Authors: Elizabeth Buchan
‘I will do so, Monsieur.’
Kit hesitated. ‘Could you tell Miss Chudleigh one more thing, please, Sister? It’s important. Could you say that the house comes from the American shares, and from
nothing
else. She will understand.’
He held out his hand for the pen. Careful to avoid physical contact, the nun gave it to him.
It has been agreed between Sir Christopher Dysart and Miss Marguerite Chudleigh that the former should take possession of his son at the request of the latter. The child has been handed over willingly... the father undertakes to convey the child to a safe and suitable home... etc.
Dated 21 May 1932.
There were three copies written in small, neat script, and Daisy’s signature was appended at the bottom of each. The unfamiliar version of her name startled Kit.
Without wasting any more time, he dipped the pen into the inkwell and signed beside Daisy.
‘Thank you, Monsieur.’ The nun blotted the paper. ‘I am sure you will understand, Monsieur, that we needed to be quite sure that we are permitting the right thing.’ She looked down at the papers on the table. ‘The child is the most important consideration.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Kit picked up his hat.
‘We will give one copy to Mademoiselle Chudleigh. The other will be placed in our archives. This is your copy. And here... here is the birth certificate.’ She regarded Kit without a trace of sympathy. This is an extraordinary, distasteful business, she seemed to want to say. Instead, she clasped her hands into her sleeves and turned towards the door. ‘If you will have the goodness to wait for a few minutes, Monsieur, the baby will be brought to you.’
Kit toyed with the idea of making a second dash to Daisy’s room and rejected it. They had said goodbye, and that part was over. But for Kit, the prison gates of his childhood had been pushed open.
It was – had been – more painful and prolonged than he ever could have imagined, this sloughing of the passion first acknowledged at the Villa Lafayette. He had read once that to master pain required room: the space of a desert dune or mountain sweep, rather than a portress’s tiny cell.
He thought of Daisy lying in the white bed, and traced every breath, every murmur, every heartbeat. He smoothed his finger over the wide mouth, the forehead, the full breasts. Each ache of her shrinking, still bleeding womb, each flicker of discomfort as her body returned to normal, the heavy weight of fatigue on her eyelids, all were his. Her tears were his. As he waited for their son, Kit possessed Daisy and said goodbye.
The baby could be heard wailing long before he was brought into the room. A thin, reedy howl, accompanied by a pair of feet moving down the corridor.
Please take him, Daisy had said, turning her tired, drained face to his. I owe it to him. The world, you know, is not a kind place. I trust you, Kit. You will know what to do. Don’t worry, I won’t ask for him back. Not ever.
The ward sister was all smiles under her coif. ‘Here is the little man,’ she said, relinquishing a parcel wrapped in a shawl. She peered at Kit. ‘Apprehensive, Monsieur? The responsibility... Do not worry, there is milk made up in the basket. There is spare clothing and I have written out a timetable with instructions for the feeding. Your nurse will be able to deal with it.’
Kit hefted his son from one arm to another and wished he had had the sense to bring in Mademoiselle Motte. ‘Thank you, Sister. You are kindness itself.’
Her head dipped and swooped like a white swallow. ‘The baby is in good health,’ she said.
‘And his mother?’
The white swallow came to an abrupt standstill. ‘She is as well as can be expected, Monsieur. Now, if you will excuse me.’
And that begrudged piece of information was all Kit had left of Daisy.
Mademoiselle Motte fussed over settling the baby into the back of the car. According to the registry in Nice, she was both competent and experienced and Kit was more than happy to leave the details to her. Eventually, the baby fell asleep in the cumbersome travelling box (bought at some expense), and Kit and Mademoiselle Motte climbed into the car. The Dion eased its way out of Antibes.
From time to time, Kit was conscious that Mademoiselle Motte sent him a furtive glance from under her hat. Was she, it asked, expected to make conversation during the long night ahead? No, said Kit to himself. Definitely not.
He negotiated a corner and said, ‘You must try and get as much sleep as possible, Mademoiselle. I don’t know how often you will need to feed the baby.’
She shrugged and looked straight ahead so he could see only her profile. She had a pretty, delicate nose. ‘Perhaps twice. I don’t know him yet.’ He could tell that she considered the arrangement odd but, in receipt of a substantial payment, was prepared to go along with it.
‘We will stop for dinner in about an hour.’
She shrugged a second time. ‘Of course, Monsieur.’
They ate at an unprepossessing looking hotel at the side of the road. Mademoiselle Motte ate her way silently through
moules farcies, boeuf provençale,
some excellent local cheese and a
tarte aux pruneaux.
She also drank a respectable amount of wine.
The sun set in a swirl of red light, and a black cloth was thrown over the landscape. They motored through scrub and pine, dotted with stone villages whose oil lamps sent cornets of light into the blackness. At Avignon the road turned and they headed north, leaving the scent of the south behind.
Near Montelimar, Mademoiselle Motte became restless. ‘Monsieur,’ she said finally, ‘I think... I think I must ask you to stop. I do not feel well.’
Kit brought the car to a halt. Mademoiselle Motte wrenched open the door and stumbled out into the night. Sounds that should have been kept private floated back to him: obviously she was being copiously sick. Kit sighed and swivelled in the seat to check the baby. He, at any rate, was asleep.
Mademoiselle Motte did not reappear for fifteen minutes or so and Kit was leaning against the car, smoking, when she lurched back into sight, the linen coat now creased and stained.
‘I apologize, Monsieur. Perhaps it was the motion of the car.’
Near Valence, they were forced to stop again. This time she spent considerably longer in the darkness and when she dragged herself back, she was moaning.
‘My God,’ said Kit, taking one look at her. ‘I’d better get help.’
Smelling of vomit which she had tried to disguise with cologne, Mademoiselle Motte hunched into the seat and pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. Behind them, the baby stirred and woke, and she said faintly, ‘I am afraid, Monsieur, I don’t feel well enough to give him his bottle.’
Kit swore and got out to retrieve the basket stored on the ledge at the back of the car. Inside it, he found a curved bottle wedged against the side wrapped in a napkin. He extracted the baby from the box in the back, clamped the now screaming little body against his and applied the teat to the open mouth.
The baby ignored it, and continued to wail. Kit looked up at the sky dotted with stars. He had survived desert treks, inadequate food and little water. He had been fever-ridden in filthy rooms and in danger from angry natives. Surely to God he could manage to give his son a bottle?
Once again he tried to insert the teat. The baby opened his mouth, drew back his lips, caught the smell of milk and roared even harder. Then, unexpectedly, the lips swooped down on the teat. There was silence and Kit realized he was sweating.
‘Mademoiselle Motte,’ he called softly, ‘is he supposed to finish the bottle?’
She stirred and groaned and did not answer. Kit peered at the bottle in the dark: the milk level was descending. Five minutes later, a bubbling noise indicated that the bottle was empty. The baby let go the teat, turned his head and gave a fretful whinge. Kit stared at the shape in his arms. He couldn’t still be hungry? Now awkward to hold, the baby tensed and gave a sharp cry. Kit threw the bottle onto the driver’s seat and hauled the baby upright. The small form was now rigid and screaming in earnest, a different calibre of scream from previously. Frightened that he had given him too much milk, Kit did the only thing he could think of and held him up against his shoulder. Then he began to pace up and down along the gritty road.
‘Shush,’ he said into the darkness. ‘Shush.’
The dark outlines of the trees lining the road did not seem friendly.
The little head on Kit’s shoulder reared up, and then sagged like a stuffed cotton doll. Instinctively, Kit put up a hand to support it and felt the warm, downy skull fit into his palm. Again the baby screamed, and Kit began to feel panic edge into his stomach.
Suddenly, the baby belched explosively, and the crying faltered, drained away and stopped. The peace that followed was invested with a miraculous quality, despite a damp stain spreading over Kit’s shoulder.
Delighted by his triumph of baby management, he grinned up at the sky. ‘Good boy,’ he said.
‘
Fire!
’ screamed Matty, knowing her voice would not carry very far, and flung herself down the main staircase at Hinton Dysart. ‘Fire in the stable! Get up, everyone!
Please! Please get up!’
She skidded to a halt on the rug in the hall and looked up at the landings. No one answered her. Nothing stirred in the blackness. She cupped her hands and screamed through them,
‘Fire!’
Then, in desperation, she seized the hammer and beat the gong on the telephone table.
‘Get up! Get up!’
She jettisoned the hammer and flew down the passage towards the back door. The door to the Exchequer was open and the fierce, unnatural light flickered through its window. Matty stopped only to dart into the laundry room and scoop up a handful of sheets that had been airing before tackling the bolts on the back door.
Tyson was in the stable-yard filling buckets from the tap. He had not had time to put his boots on and his stockinged feet slipped over the cobbles. Already the game larder was ablaze and the flames were leaping towards the gun room.
‘Will it reach the house?’ Matty shrieked at him above the roar. ‘Which way is it blowing?’
‘From the west. I’ve telephoned for the fire engine. The house should be all right if it gets here quickly.’ Tyson’s face was a lurid black and orange. Behind them the horses drummed their hoofs against the stalls and whinnied in fear. Matty thrust the sheets at Tyson.
‘Help me wet them.’
Holding boxes of ammunition, Ned emerged from the gun room, ran across the yard and placed them on the lawn. Then he dived back into the gun room.
‘
Quickly!
’ said Matty. ‘The horses! How long will the fire engine take?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am.’ Tyson filled the next bucket. ‘I must douse that wall to try and stop the flames getting a hold on the house.’ He pointed.
Matty’s fear rose. She made herself say, ‘Where are the halters?’
‘In the stalls.’
‘I’ll see to the horses.’
Oh, God. Not horses, not horses, not horses. Matty felt her skin turn icy in the heat of the fire. Then she thought, You damn well do it, Matty Dysart.
Choking in the smoke and debris, the horses were almost demented with fright. Matty fought with the bolt fastening the door of the pony’s stall and wrenched it open. With a shudder and a shriek, the pony pressed back against the wall, gathered itself up and flung forward, hoofs scrabbling on the flagstones, sending Matty reeling.
‘Hey...’ Matty pulled herself upright and ran after the terrified pony. It swirled in a crazy circle, mane and tail skirling and drifting, and disappeared up the path towards the walled garden.
Matty stumbled out of the stall.
Behind her, flames slid up the central block towards the cupola and roared as they torched the roof. Shaking with terror, Matty hesitated, then hurled herself at Guinevere’s box, where the horse sidled and sweated and rolled her eyes. Catching up a sheet, Matty slid back the bolt and let herself in.
‘Easy,’ she said, her hands, clumsy with fear, and tried to remember what Tyson or Flora did with horses. Guinevere tossed her head and backed away. In desperation, Matty grasped her mane with one hand, edging the other towards the halter hanging on the peg.
‘Come on,’ she whispered, grabbing the halter. Her fingers scraped over the velvet nose and Guinevere jerked. Matty had a vision of being trampled under the huge hoofs.
For Christ’s sake, Emma Goldman, she thought, don’t desert me now.
‘Your mistress wouldn’t want you to be difficult, would she?’ she whispered to the horse. ‘I know you’re frightened, so am I, we’re both frightened, but just do as... you... are... told.’
For a fraction of a second, Guinevere listened, not sure whether to trust this voice or not. Matty seized that second, and thrust the band over the terrifying head and pulled the horse’s ears through. With a scream, Guinevere threw up her head, almost wrenching Matty’s arm from its socket, and swung her haunches against the wall. Matty was pulled forward and smashed into the wood. Her hands bleeding from the rope she grabbed the sheet and somehow, she never knew how, wrapped it around Guinevere’s head.
‘Come on,’ she said, low and soft, as the animal quietened. ‘Come on.’
If she doesn’t come...
Matty said to herself.
If she doesn’t come...
She pulled at the halter rope with one hand while with the other, she eased open the stall door. The glare was brighter and the heat hit her. The horse stiffened and, for a second, Matty thought she was going to refuse to move, but the wet sheet cut off the stimulus, and Guinevere allowed Matty to lead her out of the stall.
Talking to her in the soft, gentle voice, Matty pulled Guinevere up the path towards the walled garden where iron tethering rings were set into the wall. Then she collapsed panting and shaking with shock against it.
Holding the baby in one arm, Kit banged at the front door of the Hotel des Voyageurs which looked neither prosperous nor welcoming. Wild poppies and flax wove through the slats in the wooden fence and the iron bell-pull was rusty.
Anxious for Mademoiselle Motte, who no longer responded when spoken to, Kit knocked harder. In the crook of his arm, the baby made snuffling noises.