Then Jean Pascal Bourdon arrived at the school with the Princesse. He was taken straight to Madame Rochère and stayed with her for a long time.
During the day I was sent for by Madame Rochère.
“The Princesse and Monsieur Bourdon are here,” she told me—as if I did not know. “They would like to speak to you. They are waiting for you in my sitting room. You may go along to them now.”
I wondered what this could mean, and I hurried along.
The Princesse kissed me on both cheeks. Jean Pascal was standing a few paces behind her; then he came forward and, taking both my hands in his, kissed me as the Princesse had and smiled at me tenderly.
“My dear Lucinda,” he said. “I can see that you are anxious about Annabelinda. The poor child is quite ill. We are going to take her back with us to Bourdon. We shall look after her there, and we hope that in a few months she will be her old self.”
“Months!” I said.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” put in the Princesse. “It will be several months.”
Jean Pascal went on. “I am telling her parents that she will need special care, which naturally she cannot get at school. After all, it is a school, not a hospital. I am asking my daughter and her husband to come over to Bourdon, where we shall be. So they will soon be there, I hope. You will miss Annabelinda, I know. But you have settled in now, have you not?”
I murmured that I had. I felt bewildered. I could not believe that Annabelinda was so ill that she had to leave school for several months.
He was watching me covertly. He said suddenly, “Has Annabelinda talked to you?”
“Well…she did a little.”
“About…how she was feeling?”
“Oh, er…yes. We did talk in London before we left. She was upset about…er…”
“About…er…?”
“About a friend of hers.”
“She told you that, did she?”
“Yes.”
“This friend of hers?”
“He came here as a gardener.”
“I see,” said Jean Pascal abruptly. “Well, she is ill, you know, and she will need some time to recover.”
“Is she coming back to school?”
“I daresay she will when she is well. I wouldn’t say anything about this gardener, if I were you.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. I thought Annabelinda didn’t want me to.”
“I am sure she wouldn’t. She just spoke to him in the gardens, of course.”
“Oh,” I began, and stopped abruptly. Jean Pascal gave me an intent look; then he was smiling.
“I hope you will come to the château sometime,” he said. “Perhaps before you go home for the summer holiday. That’s a good time of year…when the grapes are nearly ripe, you know.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“We are leaving today and taking Annabelinda with us. I hope you won’t be lonely without her.”
“I have Caroline, Helga and Yvonne and others.”
“I am sure you have lots of friends.”
“Annabelinda is not going to…” They both looked at me in horror as I stammered, “…not going…to the…”
Jean Pascal laughed. “Mon Dieu, non, non, non,” he cried. “She will be all right. She just needs quiet and rest and attention, which she can get at Bourdon. When you see her in the summer it will be the old Annabelinda whom you knew.”
“I have been worried.”
“Of course you have, dear child. But there is no need. We’re going to nurse her to health. You will be amazed when you see her. In the meantime you must work hard and please Madame Rochère, who gives you quite a good report, I might tell you. And…just don’t talk too much about Annabelinda. She doesn’t like being ill. Nobody does, and when she comes back she won’t want people to think of her as an invalid.”
“I understand.”
“I knew you would. Bless you, my dear. I am so looking forward to seeing you in the summer.”
“I, too, my dear,” said the Princesse.
That afternoon they left, taking Annabelinda with them.
I missed her very much. I always felt an emptiness when she was out of my life. I missed the skirmishes, her scorn, her contempt, for I knew that beneath it all there was a certain affection.
I wondered how she was progressing and I was delighted when I received a letter from her:
Dear Lucinda,
How are you getting on at school without me? My mother came to Bourdon. They have all decided that I must stay here for a while. They say the climate is so much better for me than it is at home. I shall be all right in time, they tell me. Grandpère has a lot of influence here and knows all the people who can be of use. He suggests you come here before you go home in the summer. He’s confident that I shall be completely recovered by then. But I may need a little rest, so I’m to stay on here until I’m ready to go back home.
I wish you were here. I will look forward to your coming when school finishes at the end of July for the long summer break. Don’t say you must hurry home to see your parents and that brother of yours. You must come and be with me first.
Annabelinda
She sounded more like herself. I wrote and told her that I would stay for two weeks at the Château Bourdon before going home, if that were agreeable. That was long enough, I stressed, for I was longing to see my parents after the long term away.
School went on as usual. There was a midnight feast. Caroline had brought a cake with icing on the top when she came back from the Christmas holidays and this was a great treat. But nothing seemed quite the same without Annabelinda.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Caroline.
“Some awful illness which takes months to cure,” I replied.
“Consumption, I suppose,” said Caroline wisely.
“I don’t think so.”
“People do go into declines.”
“She hasn’t looked well for some time. So perhaps it is that.”
“They usually go to Switzerland for a cure,” said Helga. “It’s the mountain air or something.”
Switzerland? I thought. Carl Zimmerman came from there.
I was thinking more and more of Carl Zimmerman. The illness had started after he had left. It was pining for him which had brought it on.
I started to wonder about him; I would walk about the grounds remembering our encounter with him. I went to look at the cottages, one of which had been occupied by him.
There seemed to be someone in one of them. I studied it. It was clearly inhabited. I strolled around and then went back to the house.
And the next afternoon I found myself wandering that way again.
I walked around to the back of the cottages. They had gardens there, and in one of them was a woman hanging out washing.
She called good afternoon to me and added, “You’re from the school. I’ve seen you round here before.”
“Yes,” I said. “I suppose you work for the school?”
“Not me. My husband does. He works in the gardens. There’s plenty of work there.”
“I suppose so.”
She came toward me. She had a pleasant, happy face. I noticed that she was going to have a baby…and quite soon. She leaned her arms on the wall and surveyed me.
“Have you been long at the school?” she asked.
“I came last September.”
“Where do you come from? England, I guess.”
“How did you know?”
“Well, you pick them out. It is the way you speak French perhaps.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
“Never mind,” she said. “And it is not bad at all. I know what you are saying.”