It Began in Vauxhall Gardens - Plaidy Jean - Страница 10

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• 10/94
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Fenella grimaced. "Millie Sand. It sounds exactly like a mantua-maker's apprentice. Don't forget this child is your daughter, Charles. Millicent. We might call her Millicent. I never greatly cared for Millicent. It sounds a little prim to me and I cannot endure primness. Millicent. Melisande. Why, that's charming. We must call her Melisande. And we'll call her after the street in which she was born. Melisande St. Martin. That's beautiful. That will fit her. She must be Melisande St. Martin."

And that was all, for Melisande eventually crossed the Channel and went to live with the nuns of Notre Dame Marie. There sl?e would be well educated and he need not think of her for years; and it might well be that she—like so many in such circumstances— would never wish to leave the convent. Then his responsibilities to Millie Sand would cease.

But he had not been able to resist the impulse. He had to see his daughter; he had to find out what sort of child he and Millie had created.

So he saw her, the enchanting Melisande; and again and again he had gone back to see her.

Of one thing he was certain. She would not stay in the Convent.

So as the coach carried him to Paris, once more he wondered what the future had in store for him and for Melisande.

THREE

JCxcitement filled the house, and the servants were hard at work polishing and cleaning; everything that could go into the wash-tubs went. The gardeners were keeping the hothouse flowers in perfect condition that they might be brought into the ballroom for the great night. The villagers were full of the pending event; on the night of the ball they would wander up the long drive, part of which was a right of way from the road to Trevenning woods, and get as near the house as they could in the hope of catching a glimpse of the fine ladies and gentlemen who would dance in the ballroom to celebrate the birthday and betrothal of Miss Caroline.

Miss Pennifield, who did all the dressmaking, had gossiped about the beautiful materials of which she was making a ball dress for Lady Trevenning and another for Miss Caroline. Lavender silk for my lady and white satin for Miss Caroline—the white satin to be embroidered with pink roses. "Oh, my eyes!" cried Miss Pennifield when she talked of those roses—and she did this twenty times a day. "I never saw such dresses in all my natural."

In Lady Trevenning's sitting-room Miss Pennifield was busily fitting Miss Caroline's dress. Her fingers were trembling a little because this very day the guests from London would arrive, and the dress should be finished by now. Lady Trevenning had declared herself delighted with the lavender silk; but Miss Caroline was always a problem, and she would keep changing her mind about the fullness of the skirt or the set of the sleeves.

Caroline was like her father in appearance, but in place of his aloofness she had an uncertain temper. She seemed to be continually brooding and she was never satisfied. That came of having so many of the good things of life, thought Miss Pennifield, who herself had very little.

"The set on the shoulders is not right," cried Caroline, shaking back the ringlets which she wore in the fashion set by the young Queen. "It makes the sleeves too short."

"But it seems right to me, dear," said Lady Trevenning. "Do you not think so, Pennifield?"

"Yes, I do, my lady." Miss Pennifield, in the presence of her employer, was a different person from the perky little woman the village knew.

"But it does not!" snapped Caroline. "It is too bunchy here, I tell you. That is not according to the London fashion."

Miss Pennifield, with the tears smarting behind her eyes and the pins pricking through her bodice into which in her agitation she had carelessly stuck them, changed the set of the sleeves.

Wenna, who was hovering about Lady Trevenning to make sure she had her wrap about her shoulders, looked at Caroline and understood all the fears and apprehensions which beset the girl.

Caroline was extra touchy this morning. No amount of resetting the sleeve would satisfy her. Wenna knew it. Her dissatisfaction with the dress was the outward sign of her fear that she would not please Mr. Fermor when he came. My poor little queen! thought Wenna. You be all right. You'm pretty enough. You'm the prettiest creature in the world ... in Wenna's world leastways; and if you're not like the smart ladies to London, well, that be no loss, and I've heard young men be very partial to a change.

Wenna went over to Miss Pennifield,

"Here," she said in her authoritative way, "let me see it, do. Well, what's wrong with that, my precious ? It do look beautiful to me. Why, you won't want the sleeves so long they hide your pretty hands."

Wenna remembered. She remembered everything about her Miss Caroline as she did about her Miss Maud. They were her life; they were her passion. Caroline had come back excited from the trip to London. She was fourteen then and had gone to see the wedding celebrations of the Queen. She had come back full of excitement— not because she had seen the Queen and her Consort but because she had seen Fermor; and she had known then that one day she was to marry Fermor.

Caroline had unburdened herself to Wenna, just as she always had during the days of her childhood. "Come, tell Wenna." That had been their cry at all times—when she was happy or afraid. When she was a little girl and had had bad dreams she would present herself at Wenna's bedside and whisper: "Tell Wenna." Wenna treasured such memories. And during that trip to London Caroline had been captivated by the handsome domineering boy who was only, a few months older than herself. He had finally approved of Caroline, but in a patronizing way. He had even told her she had pretty hands.

So now Wenna was reminding her of this > and she saw the soothing effect her words produced.

"That be right, b'ain't it?" she asked the dressmaker.

"It is indeed," said poor Miss Pennifield.

"Now slip it off and let Miss Pennifield stitch it. And I shouldn't try it on again. My dear life, it'll be spoilt before you wear it. There . . . that's right. Now you're looking a little flushed.

I'm going to make you lie down and have a rest before the guests arrive.'*

"They won't be here for ages, Wenna."

"You never know. Master Fermor will be that eager. Nothing would surprise me."

That pleased her again. The dear sweet creature, thought Wenna. She'm so pretty when she do smile.

Purposefully Wenna helped her to put on her dress.

"I'm not going to lie down," said Caroline. "You foolish woman, do you think I'm an invalid?"

"Very well then. But you'll stop fretting, my handsome, and you'll go and change into your watered silk . . . just in case the visitors arrive early. Then take a book and go to the hammock and wait there."

"Wenna, don't order me," said Caroline.

But she went all the same.

Miss Pennifield took the white satin away to the sewing-room with obvious relief, and Wenna was left alone with Lady Trevenning.

"Wenna, I don't know what we should do without you," said Maud, a little tearfully.

She was tearful on all occasions now, it seemed to Wenna; tearful when she was happy, tearful when she was sad, tearful when she was grateful. It was a sign of weakness, Wenna believed; and she knew that it irritated Sir Charles. Wenna disliked all men, but she hated Sir Charles. He had failed to make her mistress happy; Wenna did not know why; he was always courteous and gentle. He spent much time in London, and Wenna believed she knew the purpose of those visits. "Another woman!" she would say to herself. "Nothing would surprise me. He may be deceiving that poor woman as well, for all we know. I vow he's got a regular little love nest tucked away somewhere." The supposed secret woman qualified for her pity when she thought thus; at other times Wenna hated her with a scorn almost as great as that which she had for the master.

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• 10/94
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