Season of Light (7 page)

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘We will marry. I’ll find a way.’

‘Is that a proposal?’

He laughed. ‘Of course. Mademoiselle Ardleigh, my wanton English girl, will you marry me?’

‘I will. Today.’

‘Today I am called to a meeting. Besides, I have not a penny to my name.’

‘I don’t mind. I could live here with you.’

‘Do you think I would allow that? This plain little room is not what I want for my wife. No. I wish to meet your father proudly and tell him I am a man of means and status. We’ll only have to wait a few months. That is all.’

‘What shall I tell my sister?’

‘Don’t tell her anything.’ He kissed her breast as his hand slid between her thighs and his beautiful fingers, so expressive and emphatic when he spoke, concentrated all their delicacy on her. ‘It would hardly be appropriate to tell her about this, I think.’

All would be well: they would marry. No one need know about this lovemaking. He had tossed his creased shirt over the screen, which was painted green on the side facing the bed, brown on the other; there was a tarnished barley-twist candlestick on the table beside his pillow; the walls were lined with tottering heaps of books, many with pages uncut. His hands, his mouth, were caressing her body, so that at last she stopped listening to other clamorous voices in her head and followed his touch. As the blood began pounding in her veins she smelt, through the open window, the faint, herbal whiff of the monastery garden.

‘I can’t believe that you love me,’ she whispered, ‘of all the women in Paris. I’m not French, I’m not beautiful, I’m not Catholic.’

They lay nose to nose, lip to lip. ‘Perhaps I love you because you are foreign, you are Protestant and your face is full of surprises.’

‘What kind of surprises?’

‘I look at you one moment, for instance now, and I think: no, she is not truly beautiful. Her hair is just an ordinary brown, her chin is too pronounced and her nose too small. And then I look again and I think: but she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen because of what I read in her eyes and because, when the light changes, when she turns her head, she is suddenly so lovely that my heart misses a beat. You are a distraction, Mademoiselle Ardleigh, you take up too much of my time and thoughts, and yes, I am obsessed by you.’

‘You should be warned that although my family is poor, it is very old. You would probably call me an aristocrat and hate me for my name, if I were French.’

He kissed her shoulder and ear. ‘I care nothing for your family name. I care only for you, the way you are now. At home the question of love was so complicated. The women of Caen are hungry for change, but there’s a ravenous quality to their hunger, even when it comes to love.’

‘Don’t you admire them for that?’

‘I do, yes, but I see a more subtle version of that fire burning in you. It’s there in the way you make love to me. Very shocking, mademoiselle, I might add. But otherwise you are uncomplicated. You make no other demands on me. You ask for nothing except this. That is what I love.’

On the second Saturday afternoon in July Philippa insisted on walking in the Jardin des Tuileries, although the weather had turned oppressively hot. While rejoicing in her sister’s recovered health, Asa could not help feeling dismayed, because later that day she had planned to meet Didier. What if they were not back at the Montmorency in time for her to plead the need for a rest in her room, thence to escape? What if Philippa enjoyed herself so much in the open air that she chose to travel farther, to view the construction of the Magdelaine Church, for instance, or the ancient St-Eustache? But there was no dissuading Philippa, whom weeks of sickness had inclined to tears when contradicted. So they helped her into protective scarves and gloves and a deep-brimmed hat to shade her from the sun – later they realised that the exceptional heat had been a portent of the hailstorm that was to follow – and drove to the Tuileries, where Philippa progressed at snail’s pace, leaning on both Morton and Asa.

A palace clock chimed two. Morton said they should stay only an hour so as not to overtire his wife, but Philippa was enjoying herself, for the first time relishing her pregnancy and delighting in the toffee-apple shadows cast by trees planted in regimentally straight rows and the bustle of Parisians who paraded through the gardens with their infants and their flowered hats and their miniature dogs. She loved the rainbow colours of the women’s gowns, the new fashion for airy skirts unsupported by hoops, the mix of flower seller and aristocrat, maidservant and artisan’s wife. She did not choose to see the prostitutes lurking in the shadows or the beggars who crouched in crowded squares, scratching in the dirt for any scrap or coin.

Strolling along broad or narrow avenues, the Mortons made unfavourable comparisons with London parks, which they said were designed to resemble nature at its most random and lovely, none of this French obsession with symmetry. They sank on to a stone bench and rested, progressed down broad flights of steps, leaned on parapets, paused in a patch of deep shade then, as they moved forward again, encountered a crowd of young people who were hurrying towards them in a babble of talk and laughter: at the forefront, the leader, Didier Paulin.

For once Asa had been too preoccupied to look out for him. In any case, she had thought that he would be working in the Palais de Justice. So it was as if in a dream that she spotted him in the midst of that group of young people; a very public version of Didier, dressed in work clothes but apparently in holiday mood as he flung his arm about a friend’s neck and gave him a playful punch.

Would he even notice Asa, let alone acknowledge her? And what was it about him that delighted her each time she saw him? He was such a boy – the grin, the tousled hair – so beautiful as he made a characteristic movement with his hand, thrusting the palm forward, oblivious to her at that moment, yet intimate even with the place on her instep which, when touched, caused her to yelp with laughter.

The momentum of the group was interrupted as Didier’s companion glanced across, caught Asa’s eye, swept off his hat and bowed with exaggerated gallantry. Philippa paused. The young man nudged Didier, who, noticing Asa, stopped mid-sentence. Recovering quickly, he came over, took Philippa’s hand and said: ‘My dear Madame Morton. Do you remember me? We met at the Odeon,
Figaro
. I have since met your husband and sister again at Madame de Genlis’s salon.’

He then kissed Asa’s hand, very correctly. The group of young people had settled like a flock of birds, the girls in cotton gowns and straw hats or high lace caps, the young men in colourful jackets and plain breeches.

‘These are my English friends,’ Didier told them. ‘Monsieur and Madame Morton and Mademoiselle …’

‘Ardleigh,’ said Asa.

‘And these,’ he explained, ‘are my very dear friends from my home town of Caen. We have just met my father and sister. These people have travelled all the way to Paris with a deputation of nobles to inform the king that Normandy is calling for a regional equivalent of an Estates General, as well as one for the whole country.’

The young people surrounding him shared the same light in their eyes as the Lamberts and Paulins. Asa yearned for their freedom, to be walking arm in arm with Didier through the Tuileries. On the other hand only she knew his first-floor room with the blue and white coffee jug; only she would lie with him a few hours later, grip his hard body and feel his flesh in hers.

‘I very much hope your delegation will be successful,’ said Morton, ill at ease in so public a place with a group of young people.

‘I doubt it. We are as likely to be clapped in irons as to be granted a hearing. But we have to try. The king may arrest us, he may imprison our leaders, though all we are asking for is a voice – you mark my words, by the end of tomorrow some of us will be in the Bastille. But the tide of history has turned. Not even a king can stop it. It will happen soon: reform or revolution. Either way we will be allowed to speak and then, who knows, the old order in France will be dismantled for good.’

Morton, red in the face with alarm, claimed that his wife was tired and must be escorted back to the Montmorency. But as the two groups walked away from each other Asa hung back, partly to compose herself, partly in hope.

‘Thomasina.’

Didier had run along a parallel avenue and now emerged between the trees. The Mortons continued along their own path as Didier seized her hand and pulled her into a different avenue. For a moment there was no one watching; just as well, because he held her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘I love to see you out here in the sunshine, so funny in your English bonnet, so beautiful with your rosy cheeks and smiling mouth. But I know a different Thomasina and I shall be waiting at six when I shall kiss her again, like this.’

He was ablaze. Asa sensed a new pulse in him that tightened his arms and made him hold her ever closer. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What has happened?’

‘It is because of you that I feel like this. You are my talisman. It is our time. Everything will be swept away. The whole of France is astir.’

He gave her another kiss; next moment they had both returned to the main avenue and were once more walking away from each other. Glancing back, Asa saw that he had made a little run, and that one of the girls, slight with curling dark hair, had broken loose from the group, waited for him, and had taken his arm as he drew close.

Asa was soon at Philippa’s side, covering her mouth with her hand and aching with desire. As they reached a crossing of paths she glanced round one last time. Didier and the girl were still walking arm in arm. Both turned suddenly and glanced back as if they had been talking about her.

That night Didier did not wait at the street door but stood at the window and called for her to come up. He was barefoot, his shirt open at the throat, and he filled her pottery cup with red wine. Though he pulled the threadbare curtains across the window to shut out the sunlight, the room was very hot. He told her they had very little time that night because he and Beatrice had arranged to meet up again with the party from Caen.

‘Can’t I come too?’ Asa asked.

‘I thought of that, but it would not be appropriate. Too many explanations would be required. And you distract me.’

‘Perhaps you don’t want me to stay now, then.’

‘How could you suggest such a thing? If you knew how much I have been wanting you …’ He took the cup from her hand, sipped a mouthful of wine, then tipped back her head and kissed her so that the cool liquid trickled from his mouth into hers. His hand worked on the pins in her hair until the soft weight of it fell against her neck. There was no time to undress; instead they clawed at each other’s clothes until he had uncovered her and could press kisses into her stomach and thighs. She was moaning, reaching for him, clasping his face as he made love to her, his eyes tight shut, his body taut and urgent.

Afterwards he whispered again and again: ‘My English love. Mademoiselle Anglaise. My love.’

Nevertheless, he was in a hurry to help her dress and escort her home. Their parting at the corner of the Cherche-Midi was perfunctory; the faintest of bows, a dashing away and the raising of a hand. ‘
À mardi
,’ he called.

The next day, Philippa was well enough to breakfast in the hotel dining room.

‘So,’ said Morton, smiling at her fondly, ‘I shall arrange for us to leave tomorrow morning.’

Asa stared at him. ‘We can’t possibly. My sister …’

Morton clasped his wife’s hand. ‘Your sister says she is quite well enough, as long as we take the journey in easy stages. Besides, I am convinced that the dangers of staying far outweigh those of leaving.’

‘What dangers? We have been very comfortable here.’

‘Yesterday, those people we met, the professor’s son; what he said about the turning of the tide was the final straw. We have been here barely three months yet I fear that in even so short a time France has reached a tipping point. I’m all for reform, yes, but give the people too much headway and who knows where it may end. It is my duty to see you both home safely.’

‘But what Didi … Monsieur Paulin said was just talk. There’s no need to be alarmed. I’m sure that Philippa would love to stay a little longer, now that she is better. She’s hardly seen Paris.’

‘Really, Asa, to tell the truth, I should very much like to be back in England, and to become acquainted with my new home,’ said Philippa. ‘Besides, I am very anxious about Georgina. I know you will be disappointed to have our journey cut short but we are in dear John’s hands. If you would help with my packing, when you have finished your own, I’m sure I shall be quite rested and ready to depart by tomorrow.’

‘But what about the friends I’ve made? It would be rude not to say goodbye.’

‘A note will be sufficient.’ Philippa’s warning glance quelled further argument. Immediately the meal was over Morton went out to make preparations for the journey while Asa hurled clothes into her trunk. By this time tomorrow she would be miles from Paris. She and Didier had not arranged to meet again until Tuesday. He was spending today with his father and Beatrice. How could she get word to him?

In her distraction she failed to notice that a storm was gathering. A prolonged rumble of thunder took to her to the window, where she saw that the sky was ink black and people were scurrying, head down, intent on getting inside before the rain came. She must act at once, in case the weather became too severe for her to leave the hotel. She scribbled a note –
I must see you. We leave in the morning. I cannot bear to think we may not even say goodbye … here is my address in England, in case the worst should happen
… – put on her bonnet and cloak, and ran downstairs.

In the lobby she could scarcely make her way through the crowd of people who had pressed in from the street, seeking shelter. It was not rain falling, but hail. Lamps were lit as if it were midnight. Asa went to the door but was pushed back by more people stumbling in, shaking hailstones the size of conkers from their collars and hats. There was nothing to be seen of the opposite side of the street, only a curtain of ice, the hailstones so large that a horse bowed its head to the ground and a mother shoved her little boy under a barrow for protection. People clutched each other as the lobby blazed white then was shaken by an extraordinary clap of thunder.