11|
After two days in Paris and with not even a glimpse of either Miss Hopkins or Sir Thomas, Emily started to think that she might have imagined things in Rouen. If so, all of her agitation during the train journey into Paris and their arrival in the rush of Gare Saint-Lazare would have been for nought.
The Hopkinses had booked into another hotel, had bid them 'adieu' outside the station—and they had not called on the Thorntons since. It almost seemed too good to be true.
Now that they were in Paris, her father had finally reconciled himself with the idea of being on holiday; and on their third morning they had already settled into a pleasant routine. They still rose early, as was John Thornton's habit, and went for a short stroll under the chestnut trees in nearby Jardin des Tuileries, but this was followed by a leisurely breakfast on the balcony of their third floor hotel room. Of course, the best rooms at the Clarendon in Rue de Castiglione were all on the first floor, but they preferred the freedom and the superior view of their more modest lodgings.
What struck Emily the most about Paris was how much of life took place out in the open. She had never breakfasted on a balcony before and she thoroughly enjoyed the novelty of it. While her father read Le Temps, Le Petit Journal, and a day-old copy of The Times—the Guardian, Thornton's newspaper of choice, was not in stock at the hotel—Emily observed the goings-on in the street three floors below. It was like being at the theatre, with her up in the gods: Travellers arriving and departing at the various hotels that littered the street, nursery maids heading for the park with their charges, and delivery men clogging the streets with their carts. Only the fine ladies, who in the afternoons would be seen promenading underneath the arcades, had not yet entered the stage.
With its urban bustle it was not unlike Harley Street—except for the better weather.
They had toured the Paris of wide boulevards and fashionable shops on their first day, climbing the narrow stairs inside Arc de Triomphe for a look across the city. They had pretended at being Bohemians by visiting a café in Montmartre and—after a Frenchman at the next table had joined them for a friendly chat—had followed his invitation to one of the many ateliers hidden in the nearby mews. The man was a painter himself, it had transpired—and, perhaps, not the most gifted one in his trade, as they realised upon seeing his works. It took some verbal skill and many excuses to disengage themselves again, and without buying any of his hideous objets d'art. Finally outside they hurried away, chuckling.
On their second day they had gone to the ancient heart of Paris; to the Île de la Cité and Notre Dame, and from there to the Hôtel de Ville and Place de la Bastille, altogether more places of interest than Emily cared to remember. Eventually she had laughingly protested that she felt like being taught several history lessons rolled into one and had demanded to get compensated by another visit to a café or—even better—a glacier... as she had learnt ice-cream parlours were called in French.
It was an enchanting city, and Emily thoroughly enjoyed her father's company in exploring it. Tom Boucher had been very agreeable to be with in both Amiens and Rouen, but seeing stern John Thornton in a leisurely mood was quite something apart. Gone was the severe politician and captain of industry, to be replaced by a man with an adventurous spirit, a charming, unaffected laugh, and looking years younger than his actual age.
Emily knew that this transformation was unlikely to outlast their vacation—but while it did last she was cherishing every moment of it. Alas, the first rainclouds were already gathering on the horizon in the form of her uncle Frederick, with whom her father didn't get along—by the latter's own admission.
"Is it today that Uncle Frederick and Aunt Dolores will arrive?" she asked, wondering if she would be granted another full day of light-hearted exploring.
"As far as I know it is," Thornton replied evenly, not looking up from his newspaper. "But we won't meet them before tomorrow... Your uncle knows where we're staying, and he'll send word."
"So he won't stay here at the Clarendon—" It was more a statement of fact than an actual question.
"Heaven forbid!" Thornton exclaimed, looking up at last. "This wouldn't be desirable for anyone... Apart from that, he couldn't possibly stay anywhere nearby—there are too many English tourists everywhere."
"He can afford to travel, can't he?—therefore it seems strange that I haven't met him ere now... Why is it that he never visits England?" Emily asked hesitantly. She knew that she was touching on something banned from everyday conversation, but she didn't know for what reason.
Her father cast a furtive look at the adjacent balconies; however, both were deserted and their French windows were closed. He cleared his throat. "Well, Emily, let us delve into the deep, dark secrets of family history... Some twenty years ago your uncle was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and, while sailing in the West Indies, he became involved in a mutiny. Rumour has it that he was one of the ringleaders... Your mother was convinced that his motives were above reproof—and who am I to argue?—but as a result he could only ever return to England at the risk of facing court martial."
"Oh! This sounds rather too wild... Goodness, to have an actual mutineer in the family!"
"Less romantic in real life than in fiction, I daresay," he replied dryly. "It was hard on the rest of the family... He couldn't visit his parents for many years; and he only ever managed to see them once prior to both their deaths. It was particularly hard on your mother because she was only twenty years old when her permanently exiled brother—more than a thousand miles away in the south of Spain—became her last remaining family member." His lips compressed into a thin line. "He also had to forfeit his name for reasons of personal safety... This is why he took his wife's name—Barbour—rather than remain Frederick Hale."
"I always wondered how this had come about," she mused.
"Well, now you know—"
"But you don't like him?"
"Can't say I do," he said with a shrug and picked up one of his newspapers again. This conversation was clearly over for him.
Emily picked at the trimmings of her skirt, undecided whether or not to venture another question. Looking up she saw that a sharp vertical line had formed on her father's forehead. He obviously wasn't taking this conversation as lightly as he wanted her to believe. So, eventually, she decided to drop the topic.
Why take my chances and spoil a beautiful day? Now that she knew a part of the story, there would be other occasions to find out more—and possibly straight from the horse's mouth in a day or two.
Frederick Barbour was not a tall man; he was light and nimble, with the grace of a dancing master, as he stood there in the middle of the parlour. As prearranged, Emily and her father had called on him and his wife at their hotel.
However, the years hadn't been kind to Barbour's face. Living under the sweltering sun of the deep South had weathered his features and tanned his skin a mottled bronze which was at odds with his still magnificent head of auburn hair.
When they were introduced and shaking hands, Emily eyed him as keenly for a likeness with her late mother as her uncle regarded herself.
"So, this is you at last, Emily," he said, taking both her hands. "Cousin Edith has been right, you do look like my sister Margaret!" He took a small step back to see her more completely. "Well, your face looks like your mother's. The rest of you is genuine Thornton, I see." He laughed.
As far as Emily could tell by scrutinising his face, he wasn't much like her mother in looks—or like herself, for that matter—and their family resemblance might not have greatly extended beyond general form and colouring. And as for their similarity in mannerisms and character... Having never known her mother, how could she possibly tell?
While Uncle Frederick wasn't tall, Aunt Dolores was positively petite and looking her southern ancestry. Raven hair, slightly threaded with silver although she couldn't be more than five-and-thirty, a light complexion with just the faintest hint of olive—she obviously guarded herself from the sun—and surprisingly light hazel eyes. She had an open, engaging smile.
Quite the same could not be said of her uncle... Was it the habitual physiognomy of the seasoned businessman or the strain of this new acquaintance?—Frederick Barbour's smile was a little too broad, too rehearsed, to be quite convincing. But, of course, her own father's forbidding mien, as he stood in the background, wouldn't be helping. How could one possibly feel at ease when finding oneself at the receiving end of a full Thornton scowl?
Not for the first time since learning of their animosity, Emily wondered what had happened between the two of them. As yet, no-one had cared to enlighten her—and, as far as her father was concerned, it was unlikely that he ever would. Not that this would keep her from prodding... and if not him then her newfound relatives!
"Tell me about Helstone, uncle," Emily said.
Once her father had excused himself, promising to be back later in the afternoon to fetch her, Dolores Barbour had ordered tea to be brought to their private parlour. A kettle of hot water soon appeared together with a tray of tea things and dainty cucumber sandwiches and tea cakes. Emily exclaimed over them in delight, and more so when she saw that her aunt spooned what appeared to be genuine English tea into the pot.
"We travel with our own supply," Dolores Barbour explained. "Always."
"Yes! It's the one English thing I can't do without," Barbour agreed with a grin. "So, Helstone?... Well, this takes me back."
He had considerable narrative powers and drew a vivid picture of bucolic life in the New Forest. Emily had seen her mother's watercolours from the time before the Hale family had left for Milton and, aided by her uncle's words, her imagination came alive with a perfect pastoral scene surrounded by her grandmother's roses.
"I wished that I could go there and see it for myself!" she finally sighed.
"I expect that it would be a sobering experience," her uncle cautioned. "It would be for me, anyway... The old parsonage still stands, I suppose, but as for anything else?—No-one I ever cared for still lives there."
"How sad," Emily said. "But don't you think seeing the old place would be a solace, after all?"
He shrugged. "For me 'home' is a place in time... and I could never return to it on English soil—even if I were allowed back into the country."
"Why all the secrecy?" Emily dared to ask at last, gesturing at the hotel room in a nondescript part of Paris. "You can't be in danger of getting arrested here in France."
"Your father insisted. It was precondition to meeting my niece at all," Barbour replied curtly. He smiled to soften the blow, then added, "He's an MP. He can't be compromised by being seen fraternising with a man still wanted by the Navy—even abroad, and even if said man is his own brother-in-law."
"But in his position...has Papa never tried to help you?"
"He did so initially. But after your mother was gone, our relationship... well... took a very different turn," he said cryptically. "He wouldn't be inclined to help me now and, truth be told, I wouldn't want him to. Besides—" He suddenly smiled broadly, spreading his arms. "—I've long since turned into a real Spaniard, as you can see."
"This is true," his wife agreed with a fond smile. "So much so that it is strange to hear him speak English now."
"So, how are my cousins?" Emily asked her aunt. It was their third meeting—again at the Barbour's hotel—and for a part of it her uncle had to excuse himself; he needed to make arrangements for their return journey, and therefore had gone to see his travel agent.
Emily knew that the couple had three children—a daughter and twin sons—but she had never corresponded with either of them. They were pretty much strangers to her and, unlike any of her English cousins, they didn't feature largely in her thoughts. "Won't they miss you very much while you're away?"
"They are currently staying with my relatives—those from my mother's side—in Alicante. We shall return first by train to Marseille and then travel directly to Alicante by boat. We shall be with the children again in little more than a week—in no time at all!—so, no need for them to fret."
"I am glad," Emily said. "I wouldn't wish for them to be upset on my account... I don't see my father as often and for as long as I should like to—and soon I shan't see him for a whole year," she added gloomily.
"You love him very much, don't you?" her aunt said gently. "It appears you are not looking forward to your time in Switzerland? It is a very fine school, I believe."
"I suppose it is... My eldest cousin Isabel is there at the moment and she's greatly enjoying it." She shrugged. "I am simply not sure if it is the right choice for me... But then, we Thorntons are of much consequence these days—or so I've been told. It simply wouldn't do to raise me as a bumpkin."
"A... 'bumpkin'?" Dolores Barbour asked uncomprehendingly.
"An unrefined person," Emily explained.
Soon Frederick Barbour returned. "Fancy me seeing your father in town just now, Emily—and in the company of a young lady," he said while removing his hat and gloves.
"A... a young lady?" Emily asked. The words almost stuck in her throat.
"Yes... and they seemed quite familiar with each other." He inquisitively looked at his niece. "Little more than twenty, I should say, blond and very fashionable."
"That must have been Miss Hopkins," Emily said, crestfallen. "We travelled with her and her father in Normandy... I wasn't aware that they were still in Paris—"
"You didn't know they were to meet?"
"They might have happened upon each other quite by accident," she said defensively.
"Looked rather deliberate to me," he remarked, not quite sotto voce.
"What is it to you, uncle?" Emily asked, a trifle too hotly for politeness.
"Well, as a former brother-in-law I do take an interest... and, on second thoughts, it might be nice for you to have a new mother at last, after so many years."
Emily quickly lowered her face to hide her dismay. Her uncle wouldn't be serious, would he? But, if he was teasing her, this would be a most cruel joke.
Seemingly unaware of her distress, Frederick Barbour took a seat next to his wife and for the following half hour recounted pleasantly about life in Cadiz; and if he was at all noticing his niece's taciturnity, he didn't acknowledge it.
It was as if nothing had happened.
Eventually, a maid announced the arrival of Monsieur Thornton, and that he was waiting in the lobby for his daughter to come downstairs.
"S'il vous plaît, demandez-lui de monter à l'étage," Emily requested. Her uncle only raised an eyebrow in surprise. Silently they waited.
"Is there anything the matter, Emily?" Thornton asked upon entering.
"I haven't quite finished talking with my relatives and I thought that you might want to join us," Emily said more offhand than she actually felt. Her father gave her a frown but refrained from comment. "How is Miss Hopkins?" she prodded in a perverse notion to show him at a disadvantage. She was still upset from learning that—contrary to recent impressions—Miss Hopkins was still in the picture.
Now he looked at her positively in surprise.
"I saw you in female company earlier this afternoon, Thornton. Near the Louvre," Barbour chimed in. "Oh, pardon me! Was it a secret?"
"I fail to see how this would be any of your business, Barbour," Thornton said evenly.
"—a very young lady, I seem to recall," Barbour continued to needle his opposite.
"Emily, if you please?" Thornton said, refusing to be goaded. His expression, however, was gradually turning stony.
"Papa, there is something I should like to ask you," Emily said hastily. Even though she realised that this was, perhaps, not the best of times, she nevertheless imagined that he might find it harder to dismiss her request with her mother's relatives present. "I've heard so much about Mamma these last few days and she's been greatly in my thoughts... I wonder, could we possibly forfeit Burgundy in lieu of travelling to the Riviera—and visit her grave?"
For a moment the room was so quiet that one could have heard the drop of a needle. Three pairs of eyes were staring at her.
Slowly, Barbour's gaze shifted towards Thornton. "You mean, she doesn't know?" he asked, incredulous.
"Know what?" Emily exclaimed with a sudden sense of dread. "Papa, what is it?"
But her father remained mute.
It was her uncle who—ignoring both Thornton's warning stare and his wife's shushing motions—blurted out, "There is no grave! Fifteen years ago my sister disappeared at the Mediterranean without a trace!"