Читать книгу Mignonette - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 12

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Barbara was leaving the island a little sooner than she had intended in order to get Stone Hall ready for Aimée, by this name she still thought of her, Mignonette seemed a leap too far ahead. She hoped for a warm familiarity with her unknown sister, but dared not be sure of it. After all, Aimée was coming for a short visit, her marriage was only postponed, she would return to France by the early autumn.

Barbara still thought of this union with distaste, but not with her former disgust. The truth, that she did not admit to herself, was that she no longer took such an ardent interest in the affair of Aimée now that she was emotionally so deeply involved with Francis Shermandine. The coming of the French girl would now be an intrusion, at least upon her musings, but she would not confess to this, even to herself.

And there was much pleasure to be gained from the prospect of having this young girl's company. Even though it was her first year of mourning, there were modest diversions they could enjoy together; of course Aimée should also be in black, but Barbara was relieved to know that she would not be.

A little nervous about the story, innocent as it seemed to her, that Aimée had invented, she told it tentatively to Harding, who received it in good part and without question.

"It will be pleasant for you to have a young lady at Stone Hall."

"She would have come before, but when she was a child Mamma was not well, then Papa did not like company." Barbara embroidered the fiction in order to give it stability for her own support.

Harding accepted this with a faith that gave Barbara a pang. How far indeed was the placid servant from guessing the truth! Yet she was relieved, also, for it was a sign that her father's reputation was so secure that no one would doubt it.

"I had forgotten that my mother was ever educated in Brussels, Harding. I don't think that she was there long. I do recall, now, some sketches in her album."

"The mistress never spoke of herself, Miss Barbara," replied Harding, who had been at Stone Hall only twenty years and knew nothing of Mrs. Lawne's youth. Nor of anything, thought Barbara, save her own languors and vexations.

She would always remember her mother on a couch, wrapped in a rare Paisley or Andalusian shawl, her banded hair the color of a dead bay leaf, her long skirts of surah silk drawn over her little pointed bronze slippers, a vinaigrette in her thin hand, her rings slipping round her bony fingers.

"We can prepare the Chinese room for Aimée—Mademoiselle Falconet," said Barbara bravely, thinking, Was it not rash not to change the name? Supposing someone knew of it.

Harding was doubtful. Mary Lawne, wife of the builder of Stone Hall, had in a mood of youthful exuberance, soon quenched, ordered the Chinese apartment, and for two generations it had been unoccupied.

"It is the only cheerful room," insisted Barbara. "We can soon make it ready."

"I don't think, Miss, that you should be getting a cheerful room ready during your first year of mourning."

"Oh, I shall make no show, it shall be done quietly within the house."

After this success with Harding, Barbara ventured on telling her story to Sir Timothy and Francis Shermandine. They had come to bid her farewell, but they left the future brilliant, for Francis was coming to Portsmouth within the month and had asked if he might wait on Barbara, who did not doubt that he would request at least the continuation of her friendship.

"I shall not be alone, Sir Timothy."

When the two men had heard her account of the visitor, she noted them with anxiety. Both accepted the situation as the most natural in the world.

"This youthful company is exactly what you need to help you through your mourning," remarked Sir Timothy. "A pity that you will not be able to take her about."

"She will have her own connections, perhaps friends here," suggested Francis Shermandine.

"Oh," exclaimed Barbara quickly. "Her mother has long been a widow—they live a retired life. I have corresponded with them since my father's death. Madame Falconet was an old school friend of my mother's, you understand—Aimée is to be married in the autumn."

In her nervousness she did not notice how she was repeating herself. But neither of the men attached any importance to the matter. They did not know quite how enclosed her life had been, and how rare an excitement was a visitor to Stone Hall, so they did not see anything strange in this French girl's stay with the daughter of her mother's friend. Entertaining was part of an everyday routine to Sir Timothy; only since his wife's death had he lived somewhat withdrawn, while Francis Shermandine had moved easily in many societies.