Season of Light (3 page)

She paused. ‘He’s scarcely my friend.’

‘Really? I had assumed you were family friends. He speaks highly of you.’

‘Goodness, I’m surprised he even noticed me.’

‘Indeed he did. Praised what he called your astuteness.’ He twisted a leaf from an unfortunate miniature orange tree. ‘I saw him in action yesterday at the Palais de Justice. Afterwards we dined together. He believes the system is about to crack. The country is bankrupt, the peasants are squeezed for every penny while their landlords allow flocks of ornamental doves to strip bare a year’s crop.’

‘It seems to me that English landowners,’ said Asa, recovering her composure, ‘including my father in Sussex, are just as careless of their tenants’ crops when in pursuit of a fox. I should imagine that your Somerset huntsmen are scarcely more considerate.’

‘I can’t comment on that, Miss Ardleigh. Haven’t been home in months. Avoid the place, truth be told. And my father would rather be at a desk than on a horse. The Somerset hunt despairs of him, I’m sure.’

Asa was irked by his flippant attitude to his father’s business. Observing his polished boots and oversized buttons, she could not think how he held up his head, given that to allow him to buy his finery some tragic soul had been betrayed, whipped and enslaved. Abruptly she brought the conversation to an end.

However burdensome Shackleford’s presence in Paris might be, Asa consoled herself with the knowledge that because Morton had invited him to share their box at the Odeon, the outing to
Figaro
was less likely to be cancelled. Philippa was eager to meet Shackleford and was therefore determined to force herself out of bed for the occasion.

‘What a shame it would be,’ she said stoically, as a hairdresser attached ivory ribbons to her headdress, ‘if I’d not been able to wear my new pink bodice after all the trouble Georgina took with the ruffles. Which reminds me, Asa, I’ve been meaning to give you this.’ She took a little box from the dressing table. ‘Georgina has Mother’s wedding band. You shall have her engagement ring, now that I have my own.’

The ring, which was composed of three sapphires, each circled with small diamonds, had been much admired by Asa ever since she was deemed old enough to look at it. It fitted the third finger of her right hand perfectly, and when she felt its cool weight on her skin she had no words, could only kiss her sister’s hand.

‘There,’ said Philippa, dabbing the corner of her eye, ‘I think Mother would have been proud to see you now, Asa. You’re beginning to look a little like her, particularly when you take the time to dress your hair properly.’

With Morton and Asa’s support, Philippa descended successfully to the carriage. The short drive along the rue de Vaugirard was remarkably smooth with no sudden turns or jolts, and it seemed to Asa that the ring, as she stretched and twisted her finger to admire it, lent the evening even greater significance. Philippa was delighted by the theatre’s buttercup interior, the froth and flounce of the ladies’ gowns, and the roaring crimson and gold of the auditorium.

Shackleford, who was waiting for them in the box, bowed as he took Philippa’s hand and told her how delighted he was to meet her. ‘All these years I have been starved of relations and now I have found two. And how glorious you look in white, Miss Ardleigh,’ he said, turning to Asa. ‘Everyone will want to be introduced to you.’

She scarcely managed a smile. Didier would not be coming, she thought. It was absurd to think he would have time to view a frivolous comedy. The high-piled curls of the ladies, spiked with jewels and feathers, were distressingly garish; likewise Shackleford, whose shoes were adorned with monstrous steel buckles. Seated to her left, he kept turning to look at her face, as if to satisfy himself that she was enjoying the play.

During the second interval there was a knock on the door of their box, however, and Beatrice Paulin was ushered in, followed by her brother. Asa embraced her, then stood back as Didier greeted the Mortons. He gave her only a little bow of acknowledgement but she sensed from a touch of awkwardness that he was painfully aware of her. The play, the theatre, the company now seemed enchanting. How foolish Asa had been to think Didier would not come; he fitted in here as he would in the law court, salon or street because he was absolutely himself. And she could not help noticing that his eyes, when they at last met hers, were as full of anticipation as her own must have been.

Beatrice, as dark haired and clear skinned as her brother but with a smooth brow and dainty hands, linked an arm through Asa’s. ‘You know that
Figaro
was not performed in Paris for years? The censor lifted his ban only at the insistence of the queen. Even she had the sense to realise a play is more subversive when it is forbidden.’

‘The trouble is,’ said Didier, ‘that we all identify with the cheeky barber who outwits the corrupt nobleman.’

At that moment Philippa swayed, seized a chair-back, and began to fall. Asa and Morton sprang forward just in time and guided her to a seat. Paulin rushed away to fetch a glass of water. After she’d recovered a little it was decided that Philippa must of course return to the hotel escorted by Morton, if Shackleford would assist them down to the carriage. He might then come back and accompany Asa until the end of the play: it would be such a shame for her to miss it and the tickets had been so expensive. ‘But perhaps it would not be right for you to be alone in the box with Asa. Oh, it’s so difficult …’ murmured Philippa.

‘I am here,’ cried Beatrice, ‘and if you would prefer, Madame Morton, my brother and I will take your sister home in our carriage.’

Thus Asa was seated between brother and sister, with Shackleford, when he returned from helping the Mortons, banished to the far side of Beatrice.

For Asa the play was simply a gaudy backdrop to the man beside her, whose elbow at one stage brushed her arm so that she sat absolutely still lest he move away, and whose whole being pulsed with energy and pent-up excitement. Beatrice, tranquil and laughing, responded patiently to Shackleford, who occasionally leaned back for a glimpse of Asa, who in turn ignored him.

During the next interval Didier’s talk was sensational. ‘You watch, Mademoiselle Ardleigh. A hundred thousand Figaros are ready in France to stand up to the forces of oppression. The Estates General will be called and then we will seize our opportunity.’

‘That’s it,’ said Shackleford, who had drawn his chair closer. ‘There doesn’t seem to be a man in Paris at the moment who doesn’t wish to be involved in political change. Except for me, of course. I’m all for taking the long view. Plan carefully before you lift the lid, that’s what I say.’

‘The king’s ministers, Brienne and Lamoignon, are floundering,’ said Didier. ‘But it’s not yet known how delegates to the Estates General will be selected. There are three estates, Mademoiselle Ardleigh, the nobles and clergy, about half a million in all, and everybody else. At the moment this vast majority, twenty-five million people, has no voice at all. But even if the Estates General were to be called, the nobles and clergy would carry more weight.’

‘What about the women of France? Will they also prove themselves a force to be reckoned with, like Suzanne in the play?’ asked Asa.

‘I am surrounded by women even more radical than myself. You should hear my sister and her friends in her little salon in Caen. You would be very at home among them, mademoiselle.’

‘In England my friend Caroline and I attend political meetings with her father, Mr Lambert. We are abolitionists.’

Didier leaned closer to her. ‘I knew, when I met you, that our flame burned in you also. But then you are a friend of Monsieur Lambert.’ His breath fanned her neck as he whispered: ‘What did you think of Ronsard?’

‘Thank you for lending the book to me. I thought some of his poetry very beautiful.’

‘And the rest?’

Could she risk it? She turned her head and looked into his face, which was inches from her own. ‘Some of the poems were insipid. Others unreadable.’

He grinned. ‘Don’t be too harsh on him, mademoiselle. He was stone deaf, you know, but above all a pioneer. He and his little group changed the course of French poetry. The book I lent you was my mother’s. It is very old. Take good care of it.’

‘Forgive me, Monsieur Paulin, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful.’

He touched her arm. ‘I like your honesty. And it might be that our French poetry loses a little in translation.
Mignonelette. Doucelette
… How to convey the feeling in English?’ The tip of his thumb performed a tiny circle so that every sense was concentrated in that point on her arm.

At the end of the play Shackleford accompanied them downstairs. By now awash with happiness Asa regretted that she had not been kinder to him. His eyes were so warm and his manner so diffident that when he asked permission to call at the Montmorency the next day and enquire after Philippa’s health her smile was unguarded. As she took Paulin’s arm, she sensed that Shackleford was longing for one more glance.

In the carriage Beatrice talked about their childhood in Caen and explained that she and their father, the professor, had come to Paris for a holiday and in order to visit Didier, whom they’d not seen for nearly a year. Didier’s rented apartment, not far from the Montmorency, was too small to accommodate them, so Beatrice and her father stayed in rooms off the rue St Honoré.

Didier sat opposite, occasionally looking out of the window, often gazing at Asa. In the half-light of the carriage, as the beam of a street lamp swung between them, she caught his eye and smiled shyly. In return his sober gaze held hers as if he were committing her face to memory.

At the hotel he alighted, watched as Asa managed her gauzy skirts, then kissed her hand and drew her close by locking her forearm within his own. ‘When do you leave Paris, Mademoiselle Ardleigh?’

‘I don’t know. When my sister is better.’

‘Will you attend Madame de Genlis’s salon next week?’

‘If my brother-in-law chooses to accompany me.’

‘Otherwise Beatrice will come for you. I’ll see to it.’

He kissed her hand again, this time on the joint of her middle finger. When their eyes met she read him with absolute clarity and knew, even then, that he would demand everything from her.

She sat up late that night, describing the trip to the theatre in a letter home to Georgina;
Figaro
, Philippa’s sickness, Shackleford – the implication being that notwithstanding the trip to the play, it was somehow rather dull in Paris with Philippa so confined. To Caroline she began by writing that the king was bound to agree to the calling of the Estates General.

I am so grateful to your father for giving us an introduction to the Paulin family. Were it not for them, we would see only the Paris displayed for wealthy visitors. Thanks to the Paulins, I gain more than a glimpse of what is happening beneath the surface. The truth is, the state is bankrupt; the king must have more money but cannot get it without reform. At the moment, there is stalemate, but just you wait
.

Beatrice Paulin is perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four, she adores her brother and is very gentle and considerate. She reminds me a little of you, perhaps because she too is learned and thoughtful, and has a slight otherworldliness about her. Her brother, younger by a year or so, although thinking a little too much of himself, shares all our passions. Oh Caroline you would feel so at home here amid the talk of equality and liberty, whereas my poor brother-in-law hardly knows how to respond when Didier Paulin shakes him by the hand. Didier is the new France, and Morton fears him as he fears the pamphlets that drift like snow at our feet whenever we visit the Palais Royal. But to be with Didier Paulin – and his sister – is to believe that everything could change
.

Philippa’s pregnancy was confirmed by a second doctor, who said that in a few weeks, when the most dangerous and distressing phase had passed, they should leave Paris and travel to Switzerland as originally planned. He said the mountain air would help to rebuild her strength.

‘I beg to differ,’ said Morton. ‘I shall not put my wife through the ordeal of yet another journey, particularly in these times of unrest. As soon as she is well, home we will go.’

With this brief exchange, Asa’s fate was sealed. The prospect of a prolonged trip was snatched away and a few weeks were all that remained. She certainly could not complain, had no voice in the matter, but it did seem harsh indeed that this, the greatest adventure of her life, should be curtailed, even by such joyous news. On top of that, she had to endure another five days before she would see Didier Paulin again. In the meantime, Morton took her to the gardens of the Tuileries Palace, to the dusty galleries of the Louvre, and shopping at the Palais Royal. On every excursion, Shackleford appeared as if by chance.

In the Palais Royal, Morton remembered that he had to run an important errand on behalf of his wife and suggested that Shackleford keep Asa company until he came back. At first she didn’t mind too much. The day was breezy and warm and it was pleasant to pause by the fountain, to walk along the avenues from shade to sunshine and to make a mental note, for Georgina’s sake, of the dozen ways a fashionable lady might arrange a strip of muslin – purportedly to cover, but actually to draw attention to, her bosom. Asa could not fail to notice admiring glances at her own new straw hat and the soft billows of her skirts. The borders of the gardens were planted with scented flowers and there was a hum of voices along the shadowy arcades. And because the Palais Royal belonged to the king’s obstreperous cousin, the Duc d’Orléans – the one member of the royal family who proclaimed himself for the people – and this same Orléans was intimate with Madame de Genlis, Asa felt herself a little nearer Thursday and the salon, when she would meet Paulin once more.

She expected the usual asinine conversation with Shackleford, but on this occasion he startled her.

‘Your brother-in-law happened to mention that you are an abolitionist, Miss Ardleigh.’

‘So I am. I’m surprised Mr Morton told you since he does not approve.’