Daughter of Deceit (44 page)

“I understand,” I said. “I am understanding so much.”

“She made me see myself clearly. The more I was with her, the more I saw what I lacked. I did not want to go out into the world and compete. I wanted the simple life I was making for myself here. Daisy knew that.

“She was fifteen years old when she told me she was almost ready. The time had come, she said. She must delay no longer. You can imagine my dismay. In spite of her insistence, I had secretly dismissed her yearnings as dreams. I had judged her by myself … which was a great mistake. We had become very close
friends. She had confided more in me than in anyone. Our meetings had been important to us both. I could not bear the thought of losing her.

“I asked her to marry me. ‘How could I?’ she replied. ‘I’d be here for the rest of my days. We’d be poor … living here … and with them close by! I’m going to dance. I’m going on the stage.’ At one time I thought I would go with her. She shook her head. She said how much my friendship meant to her, but we were different people, weren’t we? I did not believe in things as she did. We didn’t really belong together … not in that way. I knew she was right. But I argued with her. I said, did she think she was the only country girl who had dreamt of a successful stage career? She said of course not. Did she consider how many thousands ended up in wretched circumstances, worse than those they had left? ‘But I’m going to get what I want!’ she said. She believed that, and when I looked at her, so did I.

“The day she went away was the most wretched of my life … to that time. I said goodbye to her. ‘Promise,’ I said, ‘that if it doesn’t work out, you’ll come back to me.’ But she could not conceive that it would not work out. She said it had been wonderful knowing me, that she loved me, but that we were different. She would be no use to me living here … looking after hens … driving the trap into the village to get the stores. And I should be no use to her in her career. ‘We have to face the truth. We don’t fit. But we shall always be good friends.’

“She called herself Daisy Tremaston—after the rich family here—with Daisy Ray her stage name. Then someone advised her to change it to Desiree. Desiree,” he repeated. “She did what she had set about doing. She had the fire, the determination and the talent. And she succeeded.”

He paused and put a hand to his brow. He had been talking for some time and, I knew, living it all again. I, who had known her so well, could visualize it clearly. I could understand that rebellion the puritanical grandparents had raised in her, that contempt for conventions, the determination to go her own way.

Marie-Christine had listened entranced to all this, but I could
see that she was impatient to get to the root of the matter. Was this man my father?

He said suddenly: “I usually take coffee at this time. May I give you some?”

Marie-Christine and I were about to say we would rather talk, but I could see that he needed a pause to recover from the excess of emotion which recalling the past had brought to him.

I said I would go into the kitchen and help him make the coffee. Marie-Christine was about to rise, but I signed to her to stay where she was.

When we were in the kitchen, he said to me: “I have often thought of your coming here.”

“With her, you mean?”

He nodded.

“She never talked to me of you,” I said.

“No, of course, she would not. She had other plans.”

“There is one thing I want to know.”

“Yes,” he said. Then he paused before he went on. “She would write to me now and then. I knew of her successes. It was wonderful. And I know why you have come here. You found letters which she had kept, and they have raised a possibility in your mind. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“I kept her letters. She did not write often. They were wonderful days when I received them. I lived her success through them, although I had no part in it. I knew there was no hope of her coming back. Particularly after your birth. I will give you the letters which she wrote to me at that time. Take them back to the inn and read them. They are for your eyes alone. When you have read them, bring them back to me. They are important to me. I could not bear to lose them now. I read them often.”

I said: “I will read them and bring them back to you tomorrow.”

“I think they will tell you what you want to know.”

We took the coffee back to the sitting room, where Marie-Christine was waiting with obvious impatience.

We talked a little about the life he led. He managed to make a living, he said. There was a gallery in Bodmin that took some of
his figures. He sold one or two now and then, usually of the Dancing Maidens. Visitors liked a reminder of the places they had seen. He grew some of his food. He had a cow and some hens. It was the way he had chosen to live. He brought out the letters and gave them to me.

I repeated my promise to bring them back tomorrow, which I should do after having read them.

“Then,” he said, “we shall be able to talk more easily … if you wish to. Perhaps we shall feel we know each other better. This has been a wonderful day for me. Often I have told myself it could never happen. I thought that when she died it was the end. Well, I shall see you tomorrow.”

I was eager to get away, for I was feverishly anxious to read those letters.

Marie-Christine said, as we rode back to the inn: “Fancy living there like that! What a strange man! He was interesting about Desiree. Daisy Ray. Clever, wasn’t it? What about those letters? I can’t wait to see them.”

“He wanted no one to see them but me, Marie-Christine. They are my mother’s intimate letters.”

Her face fell.

“Do understand, Marie-Christine,” I begged. “There is something sacred about them. And I have promised.”

“But you will let me know what they tell?”

“Of course I shall.”

As soon as we arrived at the Dancing Maidens, I hurried to our room. Marie-Christine said, with admirable tact, that she would go for a walk for an hour or so. I appreciated that, for I knew she was consumed by curiosity.

The letters were undated, but had been placed in chronological order, I realized.

My dear, dear Ennis
[ran the first],

How wonderful! So at last you are being brought out of your hiding place. At last you are going to be recognized for
the genius you are. So, having seen your Dancing Maiden, some London art dealer is interested in your work. It is a beginning. Aren’t you excited? Of course you are. I am. But you will say, “Nothing is certain. We must wait and see. ” I know you, Ennis. My dear one, you have spent too much of your life waiting and seeing. But this is wonderful! I always thought those models you did of the stones were
very
good. And the one you did of your very own Dancing Maiden, a work of genius!

But the important thing is that you are coming to London. I shall see that you stay in the right hotel … and it is going to be near this place. Then we can be together when you are not with your important dealer. I am not rehearsing yet. His lordship, Donald Dollington
—
Dolly to us
—is
teetering on the edge of embarkation on a new production. At the moment he is in a state of nerves, appealing to the Almighty not to send him completely mad, and not to allow the continuation of the torture he is receiving from those who are determined to obstruct him. It’s a game he always plays at times like this. So if you come next week, rehearsals won’t have begun. We can talk and talk. It will be like old times.

I await your arrival with the greatest joy.

Your very own Dancing Maiden,

Daisy

I took up the next letter.

My dear, dear Ennis,

What a wonderful week! I bless that dealer, though he turned out to be such a miserable old thing, and when you wouldn’t let him have your Dancing Maiden he wasn’t interested. It was sweet of you to insist on keeping it … but you shouldn’t have. Let it go, Ennis! It might have meant commissions and things. You are an old idiot! It was wonderful to be with you … to talk as we used to. Did it bring back the old times ? There is no one I can talk to as I do to you. It was like
being back in Meningarth … only instead of talking about the beginning of the journey, I am now halfway there. Ennis, do try to understand this compulsion to get to the top.

Parting was so sad. But you will come up again. I know what you will say
…
but it wouldn’t work. And I know you ‘d hate it here. You’ve no idea what it’s like leading up to the first nights … and there is nothing … nothing but the play. It has to be like that, and you ‘d hate it. You would really.

I have many good friends here. They understand me. The life suits me. I could never leave it.

So things must stay as they are. But let us remember that wonderful, wonderful week.

Loving you, as always,

Daisy
—
your Dancing Maiden

The next letter was more revealing.

Ennis, my dear,

I have something to tell you. It happened during that wonderful week. At first I didn’t know what to think. Now I am living in a whirl of delight. I know now that it is what I have always wanted. I did not know it until now. It will always be as though part of you is with me.

You know what I am going to say. I think I am going to have a child. I am hoping it is so. I shall write again as soon as I am sure.

My love to you,

Daisy
—
the D.M.

The fourth letter said:

My dearest Ennis,

No. It is quite out of the question. It simply would not work, as I have told you so many times. It would mean giving
up everything I have striven for. I could not do it. Please don’t ask for what is impossible. I could not bear our relationship to be spoilt, as it would be. Now I am so happy.

Ennis, let us be content with what we have. Believe me, it is the best for us both.

My love, as always,

Daisy
—
D.M.

I took up the next letter.

Ennis, dear,

I am singing with joy.

It is true. I am to have a child. I am so happy. Dolly is furious. He’s thinking of his new play. What is the use of putting me in the lead? Before long I am going to be prancing round like an elephant. I told him elephants didn’t prance; they galumphed. He shouted: “What do you think this is going to do to your career? I suppose it is Charlie Claverham’s. Or is it Robert Bouchere’s? What a thing to do to me, just when I’m thinking of going into production!” Then there was the usual appeal to God. You can’t help laughing at Dolly.

Oh well, nothing … just nothing … can disturb my bliss.

Loving, as ever,

D.—D.M.

I took up the next letter.

Dearest Ennis,

All is going well. Yes, I will let you know.

I am going to have everything of the best for him/her … I don’t care which. I just want
it.
Charlie Claverham is amusing. He thinks it is his. Forgive me, Ennis, he has always been such a very dear friend. He could give a child of his
anything, just anything. He is a very good man, Charlie is. One of the best I have ever known. He’s honourable and honest … and he is very rich. So is Robert Bouchere … but he’s a foreigner, and I’d rather have Charlie. Oh, I’m running on. I was just thinking, if I were to die suddenly. You never know. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but when there is a child to think of, it’s different.

I can’t think of anything but my baby.

Don’t worry, and you certainly mustn’t think of sending anything. I can manage perfectly. I am doing very well, and Charlie is, of course, making sure that I have every luxury.

I’m strong and healthy. I’m not old. I’ve seen the doctor, and he says he reckons I’ll be perfectly well after a couple of months … able to dance again.

Oh, Ennis, I just can’t wait. I know everything is going to be wonderful.

Love to you,

DM.

The next letter had obviously been written
some time later.

Dear Ennis,

She is here. She came on Christmas Day, so I am calling her Noelle. She is adorable … everything is in perfect order, and I love her more than anything on earth. I shall never leave her. Dolly fusses and says his hands are tied. He wants me in his next production, but do I think he can wait forever while I go on playing Mother. I told him Mother was the best part I ever played, and I’m going on playing it, to which he replied that I am a sentimental idiot and will I wait until I have had some experience of looking after a squalling brat? Then I was angry. I said: “Don’t dare call my little girl a brat!” To which he replied sarcastically: “Oh, she will be different from all the other brats, of course. She’ll be singing
Traviata
before she’s a year old. ” Dear Dolly. He is not so bad. And I think he likes her. I do not know who could not
love her. She knows me already, of course. Martha pretends she’s a nuisance, but I have seen her at the cradle when she thinks I’m not looking. I heard her say the other day: “Didums wants its mummy, then.
”
Didums! Martha! Just imagine! But you don’t know Martha. She’s the last person you’d think would ever even look at a baby. What use are babies in the theatre? But my Noelle can charm even her. As for the servants, they are overcome with joy and are vying with each other to look after her. Life is bliss.