Season of Light (26 page)

‘But surely there must have been public outrage.’

‘Ah, Mademoiselle Ardleigh, it seems I have failed to teach you that the world does not divide itself cleanly into good and evil. For a start, many people were ignorant about what was happening in those prisons. And others were self-seeking. They feared the priests, or wanted them dead, though they would never say so. The priests were a burden on their consciences, you see, because they did not compromise. When my brother was arrested last August he was one among many.

‘I visited Gabriel every day and I was angry with him too. I told him that he was deceiving himself. He and his friends used to plan what their lives would be like when they were exiled. They dreamed of setting up communities where they might bide their time until the madness in France was over. All a nonsense. I’m sure he knew, as I did, that there would be no future of any kind for Gabriel. Each time I went, more priests had been crammed inside the prison. Nobody left.

‘Meanwhile, I heard it said that able-bodied Parisians were refusing to leave the city to fight foreign armies because they were afraid that in their absence the priests would break free, put the king back on his throne and declare the revolution over. I ran from one friend to another, to endless committee rooms, arguing that patriotic souls such as Gabriel were no threat at all.’

‘What about the man who had told you to bring Gabriel to Paris?’

‘I pleaded with him, of course. I begged him to use his influence to free the priests or send them out of the city. Nobody listened. Worse than that, I now believe that by creating a fuss, I made Gabriel a thorn in their side. And so, when the day came, when Gabriel died, there was no one to prevent it. The man I trusted, my best hope, had left the city.’ Madame bit her lip and put the palm of her hand on her forehead, as if smoothing away the painful memory.

‘What happened, Madame?’

‘I used to take Gabriel soap, which was a rare luxury last summer, and fruit and cheese. The prison itself was foul – you could smell the stench in the streets half a mile away because they had converted a chapel into a prison, and it had no sanitary arrangements at all, although there was a garden. I remember so well how for a little while, when I sat with him in the long grass, when I saw the sky through beech leaves, I could pretend that he and I were young again. I would try to make him eat instead of giving everything away to his friends, and each time I would beg him to sign the oath. Gabriel never got angry with me, he just looked sad, which was worse, and said that he’d made up his mind.

‘One day we were again in the garden. Everything seemed much as usual except that there were more guards. Then someone said that the trials of the priests were going to take place that afternoon. I clung to Gabriel, I pleaded with him. I shouted that he
had
to sign the oath. What was it, after all, but a bit of paper, a pledge to support the Revolution? I locked my arms round him and tried to shake him into doing what I wanted. For me, I cried. For me.

‘A little door in the corner of the garden, which was usually locked, burst open and a gang of youths crowded in. They wore belts stuffed with pistols and carried swords, knives and pikes. One of them seized the nearest priest – an elderly man with white hair, who had been reading his missal – by the scruff of the neck, forced him to his knees and without a word slashed at his back with a sword. I remember how a spray of blood caught the sun and hit the youth’s shirt. The old priest just had time to lift his head and look amazed before they cut his face, forehead to chin. Two more youths leapt on him, laughing and stabbing him with their pikes.

‘Everything was still. I never let go of Gabriel’s hand. Then the garden was full of bellowing youths who lashed out with blade or pike or pistol-shot, and with priests running to the walls and scrabbling for a hold or flinging themselves to the ground and covering their heads. Sometimes they were caught by guards and cut down. Gabriel and I didn’t move. We could not. We just held each other.

‘Then a man yelled the order that the prisoners should be lined up and taken inside for trial. I still clung to my brother’s hand. We walked past the body of his dearest friend. I begged Gabriel even then to sign. More than almost anything else I regret that my last words to him were not: “I love you” but “Sign.” When we reached the door of the church they wrenched me away, though I fought and scratched. I caught sight of my brother only once more through the crowd, so beautiful, the shabby soutane, the back of his head like a young boy’s.

‘I shouted to him that I would get help. I yelled the names of the famous, influential people I would fetch but the guards had me dragged away.

‘I couldn’t see, but I heard the question: “
Vous avez juré?
”’

And Gabriel’s answer, “
Non
.”

‘I smelt dirt on the hand of the man who held me. My head was pressed back and all I could see was a white painted ceiling, a doorway.

‘After that everything is dark. I was found lying in the street with my face in the cobbles. I knew my brother was dead. I swear I could smell his blood. When I was well enough, I was sent out of the country. As I said, it was not safe for me in Paris, I had seen too much. The killing of those priests was a massacre of innocent people by their fellow countrymen. If the truth about what happened were made known, Marat and his cohorts would fall. I must go back, if only to make one last attempt to bring his killers to justice. I was a witness. And I must ensure that my brother’s body is buried well, and not tossed into a ditch.’

Madame’s head rolled against the cushions. In a surge of sympathy and apprehension Asa crossed the carriage and embraced her tense body. ‘Now I understand. Now I see.’ And already, in that moment of passionate connection, Asa felt the first flutter of terrifying intent.

Never had the Ardleigh lanes looked lovelier, the forge and the bakery and the labourers’ cottages seemed more homely, their gardens a tangle of honeysuckle and foxglove; never had Asa so relished the glimpses of the Downs as they lurched in and out of view, sometimes sprinkled with sheep, sometimes thickly wooded. At long last the carriage slowed, wheeled round the side of the manor and trundled under the crooked stone arch into the deep shade of the stable-yard. There was of course no sign of the squire, but Mrs Dean hurried out, and a maid.

The house was coolly scented with wisteria. Mrs Dean brought tea and wanted to talk but Asa was monosyllabic so the housekeeper left her alone in the parlour, where she studied the ancient chest in the window, the scarred oak chairs and the skimpy rugs on the flagstones. How small and faded it all was compared to Compton Wyatt, how familiar the ticking of the clock, the tapestry cushion covers worked by her mother, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

A pile of letters, unopened, lay within reach. The first, from Philippa, Asa set aside. The clock ticked away a dozen seconds before she picked up the next; an envelope larger than the rest, written in an unknown hand and stamped in London. Inside was another blank envelope.

This note, unlike the last, was dated; 15 May.

Je suis d’ésol’ée, ma chère. Je meurs sans toi. Ta lettre … Sans toi la vie ne vaut rien. Mes ennemis m’entourent. Tu es la seule
…

Caroline Lambert had grown so thin that when they embraced Asa thought her friend’s spine would snap. Her skin had a mushroomy pallor and her eye sockets were dark with sleeplessness and grief. They visited Mr Lambert’s grave, marked by a long mound of soil and a wooden cross. Under the hot sun the new-turned earth had already cracked.

She and Caroline stood side by side, gripping each other’s hands. ‘I tell myself, he would have been pleased to die like that,’ said Caroline, ‘carried away in a cart to defend his principles. When they came for him he wasn’t at all afraid. Amused, rather. I think he relished the prospect of putting his case before a judge.’

‘I wish I’d been here.’

‘Our friends are collecting money for a headstone. Your sister Philippa has been very generous, so thoughtful. She wrote me a long letter and in the course of it made me a very kind offer. She has asked me to go to Morton Hall as governess to your nephews.’

‘Goodness. But you’re not a governess. Whatever was she thinking of?’

‘In her letter, Philippa – Mrs Morton – said that your family was indebted to my father for the care he had taken of you and that she had such a high regard for both him and me that she would like me to teach her boys until they are old enough for school. By which time baby Kate will be ready for the services of a governess.’

‘I hope you refused her at once. Or would you rather I wrote to her?’

‘I have not refused her at all.’

Asa waited until they were on their way back to the cottage before she could trust herself to speak again. ‘This is selfish of Philippa, to use your loss to her advantage. You are far too clever to be a governess. Besides, John Morton is suspicious of Dissenters. He would never tolerate your views.’

‘Philippa is well aware of what her husband thinks. She was very frank and said they had discussed the matter at length and both concluded that they would be fortunate to employ a governess known for her good sense and integrity. Those were her words. The children are much too young to be endangered by my influence, don’t you think? And at least it is a roof over my head, Thomasina. Your sister is fond of me and I of her – I could do far worse.’

‘I’d rather hoped you might come back with me to Ardleigh. We need to make plans for the future. We’ve hardly had any time together for months.’

‘I accepted Philippa’s offer by return of post.’

‘Caroline, how could you? We should talk about this. It’s not too late. You’re grieving … you don’t know what you’re doing.’

Caroline was laughing. ‘It’s not so bad. For goodness’ sake, Thomasina, I’m going to work for your sister, Philippa, who is surely no monster. I shall be so well paid I may even be able to save a little, and Philippa has promised me a spacious room of my own.’

‘But what about me? How shall I manage without you?’

‘I shall only be in Guildford and you will visit often, I hope.’

The cottage was tidier than usual and the shelves in the pantry better stocked thanks to the neighbours’ kindness. Mrs Dean had sent cake and a jar of Ardleigh honey. They had tea in the back garden, where Caroline grew herbs, and there were rows of newly sprouted runner beans, each tripod tied at the top with string reused year after year. Asa sat bolt upright while Caroline stretched her legs and closed her eyes to the sun. ‘And Mr Shackleford?’ she said. ‘Did you like him any better or am I to assume that nothing came of the visit?’

‘You’re right, nothing came of it. But let’s not talk about Shackleford. He’s of no interest to either of us.’

‘Whatever can you mean? Of course I’m interested in Mr Shackleford. Father was too. He always wanted me to read out the parts of your letters that weren’t private. He was rather amused by the idea of a match between you and Shackleford; said there was symmetry to it. By the way, he told me to let you know that there had been a certain amount of quiet rejoicing in abolition circles that a man so liberal as your Mr Shackleford had inherited the estate.’

‘
Liberal
, is that how he’s regarded? I suppose so. But underneath he’s no different to the rest of them. He might claim to be uncomfortable – I’d put it no more strongly than that – with the family business, but he is too lazy to make a difference. He never has taken action, and never will.’

‘I do believe that you are disturbed by my question,’ said Caroline. ‘You’re not indifferent to him at all. You like him, don’t you?’

‘Oh, I
like
him well enough. He almost won me over in the end. He’s very kind in small ways.’

‘Kindness is a good quality.’

‘And he loves me. That much is clear.’

‘He proposed, then?’

‘As good as. Twice, I suppose.’

‘But you didn’t accept?’

‘You know I could never do that.’

‘But you were tempted?’

‘Tempted? Yes … You’re right. One night – after I’d drunk too much wine – I came within a whisker of accepting him. Caroline, everything was right – starlight above a lake, music.’ She paused. ‘But it was all a veneer. Slaves are part of the fabric of Shackleford’s world. He doesn’t use excuses or hide the connection; it’s what he is. And besides, even there at Compton Wyatt, I couldn’t forget …’

‘The old reason,’ said Caroline, ‘is that what it is? Will you never give up?’

How could Asa possibly say, now that Caroline was so firmly in Philippa’s camp, that she had heard from Didier, but that having yearned for a message all these years, his summons had cast her into a quagmire of confusion. The previous night, she’d almost had to break the nib of her pen to stop herself writing to Shackleford.

‘You’re angry with me,’ said Caroline, after another silence, ‘and I understand why. You think that I’ve changed sides. Perhaps I have acted too hastily, but I felt relieved when I had written to your sister. My path seemed so clear.’

‘Of course I’m not angry. Jealous, I think. Thinking only of myself, probably, because I fear losing you. Isn’t that shameful?’

‘Not shameful.’ Caroline’s foot touched Asa’s, an affectionate pressure on her toe. ‘But let’s get to work. I want you to look through some of Father’s things.’

In Mr Lambert’s study were half-packed tea chests, the worn velvet of the single cushion on his straight-backed chair, his inkstand with three uncut quills and one, ink-stained, lying beside the blotter, that faintest whiff of pipe smoke. ‘Take anything you like,’ said Caroline. ‘What’s left will be sold, if possible. I can hardly smuggle subversive literature into Morton Hall.’

Asa chose two books: Barlowe’s
Advice to the Privileged Orders
as a reproach to Shackleford, and Montesquieu’s
De l’esprit des loix
, in French, a volume much read by Mr Lambert because of the simplicity of its argument for a virtuous republic rather than a despotic monarchy.

Caroline was sifting through a sheaf of papers. ‘Look, here’s a map of France which might be of interest to you, I think – it’s the one Father used during his visit in the 1760s. You might like to keep this as a reminder of your trip to the country before the Revolution. And these little notes are from Beatrice and Didier Paulin, when they were children.’ She studied Asa’s face gravely. ‘Have them if you like. Their address is on the top. Perhaps you’d write and let the professor know that Father has died?’