Season of Light (2 page)

She had no choice but to introduce Morton and Shackleford. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Paulin,’ said Morton a little stiffly – he had learned to be circumspect in the presence of carelessly dressed Parisian radicals.

‘I hear that you are a lawyer, Paulin,’ Shackleford said. ‘Thought of taking up the law myself but decided it would require far too much study. Curse of the younger son, to be without direction.’

Paulin raised his fine brows and replied in fluent English. ‘But there is so much to be done. How can anyone lack direction in times such as these? And if your family happens to have money, that always helps.’

‘Then we must dine together, and you can tell me what’s needed.’

Paulin shrugged. ‘We’ll dine, yes, if you like. But really, you don’t need instruction from me. Look about you, Shackleford. You’ll soon see that France is on its knees.’

The clock was striking six, which in England would have signalled the end of dinner, but in Madame de Genlis’s salon was the impetus for women to pick up their skirts and gentlemen to lead their ladies towards the door, as if some invisible force were funnelling them towards other important assemblies.

Morton was deferential in his leave-taking of Shackleford: ‘We will meet again on Friday next, at
Figaro
. And do call at our hotel, the Montmorency, where my wife’ – the word
wife
was spoken by Morton with a self-conscious smile that never ceased to infuriate Asa – ‘will be delighted to receive you.’

A lock of Shackleford’s powdered hair had lost its curl and hung over his cheek as he kissed Asa’s hand once more. By the time he’d backed away, with obvious reluctance, Didier Paulin was standing beside Madame de Genlis, arms folded, absolutely at ease as he inclined his head to offer her a confidence.

‘Didier is an affectionate soul,’ said Beatrice. ‘Some men would forget their family at times like this, but not Didier. That turquoise handkerchief he carries in his pocket used to be my mother’s. She died three years ago and he wears it in remembrance of her because she came from generations of silk weavers.’

‘Beatrice, we have so much in common,’ said Asa. ‘Except in my case it was different – it was my fault. My mother died giving birth to me.’

‘Then you have suffered the most,’ said Beatrice gravely. ‘I at least was brought up by my mother.’

The room was emptying. Any moment now Morton would offer to escort Asa back to the hotel. Paulin abruptly crossed the room and slipped his arm around his sister’s waist so that Asa, while rejoicing in his nearness, felt a pang that she did not have such a brother and that no male arm except her father’s had ever held her close.

‘Didier, I’ve not seen you for days,’ cried Beatrice, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘You must come to visit Father and me tomorrow, and eat a proper meal.’

‘What’s a proper meal?’ He pinched her cheek and kissed her. ‘You and Father would like to fill me up with foie gras, I suppose.’

Asa noticed Didier’s ink-stained fingers as they rested on the folds of Beatrice’s skirt. ‘How long have you been in Paris, mademoiselle?’ he asked her.

‘Over a month.’

‘And how much longer will you stay?’

‘I cannot be sure. I am here as a companion to my oldest sister on her wedding journey and our plans depend on my new brother-in-law, Mr Morton.’ Asa nodded towards Morton, who was still mercifully engaged in elaborate farewells.

‘Then I must hope to see you again soon.’ These words, like soft, momentous blows to Asa’s heart, were followed by a short pause. ‘I suppose you have visited Versailles, Mademoiselle Anglaise, like every other visitor to our city.’

‘Indeed I have.’

‘And?’

‘It filled me with dismay. So much money squandered on so few.’

‘Did you view the state rooms?’

‘We did, although my brother-in-law was more interested in the gardens since he is designing his own. I had no wish to glimpse the queen in a state of undress. They say her son is very sick and that makes me feel sorry for her. But is it true she orders a new gown every other day?’

Had she said the right thing? Was compassionate contempt for the monarchy an acceptable attitude? Apparently so.

‘Mademoiselle, I’m sure my father would like to meet a friend of Monsieur Lambert’s. I heard Monsieur Morton say you will go to
Figaro
this Friday. We shall also be there.’ Releasing Beatrice, he darted forward and took Asa’s hand.

‘Ronsard,’ he murmured, ‘do you know his work?’

She shook her head.

‘You should. I feel as if I recognise you because you are in every word he writes.’

On the brief journey back to the hotel, Morton talked exclusively about Shackleford: ‘Such a pity he’s only the younger son. He seemed very taken with you. Couldn’t keep his eyes off you, in fact, begged me to introduce you. Your dear sister will be sorry to have missed him. He has many acquaintances in Paris and says …’

Meanwhile Asa was reliving her conversation with Didier. Her blood surged with the recollection of every word, the slight pressure of his thumb on her palm.
Ronsard
. Why had Mr Lambert never introduced her to the poetry of Ronsard? How ignorant she must have seemed. Well, by the time she met Didier at the theatre next week she would have educated herself.

At the Montmorency they found Philippa collapsed against the pillows, nauseous and clammy skinned, insisting weakly that the source of her troubles must be last night’s veal. Morton wanted to call a doctor at once but was urged by his wife to wait until morning. So Asa, having bathed her sister’s face and combed her hair, spent an anxious, emotional evening in her own room. To her middle sister, Georgina, she wrote a long letter about her meeting with the notorious Shackleford. To her friend, Caroline Lambert, she described in glowing terms her meeting with sensitive Beatrice Paulin and her radical brother.

Next morning the doctor made the astonishing diagnosis that Philippa might be expecting a child.

‘It can’t be true,’ cried John Morton, crimson with embarrassment and gratification. ‘We have been married barely six weeks.’

‘Nonetheless,’ said the doctor, ‘I believe it to be so. Thirty-two years old is, if you’ll excuse me, an advanced age to bear a first child. You must take great care of your wife.’

‘We shall go home at once.’

‘Certainly not. A journey at this time, particularly for a woman so afflicted by sickness, might be fatal to both mother and child. During these early, critical months I prescribe bed rest and no excitement.’

Asa, who had served as interpreter throughout this fateful conversation, therefore received a temporary reprieve from the dreadful prospect of an early return to England. For the time being, however, all sightseeing trips were at an end, so she devoted herself to nursing her sister, sitting at the window and supplying vignettes of the street scene below, reading aloud from
The Vicar of Wakefield
or writing letters home to Philippa’s dictation. The disturbing news from England was that Georgina had persuaded their father to take rooms in London for the summer:
so that neither of us will miss you both quite as badly
.

Philippa, in her weakened state, was fretful. ‘There’s no telling what will become of Georgina in London. Father won’t keep his eye on her. He hates London, she knows he does. I’d have brought her with me if I’d thought this would happen.’

‘For her sake I wish you had; for mine, I’m glad you didn’t,’ said Asa as she dabbed her sister’s pale temples with lavender water.

‘The point is, what use would she have been to me here? She’d have spent the entire time prancing about in front of the mirror or looking at fashions. Perhaps in London she’ll meet someone like my Mr Morton.’

‘Does such another being exist?’

Philippa opened one eye, revealing a faint gleam of humour, then turned her head wearily on the pillow. ‘I do hope she doesn’t do something rash.’

Morton spent his days bustling to meetings and salerooms. After a dinner with his Freemason friends he returned pop-eyed with news. Apparently the whole of Paris was talking about the possibility that the king would have to call an Estates General, the nearest equivalent to the English Parliament, in order to squeeze money out of his reluctant people by raising taxes.

‘I’ve told them,’ said Morton, ‘they must follow our English model and introduce an elected parliament. And there must be a fair system of taxation. In England we all expect to pay our way.’

‘Mr Lambert says that our system has a far greater impact on the poor than it does on the rich,’ objected Asa. ‘Everyone has to use salt and soap but the rich pay the same for these goods as the poor.’

‘That’s a very simplistic attitude, if I may say so,’ said Morton.

‘He says a tax on income or assets would be much fairer and more productive.’

‘And extremely intrusive. As if one could tolerate investigations into how much one was worth.’

‘Asa knows nothing about it really,’ said Philippa. ‘Mr Lambert hasn’t a penny to spare so perhaps he doesn’t know any better, but I really wish he wouldn’t bother the girls with such ideas.’

Since Morton did not expect women to have ideas of any kind, let alone financial or political, his daily walks with Asa, taken at Philippa’s insistence in the Jardin du Luxembourg, were tense occasions, especially as Asa was ever on the alert for a glimpse of Didier. Her hopes were dashed time after time, though a few days after Madame de Genlis’s salon a maid knocked on Philippa’s door and announced the arrival of Mademoiselle Paulin.

So excited was Asa at the prospect of seeing Beatrice again, and so full of hope that she might, after all, be accompanied by her brother, that she flew down the stairs with her hair unbrushed and her skirts flying. Beatrice, wearing a plain straw bonnet over her smooth hair, greeted her calmly and the pair took a turn or two among the potted plants in the hotel’s atrium. ‘I came to tell you that I shall definitely be at the theatre on Friday,’ said Beatrice. ‘Didier will accompany me if he’s free. Otherwise Father, who normally hates comedy, has promised to go with me because he says it would be a good opportunity to meet you.’

‘We may have to go home soon. My sister is very sick. I don’t even know if she’ll be well enough to go to the theatre.’

‘Perhaps if she isn’t Didier and I could collect you? In the meantime he sent you these books. Strange boy. Diderot I can understand, but Ronsard is quite out of fashion.’

The instant Beatrice left Asa raced up to her own room and closed the door. The volume of Ronsard had tissue-thin pages and was bound in faded blue calfskin. Within the front cover were inked a number of signatures, including that of
D. Paulin
in a flowing hand. Lying on her bed, Asa feverishly translated poem after poem. ‘
Donc, si vous me croyez, mignonne, Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne … My darling, give me the flower of your youth
…’

Her reading was interrupted after a short while by the announcement of another visitor: Shackleford. Again without bothering to smooth her hair, she went reluctantly down, the little volume of Ronsard tucked deep into the pocket of her skirts. Her visitor, in ice-blue satin, his hair immaculate, was watching ardently as she descended the stairs.

She did not spare his blushes as she relayed the news about Philippa. His response was a stuttered confusion of pleasure and concern. ‘If there’s anything I can do for your sister’s comfort, please tell me. Fruit? Wine? Flowers?’

‘Thank you. As you can imagine, her husband supplies all her needs. Besides, she and I have very simple tastes, Mr Shackleford. We were brought up in the country.’

‘Of course. I could tell at once … unspoiled, unaffected … But my dear Miss Ardleigh, you look a little pale yourself. Might I perhaps take you for a turn in the carriage?’

‘That is kind of you, Mr Shackleford, but I must stay here with my sister.’ Asa had conducted the entire conversation from the bottom step, as if to imply that every second away from the sickroom might constitute a threat to Philippa’s health. Shackleford gave a wistful smile and bowed himself out, turning one last time as he reached the door. Asa, feeling guilty at using Philippa as an excuse, spent the rest of the afternoon at her sister’s bedside, silently translating Ronsard while she slept.

The following day Shackleford called again, decked out this time in matching waistcoat and breeches of embossed gold satin, and a many-buttoned mid-blue coat. As Morton was absent from the hotel, Asa was again forced to spend a short interval with him.

‘I do wish you would come out and about with me, Miss Ardleigh. I’m quite at a loose end.’

‘It surprises me that anyone could be at a loose end in Paris.’

‘I’ve visited often before, and for long periods at a time. There’s much I could show you, Miss Ardleigh. It seems all wrong for you to be so confined on your first trip to the city. We could go to the races. Shopping. I could take you to the Louvre Palace …’

‘I am quite content here. How could I enjoy myself knowing that Philippa was suffering alone?’

‘Your devotion does you credit, Miss Ardleigh.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew how much I owed my sister. When my mother died Philippa was barely thirteen, yet she dedicated herself – all her young womanhood – to my care. Can you be surprised that I wish to look after her now?’

Shackleford had an odd way of listening, with his head down, so that he glanced at her from beneath his eyebrows. ‘I should have liked a sister like that. I have one brother, Tom, and we were packed off to school very young. He was several years older than me and refused to acknowledge a cub of a brother so we’re scarcely acquainted.’

Surely he was not expecting her to pity him?

‘Perhaps soon your sister will be stronger and you’ll be able to ride out again,’ he said. ‘Paris is restless. It’s a remarkable place. Even I am fired by the atmosphere here.’

‘Even you, Mr Shackleford?’

‘I tend not to engage myself much with politics, but I am meeting people who talk about the subject all the time. There’s no avoiding it. Your friend Paulin, for instance, never talks about anything else.’