The adulteress (39 page)

"Oh, come, Charles," said the woman. "There's no need to rush, surely? We were talking about you the other day, weren't we, Ralph? We said it's such nonsense of you to bury yourself in the country. You ought to come back. All that trouble is forgotten now. People soon forget. Nine days' wonder and all that. I doubt whether anyone would remember if you came back now."

Charles had turned rather pale. I felt the magic of the evening slipping away.

Ralph said: "Sybil's right, Charles. Anyhow let's talk of pleasant things. You and your friend must sup with us. We have a table near the colonnades. It's very pleasant there and you can hear the band in the background."

"No," said Charles. "Thanks, but we must go. Goodbye."

"Are you in town for long?" asked the man.

"No. I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Pity. I should have liked to talk. I wish you'd bring Mistress . . . er . . . Ransome? along to see us before you go."

"Thanks but there's no time. Good-bye."

"Au revoir," said the woman.

Charles took my arm. I could feel the tension in him.

He was silent on the way back and I knew that that chance encounter outside the Rotunda had spoiled the day for him.

He was different now. The mask of melancholy which I had flattered myself I was helping to remove was now in place firmer than ever. I wished I could have asked him about the nine days' wonder, whatever it was, which people would have forgotten by now.

One thing I had learned. It was that—whatever had happened—which was responsible for his melancholy. There was some tragedy in Charles Forster's life and he could not forget it.

The wonderful companionship which we had shared during that magic day had gone; he was aloof, absentminded; and most of the time seemed hardly aware of me.

The journey back to Eversleigh seemed tedious. I rode between Isabel and James most of the time. I was of course pleased that James was coming back with us for a brief visit because I was sure Jean-Louis would be delighted to see him. At the back of my mind the thought persisted that I might even yet be able to persuade him to come to us.

As I was saying good-bye to the Forsters, who were about to ride on to Enderby, Jethro came hurrying up. He looked very solemn and I knew at once that all was not well.

He looked at me with unhappiness in his eyes and I said quickly: "What's happened, Jethro?"

"It's the master," he said.

I felt myself go cold with fear.

"It was an accident. He fell from his horse."

"He's . . ."

"Oh, he's all right, mistress. I mean he's not . . ."

"How bad, Jethro?"

"Well, it happened two days back. They got him to his bed. He's not moved from it since. The doctor's been with him . . . the one who came in Dr. Forster's place."

I nodded impatiently. "I will go to him ... at once."

"You may be shocked, mistress. The horse threw him, you see. 'Tweren't her fault. Master's leg troubling him made him an unsure rider sometimes."

Charles was beside me. "I'll wait," he said, "in case you want me to see him. Derek, you and Isabel go on to Enderby. I'll be with you soon."

"I'm going straight to him now," I said.

I ran up to our bedroom. Jean-Louis was lying in bed. He looked different—his face was white and drawn. But his eyes lit up at the sight of me.

I went to him, kissed him and then knelt beside the bed.

"Oh, my dearest . . . what happened?"

"It was my fault," he said. "I was careless. This old leg . . . and the pain in my back . . . Well, I was off my guard and old Tessa threw me."

"And the doctor . . . ?"

"He wants Dr. Forster to look at me. I can see he's a little grim, although he won't commit himself."

"Grim?" I asked.

"Well, I believe he thinks I won't walk again."

"Oh, Jean-Louis! And while I've been away . . ."

I thought of that day . . . the meal in the Rainbow, the trip down the river and most of all the enchanted evening. And while I was enjoying all that Jean-Louis was lying in great pain.

I vowed to myself that I would look after him for as long as he should need me. I must do that ... to make up for the way in which I had wronged him.

"You mustn't be upset, dearest Zipporah," he said. "It might not be so bad. The doctor seems to think a chair on wheels . . . You see, I don't seem to be able to use my legs."

He looked up suddenly. Charles had come into the room.

"I've come to see you," he said. "What happened?"

Jean-Louis told him what he had told me.

"May I examine you now?"

"Oh, do please," I said.

Charles turned to me and said: "Perhaps you would leave us."

I went out. Poor Jean-Louis. Why did this have to happen to him! He was such a good man. I thought if Dickon had never started that fire in Hassock's barn this wouldn't have happened. Jean-Louis, who had been an excellent horseman before his accident, had become a clumsy one afterward. I felt waves of hatred against Dickon.

It was stupid. It was unfair. Dickon had acted as any mischievous boy might in making a fire in the barn.

I had forgotten we had a guest. I hurried down wondering what James would think of me. He was all sympathy. I was not to worry about him. Someone would tell him where his room was and then he would hope to see Jean-Louis when he was well enough.

As Jean-Louis was in our bedroom with the doctor I had water sent up to another and there I washed the grime of the journey from my face.

I went down to the hall to wait for Charles.

"He's been badly hurt," he said when he came. "I don't know whether he will ever walk again. He appears to have lost the use of his legs." He looked at me sorrowingly. "There is another thing: he may suffer a good deal of pain."

"Oh no . . ."

"I fear this is inevitable in view of the seat of the damage. But don't worry. We will alleviate it all we can. I will get you some laudanum and morphia perhaps. You will have to be careful how you administer them. They can be easily fatal. But I shall give you full instructions."

"Oh, thank you," I said. "Thank you."

He smiled rather sadly and laid his hand on my shoulder. "A sad homecoming," he said. "A pity . . ." He turned to the door and there he paused. "These things happen," he went on. "Don't fret. He will be my patient and you may be sure that I shall do everything I can ... for you both."

I ran to him and he took both my hands in his. Then he bent forward suddenly and kissed my forehead.

I felt a great desire to throw myself into his arms. I wanted him to hold me ... to shut out the cruelty of the

world ... I wanted us to cling together and I to forget my guilt for what I had done to Jean-Louis and for him to cast out forever that shadow which was haunting his life.

It was over in a few seconds.

"Don't fret," he said again. "Everything will be all right."

Then he was gone.

I went along to see Jean-Louis. He smiled and held out his hand.

"What did the doctor say?"

"He doesn't seem to know what damage has been done yet. But he'll be there to look after you, and I have great faith in him."

"Yes," he said, "so have I."

"He said you might have some pain but he can give you something. And, Jean-Louis, I shall be there to look after you."

"My Zipporah," he said. "My little love."

I was holding his hand tightly and he said: "You mustn't cry."

I did not realize I was but he had felt the dampness on his hand.

"Zipporah," he said, "look at me." I did. His eyes met mine steadily. "Whatever happens," he said, "I've had a good life. I owe so much to your mother, who took me in . . . but to you most of all. I'll never forget what I owe to you. . . . Whatever happens ... it will always be so. Nothing . . . nothing could change that."

For a moment I thought: He knows. He is telling me he knows.

But no. He did not know that his beloved Lottie was not his. It was one of the greatest joys of his life to think that he had fathered her.

He was talking of her. She had been so good, he told me. She had been with him in his room, looking after him. "I made her go out, otherwise she would have been in the sick room all the time. She'll be back soon and the first thing she will do is come and see me. Oh, I am indeed blessed in my family."

"It'll be all right," I said. "I will look after you always."

He smiled. I looked into his good patient face and prayed that he would not have to suffer pain.

It turned out that good sometimes comes out of evil.

Jean-Louis was very pleased to see James. They talked a good deal together and Lottie, who took a fancy to James, took him out to show him the estate.

It was three days after we had returned home when James came to me.

There was a purposeful look in his face.

He said: "Zipporah, I've been thinking. . . . With Jean-Louis incapacitated . . . what are you going to do?"

"The first thing is to get a man to manage the estate, I suppose."

"I've been thinking . . . but this is subject to Hetty, of course ... I'd have to see her . . ."

"Oh, James!" I cried.

"Yes," he said. "He'll need someone he can trust . . . someone who speaks his language."

"There's only one who could give him the relief he needs."

"I'll come, Zipporah. Yes, I'll come. That's if Hester's not too set against it. But I can persuade her, and when she knows how things are I don't think she'll put obstacles in the way."

"Oh, James . . . James . . . this is wonderful."

"All right then," he said, "and if there's trouble later .. . well, we'll face that when it comes along."

The Secret Drawer

Christmas was almost upon us. The months after that trip to London had been sad ones for me. The forecast had been right. Jean-Louis did have a great deal of pain, and there is nothing more heartrending than to see a loved one suffer. I was grateful for the laudanum with which Charles supplied me; no doctor could have been more assiduous in his care for a patient than he was toward Jean-Louis. He would come immediately I sent for him; he comforted me, too; and Jean-Louis had such faith in him that his very presence seemed to soothe him.

Jean-Louis was stoical by nature; and it was so touching to see his attempts to hide his pain from me because he knew how it upset me to see him in that state. Charles had warned me that in the extremity of agony he might try to increase his dose of laudanum and this must never go beyond that prescribed. He had said that only I should administer it and therefore I should be able to keep a strict watch on how much he took. "Keep the bottles locked away," he said, "and only you should have the key."

"Jean-Louis would never take his own life whatever the provocation," I said.

"My dear Zipporah, you don't know the extent of the provocation."

All this would have been unendurable if there had not been reasonably long periods when Jean-Louis was free from the pain. It could be absent for as much as a week at a time and that seemed to give us breathing space to recover and prepare ourselves for the next onslaught—and to get on with our lives.

I had engaged a governess for Lottie—rather to her displeasure. She liked her lessons with me, which were apt to be a little irregular. Now with the coming of Madeleine Carter, Lottie must be in the schoolroom precisely at the same hour every morning. She was not academically inclined and had what Miss Carter called a butterfly mind. It flitted from one

subject to another. "If only it would settle," said Miss Carter, "something might be achieved."

Madeleine Carter was a spinster in her early thirties. She was the sister of a vicar and had kept house for him until his unfortunate and early demise which had left her stranded and forced to take on the only kind of occupation available for one in her position. She was prim, strict, very efficient; and I thought an excellent choice. It was quite clear that Lottie needed someone to curb her for she was growing decidedly self-willed, and although she was possessed of great charm she could be wayward.

The greatest piece of luck was that James Fenton was looking after the estate. He had gone home directly after our return from London to break the news to Hetty, and in view of Jean-Louis's condition he came back to us soon afterward, leaving Hetty, as he said, to pack up.

A few weeks later Hetty came with her two children and it was good to see her again. She was happy to be back but dreaded meeting Dickon, and as he would be coming for Christmas we arranged that she and James, with their children, should spend the holiday with James's cousin on the farm and stay there until my mother with Sabrina and Dickon had returned to Clavering. It seemed a reasonable and satisfactory arrangement.

Thus the months passed. James had been a great asset and spent a lot of time with Jean-Louis discussing estate matters and working out policy; and Jean-Louis was delighted to have someone who would carry out his wishes—and, more than that, give his wholehearted support toward what was being done. James did a great deal to raise his spirits.

My friendship with the Forsters had grown and we were often in and out of each other's houses. Charles Forster was frequently at Enderby, and as he visited Jean-Louis at least twice a week and more often of course when I called him in during one of Jean-Louis's bad bouts, the family had become an important part of my life.

Then there was Evalina. She had been very friendly toward me since the matter of the will. She reminded me of a contented kitten who has found a good home and intends to keep it. She was assured the comfort and comparative opulence of Grasslands; she had her baby, whom she undoubtedly loved dearly, and a good manager—and perhaps more—in Jack Trent.

It was the day before Christmas Eve when our guests arrived. Lottie and I had done everything we could to bring a festive atmosphere into the house and by great good fortune Jean-Louis was better than he had been for some time. He was able to walk a little about the room with the aid of a stick and I arranged that on Christmas day two of the men servants might carry him down to the great hall. I prayed that we could keep the pain at bay for a little while.