Drop of the Dice (36 page)

I felt myself trembling as Aimée went to my jewel-case on the dressing-table and opened it. She looked at me with wide-open eyes. ‘Did you have anything in it? It’s empty now.’

I said reluctantly: ‘I think my emeralds were in it… and the bezoar ring.’

‘No!’ She almost let the case fall from her hands as she stared from me to Lance.

‘You’ve put them somewhere else…’ she said breathlessly.

I shook my head.

‘Oh yes, you must have,’ cried Lance. ‘They’re somewhere in this room.’ He refused to accept the implication, as I did. He was silent for a few seconds then he burst out: ‘Gad, you don’t think that she

‘It appears so,’ said Aimée. ‘She seems to have walked out with your emeralds, Clarissa. Who would have believed it, and yet she was always talking about a flower-shop in Paris. What was it she used to say: “They’d buy a flower-shop in the heart of Paris.”’

‘That’s absurd,’ I said emphatically. ‘It really is quite ridiculous.’

‘I expect they’ll turn up,’ said Lance. ‘All of them… Jeanne and the jewels.’

‘They won’t,’ contradicted Aimée firmly. ‘I know her type. She’s typical of the back streets of Paris. Hard as nails and sharp as broken glass, that’s what they are… looking for chances and never missing them when they come. It would not surprise me if she were already on the boat, crossing to France. She’ll get her ambition… a flower-shop in the centre of Paris. It’s what she was always talking about.’

I shook my head miserably and Lance came to me and put an arm about me.

Nothing was done about Jeanne that night. I would not allow anyone to say that she had run away; I believed she would come back and that there was some explanation.

The party went on; the gambling took place. I was too upset to do anything but retire to my room.

I was still awake when Lance came up. For once I was not interested whether he had won or lost at the tables. My thoughts were all for Jeanne. I kept seeing her in her various moods; often sharp and astringent of tongue, trying to hide that innate sentimentality in her caustic comments, and at heart good and kind. I would never forget what she had saved me from when I was young and helpless.

And now to find that she was a thief…

I just would not believe that.

I talked about her to Lance, for I could not sleep and he, understanding how I felt, did not sleep either.

He said gently that there was only one explanation and we must accept it. Jeanne had decided to leave us. It was hard for people to live out of their native environment. Perhaps all those years she had been hankering for her native France. She had longed for a flower-shop of her own. She had seen the valuable jewellery and she had calculated what it would be worth. She had often mentioned it.

The temptation was too strong for her,’ said Lance. ‘Poor Jeanne, she could not resist it.’

Lance thought he understood. He knew a great deal about irresistible temptations.

The next day he sent men to Dover and Southampton to discover if there was any sign of Jeanne trying to escape to France. It was impossible to find any information about her.

But as the weeks began to pass, even I began to believe that there could be no other explanation. Every time Jeanne had picked up my jewellery—as she had been in the habit of doing since Lance had given me the emeralds—she had seen through it the flower-shop of her dreams.

It seemed that every way I looked at it this must be the case. The temptation had been too strong for her and she had left me to own a flower-shop in the heart of Paris.

Then I had never really known her. She could not be the woman I had always believed her to be.

It was a heartbreaking discovery. What had I known of Jeanne? What did I know of anybody?

I
T WAS ONLY DURING
the next weeks that I realized how very much Jeanne had meant to me. She had been the mother-figure in my early impressionable days and I could not forget her. In spite of all the evidence something within me refused to accept the fact that she had run away in order to steal my jewellery and buy a flower-shop. She had looked after me since I was more or less a baby with my parents in Paris and when ill-fortune had overtaken me she had cared for me. Then she had come to England to find me. Oh no, I would not believe that Jeanne was a common thief.

There was some explanation. There must be.

‘What?’ asked Aimée.

As for Lance, he shrugged his shoulders. He did not want to dwell on the matter. It was a blow losing the jewellery, he agreed, but when his winnings warranted it, he would buy more for me. It was no use crying over what was done, was his motto.

Jeanne had gone and there was no way we could find her without a great deal of trouble and expense. Besides, what if we did? Should we take the flower-shop away from her?

‘No, let her keep it,’ said Lance. He had a grudging admiration for one who could devise such a plan and carry it out. If his luck held he would buy me bigger and better emeralds.

He was ready to forget Jeanne. He almost wished her well of her ill-gotten gains. He did not understand that her action had wounded me far more deeply than the loss of the jewels. His indifference about the important things in life exasperated me—especially when I compared it with his intense passion for gambling.

It was three or four weeks after Jeanne’s disappearance and we were back in London. The season had begun and although we did not go often to Court it was necessary to do so now and then. The new King was reckoned to be a boor and it was always the King and Queen who set the mode of the Court. This King had no Queen—or rather, he had, but he had put her away years ago on account of her suspected intrigue with Count Königsmarck. His German mistresses reigned in her place and on account of their lack of charm, as well as their rapaciousness, they were not very popular. So there was no great desire to go to a Court which was not in fact the centre of polite society. Queen Anne had called George ‘the German Boor’, and apparently the description fitted him.

Lance said he selected his friends and companions from people who were considered inferior—lacking wit, dignity and good breeding. ‘He feels more at home with them than he does with English gentlefolk. He lacks dignity in mind and manners.’

But Lance admitted that in some respects he served the country well, for although he was a good soldier, he believed that prosperity rested in peace; and he would therefore do his best to preserve it.

‘George is better for the country than the Stuart would have been,’ was Lance’s verdict. ‘Though with a Stuart we might have had someone who looked more like a king. Still, it is actions that count, and we’ll get by with George and at least his mistresses provide some amusement.’

He was right there. They did. They were both elderly and ugly, which perhaps said something for his fidelity. The fact that they did not speak English did not add to their popularity. They might have had the grace to try to learn the language of the country which was giving them so much, commented Lance.

He came in one day to tell us he had seen Mademoiselle Kielmansegge riding near the palace in her carriage. The people were shouting abuse at her as she rumbled past until she put her head out of the window and said in her own brand of English: ‘Why you people, why you hate us? We only come for your goods.’ That amused the crowd, especially when someone shouted: ‘Yes, and for our chattels too!’ and they followed the coach to the palace, shouting after it.

I went on brooding about Jeanne’s disappearance and trying to reconcile it with what I knew of her. I just could not. In spite of all the evidence against her I was sure that one day I must learn the explanation.

Aimée and I were going to Gracechurch Street to buy some material for the children’s clothes. It was rarely that Aimée accompanied me on these expeditions; she was usually content for me to choose for Jean-Louis. The two nannies loved to seize on materials and make them into clothes, for they were both considerable seamstresses. I was thinking sadly as we jolted along of how often Jeanne had accompanied me on these missions.

As we came into the heart of the city, Aimée said to me: ‘Clarissa, I want to tell you something.’

I turned to her, surprised by her downcast look. ‘Yes?’ I said.

She hesitated. ‘It’s my mother,’ she began. ‘She… she’s here… in England.’

‘Aimée! That must be wonderful for you.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘She is a widow now. Her husband died. I thought she was settled for the rest of her life. Hers is a similar story to mine. Alas, her husband died with debts. My mother is very strict about such things. She always said that a debt was an
affaire d’honneur
which must be settled at all costs.’

‘That’s right, of course.’

‘When her husband died, she had enough to cover his debts… and little more.’

‘So she is very poor.’

Aimée lifted her shoulders in a typical French gesture. ‘She has… a little… a very little. I feel sad that I cannot look after her as I would wish. I did not have your luck at the time of the Bubble. If I had…’

‘Where is your mother staying? Is she in London?’

‘She is staying at the King’s Head close by St Paul’s, but she will not be able to remain there. I do not know what she plans. But she wanted so much to see me.’

I felt uneasy. I was very much aware that this was my father’s mistress. It had been a little shock for me to discover I had a half-sister, but to meet the woman who had shared my father with my mother was somehow distasteful to me.

I turned to Aimée. I had never seen her look so anxious. I pressed her hand. ‘But of course she must come,’ I said. ‘She must stay with us until she decides what she is going to do.’

‘I thought I would speak to you… before Lance.’

‘But of course. Lance will raise no objections, I assure you.’

‘He is the kindest man in the world,’ said Aimée emphatically, ‘and sometimes, Clarissa, I think you are the luckiest woman.’

‘I know I am fortunate. Lance is good to me.’

‘He is so easygoing… always wanting to make people happy. There are not many husbands like Lance, Clarissa.’

‘I am sure you are right. When will you see your mother?’

Aimée gulped. ‘Well… knowing that we should be shopping this morning, I told her. She wants to meet you. She will be at the mercer’s shop. She said that if you did not want to meet her for any reason, I could give her a sign and she would slip away.’

‘I hope you told her that was an absurd suggestion.’

‘I did, knowing how kind you have always been to me.’

‘I shall look forward to meeting her. Oh Aimée, you must be very happy that she is here.’

‘It is hard to be separated from one’s family.’

I could scarcely wait to get to the shop in Gracechurch Street and as we stepped from the carriage and the mercer came out to hand us in, he said: ‘There is a lady… Madame Legrand… who is waiting to see you.’

As we stepped down into the shop a woman rose from the stool on which she had been sitting. She was of medium height with quantities of red hair; she was quietly but very elegantly dressed in light navy with a touch of delicate pink in the frilly fichu which was all that lightened the severity of her gown. But she wore a large blue hat with an ostrich feather tinged with pink at the edges. Her appearance was distinguished because of its contrast, between something bordering on austerity and the extreme femininity in the fichu and the feather in the hat. She looked at me with an expression of wonder and awe. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you are Clarissa.’

Aimée said: ‘This is my mother, Clarissa. She has been longing to see you.’

Madame Legrand cast her eyes down. She murmured: ‘Forgive me. It is a moment of emotion.’ She spoke very little English. I discovered, and what she did was peppered with French words. ‘You are… a little… like him… I can see him in Aimée. He was the one never forgotten.’

‘Clarissa has said that you must come and stay with us,’ said Aimée.

Tears filled the Frenchwoman’s eyes. ‘Oh it is so…
gentil
… so good… so kind. I do not know if I may

‘Oh, you must,’ I insisted. ‘You must stay with us while you are in England. I am sure you will want to be near Aimée.’

‘Ah… my little one. It has been hard, this parting.’ Again that lifting of the shoulders. ‘But what can be done? You see, there was my ’usband.’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘the parting with Aimée must have been very sad.’

She broke into French then: ‘It was right for her. You understand… a mother’s heart. A mother must not shut her eyes to the blessings that can come to her children. She must not say, “Ah, but I want them with me.” No, not if it is better for them to leave her. She must do what is best for them.’

She was inclined to be garrulous in her own language and although I was very interested in what she had to say, I did not think the mercer’s shop was the place in which to say it.

I suggested that we make our purchases and then go to a coffee house where we could talk in comfort, and this we did.

Madame Legrand, whose name was Giselle, explained to me in French, for she realized I could understand that language.

Her husband had died. Oh, that had been a dire tragedy. She had thought herself well provided for. She had planned that she would send for Aimée and the little boy, her grandson. It was hard to think of herself as
La Grand’mère
but she was proud that she was one. They were to have lived together in comfort.

‘A woman clings to her family, Clarissa. I may call you so? You and my daughter are sisters… but perhaps I should not say this. Your father… the father of you both… was such a man to adore. Having met him it had to be whatever he wished.’ She spread her hands. ‘And this is what he wished.’

As we sipped our chocolate in the cosy atmosphere of the coffee house, Madame Legrand talked. She was certainly never at a loss for words.

She talked about the past and her relationship with my father. ‘So tall, so handsome, so all that a man should be. Oh, it was wrong. It was sin, they would say. I have had to do a million penances for my lord. But I would do it all again… oh yes, I would. There was never one like him.’ So vividly did she talk of him that she made me see him again. She recalled little habits of his which I had forgotten till that moment: his manner of raising one eyebrow when he listened to something he did not believe; his way of taking off his hat suddenly and tossing it in the air; the way he touched his right ear when he was concentrating on something. Recalling these gestures she brought his memory back clearer than it had been for many years.