She was lying on a sofa in the small salon when he arrived. She was dressed in a morning gown of sprigged muslin and looked at least ten years younger than she actually was.
He came with an armful of hothouse flowers. I was present but he had eyes only for her. He sat by the sofa and they chatted vivaciously; after a while I made an excuse and left them together.
That was the beginning. His carriage was at the house every day. He took her out for drives in the country, to luncheon, to dinner. He dined with us.
“You must put up with our simple ways, cher Alphonse …” (They were on Christian-name terms by this time.) “Once I could have entertained you in a manner worthy of you. It is different now …”
She looked so pathetic and helpless that Alphonse’s ever-ready chivalry must certainly come rushing to the fore.
I liked him. In spite of his bombast and flaunting of his worldly goods, there was a simplicity about him. His enthusiasm for his work, his belief in himself, his dedication, his almost boyish susceptibility to my mother’s beauty coupled with his obvious speculation as to how such a beautiful woman could play the gracious hostess to his clients and replace his dead wife … these things endeared him to me.
I think he quite liked me—when he could spare a thought from my mother.
At first my mother was a little anxious because she said I looked older than my years and that made her seem older than she was. “And when you put on that air of knowing everything and talk in that clever-clever way, it makes you seem even older. Men don’t like it, Caroline.”
“If men don’t like me, I shall retaliate by not liking them,” I replied.
“That’s no way to talk. But if you could wear your hair down … instead of piled up in that ridiculous way …”
“Mama, I am nineteen years old, and there is no way of making me less.”
“But it makes me seem old.”
“You’ll never be old.”
She was somewhat mollified, and as Monsieur Foucard did not seem to be aware of my mature looks, she decided to forget them. She tripped about the house now. There was no talk of illness; she even gave up the afternoon rest. The new excitement in her life did her more good than all the ice-pads and lotions and creams for her skin. She glowed.
Christmas came. Most of the entertaining was done by the Dubussons. They had the space and were delighted to play hosts. They loved romance and it was clear that this was brewing between the affluent Monsieur Foucard and the very beautiful Madame Tressidor. The Claremonts were delighted because it was in their territory that the important Monsieur Foucard had found his contentment.
I don’t think any of us were surprised when the announcement was made.
Monsieur Foucard delivered a long speech telling the company that he had been a lonely man since he had become a widower and now he had been given a new lease of life. He would be lonely no longer, for Madame Tressidor had paid him the supreme honour of promising to become his wife.
There was great rejoicing throughout the village, and nowhere more than in our house.
My mother was in a state of perpetual excitement. She talked incessantly of Alphonse’s establishment in Paris and his house in the country near Lyons. He travelled about the country a good deal on business, and she would go with him.
“Bless him, he says he will not let me out of his sight!”
Everton was already talking about the Paris shops.
“They are the leaders in fashion, Madame, say what you will. No others can compete. I shall study them and we shall choose the very best.”
“Oh Caroline,” cried my mother, “I am so happy. Dear Alphonse! He has rescued me. I declare I could not have gone on much longer. I was getting to the end of my tether. It won’t be a grand wedding. Neither of us wants that. After all, it’s not the first time for either of us. There will be a great deal of entertaining later. It’s so fascinating … all that perfume.”
“Mama,” I said, “I am delighted to see you so happy.”
“There is so much to do. I shall keep on this house until I go to Paris. Alphonse thinks we should be married there. What a joy to escape from all this … squalor.”
“It’s hardly that. It’s really a very charming house.”
“Squalor compared with what I had.”
“Everton will go with you?”
“Of course. How could I do without Everton?”
“And Marie … and Jacques … they more or less go with the house. I hope the Dubussons will find good tenants.”
“Of course they will.” She glanced sideways at me. “I suppose you will go and stay with Cousin Mary?”
I couldn’t resist teasing her a little. “Cousin Mary is not really related to me, is she? She is Robert Tressidor’s cousin and he has made it clear that I am no connection of his.”
She was dismayed. “Oh! But you wanted to go!”
I laughed and could not stop myself saying: “You want me to go to Cousin Mary, don’t you, Mama … now.”
“It will do you good and you liked it there. You were so eager to go a little while ago.”
“Yes, as eager as you were to keep me here then and as eager as you are for me to go now.”
She looked stunned.
“I believe you are jealous, Caroline. Oh fancy that! My own daughter!”
“No, Mama,” I said, “I am not jealous. I do not envy you one little bit. I am delighted that you have found Monsieur Foucard. And I shall go to Cousin Mary.”
She laughed a little slyly. “You’ll be able to renew your friendship with that man.”
“You mean Paul Landower?”
She nodded. “Well, you liked him. I must say he went off very abruptly. He’s not a bit like Alphonse.”
“Not a bit,” I agreed.
She smiled complacently. Life was working out well for her.
I could understand her gratitude to Alphonse. I had to admit I shared it. Alphonse was not only my mother’s benefactor; he was mine also.
Although everything was working out so satisfactorily it was not until Easter that the marriage took place. There was a great deal to arrange; shopping to be done; a visit to Paris for my mother and Everton where they could shop to their hearts’ contentment.
I did not accompany them to Paris but remained in the house. There was a certain amount of packing to be done and every day when I woke up it was with the hope that Paul would come. I was indulging in my usual day-dreams. I had let myself imagine that he would ride to the house one day and would tell me that he had come back to see me because he had been unable to stay away. I believed that he had been on the point of saying something important to me when he had left—but for some reason had refrained from doing so.
Perhaps he had thought our acquaintance was too brief. He could not think I was too young now. So I let myself dream.
Therefore I was glad to stay in the house while my mother went to Paris. If he should return I must be there.
The spring had come, and I must say a rather regretful farewell to all the friends I had made. The kind Dubussons, the Claremonts who were so grateful to us for providing their greatest and most important business associate with such joy, to Marie with her memories of le petit soldat and Jacques who had still not succeeded in persuading his widow.
I was sorry to leave them and yet I was longing for complete freedom. I was looking forward to arriving at the station and finding the trap waiting for me. It all came back so vividly—the winding lanes, the lodge with the thatched roof and garden full of flowers and beehives, and Cousin Mary with her cool but staunch affection and her common sense. I wanted to see Jago again—and more than anything I wanted to renew my exciting friendship with Paul Landower.