Brilliance (18 page)

‘That is what she thought you would say.’ The abbess gave a nod. ‘Whether you return it or not is immaterial to her, but she wanted to help you in a practical way at this particular time. I know from the reports I have had from my nuns,’ she continued, ‘that you have never shirked any task given to you here and so at Madame de Vincent’s request I have added a reference of my own. These two letters should help you gain good employment in Lyon without any difficulty.’

Lisette took the envelope and held it close to her. ‘Thank you, Mother Abbess,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘I shall write my thanks to Madame de Vincent, but in the meantime please tell her that I have never received a more welcome gift than this ticket that will take me home.’

‘She shall be told.’

As the convent door closed behind her Lisette set off once more along a street leading to a railway station. Nothing should stop her homecoming now. Nothing! Where else could she find the strength to go on with her life without the child she would always love?

W
hen Lisette arrived in Lyon she had expected to feel at home from the first moment, but that did not happen. The area around the railway station had never been familiar to her and a number of new buildings had gone up since she was last there, making her hesitate as to which direction she should take. She asked the way from a street newspaper-seller. Then, following his directions, she started off to walk the distance to the Bellecour district where her grandmother’s house was located. Soon streets and landmarks became recognizable and her step quickened optimistically until she came to one of the quays where she paused to take in the vista all around her.

Lyon was a city of rivers and bridges, being divided by the Rhône and the Saône into three parts. It was also rich in history, most of which she had learned from her grandmother, although her school had encouraged an interest too. The rivers had always played an important part in Lyon’s great silk industry, used for transport. Flanked by quays, the rivers were linked by many bridges to the old quarter of Vaise and to the hill of Fourvière on the west bank and to the newer districts on the east bank. Cradling the city to the north was the old weavers’ district of La Croix Russe where once silks had been specially woven for the Palace of Versailles in the days when Marie Antoinette had been at the glittering heart of it and Lyonnaise silk had been sought after everywhere. Lisette smiled to herself as she remembered the old saying that whereas other cities had birdsong Lyon had the clatter of looms.

She walked briskly along, knowing that every step was taking her nearer her grandmother’s house. Boats and barges were busy on the water, which was becoming flecked with gold by the setting sun. Here she stood to take in the clear view of the slope of the Fourvière hill rising above the city and where there seemed to be more houses now than she remembered. The ruins of the Roman amphitheatre would still be there and one day soon she would go up there again and sit on the ancient stones to imagine a play being enacted as she had done in childhood.

Standing on a bridge, she gazed down at the water traffic passing below and remembered with a smile how often her grandmother had held her up to enable her to see better. Going on again, she soon came to the Place de Bellecour, which was surely one of the finest squares in all France, and increased her pace until she arrived at a run at the padlocked gates of her old home. There she swung to a halt, dropping her bag, and gripped the bars as she looked through at the house she remembered so well.

Her eager gaze took in every detail. The house’s peach walls had faded to the colour of pale sunrays and its green shutters were closed, but it showed no sign of being neglected. Quite the reverse, for the door’s brass knocker gleamed, the bushes in tubs were neatly trimmed and the white marble steps up to the entrance must have been cleaned quite recently. In her eyes her old home looked as if it were dozing while it waited for her return.

Her yearning gaze continued to travel over it. If only she had keys! Suddenly it was the only place on earth in which she wanted to spend the night. She could not and would not stay in some cheap lodgings when her room and her bed awaited her here. If only she could get past these padlocked gates she knew where one of the housemaids had hidden a spare house key in order to keep later hours with her beau than had been allowed. She had discovered the housemaid’s secret by chance and had never given her away. It was unlikely that the key’s hiding place had ever been discovered.

As the house was on a corner she began to scout down the side of the high wall that enclosed it. She was able to tell by treetops, which were taller than in her day, where the garden ended and the stables and coach house stood, but solid gates and a door in the wall were bolted from within, barring the way into the stable yard.

Disheartened, she returned to look again at the padlocked gates at the front of the house. It would be possible to climb them, but she would have to wait until it was dark and then hope that nobody saw her. But she would do it!

In the next half an hour she made some purchases – a loaf, some cheese, two apples, a bag of coffee, a small lantern and a box of matches. Then she went to a bistro not far away and ate a good supper. It was dark when she left and nobody was about when she returned to the gates. She had put her purchases in the bag containing her clothes, and thrust it through the bars. Then she stood to look both ways. She could see a couple approaching and she drew away into the side street where there was no lamplight. When they had gone past she emerged again, knotted up her skirts and the next minute was nimbly climbing up the gates. She swung one gartered, black-stockinged leg over the top, became caught by her petticoat for a few panic-stricken seconds and then she was on the other side. She dropped down on to the drive and dived for cover under the bushes as somebody came from the side street and went by.

She lay there for several minutes, her heart pounding, but when no hue and cry resulted she sat up. Now to get into the house! She darted along the strip of lawn between the wall and the house to reach the rear entrance, which had a porch. First of all she lit her lantern. Then she reached up to slide her fingers along a ledge through dust and cobwebs until, exactly as she had hoped, she found the key. With a sigh of relief she seized it and thrust it into the lock. It turned easily and the door swung open. She was indoors at once and turned the key after her. Here she was in the little hallway where servants had hung their outdoor clothes, the row of pegs now bare.

Holding her lantern, she went through into the kitchen. Copper pots still gleamed on the shelves, saucepans hung in neat rows and a long, scrubbed, white wooden table stood with benches on either side. A big, black range reminded her how red-cheeked the chef had always been from its heat, which made the kitchen such a cosy place on winter mornings.

Suddenly she became aware that the round clock on the kitchen wall was ticking. That was odd. Maybe the house was inspected periodically and somebody had chosen to wind it up. Letting her lantern-light lead the way, she began to wander nostalgically through the house, memories flooding back. Dust sheets covered everything, but there was also the haunting aroma of beeswax polish. Running a finger along a ledge she saw it was virtually dust free. There must have been a stipulation in her grandmother’s will that the house be kept in perfect condition against the day when she would inherit it.

She went through all the downstairs rooms, each panelled in Lyonnaise silk with designs woven in delicious colours that gave such beauty to each salon, and in which all the clocks were ticking. In one salon the chair was still in its place by the wall where she had sat after the funeral before flying in tears to the garden and being comforted by Monsieur Lumière.

Slowly she went up the graceful curve of the wide staircase to the gallery and the bedrooms. In her grandmother’s boudoir she stood quite still as if listening for voices from the past and felt a renewed wave of yearning sweep over her for the presence of the woman who had cherished her and given her such a happy early childhood. It seemed to her that the air still held a hint of the perfume that had been delivered specially from Grasse each year and was her grandmother’s favourite scent. She sat down on the rose velvet sofa.

‘Oh, Grandmère,’ she said softly. ‘If only you were here now.’

When she went into her own bedroom it seemed much smaller than she remembered. Some of her toys were still in a cupboard and she smiled to see them again, for it was like greeting old friends. She would have liked to spend the night in her old room, but decided it would be safer to occupy one of the servants’ bedrooms in the attic. It would allow more time to hide away if anyone came in the early morning to clean the house, and also she would have a better chance to escape discovery by way of the servants’ staircase. She tested the taps in one of the bathrooms and the water ran clear and freely just as the water closet had flushed instantly. It was further proof that the house was visited frequently as the water was not switched off at the mains.

She found clean sheets, pillowcases and blankets in the cupboard where bedlinen had always been kept between little bags of lavender, and took what she needed up to the attic. After making up a bed she lay down on it and let her thoughts wander, but not towards her child. Her pain was still too raw, too agonizing, and somehow had to be kept at bay if she was to retain her sanity. Instead she must concentrate for the time being on other matters, such as seeking out employment again and finding a suitable abode in which to live for the time being. It was then that she slept so soundly that it was mid morning on the next day before she woke to find herself still fully dressed and the sound of someone moving about in the house.

She sprang from the bed and went to listen at the door. A woman was humming to herself on the floor below and there was the swish of a broom. Then a second woman’s voice called up the stairs.

‘Have you finished yet, Hortense?’

‘Almost, but it will do for today. I’ve done all the polishing.’

‘Then come down. I’ve poured us both a glass of wine.’

Lisette guessed it came from her grandmother’s cellar, but she did not begrudge these cleaning women a little refreshment, for they were taking good care of the house. How often did they come? She listened as the woman named Hortense went all the way down the flight to the ground floor, her broom bumping as she went. A door closed after her as she went into the kitchen.

At once Lisette went silently down to the gallery and waited for their departure. It was another quarter of an hour before they emerged into the hall, chatting together as they came, and she kept back against the wall out of sight.

‘Four weeks today, Jeanne?’ Hortense said.

‘Yes, the same time.’

The entrance door banged after them and was locked.

Lisette flew down the stairs and into a front facing salon where she watched through a gap in the shutters as one of the women repadlocked the gates. Then after another word or two they turned in opposite directions. She leaned back against the wall in relief at not having been discovered, for even though it was her house the fact that she had no right to occupy it yet meant that she would have been considered an intruder. The women could have raised a hue and cry and there was no knowing what Isabelle would have done when it was reported to her as guardian of the property. Yet even with four weeks’ leeway before the cleaners returned she would not stay any longer. It was not that she felt the house did not welcome her, for its peace was in every room, but she could not live a hide-and-seek existence.

After fetching down the bread, cheese and apples that she had bought the previous evening she made herself a pot of coffee and sat down to eat her simple breakfast. Then, going into the kitchen hallway, she took a bunch of old keys down from a hook. One of them would open the door in the stable yard to the side street and for the short while she was here she would come and go by that route as the servants and tradesmen had done in the past. Outside in the fresh morning air she followed the path by a high hedge that led to the stable yard, shutting it off from the lawns and flowerbeds.

Reaching the stable yard, she went at once to the street door in the wall, shot back the bolt and after several attempts found the right key, but had difficulty in turning it. A drop of oil was needed before she used the key again. Opening the door, she looked out into the side street. There were no windows from other properties looking directly down on to the door and she should be able to remain unnoticed.

Before going back indoors she went into the coach house and saw that her grandmother’s carriage, covered by dust sheets, was still there. Propped against the wall was a lady’s bicycle with solid tyres, which her grandmother had ridden in the early craze for cycling that they had enjoyed together. Her own smaller bicycle was nearby. Both were hung with cobwebs, but she did not doubt they were still usable. Moving on into the stables, she stood looking at the empty stalls where once fine carriage horses had been fed and groomed. As a child she had loved feeding them sugar and apples. How she would have enjoyed bringing her daughter to pat the necks of the horses as she had done.

Then such anguish followed her thought that she uttered a strangled cry, driving her knuckles against her temples. She must not think like that! It was where madness lay. But, against her will, despair overcame her and for some time she stood huddled against the stable wall, unable to stop her helpless sobbing. Eventually she recovered enough, in spite of tears still running down her face, to go in search of an oilcan, and she found one on a shelf in the workshop off the stables. When she had oiled the lock of the door in the wall she went back into the house and heated water for a bath.

She soaked in it until the water turned cold. With it she seemed to freeze inside herself, creating a carapace of isolation that would enable her to go on with her life without the child whom she would love until her last breath.