Season of Light (14 page)

‘If he’s as eligible as you seem to think I don’t see why he would choose Asa at all,’ said Philippa, patting her baby’s back. ‘I was not at my best in Paris, it’s true, but I don’t remember there being any firm signs of an attachment between them. After all, Ardleigh will be his whether he marries her or not.’

‘Family name,’ said Georgina triumphantly. ‘The Shackleford fortune is built on trade – sugar, glass and the like. Our name is in the Domesday Book and Mr Shackleford could not have been friendlier to me. He seemed to be positively angling for an invitation. He will be staying with friends near Cobham before Easter, which is why I invited him to call on us here.’

‘
Before
Easter? When exactly?’

‘We made no firm engagement so we must be prepared for all eventualities. I’ll attend to Asa’s wardrobe and Madame will have to work on her manners.’

‘You talk about Asa as if she were not in the room,’ said Philippa, glancing belatedly at her younger sister. ‘I have agreed with you all along that we must consider her future but we have no right to coerce her into marriage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Asa.

‘Don’t worry, my Asa,’ said Philippa, ‘nobody will force you to marry anyone you can’t abide. As if they could.’

In the formal garden a dark-cloaked figure skimmed across the frosted lawn and slipped through a gap in the privet hedge; Madame de Rusigneux on her daily walk.

‘Philippa is quite right. You’re wasting your time, Georgina,’ Asa said without turning from the window. ‘I refuse to marry this Shackleford.’

‘How can you say that when you haven’t seen him in years?’

‘I am completely opposed to him. I will not, in any way, be associated with money made through slaving.’

‘I wonder, then, that you consent to spend another minute in this house,’ Georgina remarked triumphantly. ‘With all due respect to your Mr Morton, I bet he has plenty of interests in the West Indies, Phil?’

Philippa patted her child’s back and wouldn’t reply, it being one of her oft-repeated maxims that a woman should never intervene in her husband’s affairs. Exasperated, Georgina shook out the many frills on her skirt. ‘If you marry Shackleford, you’ll be able to influence him, Asa. Look at what I’ve done with my Geoffrey.’

There was a significant pause during which Philippa could not help catching Asa’s eye.

Stifling a smile, she said, ‘Our main consideration should be what is best for Asa.’

‘Shackleford is the obvious choice,’ insisted Georgina. ‘And, as I said, it seemed to me that he was extraordinarily eager to come here.’

‘I won’t marry him,’ Asa said, heading for the door. ‘I refuse to be a sacrificial lamb. You need not worry about my future. If Father dies, I’ll go and live with Caroline.’

Georgina laughed. ‘Wonderful. The pair of you won’t have a ha’p’orth to rub together.’

Morton Hall was full of discord – a distant wail in the nursery, Warren shouting in the library: ‘… I’m not asking you to commit yourself, for God’s sake …’ as Asa dashed along the passage to her own bedchamber, where she stood with her palms pressed to her forehead. She could hear the pounding of hoof-beats; Shackleford’s horse on the drive, Shackleford bearing down on her.

After a moment she opened her writing case and sat, pen in hand. She must act to break this impasse which had her at the beck and call of her sisters. Now, surely, she should write to Didier and tell him she had run out of time. But still she hesitated over the page. What would be the consequences for Didier of receiving a letter from England?

Or perhaps, she thought, plunging her nib into the ink bottle, all this time I have been a coward; perhaps Didier has been waiting for me to make a move. He hasn’t sent for me to go to France because he doesn’t want to put me in danger. Of course he has been silent – out of love for me.

So she wrote:

I will come to you, before it is too late. I would rather a million times be with you in France, whatever the risks, than without you here in England. Please, send for me. The pain of being parted from you is sharper now even than on the day I left Paris. Then, I had hope. Now, all that is left is the shadow of a dream of you. I grieve, night and day, for what might have been
…

She sealed the letter, addressed it to the rue du Vieux Colombier, flung on her cloak and hood, raced down the servants’ stairs and let herself out of the house.

It was a over a fortnight since she had stepped beyond the gates of Morton Hall. With Easter barely five weeks away, specks of new life had begun to appear in the hedgerows, a tinge of green on the blackthorn. For years, it seemed, she had been waiting for this moment, when love would take charge again. And now she was in the grip of the old madness it felt wonderful; the violent assault on the heart and nerves, the rush of desire.

When she reached the town she walked demurely, head down, aware that Guildford would be full of Philippa’s acquaintances. As it was, the post office clerk scrutinised first the letter, then Asa. ‘Do you know, I’ve gone months with nobody sending a letter more than thirty mile and now I have two ladies corresponding with France in one afternoon.’

The other lady in question, thought Asa, could well be Madame, posting or collecting a letter from home. If so, she might still be in the town. It would be good to have a little company, even perhaps to share confidences about Georgina’s expectations. But there was no sign of Madame in the High Street and certainly Asa had not passed her in the lane. For a while she dawdled, going from one shop window to the next, sniffing woodsmoke and occasionally glimpsing the interior of a snug parlour. Perhaps her sudden melancholy was provoked by being on the outside of so many lives, but now she felt drained and hopeless. The letter would never reach Didier and even if it did he would not reply. She pictured a loveless future, locked in bitter struggle with her family.

It had grown much colder. Asa began the walk home along Quarry Street, past the church where her aunt, cause of the momentous meeting between Philippa and Morton, was buried. It would be remiss of her to go by without at least pausing by the small white cross marking her grave. But as she opened the lych-gate she realised that she was not alone; a woman lingered just outside the church, perhaps trying to decide whether or not to enter. Asa was about to call out – there was no mistaking that trim figure in its dark hood – but then she noticed that Madame was actually standing with her face to the porch wall, forehead pressed to stone. Her fist, in which was clutched a paper of some kind, struck the wall twice and she gave a low sob.

Asa crept closer, put out her hand and softly touched her companion’s shoulder. ‘Dear Madame …’

Madame sprang aside, fist raised as if to beat Asa away. ‘
Vous
.’

‘Madame, I just …’

‘
Laissez-moi. Vous m’avez suivi?
’

Asa gabbled in French: ‘
Je suis désolée. Je ne voulais pas vous faire peur
. And no, of course I wasn’t following you. I came to town to post a letter.’

‘Aren’t there enough servants in the house who would post a letter for you?’

‘It was a private letter. I certainly wasn’t following you. Believe me, I just happened to see you. Forgive me.’

Madame rose to her full height. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’ She took out a perfectly folded handkerchief and attempted to dry her eyes. ‘I should never have come here, to a graveyard. I just wanted to be alone.’

‘I understand that need well enough. I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘This letter forwarded to me from London,’ Madame held out the scrunched envelope, ‘which today I collected. My brother, my most dear brother … I thought it could not be worse. I thought they had given him a Christian burial at least. Now it seems I cannot be sure.’

‘What do you mean, madame?’

‘
Excusez-moi
.’ Madame again turned her face to the wall and extended her hand as if to keep Asa at bay. ‘
Mon Dieu
… Already he has endured every possible indignity. And now this. I cannot bear it.’ She clenched her arms about her waist and doubled up as she sobbed again. ‘To allow him no decent burial – as if he were a common criminal or a traitor.
Mon frère
. Gabriel.’

‘Who has done this to him? What happened?’

‘All priests had to sign an oath of loyalty to the new constitution of France. My brother would not sign because he thought there might come a time when he would be compromised. And yet he loved the Revolution; he prayed for reform constantly. They killed him because he chose to put his service to God before his service to the Revolution.’

‘Who is
they
? Who killed him?’

‘Marat. Danton. Their followers. Those fanatics who believe that every person in France must think exactly the same.’

‘Surely, madame, the whole point of the Revolution is that people should be free to live and think as they wish.’

‘I wish I had never been born. It is my fault. I summoned my brother to Paris because I thought I could protect him. I told him that I had friends who would look after him. Instead, he walked into a trap. Therefore it is I who killed him.’

‘But if it was a trap, how could you have known?’

‘I thought I had influence. I behaved like a queen, urging my brother to come. And then I was betrayed by the very person I trusted to save him.’

‘I’m sure you acted in the best possible interest of your brother.’

‘You know nothing about it. But I tell you, I shall never forgive those evil people and I will not rest until justice has been done.’

‘Not evil, surely. You mustn’t think that.’

‘Don’t tell me what to think.’

‘Of course not.’ Asa tried to take Madame’s hand but she shrank away. Her arm was rigid, palm facing Asa to ward her off so that she retreated along the path until she was level with her aunt’s grave. When she turned back there was no sign of Madame.

The lane, after the lamplight of the town, was very dark and the cold bit at Asa’s throat. From time to time she staggered on clods of frozen mud. Several times she looked behind her, even waited for a few minutes; still no Madame. It was a relief to reach Morton, where the lawns were silvered with moonlight and the pools in the water garden glazed with ice. In the house, Asa raced up three flights of stairs to the nursery, where the children were at tea so that the warm air was scented with jam and hot milk. Seizing the nearest nephew, she nuzzled her cold face in his neck until he squealed with glee and his brothers pestered to be given the same treatment.

Later that evening, at dinner, it was clear that the brothers-in-law must have been arguing about money, since they barely said a word to each other. Seated between them, Madame de Rusigneux was at her most demure, neck and bosom swathed in a white muslin scarf, hair parted and drawn into a plain knot. From time to time Asa attempted to meet her eye but Madame was too busy displaying her exquisite table manners or responding to Warren’s gallantries.

Georgina, who had long since learned that the way to please Morton was to admire his wife’s housekeeping, commented exhaustively on each dish, the sheen on the silverware, the starch in the napkins. ‘Oh, by the way, Asa, where did you go gallivanting off to this afternoon? Little John saw you running down the drive and made a tremendous fuss because he wanted to go out too. You should have taken him.’

Not by a flicker did Madame de Rusigneux, who was eating a lemon cream, show any reaction. ‘I had a headache and needed a walk,’ Asa replied.

‘So did the boys. It was thoughtless of you to be gone so long. Anyway, Madame de Rusigny, there must be no more racketing about the countryside for Asa. I shall take up the reins of the household so you can both concentrate on your lessons. Where will you begin?’

Madame gave one of her unforgettable smiles. ‘We will begin,’ she said, ‘with the fan.’

When the ladies retired to the ivory drawing room Georgina ensconced herself in Philippa’s high-backed armchair near the fire and, fiddling with a ribbon tied round the neck of her little dog, said she couldn’t wait to watch the first lesson, she might learn something herself. Madame de Rusigneux and Asa occupied either end of a sofa which had been chosen by Morton for its elegant curves rather than its comfort; between them, on the cream and pink Aubusson rug, was the illimitable portmanteau.

A smile played at the corner of Madame de Rusigneux’s mouth as she dipped forward and removed from her bag a rounded, elongated box about the length of a woman’s forearm, of plain polished wood, wider at the top than the bottom. With expert fingertips, she flipped back the lid to reveal a velvet-lined interior containing a number of black silk fan cases from which she selected two. She then closed the lid and returned the case to her portmanteau.

Like an actress gathering herself for a climactic scene, she waited with the two fans in her lap, her hands resting lightly on the sofa at either side. Georgina held up the dog so that its legs dangled as she blew kisses. But when Madame’s gaze met Asa’s the expression in her eyes was entirely at odds with her dainty gestures. It was a plea so passionate, so striking, that Asa’s heart lurched: Say nothing about what occurred this afternoon.

Madame loosened the drawstring of a fan case and a fan whispered forth, and then, with an infinitesimal flick of the wrist, was half unfurled in a puff of pre-revolutionary French dust.

Like a proud mama exhibiting her precocious offspring, Madame said: ‘Beautiful, is it not?’

With the merest twitch of finger and thumb, she spread out the full semicircle. No wonder she had fled to England, Asa thought; France’s austere Revolutionary Assembly would never have tolerated a woman who treated a trinket, albeit a priceless one, with such reverence. Passing the tip of her index finger to and fro, Madame pointed out the glorious detail of piercing on the guard sticks, how the painted silk had been stiffened and varnished with a substance called
vernis Martin
, and how the scene, of an expedition in a balloon above a pre-revolutionary city street, had been contrived so that the red balloon expanded as the fan opened.

When Asa put out her hand Madame withdrew the fan and smiled almost flirtatiously, forcing Asa to move closer so that she could smell the disturbing perfume of Madame’s skin; the frosty lane beyond Morton Hall, the churchyard’s aroma of earth and stone.