The Indiscretion

CHRISTMAS WAS NOW ALMOST upon us. Bustle and preparation permeated the house.

A party of students went into Mons in the company of Miss Carruthers and Mademoiselle du Pont, who taught French, to buy presents for friends at home.

It was only a short journey by train and Miss Carruthers was very eager that we should see some of what she called “the points of interest” before we spent our time in the frivolous pleasure of gift selecting.

She lectured us as we chuffed along.

“Now, girls, you must know that Mons is situated between the Trouille and Haine rivers at the junction of two canals. One of these was built by Napoleon. Mons was at one time a Roman camp and it is the capital of the province of Hainaut.”

None of us was paying full attention to this; we were all consulting our gift lists. Anna B was looking a little preoccupied. She was sitting with Lucia and talking to her now and then, but I thought she was somewhat bored with the whole proceedings.

After arriving in the town, Miss Carruthers insisted we do a little sightseeing. We were all afraid that there would be too little time left for shopping. We went to see the Church of St. Waudru and the belfry famous for its forty-seven-bell carillon.

“And, girls,” said Miss Carruthers, “the Battle of Malplaquet was fought and won by our own great Duke of Marlborough not far from here.”

At last we were allowed our freedom, and I have to admit that the large store to which we were taken was of greater interest to me than the exploits of the great Duke. I bought some sugar almonds in a beautiful blue and silver box for my mother, a model of the church for my father and a penknife for Charles.

When we went back I sat with Annabelinda. I asked what she had bought.

“Nothing,” she replied briefly.

“You look bored,” I said.

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Oh, you’d like anything.”

She seemed genuinely disgruntled, and when I asked if she was annoyed about something she snapped at me, “Of course not. Why should I be? But old Carruthers did go on about that church and the bells.”

In due course we left for home for the holidays.

Aunt Celeste came for us and we spent a night at Valenciennes. Neither the Princesse nor Jean Pascal was there, and soon we were on our way to England.

My parents were at Dover to meet us. We kept hugging each other and they wanted to hear all about school. Annabelinda was staying the night with us, and Aunt Belinda was coming to London on the following day.

It was a wonderful homecoming. I told them all about school life and described Madame Rochère and the only slightly less formidable Mademoiselle Artois, Miss Carruthers, the whole lot. They wanted to hear about the midnight feasts and Marie Christine’s sleepwalking.

I was on the point of mentioning the ghost, but I held back. Somehow I felt that Annabelinda, in her present mood, would want that.

“It is quite clear to me,” said my mother, “that you enjoy that school.”

I assured her I did, although I wished it were not so far away. The Princesse had been wonderful, I went on, and her title did much to enhance our prestige with Madame Rochère.

“What of Jean Pascal Bourdon?” she said. “I have not heard you mention him.”

“We haven’t seen him,” I replied.

“He is busy at Château Bourdon, I suppose,” my mother said. “The wine and all that.”

“Yes, and Aunt Celeste just took us to their house at Valenciennes, didn’t she, Anna B? That’s what the girls at school call her. They say ‘Annabelinda’ is too long.”

“I don’t like it,” said Annabelinda. “I forbid you to call me by anything but my proper name.”

When we were alone, my mother said, “What’s wrong with Annabelinda? She doesn’t seem so enamored of the school as you are.”

“Oh, she likes it. She would have liked to stay on and not come home for the holidays, I believe.”

“Oh, dear, we must try to make her change her mind.”

There was so much to do during those holidays, so many things to talk about, that I forgot Annabelinda’s mood.

The Denvers spent Christmas week with us, and after that I went down to Cornwall to be with Aunt Rebecca, which was always enjoyable. Aunt Rebecca was as eager to hear about the school as my mother had been.

We came back to London and preparations for the return to school began in earnest. A few days before we were due to leave, Annabelinda and her mother came to London.

Annabelinda looked no better than she had when the holidays began. She did not seem to want to talk to me, but the night before we left I was feeling so anxious about her that I went along to her room, determined to talk.

I knocked and without waiting for an answer went in.

She was in bed but not asleep.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously.

“Annabelinda,” I said. “I’m worried about you. Are you ill or something? Why don’t you tell me? There might be something I could do.”

“You can’t do anything,” she replied. “I shall never see him again.”

“Who?”

“Carl.”

“Carl…You mean the gardener?”

“He wasn’t really a gardener. That was only a bet. He just left without saying. I didn’t know he was going. He didn’t tell me.”

“Was there any reason why he should tell you?”

“Every reason,” she said. “We were friends.”

“Friends,” I repeated. “You only saw him in the gardens…apart from that night in this house.”

“That’s nothing to do with it,” she retorted. “We were friends…special friends. You know what I mean…well, lovers.”

“Lovers!” I gasped.

“Don’t keep repeating what I say. You don’t understand anything.”

“I would if you told me.”

“Well, Carl and I were special friends. It was great fun. I used to see him often…sometimes in the days and…”

Memories of her creeping into the house, coming up the stairs, playing the ghost, came to me. “And at night,” I added.

She smiled and looked a little like her old self at the recollection.

“It was great fun. Lucia knew. She was a real sport. Well, she’d had adventures herself. She helped me a lot. She used to put a bundle in my bed so that it looked as though I were there, asleep…just in case old Arty came in.”

“Is this why you are so upset? He was your friend and he didn’t even tell you that he was going?”

She nodded, miserable again.

“He couldn’t have been much of a friend.”

“It must have been a sudden call from somewhere.”

“He could have left a message.”

“Well, not easily. He wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with the girls.”

I felt shocked and bewildered. All I could say was, “Well, fancy…you and Carl.”

“He is very handsome.”

“I suppose so.”

“And rather unusual. I mean…doing all that for a bet.”

“There is certainly something unusual about him. Perhaps he’ll appear again somewhere.”

“That will be too late. Oh, we did have some fun together! He was ever so interested in the school. He used to ask me a lot of questions about it. He made me draw a plan of it. One night I let him in.”

“Let him in!”

She nodded. “We climbed through the window.”

“As I saw you do.”

“Yes. It was easy. I just unbolted it and left it unbolted so that I could get back. I had an arrangement with Lucia that if I did not get back by two in the morning she would come down and make sure someone hadn’t bolted the window. Lucia was a great help.”

“And you brought him into the school!”

“Only once. There was something he wanted to see about the building. It was so exciting…creeping round in the dark…with a torch, of course.”

“You might have been caught!”

“Disaster!” she said, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

“You would have been expelled.”

“I don’t think so. Grandpère Bourdon would have stopped that. Madame Rochère is very fond of him. I think he must have been her lover years ago when she was young and beautiful. I believe my grandfather has been the lover of half the women in France. He wouldn’t let me be expelled.”

“You are very daring…and now you are wretched because of this Carl.”

She was silent.

“Well,” I said. “I’m glad I know. You are just a deserted maiden, pining for her lover.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I don’t know why I’ve told you.”

“Because, in spite of everything, we are still friends.”

“I suppose so…”

“I was getting quite worried about you. You’ll get over this. There will be others.”

She smiled at me faintly.

“Thanks for coming, Lucinda.”

She was more gracious than she had been for a long time.

“I’m glad I did,” I answered. “Good night.”

The next day we made the journey back to school. My parents came with us as far as Dover, as they had before, and Aunt Belinda with them. Then they went back to London and we spent the night with Aunt Celeste at Valenciennes. Jean Pascal Bourdon and the Princesse were still at the Château Bourdon in the Médoc.

Soon we were settling in for the term. I was glad to find that I had the same dormitory companions, and we all greeted one another joyously. Lucia had left and Annabelinda had a room to herself.

She will like that, I thought. But I was sure she would miss Lucia.

It must have been about a week after we were back when Annabelinda fainted during the English class. I was not there, of course, but I heard about it immediately.

She was taken to her room and the doctor was sent for.

I was worried about her. I knew she was not herself. I was beginning to think that it must be more than the melancholy over a lost lover.

The doctor was closeted with Madame Rochère for some time after he had seen Annabelinda. I went along to her room, but was stopped by Mademoiselle Artois as I was about to enter it.

“Where are you going, Lucinda?” she asked.

“To see Annabelinda. I have heard that the doctor has been to see her.”

“Annabelinda is not to be disturbed.”

“I shan’t disturb her. She is really like my sister. We have been together a great deal…always.”

“That may be, but Annabelinda is not to be disturbed. Now, go to your class.” She looked at her watch. “Or you will be late,” she added.

I could not concentrate on anything. She was ill. I wanted to be with her. However much we sparred, she was still a part of me…like my parents…and Aunt Celeste. I could not bear to be shut out.

For two days she remained in her room and I was not allowed to visit her. I began to think she was suffering from some infectious disease.

Then Jean Pascal Bourdon arrived at the school with the Princesse. He was taken straight to Madame Rochère and stayed with her for a long time.

During the day I was sent for by Madame Rochère.

“The Princesse and Monsieur Bourdon are here,” she told me—as if I did not know. “They would like to speak to you. They are waiting for you in my sitting room. You may go along to them now.”

I wondered what this could mean, and I hurried along.

The Princesse kissed me on both cheeks. Jean Pascal was standing a few paces behind her; then he came forward and, taking both my hands in his, kissed me as the Princesse had and smiled at me tenderly.

“My dear Lucinda,” he said. “I can see that you are anxious about Annabelinda. The poor child is quite ill. We are going to take her back with us to Bourdon. We shall look after her there, and we hope that in a few months she will be her old self.”

“Months!” I said.

“Oh, yes, my dear,” put in the Princesse. “It will be several months.”

Jean Pascal went on. “I am telling her parents that she will need special care, which naturally she cannot get at school. After all, it is a school, not a hospital. I am asking my daughter and her husband to come over to Bourdon, where we shall be. So they will soon be there, I hope. You will miss Annabelinda, I know. But you have settled in now, have you not?”

I murmured that I had. I felt bewildered. I could not believe that Annabelinda was so ill that she had to leave school for several months.

He was watching me covertly. He said suddenly, “Has Annabelinda talked to you?”

“Well…she did a little.”

“About…how she was feeling?”

“Oh, er…yes. We did talk in London before we left. She was upset about…er…”

“About…er…?”

“About a friend of hers.”

“She told you that, did she?”

“Yes.”

“This friend of hers?”

“He came here as a gardener.”

“I see,” said Jean Pascal abruptly. “Well, she is ill, you know, and she will need some time to recover.”

“Is she coming back to school?”

“I daresay she will when she is well. I wouldn’t say anything about this gardener, if I were you.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t. I thought Annabelinda didn’t want me to.”

“I am sure she wouldn’t. She just spoke to him in the gardens, of course.”

“Oh,” I began, and stopped abruptly. Jean Pascal gave me an intent look; then he was smiling.

“I hope you will come to the château sometime,” he said. “Perhaps before you go home for the summer holiday. That’s a good time of year…when the grapes are nearly ripe, you know.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“We are leaving today and taking Annabelinda with us. I hope you won’t be lonely without her.”

“I have Caroline, Helga and Yvonne and others.”

“I am sure you have lots of friends.”

“Annabelinda is not going to…” They both looked at me in horror as I stammered, “…not going…to the…”

Jean Pascal laughed. “Mon Dieu, non, non, non,” he cried. “She will be all right. She just needs quiet and rest and attention, which she can get at Bourdon. When you see her in the summer it will be the old Annabelinda whom you knew.”

“I have been worried.”

“Of course you have, dear child. But there is no need. We’re going to nurse her to health. You will be amazed when you see her. In the meantime you must work hard and please Madame Rochère, who gives you quite a good report, I might tell you. And…just don’t talk too much about Annabelinda. She doesn’t like being ill. Nobody does, and when she comes back she won’t want people to think of her as an invalid.”

“I understand.”

“I knew you would. Bless you, my dear. I am so looking forward to seeing you in the summer.”

“I, too, my dear,” said the Princesse.

That afternoon they left, taking Annabelinda with them.

I missed her very much. I always felt an emptiness when she was out of my life. I missed the skirmishes, her scorn, her contempt, for I knew that beneath it all there was a certain affection.

I wondered how she was progressing and I was delighted when I received a letter from her:

Dear Lucinda,

How are you getting on at school without me? My mother came to Bourdon. They have all decided that I must stay here for a while. They say the climate is so much better for me than it is at home. I shall be all right in time, they tell me. Grandpère has a lot of influence here and knows all the people who can be of use. He suggests you come here before you go home in the summer. He’s confident that I shall be completely recovered by then. But I may need a little rest, so I’m to stay on here until I’m ready to go back home.

I wish you were here. I will look forward to your coming when school finishes at the end of July for the long summer break. Don’t say you must hurry home to see your parents and that brother of yours. You must come and be with me first.

Annabelinda

She sounded more like herself. I wrote and told her that I would stay for two weeks at the Château Bourdon before going home, if that were agreeable. That was long enough, I stressed, for I was longing to see my parents after the long term away.

School went on as usual. There was a midnight feast. Caroline had brought a cake with icing on the top when she came back from the Christmas holidays and this was a great treat. But nothing seemed quite the same without Annabelinda.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Caroline.

“Some awful illness which takes months to cure,” I replied.

“Consumption, I suppose,” said Caroline wisely.

“I don’t think so.”

“People do go into declines.”

“She hasn’t looked well for some time. So perhaps it is that.”

“They usually go to Switzerland for a cure,” said Helga. “It’s the mountain air or something.”

Switzerland? I thought. Carl Zimmerman came from there.

I was thinking more and more of Carl Zimmerman. The illness had started after he had left. It was pining for him which had brought it on.

I started to wonder about him; I would walk about the grounds remembering our encounter with him. I went to look at the cottages, one of which had been occupied by him.

There seemed to be someone in one of them. I studied it. It was clearly inhabited. I strolled around and then went back to the house.

And the next afternoon I found myself wandering that way again.

I walked around to the back of the cottages. They had gardens there, and in one of them was a woman hanging out washing.

She called good afternoon to me and added, “You’re from the school. I’ve seen you round here before.”

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose you work for the school?”

“Not me. My husband does. He works in the gardens. There’s plenty of work there.”

“I suppose so.”

She came toward me. She had a pleasant, happy face. I noticed that she was going to have a baby…and quite soon. She leaned her arms on the wall and surveyed me.

“Have you been long at the school?” she asked.

“I came last September.”

“Where do you come from? England, I guess.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, you pick them out. It is the way you speak French perhaps.”

“Is it as bad as that?”

“Never mind,” she said. “And it is not bad at all. I know what you are saying.”

“Oh, good. Did you know Carl who worked here for a time?”

“Oh, yes. Not much of a gardener, my Jacques said. I knew him. Didn’t stay long.”

“Why did he go away so soon?”

“I don’t think he ever meant to stay. One of those here-today-and-gone-tomorrow types.”

“Well, I’d better get back.”

“Good-bye,” she said cheerfully.

A week or so later I saw her again. She looked a little larger.

“Hello. You again,” she said. “You seem to like this place.”

“I like to get out at this time of the day, and it is pleasant in the gardens.”

“Spring really is here.”

“Yes. It’s lovely.”

“It’s time for my rest. I have to rest now, you know.”

I knew what she meant. “You’re…very pleased about it, aren’t you? I mean…the baby.”

“So you’ve noticed.” She laughed loudly, indicating this was a joke, as her condition was so obvious.

“Well…er…I did.”

“A young girl like you!”

“I’m not really so young.”

“No. Of course you’re not. Young people know about such things nowadays. You’ve guessed right. I am pleased. We always wanted a child, Jacques and me. Thought we were never going to have one and then the good God saw fit to grant our wish.”

“It must be wonderful for you.”

She nodded, blissfully serene.

I went away thinking about her.

One day when Miss Carruthers took us on another tour of Mons, we had a chance to visit the shops again and I bought a baby’s jacket. I proposed to take it to the woman in the cottage. I had discovered her name. It was Marguerite Plantain. Jacques Plantain had been employed on the school estate for many years, and his father and grandfather had worked for the Rochères before there had been a school.

Marguerite was delighted with the jacket. She told me how she enjoyed our little chats over the wall. I was invited into the cottage on that occasion. It was very small, with two rooms upstairs, two downstairs and a washhouse at the back.

She took great pleasure in showing me the things she had prepared for the baby. I was very interested and told her that I hoped it would arrive before I left for the summer holidays.

“School closes at the very end of July,” she said. “Leastways it always has. Well, the baby should be here a week or so before that.”

“I shall want to know whether it’s a girl or boy. I’d like a little girl.”

“You would!” She laughed at me. “Well, it is for the good God to decide that. Jacques wants a boy, but I reckon he’ll be mightily pleased with whatever is sent us. All I want is to hold this little one in my arms.”

Spring was passing. Summer had come. Only one more month before school finished. I was enjoying school more than ever. Caroline and I had become firm friends and I was quite fond of the other two.

Country walks, paper chases, plenty of fresh air. That was the best medicine, said Miss Carruthers. There were complaints from Mademoiselle Artois because we left the dormitory untidy. Dancing lessons, piano lessons…through the long warm days. But I was always missing Annabelinda and waiting eagerly for some news of her.

She did write now and then. She was getting better. She thought she would be really well by the time I joined her. It was very hot at Bourdon and they were all complaining about the effect the weather was having on the grapes.

“I look forward to seeing you, Lucinda,” she wrote, “and hearing about all that’s been going on in that old school.”

And I was certainly looking forward to seeing her.

In the middle of July, Marguerite gave birth to a stillborn son. I felt very unhappy because I could not bear to think of her suffering. I knew how desperately she wanted that child, and now, poor Marguerite, all her plans and hopes had been in vain.

The blinds were drawn at the cottage. I could not bring myself to call. I feared she would remember our conversations about the baby and that would make her more unhappy.

I did not go near the cottage for two weeks, but I continued to think about her. Then one day, when I did walk that way, I went to the back of the cottage and looked over the wall. In the garden, in a perambulator, lay a baby.

I could not contain my curiosity. The next day I went there again. The perambulator and the baby were in the garden. I went around to the front of the cottage and knocked on the door.

Marguerite opened it and looked at me. I felt the tears in my eyes. She saw them and turned her head away for a second or two.

Then she said, “My dear, it was good of you to come.”

“I didn’t like to before…but I thought of you.”

She laid a hand on my arm. “Come inside,” she said.

I did so. “I was so very sorry…” I began.

“It was a bitter blow. I just wanted to die. All our hopes…all our plans…and then to end like that. Sit down. I am glad you came. I’ll not forget. The little coat you bought…it will be used.”

“It seems so cruel…”

She nodded. “I was wicked. I cursed the good God. Jacques did, too. We were beside ourselves with grief. It was our dream, you see…both of us. We waited so long, and then…it ended like that. It was more than we could endure. And I cursed the good God. I said how could He do this? What have we done to deserve it? But God is good. He had His reasons. And now He has given me this little one to care for. It is one of His miracles. It eases the pain and I love him already. It is not like my own…but they say it will come to be like that…and it seems so…a little more every day.”

“So you have a baby after all?”

“Yes. He is mine now…mine forever. He needs me and I need him. Poor mite. He has no mother, no one to care for him. So I am going to give him that loving care I would have given my own.”

“Where did he come from?”

“It was Madame Rochère. She heard of this little one. She said, how would it be if I took him in place of the one I had lost? I didn’t say yes then. I didn’t feel there was anything that could replace my own. Then she said this little one needed me…and although I might not realize it, I needed him. It wasn’t the money, of course.”

“The money?”

“Oh, yes. He’s being paid for. He’s got no mother, but there are relations who will pay to have him cared for. Jacques and I…we shall be richer than we ever dreamed. But it is not the money….”

“I am sure it isn’t.”

“We talked it over. I said, that baby will be ours forever. I don’t want anyone to come and take him away. If he’s mine, he’s to be mine for always. And they said that was how they wanted it to be. There’s money put away for him. Every year it will be sent. He’s not to want for anything. And, my dear, I love him already.”

“It’s a wonderful story, Madame Plantain. It’s like a miracle. You lost your own baby, but if you hadn’t, this little baby wouldn’t have had you to look after him.”

“Oh, they’d have found someone to do that. This sort of people have money and can arrange things. But with me, it’s not the money. It’s the baby. He’s a little dear. I reckon he knows me already.”

“May I see him?”

“Of course you can. I’ll fetch him in. He’s only a little thing as yet. Might be a week or so older than mine…no more.”

“When did he come?”

“A few weeks back. Madame Rochère arranged it. I think it must have been someone from the lawyers who brought him. There was a paper. We had to put our mark on it, both Jacques and me. And it’s all signed and sealed. I said, there’s only one thing I want to know: The baby is mine forever, just as though I’d given life to him. And they said that was in the paper. But you must see him. Just a moment. I’ll fetch him.”

She brought him in. He was a very young baby with fine, fair hair. His eyes were closed for he was sleeping, so I could not see what color they were. But I guessed they were blue. He seemed to be a healthy child.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Edouard. That was given him. And of course he’ll take our name. I would not have it otherwise.”

“So he will be yours, Madame Plantain, yours entirely.”

“That’s so. And I’ll never forget what he is doing for us. The first thing Jacques looks for when he comes in is this little fellow.”

She sat rocking the baby, who continued to sleep.

“I think it is wonderful that it has ended like this,” I said.

“It was like a miracle from heaven,” she said. “And I shall always believe it was such.”

It was on the first day of August that the term finished. The Princesse came to the school. She was going to take me straight to the château.

Madame Rochère gave her the respect due her rank and they spent a little time together.

As we left I was reminded of my arrival the previous September, and I thought what a lot had happened in one short year.

The Princesse was as affable and gracious as ever and we had a pleasant journey down to Bordeaux. At the station the Bourdon carriage was waiting to collect us and we made the journey comfortably to the château.

I was very much looking forward to seeing Annabelinda. The Princesse had told me that she had made a good recovery and was almost her old self.

“We make her rest a little each day because it was a long and trying illness. However, we feel that we have pulled her through most satisfactorily.”

Annabelinda was waiting to greet us with Jean Pascal beside her. She looked well and even blooming.

“It’s lovely to see you, Lucinda,” she cried. She hugged me warmly and I felt very emotional.

“Annabelinda, it’s wonderful to see you again.”

“It was an awful time.”

Jean Pascal had taken my hands and was kissing them.

“Welcome, dear child. How happy we all are that you are here. And how do you think Annabelinda is looking, eh?”

“She looks better than she ever did.”

He laughed. “That’s what I tell her. You see, my dear, you and I think alike.”

“And she really is completely recovered?”

“Yes…yes. There is no doubt of that. We are going to take care of her and make sure there is not a relapse.”

We went into the château, which always overawed me. My mother said she had felt the same about it when she was there. The past seemed to encroach on the present, and one thought of all the people who had lived there through the ages and had perhaps left something of themselves behind.

We ate in the intimate dining room, and Jean Pascal and the Princesse did seem genuinely happy to have me there. As for Annabelinda, she made me feel very welcome.

“I only hope your parents are not angry with us for keeping you away from them,” said Jean Pascal.

“They will spare us a little time, I am sure,” said the Princesse.

“If Annabelinda can come back with me, they will be very pleased,” I said.

“I think it is certain that she will be well enough to do that,” answered Jean Pascal.

The conversation continued in such a manner, but I felt there was a certain strain and that Jean Pascal was aware of it.

I was glad when we retired to our rooms, and I could not resist going along to Annabelinda’s.

She was in bed but not asleep.

She smiled at me. “I guessed you’d come along,” she said.

“Well, it’s so long since we’ve had a real talk.”

“Tell me about school. How were they when I left so suddenly? Was there a lot of talk?”

“They could talk of nothing else. They gave you all manner of diseases…from scarlet fever to beriberi.”

She smiled. “It was all rather grim, wasn’t it?”

“It’s all over now. You’re as well as ever. Tell me about it. What was really wrong?”

“Grandpère says I am not to talk about it. He says it will be better for me not to. I’ve got to put it all behind me. It could spoil my chances…”

“Spoil your chances? Chances of what?”

“Making the right sort of marriage. They are thinking about marriage for me. After all, I am getting old.”

“Sixteen?”

“Another year.”

“How would it spoil your chances?”

“Oh, nothing…forget it.”

But I refused to. “How?” I persisted.

“Well, the grand sort of family that Grandpère wants me to marry into think all the time of children…carrying on the family name and all that. They want their heirs to be strong. They would be wary of a wife who had…had what I’ve had.”

“What did you have? It’s all been rather mysterious. Was it consumption? If so, why not say so?”

“Grandpère says we should forget it and never mention it.”

“I see. People think that once you’ve had that, you might pass it on to your children.”

“Yes. That’s the idea. So not a word.”

“And they cured you here!”

“Well, not here. I had to go away. I haven’t been at the château all the time.”

“I gathered that.”

“I told you it was all rather secret. Grandpère’s idea. He arranged it all.”

“I remember I did get a letter from you with the postmark Bergerac.”

“Bergerac! I never want to go there again.”

“Isn’t it somewhere near here?”

“Well, some miles. I must have posted the letter when we were passing through.”

“Passing through…to where?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. I was rather ill at the time.”

“Why don’t you want to see Bergerac again?”

“Well, I want to forget that time…and your mentioning the place reminded me. All those places round about do. I had this terrible thing, you see.”

“It was consumption, wasn’t it?”

She nodded…and then shook her head. “I don’t want to say exactly…but…promise you won’t tell anyone I told you.”

“I promise. Was it Switzerland? That’s where people go. Up in the mountains.”

She nodded again.

“And they cured you?” I said.

“Completely. All I have to do in the future is…be careful. Grandpère says this is a warning. Once you’ve had this sort of thing…people are suspicious.”

“They think it can be passed on.”

“Grandpère thinks it could spoil my chances for the sort of marriage he wants for me.”

“What was it like in the sanatorium?”

“Oh, they were very strict. You had to do what you were told.”

“It sounds like La Pinière.”

She laughed. “But it’s all over and I want to forget it ever happened. I’m well now. I am going to be all right. I’m looking forward to going to London.”

“I expect your family will want you to be in the country with them.”

“Oh, Mama will want to be in London, I expect. As for my father and dear brother Robert, they’ve got their beloved estate to think about. They won’t worry about me.”

“I missed you, Annabelinda.”

“Don’t you think I missed you?”

“It must have been awful, so far away from everyone. I suppose your grandfather and the Princesse visited you during the time you were there?”

“Of course. They were marvelous to me. But I don’t want to talk about it. Please, Lucinda.”

“All right. Not another word.”

“And don’t forget. Don’t tell anyone about Switzerland. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you, but you wormed it out of me.”

“I’ll be silent.”

“Good old Lucinda.”

A week passed. We rode a good deal, usually in the company of Jean Pascal. Visitors came to the château and there were one or two dinner parties.

I was longing to go home, but I found a great pleasure in walking in the grounds of the château. I liked to be alone there. I used to sit by the lake, watching the swans and the little brown duck who came waddling by. I would take a few crumbs for him and was amused by the way he would come to the edge of the lake and wait patiently for the offering.

Sometimes as I sat there I would think how strange life was, and would imagine my mother as a young girl, not much older than I was now, sitting on this very seat. There had been a black swan then. She often talked of it and how it defended its territory with venom.

How peaceful it was now, with the beautiful docile swans in place of the black one. And yet there were mysterious undercurrents…things seeming not quite what they were represented to be.

One early afternoon when I had been sitting by the lake and was returning to the château, I met the postman in the grounds. He was coming to the house with some mail.

He called a greeting. He knew who I was, for I had collected the mail from him before.

“Ah,” he said, “once more, mademoiselle, you have saved my legs. I am running a little late. Would you take this one for Monsieur Bourdon?”

I said I would and took the letter. It was a foolscap envelope with Jean Pascal’s name written on it in bold black capitals.

The postman thanked me and went on his way.

I thought Jean Pascal might be in his study, so I took the letter up there. I knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I opened the door and went in. The window was open and as I entered, a gust of wind picked up the papers that were lying on the desk and scattered them over the floor.

I shut the door, hurried in, put the letter I had brought on the desk and stooped to pick up the papers.

As I did so, a phrase on one of them caught my eyes. It was Jacques and Marguerite Plantain—10,000 francs.

I stared at it. There was some writing in French which I could not entirely understand, and the address in the letterhead was that of solicitors in Bordeaux.

Understanding flashed into my mind. It was as though pieces of a puzzle had suddenly and miraculously fitted themselves together and presented me with a picture.

“Interesting?” said a voice behind me.

Jean Pascal had come into the room.

I felt myself blushing hotly as he took the paper from my hand.

Then he spoke in a cool voice that struck terror into me. “What are you doing with my papers, Lucinda?”

I heard myself stammering. “I…er…I…brought a letter. The postman gave it to me because I was on the grounds. I did knock. There was no answer, so I opened the door. The window was open, you see, and the draft…the papers fell on the floor. I was picking them up.”

“Of course.”

He picked up the rest of the papers and put them on the desk. He smiled at me. “It was very helpful of you, Lucinda. And how good of you to bring my mail.”

I escaped and went out of the château, letting the air cool my burning cheeks.

Ten thousand francs to Jacques and Marguerite Plantain. It was clear. It was for taking the baby. Why should Jean Pascal want them to take a baby?

I should have seen it before. Carl and Annabelinda had met…secretly…they had been lovers. The result of lovemaking was babies. And Carl had left her to face the consequences. No wonder she had changed. How could I not have guessed? She had fainted in class. Madame Rochère had sent for the doctor and immediately afterward Jean Pascal had come. In his suave, sophisticated manner, he had known exactly how to deal with such a situation.

She had not been to Switzerland. She had been to Bergerac, which the map showed me was near enough for convenience and far enough for anonymity. Annabelinda would agree with everything her grandfather suggested. She would realize the wisdom of his instructions about the need for secrecy.

She had had a baby and it was the one in the Plantains’ cottage. And because Marguerite had lost her baby, she was eager to have another. Moreover she had been paid handsomely to look after him and would be paid regularly throughout his life. The child would ease her pain over her own loss and give her and her husband security throughout their lives. Annabelinda’s misfortune was the Plantains’ blessing.

Now that I knew, I could think only of the baby, who would receive from Marguerite that love and care which his own mother could not give him.

I felt overburdened by this dark secret. I almost wished I had not discovered it. I myself had a secret now. I must never let anyone know that I was aware of what had happened.

As I sat looking at the swans I heard the sound of footsteps, and my heart started to pound in terror, for Jean Pascal was coming toward me.

He sat down beside me.

“I am glad I found you,” he said. “I think you and I have something to say to each other.”

“I assure you I only went into your study to take the letter. The papers blew to the floor, and naturally I thought I should pick them up.”

“But naturally. And what you saw on one, you found of great interest?”

“But I…”

“Please, Lucinda, let there be no subterfuge between us. Let me say at once that I believe what you tell me. But something did attract your attention….Well, it astonished you. It was on the paper you read.”

I was silent.

“Lucinda, my dear, you must be frank with me, as I shall be with you. What was on that paper?”

I took a deep breath. I did not know how to begin.

“It…it was the name of two people who live on the school estate, was it?” he urged.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You know these people?”

“Yes. At least, I know Madame Plantain. I talk to her when I walk past the cottage in the grounds. I knew she was going to have a baby.”

“Yes?”

“I knew the baby died and she adopted another.”

“You are a clever girl, Lucinda. You say to yourself, why should Jean Pascal Bourdon pay her money…as I have seen he has done by that paper.”

“Well…”

“Oh, come, we have finished with innuendos. If we are to understand this little matter, we must be frank. You thought how strange it was that the grandfather of Annabelinda should be paying money to these people. You think, Annabelinda has been away for some months. She suffered from a mysterious illness, and then there is a baby. Well, I am sure the situation has become clear to clever little Lucinda, who, let us admit, was somewhat puzzled about the mysterious happenings before. And when she saw that paper with the names of people she knew…she began to understand. Is that so?”

“I began to think…yes.”

“Of course.” He slipped an arm through mine and pressed it against him.

“Lucinda,” he went on, “you and I are good friends, are we not? I have always had a softness in my heart for you. You are the daughter of my dear Lucie, whom I always adored. You have been the companion of my granddaughter. I regard you as my own family.”

“It is kind of you, and I am sorry I took the letter up to your study. I should have left it in the hall.”

“Well, no. Perhaps it is as well. Now we shall have this matter cleared up. You will share our secret, and I know I can trust you not to reveal it. You are fond of Annabelinda. She has committed an indiscretion. It is not the first time it has happened in my family…your family…anybody’s family. It is nature’s way. Deplorable…but it can be set right…and forgotten. It is always wise in life to forget that which is unpleasant. Remorse is very good for us, but it should be indulged in with caution and taken in small doses, and never enough to impair the zest for living. Do you agree?”

“I expect you are right.”

“But, of course, I am right. You suspect much. Suspicion is an ugly thing. Quite often it distorts the truth and makes it uglier than it is. You have guessed what Annabelinda’s illness was all about, that it was discovered by the doctor whom Madame Rochère called in, and you can imagine that good lady’s consternation when she learned what had befallen one of her pupils. But she is a wise woman. Annabelinda is my granddaughter, so she sent for me. She knew she could rely on me in this little contretemps.”

I nodded. It was all as I had imagined in that flash of understanding which came to me when I read the paper.

“Annabelinda had dallied with one of the gardeners,” he went on. “Madame Rochère was extremely shocked that it should be a gardener, but I pointed out to her that the outcome could have been the same whatever the rank of the man involved, and we must suppress our outrage with sound common sense. The first thing was to get Annabelinda out of school. We could not have let her stay much longer. There would be gossip. We could not let it be known throughout the neighborhood that my granddaughter had committed such an indiscretion. So she went away to a clinic where she would be taken care of.”

“In Bergerac,” I said.

For a moment he was astonished, then he said, “I see you are fully conversant with all this. How did you know?”

“It slipped out in conversation with Annabelinda that she had been there.”

“She should be more careful. It is a most reliable place. I know the lady who owns it. She will be the soul of discretion. So there went Annabelinda, and later of course there arose the problem of finding a home for the child.”

“It worked out very conveniently for you,” I said. “Of one thing I am sure. Madame Plantain will make a very good mother.”

“Madame Rochère assured me of that. You do not think I would put my great-grandchild with someone who would not be good to him.”

“And you were ready to put him out to be cared for?”

“I detect a note of criticism. Dear Lucinda, could I have him here? Adopt a child, at my age? Only for one reason. I have to think of Annabelinda. What would her future be if this were known? She would be classed as a fallen woman before she had a chance to stand up and show what she has to offer. She would never have married into appropriate circles.”

“She might have found someone to love her, and she could have her baby with her.”

He leaned toward me and kissed my hair lightly.

“Dear Lucinda, you see the world through the eyes of innocence. Charming…very charming. But life is not like that. I want what is best for Annabelinda. She is a very beautiful and attractive girl. I should hate to see her chances ruined at the start.”

“What of the child?” I asked.

“He will have the best of homes. You yourself have said so. But I confess I am a little uneasy that he should be so near the school.”

“You think Annabelinda will recognize her son?”

“All babies look alike. They change as they grow up, but in the first weeks they are different. They come into the world like wizened old men and in a few weeks they are plump and beautiful. But you see how careful we must be. You see how the odd coincidence can leap up to confound you. Your acquaintance with this good woman, your seeing that paper. Who would have thought that would have happened? And yet it is all so simple, so natural. Mind you, I did wonder at the wisdom of placing the child so near to the school. But Madame Rochère gave the woman such a good character reference, and she, of course, had no notion of where the child came from.”

“You have gone to a great deal of trouble to do this for Annabelinda,” I said.

“For her and the honor of the family,” he said. “That means a great deal to people such as I. Perhaps we are too proud, a little arrogant. Mon Dieu, we should have learned our lessons, should we not, all those years ago. But does one ever learn lessons? A little perhaps, but rarely entirely.

“Well, now you know what happened, and I am placing my trust in you. The incident must be forgotten. I shall make sure that the child is well cared for…educated when the time comes. There is no need to fear for his future. And what I ask of you, dear Lucinda, is never to divulge to any person what you have learned. I have a high respect for your integrity, I know I can rely on you. Annabelinda is wayward…a little irresponsible. It is part of her charm. Do not let her know that you are aware of what happened. Help her to keep up the myth. And please…I beg of you…do not tell her that the child who is being brought up by the Plantains is hers. I can rely on you, can I not, Lucinda?”

“I shall tell no one,” I said.

He put his hand over mine and pressed it.

“I place my trust in you,” he said.

Then we sat silently for a few moments, watching the white swans gliding gracefully on the lake.

After the summer holidays, in September, we returned to La Pinière. It was a year since I had first seen it and I felt that I had grown a long way from the naive girl I had been then. I had learned much; and although the dramatic events had not happened to me, I had been close enough to them to be deeply affected.

I thought of Jean Pascal Bourdon as some powerful god who arranged people’s lives—cynically, yet benignly…amorally in a way. And yet what would Annabelinda have done without him?

I thought often of the child in the care of Marguerite Plantain. He would never know his mother and what trouble had been caused by his coming into the world. He would be well cared for, educated when the time came. Checks would arrive regularly for the Plantains and they would have no idea from whom they came. By one powerful stroke, Jean Pascal had changed their lives even more than Annabelinda’s, because I was sure that, in time, Annabelinda would convince herself that this episode in her life had never happened, while the Plantains would have Edouard, the constant reminder.

Caroline said I had changed since the holidays.

“You look so serious. Do you know, sometimes when I speak to you, you don’t answer. Was it such a wonderful holiday?”

“Wonderful,” I told her.

Annabelinda was received at school with a sort of awe. They were all convinced that she had been, as one of them remarked, “snatched from the jaws of death.” And any to whom that had happened must be of very special interest.

Annabelinda exploited the situation, as I expected. She was quite a figure at school now. She had her own room, and although Madame Rochère was a little cool toward her—and, I believe, watchful—Annabelinda shrugged that aside. She was enjoying school. “The wages of sin,” I told myself, feeling it was the sort of comment Jean Pascal might have made.

Oddly, Annabelinda seemed to have forgotten the episode more easily than I. But I supposed she wanted to, and Annabelinda always did what she wanted. I could not forget, and there was the baby to remind me.

I became fascinated by the child and could not resist taking walks past the cottage. Whereas before I had been fond of the company of my fellow pupils, I now wanted to escape from them and make my way to the cottage…alone. On warm days, the perambulator would almost always be in the Plantain garden.

Marguerite was recovering from her tragedy, and I think this was largely due to little Edouard. She doted on the child. She told me, “Jacques is beginning to love him. It was hard for him at first. It was his own he wanted. But Edouard has such winning ways. Just look at the little angel.”

Sometimes I would hold Edouard on my lap. I would look for a likeness to his parents. There was none. He was just like any other baby.

Sometimes I would go into the Plantain garden and sit by him. I would watch him and think of Annabelinda and Carl together…clandestinely meeting in that cottage of his which would be rather like the Plantains’…creeping out of school at night. How daring she was! This would be the first of many adventures in her life, I imagined. This was just a beginning. And what a beginning—bringing another life into the world. I supposed she had not given this possibility a thought when she was with Carl. And Carl himself? The man of mystery. He would not even know he had a son. Would he care? What sort of man was he? I had only seen him twice. Yet he was the father of this child. He was the reason why all this had happened, the reason why Jean Pascal Bourdon had had to be called in to come with his cynical knowledge of the world and its foibles, to manipulate everyone so that this child’s birth would not spoil Annabelinda’s prospects of making a brilliant marriage.

It was no wonder that I felt older, a little blasé. I had been shown such a new light on worldly affairs. I had grown only one year in time but many in experience.

School life continued as usual. I was in a higher class, and even more time was given to social pursuits. There were more dancing lessons, more piano lessons, singing lessons and deportment.

I was realizing that fourteen was quite a mature age—a time when I would have to think of the future.

Annabelinda, with her sixteen years and aura of mystery, was far above me. We did not see a great deal of each other during school hours, and when I had a little time to myself I liked to wander off to the Plantain cottage.

Annabelinda was unaware of the cottage; she certainly knew nothing of the baby who lay in his perambulator in the garden on warm days. I thought it all very strange and mysterious, but it did give a certain flavor to life.

Christmas came. Aunt Celeste collected us as usual and we stayed a night in Valenciennes and then went home. Everything was according to plan, and in due course we were back again for the January term. We would not go home again until the summer, for the journey was too long to be undertaken at midterm, so we went down to spend the brief holiday at Château Bourdon.

“It won’t be long,” my mother wrote, “until you are coming home again. How time flies!”

I knew that she was not very happy about my going to school in Belgium, although Aunt Celeste assured her that the education I was getting was excellent and the fact that I should have several languages when it was completed would be a real asset.

My mother understood this, but said she wished it were nearer.

At midterm, when we went to the château, Annabelinda was her merry self. I marveled that she could be so. Did she never wonder what had happened to her child? It occurred to me that, in his infinite wisdom, Jean Pascal might have told her that her baby had died at his birth. In any case, I could not ask her.

At the château we rode a good deal; we inspected the vineyards; we dined with distinguished guests whom Jean Pascal and the Princesse gathered about them; and I often sat by the lake and thought of all that had happened over the last year.

Jean Pascal did not mention it. This was part of his policy. One forgot unpleasant things, and in time it seemed as though they had never happened.

I was glad to get back to school.

During conversazione a still frequent topic was the Balkan War, which had ended in the previous August.

As well-educated young ladies, we were expected to be able to discuss world affairs, especially those that were happening fairly close to us. This was the reason for so much emphasis being laid on the conversazione.

Most of the other girls found the subject of the Balkans exceptionally boring. We learned that the first war was between the Balkan States—which had included Serbia, Bulgaria, Greece and Montenegro—on one side, and the Ottoman Empire on the other.

In May of last year, the Balkan States had been victorious and a treaty was signed in London, the result of which was that the Ottoman Empire lost most of its territory in Europe.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” Caroline had said. “Now we can forget the wretched lot of them.”

“My dear Caroline,” said Miss Carruthers, “you are extremely thoughtless. These matters can be of the greatest importance to us. I know the Balkans seem remote to you, but we are part of Europe and anything that happens there could have its effect on us. Wars are good for no one, and when one’s neighbors indulge in them, events must be closely watched. One never knows when one’s country might be brought in.”

However, it had been pleasant to be able to forget the war and discuss the capital cities of Europe such as Paris, Brussels and Rome, all of which we read about and talked of with a certain amount of aplomb—the Bois de Boulogne, Les Invalides, the Colosseum of Rome, the art galleries of Florence—just as though we knew them well. This made us feel very sophisticated, knowledgeable and much-traveled—in our minds at least.

But that summer there had been moans of dismay when war broke out again. Serbia, Greece, Turkey and Rumania were quarreling with Bulgaria over the division of the spoils gained from the last war. We were delighted when Bulgaria was quickly defeated and peace returned.

Now, a year later, Madame Rochère still seemed rather grave—and so did some of the other teachers. The atmosphere had become a little uneasy. All the same it was a delightful summer; the weather was perfect and the days sped by. Soon the term would be at an end and we should be on our way home once more for the summer holidays. Aunt Celeste would come for us on the first day of August. School broke up on the last day of July.

We were coming toward the end of June. There was just over a month to go and Annabelinda and I were already making plans.

“This time next year, I shall be thinking of leaving,” she said. “I shall have a season. Do they have seasons in France? I must ask Grandpère. Of course, they haven’t got a king and queen. It wouldn’t be the same. I suppose my season will be in London. I shall see the King and Queen. Queen Mary looks a little stern, doesn’t she?”

How can she talk so lightly of such things? I thought. Does she ever give a thought to the baby?

Little Edouard was now nearly a year old. He was beginning to take notice. He could crawl and was learning to stand up. Sometimes he would take a few tentative steps. I would sit opposite Marguerite and he would stand between us, his face alight with pleasure. It was a game to him, to totter from Marguerite’s arms to mine without falling. She would stand behind, ready to catch him should the need arise. Then he would take his faltering steps and fall into my arms, which were waiting to receive him. We would clap, applauding his triumph, and he would put his hands together and do the same, beaming with pride in his achievement.

It was amazing what pleasure I found in that child. Perhaps he was so important to me because I knew he was Annabelinda’s. I felt that he belonged to our family. One day I should have to leave him. When my days at La Pinière were over, that would be the end. No. I would come back. I would pay a visit now and then…so that I could see how he was growing up. Marguerite would welcome me. She understood my feelings for the child. She shared them.

Edouard had done so much for her. He had assuaged her grief. I sometimes believed she could not have loved her own child more than she loved Edouard.

One day when I returned from the cottage and went up to the dormitory, Caroline was waiting there with Helga.

“You’re late,” said Caroline. “Why do you always go off on your own?”

“Because I like it.”

“To get away from us. That’s not very polite.”

“It’s to get away from school. I like…to walk around.”

“You haven’t got a secret lover, have you?”

I flushed a little, thinking of Annabelinda creeping out to meet Carl.

“You have! You have!” shrieked Caroline.

“Don’t be silly! How could I?”

“There are ways. Some do.”

Again that feeling of unease. Did they guess about Annabelinda? Why should I feel guilty because of her?

“I’d better get ready,” I said. “I’ll be late for conversazione.”

When we reached the hall, Madame Rochère was already there. She looked as though she had an important announcement to make. She had. She stood up and waited until we were seated, then she began.

“Something has happened, girls,” she said. “Yesterday in Sarajevo, which as you know is the capital of Bosnia in Yugoslavia, the heir apparent to the throne of Austria-Hungary, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, with his wife, was assassinated by a Bosnian Serb named Gavrilo Princip.”

It was obvious that the girls were not greatly impressed by the news. Most of us were thinking, Oh, dear, we thought we had finished with those tiresome people. Now it will all be brought up again, and there will be little talk of the new dances and fashions, and those great cities of the world and all the delightful things one can do in them. Haven’t we had enough of those people with their two wars? And now they go around assassinating royalty!

“This is grave news,” Madame Rochère was saying. “It has happened far away, it is true, but it may have an effect on us. We must wait and see, and be prepared.”

July was with us. We were all preoccupied with plans for going home.

I said to Marguerite, “I shall be away for about two months.”

“You will see a change in Edouard when you come back,” she commented.

Aunt Celeste wrote that she would be coming to Valenciennes as usual. She would arrive at the school on the first of August. I wondered if Jean Pascal and the Princesse would be at Valenciennes. We always spent a day at the house there before beginning our journey home.

We had no notion at that time that this was going to be any different from our usual homecoming.

Then on the twenty-eighth of July, Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Relations between the two countries had been deteriorating since the murder of the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, and this was the result.

Madame Rochère was looking worried. It was clear that she thought this was happening at an unfortunate time. A month later and all the girls would have been at their respective homes and not her responsibility. Although the enormity of the situation was not apparent to us at that time, it was only a matter of days before this became clear to us.

I awoke on the morning of the first of August with mixed feelings. I longed to see my parents and my brother, Charles; on the other hand I should miss Edouard. It was amazing how I had grown so fond of a baby who could do little more than smile blandly when I picked him up and make little cooing noises, which Marguerite and I tried to interpret into words. I did not want to leave the child, but on the other hand there was so much to look forward to at home.

We were ready to leave, as were most of the girls. Some had gone on the previous day.

The morning seemed long. Celeste usually came early so that we could leave at once for Valenciennes. It seemed strange that she had not appeared.

Another peculiar thing was that all the English girls who had been expecting to leave that day were in the same position as Annabelinda and I. Helga had gone with the German contingent some days earlier; and most of the French girls were able to leave.

It was disconcerting and we knew something was very wrong.

There was tension throughout the school. Everyone was whispering, conjuring up what had happened. Then we heard that Germany was involved by declaring war against Russia.

Another day passed and there was no news of Celeste.

We had no notion of what was going on and why Aunt Celeste had not come for us. It was consoling that we were not the only ones whose arrangements had undergone this mysterious change.

A few more girls left, but there was still no sign of Aunt Celeste.

On the third of August, Germany declared war on France and then we understood that something very grave was happening.

That was a nightmare day. The gardens looked so peaceful; everything was quiet. There was a dramatic quality to the air. The flowers, the insects, the birds…they all seemed to be waiting…just as we were. We knew the calm could not go on.

On the afternoon of that day a man came riding onto the grounds on a motorcycle.

Caroline came bursting into the dormitory. I had just come back from visiting Edouard. Marguerite had told me that she and Jacques were very uneasy. She had a fear of the Germans.

“We are too near them,” she kept saying. “Too close….Too close.”

Even Edouard seemed to sense the tension and was a little fretful.

I was filled with misgivings. I had expected to be home by now. It was all so unusual.

Caroline was saying, “There’s a man with Madame Rochère. He is asking for you and Anna B. He’s brought letters or something. I distinctly heard him mention your name.”

“Where is he?”

“With Madame Rochère.”

At that moment Mademoiselle Artois appeared at the door.

“Lucinda, you are to go to Madame Rochère’s study at once.”

I hurried off.

Madame Rochère was seated at her desk. A man in the uniform of a British soldier sat opposite her.

He rose as I entered and said, “Good afternoon, miss.”

“This,” said Madame Rochère, “is Sergeant Clark. He has brought a letter from your parents. I also have heard from them.”

Sergeant Clark produced the letter.

“You should read it now,” said Madame Rochère. “Sit down and do so.”

I obeyed with alacrity.

My dearest Lucinda, I read,

You will be aware that there is trouble in Europe and it has been impossible for Aunt Celeste to meet you as usual. Travel at the ports is disrupted. We are all very anxious that you should come home as soon as possible.

Your Uncle Gerald is having this letter brought to you. He is sending out someone to bring you and Annabelinda back to England. It might be difficult getting across France and finding the necessary transport. A Major Merrivale will be coming to the school to bring you both home. You must stay there until he arrives, which will be as soon as it can be arranged. Your Uncle Gerald thinks this is the best way of getting you back safely in these unfortunate circumstances.

Your father and I are very worried about you, but we are sure Uncle Gerald will see that you are brought safely back.

All our love, darling,

Mama

There was a note from my father, telling me to take great care and follow Major Merrivale’s instructions, then we should all soon be together.

Enclosed was a note from Charles. Lucky you. Having all the fun. Charles.

I lifted my eyes to Madame Rochère who was watching me closely.

“Your parents are very wise,” she said. “I know your uncle is Colonel Greenham and he will be able to arrange for the safe conduct of both you and Annabelinda. Now we must await the arrival of Major Merrivale, and you must be ready to leave as soon as he comes.”

“Yes, Madame Rochère.”

I said good-bye to the soldier and thanked him. Then I sped away to the dormitories to find Annabelinda and tell her what had happened.

That evening we heard the startling news. Germany had invaded Belgium, and on the following day, the fourth of August, Great Britain declared war on Germany.

Two days passed. Most of the girls had left by now. Miss Carruthers stayed on. She said she could not leave until all the English girls had gone. The trains were running intermittently.

Had we not been told to wait for Major Merrivale, we would have gone to Valenciennes; but that might have been unwise, as the French were now at war.

The most immediate danger was the invasion of Belgium, and each hour we lived in trepidation of what might happen to us. We knew that Belgium was defenseless against the might of Germany’s army; and we did not have to be told that each day they were penetrating further and coming nearer and nearer.

We did not stray far from the school, in case Major Merrivale arrived. I thought of the anxiety my parents would be suffering. It would be even greater than ours, for they were completely in the dark.

Then came a day of terror. We had heard rumors that the Germans were advancing rapidly. We were not quite sure how far we could trust that rumor, but I could not help wondering whether they would reach us before Major Merrivale came.

I was with Annabelinda in the gardens close to the school when disaster struck from the sky. I had never seen a Zeppelin before and was unsure what it was up there among the clouds. I was soon to discover.

As the light caught this large, rather cumbersome cylindrical airship, it looked as though it were made of silver.

It was almost overhead. I stood still, watching, and saw something fall. There was a loud explosion which nearly knocked me down; then I saw the smoke and flames.

To my horror I realized that the bomb had fallen near the cottages.

My throat was dry. I shouted, “They’ve struck the cottages! There are people there! The Plantains…the baby!”

I started to run toward them. Annabelinda tried to restrain me.

“Keep away,” she cried. “You’ll get hurt.”

I pushed aside her hand. I heard myself crying out, “There’s the baby!”

And I ran. I forgot Annabelinda. I could only think of the Plantains and Edouard. I could not see the cottage. Smoke was in my eyes; the acrid smell filled my nostrils. I saw the airship floating farther away. It was going now that it had deposited its lethal cargo.

Where the cottage had been was a pile of rubble. A fire was burning. I found my way to the wall around the garden. The perambulator was still there. And…Edouard was in it.

I dashed to it and looked at him. He smiled at me when he saw me and gurgled something.

I took him out of the pram and hugged him.

“Oh, thank God…thank God,” I cried.

I did not realize that I was weeping. I just stood there, holding him. He tried to wriggle free. I was hugging him too tightly for his comfort.

With a calmness which astonished me, for my mind was in a turmoil, I put him back into his perambulator and strapped him in. Then I walked with him to the spot where the cottage had been. Marguerite must be there somewhere. She would never have gone out and left the baby.

“Marguerite,” I called. “Where are you?”

There was silence.

I moved toward the mass of broken walls and rubble which had been his home. I could see the fire smoldering there and a terrible fear seized me. I dreaded what I might find.

I should call for help, perhaps. It would be dangerous to walk about here. I must rouse people. I must get help. But I had to assure myself that Marguerite was there.

I found her. Jacques was beside her, and I could see that he was dead. There was blood and froth about his mouth; his coat was stained with blood and there was something unnatural about the way he lay. Marguerite was lying under a beam which pinned her to the ground.

I cried, “Marguerite…”

She opened her eyes.

“Oh…thank God,” I said. “Marguerite, I must get help. They’ll come and get you out of here.”

“Edouard…” she whispered.

“He is safe,” I said. “Unharmed. I have him. He is in his pram.”

She smiled and closed her eyes.

“Marguerite,” I said. “I am going back to the school…taking Edouard. I’ll get help. They’ll come and look after you.”

“Jacques…” she said. Her eyes turned. She saw him lying there and I guessed she knew that he was dead. I saw the stricken look in her eyes.

“Oh, Jacques,” she murmured. “Oh, Jacques…”

I did not know how to comfort her, but I must get help. They must remove that plank across her body. They must get her to a hospital or somewhere safe. But there was no safety. What had happened here could happen again at any moment…to any of us. This was war.

I stood up and she opened her eyes. “Don’t go,” she said.

“I am going to get help, Marguerite.”

She shook her head. “Stay here…Edouard.”

“Edouard is safe,” I said.

“Who…who will care for him?”

“I’m going to get help.”

“No…no…I am finished. I know it. I feel it. Edouard.”

“He is safe,” I repeated.

“Who will care for him?” she asked again.

“You will. You are going to get well.”

I saw a look of impatience cross her face.

“You…” she said. “You will care for him. You love him, too.”

I did not know what she meant at first, but all her thoughts were for Edouard. I knew how she had planned for his future, because she had told me of it. The checks that came regularly would buy him such things as he needed, things which had never come the way of Jacques and Marguerite. She had planned for Edouard. He had saved her from her abject misery; he had replaced her lost child. He had given her something to live for. Her life was to have been dedicated to him…and now she was being taken from him.

All her concern was for him. She believed she was dying. Jacques was dead. He had been talking to her one minute and the next he was lying dead beside her. And all because of this stupid war. How could those men in the airships do such a thing? Did they stop to think what misery they were causing for people whom they had never known?

I started to rise. “I must get help,” I said. “I’m wasting time. They’ll come, and you’ll be all right. They’ll look after you.”

“No, no. I shall never be all right. Do not go…not yet. Edouard, what will become of him? They sent him away. They paid money…but money’s not love. Poor child. Poor little baby. Who will love him? Who will care for him? Not those who sent him away…farmed him out…”

“He made you happy, Marguerite,” I said.

“Oh, yes…happy. My little baby. But what will become of him? There is only one I wish him to be with.”

I could only say, “All will be well. They will come soon. I must bring them here.”

She shook her head. “You, Lucinda. You love him and he loves you. He knows so little of the world. He knows you are safe…you, me and Jacques. Only one of us will do. He would be frightened without any of us. He is so little. It must be you.”

I thought her mind was wandering; then I realized how earnest she was. She clutched my hand. I looked into her eyes. They were imploring, begging.

“Miss Lucinda, you must do this. It is my dying wish. Promise me that I may die happy.”

“Marguerite…”

“Take him with you. Take him away. You will go home to England. You will be safe there. Take my baby with you. Please…please take him. You must. What will become of him if you do not?”

“We must find those who brought him to you.”

“I do not know them.”

“There is the solicitor, you said.”

“I have never seen him. The money comes. I have no address. I do not know where it comes from. They do not care for him. They do not love him. They gave him away. They pay to keep him out of the way. To them he is nothing…something to be forgotten. How could they ever love him? Lucinda, it is my dying wish. Promise me. I trust you. You have a good mother and a good father. You have spoken of them and I hear the love in your voice when you do so. They are good people. Tell them how a dying woman begged of you. Your mother will understand. But take my baby. You take him. Take little Edouard—please. Let me—die happy.”

Her breath was coming in gasps. What was I doing here? Why was I not running for help? I was here because I was aware that there was no help for her. She was dying. She knew it and I knew it, and her only desire now was to extract a promise from me before it was too late.

“Lucinda…Lucinda…” Her voice was a whisper now.

I bent over. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I will take Edouard with me when I go to England. I know that when my mother hears what has happened, she will want to care for him.”

I saw a smile spread across her face. It was one of peace.

“But, Marguerite,” I went on, “you are going to get well. They will come and take you to a hospital.”

She smiled. She was still holding my hand in hers.

“I will go now,” I said. “I will take Edouard with me. A soldier is coming to take us across France to England. I promise Edouard shall go with us. Trust me, Marguerite.”

She opened her eyes and looked straight into mine. “I trust you,” she said. “You will keep your word and I will die content.”

Her grip on my hand slackened. She was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. Then…I knew that she was dead.

I rose. I took the perambulator and went across the gardens to the house.

As I came into the hall I saw Madame Rochère with Mademoiselle Artois, Miss Carruthers and some of the servants. There was a shocked silence as I wheeled in the perambulator.

I looked straight at Madame Rochère and said, ‘The Plantains’ cottage is destroyed. Monsieur and Madame Plantain have both been killed. The baby was in his perambulator in the garden. He is unharmed. So I brought him here. I shall look after him.”

It was the first time I had spoken to Madame Rochère with authority. I was determined. I had made a solemn promise to a dead woman, and I intended to keep it.

Madame Rochère looked shocked—as indeed they all did—and I was amazed that she showed surprise neither at my announcement nor at the sight of the baby.

“Help is coming,” she said. “Those poor people. So soon…We will arrange something for the child.”

“I am looking after him,” I said. “He knows me. He will miss Madame Plantain. He must be with me.”

She took no notice and walked past me, so I lifted Edouard up and took him to my dormitory.

I was glad I had it to myself. The others had gone, Caroline with them. She had taken the train to the French border with the other English girls on the previous day.

Miss Carruthers came in.

“Do you know how to care for a child?” she asked. “I think it would be best to hand him over to Madame Printemps. She will know what to do.”

Madame Printemps worked in the kitchens, a plump, middle-aged woman who had had eight children.

“He knows me,” I said. “He will be frightened by strangers. I have promised to look after him.”

I realized that taking that solemn oath had had an effect on me. I spoke with a resolution that made some impression on those who heard it. Previously I should have been told not to be foolish, and to hand over the baby to Madame Printemps without delay.

But perhaps they were all suffering from the shock of the bombardment by air. Perhaps they were thinking, It was the Plantains today, who will it be tomorrow?

However, no attempt was made to take Edouard from me. I put him to bed and lay down beside him.

“Edouard,” I said, “you are going to be my baby from now on. There is nothing to fear. My mother will help me look after you. She knows a great deal about babies. She will understand when I tell her I have made a solemn promise to Madame Plantain so that she could die happy.”

Then I lay very still, weeping for Marguerite Plantain who had cared so much for this child. Edouard stared at me gravely and put out a finger to touch a tear. I took his hand and kissed it, and I said, “Edouard, we shall be together. You will be safe with me.”

While I lay there Annabelinda came in. She stared at us.

“I’ve heard,” she said. “I think you must be mad.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bringing in a baby like that.”

“He had no one to look after him,” I said. “The Plantains are both dead…killed by that cruel bomb. I have promised Madame Plantain to take him to England.”

“Take him to England! It won’t be allowed.”

“It will be.”

“What about Madame Rochère? Do you think she will let you do such a thing?”

“She will have to, because I have made up my mind. It’s not for her to say.”

“What about this Major Merrivale?”

“If he takes me, he will take the baby.”

“I can’t understand you, Lucinda. You seem to have lost your senses. Do you realize what an awkward position we are in?”

“I do indeed,” I heard myself say. “Perhaps I understand a lot more than you realize.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am taking the baby with me. I am going to look after him. Someone has to. His parents didn’t want to bother with him.”

“I know it’s sad,” she said. “But he’s Belgian. Someone here can look after him. He belongs here. We have enough to do. We’ve got to get home before it gets worse.”

“He does not belong here,” I said slowly and deliberately, and I was amazed at the strength of my anger toward her, sitting there smugly, caring only for herself. I could not stop myself. I forgot my promise to Jean Pascal. I forgot everything but my concern for the child and my anger against Annabelinda. “He does belong here, with us,” I went on. “With us…with you. You want him left behind, because to you he is an encumbrance…just as he was when he was born. Edouard is your son, Annabelinda, the child who was put out with the Plantains so as to be rid of him, so that you might not have an impediment in your life.”

She had turned pale, and then the color rushed into her face. “What…what are you saying?” she whispered.

I could not understand myself. I was overwrought. I had been more deeply shocked by my experience than I realized. I could not control myself. It was too late to try now, and I was not sure in that moment that I wanted to.

I went on. “I have grown fond of Edouard. I used to go to the cottage to see him. He knows me. I found out about…everything…by chance. I know that you were not ill and that you had to go away because you were going to have a child…Carl’s child. Your grandfather and the Princesse arranged it. They paid the Plantains to take Edouard so that no one would know of your…indiscretion…and you could make some grand marriage when the time came and live happily ever after, just as though Edouard did not exist. But he does exist. And you can’t move people around just because they may be a nuisance to you. Edouard is your son. He will be alone in the world. I daresay your grandfather would find someone else to take him in and would pay them well for doing so. Oh yes, he would do all that. But Edouard is a person now. He has lost the one he loved…who was a mother to him. He only has me now and I am going to look after him.”

She was staring at me incredulously. “You—you can’t rush into this…” she stammered. “People just can’t pick up children.”

“I can and I’m going to. He is going to England with me.”

“And what…when we get there?”

I felt a twinge of pity for her. She was frightened, and I had rarely seen Annabelinda in that state. I relented a little. I had broken a promise and I was ashamed of myself in a way, and yet, I asked myself, why should I be silent now? Why should she not know who Edouard was? Why should she not shoulder her responsibilities? This helpless child, lying on the bed, looking from one to the other of us, was hers.

Yet I felt he was mine. She would never give him the love and care he needed.

Then I relented. She was having that effect on me which she always had. She was wayward Annabelinda and whatever she did could not alter my affection for her.

I was calmer now. The storm was passing. I must try to do all I could to mend the damage I had done by breaking my promise.

“Listen, Annabelinda,” I said. “I know what happened, because I found out. I know your grandfather and the Princesse took you away. You went to a clinic in Bergerac; the child was born there. Madame Rochère was in the secret. She wanted no scandals at the school, and she was a strong ally of your grandfather. She knew that Madame Plantain had just lost a child, and it seemed an opportunity too good to miss. There must have been some misgiving about putting Edouard so near the school. However, it all seemed remote enough, and you would be there only for another two years. It appeared to be a satisfactory solution. I suppose it would have been. I discovered so much because I had been visiting the Plantains. Anyway, I was in on the secret. That wouldn’t have mattered. I would have said nothing. Then the war came and changed everything. So I have planned what I shall do. I shall take Edouard home with me. My mother will help me.”

“You will tell her…”

“I shall just say that his foster-parents were killed. I had visited them and was fond of him and could not leave him behind. I know it will be all right. He will be like a brother to me and to Charles. I know I can rely on my parents.”

“Don’t tell them, Lucinda. Promise you won’t tell.”

“I won’t promise. But I will only tell them if it is necessary to do so.”

“But…no one must know. It would be awful!”

“I shall tell no one. I know I burst out with it…but that was to you.”

“I didn’t know he was my baby.”

“I was aware of that. The arrangement with the Plantains was between them and your grandfather’s solicitors.”

“Oh, Lucinda, it’s terrible! And I thought it was all over. What terrible bad luck.”

I could not help smiling at her. Her secret was disclosed because there was a war. I thought of Jacques Plantain lying dead in the remains of his home, and Madame Plantain’s last thoughts for the welfare of the child she loved. And this, to Annabelinda, was her bad luck.

Well, she was Annabelinda. She would see every event as it affected her. Perhaps we all did. Perhaps I should not think too badly of Annabelinda.

I said to her, “What is done is done. We just have to go on from here. Edouard will have a good home with my parents. You know my mother. She will welcome him. I will make her understand that I had to bring him.”

“And so no one need know,” said Annabelinda. “He will be just a child who lost his parents in an air raid in Belgium. And you brought him home with you because you could not leave a child.”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Lucinda. If it ever came out…”

“It need not,” I assured her.

“You have always been my best friend. We are fond of each other, in spite of…”

“Yes, Annabelinda, that’s true. I want to help you. You behaved very foolishly over that young man.”

“I know.”

“But it is over now. We have to forget. We shall take the baby home with us. I am sure everything will go smoothly. My parents will raise no objections. I only have to let them see how important Edouard is to me. It will all seem quite plausible because it is wartime. It is going to be all right, Annabelinda.”

She threw herself into my arms and hugged me. The baby crowed with pleasure, as though he found the scene very amusing.

I went to him and picked him up. “Look, Annabelinda,” I said. “Isn’t he a little darling?”

They regarded each other speculatively.

“Sit down,” I said. She did and I put him on her lap. He studied her with curiosity. Then he began to whimper suddenly; he turned away from her and held out his arms to me.