As I had never heard of the Parc aux Cerfs James explained that it was the Deer Park—an establishment where young girls from all walks of life whose only qualifications need to be beauty and a certain sensuality were trained to pander to the king’s pleasure.
Jean-Louis looked uneasy as though he did not like such matters to be discussed in my company.
“I’m sorry to speak of something so distasteful,” said James to me, “but to understand the situation you must know Louis and the Pompadour, and why she has this hold over him.”
I lowered my eyes. They could not guess that I myself was far from ignorant of the delights of sensual love.
There was a treaty which was called the Alliance des Trois Cotillons—the alliance of “three petticoats.” which referred to the agreement between Madame de Pompadour, Maria Theresa of Austria and Empress Elizabeth of Russia. It was important to us because no sooner had it been signed than England declared war on France.
Gerard’s country and mine were enemies—they had always been that, of course, but now they were engaged in a war … fighting on opposing sides. I wondered whether this would bring him back to England … secretly. … For a time I used to look out for him, telling myself that he would suddenly appear. Nothing of this sort happened and then I asked myself whether love affairs like that which there had been between us were commonplace with him. Could it be that he loved violently, dramatically … and then passed on to the next?
That was something I could not bear to contemplate. I had been shameful but at least for me it was for no petite passion, no passing whim of the moment.
And so the time began to slip by.
I had acquired an excellent nanny for Lottie. She was a great-niece of Nanny Curlew who had long since retired. But, said my mother, it was always wise to keep nannies in the family and we could be sure that a relative of Nanny Curlew’s would have been brought up to serve nobly in the honorable tradition.
And so it proved. From the moment she was installed in the household we knew we had a treasure in Nanny Derring. Dickon had scornfully rejected nannies some time ago, and because they could deny him nothing, the guardian of his nursery had been found another post and Dickon now went to the vicarage for lessons, which he shared with the vicar’s son, Tom, and which were taught by the resident curate. In due course he would go away to school.
Lottie grew more beautiful every day. She was very pretty with magnificent eyes—dark blue, fringed with incredibly long almost black lashes. “Her eyes are darker than yours were at her age,” said my mother. “Hers are violet. They always said that my mother, Carlotta, had violet eyes.”
Remarks like that always unnerved me temporarily. I wondered whether my mother noticed it.
Lottie also had a good deal of dark hair. It was almost black.
“She looks like a little French doll,” said Sabrina.
“French!” I cried.
“Well, Jean-Louis had a hand in it, didn’t he?” said Sabrina. “Sometimes I get the impression that you think you are wholly responsible for her.”
I must be careful. It could be over some small thing that I would betray myself. There was every reason why Lottie should look French. After all, the man who was supposed to be her father was of the same race as her actual one.
Jean-Louis adored her and she was fond of him. I was deeply moved to see him carry her round on his shoulder. I knew it was painful for him because to do so he abandoned his stick, but she loved it and was always trying to clamber up. She was now beginning to talk and was enchanting, murmuring to herself usually about Lottie—which was the word she used more than any other. Everything belonged to Lottie, she seemed to think; she was demanding, showed a lively interest in all around her, loved us to sing or tell her nursery rhymes and she had an endearing habit of watching our mouths as we talked or sang, trying to imitate us. She was the center of our life. Jean-Louis said to me as he watched: “I still cannot believe that we really have a child. Sometimes I dream that it was all fancy and wake up in such gloom … until I remember or she comes in [which she was beginning to do now] at an early hour in the morning to be with us.”
She did more than anything else to ease my conscience, but sometimes I would have a fearful sense of foreboding and when I looked back at all I had done and how I had brazenly carried off my deceit I was still amazed at myself.
People talked about the war but not with any great seriousness. There had always been wars and as long as they remained outside our country we were not greatly concerned. When there were triumphs for us we heard a great deal about them; when there were disasters they were briefly glossed over. We did hear about the execution of Admiral Byng, though. He had lost Minorca to the French and was accused of treachery and cowardice. People were shocked by the case and for a time talked of little else. Prime Minister Pitt had tried to persuade the king to pardon him but to no avail, and he was shot on the quarterdeck of his ship in Portsmouth Harbor.
Jean-Louis was indignant. “It’s harsh and unjust,” he said. “Byng might have failed through bad tactics but that does not merit execution.”
James Fenton said that such executions were performed for reasons other than justice. The French were evidently very interested in the outcome. The writer Voltaire said he was slain “pour encourager les autres” and solely for that reason. Someone else said that Byng was afraid of too much responsibility and was shot to let those about him know that in war those who could not take quick decisions were no use to their country.
In any case the interest in the case seemed to bring the fact that we were at war home to a good many people.
“How will it affect the war?” I asked James.
“Oh, the capture of Minorca is a feather in the French cap.”
Such talk always set me wondering about Gerard. It seemed so strange that we who had been so close, should now be so far apart that we had no idea what the other was doing. I wondered what he would think if he knew there had been a child.
It was when Lottie was two years old that I had the irresistible urge to return to Eversleigh.
I talked it over with my mother and Sabrina. “I think a great deal about Uncle Carl and that strange ménage of his. I said I would visit again. Do you think I should?”
“Lottie is a little young to travel,” she said.
“I had thought of leaving her here. Nanny is well able to look after her. Jean-Louis is not really fit for a long journey … no, I thought of …”
“Not going alone!” cried my mother.
“Well … I went before.”
Dickon happened to have come in while we were talking. He was now getting on for thirteen—very tall for his age, full of self-importance, arrogant, ruthless, I judged him to be. He did not improve as he grew up.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
“I’ll be perfectly all right … with the grooms. I’ll go as I went before.”
But Dickon was set on going, and as my mother and Sabrina always went out of their way to satisfy his demands they came up with the idea that Sabrina and he might go with me. And no sooner had it been suggested than Dickon was so taken with the idea that he would not have it otherwise than that we should go together.
I wrote to Uncle Carl and had an enthusiastic reply. He would be delighted to see us, and asked us to come as soon as possible.
It was spring—the best time for traveling; the days remained light for longer and the weather was more to be relied on.
Both Dickon and Sabrina were in high spirits. It was true that Dickon wanted us to move faster, which the grooms pointed out to him was not possible if the saddle horse was to keep up with us. “Let him come on after,” said Dickon.