Читать книгу Forget-Me-Not - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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"Madame Faustin seemed very impressed by her. It is so difficult to find the right person!"

The two ladies smiled with vague amiability at each other; they were not very interested in the subject they discussed but it was one of those rather tiresome services to a mutual friend that cannot be refused. Madame Clapisson Faustin, the wife of the French ambassador, had asked Mrs. Coombe Wade to find a governess for a family of her acquaintance and the Englishwoman believed there was an excellent person about to leave the employ of Lady Anfield; Madame Faustin had herself seen this young woman with her charges and had highly approved her appearance and behaviour.

But Mrs. Coombe Wade felt a certain responsibility that urged her to make further enquiries.

"An exceptional person is required—there are five children and the mother can do nothing, social obligations, you know, and ill health, then the establishment is really magnificent! One requires someone with authority—"

"Mademoiselle Debelleyme has that—she is very good with servants, a wonderful gift for keeping order and discipline—with children, too—she really takes all the trouble off one's shoulders!"

"Yet she is leaving you?"

"Well, the girls are almost too old—besides—"

As Lady Anfield left her sentence vague Mrs. Coombe Wade hinted:

"She did not stay long in her last place, either?"

"Oh, with the Brentwells? You see, those were boys and soon had to have a tutor."

Determined to do her duty the other lady persisted.

"Isn't she rather good-looking?"

Lady Anfield appeared surprised, a trifle uneasy.

"No one has noticed it, I assure you she is very discreet and decorous—"

"But this air of authority? Isn't that rather out of place in this sort of person?"

Lady Anfield hastened to explain.

"Oh, she never presumes, she is most respectful and agreeable, I'm sure—it isn't an air of authority either, quite—difficult to explain! She gets things done, without any fuss."

"Who is she?" asked Mrs. Coombe Wade directly.

"Well, really, one hardly troubles, does one? I mean I had excellent credentials from the Brentwells and they had a strong recommendation from Lady Tryon, and I believe before that she was in an Academy at Bedford—"

She smiled good-naturedly at her friend, hoping she would turn the tedious conversation, but Mrs. Coombe Wade, who did not wish to disoblige the French Ambassadress, was firm.

"I must know something, Peggy dear, they rely on me—I am to engage the young woman, you see."

"Well, she is a Parisienne—but there is a romantic mystery, yet nothing to her discredit, you see"—Lady Anfield lowered her pleasant voice—"her grandfather was one of Napoleon's maréchals—a Baron of the Empire, I think, and, of course, he lost everything at the Restoration—her mother was Italian, or was it Corsican?—anyhow, of a noble family, but ruined; she has been brilliantly educated, and is much more refined and well bred than these people usually are—"

This was vague, but Mrs. Coombe Wade was satisfied.

"She sounds a jewel, Peggy—I suppose you have never found any fault with her?"

"Never. Her position is peculiar, she has no relatives—they are in exile in Italy, I believe, and that is rather an advantage—I think her name is assumed, that of an ancestor, but as no exception could be taken to her in any way, I did not object." And, anxious to end the matter, Lady Anfield added, "Would you like to see her yourself? She is leaving me at the end of the week."

"Oh yes, if you please—then she might wait on Madame Faustin and conclude everything."

With relief Lady Anfield rang the bell and requested the footman to "send Mademoiselle Debelleyme at once."

It was a handsome, ornate room in which the two ladies discussed the governess, looking on to Belgrave Square. Lady Anfield and her friend were young matrons, dressed expensively and without taste. Lives of busybody idleness had given an expression at once vacant and inquisitive to their amiable faces; their experience was even more limited than their understanding, but they were adepts in all the conventions of their class.

While they chattered vaguely the governess appeared.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, won't you sit down? Mrs. Coombe Wade would like to speak to you—this is Mademoiselle Debelleyme, dear—"

The governess seated herself and waited, with downcast eyes; her demeanour was perfect, respectful without being servile; her personality was completely effaced in her post; she was the governess in a rich gentleman's establishment and could never make the mistake of asserting that she was a human being. Mrs. Coombe Wade looked at her and approved; she was pleased to note also that she had been mistaken in thinking the young woman good-looking—her features were insignificant, her hair was pulled back unbecomingly from a forehead that was too high, and pinned in an old-fashioned manner at the back of her head, her clumsy but neat dress of dark merino was buttoned in a pelerine up to her chin, and its heavy folds quite disguised any graces her figure might have possessed; yet she had that distinction, that dignity that an aristocrat would like to see in a dependant—surely, thought Mrs. Coombe Wade, anxiously, she was the very person for whom Madame Faustin was so eagerly searching? Such excellent testimonials, too, an exquisite flower painter, a good musician.

There was a short pause while one lady scrutinised the governess and the other furtively yawned.

Mademoiselle Debelleyme bore the silence with equanimity, and listened, without a change of attitude, while Mrs. Coombe Wade stated her case.

"I am looking for a governess for a friend of Madame Faustin. As you are leaving Lady Anfield and she very kindly recommends you and I hear that you have other good testimonials I wondered if you might be suitable."

"What is the situation, please?" The governess, still keeping her lids modestly down, spoke in a very low, but distinct voice.

"With the Duchesse Montlosier du Boccage—you know of her, of course?"

"It is an historic name."

"Yes, indeed. The Duchess is a daughter of Maréchal Frediani, you know, the victor of Warsaw, and immensely rich. She keeps a very splendid establishment in the Rue St. Honoré—the Duke is Chevalier d'honneur to the Duchesse D'Orleans and an intimate at Court—you understand that you would have a very envied post!"

"What would it be, precisely?"

"There are five children—two boys; there is an under-governess, two nurses, the children have their own maids—you: see, Mademoiselle, that an exceptional person is required!"

Gently the governess raised her head, and asked:

"Why?"

Mrs. Coombe Wade was not a sensitive woman, but she was conscious of something in mademoiselle's glance, revealed suddenly, that made her feel uneasy. Those eyes were such a peculiar colour, a clear gold, large, cold, yet compelling, as if a strong and frantic spirit stared from behind bars; but Mademoiselle Debelleyme looked down again and the vague impression passed.

But the lady was slightly ruffled as she replied:

"Well, it is a considerable responsibility—five little children of that rank—"

"There are, as always, the parents," remarked the governess, quietly.

"Oh yes! But the Duchess does nothing; she is often ill, she has lost a number of children—besides, she must be continually at the Tuileries—"

"Then I should have sole charge?"

Mrs. Coombe Wade was a little taken aback by this direct question.

"I believe that the Duke directs the education of the children, I really don't know. Madame Faustin could tell you."

Bored by this conversation but still good-natured. Lady Anfield interposed:

"Why not wait on Madame Faustin, Mademoiselle, and find out what you wish to know?"

"But, Lady Anfield," smiled the governess. "I don't think that I can accept this kind suggestion—I have almost engaged myself to teach music, French and painting at Miss Graham's Academy."

Mrs. Coombe Wade was disappointed; she did not want to have to search further for a governess for her friend, and she was really impressed by the correct, icy and respectful demeanour of Mademoiselle Debelleyme.

"Madame du Boccage offers a hundred pounds a year and your own apartment and full service. I believe this is better than you have had before."

"Lady Anfield was good enough to pay me sixty pounds; I have been quite satisfied."

"Surely you would like to return to Paris?"

The governess smiled.

"My family lost all with the Restoration," she remarked with an air of reserve. "I remain passionately attached to the memory of the Emperor—Paris under Bourbon rule has no attractions for me. I prefer exile."

Both the ladies cherished a sentimental regard for Napoleon I, and thought this a very proper speech on the part of Mademoiselle Debelleyme, one, too, which gave her the dignity of a certain mystery. Mrs. Coombe Wade became more eager than ever to engage her services and began to press the advantages of this post in one of the most sumptuous establishments of France...

"Surely," objected the governess, "Madame du Boccage could find someone in Paris whom she could interview personally? Is it not rather peculiar for her to entrust so delicate a mission even to the most intimate of friends?"

Again Mrs. Coombe Wade was at a loss; reluctantly, vaguely, she admitted:

"It is not very easy, I understand from Madame Faustin, to satisfy Madame du Boccage—she thought perhaps that a person used to English life—" Becoming further baffled by the upward flash of the governess' clear eyes, she added weakly:

"There have been six governesses in the last two years—so you see—"

"That Madame la Duchesse is difficult?" finished Mademoiselle gently.

"No." Mrs. Coombe Wade made a gallant recovery, "She is the most charming, the most generous of women! But an exceptional person is required—"

"Do you think I should suit Madame du Boccage?"

Lady Anfield rose, resolved to end the interview. "Oh, I'm sure!" she smiled. "I should think it over, Mademoiselle—and then you could see Madame Faustin, couldn't you? A hundred a year is quite exceptional, isn't it? It was so kind of Mrs. Coombe Wade to think of you, wasn't it?"

The governess was well trained to know when she was dismissed; she rose instantly.

"I am deeply obliged, Lady Anfleld. If I might have till tomorrow? Just to think over my plans? Thank you. I am so grateful, Mrs. Coombe Wade. I hope never to disappoint your kindness."

Something in her carriage as she crossed the long room to the heavy door roused again that vague feeling of uneasiness in the mind of Mrs. Coombe Wade—but she could not name even to herself what quality in mademoiselle provoked this, and Lady Anfield said decisively:

"She really is a prize, dear, you must persuade her to accept."

Mademoiselle Debelleyme had immediately decided to take the position offered in the establishment of Madame du Boccage; her hesitation had been only assumed in order to increase her value. She longed to return to Paris where she had not been for eight years, and the post seemed one that was in every way more desirable than anything that had come her way before. Not that she hoped to remain long in the Faubourg St. Honoré; she never remained long anywhere; despite her excellent credentials, her perfect behaviour, her talents, her unimpeachable character, no one wanted to keep her. A year with Lady Tryon's delicate little girl, then the child had been sent to Italy and mademoiselle had not been asked to accompany her. Teaching at various Academies for Young Ladies, Clapham, Highgate, Bedford, a few months at each, then, under some perfectly reasonable excuse, her place had been filled by another. After that the Brentwells, two years with three little boys and dismissed to give way for a tutor; now Lady Anfield, who had suddenly and vaguely found her girls "too old for a governess." Nowhere did mademoiselle attach herself and she knew now exactly what her utmost endeavours and exertions could obtain for her, which was the position of an upper servant in a large house, a position which could only be maintained by complete abnegation, rigid self-discipline, tedious toil and an attitude of exact decorum and humility.

She knew why she had lost her various posts when some women remained with one family for a lifetime; she had a strange influence over children, roused their passionate attachment and loyalty, and the mothers, lazy and careless as they were, became jealous. She was able to make herself obeyed by servants and, after a while, her influence, very subtle but powerful, permeated any household in which she stayed. She had been very careful, trained herself to complete effacement, been tactful, discreet, useful, patient; but the candour of the children's affection had always betrayed her, she became too important, she must go.

Oh, nothing to complain of—she might have excellent credentials! Her employers, with the most kindly intentions, praised her warmly—but she left one place after another with the laments of her little charges in her ears as her sole reward.

Yet in much she had been lucky; the various oblique lies she had insinuated about her origin had gone down very well; Lucille Clery, Mary Showler, had easily become Lucille Debelleyme, she had even lived down the folly of that elopement from Bath; Miss Le Moine's testimonial lay with others in her reticule. A telegram had summoned her to her grandfather's death-bed, she had fled in such haste and distress that she had forgotten to even leave a message. Did Miss Le Moine believe this? She had regretted she could not receive Miss Showler again in her Academy, but she had not refused a handsome certificate of character.

Robert Morrison was dead, killed in the hunting field; the reading of that news in the papers had given Mademoiselle Debelleyme the only real pleasure she had known in five years.

She went up to her room in the gloomy Belgravia mansion. A dull, sunless apartment, shabbily furnished with cast-out articles from the other rooms, a hard bed, a tarnished mirror and faded curtains of an ugly plum-coloured rep. The view was over backyards, basements and barred kitchen windows. The governess sat at the window and looked with loathing at this dismal prospect.

She wondered how she existed from day to day, body and soul in invisible chains, her pride in fierce subjection, all her desires denied, no prospect whatever for the future; completely isolated, disdaining to make friends with servants, disdained by those above servants, forced to hide all her character, half her gifts, all her attractions; twenty-eight years old, immersed in resignation.

"What is the use of existence on these terms? How do I find the strength to endure it?"

Yet she knew; it was because of some lunatic hope that one day, by some miracle, something would occur to change her life into the extravagant, the fantastic, the passionate adventure she wished it to be. She deluded herself from day to day, knowing that she was doing so, yet not daring to face reality. To one situated like herself escape could only come through men and no man had shown himself ready to be her deliverer.

Robert Morrison was dead; her brief affair with him was dead; but not buried. It lay corrupting in her soul, poisoning even her dreams. For five years she had, by hard work and a watchful discretion, maintained a position in aristocratic families, secured a bare if genteel living, but always ignored, a virtuous gentlewoman forbidden to the libertine, a pauper forbidden to the marrying man.

She had never again met as bold a rake as Robert Morrison. Once or twice she had observed a licentious glance pass over her when, summoned to the drawing-room during a reception, she had played some young lady's accompaniment on the pianoforte, once or twice she had been insolently addressed in the street. On each occasion she had in her mind shudderingly rejected the advance. She did not demand an honourable love but Robert Morrison had taught her that she must have some gloss of elegancy over lust. She was eager to sell herself, but the purchaser must be delicately behaved, respect her pride, her fastidiousness; she could not again live through an experience like that of that night in the inn outside Paddington.

Often after some bitter humiliation when her vanity, her ambition had refused to lie quiescent, she had reflected in despair: "I should be better off in a brothel."

But her difficulty lay in the fact that she did not really know what a brothel was, where to find one, nor how to gain admittance if she did. Did one discover the address of a house of ill fame, knock and say: "Madame, permit me to help entertain your clients?" Did one creep out after dark, pull some man by the coat and whisper: "Take me somewhere where we shall be private?"

There might be a stepping stone there to liberty, independence on the stage or as the kept woman of a rich man, "but I have no knowledge, no courage to face another Morrison—and worse."

Constantly in the company of children or smugly respectable women the governess could know little of the world save from an avid but limited reading and the sordid gossip of servants.

So she remained chaste, dainty, in person, habits, behaviour, but her thoughts ranged wide and the least of them would have profoundly shocked her employers.888

Her experience with Robert Morrison had given her a disgust of sex and she was too absorbed in herself to dream of an ideal lover; so, naturally cold, she did not suffer from her enforced chastity, but she raged that she could not turn it to advantage before she was old... surely some man, somewhere, would for the sake of her lovely body, hidden under her ugly clothes, relieve her of her intolerable servitude? But where to find him?

A cloud obscured the mournful pale blue above the ugly backs of the houses, a few drops of rain fell on the sooty sill of her window. She roused herself. She had the afternoon for her packing, her pupils were out with an aunt. She turned to her trunk, carefully folded her plain linen, her sombre dresses, her thick stockings and one or two rich and elaborate scraps of embroidery that she had worked herself.

She would go to Paris—a hundred pounds a year, a sumptuous mansion; worth trying, but how long could she placate Madame du Boccage who had had six governesses in two years? Here obviously was a difficult, tyrannical, tiresome, spoilt woman, probably a peevish invalid—"but I might stay till I had found something else in Paris—Paris in the spring! Mon Dieu! There is life to be seen there—even from afar!"

And surely in a ducal establishment she might hope to escape from some of the most degrading humiliations inflicted on her by her English employers—"Yes, darling, the peaches are rather bruised, you may offer one to mademoiselle—" "Oh, the concert will be very dull, mademoiselle must take you—" "These gloves are badly cut and Bennetts won't take them back, would you like them. Mademoiselle?" "No, dear, mademoiselle never has a headache, though it is my sweet child to think of it—she can very well go on reading to you"—or, most humiliating of all, "Mademoiselle, I think you should not wear that lace collar and brooch, I always insist on my governesses being most plainly attired."

She dropped the lid of her trunk and stood reflecting on the faint possibilities offered by this new position—this new chance?—in Paris.

And an ironic smile lifted her lip into an unpleasant expression. The governess' interview with Madame Faustin passed off very well. The great lady found the young woman modest, dignified, as agreeable as intelligent, and well bred. Mademoiselle Debelleyme left the French Embassy engaged as head governess in the establishment of Madame du Boccage, with three months' salary and her fare to Paris in her pocket.