Nine Coaches Waiting by Mary Stewart
‘Supper? But I’ve had supper!’
‘That was hours ago,’ I said, ‘and I haven’t had mine. Wouldn’t you like to entertain your cousin Raoul and me to a midnight feast?’
‘A midnight feast? Oh, Miss Martin.’ The big eyes sparkled in the moonlight, then looked uncertain. ‘Did you say my cousin Raoul?’
I nodded. ‘He said he’d bring the food, and – oh, here he is.’
The door had opened quietly and now Raoul came in, delectably laden with bottles, and followed by one of the hired waiters with a tray. Raoul lifted a gold-necked aristocrat of a bottle in mock salute. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur le Comte. Put the tray down there, will you? Thanks. Do you suppose you could collect the debris later on? Secretly, of course.’
Not a muscle of the man’s face moved. ‘Of course, monsieur.’
Something passed from Raoul’s hand to his. ‘Excellent. That’s all, then. Thank you.’
‘Thank you, sir. M’sieur, ’dame.’ The man sketched a bow, aimed between the bed and me, and went out, shutting the door.
‘Then it really is a midnight feast?’ said Philippe, eyeing his cousin a little shyly.
‘Undoubtedly.’ Raoul was dealing competently with the gold-topped bottle. ‘As clandestine and – ah, that’s it! A grand sound, eh, Philippe? – cosy as one could wish it. That’s an excellent fire. Are you warm enough, Linda?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He was pouring champagne. Philippe, his doubts forgotten, came out of bed with a bounce. ‘Is that lemonade?’
‘The very king of lemonades.’
‘It’s jolly fizzy, isn’t it? It went off like a gun.’
‘Gun or no, I doubt if it’s your tipple, mon cousin. I brought some real lemonade for you. Here.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Philippe, accepting a tall yellow drink that hissed gently. ‘Mademoiselle, wouldn’t you like some of mine?’
‘It looks wonderful,’ I said, ‘but I daren’t hurt your cousin’s feelings.’
Raoul grinned and handed me a glass of champagne. ‘I doubt if this is your tipple either, my little one, but I refuse to pledge you in anything less.’
‘Pledge?’ said Philippe. ‘What’s that?’
‘A promise,’ I said. ‘A vow.’
‘And there’s our toast,’ said Raoul, lifting his glass so that the firelight spun and spangled up through its million bubbles. ‘Stand up, Philippe; clink your glass with mine … now Miss Martin’s … so. Now drink to our vows, and long may we keep them!’
Philippe, puzzled but game, drank some lemonade, then, hesitating, looked from Raoul to me and finally down at the tray which the servant had set on a low table before the fire. ‘When do we start?’
‘This minute,’ I said firmly, and sat down.
Even without the influence of the king of lemonades it would have been a wonderful feast. My betrothal supper, held between firelight and moonlight in a little boy’s bedroom – to me a feast every bit as magical as the banquet Porphyro spread for his Madeleine on that ‘ages long ago’ St. Agnes’ Eve. And the food was a lot better. I don’t remember that St. Agnes’ lovers – perhaps wisely – ate anything at all, but Philippe and I demolished an alarming number of the delicates that Raoul’s glowing hand had heaped upon the tray.
He had made a very creditable attempt to bring ‘everything’. I remember thin curls of brown bread with cool, butter-dripping asparagus; scallop-shells filled with some delicious concoction of creamed crab; crisp pastries bulging with mushroom and chicken and lobster; petits fours bland with almonds; small glasses misty with frost and full of some creamy stuff tangy with strawberries and wine; peaches furry and glowing in a nest of glossy leaves; grapes frosted with sugar that sparkled in the firelight like a crust of diamonds …
Philippe and I ate and exclaimed, and chatted in conspiratorial whispers, while Raoul lounged beside the fire and smoked and drank champagne and watched us indulgently for all the world as if I and Philippe were of an age, and he a benevolent uncle watching us enjoy ourselves.
‘Or an overfed genie,’ I said accusingly, having told him this, ‘bringing a feast to Aladdin starving in his garret, or was it cellar?’
‘As far as I recollect he was still,’ said Raoul lazily, ‘in his mother’s wash-house. Romance is running away with you tonight, Miss Martin, is it not?’
‘Remind me to resent that another time when I feel more earthly.’
He laughed. ‘More champagne?’
‘No, thank you. That was wonderful. Wonderful champagne, wonderful supper. Philippe, if you get a nightmare after this, let it comfort you to know that you’ve asked for it!’
‘I rather think,’ said Raoul, ‘that Monsieur le Comte is all but asleep already.’
Philippe, curled up on the rug with his head against my knee, had indeed been rather silent for some time. I bent over him. The long lashes were fanned over the childish cheeks, and he was breathing softly and evenly. I looked up again at Raoul and nodded. He rose, stretched, and pitched his cigarette into the dying fire.
‘We’d better put him to bed.’ He stood for a moment looking down at the child. He looked very tall in the firelight with Philippe curled at his feet. ‘Does he have nightmares?’
‘He says so. People come in in the night and touch him. Rather horrid.’
His eyes rested on me for a moment, but I had the odd impression that he didn’t see me.
‘As you say.’ He stopped then and picked the child up, holding him easily in his arms. He carried him towards the bed.
The side of the room where we had been sitting was in deep shadow, lit warmly by the now-fading fire. Behind us the white shaft from the moonlit windows had slowly wheeled nearer. The bed lay now full in the sharp diagonal of light.
Raoul carried the sleeping child across the room. He was just about to step into the patch of light – a step as definite as a chessman’s from black to white – when a new shadow stabbed across the carpet, cutting the light in two. Someone had come to the window and stopped dead in the path of the moon.
The shadow, jumping across his feet, had startled Raoul. He swung round. Philippe’s face, blanched by the moon, lolled against his shoulder. Héloïse de Valmy’s voice said, on a sharp note of hysteria: ‘Raoul! What are you doing here? What’s wrong?’
She was backed against the light, so I couldn’t see her face, but the hand gripping the curtain was tight as a hawk’s claw. The other hand went to her heart in a gesture I had seen before.
He said slowly, his eyes on her: ‘Nothing. What should be wrong?’
She said hoarsely: ‘What’s the matter with Philippe?’
‘My dear Héloïse. Nothing at all. He’s asleep.’
I thought it better not to wait for discovery. I got to my feet.
The movement of my white dress in the shadows caught her eye and she jerked round. ‘Oh!’ It was a little choked scream.
‘Easy,’ said Raoul. ‘You’ll wake him up.’
I came forward into the moonlight. ‘I’m sorry I startled you, madame.’
‘You here? What’s going on? Is there something wrong?’
Rauol grinned at her. ‘A carouse, that’s all. An illicit night out à trois. Philippe was feeling a bit left out of the festivities, so Miss Martin and I tried to include him in, that’s all. He’s just gone to sleep. Turn the bed down, Linda, and help me get his dressing-gown off.’
Héloïse de Valmy gave a rather dazed look about her. ‘Then I did hear voices. I thought I heard someone talking. I wondered …’ Her eye fell on the tray at the fireside, with its bottles and empty glasses and denuded silver dishes. She said blankly: ‘A carouse? You really did mean a carouse?’
Raoul pulled the bedclothes up under Philippe’s chin and gave them a final pat before he turned round. ‘Certainly. He may suffer for those lobster patties in the morning, but I expect he’ll vote it worth while.’ He looked across the bed at me. ‘Let me take you down again now.’
‘I? No.’ She still sounded rather at a loss. ‘I came to see if Philippe was asleep.’
‘You – don’t mind our coming up here … bringing him some of the supper?’
‘Not at all.’ She wasn’t even looking at me. She was watching Raoul.
He said again, rather abruptly: ‘Let me take you downstairs,’ and came round the bed towards me.
Downstairs? Léon de Valmy, Monsieur Florimond, the eyebrows? I shook my head. ‘No, thank you. I – it’s late. I’ll not go down again. I’ll go to bed.’
‘As you wish.’ He glanced at Madame. ‘Héloïse?’
She bent her head and moved towards the door. I opened it and held it for her. As she passed me I said hesitantly: ‘Goodnight, madame. And thank you for … the dance. It was – I enjoyed it very much.’
She paused. In the dim light her face looked pale, the eyes shadowy. She had never looked so remote, so unreachable. ‘Goodnight, Miss Martin.’ There was no inflection whatever in the formal words.
I said quickly, almost imploringly: ‘Madame …’
She turned and went. The rich rustle of her dress was as loud in the silence as running water. She didn’t look back.
Raoul was beside me. I touched his sleeve. ‘It was true after all. You see?’
He was looking away from me, after Héloïse. He didn’t answer.
I said urgently, under my breath: ‘Raoul … don’t tell them. I can’t face it. Not yet. I – just can’t.’
I thought he hesitated. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
I said quickly: ‘Let them send me away. I’ll go to Paris. I can stay there a little while. Perhaps then we can—’
His hands on my shoulders turned me swiftly towards him, interrupting me. ‘My dear, if I’m not to tell Héloïse tonight, I’d better leave you now. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. I’ll say nothing until we’ve talked it over.’ He bent and kissed me, a brief, hard kiss. ‘Goodnight, ma mie. Sleep well …’
The door shut behind him. I heard him walk quickly down the corridor after Héloïse, as if he were in a hurry.
13
‘Yes,’ I answered you last night;
‘No,’ this morning, sir, I say.
Colours seen by candlelight
Will not look the same by day.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning: The Lady’s Yes.
Next morning a note was brought up to the schoolroom at breakfast-time by Bernard, Léon de Valmy’s man.
It looked as if it had been written in a tearing hurry, and it read:
My dear,
I can’t stay today as I’d hoped. I find I must go back to Paris – a damnable ‘must’. Forgive me, and try not to worry about anything. I’ll be back on Thursday morning without fail, and we can get things worked out then.
Héloïse said nothing to me, and (as I’d promised you I wouldn’t) I didn’t talk to her. I don’t think you need worry too much about that side of it, m’amie; if they have anything to say they’ll undoubtedly say it to me, not you. Till Thursday, then, pretend, if you can – if you dare! – that nothing has happened. I doubt if you’ll see much of Héloïse anyway. She overdid things, and I imagine she’ll keep her bed.
Yours,
R.
As a first love-letter, there was nothing in it to make my hands as unsteady as they were when I folded it and looked up at the waiting Bernard. He was watching me; the black eyes in that impassively surly face were shrewd and somehow wary. I thought I saw a gleam of speculation there, and reflected wryly that it was very like Raoul to send his messages by the hand of the man who hadn’t been out of Léon de Valmy’s call for twenty years. I said coolly: ‘Did Monsieur Raoul give you this himself?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
‘Has he left already?’
‘Oh yes, mademoiselle. He drove down to catch the early flight to Paris.’
‘I see. Thank you. And how is Mrs. Seddon today, Bernard?’
‘Better, mademoiselle, but the doctor says she must stay quiet in her bed for a day or two.’
‘Well, I hope she’ll soon be fit again,’ I said. ‘Have someone let her know I was asking after her, will you please?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
‘Bernard,’ said Philippe, putting down his cup, ‘you have a dance tonight, don’t you?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Down in the village?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘Do you have supper there as well?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘What sort of things do you have for supper?’
The man’s dark face remained wooden, his eyes guarded – unfriendly, even. ‘That I really couldn’t say, monsieur.’
‘All right, Bernard,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
As he went I wondered, yet again, what pretty little Berthe could see in him.
It was a very unpleasant and also a very long day.
I felt curiously bereft. Raoul had gone. Florimond left soon after breakfast. Mrs. Seddon did as Bernard had prophesied and kept her room, and Berthe went about her tasks all day with that withdrawn and rather shamefaced expression which seemed – if it were possible – faintly to image Bernard’s sullen mask.
Small wonder, then, that when Philippe and I were out for our afternoon walk, and a jeep roared past us carrying several men and driven by William Blake, I responded to his cheerful wave with such fervour that Philippe looked curiously up at me and remarked:
‘He is a great friend of yours, that one, hein?’
‘He’s English,’ I said simply, then smiled at myself. ‘Do you know what irony is, Philippe? L’ironie?’
‘No, what?’
I looked at him doubtfully, but I had let myself in for a definition now and plunged a little wildly at it. ‘L’ironie. … I suppost its Chance, or Fate (le destin), or something, that follows you around and spies on what you do and say, and then uses it against you at the worst possible time. No, that’s not a very good way of putting it. Skip it, mon lapin; I’m not at my best this afternoon.’
‘But I am reading about that this morning,’ said Philippe. ‘It has a special name. It followed you comme vous dìtes and when you do something silly it – how do you say it? – came against you. It was called Nemesis.’
I stopped short and looked at him. I said: ‘Philippe, my love, I somehow feel it only wanted that … And it’s practically the Ides of March and there are ravens flying upside down on our left and I walked the wrong way round Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts last Thursday afternoon, and—’
‘You didn’t,’ said Philippe. ‘It was raining.’
‘Was it?’
‘You know it was.’ He chuckled and gave a ghost of a skip. ‘You do say silly things sometimes, don’t you?’
‘All too often.’
‘But I like it. Go on. About the ravens flying upside down. Do they really? Why? Go on, mademoiselle.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ I said. ‘Words fail me.’
On our way in from the walk we met Monsieur de Valmy.
Instead of coming up the zigzag itself we took the short cut which ran steeply upwards, here and there touching the northerly loops of the road. We crossed the gravel sweep at the top. As we went through the stableyard archway, making for the side door, the wheelchair came quietly out of some outbuilding and Léon de Valmy’s voice said, in French: ‘Ah, Philippe. Good afternoon, Miss Martin. Are you just back from your walk?’
The quick colour burned my face as I turned to answer. ‘Good afternoon, monsieur. Yes. We’ve just been along the valley road, and we came back up the short cut.’
He smiled. I could see no trace of disapproval or coolness in his face. Surely if I were privately under sentence of dismissal, he wouldn’t act quite so normally – more, go out of his way to greet us in this unruffled friendly fashion? He said, including Philippe in the w
‘Well, we have rather.’ I added: ‘I’m nervous, so we keep near the road.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t blame you.’ He turned to Philippe with a pleasant twinkle. ‘And how are you this morning, after your excesses of last night?’
‘Excesses?’ said Philippe nervously.
‘I’m told you had a midnight feast last night … an “illicit night out à trois” was the phrase, I believe. No nightmares afterwards?’
Philippe said: ‘No, mon oncle.’ The amused dark gaze turned to me.
I said, almost as nervously as Philippe: ‘You don’t mind? Perhaps it was a little unorthodox, but—’
‘My dear Miss Martin, why should I? We leave Philippe very completely to your care and judgment, and so far we’ve been amply proved right. Please don’t imagine that my wife and myself are waiting to criticise every move that’s out of pattern. We know very little about the care of children. That’s up to you. And a “special treat” now and again is an essential, I believe? It was kind of you to spare time and thought to the child in the middle of your own pleasure … I hope you enjoyed the dance?’
‘Yes, oh yes, I did! I didn’t see you last night to thank you for inviting me, but may I thank you now, monsieur? It was wonderful. I enjoyed it very much.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I was afraid you might feel rather too much a stranger among us, but I gather that Raoul looked after you.’
Nothing but polite inquiry. No glint of amusement. No overtone to the pleasant voice.
‘Yes, monsieur, thank you, he did … And how is Madame de Valmy this afternoon? She’s not ill, is she?’
‘Oh no, only tired. She’ll be making an appearance at the dance in the village tonight, so she’s resting today.’
‘Then she won’t expect us – Philippe and me – in the salon tonight?’
‘No. I think you must miss that.’ The smile at Philippe was slightly mischievous now. ‘Unless you’d like to visit me instead?’
Philippe stiffened, but I said: ‘As you wish, monsieur. In the library?’