There was the usual round of markets and "up West" and everything we had done before; and it was good to be with Polly, and wonderfully comforting to know that the bond between us was as strong as ever.
I said a sad farewell, knowing that it would be a year before I saw her again.
In September we returned to Lamason.
There were changes. Francoise had left, and must be married to her rich, elderly husband by now. In her place in our dormitory was Janine Fellows.
I did not know whether I was pleased or repelled by this, for I was still not sure whether or not I liked Janine. Francoise had been a good companion; she had been entertaining and her knowledge about the chateau had helped us along in our first days. Her nonchalant acceptance of her fate, her philosophical views of life, her realism and lack of sentiment had intrigued me. I felt I had learned a good deal from Francoise. Gerda, of course, was not the most interesting of roommates. Her preoccupation with food had always bored me a little; she was too phlegmatic and intent on her creature comforts, but she was never malicious and was fundamentally good hearted. Lavinia, of course, was my familiar; and now there was Janine.
Her presence had changed the atmosphere of our dormitory. It had been cosy and rather exciting with Francoise; now I felt there was something malevolent there.
In the first place, she and Lavinia seemed to take an instant dislike to each other, and what made it a little sinister was that Janine rarely showed this. It was only now and then that it came out in certain flashes of temper with Lavinia and sly sarcasm from Janine.
Janine was plain, and that gave her something in common with me. Her reddish hair was fine and straight, hardly ever tidy; her eyes were small, very light blue, and her fine eyebrows made her look perpetually surprised.
She seemed to turn more to me for friendship. Gerda was interested mainly in herself, and her eyes would become glazed and vague when other subjects were raised. She never made trouble; neither did she contribute anything to companionship.
So naturally Janine talked to me more than any of the others, simply because Lavinia, like Gerda, was not interested in anything but her own desires, Gerda's for food and Lavinia's for admiration.
Lavinia had renewed her admiration for Monsieur Dubois, perhaps because there was no other male available. Janine noticed this and her lips always twitched with amusement every time he was mentioned.
Lavinia was an excellent dancer and Monsieur Dubois still chose her when he wished to demonstrate how a step should be danced. Lavinia revelled in this, twirling round, swaying from side to side, pressing closer than was necessary to Monsieur Dubois, raising her beautiful eyes to his face and then allowing the lids to fall over them, showing her long curling lashes, which alone would have made a beauty of her.
"Monsieur Dubois is a born flirt," said Janine. "It's part of his trade. Of course he knows what girls he can flirt with. He wouldn't dare with some. You can't see him trying it on with the Princess, can you?"
The Princess belonged to the ruling house of some obscure middle European country and Madame was especially proud of her title.
"I should hardly think he would want to," said Lavinia.
"My dear, he doesn't want to with any of us. It's just his way of keeping us happy. If he sees a girl wants to flirt, he flirts. It's what he has been paid to do."
Lavinia was not subtle in conversation and Janine was too clever for her. She nearly always lost in these verbal battles. But she continued with her wooing of the dancing master.
She was the best dancer and the most outstanding beauty of the school—or certainly the most flamboyant one. She was now at the zenith of her youth. Eighteen years old, full-hipped, full-bosomed, with the tiniest of waists. Sometimes she wore her hair hanging down her back, caught back by a bow of ribbon; sometimes she piled it high on her head with little tendrils nestling against her white neck. Hardly anyone could stop taking a second glance at Lavinia.
One day Janine came in bursting with excitement. She waited until Lavinia was with us until she spoke of what was amusing her.
She had followed Monsieur Dubois to his home. She had waited for him and kept a safe distance. She saw his home, his wife and four children; she overheard the greeting between him and his wife, for Janine spoke fluent French. They embraced, she said, like lovers who had been separated for months. "How was it today, Henri?" "Oh, not bad ... not bad at all, my cabbage." "How many silly girls were chasing you today?" "Oh ... the usual. It is always so. Such a bore. You must bear with it, my angel. I must keep the little girls happy. It is a nothing ... all in the matter of the work, eh."
"I don't believe it," said Lavinia hotly.
Janine shrugged her shoulders, as though it were immaterial to her whether Lavinia believed her or not.
Janine sought me out.
"You're different from the others," she said. "They are silly frivolous nonentities, most of them. As for your friend Lavinia, I don't know how you endure her."
"I've known her all my life."
"Far too long," commented Janine.
"Her mother pays some of my fees. My father couldn't afford to send me here. You are right in saying I am different from the others. I am, I am not rich and destined for a grand marriage."
"Thank your lucky stars for that."
Janine had a way of ferretting our secrets. I was often amazed at myself for being so frank with her. She was an avid listener—rare among self-centred girls. I was soon giving her a picture of Lady Harriet and our village.
"Spoilt brat," she commented of Lavinia.
"Lady Harriet sees herself and everything connected with her as perfect, and that includes her daughter."
"She must be mentally blind. Lavinia hasn't much above the neck beyond her curly hair and her pretty face."
"I suppose that makes up for a good deal."
"She is too ... physical for her own good. It wouldn't surprise me if she got herself into some mess sooner or later. She's so blatant about men. Look at the way she throws herself at Monsieur Dubois."
"She didn't like what you said about him and his wife. Was it true?"
She looked at me and laughed. "In a way," she said.
"So you made it up!"
"I'm sure it goes something like that. I've seen them in the market together. They are very devoted. He must be bored with silly romantic girls throwing themselves at him; and she must be grateful to have such a desirable husband."
Janine confided to me about herself. I was not sure whether I believed her. The story, according to her, was quite romantic. She was the illegitimate offspring of two people in very high places. She hinted at royalty.
"They couldn't marry, you see. He ... my father ... was to make a very grand marriage for political reasons. That is how it is with the royals. My mother was a lady of the Queen's Bedchamber. She, too, was to marry into high circles. However, I happened. I was born in a clinic run by the woman whom I call Aunt Emily. She is not my aunt at all, but I was brought up there and always called her Aunt Emily. I was to have the best education. It was paid for by my parents, but I was meant to believe that I owed everything to Aunt Emily. Aunt Emily has close connections with the Court. She is known to be discreet. People come to her ... if they don't want it known ..."
I said it was very interesting, while only half believing it. I could not imagine why, but I felt sorry for her. I fancied she was always trying to prove something to herself. She was not very popular with the other girls, and as, after all, she was one of the quartet that shared our room, I seemed to be with her more than anyone else.