It Began in Vauxhall Gardens - Plaidy Jean (бесплатная регистрация книга txt) 📗

"Martin, you seem quite stupid. Don't you hear me? Are you dumb, blind and silly?"

"Yes, Madam?"

"Do not stand there smiling and looking so pleased with yourself."

I? thought Melisande. Pleased with myself? I hate myself. I do not care what happens to me. Caroline may be dead, and if so . . . I have killed her.

Even in tragedy there was some good, she thought. How do ladies' maids endure serving such women as this unless they feel as I do . . . indifferent . . . not caring?

What a pity, she thought, that I was not the one who walked under the horse. That would have solved our problem.

Fermor? He would have been sad for a while... such a little while.

But when she made a flower for Mrs. Lavender's gown, the woman was pleased. She did not say so. She merely had the flower placed on her dress. She looked at it appreciatively. "You can make some more," was all she said. But for the next few days she did not complain so much. She was even communicative. She showed Melisande her jewels, which she kept in a small safe in her boudoir. She unbent when displaying them. She ought to keep them at the bank, she was told, but she could not bear to part with them. She liked to have them with her to try them on, even though she did not wear them all the time.

Melisande thought her appearance was always spoilt by too many jewels which, in conjunction with the red hair, made too startling a show. If the jewels had been worn sparingly with clothes less flamboyant, and her hair was its natural colour, providing Mrs. Lavender could acquire a more pleasant expression, she might suit her name. As it was that name seemed somewhat incongruous.

Melisande had made suggestions about the jewels, but Mrs. Lavender would not heed her. She presumed Melisande was jealous of her possessions.

She showed her the pearl-handled pistol which she kept in a drawer by her bed. "It's loaded," she said, "I always keep it so. I'm ready for any burglars. No one shall get away with my jewels."

Melisande listened in silence. Her apparent indifference goaded her employer to anger; yet her dignity held the woman in check. It was impossible to rave so continually at one who was so calm.

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Mrs. Lavender could not understand the girl. If she were not so clever at arranging hair and supplying clever little touches to a dress, Mrs. Lavender would have decided to dismiss her; but to her astonishment she found that she was almost growing to like her lady's maid. It was surprising, for Mrs. Lavender liked few people, and she had never before had the slightest regard for a mere servant. She found herself wondering what the meaning was of that strange look on the girl's face. She did not seem by nature meek; she was not like a servant eager above all things to keep a job; it was that blank indifference which was so baffling; it was almost as though she did not care what was said to her; for she never showed the least resentment. It was as though she were living in another world, a world which was invisible to those about her.

Uncanny! thought Mrs. Lavender. But a lady . . . quite a lady— which was an asset really. She was a girl one could be proud to show to one's friends . . . and French into the bargain! So, on the whole, Mrs. Lavender was not displeased with her new maid.

And then Mr. Lavender came home.

Melisande was sui prised when she saw him for the first time, although she should not have been, for there had been dark hints from the Gunters, and she already knew that he was considerably younger than his wife.

Sarah, the maid-of-all-work, who sometimes had a cup of coffee with the other members of the staff in the Gunters' basement room, had talked of Mr. Lavender's fondness for the bottle, for handsome waistcoats; she had talked of the scented pomade he used for his hair, of the scrapes he got into with Mrs. Lavender, and how he needed all his blarney to get out of them. It was not that Melisande was unprepared for Mr. Lavender, but for the effect she would have on him.

She was clearing up in the boudoir one afternoon while Mrs. Lavender was taking a nap in her bedroom, when Mr. Lavender came in.

She had heard a step behind her and, thinking it was Sarah who had entered, did not turn round but continued combing the hairs from Mrs. Lavender's brush.

"Oh, Sarah," she said, "is Mrs. Gunter in?"

There was no answer. She turned and there was Mr. Lavender leaning against the door and smiling at her.

There was nothing really alarming about Mr. Lavender's smile. Melisande had encountered many such smiles and she knew that they indicated admiration. She was merely startled.

"G . . . good afternoon," she said.

Mr. Lavender bowed. She noticed how the quiff of yellow hair fell over his brow; she saw the gleam of a diamond tiepin, the ring

on his finger, the nattily cut coat and the brilliant waistcoat; she could smell the violet hair pomade.

"This is a pleasure," he said. "You must be my wife's new maid."

"Yes."

To her astonishment, he approached and held out his hand. He took hers and held it, patting it with his olher. "I see," he said, "that we are in luck this time."

"It is kind of you to say so." Melisande withdrew her hand.

"My word, you're a pretty girl—if you don't mind the compliment."

"I do not mind. Thank you."

"You're really French, I hear. Why, you and I will get on like a house afire, I can see."

She remembered then Fenella's advice: When she did not know how to respond, to indicate that she did not understand the finer meanings of the English language.

"A house afire? That sounds dangerous."

He laughed, throwing back his quiff as he did so. She saw the flash of his teeth.

"Do you like it here?" he asked solicitously.

"Thank you. It is a kind enquiry."

"You're a charming girl—too pretty to be working for other women."

She was glad that the door leading to the bedroom had opened.

"Archie!" said Mrs. Lavender.

"My love!"

He went to her and embraced her. Melisande, glancing over her shoulder, saw that Mrs. Lavender's face had softened to that expression which Melisande had wished for it.

"You should have said you were coming home," said Mrs. Lavender.

"Thought I'd surprise you. Thought that's what you'd like. You wait till you see what I've brought for you."

"Really, Archie! You're an angel!"

"No, Mrs. L. You're the one who should be sprouting the wings."

Mrs. Lavender said: "You may go, Martin."

"Thank you," said Melisande, in great relief.

She noticed that Archibald Lavender did not give her a single glance as she hurried out.

She went to the small attic room which was hers and shut the door. She felt now as though she were waking out of her daze. What had she done? she asked herself. She had run away from Fenella's, and whatever Fenella was, she had been kind. In Fenella's house, for all its voluptuous mystery, there was a feeling of safety. Here . . . there was no safety. She knew that. She sensed danger . . . "like a house afire." She had little money. She knew that the notice Mr.

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Lavender had implied he would bestow on her would annoy Mrs. Lavender more than any incompetence. She was afraid suddenly, for it seemed that the world into which she had escaped was full of a hundred dangers from which Fenella had protected her.

She was only eighteen. It was so very young. Too much had happened in too short a time.