Season of Light (11 page)

The blood juddered in Asa’s veins. That accent. In a clipped voice she replied: ‘Those boys would not have hurt me. The tailor and his wife were simply the butt of a high-spirited prank.’

The parlour seemed to shrink away as, in the firelight, Madame became more sharply defined; the exquisitely narrow nose, a little reddened at the tip owing to the wind, brows which rose and fell at an angle above those obsidian eyes. Her figure was so slight it was a wonder she hadn’t been blown away. Asa, by contrast, felt as formless as dough in her housekeeping dress, its woollen skirts kilted up, and the absurdity of her best bonnet.

Since the talk with her father on the Downs she had planned this first encounter in considerable detail. She would extend the welcome due all strangers, of course, but she would resist the companion’s attempts to groom her into marriage material. She would instead seize the opportunity to practise her French and to hear first hand about the events taking place in France. Meanwhile she would set about finding Madame de Rusigneux a new position with another family.

What Asa had not anticipated was that behind Madame’s trim little figure would hang a ghostly green and brown screen, crumpled sheets, the scent and touch of a man. Nor had she expected that the new French companion would show no sign of aristocratic snobbery or indeed make any attempt to impose but would instead wait, like a servant, to see what would happen next.

Having offered tea, which was refused, Asa showed Madame to her bedchamber. In allocating her the lesser of two spare rooms, she had decided to show this new companion, an exiled noblewoman, that at Ardleigh everyone was equal. Now she regretted her choice; the room was mean and dark with its narrow bed and view of the stable-yard. Madame looked about her without comment but received the news that dinner would be eaten unfashionably early, at five, with an incredulous raising of her eyebrows.

Feeling herself dismissed, Asa stumbled to her own room, stripped to her shift and searched in the closet for something more presentable to wear. It was as if Madame, being French, was a chink through which Didier might enter.

Madame appeared a few seconds after the gong, as fresh as if she’d taken a scented bath. Her gown proved on closer inspection not to be plain at all, but of some thick, silky fabric, softened with age and embossed with darker swirls. She wore an airy muslin fichu crossed at the bosom and tied in a bow behind her. Candlelight complemented her loose dark hair and naked throat so fetchingly that the squire, who as usual came late to the table, though sporting his best wig, stopped dead and ran his finger under his cravat. In his heavy features Asa read first belligerence – this was a
French
woman, after all – then a glint of appreciation. When Madame de Rusigneux extended her arm a frill fell away from her wrist and the squire hesitated only an instant before enclosing her hand in his great fist and carrying it to his lips.

Since the older sisters had left home, behaviour at Ardleigh mealtimes had become very slack. The squire sat at one end of the long oak table in the dining room, Asa to his right facing the hearth. The dishes were so old that the pattern had worn away in places, the silver was tarnished, the glassware clouded. Father and daughter were used to speaking with their mouths full, if they spoke at all. Madame, by contrast, attended to every mouthful as if it was the most delicious she had ever tasted, laying down her knife as she chewed and taking it up again only when her mouth was empty. The squire, who had finished his meal in a few minutes, glanced at her from time to time, taking in the fall of her hair, the exposed flesh above her scarf, the dainty workings of her jaw.

After a few minutes of growing consciousness that as the only gentleman present he ought to open the conversation, he asked in the coaxing tones he might employ with an unbroken horse: ‘Where have you been living in London, madame?’

The French woman set down her fork, laid her hands on either side of her plate and looked him in the eye so directly that he took a hasty swig of wine. ‘Monsieur, I have lived some weeks with a very kind family in Chelsea.’

‘Aha, then you’ll be well acquainted with our River Thames. What do you think of it? How does it compare to your French rivers?’ He twinkled at her, a trick he used to win over the prettiest maid when he asked her to pull off his boots.

‘I have had no time to look at the river,’ said Madame. ‘Since coming to England, my one aim has been to find work so as not to be a burden to my friends.’

‘No doubt you left France in a bit of a state. Forced to get away, were you?’

Madame quivered like a bird dislocated from its nest. Before Asa could rescue her she said: ‘I lost everything. All of it. There was a fire.’

‘Husband? Children.’

‘No children, thank God.’

The squire stared at her and wiped his mouth – first on his cuff, then his napkin. ‘We heard of the burnings and persecutions. I expect you were punished for being from an old family. Had Ardleigh been in France, we’d have gone up in smoke too, I’m sure, given our family name. And now your king is dead. Terrible thing to kill a monarch. In England we gave up that kind of thing more than a century ago. What do you make of it, madame?’

Her shoulder lifted, affording him a tantalising glimpse of a smooth, full bosom before it was concealed again by the fichu. ‘In my country I have grown afraid of speaking my mind.’

‘You’re quite safe here, madame. No one will repeat a thing beyond this room.’

‘Forgive me, Monsieur Ardleigh.’ Madame gripped her lower lip between her teeth and averted her face as a tear hung at the corner of her eye. The squire watched, fascinated, as it swelled and was dashed away by a dainty hand. ‘I am sure I can trust you, monsieur. You have already shown great kindness in inviting me to live under your roof as companion to your daughter.’

‘Ah, now, my daughter, you’ll have your hands full with her. The poor gel was brought up by her sisters. They did their best with her, it’s true, but they were no substitute for a mother. My wife was a beautiful woman, that’s her portrait over the hearth – delicate in build, not unlike you, madame, and of very fine birth. The Ardleigh name goes back to the Domesday Book but my wife’s family was probably more ancient than that; she was a Dinsford, of Kent.’ Madame twisted her head to admire the portrait, thereby displaying her long neck. Ardleigh swallowed as his gaze shifted from his wife, whose hair was drawn back under a little cap and whose dainty chin was framed by ruffles, to Madame’s naked throat. ‘Of course, whatever else you teach Asa, you won’t have to bother with French. She’s already fluent, ain’t you, Asa? Asa was in France for a couple of months with her sister. Came back every inch the French woman.’

Madame’s great eyes now concentrated upon Asa. ‘When were you in France, mademoiselle?’

‘Nearly five years ago. I accompanied my sister Philippa on her wedding trip.’

‘And did you like my country?’

‘I found it extraordinary.’ Asa’s heart was beating violently. Madame nodded, as if satisfied with the description.

‘She came back with her head full of revolutionary nonsense, didn’t you, Asa?’ said her father. ‘We heard nothing from you for months except tirades about equality and justice. She won’t even condemn the brutes for executing King Louis. And I should warn you, madame, that my daughter is rarely in the house; always trotting about the countryside on some cause or another. And she’s an abolitionist, doesn’t allow a grain of sugar or a spoonful of coffee in the house in case they’re the products of slave labour.’

Madame’s smile was like the play of firelight on the skin. ‘I knew already that your daughter was a force to be reckoned with. It seems to me she dealt very well with the disturbance that occurred today in your village.’

‘Disturbance, eh? I heard there’d been some kind of nonsense.’

‘You must speak to those boys, Father,’ said Asa. ‘I dread to think what might have happened if the tailor had shown his face.’

‘They meant no harm,’ said the squire, splashing more wine into his glass.

‘What business is it of theirs if Mrs Dacre shouts at her husband sometimes?’

‘Let me be the judge of when to interfere with my own tenants.’

‘Father, this can’t be ignored. The Dacres must have been very frightened.’

‘As I’ve said, Asa, leave it to me.’

Madame’s glance flashed between father and daughter. ‘I have not tasted the pears cooked in honey before. The effect is delicious. Is the fruit perhaps from your own orchard?’

Harmony was restored. The squire smiled at Madame, a flash of the old gallant who had swept the high-born, gentle-eyed Miss Dinsford off her feet, as he extolled the virtues of the Ardleigh orchard. Soon Madame said that she was exhausted and would retire, if nobody minded. After she’d gone, the squire pushed back his chair and splayed his legs, a signal that Asa was no longer required. She retreated to the parlour fire and her mother’s nursing chair. Boards in the ceiling shifted as Madame walked about upstairs. It was as if her little figure had such density that the ancient timbers of the manor might not withstand her.

Within reach of Asa’s hand was a locked bureau; the key hung on a chain round her neck. There she kept her housekeeping notebooks, her newspaper clippings about the Revolution in France, her diaries and her letters from Didier. His last, discussed exhaustively with Caroline, dated August 1792 after a gap of six months, had forbidden further correspondence. Mail was being intercepted and read, he said, and letters to and from England might lead to his arrest. France had declared itself in a state of danger. Enemies were hovering on the borders waiting to march through the provinces, scoop up counter-revolutionary support and enter Paris in order to liberate the king and overthrow the Revolution.

My dearest Thomasina
, he concluded,
it breaks my heart to write thus to you. I shall never forget you, and perhaps some day, in our brave new future, we will be together again. Mais pour le moment, silence entre nous. Je pense à toi
.

Silence entre nous
. His words had seemed like a shrug: I can do no more. But with Madame in the house, this elfin emissary from France, Asa found renewed hope. Surely Didier would never give up. She took out his first letter, dated 14 July 1788. It had been waiting for her at Ardleigh, at the end of the ponderous journey home from France with the Mortons. The handwriting on the envelope, a reckless scrawl, had stopped her heart:

Good God, Thomasina, where are you? I stand outside your hotel. I wait in my room thinking you are bound to come. I pace the streets. I tear my hair. I cannot sleep. I cannot bear the sight of my own pillow because your head used to lie on it
…

And on the 17th:

You are more present to me in your absence than when you were here. God, when I think of the lost opportunities. I should have snatched you from your hotel room and married you there and then. Write to me. Tell me all your thoughts
…

After another week, in reply to hers:

Yes. I said we would be married. We will be married. You must be my wife. You are my darling, my exquisite English mademoiselle. If I could, if I had the means, I would turn up at your door and go down on my knees
…

A cruel letter, this last, because for months afterwards, whenever a horseman passed through the village or there was a knock on the door, Asa had expected him. How could he exist without her, when she found it well nigh impossible to draw breath without him?

And now, Madame de Rusigneux. The bed-springs above Asa’s head creaked. Madame would be lying between unfamiliar sheets, watching a moonbeam float across the rafters. What filled her head? What dreadful memories or yearning for home?

Next day Madame arranged herself at a table in the parlour, feet pressed together, back straight, hair tucked demurely beneath a plain cap as she drew a piece of paper from a hidden pocket. It was a list in Georgina’s dashing hand and included the following:
Posteure and diportment, table manners, etiquete, conversation, enterring a room, fine sewing, dance, all tipes, dress, music. And don’t forget painting
.

‘So,’ said Madame de Rusigneux, ‘I have compiled a programme of study for the first week. After that we shall see.’ Another slip of paper appeared, this time in a flowing, continental script:
Day the First. 1. Posture. From standing to sitting. 2. The hair. The Dress. 3. The portrait in miniature. 4. The use of the fan. 5. The dance
.

It felt to Asa as if the jaws of a trap had opened. At the end of this road lay Shackleford. And yet Madame was so poignant in her smallness, her determination to perform her role, that she could not easily be rebuffed. ‘It’s unlikely I shall have time for this, today or any day,’ said Asa, touching Madame’s hand apologetically. The French woman’s fingers contracted and for a moment she closed her eyes.

‘Madame, you and I must reach an understanding. My sisters have one idea of my future, I another. They believe there is some urgency for me to marry because if Father were to die I would have to leave Ardleigh and become dependent on them. My own plans for the future don’t include marriage.’

Madame received this news as if it was a considerable blow. ‘Could you tell me, what are these plans?’

‘I hope to earn a living by teaching, once Father no longer needs me. My friend, Miss Lambert, and I are going to run a school.’

Everything about the French woman was precise; the fringe of her eyelashes, the neat ears, the cut of her fingernails. ‘Well then, I think we might reach a compromise which would suit us both. Don’t you see, mademoiselle, there’s much I could teach you that would be of use in the future you describe.’

By midday they had arrived at a truce. Asa had spent the intervening hours pretending business to prove her point; rarely had the servants been chivvied into such a flurry of activity, from window cleaning to the sorting and slicing of apples. Meanwhile Madame had set up a work station by the window in the parlour. She brought down a battered leather portmanteau which Asa would later come to regard as having magical properties, so many and varied were the items that emerged from it. On this occasion out came a roll of cloth containing all the materials needed for the painting of a miniature: a set of brushes so fine they were composed of only a few hairs, a fragment of parchment, a couple of charcoals and a magnifying glass.