“You liked her in a mild sort of way. You led her to believe your feelings went deeper… and this happened.”
“It is months since I’ve seen her. It couldn’t possibly have been my child, Claudine.”
“She was such a quiet, gentle girl. Please don’t try to blacken her character, Harry.”
“I would have done anything I could for her.”
“A not very taxing exercise since she no longer needs your assistance.”
“Oh, Claudine. You doubt me.”
Of course I doubted him! We had never heard of her having another lover. And we should surely have known if there had been anyone else. Who could there be? I had imagined Harry coming surreptitiously to Grasslands, their meeting in secret, his persuading her to become his mistress… no doubt with a promise of marriage. It was an old story.
I said: “Harry, for Heaven’s sake, don’t show yourself. Go away. The mischief is done now. Nothing can bring her back to life.”
“But I was fond of her…” he began.
I looked at him in exasperation. “Harry, go away. You must not be seen. You would be torn to pieces by a lot of angry people. We don’t want a scene at the funeral. That would be the last straw.”
“I wish that you would believe me,” he said. “I swear to you, Claudine, on everything that I hold sacred, that the child was not mine.”
“All right, Harry, but go away. Don’t let anyone see you here. I’m glad you didn’t come to the house.”
“Are those roses for her?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Oh, Claudine, I wish I could have helped her.”
“It’s too late now, Harry. Please go away.”
He turned away and as I watched his retreating figure my hands were shaking.
I had always felt there was something weak about him. He had never been able to make up his mind. Whatever he said, I should still believe that Evie’s child was his. He was so full of remorse now. Well, so he should be.
How fortunate that I had seen him. If he had appeared at the graveside anything might have happened.
There was a simple service in our chapel and Evie’s body was taken in the Eversleigh carriage to the churchyard and there we laid her to rest.
We stood silently round her grave, listening to the fall of the earth as it struck the coffin. As I threw down the roses I had gathered that morning, I saw Mrs. Trent reach for Dolly’s hand and hold it tightly.
When we were leaving the grave I saw the figure of a man partly hidden by some bushes.
I recognized Harry Farringdon.
So he had not been able to keep away.
The Fifth of November
AUGUST HAD COME. It was several weeks since Evie’s funeral. I often went to her grave and took flowers with me. I noticed that a rose had been planted there and I wondered by whom.
I thought a great deal about her. I could well understand her succumbing to temptation. Who better than I? And often I thought how harsh life was with some people and lenient with others. I had sinned more deeply than she had, for I had betrayed my husband; yet she had suffered and I had gone free—not exactly free, but to be troubled only by my conscience.
Life is so unfair, I thought. If only she had confided in me and I had been able to help her! I could have found comfort in that for myself. What agony of mind a person must endure to come to the conclusion that there was no other way than to end it all!
Mrs. Trent kept largely to her house and I rarely saw her. I had called once or twice, but I think seeing me recalled Evie to her more vividly and it seemed that it was better to leave her alone.
Aunt Sophie was horrified by what had happened. She could always have pity for others’ misfortunes; in fact she was apt to brood on them as she did on her own; and Jeanne said that she talked incessantly about Evie’s death and the wickedness of men who betrayed women.
Young Dolly was with her a great deal.
“Poor child!” said Jeanne. “It is a terrible blow to her. She adored her sister. She has become more withdrawn than ever; but she and Mademoiselle seem to bring some comfort to each other.”
“Time will help,” I said. “It always does.”
Jeanne agreed with me. “Time,” she repeated, “even with Mademoiselle and the little Dolly… it will help.”
There was a change in the air. Events were moving fast and it was clear that what was happening on the Continent must affect our lives. England was indeed deeply involved in the conflict.
In June the little Dauphin had died in the Temple. He had been twelve years old. Now there was no king of France. I often thought of that little boy. What a sad life he had had! And how he must have suffered, parted from his mother, forced to make cruel and even obscene allegations against her. And then… to die. How had he died? We should never be sure of that.
Oh, what a cruel world this had become.
There were riots in some parts of the country due to the high price of food. I wondered if Léon Blanchard had helped to rouse the mobs. Jonathan was right. Agitators must be eliminated—even young men like Alberic.
There was some consternation when Spain made peace with France; and it seemed that all our allies were deserting us because they realized that France, led by this adventuring Corsican Napoleon Bonaparte, war-torn though it was by revolution, was a power to be reckoned with.
It was afternoon. I had been in the garden and as I came in I saw Grace Soper on the lawn with the babies. Jessica was now a year old, Amaryllis a little younger. They were both crawling all over the place and could now take a few staggering steps. Soon they would be running about.
“That’s the time we shall have to watch them,” said Grace Soper. “My word, that Miss Jessica, she’s a little madam, she is. She wants this, she wants that and I’ll tell you this, Mrs. Frenshaw, she won’t be happy till she gets what takes her fancy. Miss Amaryllis is such a good little girl.”
My mother took as much pride in Jessica’s waywardness as I did in Amaryllis’s docility; they were both perfect in our eyes.
I looked into the little carriage in which they slept side by side. Jessica with her dark hair and long sweeping lashes, cheeks faintly tinted, was beautiful in a striking way; I thought she might be like my mother except that her eyes were dark and my mother’s a brilliant blue. “She must get them from some of her fiery French ancestors,” my mother said.
“The Eversleighs can be somewhat fiery too on occasions,” I replied.
She admitted it. “Amaryllis looks like a little angel,” she said; and so she did with her fair hair and blue eyes and a certain air of fragility which alarmed me sometimes but which Grace Soper said was due to small bones, and that my Amaryllis was in as perfect health as her robust nursery companion Jessica.
I left them slumbering side by side under the shadow of a sycamore tree on that peaceful August afternoon and went into the house.
It must have been about half an hour later when I heard shrieks coming from the garden. I hastily ran downstairs. Grace Soper was there with my mother and they were both distracted. All my mother could say was: “It can’t be… How can it be? What does it mean?”
Grace was shaking so much that she could scarcely speak.
“The babies…”
My mother cried: “Jessica… she’s not there…”
I looked into the baby carriage. Floods of relief swept over me, for Amaryllis was lying there fast asleep. But then the horror of what had happened dawned on me. Jessica was missing.
“How… what has happened?” I cried.
“They were asleep,” stammered Grace. “I went into the house. I was only gone five minutes… When I came out…”
“She can’t be far,” said my mother.
“Could she have got out of the carriage?”