The Blessing (5 page)

‘You haven’t got a wife hidden away in some other room, I hope?’

‘No wife.’

‘Oh good. But of course it’s just like in
Rebecca
. By degrees I shall find out all about your past.’

‘Oh my past! It’s such a long time ago now.’

‘So tell me more, now I’ve seen them. Who is the old man?’

‘M. de la Bourlie? He is my grandmother’s lover.’

‘Her lover?’ Grace was very much startled. ‘Isn’t she rather old to have a lover?’

‘Has age to do with love?’ Charles-Edouard looked so much surprised that Grace said,

‘Oh well – I only thought. Anyway, perhaps there’s nothing in it.’

He roared with laughter, saying, ‘How English you are. But M. de la Bourlie has visited my grandmother every single day for forty-six years, and in such a case you may be sure that there is always love.’

‘He doesn’t live here, too?’

‘No. He has a beautiful house in Aix. He generally comes over in the afternoon, but today, of course, he has come early, dying of curiosity to see l’Anglaise. They all must be, we shall have the whole neighbourhood over. It will be very dull. Never mind.’

‘Why don’t they marry?’ said Grace.

‘Who? Oh my grandmother. Well, but poor Madame de la Bourlie.’

‘Poor her anyway. In England, when there is a long love affair like that people always end by marrying.’

‘And in America if you hold a woman’s hand you are expected to go round next day with the divorce papers. The Anglo-Saxons are very fond of marriage, it is very strange.’

‘I’ve never seen a pale green wig before.’

‘He’s worn that wig ever since I was a little boy. He has been a tremendous lady-killer in his time, wig and all.’

‘And when I am old like your grandmother, will you love me still?’

‘It depends.’

‘How horrid. Depends on what?’

‘It all depends, entirely, on you.’

‘Charles-Edouard, was the reason you didn’t tell me about your grandmother because you thought I wouldn’t like the idea of sharing my house with another woman?’

Charles-Edouard looked immensely surprised. ‘It never occurred to me for a single minute,’ he said. ‘It’s not your house, exactly, but a family house, you know. But we shall hardly ever be here.’

‘Oh! I thought it was my new home?’

‘One of them. Our real home is in Paris, and there my grandmother, though she lives in the house, has a separate establishment. You will love her, you know. For one thing, French people (and you are French now) always love their relations, and then my grandmother is a saint.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘I see that. I know I shall. It was so charming the way she gave those chocolates to Sigi when she saw he didn’t want to kiss her hand. But how sad, Charles-Edouard, to have this lovely house and not to live in it?’

‘Oh dearest Grace, for living the country is really impossible. It is too dull. I am obliged to come down here on business, but I could never never live here.’

‘What business?’

‘I must explain that, whereas in England the country is for pleasure and the town for business, here it is the exact opposite. We French have all our pleasure in Paris, where we have nothing to do except amuse ourselves, but we work really hard in the country. I have a lot of work when I am here, local business, since I am the mayor, and much family business, looking after my property.’

They had reached a wide landing, arranged like a room, with old-fashioned, chintz furniture. Two great windows from floor to ceiling were open upon an expanse of pale blue sky. Charles-Edouard led her through one of them on to a balcony, and, waving at the green acres far below, he said,

‘There grows the wealth of the Valhubert family.’

‘D’you mean that vegetable? But what is it? I was wondering.’

‘Vegetable indeed! Have you never been in the country in France before! How strange. These are vineyards.’

‘No!’ said Grace. She had supposed all her life that vineyards were covered with pergolas, such as, in Surrey gardens, support Miss Dorothy Perkins, heavy with bunches of hot-house grapes, black for red wine, white for champagne. Naboth’s vineyard, in the imagination of Grace, was Naboth’s pergola, complete with crazy paving underfoot.

However she did not explain all this to Charles-Edouard, but merely said, ‘I’ve never seen one before. I thought they would be different, somehow.’

Grace’s bedroom was at the top of the house. It was a large, white-panelled room with many windows, from most of which, so high up was it, so hanging in the firmament, nothing was visible but sky. But on one side two French windows opened on to a tiny garden of box hedges and standard roses, which looked like a stage set forming part of the room itself.

‘Very English,’ said Charles-Edouard, ‘you will feel at home here.’

It had been arranged by his mother with old-fashioned chintz and embroidered white muslin.

‘The garden!’ said Grace. ‘I never saw anything so lovely.’

‘Every floor of this house has a terrace. It is built on the side of a hill, you see. Here are your bathroom and dressing-room, and here are my rooms. So we are all alone together.’

‘Literally in heaven,’ said Grace, with a happy sigh.

‘Now perhaps I’ll take you to the nursery; we go down again and up this little staircase. Here we are.’

‘Oh, what a lovely nursery – isn’t it lovely, Nan, much the biggest we’ve ever had, and so light – and what a view!’

This was Grace’s technique with Nanny. She would open an offensive of enthusiasm, hoping to overcome and silence the battery of complaints before Nanny could begin firing them off. It almost never worked, she could see it not working now, though for the moment she was shielded by the presence of Charles-Edouard. Nanny remained silent and went on with what she was at, grimly unpacking toys from a hamper.

‘I’ll come back,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘I want a word with Ange-Victor.’

Grace’s heart sank, but she rattled bravely on. ‘You’ve got a garden, too, isn’t it delightful? I love it being surrounded by those pretty red roofs against the sky, like Kate Greenaway. Look at the plants growing out of them, what are they, I wonder? Doesn’t it all smell delicious? I long for you to see my bedroom; it is so pretty. Tell you what, darling, I’ll get you a garden chair, then you’ll be able to sit out here of an evening.’

Nanny looked over her shoulder to make sure that Charles-Edouard had gone, and then spoke. ‘Horribly draughty I should think, with all those roofs. Smutty, too, I daresay. Aren’t the stairs awful? I shan’t be able to manage them many times a day, in this heat. Well, I’ve been trying to unpack, but there’s nowhere to put anything, you know – shame, really – no nice shelves for our toys. No mantelpieces, either, for my photographs and the ornaments. Funny sort of rooms, aren’t they? Not very homy. I’d like to show you the bathroom and lavatory, dear – nothing but a cupboard – no window at all, really most insanitary – it would never be allowed at home.’

‘How fascinating,’ said Grace, ‘look, it’s built in the thickness of the wall, this big bathroom.’

‘Perhaps it may be. Then what is that guitar-shaped vase for, I wonder? Oh, well, it’ll do to put the things to soak. Not very nice, is it? Leading out of our bedroom like that?’

‘Never mind, in this lovely weather you can leave everything wide open – it’s quite different from England.’

‘Different!’ a deep sniff, ‘I should say it is.’

‘Look at the swing! How amusing! That will quite make up to Sigi for leaving his rocking-horse behind.’

‘Yes, well it’s a funny place for a swing, in our bedroom.’

‘It’s all so huge, isn’t it? And like being out of doors, with these great windows everywhere. Heavenly, really. Look, here’s a cupboard, darling – the size of a room, too. Hadn’t you noticed it? You can put everything here – and see, there’s a light for it. That is nice.’

‘Just smell inside, dear – horribly musty, I’m afraid. Then I was wanting to speak to you about these roofs – the little monkey will be up on them in no time. My goodness! I knew it! Come down this instant, Sigi, what did I tell you? You are not to climb on those roofs – what d’you think you’re doing? It’s most dangerous.’

‘I’m Garth on the mountains of the moon.’

Charles-Edouard reappeared, saying, ‘Oh, do be Napoleon crossing the Alps. This Garth is really too dull. The roofs are quite safe, Nanny, I lived on them when I was his age, mountaineering and exploring. I must get out my old
Journal des Voyages
for him, since I suppose he is rather young for Jules Verne?’

Nanny having retreated into the nursery, ‘don’t know how you can stand the glare,’ Charles-Edouard pulled at the neck of Grace’s cotton dress and implanted a kiss on her shoulder.

‘Ugh! You soppy things,’ said Sigismond, ‘I don’t like all this daft kissing stuff.’

‘You’ll like it all right one day,’ said Charles-Edouard. ‘That big bell means luncheon time. Good appetite, Sigi.’

As they went back through the nursery a man-servant was laying the table on a thick, white linen tablecloth. ‘Good appetite, Nanny,’ said Charles-Edouard. Nanny did not reply. She was looking with stupefied disapproval at a bottle of wine which had just been put down in front of her.

5

Very hungry, accustomed to English post-war food, Grace thought the meal which followed the most delicious she had ever eaten. The food, the wine, the heat, and the babel of French talk, most of which was quite incomprehensible to her untuned ear, induced a half-drunk, entirely happy state of haziness. When, after nearly two hours, the party rose from the table, she was floating on air. Everybody wandered off in different directions, and Charles-Edouard announced that he was going to be shut up in the library for the afternoon with his tenants and the agent.

‘Will you be happy?’ he said, stroking Grace’s hair and laughing at her for being, as he could see, so tipsy.

‘Oh I’m sleepy and happy and hot and sleepy and drunk and happy and sleepy. It’s too too blissful being so drunk and happy.’

‘Then go to sleep, and when I’ve finished we’ll do whatever you like. Motor down to the sea if you like, and bathe. I’m sleepy myself, but the
régisseur
has convened all these people to see me – they’ve been waiting too long already – I must go to them, so there it is. See you presently.’

‘All right. I’ll go and have a little word with Nanny and then a lovely hot sleep. Oh the weather! Oh the bliss of everything! Oh how happy I am!’

Charles-Edouard gave her a very loving look as he went off. He thought he was going to like her even more in France than in England, and was well satisfied to have come back accompanied by this happy beauty.

Alas for the hot, tipsy sleep! Nanny sobered and woke her up all right, her expression alone was a wave of icy water. Grace did not even bother to say ‘Wasn’t the luncheon delicious? Did you enjoy it?’ She just stood and meekly waited for the wave to break over her head.

‘Well, dear, we’ve had nothing to eat since you saw us, nothing whatever. Course upon course of nasty greasy stuff smelling of garlic – a month’s ration of meat, yes, but quite raw you know – shame, really – I wasn’t going to touch it, let alone give it to Sigi, poor little mite.’

‘Nanny says the cheese was matured in manure,’ Sigi chipped in, eyes like saucers.

‘I wish you could have smelt it, dear, awful it was, and still covered with bits of straw. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Well, we just had a bite of bread and butter and a few of Mrs Crispin’s nice rock cakes I happened to have with me. Not much of a dinner, was it? Funny-looking bread here, too, all crust and holes, I don’t know how you’d make a nice bit of damp toast with that. Poor little hungry boy – never mind, it’s all right now, darling, your mummy will go to the kitchen for us and ask for some cold ham or chicken – a bit of something plain – some tomatoes, without that nasty, oily, oniony dressing, and a nice floury potato, won’t you, dear?’

These words were uttered in tones of command. An order had been issued, there was nothing of the request about them.

‘Goodness, I’ve no idea what floury potato is in French,’ said Grace, playing for time. ‘Didn’t you like the food, Sigi?’

‘It’s not a question of like it or not like it. The child will eat anything, as you know, but I’m not going to risk having him laid up with a liver attack. This heat wave is quite trying enough without that, thank you very much, not to mention typhoid fever, or worse. I only wish you could have smelt the cheese, that’s all I say.’

‘I did smell it, we had it downstairs – delicious.’

‘Well it may be all right for grown-up people, if that’s the sort of thing they go in for,’ said Nanny, with a tremendous sniff, ‘but give it to the child I will not, and personally I’d rather go hungry.’ This, however, she had no intention of doing. ‘Now, dear,’ she said briskly, ‘just go and get us a bite of something plain, that’s a good girl.’

‘I’m so dreadfully starving, Mummy, I’ve got pains in my tummy. Listen, it rumbles, just like Garth when he’d been floating for weeks on that iceberg.’

Sigi looked so pathetic that Grace said, ‘Oh all right then. I don’t know where the kitchen is, but I’ll see what I can do. I think it’s all great rubbish,’ she added in a loud aside as she slammed the nursery door behind her.

She wandered off uncertainly, hardly able, in that big, complicated house built at so many different dates, on so many different levels, to find her way to the first-floor rooms. At last she did so, looked into the drawing-room, and was almost relieved that there was nobody there. Her mission seemed to her absurd, and really so ill-mannered, that she quite longed for it to fail. She assumed that everybody except Charles-Edouard would be happily asleep by now, and only wished that she were too. Loud French voices came from the library, apart from them the house was plunged in silence. She stood for a moment by the library door but did not dare to open it, thinking how furious Sir Conrad would be at such an interruption. The dining-room was empty; no sign of any servant. She went through it, and found a stone-flagged passage, which she followed, on and on, up and down steps, until she came to a heavy oak door. Perhaps this led to the kitchen; she opened it timidly. A strangely dark and silent kitchen, if so, with cool but not fresh air smelling of incense. She stood peering into the gloom; it was quite some moments before she realized that this must be a chapel. Then, not two yards from her, she saw Madame de Valhubert, a lace shawl over her head, praying deeply. Grace shut the door and fled, in British embarrassment, back to the nursery.