Philippa Carr - Zipporah’s Daughter

I wanted to protest. I wanted to cry: He was never yours so how could I take him from you?

She stood there at the end of my bed as she had done on that other night. She said: ‘You took Charles from me.’

‘No! You gave him up. You wouldn’t marry him.’

She touched her face. ‘You were there when this happened. You went off with him and left me.’

‘Oh, Sophie,’ I protested. ‘It was not like that.’

‘It is long ago,’ she said. ‘And then you told my father, did you not, that Léon wanted to marry me … and you persuaded him that it would not be right because he was only a tutor and I was a Comte’s daughter. I heard you talking to him about me at the moat.’

‘It is not true. I said no such thing. I said it would be good for you and for him. I assure you, Sophie, that is what I said.’

‘And he was sent away. There was this story about his mother … and now he is to stay with her and he won’t come back here. That is your doing.’

‘Oh Sophie, you are quite wrong.’

‘Do you think I don’t know? You tried to pretend first that he was a spy … you and your friend … that man … that Dickon. You are going to marry him, are you not? … when my father is dead and everything comes to you. What of Armand? How did you and your lover get him out of the way?’

‘Sophie, this is madness.’

‘Madness now, you say. Is that what you want them to say of me? I hate you. I shall never forget what you have done to me. I will never forgive you.’

I got out of bed and approached her, but she put out her arms to ward me off. She walked backwards to the door her arms stretched out before her as she went. She looked like a sleepwalker.

I cried: ‘Sophie … Sophie … listen to me. You are wrong … wrong about everything. Let me talk to you.’

But she shook her head. I watched the door shut on her. Then I went back to bed and lay there, shivering.

GLOOM HAD DESCENDED ON the castle. I could not forget Sophie’s nocturnal visit and I wondered how I could ever get her to accept the truth. I had not realized how much she had resented me. It was only since the coming of Charles, of course; before that she had accepted me as her sister.

Perhaps I had been too taken up with my own affairs to give enough attention to hers. Poor girl, so fearfully scarred, and then to lose the man she was to marry and again to have lost the chance of happiness. I must try to understand.

Marie Louise announced her intention of going into a convent. She had long thought of doing so and now that it was almost certain that her husband was dead, there was nothing to keep her in the château. My father was delighted to see her go. He said he thought it would lessen the gloom a little.

He was very anxious about me.

‘You are pining for Dickon,’ he said.

‘No, no!’ I protested. ‘Nothing of the sort. When he comes he creates … disturbances.’

‘But it is disturbance that makes life worth living for you and without it … is it not a little dull?’

‘I have the children and you.’

‘The children are growing up. Claudine is nearly thirteen years old.’

‘So she is.’ When I was that age I had been overwhelmed by Dickon for some time and had thought of marriage to him. Charlot was almost sixteen and Louis-Charles was a little older than that. It was indeed true that they were growing away from childhood.

‘And you are getting older, my dear,’ went on my father.

‘We all are, of course.’

‘It must be thirty-four years ago when I saw your mother for the first time. It was so romantic … dusk … and she stood there like a phantom from another world. She thought I was a ghost too. I had been hunting for a fob I had lost and I rose up suddenly on that haunted patch of land and really startled her.’

‘I know. You have told me.’

‘I should like to see it all again before I die. Lottie, you should go back. You should go to Eversleigh. You should make up your mind what to do about Dickon. I think you are in love with him. Are you?’

I hesitated. ‘What is love? Is it being excited by someone … enjoying the presence of someone … feeling alive when he is there and yet at the same time knowing too much about him … knowing that he wants power, money … and that he is prepared to do almost anything for them … not quite trusting … ? You see, I am trying to see his inadequacies. Is that love?’

‘Perhaps you are looking for perfection.’

‘Didn’t you look for it … and find it?’

‘I never looked for it because I did not believe it existed. I stumbled on it by chance.’

‘It was because you loved so deeply that you found it. My mother might not have been perfect.’

‘Ah, but she was.’

‘In your eyes, as you were in hers. Were you perfect, Father?’

‘Far from it.’

‘But she thought you were. Perhaps that is love. An illusion. Seeing what is not there and perhaps the more deeply one loves the more one deceives oneself.’

‘My dearest child, I should like to see you happy before I die … even if it means not having you with me. The greatest happiness I have known came through you and your mother. Who would have believed that a chance meeting could lead to that? It was an enchanted night, that one, and she was there and I was there … ’

I leaned over and kissed him. ‘I am glad that we pleased you … my mother and I. You pleased us every bit as much, you know. I loved the man I believed to be my father. He was kind and gentle … but you … you were different. You were so romantic and gallant in your castle. It was wonderful to learn that you were my father.’

He turned away to hide his emotion. Then he said almost brusquely: ‘I don’t want you to go on living here … growing older, wasting your youth. You are not like your mother. You are more able to take care of yourself. She was innocent. She did not see evil. You are not like that, Lottie.’

‘More … earthy,’ I said.

‘I would say more worldly. You know more of men than she did. You would understand the imperfections and bear them, and perhaps even love the more because of them. I think often of Dickon. He is no saint. But do you want a saint? They can be hard to live with. I think you are fond of him in a special way, and will never forget him whatever happens. So he is with you. He is indeed a man full of faults, but brave and strong, I would say. I think he should be the father of a child for you … before it is too late.’

‘I am not going to leave the château. I like it here.’

‘In this gloomy castle with Sophie in her turret casting her own special sort of spell over the place.’

‘The children are happy here.’

‘They will grow up and have lives of their own. I want you go to England.’

‘Go to England? What do you mean? To Eversleigh?’

‘I do. I want you to take the children, to see Dickon in his home, and there to decide what you really want. I think you should go there to discover.’

‘I shall not leave you.’

‘I thought you would say that. That is why I have decided that I will go with you.’

I stared at him in astonishment.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I have promised myself. I too am tired of the château. I want a rest from it. I want to forget what happened to Armand. I want to forget Sophie brooding in her tower. I want a bit of excitement. What do you say that you and I, with the children, cross the water to England?’

I just looked at him in amazement.

He said: ‘You have answered. I can see the joy in your face. That is good. I am going to tell the children at once. There is no reason why we should delay.’

Charlot was wildly excited about the proposed visit to England. So was Claudine. Louis-Charles was so disconsolate that I said we must take him with us, and Lisette agreed that he might go. I was happy listening to them, making plans, talking of England which they had never seen, counting the days.

My father talked to them of what he knew of Eversleigh. Claudine would sit at his feet on a footstool, her arms clasped about her knees as she dreamily stared into space. Charlot plied him with questions; and Louis-Charles listened in the respectful silence he always showed in the presence of the Comte.

It was four days before we were due to leave when my father asked me to walk with him down to the moat. He took my arm and said slowly: ‘Lottie, I cannot make this journey.’

I stopped and stared at him in horror.

‘I have been letting myself pretend I would, shutting my eyes to truth. See how breathless I am climbing this slope? I am not young any more. And if I were ill on the journey … or in England … ’

‘I should be there to take care of you.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Lottie. I know. I have a pain here … round my heart. It is because of this that I want to see you settled.’

I was silent for a moment. Then I said: ‘Have you seen the doctors?’

He nodded. ‘I am no longer young, they tell me. I must accept my fate.’

‘I think a messenger should go to Eversleigh at once. They will be making preparations for us. And I will tell the children now that we are not going.’

‘No! I said I could not go. You and the children must.’

‘Without you?’

He nodded. ‘That is what I have decided … ’

‘And leave you here … sick!’

‘Listen to me, Lottie. I am not sick. I am merely old and unable to make a long and exhausting journey. That is not being sick. I don’t need nursing. If you stay here, there is nothing you can do. You cannot disappoint the children. You will go with them. That is my wish. And I shall stay here. I am well looked after. I have good servants. And you will come back to us in due course.’

I said: ‘This is a blow.’

He stared at the water of the moat and I wondered whether he had ever intended to come.

I couldn’t help being caught up in the young people’s excitement. We set out on horseback, considering the carriage too cumbersome and slow. Claudine rode between the two boys; she was growing very pretty and had a look of my mother. I think that was one of the reasons why she was the Comte’s favourite. She was sturdy, strong-willed and a little resentful of the protective air both boys showed towards her and the fact that they were inclined to treat her as a little girl. Charlot was handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired with a quick alert look; Louis-Charles might have been his brother; they were close friends and got on very well, apart from the occasional disagreement which would end in fisticuffs as they were both hot-tempered.

We stayed a night at an inn which delighted them all, the two boys sharing a room and Claudine coming in with me. She was awake at dawn, eager to get on with the journey and making me rise with her.

She said: ‘There is only one thing missing to make this perfect. That is Grand’père.’

‘Pray don’t call him a thing,’ I said. ‘He would not appreciate that.’

We both laughed, but sadly because he was not with us.

The sea crossing provided a further delight to them and when we landed on English soil they could talk of nothing but Eversleigh. Dickon was at Dover to escort us to the house and there was wild excitement when Claudine flung herself at him and hugged him while the boys stood by grinning. Over Claudine’s head Dickon smiled at me, his eyes warm, but I did detect a hint of triumph in them and I thought: Even now he is thinking of winning.

But a visit did not mean that I had made up my mind. Perhaps I had been foolish to come. I had a fear that I was going to be swept off my feet, unable to make clear decisions, and I knew I must be wary of Dickon. He had the effect on me of potent wine.

Such memories came back. It was long since I had seen Eversleigh, but it always gave me a feeling of home. I did not know why that should be so since most of my life in England had been spent at Clavering. But this was the home of my ancestors. It seemed to wrap itself around me; it seemed to say: You have come home. Stay home. Home is the place for you.

Sabrina was waiting with a very warm welcome. She was as excited as the young people.

‘What a lovely house!’ cried Charlot.

‘It is not a castle,’ added Louis-Charles a trifle disparagingly.

‘Houses are really what you should live in,’ put in Claudine. ‘Castles are for sieges and holding out against the enemy.’

‘Some of our houses had to do that during the Civil War,’ said Sabrina. ‘But let me show you your rooms and you can explore the house later on. I am sure you will like it. It’s rambling and full of odd nooks and crannies. Your mother knows it well. It was once her home.’