Friday's Girl Page 29

  ‘No snow, only bright, cold sunshine. It is so beautiful here, even in the winter.’

  ‘And daffodils out already in the hedgerows. And flowers in the fields, and look! I am sure I can see blossom on the trees.’

  ‘No, no blossom.’ Celandine laughed and helped Edith up into the trap.

  Edith’s foot slipped for a second and she paled, looking round at Celandine. ‘Oh, dear. I’m always doing that. I am so clumsy,’ she murmured.

  ‘You are far from clumsy,’ Celandine reassured her, staring up into the lovely face and momentarily taken back by the fear in the strangely coloured eyes.

  ‘Oh, I am, I am. I seem always to be slipping when I shouldn’t.’

  ‘You run and skip everywhere, you know you do,’ Celandine teased her, settling herself down beside her, as the driver touched the pony with his whip and the animal seemed to jump forward from standing still into an instant trot. Edith looked paler than ever. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, perfectly,’ Edith murmured, but since she gave a little cough, and remained pale, Celandine, although she looked away, nevertheless immediately started to feel concerned. She knew from Napier that, before coming to stay in Cornwall, Edith had been very ill, and that she still had an intermittent cough, although Napier had reassured her that the cough was only a result of the fever, and not serious or contagious in any way.

  Once out of the vehicle and installed in Mrs Molesworth’s front parlour, Edith seemed to recover herself. She sipped her tea and made Celandine and Mrs Molesworth laugh about all the revolutions that had been going on at Helmscote.

  ‘I knew that you would soon turn everything on its head once you found your feet there,’ Celandine assured her finally.

  Edith was silent for a second, staring into the fire. Now that Mrs Molesworth had left them she felt able to be truthful with Celandine.

  ‘I have not altogether found my feet, as you put it, Celandine,’ she admitted in a rush. ‘There are some new developments at Helmscote about which I really couldn’t tell anyone but you.’

  Celandine suddenly felt she had enough troubles of her own without having to listen to poor Edith’s, but she couldn’t say so. As soon as she was in Edith’s company she found herself feeling protective towards her. The truth was that Edith, because she always put on such a brave and independent air, virtually imploring the world not to feel sorry for her, always succeeded in achieving quite the opposite.

  ‘You lost your mother so young,’ Celandine murmured. ‘Having just lost my own I know how you must have been feeling all this time. Even at my age one misses one’s mother.’

  ‘And now I am to be a mother,’ Edith murmured quietly, more to the fire than to Celandine.

  ‘I beg your pardon? Did you say you are expecting quelque chose, Edith? But that is such lovely news.’

  Edith nodded, still staring into the fire. ‘It is lovely news,’ she agreed. ‘And I should be so happy, but the truth of the matter is that I am so muddled I hardly know which way to turn.’ She looked round at Celandine. ‘You see, Napier does not know. In fact, he will not even speak to me at the moment. He will have nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. Our marriage is at yet another standstill, but this time I think it is all my fault.’

  Celandine stared at her. It did not seem possible, after all their previous troubles, that Edith and Napier should be yet again at odds with each other.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said simply, thinking that whatever her own troubles – their lack of any steady income, her continuing worry over whether to adopt her mother’s baby, Sherry’s seeming determination not to take on any commissioned work, but to go his own sweet way – judging from Edith’s expression they were as nothing compared to hers.

  Edith found it hard to explain herself, as is normal when a person has to explain the unexplainable. The fact that she had become seized with jealousy over Napier’s painting out her own face and replacing it with that of Becky Snape; that he seemed to have no trouble using Becky as his inspiration, whereas he had always seemed so irritated by his wife.

  ‘But, dearest, you know we talked about that. His difficulties were because he desired you. Seeing that he was holding back from you all the livelong day and night, it was only normal that he should be in a permanent state of irritation!’

  ‘I know that now, but when I found the footprints in the snow – I don’t know why, but I became convinced that they were Napier’s footprints, and I faced him with it. I am afraid I did. I faced him with it.’

  There was a long and dreadful pause.

  ‘Edith.’ Celandine looked stern. ‘How many times have we discussed the fact that no woman should ever attempt to face a man with his sins, or her suspicions? You may act upon your suspicions, you may subtly try to find out more, even with stealth, perhaps, but you never ever face him with them. If you do that he will immediately say that you are suffering from delusions, that you are mentally disturbed, that you are not the person he thought you were.’

  Edith nodded sadly. ‘That is exactly what did happen. Worse than that, I made a scene, and you know Napier is not the kind of person who relishes any kind of scene. But at least I had Alfred to turn to.’

  ‘You had – Alfred? Alfred Talisman? Our Alfred?’

  ‘Yes, your Alfred – Napier’s Alfred.’

  ‘I despair of you, Edith,’ Celandine stated, but her tone was light, and she stood up to pour them both some tea. ‘Really, after all our talks when you were here, you go and ignore all my good-hearted advice and face your husband with your suspicions. Really, it is too bad.’

  ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps it happened because I am in an interesting condition, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Very likely, dearest.’ Celandine handed her a fresh cup of tea, not believing a word. ‘I do believe – that is, my mother told me—’ She stopped speaking momentarily, remembering her mother’s own condition, and the ensuing result. ‘I do believe that being in a state of interest can make one lose—’ She was about to say ‘common sense’, but she stopped and started yet again. ‘I do believe it is most affecting. The only thing I am producing at the moment is a portrait of Mrs Molesworth’s good friend Mrs Dunstan.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I did not know that you had started to paint portraits. I thought you always wanted to remain a free spirit?’

  ‘So I did, and so I will once again I dare say, but for the moment, my dear Edith, necessity just has to be the mother of invention. Poor darling Sherry’s annual income, his precious annuity, has been cut off for ever, and we must find ways of keeping the poorhouse at bay.’ She shuddered, momentarily distracted. ‘Poverty is a terrible thing, dearest. I have seen too much of it in Europe ever to be fooled into thinking you can be truly poor and happy.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean. When I was in London I walked past the poorhouse in Putney many times, and the faces of the women were terrible, all of them just sitting in rows, waiting, looking out to where the food might be coming. It was a terrible sight. No, you never want to be truly poor, Celandine.’ She stopped, realising just how brave Celandine had been, and how hard she was trying to make light of her situation. ‘Oh, but there, I have been running on when I should have been listening to your troubles, not making you listen to mine.’

  ‘I am solving my troubles, I promise you. Besides, I am happy. Sherry and I have come to an understanding. He is pursuing his ideals, and I am dedicated to trying to keep the wolf from our particular door.’

  To hear Celandine stating that she was happy made Edith feel even more miserable, because it put her own state into stark contrast.

  ‘At any rate, why do you not continue with your story? You confided in Alfred, you were saying?’ Celandine widened her eyes, intent on putting on a good listening face, while at the same time she tried to push away her own memories of Alfred taking her on long walks in Brittany; tried to forget how sympathetic and interesting he could be, and how dreadfully engaging.

  �
�Yes, I did confide in Alfred, I admit, Celandine. It was all too easy, after all. I was sitting to him.’

  Now Celandine’s eyes widened of their own accord.

  ‘You were sitting to Alfred Talisman at the same time that this Miss Snape was sitting to Napier? No wonder there has been trouble brewing at Helmscote. What a pretty kettle of fish! Could you not see that this would all become – that it would be, undoubtedly, a recipe for some kind of disaster?’

  ‘No. You see, I was so grateful finally not to have to sit to Napier, what with his sighing and finding everything so difficult, that I quite happily said I would sit to Alfred, who had come to stay. And it was only later, when I realised that Napier had somehow just slipped in that Becky Snape was going to sit to him, that I started to find the situation increasingly intolerable. I am so stupid. I should have put up with Napier, except he could not put up with me. I think he knew how much I hated that silly gown and holding the harp. People do feel things, don’t they, without one’s having to say anything?’

  Celandine nodded slowly in agreement, but she could not help remembering that Napier had said, more than once, although only jokingly, that Edith was stupid, while she herself had defended Edith as being innocent rather than stupid. Now it seemed she might be both.

  ‘How did this all end in a visit to Cornwall?’ she asked, determined on finding some solution to the whole muddle, while Edith fell silent, hesitating to go on.

  ‘Because after I had confronted Napier and he had thrown me aside, saying that I was mad, and that he could not care less what my suspicions might be, because he only cared about finishing the painting, Mrs George, suspecting my condition I think, and not wanting me to be further upset I believe, packed up my suitcases and sent me down here. She does not like having Becky Snape in the house. She is not the type that we should have to stay, she says. But she likes it even less that she is sitting to Napier, as you can imagine.’

  Celandine leaned forward to put another log on the fire. It was probably only a small matter, a slight ripple rather than a storm at sea, but a bit of a stiff breeze none the less. It was only when she turned round and saw Edith’s face that she realised that there was more to come, that she had not yet been told the whole story.

  ‘There’s something else?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘I don’t think I want to hear any more,’ Celandine told her, with sudden firmness. ‘I think this is all a terrible misunderstanding and that you must go home as soon as you are well enough, go home and tell Napier that you are sorry.’

  Edith looked astounded. ‘But I have done nothing wrong except to confess that I was jealous.’

  ‘No, of course you haven’t done anything wrong, Edith. You must understand, however, that men can only ever accept apologies. Do not ever expect them to make them, will you?’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Why else do you think they used to constantly fight duels? Why do stags clash their antlers? Why do – well, never mind. The male of the species would rather die than admit he is at fault. Once you have accepted this, you will live happily ever after, see if you don’t.’

  Edith sighed sadly as she realised that her journey to Cornwall had really been for nothing. She had to face the fact that in her heart of hearts she had hoped that Napier would follow her, full of understanding. But, if Celandine was right, and she had no reason to doubt her, then the only thing she could now do was return to Helmscote. It was a bleak prospect.

  ‘I suppose I had better get straight back on another train?’

  Celandine shook her head. ‘You will do no such thing. No, you will stay and get some ozone into those poor old lungs of yours. Another journey so soon would be bad for you. So tiring. No, you must stay on, for as long as you like.’

  Celandine had actually meant to set off for France a few days after Edith’s arrival, but since it was obvious that to do so would seem more than heartless, she decided to go later than she would have wished.

  The truth was that Celandine felt torn between wanting to shake Edith for being so stupid as to show her feelings to Napier, and wanting to mop up the tears she had overheard her shedding in the middle of the night. Whatever her own emotions, she could not leave straight away.

  As usual the solution to Celandine’s problems seemed to be ready and waiting, thanks to Mrs Molesworth and her observant eyes.

  ‘You can leave Mrs Todd in my safe-keeping, believe me, Mrs Montague Robertson.’

  Mrs Molesworth was looking all too foursquare. Indeed she was looking so reliable, so trustworthy, that Celandine had the feeling that what her landlady was really telling her was that Edith would be better left in Mrs Molesworth’s care, better kept away from Celandine for a short while, because it might be that Celandine was actually too sympathetic, and too much sympathy can be weakening.

  ‘I will feed her up, and we will go for nice short walks along the beach. You will be surprised when I tell you just what a difference the company of someone quite other will make to a young woman like Mrs Todd. I will have Mrs Harvey over to tea. That allus does a body good, to have another person over. And perhaps I will teach her to make a few baby garments, because it’s never too late to learn, is it, Mrs Montague Robertson?’

  Celandine thought the idea of learning to sew baby garments might be a little too lowering for Edith in her present emotional condition, but seeing that the expression on Mrs Molesworth’s face was as firm as her corseted body, she thanked her from the bottom of her heart and went straight away to pack.

  ‘I hope that this visit to France will really be the last, dearest, won’t it?’

  Celandine stared up at Sherry for a short moment. She had tried hard to bring herself to tell him exactly what had happened in Paris, but had finally failed. Perhaps it was Edith’s visit, illustrating as it did the dreadful repercussions that could come about when you faced a man with the truth, or perhaps it was the news that Edith was in the very state that Celandine herself so longed for. Whatever it was, she had found it impossible to tell Sherry that she had quite made up her mind to adopt her half-brother.

  ‘I will be as short a time as possible, dearest, really I will. I am not going to be away from you longer than is perfectly necessary.’

  Sherry looked momentarily reassured by this, before turning back to his painting of the old fisherman. The hat was giving him a great deal of trouble and he did not want the paint to dry.

  The journey to France did not pass uneventfully as Celandine was extremely unwell, with the result that she arrived in Paris, at the old apartment whose lease she knew was just about to expire, feeling like a piece of chewed string.

  Marie was waiting for her, and as always had cooked her a magnificent dinner, but it was a dinner that Celandine could not face, try as she might. This did not find favour with Marie.

  ‘I am sorry, Marie. I was so ill on the boat – unlike last time the sea so terribly rough – I am afraid to eat at this moment.’

  ‘Very well, madame.’

  Marie was tight-lipped. She picked up the beetroot soup and marched it straight back down to the kitchen as a teacher might frogmarch a naughty pupil out of the classroom. Celandine sighed, and, picking up her glass of water, she sipped at it, hoping for the queasiness to pass.

  Marie returned from the kitchen, and sat down opposite Celandine. ‘You have received my letter, no?’

  Celandine nodded, thankfully feeling the colour gradually returning to her cheeks. ‘Yes, I did, thank you. I am sorry I could not come straight away, but a friend arrived who was not at all well, at least not at all happy, and I could not leave her until yesterday.’

  ‘A pity.’ Marie looked haughty and at the same time sad, which was something at which she had always been a bit of a past mistress. ‘Yes, a great pity. Had you come earlier you might have been able to take Dominique.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘As it is, he has gone.’

  Celandine stared at her. ‘He has gone? What do you mean, he has gone? You mean h
e has gone from here, from Madame Montellier?’

  ‘Ah yes, he has gone from Madame Montellier, yes. But he has also gone to ’is new ’ome. A very good ’ome. He has been adopted by a beautiful couple, and he has gone.’

  She looked momentarily tragic. Celandine could have reached across the table and slapped her, but instead she wiped her lips on her napkin.

  ‘Could you not have waited, Marie?’ she asked, feeling both relieved that she no longer had the burdensome responsibility of the baby, and disappointed that she no longer had the pleasure of him either.

  ‘No, I could not wait any longer. Madame Montellier has a new bébé come in – a girl.’ She could not keep the contempt out of her voice. ‘So she must give Dominique to a new family, but it is a very splendid family. They have a château and many servants. They are an old family. He will be their son. They have taken him and made him their son.’

  ‘I must know where he has gone!’

  ‘No, madame. He is not your bébé, and you will never know where he has gone.’ Marie rose to her feet with great dignity and taking off her apron she flung it aside. ‘You will never know where he is. It is a secret.’

  ‘But I must know! Marie.’ Celandine tried to calm herself. ‘Marie. Tell me at least a little more.’

  But Marie was walking away from her, down the corridor to the kitchen, where the remains of Celandine’s supper was still waiting to be brought through, but Marie went straight past it, on to her own room at the back.

  ‘Good night, madame. We will say our adieux in the morning.’

  She shut her door, and turned the key in the lock as if to emphasise her refusal to discuss the matter of Mrs Benyon’s unwanted baby any further.

  The following morning, Celandine having slept not at all, the maid once again presented herself in the salon where Celandine was attempting to drink a cup of coffee. She eyed the maid’s smart travelling clothes.

  ‘Marie, you are leaving?’

  ‘Yes, madame. I am going back to Burgundy, where I come from, and where I have a fiancé with a farm. We will be married in time, when the summer comes and the vines have ripened. He will not know of you, and I will not know of you again. It will be as if we have never been here in Paris, which is perhaps the will of God.’