We'll meet again

Encounter in Paris

I COULD NOT DESCRIBE my feelings when, waiting with Violetta in the shelter of the rocks, I heard that voice from the past. Jacques in England! And at such a time! Here was the past, which I had hoped was buried forever, come back to confront me. It seems that everything we do remains forever; there is no escaping from it.

I can remember Violetta quoting something like this once:

The moving finger writes

And having writ moves on

Nor all thy piety nor wit

Can lure it back to cancel half a line

Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.

Violetta always liked poetry and often quotes it to great effect. I thought of this poem now. How true it was. Many a trouble had she covered up for me throughout our childhood, and my affair with Jacques was the biggest of them all. She had helped me to emerge from it with as little discredit as possible.

The war had helped, for I returned just at that time when it was declared and people had other things with which to occupy their minds than the affairs of an erring wife.

Yes, I was indeed impulsive. It was always act first and think afterwards; Violetta would be there to help if need be. But, of course, when I was about to become involved in a mad escapade, I never thought of the consequences until afterwards.

There had been that time in Germany when I first met Dermot. There he was, an Englishman on holiday, as we were. It was all so natural—a holiday romance which ended in wedding bells. Quite an ordinary story, really. I enjoyed every minute of it at the time. Dermot had all the qualities of a romantic hero—handsome, presentable, heir to a large estate, and very much in love with me. Up to that time, I had been a little disappointed in the holiday. All that intense nationalism, all that clicking of heels, the great Hitler and the rise of the new Germany—and then, of course, it became a little sinister. But it was all so far removed from our lives. When the holiday was over, we should go home and what was happening in Germany seemed of little importance to us. I later realized I was wrong about that—as I was about so many things.

We came home and my family visited Dermot’s and everything went smoothly; it seemed the most natural thing in the world that we should marry and live happily ever after.

Perhaps I began to feel a few twinges before the wedding. It is strange how different people can be in certain settings. In Germany Dermot was the romantic hero, rescuing us when we were lost in the forest, defending us during that frightful scene in the schloss when the Hitler Youth tried to break up the place because the owners—our friends—were Jewish. Yes, he was wonderful during that time.

Then, back in Cornwall, he seemed less heroic, seen against the background of Tregarland, the ancestral home. He was in awe of that strange old man, his father, and he was overshadowed by Gordon Lewyth; there was, in truth, something sinister about the entire household. It was not quite as I had imagined it.

I realized then what I had done. It had been like that often during my life. It seems fun to do something until the advantages dwindle away, and one begins to count the costs.

My sister came and I felt better then. She is like a part of myself—the reasoning, sensible part. It never occurred to me until I went away how very important she was to me.

Well, there I was, in the house in which I had never felt entirely comfortable, married to a man with whom I was falling rapidly out of love. I was very fond of my little son, but I am not the maternal type, and a child could never make up for the lack of a satisfactory lover. It was not that Dermot’s affections for me had wandered. He remained devoted to me, but he was no longer exciting. I found Tregarland overpowering; the closeness of the sea disturbed me, and I wanted to get away. There was no one to whom I could explain my feelings—not even Violetta.

And then Jacques arrived.

That silly feud between the houses of Tregarland and Jermyn has played quite a part in our lives. It goes back a hundred years or so when a Jermyn girl and Tregarland boy were lovers—our Cornish Montague and Capulet—and the girl drowned herself on the Tregarland beach after her lover who had tried to elope with her had been caught in a mantrap set by the Jermyns, and was maimed for life. This resulted in years of enmity between the two families.

My dear sister Violetta and the charming Jowan Jermyn decided that the whole thing was ridiculous and they shocked the whole neighborhood by meeting, falling in love, becoming engaged to be married, and making a continuation of the feud a nonsense.

I think the locals shook their heads and said no good would come of it and they might have been right, because Jowan had not returned from Dunkirk. I trembled for Violetta. She was not like I am. She would not love lightly.

There were times when I felt I had been caught. I could picture the years ahead. I had been trapped here. I was married to a man who had ceased to attract me. I had a child who was more fond of Violetta and Nanny Crabtree than of me. I was not meant for the domestic life. I had always wanted excitement and admiration. Kind and gentle as Dermot was, he was not the ardent lover whom I required to give me contentment.

And then I had met Jacques.

It was Christmas. The feud was being thrust aside by Jowan, his grandmother, and Violetta. The grandmother was one of those sensible, down-to-earth women; she lived for her adored grandson in whom she could see no fault. She liked Violetta, which was fortunate—though she might think she was not quite good enough for her wonderful Jowan, but who could be? And everything seemed set fair in that direction. Then came this wretched war and the possibility of Jowan’s being removed from the scene forever.

That was something I dared not contemplate. I feared it would have such an effect on my sister and I could not bear her to change.

It was Christmas time when Jacques was in Cornwall and it was at Jermyn Priory that I first met him. I was feeling particularly disillusioned with my life at that time, deeply aware of the mistake I had made, seeing the dreary years ahead—and there was Jacques.

It seemed that Jowan had met him somewhere on the Continent. He must have talked to Jacques about Cornwall and said something like, “You must come and see us if you are ever our way.” It was one of those casual meetings at which such invitations are lightly issued and seem little likely to come to anything at the time. And then fate plays an unexpected trick, and that seemingly insignificant fact is the catalyst which changes our lives.

Certainly it would have been better for me if Jowan had not met Jacques Dubois and issued that casual invitation.

Well, Jacques came. He was staying at one of the inns in Poldown. He had a friend with him—Hans Fleisch, I remember, a German and an artist, as Jacques was.

They had arrived with their sketch pads and declared themselves excited by the beauty of the Cornish coast. I remember so vividly how I felt at that time—depressed by the dullness and monotony of life. Jacques was different from anyone I had known, very worldly, everything that Dermot was not. He seemed to sense how I felt and he understood it. He was sympathetic and very attentive. I went home from that gathering at Jermyn’s in that state of excitement which I needed in my life.

The next day I met him when he was painting on the cliffs. It was one of those mild winter days which one gets hereabouts. He looked remarkably pleased to see me. I sat beside him and asked if I were interrupting his work. Indeed not, he said. The work could only interrupt his meeting with me and could be set aside with the greatest pleasure. At times like that, Jacques always knew the right thing to say.

We walked and the time flew by. I had no idea I was with him so long.

“I am here every day,” he told me. “The weather is not always as good as this, but if it is not, I shall be at the inn. I’d like to show you my work sometime.”

For three days we met on the cliffs. Then I began to see how it was between us. To me it was more than a passing flirtation. It was arranged that I should go along to the inn to see him. Of course, if anyone observed my going to his room, there would be a good deal of talk. It seemed an added excitement to plan my visits and seek an opportunity to slip up to his room unseen.

The outcome was inevitable. In a short time we were lovers. And what an exciting lover he was! How different from Dermot!

I knew how shocked my family would have been if they had known, and that included Violetta. She had always been rather conventional. I could not imagine her straying from the path of virtue. I think I was more apprehensive of her discovering than I was of Dermot.

I have always been the sort of person who lives in the present. Violetta calls it the “butterfly existence.”

“Fluttering hither and thither,” she said, “round the candle until you scorch your wings.”

It could not last, of course. Though I made myself believe it would. Jacques would not stay forever and then I would return to my old, dull existence.

Then one day Jacques said: “Why not come with me? You’d like Paris.”

I said: “How wonderful!” and let myself believe it was possible.

I suppose Jacques’s nature is really like mine. We started to plan. I love planning. I think up the wildest ideas, which I make myself believe in while they last. In the past Violetta had been there with her common sense. “How absurd you are being!” “How could you possibly do that? You’re not being logical.” And she would have shown me right from the beginning how stupid I was. But she was not there and Jacques and I used to lie in the bed in the inn where there was scarcely room for us both, and float into that world of fantasy. We made plans and deluded ourselves into thinking they were not impossible.

“I have it!” I cried. “The feud.”

Jacques’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying these plans as much as I was. They certainly helped me to evade the unpleasant fact that parting could not be far off.

I said, “In the feud … this Jermyn girl—I can’t remember her name, so I’ll call her Juliet—was so heartbroken because they wouldn’t let her marry the man she wanted to that she went down to the beach and walked into the sea. Dermot’s first wife was also drowned in that way. Suppose I arranged a ‘drowning accident’? I know. I’ll go down to the beach every morning to have a bathe, and one day they’ll find my bathrobe and shoes and I shall have disappeared.”

Jacques laughed. It was a brilliant idea. His eyes sparkled and he started to plan how we would do it.

We made the wildest suggestions. It was not impossible. They would think I was drowned. I did not want poor Dermot to know I was tired of him. That would hurt him too much. We would fix it all beautifully. I would simply have gone bathing and not come back. Just as Juliet Jermyn had done, and as Dermot’s first wife had done.

We had to make sure that the truth about my departure was never discovered.

We planned and planned. We were caught up in the idea—and then somehow it became a reality. Jacques said: “You can bring a few things with you. Not much, or they’ll get suspicious. There’s a snag. You’ll want your passport.”

We were thoughtful.

“Why should they think to look for a passport?” I asked.

“They might not immediately. But sometime perhaps somebody will.”

“We can’t worry about a detail like that. They’d think I’d lost it. I do lose things.”

So the plan was that I should slip a few things out of the house while Jacques would be waiting for me in the car Hans Fleisch had hired. He would lend it to Jacques without demur. And so we should be ready for the day of departure. I had to make a habit of taking a bathe in the early morning just for a few days before we left. Then on the night we were to get away, I would slip out of the house and join Jacques. First I would put my bathrobe and shoes on the beach and people would believe I had gone for my early morning swim.

Hans Fleisch would drive us to the coast and return to Poldown afterwards, for he planned to stay another week or so. It was all quite simple.

My conscience worried me that night. I was glad Violetta was not then at Tregarland’s. I was sure she would have guessed I was, as she would say, “up to something.” I promised myself that later I would find some way of seeing her. I would write to her and she would come to Paris. I had a miniature of her—a beautiful thing, and she had one of me—and I took it with me.

And it all went according to plan.

I know now that my clothes were found on the beach, just as I intended, and they all believed I had been drowned—except Violetta. There was that strong bond between us and instinctively she knew I was not dead.

Well, she knows the truth now, and when I did come back, she helped me to concoct a story of my loss of memory and being picked up by a yacht. Violetta said this talk would never have been accepted but for the fact that the war had come and such affairs as mine were trivial compared with that.

Such was my nature that I could forget all the difficulties, even the enormity of what I was doing, in the excitement of the moment. I know I am shallow and pleasure-seeking, but I found Jacques so exciting and amusing, and I had convinced myself that I must escape from the eerie atmosphere of Tregarland and that sometime in the future I should be able to justify myself in what I had done.

There is something intoxicating about the very air of Paris. During my first days there I was so exhilarated that I told myself that everything that came after would be worth it. During that period, I stilled my conscience which, in spite of myself, kept intruding. I would think of Tristan, Violetta, Dermot, and my parents all mourning for me—for they would mourn deeply, in spite of my unworthiness. I wished that I could find some means of telling them that I was alive. Violetta will know, I promised myself. She must. And that comforted me a little, and for those days when I walked the streets of Paris, buying the clothes I needed, absorbing that atmosphere which is indigenous to the city, I lived on excitement. I loved the cafes with their gay awnings, and the little tables at which people sat, drinking their coffee or wine. I loved the famous streets and the narrow ones, and the shops, the smell of freshly baked bread which came from some of them, and the remains of the old city before Hausemann had rebuilt it, after the damage it had suffered during the Revolution.

I spent a certain amount of time strolling through the streets, looking at the places which had been only names to me before. I loved the ancient bridges, and I gazed in wonder at the majestic Notre Dame. I wished I had paid more attention to my lessons, and I thought if Violetta were here she would be able to tell me a great deal about these places.

Jacques did not accompany me on these journeys. He was not the type to wander round gaping at everything like a tourist. He had work to do. He had changed a little. He was no less the ardent lover, and that part of our relationship remained. It was just that, when I expressed the excitement I felt in Paris and wished that he would show me certain places, he became remote and evasive. He had some sketches to do. He was not free that day.

“If only Violetta were here,” I said.

He smiled and nodded vaguely. He could not understand what existed between me and Violetta.

I had always imagined that artists lived in attics in abject poverty and went to cafes to celebrate when they sold a picture and there caroused with their impecunious friends.

This was not the case with Jacques.

He had a small house on the Left Bank, it was true, but he lived in a certain degree of comfort. There was an attic in which he worked because the light was from the north. But it was just his working area and below was an ordinary dwelling which one might expect anywhere.

In the basement were a husband and wife who looked after his needs. They were Jean and Marie, middle-aged, eager to please and not really surprised to see me, which was a little disconcerting.

Jacques was clearly by no means poor. He gave me money to buy clothes and, providing I could subdue my conscience, I was happy during those first weeks.

Jacques worked now and then in the attic which he called his studio. People called often. Some of them were sitters, I presumed; others came and he would take them up to the studio to talk. He did show me one or two portraits. I was hoping he would suggest painting me, but he did not.

People sometimes called in the evenings. Marie would cook a meal for them and Jean would wait at table. I would be present on such occasions, of course, but they spoke such rapid French that I could understand little of what they said. When I told Jacques this, he laughed and said I had missed nothing I needed to know. It was all gossip.

“Do they talk about what is going on in Europe?” I asked. “People were always going on about that at home.”

“It is mentioned.”

“They were all worked up about it in England. I expect they are here. Yet usually they all seem so much more excitable than we do.”

He shrugged his shoulders and I sensed he did not want to talk about the possibilities of war. I was in agreement with that. I had grown weary of the subject before I left home.

About ten days after I had been there, Hans Fleisch came to the house. We greeted each other warmly. He had been a great help to us. He bowed, and clicked his heels, which took me right back to that awful time at the schloss. He asked me in his stilted and rather Germanic English if I were enjoying France. I told him I found it most exciting.

“Jacques is very happy that you are here.”

“What happened in Poldown when they discovered I had gone?” I asked.

He was thoughtful and then said: “They believed you were drowned. That you had gone swimming. It was not a wise thing to do, they said. The sea can be treacherous, and you were lost.”

“Did you happen to see any member of my family?”

“No, but I heard they had come to the house.”

“My sister … ?”

“Yes, I think your sister.”

“I see. So … the story was accepted.”

“It would seem so.”

I thought to myself: Oh, Violetta, dear mother, dear father, I hope you don’t mourn me too much.

I think it was then that I began to regard what I had done more seriously.

I was still fascinated by Jacques. The physical relationship between us was perfect—for him, too, I was sure; but I had built up such an image of life in the Latin Quarter that I was vaguely disappointed because ours seemed so conventional. I had pictured artists coming in every day. I remembered stories I had heard of Manet, Monet, Gauguin, Cezanne, and the cafe life of the Bohemians. That was completely missing. Jacques seemed quite affluent. This was perverse of me. I should be grateful. Did I want to live in poverty because it seemed artistic for a moment or two?

I began to know one or two people who came fairly frequently to the studio. One of these, to whom I took a liking, was Georges Mansard. He was a tall man with a ready smile and blue, rather penetrating eyes. He was very fair and did not look very French. He spoke good English and was very interested in me. I always was drawn to people who were. It was something to do with an inferiority complex I had acquired, having grown up lacking Violetta’s intelligence. I enjoyed feeling superior to her in the matter of feminine charm.

The first time Georges Mansard came to the house, I was in the house alone, for Jacques had gone out that morning. He had a way of going off suddenly, not saying where, and I learned not to protest when he returned. Jacques was the sort of man who did not like his actions questioned. It was a trait which was beginning to irritate me.

I heard someone talking to Jean and Marie below and I went down to see who it was.

Jean said: “Monsieur has come to see Monsieur Dubois.”

Delighted to have a visitor, I said: “Oh, do come up. It may be he will not be long.”

The visitor looked pleased and turned to nod at Jean, who looked faintly disturbed, but I said: “That’s all right, Jean. Perhaps,” I went on, “you would bring some coffee.” Then to the guest: “Or would you prefer wine?”

The French seemed to consume a great deal of wine, so I was not surprised when he chose it.

He went up into the room which was called the salon. It was not exactly large but was comfortably furnished. I waved to a chair with a little table beside it and went to the cabinet to get the wine.

Then he told me his name was Georges Mansard and he was a friend of Jacques.

“I heard that you had arrived from England,” he said. “Tell me, how do you like Paris?”

“Enchanting,” I told him.

“You have visited the well-known spots, I’ll be bound. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower. What do you think of Montmartre?”

“I was delighted by all,” I said.

“Your home was … ?”

“In Cornwall. We had a place right on the coast.”

“That must also have been enchanting.”

“It is reckoned to be so.”

He lifted his glass. “Welcome to France.”

We talked easily and his English, being only slightly accented, was not difficult to understand. He knew England. He had even been to Cornwall. He himself came from the south of France, near Bordeaux.

“Where the wine comes from,” I said.

“Exactly so. All the best wine in France … in the world … comes from the Médoc.” He lifted his hands and smiled whimsically. “Of course, there will be many who deny this … for instance those who do not have the good fortune to live among those delectable vines.” He smiled and looked into his glass. “This is a good claret.”

“I am glad. I am sure that Monsieur Dubois, like most of his countrymen, would drink only the best.”

He told me a great deal about Bordeaux and how he came to Paris on business, marketing his wines.

“We have an office here, you see.”

“So I suppose you travel back and forth to Bordeaux frequently,” I said.

“That is so.”

“I thought you must be an artist when you first came.”

“Oh, do I look like one?”

“No … I don’t think so. How does an artist look? One imagines them in flowing smocks, splashed with paint—but I have found them not like that at all.”

“This is the Latin Quarter. This is where they abound.”

“I suppose the days of La Bohème are no more.”

“I expect things have changed now. There is the art of commerce. What do you say, commercial art? This is more now to employ the artists. They are not so poor. It is not a matter of exchanging a picture for a meal, if you understand.”

“I do.”

He stayed for two hours and I felt elated by his visit.

When Jacques returned and I told him Georges Mansard had called, he received the news nonchalantly.

“He’s a charming man,” I commented. “We got on very well.”

“I am sure you did. I knew he would be enchanted by my little cabbage.”

He seized me and swung me round. We danced. Our steps, like everything else, fitted perfectly.

He stopped suddenly, kissed me intensely and said: “It seems years since I saw you.”

That was how it was with Jacques.

Georges Mansard called the next day and went up to the attic where he remained with Jacques for a long time. He greeted me like an old friend before he went up. I guessed they were talking about wine and Georges was going to get an order. He had talked very enthusiastically about his products during our conversation the previous day and had betrayed his pride in them.

“I hope you got a good order,” I said to him as he was leaving.

Georges Mansard smiled broadly.

“Very good,” he said. “Very good indeed.”

He came fairly frequently. I gathered that he was a friend of Jacques besides being his wine merchant, but I met him often in the streets, so often, in fact, that I began to think he sought me out.

Violetta always said that I changed when I was in the company of men. I opened out, she said, like a flower does in the sun or when it is given needed water. She is right, of course. I am frivolous and susceptible to admiration, but I do pride myself in knowing my weaknesses.

When we met he would suggest we take a glass of wine together; he knew the right place to take me. It was a kind of wine bar with secluded corners where people could talk in peace. He told me a great deal about his family’s winery and was quite eulogistic describing the gathering of grapes; then he would tell me about the pests, the inclement weather, and all the hazards that had to be watched.

He knew, of course, that I had left my home to go off with Jacques. He talked often of Jacques and the people who called at the studio; he was one of those people who is very interested in others and in what is going on.

When I was alone I liked to stroll in and out of the secondhand book shops which abound on the Left Bank. I constantly thought how much Violetta would like to have been there. Then I would grow morbid, wishing that she were with me and thinking how different it would have been if she were and we were on holiday together, carefree, eventually to return to our real home in Caddington. Then the enormity of what I had done would be brought home to me. I thought of them all mourning me.

If I had known then that Violetta would become engaged to Jowan Jermyn and in the course of events would become my neighbor, I might never have left Tregarland. But what was the use? It was done now. Characteristically, I had plunged into this adventure. It was the sort of thing I had been doing all my life—but never so irrevocably as I had now.

I had realized it was a mistake—perhaps the greatest of my life. What I had felt for Jacques was slowly slipping away. Not only for me, but for him. I recognized the signs. As for myself, here I was, in a foreign land, dead to all I had known in the past … my sister … my beloved family … my husband, who, after all, had cared for me, and my child.

It was no use. I deserved whatever was coming to me. I knew I did. But that did not make it any easier to bear—in fact, it only made it harder because of the knowledge that it was my own actions which had brought it about.

One day when I was wandering rather aimlessly round the secondhand bookshops, I met the Baileys. It was one of those encounters which happens simply because one meets fellow countrymen abroad, like that other occasion when we had met Dermot. He had heard us speaking English in the cafe near the schloss and had stopped. Then he noticed me. I believe that he would have found some way of getting to know me, but it was the language which had first attracted his attention.

I had paused by a shelf to look at a book—a very old one called Castles of France. As I stood there, a middle-aged man standing close to me reached out to take a book from a shelf and, as he did so, another book was dislodged. It was a heavy one and it fell, grazing my arm as it dropped to the floor.

The man turned to me in dismay. “Mademoiselle,” he stammered, “Pardonnez-moi.”

The accent was unmistakably English and I replied in our tongue. “That’s all right. It hardly touched me.”

“You’re English,” he said with a delighted smile.

The woman who was obviously with him was beaming at me. I guessed that they were in their late forties. Their look of pleasure at finding a compatriot amused me.

“And you knew that we were,” added the man.

“As soon as you spoke,” I said.

He grimaced. “Was it so obvious?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said.

We all laughed. We might have passed on and that would have been an end of it, but the man showed concern about the book which had hit me. He picked it up and said: “It’s rather heavy.”

He replaced it on the shelf while the woman said: “Are you on holiday?”

“No. I’m staying with a friend.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“I hope the book didn’t hurt you,” said the man. “Look. Why don’t we sit down for a bit? Have a coffee. There’s a nice place a step or two away.”

“I do like those little cafes,” said the woman. “And isn’t it a relief not to have to think how to say what you want to for a little while? And if you do get it out fairly well, they rush back at you so fast that I for one am completely lost.”

I was thinking: Why shouldn’t I have a coffee with them? It will be something to do.

So I found myself sitting with them in the cafe near the bookshop. They told me they were Geoffrey and Janet Bailey. He was working in the Paris branch of an insurance company and they had been here for six months or so. They were not sure how long they would stay. They had a house at home near Watford, convenient for the City, and they had a married daughter who lived close by who was keeping an eye on things for them.

They asked where my home was.

“Well … er …” I said. “It’s in Cornwall.”

“Cornwall! A delightful place. Geoff and I thought of having a cottage there. In fact, we might retire down there, mightn’t we, Geoff?”

He nodded.

“Looe,” she went on. “Fowey … somewhere like that. We have had many a holiday there. Are you near there?”

“Not very far …” I was getting a little embarrassed. I could not tell them then that I used to live there before I ran away with my lover.

I felt a sudden insecurity. I had really thought of Tregarland’s as my home. But I had abandoned all that. Their mention of their home and retirement had had an effect on me. They could see ahead. I could not.

Then Geoffrey Bailey said: “I don’t like the way things are going, do you?”

“Things?” I said vaguely.

“The political situation. This man Hitler … what will he be up to next?”

“Didn’t Mr. Chamberlain come back with that agreement from him?”

“Oh, you mean Munich? Do you trust Hitler? Our people in London don’t like the way things are going, Czechoslovakia and all that. It will be Poland next … and if he dares … well, I think we shall be in it … deep.”

“Well, let’s hope for the best,” said Mrs. Bailey. “I’m so glad we spoke to you in that bookshop.”

“My clumsiness turned out well in the end,” added Geoffrey.

They talked about Paris then and I was relieved that they asked no more questions about me. They thought I was staying with a friend; but I must have seemed somewhat reticent about my background.

However, it was only a casual meeting and I should not have got as far as drinking coffee with them if they had not had a guilty conscience about letting a book drop on me.

I was wrong about its being a casual meeting. They insisted on seeing me home, as they said, and they took me to the house. I did not ask them in but said goodbye in the street.

I think that after that Mrs. Bailey was so determined to see me again that she did. It was not really difficult.

She was a motherly type of woman, and I realized later that she had sensed that there was something rather mysterious about me. The fact that I had been evasive about my home had not escaped her. I was staying with friends apparently indefinitely, but I had said nothing of these friends. I must have given an impression of frailty. Violetta had always said that drew men to me. I looked helpless and they longed to protect me. Perhaps Mrs. Bailey felt this, too.

In any case, I had caught her interest and the idea had come to her that I might need help.

About a week after our encounter, when I came out of the house, I saw her strolling towards me. She expressed surprise, which did not seem quite natural, and I guessed at once that she had been looking for me since our meeting. She said why didn’t I go along with her and have a nice cup of tea in their apartment. Not that the tea tasted like it did at home, but it would be more comfortable than a cafe, and she would enjoy being able to talk to someone in English.

I was persuaded. Jacques had gone out and if he did return it would do him good to know that I could amuse myself quite happily without him. So I went to the Bailey apartment.

It was a pleasant place in a block of such apartments. She told me that it was the company’s and staff used the place when they were over to work, which several of them did for spells from time to time.

We had a pleasant two hours together, which I thoroughly enjoyed, until I realized that she might expect to be invited back. I supposed I could do it. Jacques wouldn’t object. It would have to be when he was out, for I was sure he would find the Baileys dull and not his type. He was worldly and sophisticated. It was those qualities which had attracted me in the first place. But the Baileys were comforting. I knew instinctively that in an emergency they would be there. And I was not sure of Jacques. That was the truth. It was beginning to be brought home to me how very rash I had been.

Mimi

IT WAS SUMMER—THAT long, hot summer when war clouds were gathering over Europe. I was not particularly interested in the war situation. I was too deeply concerned with my own affairs—but then, as Violetta had said, I always had been.

I was feeling definitely uneasy. Things were not the same between Jacques and me. I had a feeling that something was going on all around me—something which I should know because it was important to me.

Georges Mansard, the wine merchant, came frequently and I looked forward to his visits. With my usual vanity, I thought he might be falling in love with me and, as Jacques seemed less ardent, that was gratifying.

I began to ask myself during those summer days what would become of me. It was, of course, a question I should have asked myself before I embarked on this adventure, but, as I have admitted, I always ask myself these questions too late.

What a fool I had been! I knew I had been bored at Tregarland’s but my sister was not far off, and my parents would always have provided a refuge. And now they believed me to be dead. It is only when one realizes how much one may need a refuge that it becomes of paramount importance.

I looked forward to those days when Georges Mansard took me to the wine bar for a glass of wine. He asked a great many questions. I was a little evasive about myself, but I expect I betrayed a good deal.

He was very interested to know if I did any work for Jacques.

“You mean modeling?”

“That … or anything else.”

“What else should there be?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Just … anything.”

“Nothing at all.”

He did say on another occasion: “Still not helping Jacques with his work?”

“No.”

“He just paints all the time, does he?”

“He is out a good deal.”

“Traveling around Paris?”

“Yes, and sometimes farther afield.”

“And never takes you with him?”

“No. He has not done so.”

“It would be very pleasant for you to see a little of France.”

“Very pleasant,” I said. I went on: “My friends, the Baileys—those English people I met in the bookshop … do you remember?”

He nodded. He had been very interested in them at first and asked a lot of questions about them, and then seemed to forget them.

I went on: “They are always talking about Hitler. They think there will be war.”

“My dear, everyone in Paris thinks there will be war.”

“And you?”

He lifted his shoulders and rocked to and fro as though to say he was not sure. It could go any way.

“If it comes to that, the Baileys will go back to England at once.”

“And you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t see how I could.”

“It would be better for you. You should consider it.”

“I don’t see how I could, after what happened.”

“Nevertheless …” he murmured.

I saw the Baileys frequently at that time. I told Jacques about them and he had not seemed very pleased.

“But they are very friendly people,” I said. “They take a parental interest in me and I have often been to their apartment.”

Rather as Georges Mansard had done, he asked questions about them and did not find them very interesting. When I said that, as I had visited them many times, I thought I should return the hospitality, he shook his head rather irritably and said, “We don’t want them here. They sound very boring.”

I supposed they would be to him, but I felt I owed Janet Bailey some explanation, and one day, over a cup of tea, I blurted out the whole story to her. I went right back to the beginning, the meeting in Germany with Dermot, our whirlwind romance and marriage, the birth of Tristan, and the realization that I could endure it no more.

She listened intently as I did so and I saw her expressions of bewilderment, horror, and amazement that I could abandon my baby son.

It was a long time before she spoke.

Then she turned to me. “You poor child,” she said. “For that is all you are. A child … just like Marian. I’d say to her, ‘Don’t touch the stove, dear.’ That was when she was three years old. ‘If you do, you’ll burn your fingers.’ Then, as soon as my back’s turned, out come her little fingers. A nasty burn, but, as I said to Geoff, ‘It’s experience. That will teach her better than anything.’”

“I’m afraid my experience is more than a burned finger.”

“I think you should go home. You don’t want to stay with this Frenchman, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s good enough. If you don’t know, you’d better get away and the sooner the better. That sister of yours … she seems a sensible sort.”

“I must show you a picture of her. It’s a miniature. I couldn’t leave it behind when I went.”

“Why don’t you write to her?”

“She thinks I’m dead.”

“Yes, it is a mess, isn’t it? Oh, Dorabella, how could you!”

“I don’t know. Looking back I don’t understand how I could.”

“It was a heartless thing to do,” said Mrs. Bailey slowly.

I stared ahead and felt the tears in my eyes.

Suddenly she put her arms around me.

“I think you have been rather a spoiled baby,” she said. “But babies grow up. I think you should … now, quickly. It’s not right for you to be here. What is the artist of yours like?”

“He is good looking … very worldly … very sophisticated.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s a pity you couldn’t see things a bit more clearly. I know the sort. And when it’s over, what shall you do?”

“I just don’t know.”

“There’s a way out. You could go back and tell your people all about it. They’ll be shocked … but I reckon they’ll be so glad to have you back that they’ll forgive you.”

“I don’t know if I could face it.”

“I’ve got a daughter of my own. I know how mothers feel. I know how Geoff and I would be if it were Marian in this mess. Not that she would be. She’s happily married with two of the sweetest little things you ever saw—a girl and a boy. But if it were us, we’d be saying, ‘Give us back our daughter and never mind the rest.’ Look here, my dear, do you mind if I talk this over with Geoff?”

“No,” I said. I felt as though I were drowning and they wanted to help me at all cost.

After that I saw them very often and we always discussed my position.

Geoffrey was of Janet’s opinion. Some means must be found of getting me home.

In the midst of all this I met Mimi.

It was one afternoon. I had been visiting the Baileys. I had come home a little earlier than usual. I sat down in the salon, thinking over my conversation with Janet. She had been telling me that the company had suggested that, because of the way things were going in Europe, it might be necessary for their staff in Paris to make a hasty exit.

“It is looking more and more grim,” she said. “Things are really working up to a climax. Geoff says that it was inevitable after Hitler had taken Czechoslovakia. That really was the last straw. And now, all this talk of Lebensraum and his designs on Poland … I know he says he has no quarrel with Britain … unprepared as we are, Geoff thinks that if he sets foot in Poland we shall declare war.”

I have to confess that my own affairs concerned me so much that I had little thought to spare for those of Europe, which indicated how foolish I was, for Europe’s troubles were those of us all.

However, that day I was early coming back, and as I sat in the salon the door opened and a woman, whom I had never seen before, walked into the room with the casual air of one who is very familiar with her surroundings.

She was attired in a peignoir merely, and her feet were bare. For a moment I thought I must be in the wrong house. Her long black hair hung loose; she had almond-shaped dark eyes, a pert retroussé nose with a short upper lip. She was tall and I could detect beneath her peignoir her full bosom and narrow hips. She was very attractive.

I had risen to my feet in amazement and then, immediately behind her, I saw Jacques.

He said casually: “Hello. You are back then. This is Mimi.”

“Mimi?” I said.

“Mimi the model,” she said. She had a very strong French accent.

“I am Dorabella,” I stammered.

Her gaze flickered over me. I returned it, summing her up as coolly as she did me.

Then I said to myself: But it is natural that an artist’s model should be in an artist’s studio in a state of undress since she would have been posing for him.

“Dorabella has come from England,” said Jacques.

He went to the cabinet and poured out wine.

I felt bewildered. I was asking myself what relationship there was between Jacques and Mimi. I really knew. But Jacques did not seem in the least embarrassed. Then I supposed he would not. That worldliness which I had once so much admired was obvious, but now I was less enchanted by it.

I tried to appear as nonchalant as they were.

“Mimi,” I said lightly. “‘They call me Mimi, but my name is Lucia.’”

Mimi looked puzzled and Jacques said: “La Bohème.”

I went on. “I am Dorabella from Così fan tutte, and my sister is Violetta from La Traviata. You see, my mother was very interested in opera.”

Mimi nodded. “It is amusing, yes.”

“Very,” said Jacques coolly, implying that it was not in the least so.

We sat there sipping our wine; they talked in French too rapid for me to follow all the time. I caught names of various people, some of whom I had met, but I could not really get the gist of their conversation. Once or twice they turned to me and said something in English.

I finished the wine, set down my glass, and said I had something to do.

I guessed the relationship between them, and I was not quite sure how I felt about his infidelity. Being myself, my first consideration was what effect it would have on me.

What a position I was in! Here was I, alone in a strange country, having left my own in a manner which would make it difficult for me to return. We were on the brink of war. The man whom, in my absurd dreaming, I had imagined I would be with forever, had made it clear that he had never intended our liaison to be anything but a passing one.

What a fool I had been! Never in my worthless life had I been in such danger. In every other petty escapade my sister had been at hand to rescue me. Now she was mourning me for dead.

What should I do? Where should I turn?

As usual, one side of me sought to placate the other. She is only a model. Artists have their models. They are casual in their behavior.

Casual indeed … in their love affairs, slipping from one to the next, and the last one is as dead as the first one they ever had. This was the bohemian life which I had been so eager to sample. Oh, if only I could go back! But no … “The moving finger writes …” Well, it had written and where now? Oh, Violetta, why are you not here with me?

I must be careful. I must work out what I should do. Was I going to leave Jacques before he told me to go? Where could I go to? How? Return to Caddington? Face Violetta, my parents? It was the only way.

They loved me. They would be happy to have me back. But how could I explain? And yet… what else?

Think, I told myself. Don’t rush into something as you usually do—as you did into this. You have to do something. You can’t go on here. This is over … for him and for you. Thank your stars you are not in love with him any more than he is with you.

I would speak to him. I would ask him exactly what his relationship with Mimi was. How many others were there? I would be calm, practical. I must be.

I sat in the bedroom I shared with him. I heard footsteps in the attic above. I thought, when she left I would speak to him.

I waited and after some time I heard the front door shut.

I would go to the salon and confront him. But when I arrived the salon was empty. I went up to the studio. He was not there and I realized he had left with Mimi. I felt uncertain. Waiting had always been trying for me. I wanted to strike quickly. I wanted to be on my way. Where to? That was the question.

I rehearsed what I would say to him. I was ready and waiting, but still he did not come back.

He did not return that night. Was he with Mimi? It seemed possible. Perhaps there was someone else. But surely he was staying away to show he cared nothing for my feelings.

It was early afternoon of the next day when he came into the house.

I waited for him in the salon. When he came I said with the utmost restraint, tinged only slightly with sarcasm, “You have had a pleasant time?”

“Very, thank you.”

“With Mimi, the model?”

“Is that your affair?”

“I imagine it is yours.”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled at me benignly.

“Are you telling me she is your mistress?”

“I did not speak of it,” he said.

“Listen, Jacques …”

He continued to smile. “I listen,” he said.

“You can’t expect me to accept this.”

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

This was maddening. He was behaving as though it were perfectly natural for me to find him in the company of a semi-clad woman and then go off to spend the night with her. I could be calm no longer.

“This is unacceptable!” I cried.

“Unacceptable?” He repeated the word as though puzzled. “Why so?”

“How dare you treat me like this?”

“Treat? What is this treat?”

He was seeking refuge behind an imperfect knowledge of the language. I had seen him do this before. But I knew he understood.

“I left home,” I said, “to come here … and now …”

“You left your home because you no longer wanted to stay there.”

“I gave up everything … for you.”

“You are being very … provincial.”

“And you are so worldly, so sophisticated.”

“I thought you had grown up, too.”

“How can you do this … right under my nose?”

“Your nose?” he said, puzzled again.

“You know exactly what I mean. You make no secret of what is going on.”

“Secret? What is this secret?”

“She is your mistress.”

“So?”

I could not go on. I would burst into recriminations if I did, and that would not help me.

“I hate you,” I said.

He lifted his shoulders and regarded me with that benevolent tolerance an adult might show towards a recalcitrant child.

I could bear no more. I ran out of the room, took a coat and left the house.

There was only one place I could go. Janet Bailey had said: “You know where we are, dear. You can always come to us and we shall be glad to see you.”

I was so relieved to find she was at home.

“I am so glad you came,” she said at once. “Geoff and I are getting ready to leave.”

I stared at her in dismay. This was another blow. What should I do now?

“Come in,” she went on. “And I’ll tell you all about it.”

I sat down in a daze.

“Cup of tea?” she asked.

“Tell me about your going first,” I said.

“It’s on company advice … well, orders, more like. It’s the way things are going. They’re sure there’ll be war. They think it’s better for us to get home. All the English staff will be leaving and the office will be run by French employees. Heaven knows what will happen! Anyway, we’ll be leaving.”

“When?” I stammered.

“In a few days. Just time to get ourselves together.”

“Oh,” I said blankly. Then she noticed something was wrong.

“What is it?” she said, and I blurted out what had happened.

“You can’t stay with him!”

“No … but what can I do?”

“You’ll have to go home. Why not come with us? We’ll talk to Geoff about it. He should be home in a couple of hours. Things are in a whirl at the office. They’re all saying Hitler won’t stop at Poland and then the balloon will go up. It will be a stampede getting back once it’s started.”

I was seeing a way out. I could go with them. They would help me.

Janet went on as though reading my thoughts.

“Yes, you must come with us. I am sure that will be the best for you.”

“How can I go home?”

“You’ll have to make a clean breast of it, dear. There’s no help for it.”

“Oh … I couldn’t do that.”

“What then? Stay here? Have you any money?”

“I haven’t bothered much about money. I have a little at the moment. Jacques always seemed to have plenty and he was quite generous. He liked me to buy clothes and things. I still have most of the last lot he gave me. I think he had a private income. I don’t believe he earned much with his paintings. That was one of the reasons I found life in the Latin Quarter so different from what I expected it to be. I’ve spent hardly anything recently. I suppose it was due to this growing resentment against him. Perhaps I had some notion of getting home. I am not sure. My plans are so vague.”

I could not remember how much I had, but I thought it would pay my fare home.

“Never mind,” said Janet. “We’d help, of course. You will, of course, have to leave with us, dear. It’s the only way. You will have to go back to your husband. Perhaps he will forgive you.”

“I couldn’t,” I said.

“But what will you do? You can’t stay with that man. I don’t suppose he’ll want you now he’s got this other one. Then you’ve always got that nice sister of yours—and your mother and father, too. They’ll look after you. I know it’s not nice having to eat humble pie, but sometimes it’s the only way.”

I could see that she was right, and I was wondering where I could work something out.

“Besides,” she went on, “what work could you do here? I can see something terrible happening to you if you stayed. No, you’ve got to come home with us. If you can’t go back to your husband, there are your sister and your parents.”

She was right, of course. The more I thought about it, the more I could see that I would go home with her and Geoffrey and in the meantime I would make a plan.

We talked in this strain until Geoffrey came home.

“We are leaving at the end of the week,” he said.

He listened to my tale of woe and said, of course I must go back with them. I embraced them warmly and said I did not deserve such good friends.

I stayed the night there and the next morning went back to Jacques’s house and packed my clothes. I was hoping to leave without seeing Jacques, but he arrived just as I was about to go.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

I fancied I saw a certain relief in his face.

“As you wish,” he replied.

“I am going home.”

“That will be wise.”

I felt a certain exultation because I felt no love for him now. I just wanted to forget the whole episode. If only he had never come to Cornwall! “The moving finger writes …”

But at least I would be free of him. I would find some way out of this. Violetta would help, as she always had.

“You’ll need money,” he said. “Your fare …”

“I can manage, thank you.”

He looked surprised. Then, characteristically, he made that gesture of lifting his shoulders, which had begun to irritate me.

“I would most happily …”

“No, thank you. Goodbye.”

“Bon voyage.”

And so I left Jacques.

Violetta had once said that feckless people such as I was often seemed to have helpers who arrive at the right moment. So it was with the Baileys. I have often thought since of that happy incident when the book fell from its place on the shelves. What I should have done without the Baileys at that time, I do not know. I shall always be grateful to them—and how fortuitous it was that they should be leaving at that time!

So the first stage was comfortably managed.

There were certain delays on the trains and we were late on reaching Calais. The ferries were uncertain, too.

“It seems,” said Geoffrey, not for the first time, “that we are leaving at the right moment.”

We had to wait three hours for the ferry.

“That will give us time to have a leisurely meal,” said Janet.

We went to a restaurant near the docks and on the way Geoffrey bought a newspaper.

“I wonder if there is any fresh news?” he said as we settled down and ordered the meal. He opened the paper.

“Hitler signs non-aggression pact with Soviet Union. That’s not good. It means he’s about to launch an attack on Poland.”

“And if he does,” said Janet, “that means war. Britain and France won’t allow that.”

“Well, we are on our way home, thank goodness. Oh …” he paused, and went on: “There’s been a murder … a body’s been found in the Rue de Singe.”

“Where?” cried Janet.

“It’s in the Quarter. I remember seeing it once. Odd name. Not a very salubrious spot. The sort of street you’d hesitate to go down after dark. As a matter of fact, I was interested in the name when I saw it and I asked them in the nearby cafe why it was called that. They said a man who had a monkey had lived there. He used to take it into the street and people dropped money into a cap it held out.”

He went on: “The body seems to be of a man … a Monsieur Georges Mansard, a wine merchant from Bordeaux.”

I was staring at Geoffrey.

“What?” I said. “May I see?”

“You look quite shocked, dear,” said Janet.

“I knew him slightly. He used to come to the house now and then. Jacques used to get his wine from him.”

“It’s always a shock when it’s someone you know. You never think these things are going to happen to people you know.”

I felt very shaken and I wondered who could have murdered pleasant, inoffensive Georges Mansard.

It was getting late when we boarded the ferry. Wrapped in a rug, I sat on deck with the Baileys and kept thinking of Georges Mansard’s body lying in that street… dead … shot through the heart, it had said. Who had done that to him, I wondered? Was it a love affair … a jealous husband? It was hard to imagine Georges involved in anything of that sort.

Then my mind was occupied with what I should do when I reached home. I should go direct to London on reaching Dover and I would telephone Caddington, for that would be the most likely place to find Violetta, and I wanted to ask her advice before I spoke to anyone else. It would be a terrible shock to them all to find me returned from the dead, and I needed Violetta’s help as I never had before.

Suppose my mother answered the telephone? Could I speak to her? I could disguise my voice and ask for Violetta. I would beg her to come to see me before I spoke to anyone else. If my mother or father answered the telephone, I should put down the receiver without answering.

We were nearly home now. It was a quiet night. Then I caught a glimpse of the white cliffs of Dover. The curtain was about to rise on a new act in my drama.

The Baileys insisted on my going home with them until I had really made up my mind what I was going to do. They had a pleasant house in a place called Bushey, which had grown out of Watford and was almost an extension of London, for there was mostly a built-up area between it and the capital.

“Convenient for the City,” Geoffrey commented.

Their daughter was there with her husband and I was introduced as a friend they had met in Paris who had had to leave as they had.

I managed, with Janet’s help, to avoid mentioning embarrassing details, and as the imminence of war was on everyone’s mind to such an extent, this was not really difficult.

I spent a rather restless night in the Baileys’ spare room and in the morning had made up my mind that I would telephone Caddington and ask Violetta to come here so that we could plan what had to be done.

I was trembling as I made the call, ready to cut off if anyone but Violetta answered … even my parents … though I should feel very guilty, remembering all the love they had showered on me throughout my life. But I simply could not face them, telling the truth. If I had merely eloped it would have been different, but to have staged my disappearance to make it look like death was a terrible thing to have done.

Yes, I must speak first to Violetta.

A voice came over the line to me. It is amazing what emotions one can feel in the space of a second.

“Caddington Hall,” said the voice, which I recognized as Amy’s, one of the maids. I felt relieved, then fearful that, if I remembered her voice, she might mine, so I assumed a French accent.

“Could I speak please to Mademoiselle Denver … Mademoiselle Violetta.”

“Miss Violetta isn’t here now.”

“Not there?”

“No. She’s gone to Cornwall.”

“Oh … er … thank you very much.”

I rang off.

She was in Cornwall, of course. I had asked her to look after Tristan if I should not be there. That was when the thought had come to me that I should make a poor sort of mother, and that Violetta would be a perfect one. My little Tristan would need her in his life. And indeed he had!

So she was with him. And now what must I do? I must go to Cornwall. I must speak to Violetta. She would help me to decide the best way to get back.

I spent another restless night trying to decide the best way to settle the matter. I would have to tell Violetta the truth, of course, and together we must concoct a scheme. It occurred to me that I might have become unconscious during that early morning swim and been picked up by a fishing boat. I had lost my memory, which I had only just regained. I knew that they all believed me to be dead and my returning to life would be a shock to them. I had to see Violetta first. She would help me break it gently. She will get me out of this, I told myself, as she had so many times before.

I had explained to the Baileys that my sister was in Cornwall and I wanted to break the news to her first, so I should go to her immediately.

I set off the next day. I should arrive in the evening when there were few people about. I must not be recognized. Of course, no one would be expecting to see me, but many of them had known me when I was at Tregarland and I could imagine the stories which would go round if I were seen.

I realized that I could not call at Tregarland where, of course, Violetta would be. She would be looking after Tristan.

Then a wild idea came to me. There was a Mrs. Pardell, who lived on the west side of Poldown on the cliff in a rather isolated spot. She was the mother of Dermot’s first wife and Violetta had struck up a friendship with her when she was trying to find out the truth about my predecessor. Violetta had said she was a blunt and honest North Countrywoman.

I arrived at Poldown, as planned, late in the afternoon. I decided I would go first to Mrs. Pardell. I would tell her that I was afraid to go to Tregarland. If she believed Dermot had murdered his first wife, she would understand the fears the second might feel. I would tell her this tale of loss of memory (I had embellished it a little since I first thought of it), and I would ask her advice. People love to be asked for advice. It makes them feel wise.

This is what I did and, to my tremendous relief and not a little surprise, it worked.

I knocked at her door; she opened it and regarded me suspiciously. Then I saw her expression change. She had recognized me.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I am not a ghost. I am myself.”

She seemed unable to speak. Then she said: “You’re Mrs. Tregarland … the second one, I mean.”

“That’s right. I lost my memory. I can explain. I’d like to tell you about it. I know I can trust you.”

That was another point. People like to be trusted.

“It is all so difficult,” I went on. “I know you will help me.”

People like to be asked for help, and to give it—if it is not too inconvenient to themselves.

“You’d better come in,” she said.

I could see she was trying to suppress her uneasiness in talking to what might be a ghost, but she was determined to cling to her North Country good sense and have “nowt to do with any of that ghost nonsense.”

She was really rather brave, I thought; I must say her conduct was admirable.

I was taken into a sitting room and seated near a picture of the first Mrs. Tregarland—a handsome girl, with somewhat overripe attractions. A good sort, I thought, easy going, just right to bring people into the inn where she had worked as a barmaid before her marriage. Poor Dermot! He had been very young at the time.

I told my story. I had gone swimming one day, had lost my memory, had been taken into a hospital some way off. I could not remember where or who I was.

“Well, there was an awful fuss when you went. Your sister was very cut up. I reckon she’ll be as pleased as a dog with two tails when she knows you’re back. You’d better get to her right away.”

“I want to make sure of seeing her alone first. I shall have to explain. I am very undecided, Mrs. Pardell. It will be a shock, and I am a little frightened about my husband.”

She was silent, staring at me.

I said: “I’m afraid to go back … afraid …”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “There’s something funny about that place. But you needn’t be afraid of him anymore. He got his come-uppance, he did.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Pardell?”

“He’s dead. Fell off his horse. He was crippled … badly. Then he took too many pills. Some said it was by accident, some said he meant to do it. They weren’t sure.”

I could not speak. I was too shocked. I kept saying to myself: It was my fault. Oh, my poor Dermot. You fell off your horse and I wasn’t there and you died. How much better it would have been if you had never taken that holiday in the German forest! How much better for us all!

I thought: How can I face them now … even Violetta? She will blame me. This changes everything.

I had planned to tell them the story of losing my memory. No one except Violetta must ever know about Jacques. I had planned to reform and be a good wife to Dermot for ever after. Now … he was dead.

I stammered: “I find it all so difficult. It wasn’t what I had expected. I don’t know how I shall face them … even my sister.”

“Your sister is a nice, sensible girl.”

“I know … but even her… after this. My husband … dead.”

“Don’t take it so hard. I’ll never believe he didn’t have a hand in my girl’s death.”

“No … not Dermot. He would never hurt anyone.”

“Well, he was your husband. It’s natural, I suppose, for you to stand up for him.”

“Mrs. Pardell, may I stay here for a while? I’ve a little money. Suppose I could stay for about a week. I’ll pay for everything. I’ve got to think how I am going to get back.”

She hesitated for a moment, then she said: “You’re welcome to stay.”

“Oh, thank you. I only want a few days. I couldn’t even see my sister now … not just yet. I have to think …”

When I look back on that time, I can’t remember the order in which things happened. I went over my plans, deciding what I could tell Violetta. I should need all my courage to face her. The news about Dermot had unnerved me. I was in a panic now. I felt sick and ashamed. I could not stop thinking of Dermot’s going out riding … recklessly, I imagined, for he had always been decidedly at home on a horse. Mrs. Pardell had hinted darkly that he had been drinking. Oh, Dermot, I thought, what did I do to you?

I longed to see Violetta while I wondered how I could face her.

There was one day when I was alone in the house. Mrs. Pardell had gone into West Poldown to shop. I thought how fortunate it was that she was, as she said, one to “keep herself to herself.” She would not gossip in the town. She was what they called a “foreigner” in these parts, not even coming from the south of England, and so she was placed in a category lower than mine. In times of stress, one is thankful for these small blessings.

There was a knock on the door. I was startled. Mrs. Pardell had had no visitors since I had arrived. I looked from the window of my bedroom and emotion swept over me, for Violetta was standing below.

Now was my moment. Yet I stood still. Panic rushed over me. I could not move. I had been waiting to see her and now that the opportunity had come to do so, I was filled with dismay. I was unprepared. I kept seeing heartbroken Dermot, drinking too much, taking his horse out in a reckless mood and then being injured—and later ending his life.

I had done that. I stood at the window and I said to myself, not yet.

Again she knocked. I felt limp. I wanted to go down and throw myself into her arms. But I did not do so. I watched her walk away and as soon as she had gone I wanted to rush after her.

What a fool I was! What would Mrs. Pardell think if I told her? I stood leaning against the curtains, cursing myself for being such an idiot. I had lost the best opportunity that could be offered.

I did not tell Mrs. Pardell. She would have despised me for a coward, and rightly so.

There was another stupid thing I did. I had not gone outside the house during the daylight hours for fear of being recognized. But after a while I was so distraught that I just could not bear to remain indoors any longer. I felt as though I were in a cage. I was imprisoned by my own folly and cowardice. I had to get out. Late one afternoon, in a mood of recklessness, I left the house. It was unfortunate that on the cliff path I came face to face with one of the maids from Tregarland’s. I had at least taken the precaution of wearing a scarf over my head.

To my horror, I realized she had recognized me, for she turned pale and stared at me. She thought I was a ghost, that was clear. I tried to look vague and unearthly. I stared ahead of her and went past.

I knew she would go back to Tregarland’s and tell them she had seen my ghost. And what would Violetta think? She could not believe the girl, of course, but she would start thinking of me and I knew she would be mourning for me afresh.

I went back to the cottage. I lay tossing all that night. This state of affairs could not go on. I suggested to Mrs. Pardell that she write to Violetta and ask her to call. That would seem reasonable.

This she agreed to do.

And that was how I was reunited with Violetta.

I remember every detail of that meeting. I opened the door and stood before her. I shall never forget her look of amazement, of disbelief, and the sudden dawning of joy when she realized that I was alive.

As always, Violetta set me on the right course. Not that it had been easy. She immediately pointed out that, of course, I had to tell her the truth and she agreed that this was something which, for all our sakes, should not be revealed. Life would be impossible in the neighborhood in which we were living if such stories were kept alive, and they would be embellished in the process. There was Tristan to think of. He must not grow up learning of the scandal.

Violetta brought her practical mind to bear on a solution. To have been picked up off our coast and taken to Grimsby was ridiculous, she said. If I were picked up by a fishing vessel, it would have been a Cornish one. I should have been known immediately and taken to the hospital in Poldown, and, lost memory or not, Tregarland would have been notified without delay.

The loss of memory would have to stay, but Violetta suggested I could have been picked up by a yacht, the owners of which were on their way home to the north of England. They had been in Spain. They did not realize immediately that I had lost my memory and, by the time they did, we were on the north coast. So they took me to a hospital there.

“It is not very good,” she said, “but it will have to do.”

She arranged it as she always did. My parents came down to Tregarland’s at once. They had to know the truth. No one else there did.

Violetta said we should never have got away with such a tale but for the fact that, just about this time, war was declared and people had something to think about other than the exploits of a wayward wife.

I had done my best to forget that incident with Jacques, as I did with all the unpleasant incidents in my life. It was a comforting habit I had developed.

And then … there he was, arriving on our shore, in the middle of the night, with a sister of whom I had never heard before.