“Caroline dear,” put in my mother. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Safe, Mama? I’m perfectly safe on a horse.”
“But a foreign horse, dear.”
I laughed and saw that Paul was smiling.
“Horses don’t consider nationality in the same way as we do, Mama. They are much the same the world over.”
“But in a foreign country!”
“I should take care that no harm came to your daughter, Mrs. Tressidor,” said Paul.
“I am sure you would. But I should be so anxious …”
I understood the way her mind was working. Much as she liked the monotony of her days to be relieved by the advent of visitors she was a little wary of Paul Landower. Every man she saw she assessed as a possible husband or lover; and it was quite clear that he was making no plans which involved her. Therefore, she reasoned, I must be the target of his aspirations; and she did not want me to go to him any more than to Cousin Mary. I could see the speculation in her eyes.
I had allowed her to prevent my going to Cornwall, but she should not stop my riding with Paul. The thought of riding with him filled me with ecstatic pleasure.
I said: “Do you think you really would be able to hire horses?”
“I’m certain of it,” he said. “As a matter of fact I have already asked at the auberge. I have one bespoke, as it were. I am sure there will be no difficulty in getting another.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
After lunch I showed him a little of the countryside. I met Monsieur Dubusson who insisted on our going into the chateau to sample the wine his son had produced in his vineyard in Burgundy. Madame Dubusson greeted us with delight. They were very kindly people and already scented a romance. It was embarrassing in a way and yet I knew it came from the kindliness of their hearts and that they believed it was no life for a young girl—even though it might be her duty—to look after a mother who from time to time lapsed into invalidism.
Afterwards I introduced Paul to the Claremonts for, having included the Dubussons, I dared not leave them out. There was a great deal of talk about the flowers they produced and the essences they distilled; and they were very gratified to explain to a newcomer. From time to time the language became too fast and furious for Paul and I had the pleasure of translating.
As we were leaving Madame Claremont said: “By the way, Monsieur Foucard is coming for the Christmas holiday. Oh, he will not stay here. We are not equipped for such as he is … not for more than one night. He is used to so much comfort. He will stay at the auberge in the town.”
“Tell him I thoroughly recommend it,” said Paul.
After we left the Claremonts we walked through the lanes and talked of the countryside and the Dubussons and Claremonts, the difference between the French and the English; and that seemed to me an enchanted day.
When I said goodbye to him he held my hand firmly and said: “Tomorrow morning. Say about ten o’clock. We’ll go off somewhere and we’ll find some little auberge where we’ll stop for luncheon. How’s that?”
I said it sounded perfect.
“Tomorrow then.”
He stepped back, took off his hat and bowed; blissfully I went into the house aware of Marie peering through the kitchen window.
When I came into the hall, Marie was there. She said: “Oh, he is a very grand gentleman. So tall … He reminds me of mon petit soldat.”
I suppose that was about the greatest compliment she could pay.
Later I heard her singing dolefully: “Ou t’en vas-tu, petit soldat.” It was clear that Paul had found favour with Marie and Jacques as well as the Dubussons and Claremonts.
It was not the case with my mother. I guessed she had discussed him with Everton.
“So you are going riding tomorrow,” she said as we ate that evening.
“Yes, Mama.”
“I shall be very worried.”
“I don’t think so, Mama. You’ll forget all about it as soon as we’ve gone.”
“Caroline, how can you say such a thing!”
She saw what she called my mulish look setting about my lips and she knew that I was determined to go.
She said: “There’s something mysterious about him.”
“How mysterious?”
“Those dark looks.”
“Do you think all people with dark hair are mysterious?”
“I’m not referring to his hair, Caroline. I know men.”
“Yes, Mama, I’m sure you do.”
“I should hate to see you make a terrible mistake.”
“What sort of mistake?”
“To rush into marriage.”
“Oh Mama, please! A man appears. He is a stranger in a strange land. He meets a fellow compatriot whom he saw once some years ago, he is friendly—and you talk of marriage!”
“He seemed persistent … hiring horses.”
“It’s nothing but a friendly gesture.”
She looked pathetically down at her plate and I thought she was going to weep.
Poor Mama, I thought. She visualizes lonely evenings—no piquet, no one but Everton to talk to of past triumphs. And Everton is years older than she is. I am young. She is terrified of my going away. How strange that when I was a child she had no time to spend with me; now I am grown-up she cannot bear me to leave her for a day.
Then suddenly I remembered. The excitement of the day had completely driven this important piece of news out of my mind.
“I saw Madame Claremont today. She told me Monsieur Foucard is coming here for Christmas.”
The change in her was miraculous.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, he is staying at the auberge.”
“I’m not surprised. One could hardly expect a man like that to stay at the Claremonts’.”
“I daresay,” I said archly, “that we shall be seeing something of him.”
“It may well be,” she answered; and I knew she was already planning her wardrobe.
My words had had the desired effect. There was no further mention of my day’s riding.
It was a day I was to remember for a long time.
The sun was bright although there was a sharp wind. It was good to be in a riding habit again.
I went to say goodbye to my mother before I left.
She was sitting up in bed sipping the hot chocolate which Everton had brought to her just as she had done each morning in England. Everton was seated on a chair making lists of clothes.
The Christmas wardrobe, I presumed!
What luck that Monsieur Foucard had saved the situation and made everything so much smoother! I had been determined to have my day but it was pleasant to achieve it with the minimum of friction.
I kissed her and she said: “Have a good day,” almost absent-mindedly.
Paul was waiting with the horses.
“A little chestnut mare for you,” he said. “She’s a bit frisky but I told them you were an expert.”
“She’s lovely,” I told him.
“Now you know the countryside, you’d better decide where we shall go.”
“I only know the immediate environs. I never before had a chance to get away. Shall we go into the mountains?”
“That would be very interesting.”
What joy it was for me to be on a horse, and I had to admit that my companion added considerably to my pleasure. It was almost like one of those dreams come true. He might not look exactly like the knight in shining armour whom I had visualized in my girlhood, but he was Paul Landower, the hero of my imaginings.
He talked about Cornwall just as Jago used to, about the estate and the house and Tressidor too. But for a great deal of the time we were silent for the road was so narrow that sometimes we had to go in single file.
At length we came to the foothills of the mountains where we paused to admire the grandeur of the scenery. On the other side of these Maritime Alps was the beautiful Mediterranean Sea.