Zipporah's Daughter (Knave of Hearts) (27 page)

‘I talked to her and she said it would be difficult to take the child to the country. The family was strictly religious and would not take kindly to a bastard. Colette would have known that and it was only because she was desperate that she had begged Berthe to come to her and perhaps suggest some plan.

‘The sick woman for whom I had some affection, the stern but worthy aunt and the beautiful child all touched me deeply. I found the solution. It was that Berthe should come as a housekeeper. She was the sort of woman who would soon become skilled in the management of a household or anything she undertook. She should bring the child with her and the little girl could be brought up in my household.

‘As soon as I made this suggestion I saw that it was the way out for us all. Colette would die in peace; Berthe would have the sort of post which appealed to her and settle her family problems at the same time; the child would be well cared for and my conscience eased. You may be surprised to hear, Lottie, that I had a conscience in those days. But I did … and on occasions it would make itself heard to my discomfiture.’

I said: ‘It was good of you. And so Lisette came to the château.’

He smiled faintly. ‘I shall never forget Colette’s face when I told her what we were arranging. I was overwhelmed by her gratitude, which was embarrassing because what I was doing cost me little effort. She said I was a saint who had brought great happiness into her life and she would die in peace knowing that her little girl would be well cared for.’

‘It was good of you,’ I said, ‘although you could do it. Not all people bother themselves with the problems of others.’

‘And what did I get from it? The most excellent of housekeepers. So you see the advantage was mine. Colette died soon after that. I saw her lying in her coffin with a look of peace on her dead face which I shall never forget.’

‘Poor Lisette! Does she know of this?’

‘She wouldn’t remember very much—probably vaguely those rooms in which she used to be shut away, I don’t know. She couldn’t have been much more than five when she was taken away. She was told that her parents were dead and that Tante Berthe had taken their place. I don’t think the poor child got much pampering from Tante Berthe, but she would be given good food and brought up rather strictly—which might have been good for her. I gave orders that she was to share Sophie’s lessons and when you came she was with you and Sophie. I don’t know whether it was the right thing to have done. She was one of us … and yet not one of us,. I have always been a little anxious about Lisette.’

‘Lisette can take care of herself, I think.’

‘You know her better than any of us. You and she became friends right from the time you came here … you and she more than Sophie.’

‘Lisette was always easier to know. She and I had a good deal of fun together.’

‘Well, you know who she is now. Lottie, I don’t think it would be wise to let her know the story. Much better to let her go on believing that she is the child of a conventional marriage, which I agreed with her aunt was what she should be told.’

‘I shall say nothing of what you have told me. I can see no good in bringing it up now.’

‘No. She is a proud girl and might be upset to know she is the daughter of, well … not a prostitute but a poor girl who took the occasional lover in order to make ends meet.’

‘I think you are right. Poor Lisette! But she was fortunate really. I wonder what would have happened to her if Tante Berthe had not come along, and you too. Tante Berthe I suppose would have taken her to that farmhouse from which Colette ran away. One can imagine what sort of life Lisette would have had there. I think you can be pleased with what you did for Colette and her daughter.’

‘It has relieved me to talk to you of Lisette.’

Yes, I thought, and it has taken your mind off your own tragedy for a little while at least.

Of course he could not stay at Tourville indefinitely, and it was with great reluctance that he left. I told him that I would bring the children to visit him and whenever he felt the need to be with me he must come. I would welcome him at any time.

On that note he left—a poor, sad, broken man.

The months slipped past quickly. I went to stay at Aubigné. It was a sad house now. My father had become morose, though, Armand told me, he was in a much better mood since I had come. He and his father quarrelled a good deal and it was certainly not always Armand’s fault. Armand was a man deeply concerned with his personal affairs; he interested himself in the estate but not too much; he liked to go to Court; he was the sort of man who, because he had been born into the aristocracy, considered that those who had not been were beneath him. Such an attitude was not accepted as readily as it had once been; and my father told me that one or two members of the great families were beginning to wonder whether something should not be done to raise the condition of the poor. My father was one of these people.

He was a very honest man and he admitted to me that such thoughts had not come to him until he had realized that it might be expedient to have them.

Marie Louise was still barren and entirely devoted to her religion, which took the form of long prayer sessions and frequent celebrations of Mass in the château chapel. Sophie had become more of a recluse than ever, and with those rooms in the tower being more or less apart from the rest of the household, there was beginning to be attached to them one of those legends which spring up in such places. Some of the servants said that Jeanne was a witch who had arranged for Sophie’s mutilations so that she could have power over her. Others said that Sophie herself was a witch and her scars were due to intercourse with the devil.

What disturbed me was that no attempt was made on my father’s part to stifle such rumours. Tante Berthe did her best and that was very good, for she was one who was accustomed to being obeyed; but although the stories were never repeated in her presence that did not mean they were not in the maids’ bedrooms and the places where the servants congregated.

So it was not a very happy household.

Lisette enjoyed being there—for I had taken her with me—but she did not altogether relish coming under Tante Berthe’s scrutiny. ‘I am a married woman now,’ she said, ‘and even Tante Berthe must remember that.’ At the same time she loved the château, and said it was such a grand old place and Tourville was nothing compared with it.

My father took such pleasure in my company and talked most of the time about what he and my mother had done together; how they had been completely happy in each other’s company. As though I did not know!

‘We were singularly blessed to have such a daughter,’ he said, but I believed that when they had been together they had thought of little else but each other. It was only now that he had lost her that he turned pathetically to me.

He visited us at Tourville and I was inclined to think that he was happier there than when at Aubigné. There were not so many memories. Besides, the children were there and it was not always easy to travel with someone as young as Claudine. So I prevailed on him to come to us, which he often did.

It pleased me. It meant that I did not have to be in that grim house with Sophie brooding in her turret. The Tourville family were always happy to see him. I thought then that I had been very lucky marrying into such a family. They might not be so grand as the Aubignés but they were most certainly kindly, and the atmosphere at Tourville was in complete contrast to that of Aubigné, bland, comfortable; Lisette called it flat and unexciting, whereas at Aubigné she felt that anything might suddenly happen.

Amélie was happily married; her husband was a gentle, rather meek man, colourless but extremely kind … rather like Amélie herself. My father-in-law, I imagine, got on better with his son-in-law than he had with his less predictable son. Charles was of a fiery temper; he might be more significant as a person but not always so easy to live with and my parents-in-law, who liked to live in peace, were very happy with present arrangements.

We talked often of Charles. We had heard nothing of him. It was not possible to get news. He was so far away for one thing and how letters could be sent from a country engaged in war I could not imagine.

From time to time we had visitors at Tourville and some of them had returned from America so they were able to give us a little news of what was happening there. One or two of them had been with Charles, so we knew he had arrived safely.

They were earnest young men, those returning warriors. They talked enthusiastically about the struggle for independence.

‘Men should be free to choose who governs them,’ one young man said. He was very young, idealistic, and his pleasant features glowed with enthusiasm.

My father was with us at the time this young man came and years later I was to remember the manner in which he answered him.

‘I believe,’ said my father, ‘that you young men, when you return from America, preach freedom for the oppressed.’

‘That is so, Comte,’ said the young man. ‘There is a wonderful spirit abroad and this war has made it clear. Monarchs and governors have no right to oppress those whom they rule. The oppressed must stand up and fight for their freedom.’

‘And these are doctrines you are preaching here? Is that so?’

‘Assuredly, sir. They are the doctrines of truth and honour.’

‘And the doctrines which are inciting the mobs to riot?’

The blood flamed into my father’s face. I knew he was seeing my mother coming out of the milliner’s shop to face the mob whose fury killed her. It seemed that everything we discussed led to that dangerous subject.

‘We are only telling people that they have rights,’ said the young man.

‘Rights to kill their betters!’ cried my father.

‘No, sir, no, of course not. Rights which should be given them and if they are not … to fight for them as the Colonists are doing.’

I changed the subject hastily. It was what I had to do continually. I liked best to be with my father on our own and if then he talked of the war I could make sure that he was not reminded of the troubles in France.

He thought Charles was a fool to have gone to fight. First he said the quarrel had nothing to do with France; secondly it meant that Frenchmen were coming back with revolutionary ideas; thirdly France was paying heavily for her support of the Colonists … and in more than money, which it could ill afford in any case.

‘He has left his family … all this time. How long is it? It must be over a year now. I wish we had found a better match for you, Lottie.’

‘I am fond of Charles and I think he is of me.’

‘To leave you all this time! To go and fight for a cause which has nothing to do with this country!’

‘He was challenged rather … I think he saw it like that.’

‘Yes,’ mused my father, ‘I would have liked someone higher for you.’

‘He
was
going to marry Sophie. You approved of that.’

‘Sophie was not the sort to attract important men … as you would. I was glad to make a match for her and the Tourvilles were ready. If only … but then you see you were not born in wedlock, and foolish as these conventions are they have to be considered. It seemed that the Tourville marriage was a very good one for you at the time.’

‘It was, and then I have Charlot and Claudine.’

‘Those dear ones, yes. Lottie, how I should love to have them at Aubigné … always.’ He looked at me sharply. ‘I see you are thinking it is hardly the place for children. But they would change it, Lottie. We should forget Sophie in her tower with dragon Jeanne, and Armand who cares for nothing but his pleasure, and his psalm-singing wife who spends most of her days in prayer instead of bringing babies into the world. And then there is that old misanthrope—myself—who would be a changed man if only he could have his loved ones about him.’

‘One day Charles will come home,’ I said. ‘I must be here when he does.’

So once again we parted and my father went back to his life of mourning and I continued to wait for news of Charles’s return. Occasionally I heard news of the war. It was not yet over. There seemed to be a series of victories and defeats and I gathered the English were not doing well.

Then one day we had a visitor.

I had met the Comte de Saramand when Charles had been making his arrangements to go to America. He had been one of those who had answered the call and he had stayed at the château several times with us.

As soon as I saw him standing in the hall I knew that he had brought news of Charles and a feeling of dread swept over me.

Why was Charles not with him? They had gone together. Surely they would return together. And why had the Comte de Saramand called on me?

There was something about his demeanour which disturbed me. He looked very grave.

‘Welcome, Comte,’ I said. ‘You have news of my husband … ’

The Comte looked at me steadily and said: ‘I have bad news for you, I’m afraid.’

‘Charles … ’ I murmured.

‘He fell at the Battle of Eutaw Springs. I was with him at the end. His last thoughts were of you. He regretted leaving you and said he never should have done so. He wanted me to tell you that he loved you … that you were the only one.’

‘Dead?’ I murmured. ‘Charles …
dead.’

‘He gave me this ring which I was to return to you.’

I took the ring. It was the gold ring with the lapis seal which he had always worn. There could be no doubt. Charles was dead.

Although I had come face to face with this possibility, the realization that it had actually come to pass was a great blow and shocked me deeply.

Charles … dead. Buried somewhere in a foreign land. Gone forever.

I mourned for Charles. I shut myself away to consider what his death would mean.

It was so long since I had seen him that I could not pretend the blow was as great as it would have been if he had been snatched away from me when I saw him every day. Life would go on the same at Tourville. Charles had for a long time not been a part of it, but death is shocking however it comes. Death is irrevocable. How many times had I thought during his absence, when he comes back we must discuss this … or plan that. And now … no more.