Victoria Holt - The House of a Thousand Lanterns

My mother was in a state of exultation. She looked like a bride herself.

After the ceremony she kissed me fondly.

“This is the happiest day of my life since my husband died,” she told Joliffe and me. She turned to him earnestly: “You will take care of her.”

He swore he would and we went away for our honeymoon.

My mother returned to Roland’s Croft.

It was like being born into a new world of discovery. I began to realize how young I had been, how inexperienced. It was an intoxicating existence. “I had been so unworldly before. Life was not all that I had believed it to be. I suppose my parents had lived an ideal married life; they were serene in their happiness, simple one might say. Joliffe was never that.

He was the most exciting person I had ever known and if he had been as easy to understand as my parents, could he have fascinated me so? As I emerged from the ecstatic dream which our honeymoon was I began to see how little I knew of the world, what a simpleton I had been. Everything before had been so clear cut—the good, the bad, the right, the wrong. Now they were merging into each other. Something which I might have condemned before, I discovered was a little risky, but amusing. The greatest quality seemed to be an ability to amuse.

Joliffe was passionate and tender, delighted to initiate me into a way of life which I had never known existed before. My innocence he found delightful, “amusing” in fact. But at the same time I knew that it would not continue to amuse. It was something I had to grow out of.

We spent the first night of our honeymoon in a country hotel, with Tudor architecture—oak beams, and floors which sloped, of the Queen-Elizabeth-Slept-Here variety. There were old tennis courts—the Tudor kind where Henry VIII was said to have played; and in the evening after dinner we strolled into the old Tudor garden with its winter heath, jasmine and yellow chrysanthemums.

I was living in a dream then; there was Joliffe my new husband at whom I had already noticed women turned to look, and he had eyes for me only, which made me feel proud and humble all at once.

So that first night together was spent in the ancient bedroom with the tiny leaded paned windows through which shafts of moonlight touched the room with a dreamlike radiance, and it was Joliffe’s delight to lead me to understanding. When he slept for I could not, I watched his sleeping face while the moonlight threw shadows over it and it seemed then that it changed and put lines where there were none and it was as though I saw Joliffe as he would be twenty years hence and I told myself passionately I will love him then even as I do now.

He awoke and I told him this and we were solemn talking of our love. And strangely enough—as though some premonition of disaster had cast a sudden shadow—I assured myself that whatever happened in the future nothing could spoil the magic of this night.

That was only the beginning of our honeymoon. It must be spent in style, as I discovered everything must be with Joliffe. We were to go to Paris, a city he dearly loved. “All honeymoons,” he declared, “should be spent in Paris.”

We went by train to Dover and crossed the Channel in a mild swell and took the boat train from Calais to the French capital.

“The first thing we must do is get you some clothes,” said Joliffe. “I have friends in Paris. I can’t introduce my little country mouse to them.”

Little country mouse! I was indignant. He laughed at me. He took off my hat—one which I had thought greatly daring with its little emerald green feather on black satin and its green velvet ribbons tied under my chin. He grimaced at it. “All very well for walks in the forest but hardly suited to the Champs-Elysées, my darling.”

And my gown of dark green merino with the velvet collar which mother and I had thought the height of good taste was just a little too homely, he said.

I was hurt but my spirits rose as we went to the little shops and new clothes were bought for me. I had a gown with a little cape of black and white and a black hat which was scarcely a hat for it was just a twist of black net with a huge white bow in it.

“It won’t be of the least use,” I declared.

“My darling Jane will learn that the last thing that is expected of a hat is that it should be useful. Piquant, elegant, decorative, yes. Useful never.”

“How can you know so much about women’s clothes?” I demanded.

“Only one woman’s. And I know about hers because she is my wife and I adore her.”

I had a gown for evening which was daring, I thought. Joliffe said it was just right. It was white satin and he gave me a jade brooch set in diamonds to wear with it. When I put it on I was startled by my reflection. I was indeed a different person.

During those two weeks in Paris I was in turns deliriously happy and vaguely apprehensive. I was enchanted by this magic city. I loved it best in the morning when there was a smell of freshly baked bread in the streets and an excitement in the air which means that a big city is coming to life. Blissfully I wandered through the flower markets on either side of the Madeleine, Joliffe at my side; I bought armfuls of blossoms to decorate our bedroom and their haunting scent stayed with me forever. We strolled along the boulevards, climbed to Sacré Coeur and explored Montmartre; I shivered over the cruel leering faces of the gargoyles of historic Notre Dame; I laughed at the traders in Les Halles. I reveled in the treasures of the Louvre and I mingled with the artists and students seated outside the cafés of the Left Bank. It was the most wonderful experience I had ever known. It was all that a honeymoon should be. And whatever new and wonderful sights I saw, whatever thrilling experiences were mine it all came back to one thing: Joliffe was with me.

He was the best possible companion; he knew this city so well. But I began to notice that the Joliffe of our morning rambles and tours of exploration was different from the man he became in the evenings. I was learning that people were more complicated than I in my innocence had believed them to be—some people at least, and Joliffe for one. There were many facets to the natures of some. I could not at that time understand why my husband could revel in the simple pleasures by day and in the evening subtly change to the sophisticate. This alarmed me faintly. I felt at a disadvantage.

In the afternoon we used to draw the blinds and lie on our bed talking idly or making love. “It’s an old French custom,” said Joliffe; and these were the happiest times.

Then in the evening we must join his friends of whom there seemed to be many. We must go to Marguery’s to sample his special filet de sole in its sauce of Marguery’s creating which could not be found anywhere in the world; we must dine at the Moulin Rouge and see the dancing at the Bal Tabarin; we must join Joliffe’s friends at the Café de la Paix. I used to hope that we would dine alone but we rarely did. There were always friends to join us. They talked volubly in French which I did not always find easy to follow; they drank what seemed to me a great deal and shared jokes of which I sometimes did not grasp the point. At such times I seemed to lose touch with Joliffe and it was then so hard to believe that he was the same man with whom I shared those interesting mornings and ecstatic afternoons.

I saw the artists Monet and Toulouse-Lautrec; we mingled with the literati and people from the theatrical world; they were colorful, larger than life—women with exquisite complexions which I innocently thought were their own, their gowns of breathtaking elegance made me feel gauche and out of place and I longed for the peace of our hotel room.

But Joliffe loved this society. He could not have enough of it. I felt angry and in a way humiliated by the manner in which some of the women regarded Joliffe. It was even more disconcerting because he appeared to enjoy it.

One night as we jolted back to the hotel in our cab I said: “I’ve come to the conclusion that I shall have to grow accustomed to the way women look at you.”

He answered: “How do they look?” But of course he knew.

“I have heard it said that women like men who like them. Is that true?”

“Don’t we always like those who like us?”

“I mean women collectively. They don’t have time to find out whether you like them personally. It’s something they know by instinct. Women like you, Joliffe.”

“Oh that’s because I’m so good-looking,” he said jocularly. He turned to me. “In any case I’m indifferent to what they think of me. There’s only one whose opinion is of importance.”

Joliffe could say things like that. He could sweep away hours of doubting fears in a second, and although I began to feel that there was much I did not know of him and of life, I loved him more every day.

Many of the people we met were his business associates.

“In a business like mine,” he said, “I travel a great deal. I have to. When I hear of treasures here in Paris, in London, in Rome… I come to see them. I’m always looking for treasure.”

“Does one look here for Chinese treasure?”

“It’s everywhere. There was a time when it was fashionable to collect chinoiserie. People did it all over Europe. Thus many of the art treasures of China found their way here.”

He took me along to a dealer on the Left Bank one day. That was one of my happiest days.

There in a dark little room were some beautiful objects. I cried out in delight, and I realized how I had missed the showroom at Roland’s Croft and working with Mr. Sylvester.

How delighted I was to surprise both Joliffe and the dealer with my knowledge when I recognized some exquisite scrolls of the T’ang Dynasty and placed them somewhere round the tenth century.

I was grateful for the tuition I had received.

I was drawn into a new intimacy. We drank wine in a little room at the back of the showroom—myself, Joliffe, and Monsieur Ferrand the dealer. I felt that I entered a magic circle. I was very happy. The color engendered by wine and happiness touched my cheeks. My eyes were shining. It will always be like this, I told myself.

Monsieur Ferrand wanted to show us some rings he had had brought to him. Someone had come back from Peking with them. The jade was beautiful—some in the delicious apple green, some a translucent emerald color. I liked the apple green better though I knew the darker ones to be more valuable.

There was one of this lightish green shade most exquisitely carved and in the front was an eye the pupil of which was a diamond. It was most unusual.

“Said to be the eye of Kuan Yin,” explained Monsieur Ferrand. “I had to give a good price for it because of the legend you know. The owner of this ring will always be able to look into the eye of the goddess. That should be very useful.”

“I haven’t seen a piece like this before.”

“I hope not. This one should be unique.”

I took it up and slipped it on my finger. Joliffe took my hand and across the table his eyes met mine. They were alight with love and I thought—strangely enough at that time—anything that happens is worth while for this moment.

“It looks well on your finger, Jane.”

“Just imagine, madame,” put in Monsieur Ferrand, “the goddess of good fortune would always be on hand as it were.”

Joliffe laughed.

“You must have it, Jane. Married to me, you may need it.”

“Married to you I am the last person to need it.”

A shadow passed momentarily over his face. I had never seen him look like that before—sad, almost apprehensive. But he was almost immediately gay again.

“Nevertheless you must have it. Although I shouldn’t say so in front of Monsieur Ferrand because I must strike a bargain with him.”

They talked over the ring and I tried it on again. At last they decided on a price and I put it back on my finger. Joliffe took my hand and kissed the ring.

“May good fortune always be yours, my darling,” he said.

I sat in the cab leaning against Joliffe, turning the ring round and round on my finger.

“I have reached the very peak of happiness now,” I said. “There can’t be anything more.”

Joliffe assured me that there was.

* * *

How the days flew—happy days except for the evenings when we entertained or were entertained by his friends and business associates. Then my eyes would ache with the smoke and the lights and my ears would be weary with the music and I would strain to translate what I was sure were the risqué jokes of some people who came and sat at our table and drank champagne with us.