

Rose felt the beginnings of panic. Somehow she had never anticipated marrying; had never imagined leaving them. Get married? Who on earth would she marry?

Marcus went on. ‘If you did marry then we’d be left in the lurch, so to speak. At least, I would be left.’ He picked up a pencil and began to doodle on the blotter. She watched hypnotized as he drew a row of small circles and then carefully filled them in.

Her hopes were fading. This was going to be harder than she expected. ‘But I’d give you fair warning, Marcus. I mean, four weeks’ notice or whatever it is you have to give. I’d never just leave you. Not all of a sudden. That wouldn’t be right.’

‘Hmm. Four weeks’ notice. It’s not much, is it?’

‘Six weeks, then. Two months.’

He regarded her thoughtfully, running his fingers through his hair. ‘There’s another problem, Rose.
I
might marry – and then I’d have a wife and I wouldn’t need a housekeeper. You’d be out of a job  . . . although I’d give you a good reference. I’d write a letter for you. I daresay you would soon find somewhere else.’

His words sent a cold shiver up Rose’s spine. Why, she thought dazedly, had she never considered that he might marry? ‘I see  . . . I never thought of you getting married.’

‘I’ve never thought of you giving up your dream of the bright lights. Fame and fortune. All those playbills saying “Starring Miss Lamore!” I can hardly believe that you’re serious, Rose.’

The silence lengthened again. Rose tried to swallow but her throat was dry. She had convinced herself that he would allow her to stay on as his housekeeper. It had seemed an ideal arrangement. ‘Well,’ she said, with forced cheerfulness. ‘It was just an idea. It wouldn’t work, I can see that now. I have thought about offering myself as a permanent companion to Mrs Granger – the old lady I read to.’

She waited with bated breath for Marcus to try and dissuade her while she considered what she would do if the Grangers didn’t want her. Andrew Markham had still not been traced by the police and the chances were they would give up their search. In which case there was always the possibility that he would come back at some time when Connie’s death was no longer a priority for the police. Or Markham’s brother might continue in his footsteps. That meant she could never set foot in Andy’s Supper Room again. It had been a difficult decision but the truth was that the idea of a stage career had lost most of its glamour. There were obviously other routes to life on the stage but Rose’s confidence had been badly shaken.

Marcus was studying the pencil with great intensity and she hid a smile. Only Marcus could find a pencil interesting, she thought, realizing suddenly how much she would miss his odd ways if she had to leave him. And how desperately jealous she would be of the woman he married.