The Landower Legacy (24 page)

Living in a small house brought us closer together and I became on more intimate terms with the servants there than I ever had been in
London—with the exception of Rosie, of course. I could imagine the disapproval which would have been expressed by Mrs. Winch or Wilkinson if I had sat in the kitchen having long chats with the servants as I did with Marie, the
domestique,
or in the garden with Jacques.

But I felt these people were my friends and I wanted to learn as much about them as I could.

Marie had been “crossed in love” and I shared her chagrin. He had been a bold and dashing soldier who had stayed in the town for a few months with his regiment. He had promised to marry her and then he had gone away and left her. After she had talked to me about him she would be heard singing a melancholy dirge:

“Ou t’en vas-tu, soldat de France, Tout equipe, pret au combat? Plein de courage et d’esperance, Ou t’en vas-tu, petit soldat?”

She forgot him after a while and treated us to other melodies like “Au Claire de la Lune” and “Il Pleut Bergere,” for she was not melancholy by nature.

I was not sure when this romance had flourished, for she was at this time near the end of her thirties, I imagined, and she was far from prepossessing, with a faint moustache and several missing teeth. But she was a conscientious worker, good-hearted and very sentimental. I grew fond of her.

I also had a certain friendship with Jacques. He was a widower of three years’ standing; he had six children, several of whom contributed to his support. Most of them lived nearby. He was now courting a widow who was something of a catch because she had inherited ten hectares of very good arable land, left her by her late husband.

I asked every time I saw him how his courtship was progressing. He would always pause and consider, shaking his head. “Widows, Mademoiselle,” he would say, “are very funny creatures. You never know how to take a widow.”

“I am sure you are right, Jacques,” I said.

They were pleased that I was there. Neither my mother nor Everton had ever taken an interest in them—except to give orders. When I spoke to my mother of Marie’s faithless lover and Jacques’ widow she had no notion of what I was talking about and when I explained she said: “You are quaint, Caroline. Of what interest can all that possibly be to you?”

I said: “They are people, Mama. They have their lives just as we have. In London the servants were so much apart. In a small household like this we are closer. It is good in a way. It makes us aware of them … as people.”

It was an unfortunate remark.

“Ah, London,” she sighed. “How different.”

And then she was sunk in melancholy, remembering.

I soon became acquainted with some of our neighbours. I visited the flower growers and saw how they distilled their essences and heard how they sold them to the parfumeurs all over France. It was very interesting. They had acres and acres on which they grew their flowers and I was amazed to discover how many were needed to produce one small flagon of perfume.

The scent of the jasmine was exquisite. They told me they gathered it in July and August but there was a second flowering in October, which was when the flowers were really at their best.

The roses, from which they made attar of roses, were wonderful.

The Claremonts employed several people from the town who came riding in on their bicycles in the early morning. I often saw them going home after the day’s work.

I soon made the acquaintance of the Dubussons. I found them charming. It was true that their
chateau
was somewhat dilapidated. There were chickens in one of the courtyards and it really was more like a farmhouse than a castle. True, it had the usual pepper-pot towers, which gave it an air of dignity, and the Dubussons were as proud of their home as the Landowers and Tressidors were of theirs.

I would sit in the big salon drinking wine with Monsieur and Madame Dubusson, and they would tell me how times had changed since the days of their grandeur. Their son and his wife were with them and they were very hard-working. Sometimes the family visited us and we were invited to the
chateau.
Then my mother would wear one of her exquisite gowns; Everton would spend a long time doing her hair and they would try to pretend it was like one of the old engagements which my mother had had in such abundance in the old days.

The Dubussons kept an excellent table, and Monsieur Dubusson liked a game of cards. We played a sort of whist. Monsieur Dubusson enjoyed a game of piquet—and so did my mother—but as only two could play at that, it was not one of the games which took place in the evening. Often I went over to see them in the afternoon and he and I would play piquet together, or a little chess, which he liked better. I had
learned the rudiments of the game when I was at school in France and he liked to instruct me.

But although I could find plenty to occupy me, I was beginning to feel somewhat restless. I was thinking more and more of Cornwall and I wondered a great deal about the Landowers and how they liked living in their comparatively humble farmhouse. I wrote to Cousin Mary and told her that I should love to come and see her one day.

Her reply was enthusiastic. When was I coming?

I had been three months with my mother. Autumn had come, and I was thinking more and more longingly of Cornwall. I wrote to Cousin Mary and told her that I would come at the beginning of October.

I was quite surprised when I told my mother what I had done.

“Going away from me!” she cried. “Caroline, I shall miss you.”

“Oh, Mama,” I protested. “You’ll get along very well without me.”

“You like it, do you, with Cousin Mary? I always heard she was something of an ogre.”

“She can be a little gruff, but when you get to know her you understand the sort of person she is. I grew very fond of her.”

“Robert disliked her intensely.”

“That was because she had the house … her rightful property.”

“It has been so wonderful for me to have you here.”

I said nothing, and when I looked up I saw the tears were falling down her cheeks.

Everton said to me: “Your mother will miss you. She has been so much better since you came.”

“Was she very bad before?”

“She has cheered up wonderfully.”

“She is not really ill, Everton.”

“There is a sickness of the mind, Miss Caroline. She pines for the life she has left, and I am afraid she will always do so.”

“But was she really contented when she was there?”

“She loved that life … all the people … all the admiration. It was everything to her.”

“But she left it.”

“For the Captain. It was a great mistake. But she would never have gone if she had not been forced to do so.”

The old guilt I had felt came surging back. I was the one who had carelessly betrayed her. If I had not met Robert Tressidor on the stairs and blurted out that I had seen the runaway horse, she might still have
been in London, a rich woman. Captain Carmichael might not have died, but could be pursuing his career in the Army.

But I said: “But there is nothing I can do, Everton. I can only remind her of the past.”

“She has been better since you came,” persisted Everton.

She, like my mother, was trying to persuade me not to go.

My mother said: “I tell Everton that young people must live their own lives. One cannot expect sacrifices from the young. That is what I tell her.”

But they expected me to stay and I began to ask myself whether it was not my duty to do so.

In the quiet of my bedroom I admonished myself. Be sensible. You can do nothing here. The only good that can be done must come from herself. If she will stop yearning for the glitter of society, if she will interest herself in the life around her, she could be as well as she ever was.

No, I would not be foolish. Cousin Mary was expecting me to go to Cornwall—and I was going.

I had written several times to Olivia. I wrote in detail of the people around me. Her letters were affectionate and she expressed an eagerness to know of my experiences.

She was amused by Marie and Jacques, and loved hearing of the Dubussons and the perfume makers.

I told her that I was going to Cornwall to see Cousin Mary and that on my return from France I should have to stay in London. Perhaps I could be with her for a few days then.

That brought back a delighted reply. She longed to see me.

As the day for my departure grew nearer the air of melancholy in the house increased. My mother spent more time in bed and I often came upon her shedding tears. I felt very uncomfortable.

My bags were packed. I had said goodbye to the Claremonts and the Dubussons. In two days’ time I should be on my way.

I promised my mother that I would come back to see her before long.

It was the evening of that day. I had been for a walk into the town and taken a last farewell of all my friends and had walked back to the house. I was washing and changing for dinner when Marie came bursting into my room.

“It is Madame,” she cried. “She is very ill. Mademoiselle Everton says will you go to her at once.”

I hurried to my mother’s bedroom. She was lying back in bed, her eyes tightly closed, her face colourless. I had never seen her look like that before.

“Everton,” I said, “what is it?”

She said to Marie: “Ask Jacques to go at once for the doctor.”

We sat by her bed. My mother opened her eyes and was aware of me. “Caroline,” she said weakly, “so you are still here. Thank God.”

“Yes, I’m here, Mama. Of course I’m here.”

“Don’t … leave me.”

Everton was watching me intently and my mother closed her eyes.

“How long has she been like this?” I whispered.

“I came up to help her dress for dinner. I found her lying there

“What can it be?”

“I wish the doctor would hurry,” said Everton.

It was not long before I heard the sound of his carriage wheels on the road.

He came in—a little man, very much the country doctor. I had met him once at the Dubussons’.

He took my mother’s pulse, examined her and shook his head gravely.

“Perhaps she has had a shock?” he suggested. He looked so knowledgeable on such a brief examination that I began to suspect his efficiency.

Both Everton and I followed him out of the room.

He said: “She needs rest … and peace. She must have no stress, you understand? You are sure she has not had a shock?”

“Well,” said Everton, “she was upset because Miss Tressidor was leaving us.”

“Ah,” said the doctor wisely. “That is so, eh?”

“I came on a visit,” I said, “and that visit is coming to an end.”

He nodded gravely. “She needs care,” he said. “I shall come tomorrow.”

We escorted him to his carriage.

Everton looked at me expectantly.

“Could you not stay a little longer … until she recovers?”

I did not answer.

I went back to my mother’s room. She lay there pale and wan, but she was aware of me.

“Caroline,” she said weakly. “I’m here, Mama.” “Stay … stay with me.”

That night I slept little. I could not help thinking of my mother lying there on her bed, looking quite unlike herself. At first I had thought that she had feigned illness, and I still had a feeling that this was so. And yet I was not sure. How could I be?

What if I went away? What if she were really ill and died. Did people die of nostalgia? It was not so much that she wanted me. She had done very well without me for the greater part of her life. She felt none of the passionate attachment some mothers have for their children. I could see that my coming had enlivened her days to a certain extent. We played piquet now and then in the evenings and that passed the time— that and the endless talk of the old days.

Yet how could I be sure? It was through my action that her husband had turned her out of his house. Could I be responsible for her death as well?

I did not sleep until dawn and when I awoke I had made up my mind.

I could not go … yet.

I wrote letters to Cousin Mary and Olivia, explaining that my mother had been taken suddenly ill and I must stay with her a little longer.

When I told Everton what I had done, her face was illuminated with pleasure. I felt relieved. My mind was made up.

I went to my mother’s room. Everton was already there. She had told my mother.

“She will get well now,” said Everton.

“Caroline, my darling,” cried my mother. “So … so you are not going to leave me?”

I sat by her bed holding her hand and I felt as though a trap were closing round me.

My mother recovered slowly, but for a while she was more of an invalid than she had ever been. Dr. Legrand visited her often and had an air of complacency which suggested he believed he had brought about a miraculous cure.