But I said: “But there is nothing I can do, Everton. I can only remind her of the past.”
“She has been better since you came,” persisted Everton.
She, like my mother, was trying to persuade me not to go.
My mother said: “I tell Everton that young people must live their own lives. One cannot expect sacrifices from the young. That is what I tell her.”
But they expected me to stay and I began to ask myself whether it was not my duty to do so.
In the quiet of my bedroom I admonished myself. Be sensible. You can do nothing here. The only good that can be done must come from herself. If she will stop yearning for the glitter of society, if she will interest herself in the life around her, she could be as well as she ever was.
No, I would not be foolish. Cousin Mary was expecting me to go to Cornwall—and I was going.
I had written several times to Olivia. I wrote in detail of the people around me. Her letters were affectionate and she expressed an eagerness to know of my experiences.
She was amused by Marie and Jacques, and loved hearing of the Dubussons and the perfume makers.
I told her that I was going to Cornwall to see Cousin Mary and that on my return from France I should have to stay in London. Perhaps I could be with her for a few days then.
That brought back a delighted reply. She longed to see me.
As the day for my departure grew nearer the air of melancholy in the house increased. My mother spent more time in bed and I often came upon her shedding tears. I felt very uncomfortable.
My bags were packed. I had said goodbye to the Claremonts and the Dubussons. In two days’ time I should be on my way.
I promised my mother that I would come back to see her before long.
It was the evening of that day. I had been for a walk into the town and taken a last farewell of all my friends and had walked back to the house. I was washing and changing for dinner when Marie came bursting into my room.
“It is Madame,” she cried. “She is very ill. Mademoiselle Everton says will you go to her at once.”
I hurried to my mother’s bedroom. She was lying back in bed, her eyes tightly closed, her face colourless. I had never seen her look like that before.
“Everton,” I said, “what is it?”
She said to Marie: “Ask Jacques to go at once for the doctor.”
We sat by her bed. My mother opened her eyes and was aware of me. “Caroline,” she said weakly, “so you are still here. Thank God.”
“Yes, I’m here, Mama. Of course I’m here.”
“Don’t … leave me.”
Everton was watching me intently and my mother closed her eyes.
“How long has she been like this?” I whispered.
“I came up to help her dress for dinner. I found her lying there"
“What can it be?”
“I wish the doctor would hurry,” said Everton.
It was not long before I heard the sound of his carriage wheels on the road.
He came in—a little man, very much the country doctor. I had met him once at the Dubussons’.
He took my mother’s pulse, examined her and shook his head gravely.
“Perhaps she has had a shock?” he suggested. He looked so knowledgeable on such a brief examination that I began to suspect his efficiency.
Both Everton and I followed him out of the room.
He said: “She needs rest … and peace. She must have no stress, you understand? You are sure she has not had a shock?”
“Well,” said Everton, “she was upset because Miss Tressidor was leaving us.”
“Ah,” said the doctor wisely. “That is so, eh?”
“I came on a visit,” I said, “and that visit is coming to an end.”
He nodded gravely. “She needs care,” he said. “I shall come tomorrow.”
We escorted him to his carriage.
Everton looked at me expectantly.
“Could you not stay a little longer … until she recovers?”
I did not answer.
I went back to my mother’s room. She lay there pale and wan, but she was aware of me.
“Caroline,” she said weakly. “I’m here, Mama.” “Stay … stay with me.”
That night I slept little. I could not help thinking of my mother lying there on her bed, looking quite unlike herself. At first I had thought that she had feigned illness, and I still had a feeling that this was so. And yet I was not sure. How could I be?
What if I went away? What if she were really ill and died. Did people die of nostalgia? It was not so much that she wanted me. She had done very well without me for the greater part of her life. She felt none of the passionate attachment some mothers have for their children. I could see that my coming had enlivened her days to a certain extent. We played piquet now and then in the evenings and that passed the time— that and the endless talk of the old days.
Yet how could I be sure? It was through my action that her husband had turned her out of his house. Could I be responsible for her death as well?
I did not sleep until dawn and when I awoke I had made up my mind.
I could not go … yet.
I wrote letters to Cousin Mary and Olivia, explaining that my mother had been taken suddenly ill and I must stay with her a little longer.
When I told Everton what I had done, her face was illuminated with pleasure. I felt relieved. My mind was made up.
I went to my mother’s room. Everton was already there. She had told my mother.
“She will get well now,” said Everton.
“Caroline, my darling,” cried my mother. “So … so you are not going to leave me?”
I sat by her bed holding her hand and I felt as though a trap were closing round me.
My mother recovered slowly, but for a while she was more of an invalid than she had ever been. Dr. Legrand visited her often and had an air of complacency which suggested he believed he had brought about a miraculous cure.
Cousin Mary wrote to say that she hoped my visit would not be postponed for too long and Olivia expressed her regrets that she was not going to see me and that her mother was ill. She would have liked to come out but Aunt Imogen was against it; she thought she might come later on.
I was now planning to leave at Christmas, but every time I hinted at it such gloom pervaded the house that I decided to say nothing, but to make my plans and then announce my imminent departure.
I was not so gullible as not to believe that my mother’s indisposition had been in a great measure produced by herself. On the other hand she was a woman of fierce desires and there was no doubt that frustration could make people ill.
I wanted nothing more on my conscience; and on the other hand I thought longingly of Cornwall.
I admonished myself that I was falling into my old habit of building up a fantasy world. What was there so different about Lancarron compared with this little French village?
The days began to pass quickly. The long evenings had come. We no longer ate in the courtyard. Marie lit the oil lamps and we spent evenings playing piquet or looking through the press cuttings which Everton had pasted into a book; but that, of course, could often end in melancholy so I always tried for piquet.
I began to wonder what I should do with my life. Could I take some sort of post? What could I do? What did impoverished gentlewomen do? They became governesses or companions; there was little else for them. I could see myself as a companion to someone like my mother … spending a lifetime playing piquet or listening to reminiscences of past glories.
I was restive. I wanted to get away.
Then the bombshell came in the form of a letter from Olivia.