Season of Light (39 page)

The reason for their visit is that they have disturbing news regarding Madame de Rusigneux, whom you did not mention in your own letter from Caen but with whom we know you left England. Mr Shackleford made enquiries in London of Mrs Silburn and others who recommended her to your sisters, and it now seems that very little was known of her, and that quite exceptionally among the émigré community in London, she has no connections. Worse, Mr Shackleford tell us that the town, Frenelle, where your companion said she used to live, does not exist, at least in southern France, and Mrs Susan Shackleford, who has made a close study of your companion’s paintings, has cast doubt on her claims to be a lady artist. She says they are rather the mechanistic works of a professional copyist and adds that no lady of her acquaintance is quite unable to play the piano. As a consequence of these speculations we have deepened our enquiries – I shall not burden you with the details – and as a result have little doubt that Madame de Rusigneux is a fraud and you must therefore be extremely wary of her. I’m sorry I didn’t meet her. I like to think I might have noticed
.

Mr Shackleford and I walk in the garden with the children. He is at all times calm and kind, a source of great strength and encouragement. The origins of his family fortune notwithstanding, it seems to me that you were blessed in suitors indeed that you could reject such a one as Shackleford, who speaks of you warmly and always takes your part. Apparently he met Paulin while in Paris and thinks highly of him, and he tells me that Paulin has now been promoted within the National Convention. Of course, I always suspected that your lover was Didier Paulin – your letters were full of him while in Paris – and I do not to this day know why you withheld his name from me, unless it was for my father’s sake. Perhaps I have been cold in discussing certain matters, preferring to read about passion in books rather than probe its existence in my own heart or yours
.

I have strayed a little from the point. The point is we miss you. We think now only of your happiness. We wish you were home, but above all we want you to be safe. If you can be content married to Didier Paulin, then so be it. We will rejoice for you. But if you cannot, and you want to come home, you have only to say the word and we will find the means to bring you
.

I am as ever, Thomasina, and always, your loving friend
,

Caroline

It was clear, subsequent to the inauspicious arrival of the letter from England, that Asa was no longer welcome in the house on rue des Francs Bourgeois. Her bed was left unmade and as she ate her spartan breakfast the landlady barely spoke. So, on the morning of Saturday, 13 July, while she awaited Didier’s return, Asa was forced to go walking again, this time heading through restless crowds to the site of the Bastille and then to the church of St-Eustache, which she had visited with John Morton. The former had disappeared entirely – every last crumb of rubble seized to build a new bridge or as a souvenir – and there was no access to the latter, the church having been put to municipal use.

Throughout that interminable day, Asa viewed Paris through the prism of Caroline’s letter. Far away in England was the safety of Morton Hall with its fountain modelled hopefully on Versailles, its draughty top floor sparsely furnished for the long-suffering maids and Mrs Susan Shackleford, unaccountably transferred from Compton Wyatt to the new piano stool in the music room, her notes trickling like a balm. All that activity coupled with all that waiting for news. Philippa, pregnant again, when the birth of baby Kate had almost killed her. And Shackleford, who
speaks of you warmly and always takes your part
. No danger that he would trouble Asa with further requests for her hand. How he must despise her subterfuge, now that it was clear to him that she had been preoccupied by Didier all along, even while kissing him after the ball.

And despite all those people in England loving Asa, longing for news, here she was in Paris, rootless in a city that had no use for her, which in fact repelled her with its locked churches and wary-eyed women, generating in her a fear of being still. She could scarcely bear the thought of turning up at her lodgings and encountering the hostile Citoyenne Maurice, of being forced to wait for Didier until another day, the shame of knocking again and being told he was absent. Yet what refuge did she have but him? In any case, she had waited for so long to see him once more, had so longed for him, she could not possibly give up now. The Didier of her memory had been usurped by the Didier described by his father and sister. Yet it seemed to Asa that both Didiers had flashed before her in the Convention. Of course she must confront him, and find out which was the real one.

Late in the afternoon at the Place Vendôme, even at the end of the summer’s day, the air was full of soot. Deputy Paulin, said the maid, was still not home.

‘You told me he would be back this afternoon.’

‘And so he will be, I presume, though I don’t see what business it is of yours.’

Asa was of course not invited to wait inside but this time remained in the square, pinioned by the superstition that if she missed Didier again he might disappear for ever. Although she kept to the shade, she rarely took her eyes from the door of number 12. In the early evening a burly official in a red cap approached, and advised her not to hang about or people would get the wrong idea. Sure enough, a bunch of youths lurched over to offer her money if she’d go to the rue Cambon with them, where they knew of a cosy room.

By the time the sun began lowering itself behind the rooftops, Asa was weak with tension. What if he didn’t come? Of all those who had passed through the square, she was sure that none had entered the door to number 12 and yet, soon after the clocks struck eight, she noticed movement across the second-floor window and the casement was thrown open. Maybe the servant was making preparations for Didier’s return, or maybe, it now struck Asa, there was a back way into the apartments. In a rush, she crossed the square and again knocked on the door.

The same servant answered, this time wearing a clean cap and apron and with her manners notably improved. ‘Monsieur Paulin is at home but is about to eat. He says he isn’t expecting visitors. Who shall I say is calling?’

‘My name is Thomasina Ardleigh.’

It was several minutes before footsteps were again heard on the stairs; this time a man’s tread. Asa’s neck ached as she strained for a glimpse of him. Then she saw a pair of naked feet descending, and there was Didier, standing in front of her, eyes shining in the dusk. She heard herself speak his name. For a moment he was still, then shook his head, as he had in the Convention when he had seemed to catch sight of her.

From somewhere above came the sound of the maid closing a door. The shock in Didier’s eyes softened to incredulity. Asa’s heartbeat slowed. He came no closer but stretched out his hand and indicated that she should follow him. In silence they walked up two flights of stairs, she watching the tendons on the back of his heels, the tautness of his calf against the dark cloth of his breeches. In her mind was an incantation of his name: Didier. Didier. This is Didier. When they came to his apartment he gestured that she should enter first; she passed so close that her skirts brushed his leg. In the small vestibule she glimpsed through an open door a bed covered in a plain white quilt with a scalloped edge.

At last he spoke, very softly. ‘
Viens
.’

Here she was, alone with him once more, in his salon above the Place Vendôme, overlooking the blind arcades where she had waited all afternoon. He watched her through half-closed eyes, as if wondering whether she was a trick of the light. ‘This is indeed Thomasina Ardleigh, is it not? Thomasina.’ It was his pronunciation of her name, the stress on the second syllable, which brought her fully into his presence. ‘
C’est toi?
’

‘Yes.’ In her mind a blue and white jug, his knowing hands, his shirt hanging over a screen, the monastery garden, his aged father in a prison cell …

He gave a shout of amazed laughter. ‘Never had I expected … You astonish me. I thought I’d never see you again.’

‘Here I am.’

‘Indeed you are.’ He was even more beautiful than in her memory; the gentian eyes, the prominence of brow and chin and the dipping curve of his lower lip. Again he gave a little shake of the head. ‘Do you know, I thought I saw you the other day? You weren’t in the Manège? I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of your face. But then I came to my senses and thought no, it couldn’t be. After you’d gone that summer, I saw you everywhere, in the gardens and boulevards. I used to follow girls thinking they were you.’

‘In England, I did the same. I would see a young man with dark hair and be convinced that you had come to find me.’

‘My God, I can’t believe you’re here. Look at us, we’re both shaking. Stay there, don’t move. I’m afraid that if I take my eyes from you for one second you’ll disappear like you did the last time …’ On a table by the window a place had been set for dinner, with a basket of bread covered by a cloth. He got up and poured some wine, held her hand to steady it and gave her the glass. Their fingers, his warm, hers cold, touched for an instant so that the blood hammered under her skin. The potential for further touch, even for an embrace, hung between them.

‘Drink,’ he said. ‘You know, I’ve been away from the city for weeks and might easily have missed you. What on earth brings you here?’

‘Please may I sit down?’ He had not kissed her. And if he had, what would her response have been? She thought, panic stricken, I must be clear. I must be sure of my own feelings.

‘What am I thinking?’ Didier slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead and brought a couple of chairs to the centre of the room so they could sit knee to knee. The evening darkened a notch and details of the room faded; the desk covered with papers, a glass cabinet of books, furniture upholstered in creamy fabric. She was aware of the scent of fresh bread and that she was very hungry. Leaning forward, Didier propped his chin on his hand and studied her. ‘It is so very good to see you. Where is the rest of your party?’

‘I came to Paris with a French travelling companion.’

‘Do you mean your husband? Are you married?’

‘Of course not.’ She registered that there had been no dismay behind his question, only curiosity. ‘As I told you in my letter, my family employed a companion to prepare me for marriage – to Mr Shackleford. After I’d posted my letter to you, when it was too late, I was very afraid that I might have harmed you or your family. But then you sent for me …’

‘I sent for you?’

‘You did.’ Even as she uttered the words she knew that she had long since ceased to believe them and that she and Didier weren’t quite alone: Madame’s little shadow had slipped into the room, found a dark corner and folded its arms. ‘As there was no address on either of your letters I first visited your father in Caen.’

‘My
father
?’

‘My friend Mr Lambert told me where he lived. And of course Beatrice used to write to me too.’

‘Christ, you mean you actually visited my father in prison?’ His gaze never left her face as he took the glass from her, its rim still warm from her lips, and drank from the same place, as if they were lovers still. ‘It’s …
extraordinary
to see you again. I can’t get over the way you have just appeared here in Paris. So much the same and yet so changed …’

The edges of her consciousness blurred. She was lapped by the past. Her hand, which had held the glass, dropped on to her thigh.

There was a sudden clatter in the kitchen; Didier’s arm jolted so that a drop of wine splashed on to his shirt and he sprang to his feet. ‘What must you think of me? Look at me. I’m not wearing any shoes. Excuse me a moment.’ She heard him call to his servant, a murmured exchange, the closing of a door and the sound of feet on the staircase. Asa crossed to the little table, lifted the cloth and helped herself to some bread, the softest and whitest she had eaten since leaving England. Beneath the window the maid walked across the square, tossing her head and straightening her shoulders.

When he came back Didier had put on shoes and stockings, even a clean shirt. He sat opposite her at the table, clasped her hands, and looked at her earnestly. ‘Now, please tell me, you say I sent for you?’

Asa took out first the handkerchief, then the two letters which by now had been read so many times there was a danger they might fall apart. At first Didier treated them tentatively, much as Beatrice had done. This was why I loved him, she thought; the fierceness of his concentration, the knowledge that one minute of his attention was worth an hour of anybody else’s.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘You of all people will know the answer to that question. At first I was sure that you had sent them to me in reply to my own. Now I’m afraid that wasn’t the case. My companion, by the way, the one I told you about, called herself Madame de Rusigneux and she arrived at my home in February. We thought she was a marquise but I have since discovered her name was Estelle Beyle and that she was a fan-maker’s daughter from Caen.’

‘Estelle Beyle. What are you saying? Don’t tell me Estelle came to your house.’

‘She was my paid companion.’

‘Oh God.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘God. That woman. This is my fault. Thomasina, what have I done? It never occurred to me that if I sent her to England she would cause trouble for you. Where is she now?’

‘I don’t know. She abandoned me in Caen. I think she felt a little sorry for me after all, because she left very suddenly. There was just a note, telling me to go home.’

‘Well, we must find her. The very last thing I need is for Estelle to turn up here.’

Didier’s dismissal of his former lover, his indifference, which should have thrilled Asa, in fact gave her no pleasure at all. The sense of displacement that had often been present since her arrival in France had settled again, a dull ache in her belly. What was she doing here, in an elegant room above the Vendôme, with a man she barely recognised? ‘I think she’d originally intended that I should come to Paris,’ she said. ‘When I realised who she was, I came to warn you. I’m sure she wants to hurt you.’