“I expect you are right.”
“But, of course, I am right. You suspect much. Suspicion is an ugly thing. Quite often it distorts the truth and makes it uglier than it is. You have guessed what Annabelinda’s illness was all about, that it was discovered by the doctor whom Madame Rochère called in, and you can imagine that good lady’s consternation when she learned what had befallen one of her pupils. But she is a wise woman. Annabelinda is my granddaughter, so she sent for me. She knew she could rely on me in this little contretemps.”
I nodded. It was all as I had imagined in that flash of understanding which came to me when I read the paper.
“Annabelinda had dallied with one of the gardeners,” he went on. “Madame Rochère was extremely shocked that it should be a gardener, but I pointed out to her that the outcome could have been the same whatever the rank of the man involved, and we must suppress our outrage with sound common sense. The first thing was to get Annabelinda out of school. We could not have let her stay much longer. There would be gossip. We could not let it be known throughout the neighborhood that my granddaughter had committed such an indiscretion. So she went away to a clinic where she would be taken care of.”
“In Bergerac,” I said.
For a moment he was astonished, then he said, “I see you are fully conversant with all this. How did you know?”
“It slipped out in conversation with Annabelinda that she had been there.”
“She should be more careful. It is a most reliable place. I know the lady who owns it. She will be the soul of discretion. So there went Annabelinda, and later of course there arose the problem of finding a home for the child.”
“It worked out very conveniently for you,” I said. “Of one thing I am sure. Madame Plantain will make a very good mother.”
“Madame Rochère assured me of that. You do not think I would put my great-grandchild with someone who would not be good to him.”
“And you were ready to put him out to be cared for?”
“I detect a note of criticism. Dear Lucinda, could I have him here? Adopt a child, at my age? Only for one reason. I have to think of Annabelinda. What would her future be if this were known? She would be classed as a fallen woman before she had a chance to stand up and show what she has to offer. She would never have married into appropriate circles.”
“She might have found someone to love her, and she could have her baby with her.”
He leaned toward me and kissed my hair lightly.
“Dear Lucinda, you see the world through the eyes of innocence. Charming…very charming. But life is not like that. I want what is best for Annabelinda. She is a very beautiful and attractive girl. I should hate to see her chances ruined at the start.”
“What of the child?” I asked.
“He will have the best of homes. You yourself have said so. But I confess I am a little uneasy that he should be so near the school.”
“You think Annabelinda will recognize her son?”
“All babies look alike. They change as they grow up, but in the first weeks they are different. They come into the world like wizened old men and in a few weeks they are plump and beautiful. But you see how careful we must be. You see how the odd coincidence can leap up to confound you. Your acquaintance with this good woman, your seeing that paper. Who would have thought that would have happened? And yet it is all so simple, so natural. Mind you, I did wonder at the wisdom of placing the child so near to the school. But Madame Rochère gave the woman such a good character reference, and she, of course, had no notion of where the child came from.”
“You have gone to a great deal of trouble to do this for Annabelinda,” I said.
“For her and the honor of the family,” he said. “That means a great deal to people such as I. Perhaps we are too proud, a little arrogant. Mon Dieu, we should have learned our lessons, should we not, all those years ago. But does one ever learn lessons? A little perhaps, but rarely entirely.
“Well, now you know what happened, and I am placing my trust in you. The incident must be forgotten. I shall make sure that the child is well cared for…educated when the time comes. There is no need to fear for his future. And what I ask of you, dear Lucinda, is never to divulge to any person what you have learned. I have a high respect for your integrity, I know I can rely on you. Annabelinda is wayward…a little irresponsible. It is part of her charm. Do not let her know that you are aware of what happened. Help her to keep up the myth. And please…I beg of you…do not tell her that the child who is being brought up by the Plantains is hers. I can rely on you, can I not, Lucinda?”
“I shall tell no one,” I said.
He put his hand over mine and pressed it.
“I place my trust in you,” he said.
Then we sat silently for a few moments, watching the white swans gliding gracefully on the lake.
After the summer holidays, in September, we returned to La Pinière. It was a year since I had first seen it and I felt that I had grown a long way from the naive girl I had been then. I had learned much; and although the dramatic events had not happened to me, I had been close enough to them to be deeply affected.
I thought of Jean Pascal Bourdon as some powerful god who arranged people’s lives—cynically, yet benignly…amorally in a way. And yet what would Annabelinda have done without him?
I thought often of the child in the care of Marguerite Plantain. He would never know his mother and what trouble had been caused by his coming into the world. He would be well cared for, educated when the time came. Checks would arrive regularly for the Plantains and they would have no idea from whom they came. By one powerful stroke, Jean Pascal had changed their lives even more than Annabelinda’s, because I was sure that, in time, Annabelinda would convince herself that this episode in her life had never happened, while the Plantains would have Edouard, the constant reminder.
Caroline said I had changed since the holidays.
“You look so serious. Do you know, sometimes when I speak to you, you don’t answer. Was it such a wonderful holiday?”
“Wonderful,” I told her.
Annabelinda was received at school with a sort of awe. They were all convinced that she had been, as one of them remarked, “snatched from the jaws of death.” And any to whom that had happened must be of very special interest.
Annabelinda exploited the situation, as I expected. She was quite a figure at school now. She had her own room, and although Madame Rochère was a little cool toward her—and, I believe, watchful—Annabelinda shrugged that aside. She was enjoying school. “The wages of sin,” I told myself, feeling it was the sort of comment Jean Pascal might have made.
Oddly, Annabelinda seemed to have forgotten the episode more easily than I. But I supposed she wanted to, and Annabelinda always did what she wanted. I could not forget, and there was the baby to remind me.
I became fascinated by the child and could not resist taking walks past the cottage. Whereas before I had been fond of the company of my fellow pupils, I now wanted to escape from them and make my way to the cottage…alone. On warm days, the perambulator would almost always be in the Plantain garden.
Marguerite was recovering from her tragedy, and I think this was largely due to little Edouard. She doted on the child. She told me, “Jacques is beginning to love him. It was hard for him at first. It was his own he wanted. But Edouard has such winning ways. Just look at the little angel.”
Sometimes I would hold Edouard on my lap. I would look for a likeness to his parents. There was none. He was just like any other baby.