The Landower Legacy (25 page)

Cousin Mary wrote to say that she hoped my visit would not be postponed for too long and Olivia expressed her regrets that she was not going to see me and that her mother was ill. She would have liked to come out but Aunt Imogen was against it; she thought she might come later on.

I was now planning to leave at Christmas, but every time I hinted at it such gloom pervaded the house that I decided to say nothing, but to make my plans and then announce my imminent departure.

I was not so gullible as not to believe that my mother’s indisposition had been in a great measure produced by herself. On the other hand she was a woman of fierce desires and there was no doubt that frustration could make people ill.

I wanted nothing more on my conscience; and on the other hand I thought longingly of Cornwall.

I admonished myself that I was falling into my old habit of building up a fantasy world. What was there so different about Lancarron compared with this little French village?

The days began to pass quickly. The long evenings had come. We no longer ate in the courtyard. Marie lit the oil lamps and we spent evenings playing piquet or looking through the press cuttings which Everton had pasted into a book; but that, of course, could often end in melancholy so I always tried for piquet.

I began to wonder what I should do with my life. Could I take some sort of post? What could I do? What did impoverished gentlewomen do? They became governesses or companions; there was little else for them. I could see myself as a companion to someone like my mother … spending a lifetime playing piquet or listening to reminiscences of past glories.

I was restive. I wanted to get away.

Then the bombshell came in the form of a letter from Olivia.

“My dear Caroline,

“I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know what you will think. It has been going on for some time and I have often been on the point of telling you and have decided against it. But you will have to know sometime.

“I am engaged to be married.

“You know they never thought I would be, but it has happened. I could be very happy, but for one thing. Oh, I don’t know what you will think of me, but I have to do it, Caroline. You see, I love him. I always have … even when he was engaged to you.

“Yes, it is Jeremy. He was very sad when your engagement had to be broken. He has told me all about it. He did realize though that he was completely fascinated by you but it was not really lasting love. He discovered that in time. He felt you were too young to know your own mind. Before, you know, he had noticed me, but when you came along he saw only you. He really loves me now, Caroline. I know he does. And I could never be happy without him. So we are going to be married.

“Aunt Imogen is delighted. But she insists that we wait till a year after my father’s death before the marriage can take place. And then it will be very quiet.

“Caroline, I hope you will have got over all that by now. I hope you won’t hate and despise me for this. But I do truly love him and did even when he was engaged to you.

“He would be very happy if you could forgive him.

“Dear Caroline, do try to understand.

“Your ever loving sister, Olivia.”

I was stunned when I read that letter.

The barefaced effrontery! The toad! The snake! I said: “Jeremy Brandon, how can you be so despicable? You were determined to enjoy Robert Tressidor’s fortune, weren’t you? And if you could not get it through one sister, you would through the other.”

I began to laugh bitterly, wildly; and my laughter was near to tears.

I sat down and thought of how different it might have been. I saw myself in that little house in Knightsbridge. How happy I might have been if he had been different, if he had been the man I had believed him to be—not just another of my fantasies!

I could not face anyone yet. I wanted to shut myself away. I went out of the house and walked for miles. I could not bear to talk to anyone for fear I should betray my fury, my resentment, my bitter, bitter anger.

I felt no better when I returned home.

I sat down and wrote a letter to Olivia.

“How can you be so gullible? Don’t you see him for the fortune hunter he is? He is not marrying you. He is marrying your father’s money. Of course he transferred his affections to you. He thought I should have a share of the money, that was why he fell so passionately in love. He’s in love all right … but not with you, dear sister, any more than he was with me. He is in love with money.

“Olivia, for heaven’s sake don’t ruin your life by giving way to this schemer …”

And so on in such a strain.

Fortunately I did not post that letter.

That evening I had to talk of it. I supposed my mother would be informed in due course of her daughter’s proposed marriage.

She had not noticed that I was different, though it must have been obvious. Marie had asked if I felt quite well. But my mother never saw anything that did not relate directly to herself.

I said: “Olivia is engaged.”

“Olivia! At last! I thought she never would be. Who is the man?”

“You’ll never guess. It is Jeremy Brandon who was engaged to me until he heard that your husband was not my father and consequently had left me nothing. Then his affections declined. However, they have now settled on Olivia, who can keep him in that state to which he aspires.”

“Well,” she said, “at least it is a husband for Olivia.”

“Mama,” I cried reproachfully, “how can you talk so?”

She replied: “It’s the way of the world.”

“Then I want no part of that world.”

“But you
are
part of it.”

“It is not the whole world. I do not want to live among the bargain hunters.”

She sighed. “What can an impecunious young man do? You wouldn’t have been happy living in poverty. Look at me.”

“Do you not believe in love, Mama?”

She was quiet for a moment, looking into the past, seeing no doubt the handsome Captain. But even his own love had not survived the lack of money. That was what had made love turn cold for her more surely than another woman could have done.

“I’ve no doubt Olivia is delighted,” she said. “Poor child. She didn’t have many chances, did she? She’ll be happy enough and glad, no doubt, that it all turned out as it did.”

I hated her view of life and yet … I knew she was right when she said Olivia would be happy.

I could see my sister going through life seeing only good and being unaware of evil.

I could not destroy her illusions.

I went to my room that night and tore up the letter I had written to her.

But I felt the bitterness eating into my soul. I hated Jeremy Brandon a hundred times more than I had done before.

The Dubussons were giving a dinner party to which we were invited and although my mother despised their “little evenings,” as she called them, they did relieve the monotony and she would prepare herself for them—or rather Everton prepared her—with as much care as she had bestowed upon her London engagements.

She and Everton would be in close conference for a day or so deciding what she would wear, and her toilette would engross them both for several hours before our departure.

“Just a friendly little party,” Madame Dubusson had said. “A gathering of neighbours. The Claremonts have some important business client staying with them and I have asked them to bring him along.”

My mother certainly looked very beautiful when we were ready. She was wearing a gown of her favorite lavender colour and her delicately tinted skin and shining hair accentuated her beauty. She looked much as she had when we were in London and I thought, If a Dubusson dinner party can do this, she would soon be perfectly well if she could once again enter fashionable society.

Everton had insisted on doing my hair and I had to admit that she had done it very well. She had brushed it with a hair brush covered with some special silk and then piled it high on my head. She had selected an emerald brooch, belonging to my mother, which she had put on my grey gown; and Everton certainly knew what she was about.

The Dubussons had sent one of their somewhat decrepit old carriages for us. I saw my mother’s distaste as she seated herself and I had to remind her that it was good of the Dubussons to provide transport for us as we had none of our own; all the same her expression did not change when we entered the courtyard of the
chateau,
and she caught sight of a hen perched on one of the walls.

Madame Dubusson greeted us warmly. The guests were ourselves, Dr. Legrand and the Claremonts with their visitor.

“We all know each other,” announced Madame Dubusson, “except Monsieur Foucard.”

Monsieur Foucard came forward and bowed gravely. He was, I should say, in his middle fifties; he had a little goatee beard and sparkling dark eyes. His luxuriant hair was almost black and he was dressed
with such elegance that one was immediately reminded of the lack of that quality in the other men.

He was somewhat fulsome. He was clearly rather startled by my mother’s good looks, which seemed to imply that he did not expect to find such elegance in this country community. He was equally gracious to me.

Madame Dubusson said we should have an aperitif and then dinner would be served.

It was clear that Monsieur Foucard was the guest of honour. He had a presence. There was no doubt of that. He had a way, too, of monopolizing the conversation. He seated himself between my mother and me and addressed himself mainly to us.

His stay was, alas, to be brief, he told us, and he was already regretting that. His eyes lingered on my mother. She seemed to sparkle; this was the sort of attention she so desperately needed. I was glad that she was enjoying this so much.

“You are a man of affairs,” said my mother. “Oh, I do not mean affairs of the heart. I mean business affairs.”

He laughed heartily, his eyes shining with admiration.

It was true, he admitted. He had business all over France. It meant travelling a good deal. Yes, he was in the perfume business. What a business! He had been brought up in it. “It is the nose, Mesdames. This nose.” He indicated his own somewhat prominent feature. “I was able to detect all the subtleties of good perfume almost as a baby. At an early age I learned of the wonderful perfumes which could be made to suit beautiful women. I knew that the best cedar wood came from the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, and the essential oil we get from cedar wood is invaluable to give that tang … shall I say to set a scent … It’s a fixative.”

“It’s fascinating!” cried my mother. “Do tell me more.”

He was only too ready, and although he turned to me now and then and addressed the occasional remark in my direction, I could see he was carried away by my mother’s mature charms.

I knew why my mother always found an immediate masculine response. She was entirely feminine. She looked frail and helpless; her large brown eyes appealed for protection; she put on an air of innocence, of ignorance, in order to flatter masculine superiority, and they loved her for it. What man would not feel himself growing in stature to be appealed to by such an enchanting creature?

She was now looking at him as though all her life she had been longing to discover the facts about the manufacture of perfume.

Madame Dubusson and the Claremonts were delighted to see that their important guest was enjoying the company so intensely.

The food was always excellent at the Dubusson table. Even my mother had to admit that. Eating to the Dubussons was a religion. The manner in which they attacked their food, the obvious relish with which they consumed it, exuded a kind of reverence. But I imagined that was a trait of the French in general rather than in particular. I was sure Monsieur Foucard was a typical Frenchman in that respect, but on that night he seemed far more interested in the company than the food.

My mother said: “You must tell us more about this fascinating subject, Monsieur Foucard.”

“If you insist, Madame,” he replied.

“I do!” she replied with an upward smile at him.

“At all costs Madame must be obeyed.”

And, of course, what he wanted more than anything else was to talk of his business and when it was at the request of such an elegant and attractive woman he was delighted.

He talked; and I admit it was interesting. I learned a great deal not only about the manufacture of perfume but its history. He was certainly knowledgeable on his subject and he talked of what perfumes the ancient Egyptians had used and he bemoaned the fact that at the present day perfume was not used to the same extent.

“But, my dear lady, we shall work on that. The presentation has been neglected. Things must look good, must they not, to please the eyes, and who is more insistent on that than the ladies? We are presenting them in such a way that they are irresistible. What is more delightful than a fragrant perfume?”

My mother laughed and halted him in his flow. “You speak too fast for me sometimes, Monsieur Foucard. You must remember that I am such a novice at your language.”

“Madame, I never heard my language more delightfully spoken.”