The Song of the Siren

The Tenant Of Enderby Hall

I AM LONELY. THE days seem endless. Hour after hour I lie here on my couch and I tell myself that my life is over. It never began really.

I was happy. I was on the threshold of what had seemed a great adventure. Then suddenly it was over. I saw everything I had dreamed of shattered in one revealing instant. And then it was that this further blow was delivered.

It sometimes seems that life is not content with taking happiness from one, then decides that there is something else that can be done to make life more intolerable. I lost the man I loved on one dark November day—and that night was stricken with a terrible illness which has made an invalid of me ever since.

Oh, I am surrounded by love. No girl could have parents who loved and cherished her more than mine do. I have been shown in a thousand ways that I am the centre of their lives. They blame themselves for what happened to me; and they are not to blame, but how can I tell them without involving Carlotta?

I do not want to think of Carlotta. I cannot bear to think of Carlotta. Sometimes her image creeps into my mind and I tell myself that I hate her. But I see her there in my mind—that almost unbelievable beauty. I used to think: No one has any right to be as beautiful as Carlotta. Everything was given to her. It was as though the powers above who decide how we shall be had been in a very happy mood when they planned for Carlotta. She shall have everything … everything … they said.

And so she had. I had often seen the way in which men looked at her when she came into a room; she had only to look at them and they were at her side. I admired her so much. I was so proud that she should be my sister.

Now I understand more than I did. My mother has shown me her journal. I know about Carlotta’s romantic birth in Venice and the terrible thing that happened to my mother. I know about that wicked man who died and who killed him and the terrible suspicions my parents had of each other. It explains everything. I understand why my father had to shoot Belle and bury her. If only I had known of what my parents had suffered I should not have gone to Belle’s grave when I saw Matt and Carlotta together.

I had been shocked, it was true, for I thought that it was not only Matt who had deceived me. It was also my kind father, who had secrets to preserve because of which he had killed an innocent animal. So I thought but it was not quite like that.

And because of my ignorance I had suffered with them.

Had I been more knowledgeable in worldly matters I might have suspected the attraction between Matt and Carlotta. It would have hurt me deeply of course but I would not have suffered that fearful shock. I would have been prepared for my discovery.

But what was the use of going over it. It was over. It was done, Matt had gone out of my life. I saw little of Carlotta—nor did I want to see her, for that was too painful. But I had loved her dear little daughter and I should have liked to know her better.

It was strange, but when that child came I felt new interest in life. Since that terrible night I had not been interested in anything at all, but the child came and when we were together I forgot my grievances against her mother. I loved the way in which she demanded to know the answers to every question that occurred to her, I loved to play games with her. “I Spy” was the favourite. I would hint at what I was looking at and she had to guess. She would ponder seriously until she found the answer and shriek with delight when she was right.

It was love at first sight between us.

One day when I was lying on my couch I heard her playing in the garden; she was shouting and chanting as she bounced a ball; then suddenly there was silence. I listened and the silence went on. I suppose it was only a minute or two but it seemed like five. I had the terrible suspicion that something might be wrong. She had fallen and hurt herself. She had wandered too far away.

I got up from my couch and ran to the window. She was lying on the grass watching something there … some insect. I saw her stretch out a wary finger and touch something. It was probably an ant.

I went back to my couch; and then I remembered that I had run to the window. I had not run anywhere since that terrible night. I had walked only with the utmost difficulty.

It was a revelation. I found after that that I could walk about my room a little.

I knew that visiting us was embarrassing to Carlotta because she found it difficult to face me; so we saw little of her and that meant not seeing the child.

But I thought a great deal about her. I often thought of little things that used to happen when I was well and roaming about the countryside. My special love of plants and birds and animals had made that a delight for me. There were so many stories of living things that I had known and now I wanted to tell them to Clarissa.

Then I heard the news which shattered my family. Carlotta had been abducted and taken to France; Clarissa was with her.

There was terrible consternation. Harriet came over to see and tell us what she knew.

My mother told me afterwards because since I had been ill she told me things. I think she felt that had I not been in ignorance of what had happened I would not have gone into the forbidden wood that night but would have come straight home, in which case I could probably have been nursed back to health.

What she told me was this: “Harriet says that Carlotta has been taken away by a man called Lord Hessenfield who is an important Jacobite. He was known to be in the neighbourhood. He made his escape to France. And has taken Clarissa with him. What is not generally known is that Lord Hessenfield is Clarissa’s father.”

Then Harriet told us how Carlotta had been captured by these Jacobites when she was at the Black Boar Inn on her way to Eyot Abbass and that Lord Hessenfield had raped her. The result was that she was pregnant and Benjie had married her to help, as Harriet said, “straighten matters out.” Benjie had long been in love with her and eagerly grasped the opportunity to marry her. So Clarissa is the daughter of Hessenfield. He must have cared something for Carlotta to risk his life to take her back with him. That she had been taken by force was clear because her cloak came off in the struggle and was found in the shrubbery. It seemed likely that Clarissa had been taken before, because she was missing some hours before Carlotta was forced to go.

It all seemed wildly incredible. But Carlotta was born to be the centre of storm. Moreover, when I considered what had happened to my parents I wondered whether almost all of us did not at some time have to face unusual and stormy episodes in our lives. Even I had once had a frightening adventure with Good Mrs. Brown. For a long time after that I used to let my imagination run on as I pictured all sorts of horrible consequences which could have ensued. I had never really grown away from it and occasionally had a nightmare.

We have a tenant at Enderby Hall. It amazed me that anyone should take the place. It was so gloomy and had this reputation of being haunted. One or two people came to see it. My mother or my father and sometimes my grandmother from Eversleigh Court showed them over it. In fact people were more inclined to go to Eversleigh Court than to the Dower House.

I remember the day my grandmother came to tell us about this man who had come.

We were all sitting in my room because my mother always brought visitors to me. She had some notion that it cheered me.

My grandmother said: “I cannot think why he came to see it. He seemed determined to dislike everything even before he saw it and heaven knows it is easy enough to find fault with Enderby.”

“I always think,” said my mother, “that if one set out to change all that, one could.”

“How, Priscilla dear?” asked my grandmother.

“Cut away some of the undergrowth, for one thing. It’s terribly overgrown. Get a little light into the place. Bring in the sunshine. I visualise a happy man and his wife with a horde of children. It’s light and laughter that place lacks.”

“Dear Priscilla!” was all my grandmother said.

Of course, I thought, there had been a murder in it. Beaumont Granville was murdered there and lay buried nearby. Then there was the original ghost who had tried to hang herself from the minstrels’ gallery.

“Tell us about this man,” said my mother.

“He fitted the place, I will say that. He was lame, and of a morbid countenance. He looked as if it would really hurt him to smile. He was not by any means old. I said to him: ‘And if you took the house would you live here alone?’ He said he would, and I must have looked surprised for he added: ‘I prefer it that way,’ as though warning me to keep my thoughts to myself, which I certainly decided to do. He said the place was dark and gloomy. I said exactly what you have been saying, Priscilla. Cut things down and let the light in.”

“What about the furniture?” said my mother, and I immediately thought of that bedroom and the four-poster bed with the red curtains.

“He said that it would suit him to have the place furnished.”

“Well, that would solve a problem,” said my mother.

“It will solve nothing. I think he just revelled in looking at the place for the purpose of showing us how unsalable it was.”

“Well, it looks as though he succeeded.”

“I think we should get rid of the furniture, clear it out … repair the place from top to bottom and then see what happens. In any case we need give no more thought to Jeremy Granthorn. We shall not be hearing from him again.”

But there she was wrong.

The new owner of Enderby Hall was Jeremy Granthorn.

He did nothing to improve the reputation of Enderby Hall.

Abby, one of the maids whose duty it was to attend to my special needs and who had been given the task of doing this by my mother because not only was she a good worker but, as I had heard my mother say, a cheerful one, which I think meant that she was rather garrulous.

I did not talk much. I was always shut in with my own thoughts but Abby was one of those people who did not need a very attentive audience.

As she dusted and polished my room, and I lay idly watching or reading or sewing, she would give out a stream of conversation about what was going on. I would nod and murmur occasionally because I did not like to spoil the pleasure she took, although I was rarely very interested.

That was my trouble. Nothing nowadays was of any interest to me.

She chattered about the affairs of the neighbourhood and gradually I found that the name of Jeremy Gran thorn was creeping more and more into her conversation.

“He’s got a man there, mistress, his only servant. They say he don’t like women.” She giggled. “Funny sort of man I’d say, mistress. And this man … Smith ’is name is … is just like him. Emmy Camp was walking by one day and she thought she’d look round a bit. This Smith was in the garden … and Emmy asks him the way to Eversleigh village. As if she don’t know. Born and bred there. Emmy says: ‘Which path do I take?’ And he points it out to her without a word, and she says, ‘Are you dumb, sir?’ And then he tells her to mind her tongue and not be insolent. Emmy says all she was doing was asking the way. Emmy says he didn’t believe her. ‘You’ve come prying,’ he said. ‘We don’t like pryers here. Be careful. There’s a big dog here and he don’t like pryers either.’ Emmy was all taken aback. She’s got an eye for the men and they for her in the general way. Not this Smith, though. She reckons he’s just like his master.”

I said: “Emmy should not have pried. It’s none of her business.”

“Oh, no, mistress, but you know how it is. We all likes to know what’s going on …”

Another day she told me: “Nobody’s ever been there. Biddy Lang says she reckons they’re only ghosts themselves. Two men … in that big house … it don’t seem natural, that’s what Biddy says.”

It was no concern of mine what happened to the house. I had promised myself that I would never go in it again.

Since Clarissa’s visit I had walked a little. My mother was delighted. She said it was a sign I was getting better and in time I would be quite well.

I did not tell her that the only thing that had changed was that I could use my legs … but only a little. I was soon tired. And it was not so much the physical nature of my illness but the terrible lassitude, the listlessness, the not caring about anything which was the hardest to bear.

When my mother read to me I had little interest in what she was reading. I pretended to but it was a poor pretence. When my father played chess with me I played the game joylessly without excitement. Perhaps that was why I won more then he did; I was calm, dispassionate, unmoved by victory or defeat.

That was what was so hard to bear, this lack of interest in life.

But I did find that I was listening more to Abby. I rarely commented and never asked questions but when she mentioned the strange pair at Enderby I did feel a slight quickening of interest.

I had taken to riding a little. I never went far because I became so tired. But when I went to the stables and Tomtit nuzzled against me and whinnied and showed so clearly how happy he was to see me I felt I would like to ride again. And how he tossed back his head and expressed delight in every quiver of his body when I mounted, so I thought I must ride now and then … because of Tomtit.

I had behaved so badly to him on that night. I had left him shivering in the outhouse while I had gone into the forbidden wood. I had forgotten him. That was the worst way to treat an animal.

He bore me no malice. When I first approached him, full of remorse wondering what reception I should get from him, he had shown me so clearly that he had forgotten my carelessness towards him. Malice? There was nothing of that. There was only that fond devotion and the bond between us was as strong as ever.

So I rode out now and then and I used to let Tomtit take me where he would. He never galloped; he rarely cantered; he would walk with me gently and when I was tired I’d bend forward and say to him: “Take me home, Tomtit.” And he would turn from where we were going and we’d take the shortest cut home.

I think my parents would have been anxious if I had gone out with any other horse. They used to say: “She’s safe with Tomtit. He’ll look after her.”

He was a wonderful horse, my dear friend Tomtit.

On that morning as usual I gave him his head and he led me to Enderby Hall, and when we reached there a desire came to me to visit Belle’s grave.

I dismounted, which was an unusual procedure because I did not usually do that until I was back in the stables.

I tethered Tomtit to a stake and I whispered to him: “I won’t forget you this time. I’ll soon be back.”

So I went into what I used to think of as the forbidden wood. How different it was now. The gloom had vanished. Over what must have been Belle’s grave the roses bloomed in the summer.

It was my mother’s private garden now.

Much of the undergrowth had been cut away. It was beautiful—an oasis in the heart of the country. A garden of roses where once there had been gloom.

I stood for a moment thinking of Belle, whose curiosity had brought about her death; dear Belle, she had been beautiful and friendly and good. Her death would have been quick, though, and now I knew why it had happened I could not blame my father.

I turned away and started back to Tomtit, but the temptation to take one look at the house was too much for me. The wind had risen and was taking the last of the leaves off the trees. I liked the wind. It blew away the mists which were so prevalent at this time of the year.

There was the house—gloomier than ever. I thought of the misanthrope who lived in it now. It must be a house which suited his mood.

Then suddenly I was seeing it all again so vividly—Matt there with Carlotta. I felt a wave of pity for myself and I realised my eyes were wet. I took out a handkerchief to wipe my eyes. The wind caught it and carried it along the drive to the house. I ran to retrieve it, and, like a mischievous child playing tricks, just as I was about to pick it up the wind lifted it and carried it along the drive.

Thus I penetrated farther than I should and as at last I picked it up, I heard a growl and a dog came bounding toward me.

He was a large black Newfoundland and he was coming straight for me.

I was trespassing. I remembered, as one does on such occasions, that Abby had said something about a dog who did not like people who pried … and I might be suspected of that. But I knew dogs … all animals in fact. There was a special camaraderie between us which was recognised on both sides.

I murmured: “Good dog … good dog … I’m your friend …”

He hesitated. He looked very fierce. Then he saw the handkerchief in my hand and it seemed as though he thought I might have stolen it for he caught and held it; and as he did so he nipped my hand.

There was blood on the handkerchief.

I did not let go of it. I stood there holding it while he held the other end in his teeth.

“We should be good friends,” I murmured. “You’re a good dog to protect your master’s house.”

I put out a hand to pat him.

A voice close by cried: “Don’t touch him.” Then: “Here, Daemon. Come here.”

The dog dropped the handkerchief and immediately walked towards the man who appeared.

Smith? I thought. Then I saw that he walked with a limp and I realised that I was in the presence of Jeremy Granthorn himself.

He looked at me with distaste.

“He would have bitten you … severely,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing only and my handkerchief fluttered away in the wind. I was trying to get it.”

“Well, you have it now.”

“Yes, thank you.”

I thought: What a disagreeable man. This was not how we behaved in the country. My mother would have called on him; he would have been invited to Eversleigh Court; but it was clear that he wished to be a hermit.

I said: “I am sorry to have intruded. But, you see, it was the wind. Good day.”

He said: “The dog nipped your hand.”

“It is nothing. My own fault, you will say, for coming where I shouldn’t.”

“It should be attended to at once.”

“I have a horse here. I live a very short distance away. At the Dower House. I shall be home very soon.”

“Nevertheless it should be attended to now.”

“Where?”

He waved his hand towards the house.

This was too much to miss. I was being given the opportunity of entering the house, to which, according to Abby and my parents, no one had yet been invited.

“Thank you,” I said.

It was a strange feeling to go into that Hall again.

I said: “You haven’t changed it at all.”

“Why should I?” he said.

“Most people like to imprint their own personalities on their houses.”

“This is just a place where I can live in peace and quiet,” he said.

“You certainly make sure of that. I feel I should not intrude.”

He did not say that I was not intruding as I expected him to. He just said: “Come. Sit down.”

So there I sat in that hall and I looked up to the haunted minstrels’ gallery and I thought it more dreary than it had ever been.

I heard a noise above. “Smith,” called Jeremy Granthorn. “Come here, Smith.”

Smith came and stared at me incredulously. He was as grim as his master and a few years older.

“The young lady has been bitten.”

“Trespassing,” said Smith.

My less than gracious host said, “Get some hot water … and a bandage or something.”

“Bandage?” said Smith.

“Find something.”

I rose. I said with hauteur: “I can see I am giving a great deal of trouble. It was only a nip. It was entirely my own fault, as you imply. I will go home. I shall then do what is necessary.”

“Sit down please,” said Jeremy Granthorn.

I obeyed.

I looked round the Hall and tried to make conversation. “My sister was the owner of this place. It was from her you bought it.”

He did not answer.

“And are you liking the house the neighbourhood?”

“It’s quiet … peaceful… almost always,” he said.

A reproach for my inquisitiveness? Heaven knew I was only asking polite questions.

Smith returned with a bowl of hot water, a cloth and some sort of liniment. There was also a strip of linen which looked as though it had been torn from something.

I put my finger in the bowl. I washed it and he dabbed some of the lotion on the wound.

“This has been tested,” he said. “It’s good for sprains and light cuts.”

He himself bandaged the wound and while he was doing so the dog came up and sniffed at my skirts.

“You haven’t done much harm,” I said to the dog. He put his head on one side and wagged his tail.

I could see that for the first time I had aroused the interest of my host.

“That’s odd,” he said. “He’s quite friendly.”

“He realises that you accept me and that makes me acceptable to him.”

“Good Daemon,” he said in a voice very different from that with which he addressed me.

He patted the dog, who moved nearer.

I reached out a hand and patted it too.

I had clearly impressed Jeremy Granthorn.

“You like dogs …”

“Dogs, all animals … and birds too. I am especially fond of birds.”

“I have never known Daemon to make friends so quickly.”

“I knew that we would be friends. After all it was only a token nip. Very slight … more like a caress.”

He looked at me incredulously.

“He had to do it, didn’t he?” I went on. “He had to show me that it was his duty to protect the place. I was trespassing. I couldn’t explain that I had no wish whatever to call. I was only retrieving my property. But he knew that I meant no harm.”

He was silent for a while.

“There,” he said at length, “I think that will be all right. You’ll have no trouble with it.”

“Thank you.” I rose.

He looked dubious. I think he was wondering whether he should offer me some refreshment. But I was going to let him see that I had no intention of intruding further on such an ungracious host.

“Good-bye.” I extended my hand. He took it and bowed. Then I walked towards the door. He followed, the dog at his heels.

He stood at the door watching me.

I walked slowly and rather painfully to where Tomtit was tethered.

Strangely enough I felt different from the way I had since I had entered that house in the storm.

I felt a wild resentment against this hermit of a man whose manner bordered on rudeness. Certainly he had no social graces.

And yet I felt I had regained something which I had lost when I had come across Carlotta and Matt Pilkington in the red room.

I was very tired when I reached home. My mother was anxious. She was glad to see me ride out and take an interest in Tomtit but I know she fidgeted until I returned. She was afraid I would do too much and have a relapse. The next day I was too tired to go out; but the different feeling persisted. I was interested in the man and his manservant and the dog at Enderby Hall.

It was a week later when I saw him again.

I was riding past the house on my way home when I came upon him walking, the dog at his heels.

I was feeling very tired and I had just whispered “Take me home” to Tomtit and he had set his resolute steps in that direction.

I was about to ride past Jeremy Granthorn when he called, “Good day.”

I pulled up.

I was so tired, I felt near fainting. Tomtit pawed the ground impatiently. I had said “Take me home” and he always knew by a certain note in my voice when I wanted to get there urgently.

“Are you feeling ill?” he asked.

I was about to speak but he had taken the reins from my hands.

“I think you should rest awhile,” he said.

He led the horse towards the house. Tomtit seemed to sense that he was a friend, for gruff as Granthorn was towards his own kind I had recognised in him that great bond between himself and the animals because I had it myself.

He tethered Tomtit to the post by the mounting block at the side of the house and lifted me down. I was surprised at his gentleness.

“I do not want to intrude,” I said. “You hate intruders.”

He did not answer but led me into the hall.

“Smith,” he shouted. “Smith.”

Smith came running.

“The lady is ill,” he said. “I’m taking her into the parlour. Help me.”

They were one on either side of me.

“Thanks,” I said, “but I feel better now … I could go home.”

“Not yet,” said Jeremy Granthorn. “You must take something which will revive you. I have a special wine.” He turned to Smith and whispered something. Smith nodded and disappeared.

I was seated in a chair in the small winter parlour, which I knew from the past. It was one of the pleasantest rooms at Enderby and seemed to have escaped some of the general gloom.

I said: “I should have been all right, you know. My horse would have taken me home. He does it when I’m tired.”

“You are often … like that?” he asked.

“Now and then. But it’s all right. If I’m with Tomtit. He knows. He takes me home.”

“You should not be riding alone.”

“I prefer it,” I said.

Smith had come in with a tray and glasses. He poured out something from a bottle. It was a rich ruby colour.

“A very special wine,” said Jeremy Granthorn. “I think you will like it. And I promise you it will revive you. It is noted for its beneficial qualities.”

Smith went out and left us together.

I sipped the wine. He was right. It was reviving.

“I have been very ill,” I told him. I explained the nature of my illness. “The doctors think I shall always be an invalid. It is only recently that I have taken to going out.”

He listened intently.

“It is depressing to be incapacitated. I am myself to a certain extent. I was wounded at Venloo. I shall never be able to walk properly again.”

I told him that I had been taken ill during a storm and had spent the night out of doors in a state of unconsciousness and that this had brought about a fever which had affected my limbs.

He listened attentively and suddenly I laughed, for it had occurred to me that this morbid subject had given us a certain interest in each other which nothing else could have done.

He asked why I laughed. And I replied that I was suddenly struck with the thought that it was rather funny that illness could be such an absorbing subject.

“Of course it is, to those who suffer it. It is their life.”

“There are other things in the lives of us all, surely?” I said.

I found that I could talk easily. Daemon came in and I was certain that he was pleased that I had become friendly with his master.

I asked how he managed here in this big house with one servant.

He replied that he did not use the whole house. Part of it was shut up.

The question trembled on my lips: Then why choose a house of this size? I did not ask it but he answered it all the same.

“There was something about this house which appealed to me.”

“Enderby appealed to you! We always thought it was a gloomy, miserable place.”

“I am gloomy and miserable—so it fitted my moods.”

“Oh,” I said suddenly, “please don’t say that.”

The wine or whatever it was was making me bold. I went on: “I have felt lost … listless … Do you know what I mean?”

He nodded.

“When I found I could not move my limbs without pain … when I knew that I must spend the greater part of the day on a couch … I just felt there was nothing left. I was lying on a couch waiting for time to pass and that was all there was for me … I still feel it often.”

“I know,” he said. “I know it well.”

“And then little things happen … when Daemon nipped me … it was funny in a way. A little thing like that … it’s out of routine, I suppose … and one starts being interested again.”

“I know,” he said, and there seemed to be a lifting of his voice.

He asked about the nip.

I held out my hand. “The stuff you put on it must have been very good. It healed very quickly.”

“It was stuff I had in the army.”

I wanted to know about him but I never asked questions. I always waited for him to tell. I think he appreciated that.

I was rapidly feeling better and when I rose to go he did not try to detain me, but he did insist on riding back to the Dower House with me.

I said he should meet my parents but he said no, he would go straight back.

I did not press him but I felt better than I had for a long time, and although I was too tired to ride the next day, I could lie on my couch and remember the details of our meeting.

It was the beginning of a friendship. I never called. I would ride by and he would often be walking and we would meet as if by accident. Then I would go in and sit with him and drink a glass of wine. He was knowledgeable about wines and produced several for me to try.

Daemon would come out when I rode by and bark joyously and that always brought either Jeremy Granthorn or Smith out to see who was there. When they learned who it was I would find myself being entertained in Enderby Hall.

My mother was interested when she knew. She was rather pleased.

“I must ask him to dine with us,” she said.

“Oh, no, don’t,” I said quickly. “He never accepts invitations.”

“He must be a very strange man.”

“He is,” I said. “A kind of recluse.”

She did not try to prevent our friendship. She thought it was good for me to meet people, and if this was a rather unconventional relationship, she accepted it.

So our friendship grew.

I told him quite a bit about myself. I mentioned my beautiful sister, Carlotta. I hinted that I had been in love with someone but that he had preferred Carlotta.

He did not ask questions. It was an unwritten code between us, so that I could talk of the past without having to face any probing which might have been distressing.

It was the same with him. I let him talk. He too had had a love affair. After he was wounded at Venloo and came back crippled he found she preferred someone else.

I could see there was a great deal left unsaid and that it had made him very bitter.

I think, too, that he suffered a certain amount of pain from his wounded leg.

There were some days when he was very miserable. I liked to see him on those days for I was sure I had a way of making him happier.

We talked of dogs we had had, and Daemon would sit at our feet watching us with limpid eyes, every now and then beating his tail on the floor to express his approval.

Jeremy—I called him that in my private thoughts, though I never addressed him by his name—looked forward to my visits, though he never asked me to come again. I wondered what would happen if I ceased calling. Ours was a strange relationship. Yet I knew that we were both profiting by it.

Little by little he volunteered bits of information about himself. He had travelled widely before the war. He had lived awhile in France. He knew that country well.

“I should like to go back,” he said, “but of course I’m no use to anyone now. A crippled soldier … what could be more of an encumbrance?”

“At least you served well while you could.”

“A soldier is a pretty useless creature when he is unable to serve in the army. England does not want him. What is he fit for? There is nothing for him but to go to the country … get out of sight, out of the way. He’s an embarrassment because it has to be remembered he came to this state in the service of his country.”

When those moods came on him I used to laugh at him and often I succeeded in making him laugh at himself.

Thus my friendship with the new owner of Enderby Hall began and progressed.

And one day a courier came to the house.

My parents were not at home and I was rather glad of this because the letter he brought was for me and it was the strangest letter I had ever received in my life. It was from France … from my sister Carlotta.

My fingers trembled as I held the paper. I read it through scarcely believing what I read.

Carlotta … dying. Clarissa … needing me.

“You must come. You must take my child.”

I just lay there with the letter in my hand.

From far away I seemed to see Clarissa alone … frightened … stretching out her arms to me.

Discovery In Paris

SOME INSTINCT MADE ME hide the letter from my parents. They would have tried to send a secret messenger to France with instructions to bring the child to us. It was the only reasonable thing to do, but something told me that it might very easily fail. For one thing we were at war with France. There was no normal communication between the two countries. No one could land except secretly; only Jacobites were welcomed in France from England.

My parents would do what they thought best to bring Clarissa to England, but it might not be possible. My father, once a soldier in the army, would be suspect. A man of his kind riding through an enemy country would not get far.

I read the letter through again and again. Carlotta dying … What could have happened? Lord Hessenfield was dead. It must be some sort of plague.

And Clarissa … an orphan … alone … No, not entirely alone, there was a servant Jeanne, a one-time flower seller.

I was bewildered. I had to do something, but what?

I was white and strained. My mother noticed and scolded me for doing too much. I must rest, she kept saying.

So I pretended to rest, and all the time I was thinking of Carlotta’s letter and Clarissa in France … needing me.

It was in the middle of the night that the wild idea came to me. I woke up in a state of great excitement. In fact I was trembling. I was sure at that moment that I could have got out of bed, ridden to the coast and crossed the sea to Paris.

I could feel strength flowing in to me so that when common sense said: It is impossible, I cried: “No, it is not impossible. I could do it.”

I lay in bed waiting for morning, and I must admit that with the coming of daylight all sorts of truths raised their heads and common sense said: It’s madness. It’s a dream—a fantasy of night.

My idea was that I should go to France myself and bring Clarissa home.

It was as though voices mocked me—my own voices! You … an invalid … who tires quickly … who has never been in the least adventurous … who has always taken the quite conventional path … plan such an adventure? It’s incongruous. It’s worse than that. It’s madness.

All the same I could not dismiss it.

It excited me, and what was so odd was that, almost like a miracle, I could feel new strength growing in me.

Before the morning was out I was not saying to myself: It is impossible. But: How can I bring it about?

A woman travelling through France would not attract much attention, would she? I could hire horses, grooms. Paris was a big city. It was easier in big cities to hide oneself than anywhere else.

I would go to the house in Paris. I had the address. What joy it would be to see the child again!

It was after I had been with her that I had first begun to improve. She had made me want to live again. That was it, and now that there was this tremendous project lying before me I was growing more and more alive with every minute.

But how … how …?

I knew if I broached the subject to my father he would think he must act. My mother would be frantic with anxiety. “We must see what we can do to bring her home,” she would say. And there would be lengthy deliberations and that would be too late. Something told me that I alone could bring Clarissa out of France.

All through the day and the following night the plan was with me. There were questions which kept coming into my mind. How? How?

The next morning I awoke fresh in spite of a restless night. I had made up my mind. There was one person who might just understand. He had a knowledge of France. I would put my plan to him. He would laugh it to scorn … at first. And yet if he would listen, I believed he would understand. And one thing I was certain of. If he could he would help me.

I rode over to see Jeremy Granthorn.

It was just as I had imagined. He was scornful.

“It’s madness,” he said. “You … go to France? Even if you were in full possession of your health it would be impossible. How will you start on this venture … tell me that?”

I said: “I will get someone to take me to France.”

“How?”

“I will hire a boat.”

“From whom?”

“That I must find out.”

“Do you realise that there is a state of war between this country and France?”

“France is not a battlefield.”

“I grant you that. But how do you think the English will be received in France?”

“I do not intend to be received. I shall make my way to Paris … and go to this address.”

“You are talking like a child. What you suggest is wildly impossible. You betray absolute ignorance.”

He was regarding me with a certain contempt.

I said: “I had thought you might give me some advice. You know France. You have lived there …”

“I am giving you advice and it is: Leave this alone. Show the letter to your father. You should have done that as soon as you received it. What happened to the man who brought you the letter?”

“He went away.”

“You should have detained him. You might have gone back with him. It would have been madness of course, but I can see you are not using your common sense in this matter.”

I said: “And I can see that you have no advice to offer me.”

“I am offering you advice. Show your parents the letter. They will say the same as I do. There is nothing to be done but wait until the war is over. Then you can send for the child.”

“How long do you think it will be before the war is over?”

He was silent.

“And,” I went on, “you would advise me to leave the child. How do I know what is happening to her?”

“She had a father of standing, did she not? He will have friends.”

“I can see you don’t understand: This is so mysterious. It must be some plague or something. My sister, who was young and strong and should have had years left to her, wrote me this letter … the letter of a dying woman. She begs me to care for the child. You suggest I ignore that.”

“I suggest that you wait, behave reasonably, consider all the difficulties.”

“Nothing has ever been achieved by considering all the difficulties.”

“Nothing was ever achieved by rushing madly over a precipice.”

I stood up. I was quivering with rage.

I walked out of the house to where Tomtit was waiting. I felt wretched and I had relied on him more than I had realised.

As I was mounting he came out of the house.

“Wait a minute,” he called. “Come back.”

I said: “There is nothing more to be said.”

“You are too hasty. Come back, I want to talk.”

So I went back. A great relief had come over me. I looked at him; and I knew my eyes were bright with unshed tears.

He turned away as though embarrassed.

He took me into the parlour and we sat facing each other.

“It is possible,” he said.

I clasped my hands in delight.

“It’s mad and it’s dangerous,” he went on, “but it is just possible. Now please remain calm. How do you propose to get someone to take you over? That is the first hurdle.”

“I don’t know. Make enquiries … There are people who have boats.”

“My dear Damaris, one does not go round to people who own boats and ask to be taken into enemy territory. After the recent Jacobite scares, how do you imagine that would be regarded? It would have to be done in secret.”

“Yes,” I said breathlessly.

“I know a man …”

“Oh, thank you … thank you …”

“Mind you, I do not know whether he would agree … He would have to be approached very cautiously.”

“And you could approach him?”

He hesitated. “Perhaps.”

I said: “It would be costly. I am ready to pay. I have lots of things of value. I could sell them.”

“There would be delay.”

I felt sick with disappointment.

He said: “You could pay me back later.”

I was so happy. I couldn’t help it. I leaned forward, took his hand and kissed it. It was a foolish thing to have done. He drew back at once frowning.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “But it is good of you. Please … go on. You see, I love this child and I imagine what could be happening to her.”

“It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “I could see it is just possible. I could give you letters to friends of mine who would receive you in their houses as you cross France. Do you speak the language?”

“A little,” I said.

“A little is not much good. You will be betrayed as English as soon as you set foot on the soil.” He shrugged his shoulders.

I said: “I know you think it is madness. I daresay it is. But this is a child in need of me … my own niece. I love the child … but one would have to do the same for any child.”

“You are running into danger, you know that.”

“I realise it. But I will do it. I must find Clarissa. I must get to the house and take her from Jeanne.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Wait until you are safely back on English soil with the child before you do that. I tell you this: You are running your head into a noose.”

“I am going to succeed, I promise you.”

“If I can find someone to take you, if it can all be arranged, you must tell your parents what you are doing.”

“They would do everything in their power to stop me.”

“That is what I hope they will do.”

“I thought you were helping me.”

“The more I think of it the more crazy it seems. You are not fit for such travel. It will be hazardous and exhausting. You are tired out after a short ride on some days.”

“I feel different. Can you understand that? I felt as I did … before this thing happened to me. I can stay in the saddle all day if I have to. I know it. It is different when you have a purpose, a determination. …”

“It’s a help,” he said, “but it doesn’t remove a sickness.”

“I feel well again. I am going to do this, whether you help me or not.”

“Then let me say this: If I can arrange it, you must leave an explanation for your parents. Leave the letter your sister wrote and tell them that I have arranged for you to go and am doing my utmost to make your journey safe.”

“I will,” I said. “I will.” I stood before him. I felt a great inclination to hug him.

I called next morning. He was not at home, Smith told me.

Later in the afternoon I went again to Enderby Hall. He was back.

“I have arranged it,” he said. “You are going tomorrow evening. At dusk you will leave England. Let us hope for a fair wind.”

“Oh … Jeremy …” I cried, and I realised that I had used his name for the first time.

The old embarrassment was between us. I must remember not to be demonstrative, not to show my gratitude.

“Go back,” he said. “Make your preparations. I have found someone to accompany you. Come here tomorrow, late afternoon. I will take you to the spot where the boat will be waiting. It is a small boat and even in calm weather crossing is dangerous. But once you are on French soil it should not be too difficult. You will be taken to the safest places on the way to Paris. And if you are discreet, you should come through. Do what your companion asks. And do not forget to write to your parents before you leave and explain. It is better for them to know what you are doing—even though your folly will cause them great anxiety—rather than that they should think you have just disappeared.”

I promised to do exactly as he said and I was ready long before the time to depart.

I went to Enderby, where he was waiting. We discussed our plans and how I was to act. The man who would accompany me would bring me back. I could trust him.

We set out just before dusk and in due course reached the coast.

When we reached a lonely spot a man came riding after us.

I thought this was my companion for the journey.

It was Smith.

We tethered the horses to iron spikes and walked over the shingle.

There waiting was a boat with a man in it.

“Now,” said Jeremy to Smith, “is all clear?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Smith promptly.

“You know exactly what to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Thank God for a calm sea. We should be off.”

I stepped into the boat.

Jeremy was beside me.

I turned to say good-bye. “I shall bless you all my life,” I said.

“Let us hope that I continue to enjoy those blessings for a very long time,” he answered.

Smith was standing on the shingle.

Jeremy said: “Well, let us be off.”

I looked at him wondering: “You …”

He said: “Smith will take the horses back. Of course I’m coming with you.”

I felt a great singing in my heart, an excitement such as I had never known before.

I wanted to turn to him, to tell him what this meant to me.

I looked at his face, stern, taciturn, expressing nothing but his disapproval of my folly in wanting to attempt this desperate adventure.

I quickly realised that I could never have done it without him.

He spoke fluent French, and that forbidding manner of his, with the suggestion of good breeding which accompanied it, forbade questions.

Sometimes we spent the night at inns where he demanded comfortable accommodation for himself and his niece and servant, and invariably we got it. If there was only one room I had it, and he and the man he called Jacques would spend the night in the inn parlour. We had to make various stops because in spite of my determination and my renewed strength I could not travel too far—or at least he would not allow me to. If I wanted to go on he would remind me of my promise of obedience, and he was not the sort of man it was easy to disobey.

That journey did something for us both. He smiled now and then; as for myself I was amazed at what I could do. I did not tire half as easily as Jeremy insisted that I did. I did not need all the care he was giving me.

I could not understand myself. The listlessness had dropped from me. Every morning when I awoke I was aware of an excitement.

“How many miles to Paris?” I would ask.

And it was wonderful to know the distance was diminishing.

I began to wonder about myself. How ill had I been since I could make this recovery? Perhaps it had not really been that I was not well enough to go about meeting people and live a normal healthy life so much as that I did not want to.

And at last we saw the city of Paris in the distance.

I was overcome with exhilaration and impatience. The most exciting city in the world, I thought it. But that was because it contained Clarissa.

It was late afternoon when we arrived. I looked ahead to where the fading sunlight touched the turrets and spires. I saw the outline of the Palais de Justice and the belfreys, towers and gargoyles of Notre Dame.

We crossed a bridge and I felt the magical aura of the city embrace me.

I looked at Jeremy. A grim satisfaction showed on his face.

We had got so far. He had said many times that he was surprised how well we were going; and I told him that he was not really surprised at all. He knew as well as I did that if one was determined to succeed, one would; and we were going to bring Clarissa to England.

“We’ll find an inn for the night and we’ll go to the Marais district.”

Jacques said: “It should be Les Paons, Monsieur. It is the best for us.”

“Les Paons it shall be.”

I said: “First let us go to the house.”

“First to the inn,” said Jeremy. “We cannot go to the house … travel-stained as we are. Look at the mud on your skirts. The horses are tired out. They hate this Paris mud. It’s the worst mud in the world.”

I wanted to protest even though I realised he was right.

“We must go to the house,” I said.

Jacques shook his head.

“Better not to go out at night, Mademoiselle.”

I felt desperately frustrated, but I knew they were right.

The inn was decorated with the peacocks from which it took its name. It was comfortable and a room was found for me which looked down on the street. I stood at the window for a moment, watching the people pass by. It was almost impossible to conceal my impatience, but I knew I must wait.

We must present ourselves at the house as decorously as possible tomorrow morning.

This time tomorrow, I promised myself, I shall have Clarissa.

What an age that seemed! I wondered how I should get through the night. I was here … in Paris … I was on the threshold of success. And I had to get through these hours of darkness somehow before the morning.

We took supper in the inn parlour but I was too excited to eat. Jeremy was calm and tried to steady me, but I could concentrate on nothing. I was just looking for the time to pass.

I could not sleep that night. I sat at my window and looked down on the street. It was strange how its character changed as darkness fell. The well-dressed people were replaced by those of a different kind. I realised that Jeremy had been right when he had said that we should wait till morning.

I saw the beggars waiting there holding out their hands piteously to those who passed by. I saw a woman get out of a carriage with a young girl and take the girl into a house. The woman came out alone and drove away. Something about this reminded me of my own adventures as a simpleton in London. I knew that the girl had been taken to the house on an assignation and that the woman in the carriage had arranged it.

The incident brought back vividly to my mind that time when I had gone out to buy violets for my mother and had fallen in with Good Mrs. Brown.

Then I noticed a woman standing outside the house into which the girl had gone. A man came out; he was well dressed. The woman caught at his arm. He threw her off.

I saw a great deal that night, for there was no sleep for me. I did lie down for an hour or so but as sleep was impossible I rose and sat at the window.

It was evidently a house of ill fame opposite.

Then I saw a terrible thing. A child ran out of the house suddenly. She was half naked—without shoes and stockings; she just wore a short spangled shift. She ran as though terrified and as she reached the street a woman came out, seized her kicking and struggling and bore her back.

I saw the woman’s face briefly in the moonlight. It struck me as the most evil face I had ever seen.

I felt sick, for a terrible thought had come to me. Clarissa was in this city, this wicked city. I knew something of the wickedness of cities since I had come face to face with it in the cellar of Good Mrs. Brown.

I had been fortunate. Worse things could have happened to me.

I would take Clarissa home; I would care for her; I would love her.

I must get well and strong, for Clarissa needed me.

I would do it. I must. Clarissa needed me.

It was morning. I was dressed and ready. Excitement set the colour burning in my cheeks and none would guess I had had a sleepless night.

I was impatient for Jeremy to come. He was exactly on time but I could not keep still.

He smiled at me as we stepped into the street.

We came to the house where Carlotta had lived with Lord Hessenfield and Clarissa. It was a grand house—tall and imposing.

We walked up the steps to the front porch. The concierge appeared.

Jeremy said: “This is Lady Hessenfield’s sister.”

The concierge surveyed me. She said: “Lady Hessenfield is dead.”

“Her daughter …” I began.

The next words terrified me.

“She is not here any more.”

“Perhaps there is a servant … Jeanne.”

“Madame Deligne would see you perhaps,” said the concierge.

“Oh, yes, please,” I cried fervently.

We were taken into a salon where the lady of the house received us.

Jeremy stated our reasons for being here and she answered in French, which I was able to follow.

Both Lord and Lady Hessenfield had died of some mysterious illness. It was a sort of plague, for a lady who had visited them, a Madame de Partière, had also died of the same disease. There had been quite a scare at the time.

Jeremy said: “Lady Hessenfield had a daughter and it is this child whom we have come for. We want to take her back to her family.”

“Ah, yes,” said Madame Deligne. “There had been a young child.”

She wrinkled her brows. She had not heard what became of the child.

“What of Jeanne, the servant?”

“Monsieur, when we came here we brought our own servants.”

“And what happened to those who were already here?”

Madame Deligne lifted her shoulders. “They went to other houses, perhaps. We could not take them, we had our own.”

“Do you remember this Jeanne?”

Again she thought back. “A young woman … oh, yes … I remember her faintly. I think she went back to what she was doing before she came to the house.”

“And what of the child? Did you hear about the child?”

“No, I never heard about the child.”

Madame Deligne was friendly and apologetic, eager to help but it was clear that she had no more information to offer.

I shall never forget coming out of that house. Despair and misery enveloped me. We had come so far and not found her.

What should we do now?

Jeremy, who was a pessimist when we were getting on well, was now full of optimism.

“We have to find this Jeanne,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Where … where …?”

“What do we know of her?”

“That she comes of a poor family and used to sell flowers.”

“Then we must question every flower seller in Paris.”

I was fearful; and yet Jeremy inspired me with hope.

“We must begin without delay,” I said.

He took my hand and pressed it. It was the first sign of endearment I had ever had from him.

“We’ll find her,” he said.

The days that followed were like a nightmare. At the end of them I was completely exhausted and would sink on my bed and fall into a deep sleep until I was awakened by dreams of horror. In these I was always searching for Clarissa; I would be running through the streets and I would find myself in a cellar and people with dreadful leering faces would be closing in on me. Good Mrs. Brown was invariably there.

My dreams came from what I had seen during the days, for I did see terrible things. I suppose I could have found life like this in any big city; but I had had little experience of big cities. Only once had I fallen into the clutches of Good Mrs. Brown of London and I had never completely forgotten it. It was an incident which had remained in my mind to be brought out now and then, and because of what I saw in this city it had been brought right into the forefront of my mind. I imagined Clarissa with Good Mrs. Brown; I imagined her running out of a house in a spangled shift and caught and taken back … to what?

These were the dreams which followed the frustrating, exhausting days, and in those dreams Clarissa and I were one and the same person.

What could we do? Even Jeremy had nothing to suggest. He had discovered people who had known the Hessenfields. Yes, they had died; the household had been broken up. No, they had no idea what had become of the child. The servants? Oh, they had dispersed … as servants do.

We had one clue. Jeanne had been a flower seller. It was a business she would know. It seemed logical to presume that she would go back to it. Therefore we must question the flower sellers of Paris.

What a task! We walked about the streets. It was spring now.

“A good time,” said Jeremy in his new wave of optimism. “People buy flowers in the spring. They are so glad to see them, they remind them that the winter is over. There will be plenty of flower sellers about.”

It was a frustrating task. We bought flowers and engaged the sellers in conversation. Did they know of someone called Jeanne, who used to be a servant in one of the big houses in the Marais?

Often we encountered blank stares; sometimes the flower seller would chatter volubly leading us on so that we thought we were on the trail. We even followed up one Jeanne who knew nothing of a child and was certainly not the sort of person with whom Carlotta would have left the child.

It was not only the fact that we found no success that depressed and frightened me. It was what I saw and the realisation of what could happen to someone alone in such a city.

I saw the beggars, the drunkards, the pickpockets; I saw little children scantily clad with a lifetime’s misery written on their little faces. And in everyone I saw Clarissa.

We wandered through the markets; we saw barefooted children creeping between the stalls to snatch a bit of fruit; we saw them struggling with baskets as big as they were. We saw them beaten and abused; it broke my heart. Good Mrs. Brown seemed very close to me. It was as though she walked beside me chuckling at my naiveté. I was being rudely awakened now.

I wanted to run away from all this, to go back to my couch, to be petted and pampered and shut out the world.

Of course it is so easy, I thought, to shut out the world if you are surrounded by people who love you. You can forget all this; you pretend it does not exist. You can shut yourself into a little cocoon and never, never think of Good Mrs. Brown and two people writhing on a four-poster bed.

But you cannot forget. You must know of these things. Because the more you know the more readily you will understand the trials of others … and your own. Ignorance, shutting your eyes to evil, will not find Clarissa.

As the days passed my anxieties grew. I thought of what could be happening to my darling child in this wicked city.

Those days were like watching a show of pictures … as soon as one faded another took its place. There was the bustle, the laughter, the excitement of the streets—the patched and perfumed ladies, the exquisite gentlemen in their coaches … eyeing each other. I saw meetings arranged between languishing ladies and languid gentlemen; I saw the beggars, the market sellers and always those with the baskets of flowers.

It was the children who moved me most. I could not bear to look at them with their poor pinched faces already marked with shrewd cunning, already showing the signs of depravity. My impulse was to turn away to save myself the pain of looking. But how could I be sure that one of these was not Clarissa?

What really upset me were the women whom they called the Marcheuses. They were the poorest, saddest creatures I had ever seen. Jeremy told me that they had been prostitutes in their youth, and God knew they were not old now—in their twenties perhaps, though they looked fifty or sixty. They had become diseased and worn out in their profession and their only hope of earning a sou or two now was to run errands for their more wealthy kind. Hence their name, the Marcheuses. Worn out, weary, finished with life—keeping themselves alive until a merciful death came and took them.

I saw the milliners and sewing girls—young and innocent—coming out into the streets laughing and eyeing the apprentices … and looking out for a milord who would give them a good supper in return for services rendered.

I knew I would never be the same after this experience.

It had taught me a great deal about myself. It had shown me that I had been hiding beneath my illness because I was afraid of what I would meet in the world.

If I were going to live, I must come out and face life. I must recognise the fact that there was evil in the world and it would still be there if I shut my eyes and refused to look at it. That was what I had seen in my frustrating rambling through the streets of Paris. But there were other things too. There was Clarissa to be found; there was the love of my parents; there was the goodness of Jeremy, who had given up his sheltered life to help me in my need.

We were two of a kind, for had he not come down to Enderby to hide from the world?

We were out in it now. We were living at last.

We had come in after an exhausting day. We had gone to our rooms. Jeremy had said: “We’ll rest before supper.”

It was seven days since we had arrived in Paris and it seemed to me in a moment of despair that we were no nearer the end of our quest than we had been when we began it.

I lay on the bed for a while but I could not sleep. Images of what I had seen during the day kept intruding on my mind. I saw the stalls in the great market … the women with their live chickens and their vegetables, the flower sellers who knew no Jeanne … the child stealing a purse from a fat woman who had come to market, being caught in the act and severely beaten. I could hear voices screeching out the merits of what they had to sell and the low but incessant chatter of two women who had sat on a low wall to set down their baskets and rest their feet awhile.

Sleep was impossible.

I got out of bed and went to the window.

It would be dark in half an hour. How tired I was. Jeremy had been right to say we should rest. He needed to rest, I know. His leg was painful at times.

I sat by the window watching the people. The street fascinated me. It had not yet changed its daytime face. That would come in half an hour. Now, respectable people walked by without fear. Dusk would fall and they would be no longer here … I looked at the house opposite. Now it was presenting its almost smug face to the world. I shuddered to think of what went on behind those windows. I had looked for the little girl in the shift but I had not seen her again.

Then as I watched a woman came hurrying along the street. She had black hair tied back and she was carrying a basket of violets.

Wild excitement filled me. It was almost like a command. A flower seller. Perhaps she would be the one. She was coming up towards the hôtel but on the other side of the street. She was walking hurriedly … going home, I guessed, with her unsold flowers.

There was no time to lose. I must run if I was going to catch her before she disappeared.

I snatched up my cloak and ran out of the inn.

I caught a glimpse of her as she was turning the corner. I ran as fast as I could. She was halfway up the next street.

“Mademoiselle,” I called. “Mademoiselle …”

She turned and looked at me.

“Violettes,” she cried, a smile illuminating her face. She held a bunch to me.

I shook my head. I said: “Jeanne … Jeanne … You are called Jeanne. Vous appelez Jeanne. …” I stumbled.

“Jeanne … moi,” she cried.

I said: “There is a little girl …”

She repeated: “A little girl …”

“Clarissa …”

She smiled. “Clarissa,” she repeated.

I struggled to find the words I needed. My heart was beating so fiercely that I could not get my breath. It was due to the exertion of running and the fact that she was smiling and nodding, which might mean … anything.

She started to walk away beckoning me … I followed. She looked over her shoulders and quickened her pace.

I said: “I am looking for a little girl. …”

“Oui, oui,” she said. Then slowly and in laborious English: “A little girl.”

“I must find her … I must. …”

She continued to smile and I followed.

We had come to narrow streets. It would be dark soon. A terrible fear came over me. What was I doing? How did I know who this woman was? So had I been lured by Good Mrs. Brown.

So many thoughts crowded into my head. You were lucky then. What could await you if you act foolishly again? I thought of the house opposite … of the little girl in the shift … of the painted women and the smug matrons who guarded them. And a terrible fear overcame me.

I should have waited for Jeremy. If I had, this woman would have passed on. Something had impelled me to follow her. The violets she carried had seemed symbolic. I had gone out to buy violets when I was met by Good Mrs. Brown.

Go back now. You could find your way. Tell the girl to come to the inn. She will if she is honest.

But suppose she does not, suppose she is Jeanne. Suppose I have not made myself clear. Suppose she could lead me to Clarissa.

And all the time I was going on.

We were in narrow alleyways now. But I could still run.

It was a battle with myself. I had time now. I could find my way back. I could get to the inn before darkness fell. And yet I went on. Because I kept seeing Clarissa. Clarissa like the little girl in the spangled shift. I must find her. I must. I must. I dare not leave any avenue unexplored. We have had days of failure. Can this be the end of the road?

The girl had smiled implying her name was Jeanne. She had nodded when I mentioned Clarissa’s name. She had even repeated it.

Don’t be a fool, of course she would. She is well versed in the art of villainy.

Go. Go while there is time. Talk to Jeremy. Tell him. Bring him with you.

But still I went on.

The girl had stopped. We were before one of the small houses all huddled together and almost touching the one opposite.

She pushed open a door and beckoned to me to follow.

I hesitated. I could come back here tomorrow with Jeremy. I should go now. It was unsafe to enter.

But I had to go on. “She is here,” something inside me said. The girl has violets … and it was violets before. There is something significant in that.

I followed her down a flight of stairs.

I was right back to the days when I was a child in London … following in the wake of Good Mrs. Brown.

A door was pushed open. It was the scene all over again. I might have stepped back over the years. I thought, they are going to take my clothes and send me naked into the streets.

There was an old woman there. She said: “That you, Jeanne?”

I cried out: “The child. The child. Where is the child?”

Something moved on the floor. It looked like a bundle of old clothes.

Then I heard a voice cry: “Aunt Damaris.”

And the bundle of rags was in my arms.

I knelt on the floor, holding her.

I had found Clarissa. And more … I had found myself.

Jeanne took us back to the inn and I was deliriously happy.

I shrieked for Jeremy. He stood there looking at us, his eyes shining. They went from the child to me and they lingered on me.

It was a wonderful moment.

Jeanne was talking volubly to Jeremy. She had been dismissed from the house; there was no work; she had gone back to flower selling. It was a poor living. She had kept the child because Lady Hessenfield had said: “My sister will certainly come for her.”

“She was so sure, monsieur,” said Jeanne, “that I believed her. How happy I am. It is no life for the child.”

“We must do something for them. They are very poor. She must be compensated.”

Jeremy told Jeanne that we were going to look after her and her mother.

We would find some means of doing so.

I had one or two pieces of jewelry which I gave her. I said she could come to England with us and be Clarissa’s nurse.

Her mother was ill, she said, and she could not leave her, but perhaps one day …

One thing I was determined on was that Jeanne was going to be taken out of that squalid room.

It was necessary to clean Clarissa and provide her with clothes, which I did most joyously. And how happy she was to be with me. Jeanne had been kind to her and never allowed her to go selling flowers alone, though she had been out with Jeanne once or twice. She chattered about her beautiful mother and her wonderful father as though they were a god and goddess, and since they had not been quite of this earth she did not seem surprised that they had departed for celestial regions.

Oh, they were happy days with Clarissa! The love which had sprung up between us on our first meeting was growing stronger every day. We were necessary to each other—she to me no less than I to her.

The journey over to England could not be delayed. On the day before we left, Jeremy told me that he had found a place for Jeanne with one of his friends and she could take her mother with her.

I said: “That’s wonderful. Life is good, is it not?”

“I am glad you find it so,” he said.

I was bold enough to touch his hand.

“I shall never forget what I owe you,” I told him.

He turned away.

Clarissa was delighted with everything that happened, though she was a little sad to leave Jeanne but I told her one day I intended Jeanne to come to England to be with us and that satisfied her.

She was full of questions as she had ever been, but her adventures had sobered her and brought her out of childhood in spite of her youth.

She asked why and how as often as ever but she asked thoughtfully now, and listened carefully to the answers.

How different it was going back! I was so joyous I sang a great deal to myself. Clarissa joined in when she knew the songs and so we rode along. She sat with me sometimes … sometimes with Jeremy. The journey was a great delight to her.

We reached the coast. Again we were lucky and blessed with a smooth sea.

I felt I had come a long way since I had set out on this journey, as though I had lived years in a few weeks. I no longer wished to shut I myself away from life. I was going to face it whatever it brought. That moment when I had hesitated outside the house in the alley had taught me that. If I was going to be happy I had to grasp happiness with both hands and not be afraid to for fear I might be hurt. I would no longer lie on my couch sheltering under my invalidism. I was no longer an invalid. I was a woman who had made a dangerous journey and achieved the impossible.

What a thrilling moment when we stepped on English soil.

Clarissa was laughing as Jeremy carried her over the shingle. I stood beside them inhaling the fresh sea air … looking towards the land and my home.

Clarissa said: “Are you going to be my mother now?”

My voice was choked with emotion as I said: “Yes, Clarissa, I’m going to be your mother.”

Then she looked up at Jeremy. “You are going to be my father?” She took his hand and held it against her cheek.

He stood there without response and she looked at him.

“Are you? Are you?”

A moment’s silence, with the gulls swooping over the water, screeching their mocking cries.

“Are you?” repeated Clarissa impatiently.

He said slowly: “It will depend on what Damaris says.”

“Then,” said Clarissa triumphantly, “it’s all right: I know.”

He put out his arms suddenly and held us. The three of us stood there.

Clarissa broke the silence. “It’s nice coming home,” she said.