The Adultress (47 page)

I came down the stairs and he hurried toward me. He took both my hands in his and kissed first one then the other.

I had forgotten how he could excite me. I felt young again … young and foolish and reckless.

“You sent for me.” he said, “at last.”

“Gerard.” I said quietly. “And you came.”

“Certainly I came. Did you think I would not? And we have a daughter.”

“Gerard,” I said, “we must talk … together … undisturbed. First I must explain. … Have you anyone with you?”

“Two servants.”

“Where are they?”

“I left them with the horses.”

“I will send word for them to be looked after, but first come in here.” I took him into the winter parlor and shut the door.

“There was a child,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me … ?”

“How could I? My husband thought she was his. She was a great comfort to him.”

“Where is she?”

“She is here.”

“I long to see her.”

“You shall. I want you to help me.”

“What danger is she in?”

“I have to explain everything. Please, Gerard, listen to me.”

I told him as briefly as I could what had happened. Of how Jean-Louis had suffered, of how the doctor and I had become lovers; I told of the wickedness of Dickon, of his ambitions through our daughter.

That was the most difficult part for him to understand. I could see that he did not understand why Dickon was such a villain in my eyes. But he listened intently and he would help me.

I said: “I am going to tell Lottie that you are her father. But first I want her to meet you … to like you … as I know she will. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” he said.

“Then I want you to take her back with you. You can say you wish her to see your country … to show her your home … and then I want you to see that she is fascinated by all she sees … so that she does not believe the height of bliss is to settle down and marry Dickon. I want her to see something of the world … meet other people. … I want to get her away for a while.”

“It shall be as you say.”

“Now,” I said, “I am going to have a room made ready for you. I shall tell her that we have a visitor from France. I want you to get to know each other. How does that seem?”

He was looking at me intently as I remember he used to look at me all those years ago.

“It seems to me perfect,” he said.

Of course he fascinated Lottie. His elegance, his charm, all that had fascinated me and swept me off my feet when I was young. It was all there. It hadn’t changed very much except perhaps to become more subtle, more mature.

I felt as I never thought I would again and before a week was out I found that I could explain to Lottie.

When I told her she stared at me incredulously. Her father! This exciting, fascinating man. He had talked to her of his château, of his life at the French court, of Paris, of the French countryside … and so vividly, as he had one purpose and that to make her wish to see them, and he succeeded admirably.

I saw the look of wonder on her face which she immediately suppressed because she felt it was disloyal to Jean-Louis. She kept looking at me as though she were seeing me in a new light.

Life had been revealed to her. It was not good and bad, neatly divided into black and white. People were not always what they seemed.

She was very thoughtful. But I could see that she was excited at the thought of having such a father.

He would take her back with him for a visit. How did she feel about that?

It was just what she needed. Her horizon would be widened; she would see another world apart from the small one in which she had lived. She would meet people—perhaps as fascinating as Dickon had been. She was already very conscious of the worldly charm of her father.

She was delighted.

“But to leave you, mama,” she said. “Now that you are so sad.”

I said: “You will come back to me.”

“Yes.” she said, “I have to come back … and marry Dickon.”

It was almost as though she remembered him for the first time in several days.

I watched them go.

“I will write to you, dear mama,” said Lottie. “I will tell you all the exciting things that are happening to me.”

“I will write to you.” said Gerard, “and tell you how much we miss you.”

So they went. And how desolate I was watching them leave. His visit had brought back so vividly memories of the past. I would never forget him. Nothing would ever have effaced the memory of him. Not even Charles. I had loved Charles. I had loved Jean-Louis. But I realized that the feeling Gerard had roused in me was different from what I felt for either of them.

There was mystery about him. What did I know of him? That he lived excitingly. That he was deeply immersed in the affairs of his nation. That he had been in England on some secret mission.

He had come into my life and changed it; and if I knew little about him I had learned something about myself.

For the rest of my days I would think of him; I would relive my youth through him. I felt young when he was near. I wondered if I should ever see him again.

How long the days seemed. I missed Lottie very much.

Almost two weeks passed before I heard from them.

Lottie was ecstatic. She had been to Versailles. She had been presented to the aging king, who had spoken very kindly to her; she had met the young dauphin. I should see the gown her father had bought for her to go to court. There had never been such a gown.

I scanned the letter. There was no mention of Dickon. There was a letter from Gerard. It was not long but it was of such significance that I did not believe what I read and read three times before I really accepted those words.

He had seen me again. He had thought of me over the years. So often he had wanted to come to see me. It was not easy. When we met he had been married. He was married when he was very young, after the custom of families such as his. It was no love match; and he had made no secret of his amours. Yes, there had been others. But it was different with us. His wife had died five years ago. He was free. He was enchanted with his daughter. He could never let her go and it occurred to him that the parents of such a daughter should be together. We knew each other well. We knew we were ideally suited. Would I consider uprooting myself … giving up my home in England and becoming Madame la Comtesse d’Aubigné?

“Dear Zipporah,” he wrote, “It is not because of Lottie. Though I like her very much. It is because of you … and of what we were to each other … which I have learned through the years is something that comes rarely and when it does is to be cherished. It never died with me. Did it with you? If it did not … then we should be together. I await your answer.”

I was in a daze of delight.

I don’t think I hesitated for a moment. I was young again, I was the girl who ran out to meet her lover so eagerly all those years ago.

Then I thought of Eversleigh. Of my responsibilities.

Well, the estate could go on. James Fenton … But James wanted a farm of his own.

Then I knew what I would do.

I wrote to Dickon. I asked him to come and see me immediately as I had come to a decision. I knew that would bring him.

Then I went to see James and Hetty.

I said: “James, I know you want a farm of your own.”

“We would never leave you,” said Hetty quickly.

“Suppose it was possible for you to do so?”

“Do you mean you have got someone else?”

I said: “Just suppose it were possible. Would you go?”

They looked at me in amazement.

“But James knows the estate.”

“There might be changes. Please, I don’t want to say anything yet. I just want you to answer a simple question. If it were easy … if I were suited … would you prefer to get your own farm? You could do that easily now, James. You know you could.”

“Well,” said James, “if you put it like that … naturally, most men like to be their own masters.”

“That’s what I wanted to know.”

I went to them and kissed them. “You have been good friends to me,” I said.

“What has happened?” asked Hetty. “You look as if you’ve seen some miracle.”

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps I have. Be patient with me. If it works … you’ll know soon enough.”

Dickon arrived confident and certain of himself, sure, I knew, that I would have by now, what he would call, come to my senses.

I said to him: “Dickon. What would you say if I told you I was passing Eversleigh over to you?”

I had rarely seen him taken off his guard, but he was then. He looked at me suspiciously.

“I mean it,” I said. “After all, it is Eversleigh you want. You’d be ready to forego Lottie for Eversleigh, wouldn’t you?”

“Dear Zipporah, you talk most amusingly but somewhat obscurely. This is one of the few matters about which I do not care to joke.”

I said: “Lottie is in France with her father.”

His face clouded. “What is your game, Zipporah?”

“Very simple. You wanted to marry Lottie for Eversleigh. Eversleigh is what you want. You would manage it perfectly, I know. The ancestors would rise up and sing Hallelujah, I am sure. They never liked the idea of its being in the hands of a woman … although I had a husband to help me. Could you forget Lottie if you already had Eversleigh?”

“Do you mean could I be persuaded to forego my courtship?”

“I mean would you stop writing to her, talking to her of marriage … for Eversleigh?”

“Please, please explain.”

I said: “James Fenton will buy a farm. He wouldn’t stay here with you around. There will be many things to be worked out. I have had an offer of marriage from Lottie’s father. I have decided to accept. I shall live in France after I’m married … and so will Lottie. Dickon, I am going to make over Eversleigh to you now. You are, after all, the male heir.”

He stared at me. Then a slow smile spread across his face.

“Eversleigh!” he murmured and I had never seen him look so tender. I saw then that he loved the place as he could never love anything else.

I said: “You will have to put a manager in at Clavering. You will have to come to Eversleigh with Clarissa and Sabrina … your courtiers, as it were, and you will reign supreme … as you schemed so basely to do.” I laughed suddenly. “It’s virtue rewarded … in reverse.”

Dickon looked at me admiringly.

“I do love you, Zipporah,” he said.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Daughters of England series

O
N THE DAY WHEN
the Comte d’Aubigné arrived at Eversleigh I had been out riding and when I came into the hall he was there in close conversation with my mother. I was aware at once that we had a very distinguished visitor. He was not young—about my mother’s age, perhaps a few years older—and he was most elegantly dressed in a manner not quite English; his frogged coat of dark green velvet was a little more fancy than I was accustomed to seeing, the fringed waistcoat more delicate, the striped breeches fuller, and the buckled shoes more shining. He wore a white wig which called attention to his flashing dark eyes. He was one of the most handsome gentlemen I had ever seen.

‘Oh, there you are, Lottie,’ said my mother. ‘I want you to meet the Comte d’Aubigné. He is going to stay with us for a few days.’ She put her arm through mine and thus presented me to him. ‘This,’ she went on, ‘is Lottie.’

He took my hand and kissed it. I was aware that this was no ordinary meeting and that something very important was taking place. Knowing my mother well, I guessed that she was very anxious for us to like each other. I did like him immediately, mainly because of the way in which he kissed my hand and made me feel grown-up, which was just how I wanted to feel at this time, for the fact that I was not quite twelve years old was a great irritation to me. If I had been older I should have eloped by now with Dickon Frenshaw, who occupied my thoughts almost exclusively. There was a family connection between Dickon and myself. He was the son of my grandmother’s cousin and I had known him all my life. It was true he was about eleven years older than I but that had not prevented my falling in love with him, and I was sure he felt the same about me.

Now there was a lilt in my mother’s voice. She was looking at me earnestly as though to discover what I thought of our guest. He was watching me intently.

The first words I heard him say, and he spoke in English with a strong foreign accent, were: ‘Why, she is beautiful.’

I smiled at him. I was not given to false modesty and I knew that I had inherited the good looks of some long-dead ancestress whose beauty was notorious in the family. I had seen a portrait of her and the likeness was uncanny. We had the same raven black hair, and deep-set dark blue eyes which were almost violet; my nose might have been a fraction shorter than hers, my mouth a little wider, but the resemblance was striking. She had been the beauty of the family. Her name had been Carlotta, and it added to the mystique that before this likeness was apparent, I should have been christened Charlotte, which was so similar.

‘Let us go into the winter parlour,’ said my mother. ‘I have sent for some refreshment for our guest.’