Philippa Carr - Song of the Siren

“It was stuff I had in the army.”

I wanted to know about him but I never asked questions. I always waited for him to tell. I think he appreciated that.

I was rapidly feeling better and when I rose to go he did not try to detain me, but he did insist on riding back to the Dower House with me.

I said he should meet my parents but he said no, he would go straight back.

I did not press him but I felt better than I had for a long time, and although I was too tired to ride the next day, I could lie on my couch and remember the details of our meeting.

It was the beginning of a friendship. I never called. I would ride by and he would often be walking and we would meet as if by accident. Then I would go in and sit with him and drink a glass of wine. He was knowledgeable about wines and produced several for me to try.

Daemon would come out when I rode by and bark joyously and that always brought either Jeremy Granthorn or Smith out to see who was there. When they learned who it was I would find myself being entertained in Enderby Hall.

My mother was interested when she knew. She was rather pleased.

“I must ask him to dine with us,” she said.

“Oh, no, don’t,” I said quickly. “He never accepts invitations.”

“He must be a very strange man.”

“He is,” I said. “A kind of recluse.”

She did not try to prevent our friendship. She thought it was good for me to meet people, and if this was a rather unconventional relationship, she accepted it.

So our friendship grew.

I told him quite a bit about myself. I mentioned my beautiful sister, Carlotta. I hinted that I had been in love with someone but that he had preferred Carlotta.

He did not ask questions. It was an unwritten code between us, so that I could talk of the past without having to face any probing which might have been distressing.

It was the same with him. I let him talk. He too had had a love affair. After he was wounded at Venloo and came back crippled he found she preferred someone else.

I could see there was a great deal left unsaid and that it had made him very bitter.

I think, too, that he suffered a certain amount of pain from his wounded leg.

There were some days when he was very miserable. I liked to see him on those days for I was sure I had a way of making him happier.

We talked of dogs we had had, and Daemon would sit at our feet watching us with limpid eyes, every now and then beating his tail on the floor to express his approval.

Jeremy—I called him that in my private thoughts, though I never addressed him by his name—looked forward to my visits, though he never asked me to come again. I wondered what would happen if I ceased calling. Ours was a strange relationship. Yet I knew that we were both profiting by it.

Little by little he volunteered bits of information about himself. He had travelled widely before the war. He had lived awhile in France. He knew that country well.

“I should like to go back,” he said, “but of course I’m no use to anyone now. A crippled soldier … what could be more of an encumbrance?”

“At least you served well while you could.”

“A soldier is a pretty useless creature when he is unable to serve in the army. England does not want him. What is he fit for? There is nothing for him but to go to the country … get out of sight, out of the way. He’s an embarrassment because it has to be remembered he came to this state in the service of his country.”

When those moods came on him I used to laugh at him and often I succeeded in making him laugh at himself.

Thus my friendship with the new owner of Enderby Hall began and progressed.

And one day a courier came to the house.

My parents were not at home and I was rather glad of this because the letter he brought was for me and it was the strangest letter I had ever received in my life. It was from France … from my sister Carlotta.

My fingers trembled as I held the paper. I read it through scarcely believing what I read.

Carlotta … dying. Clarissa … needing me.

“You must come. You must take my child.”

I just lay there with the letter in my hand.

From far away I seemed to see Clarissa alone … frightened … stretching out her arms to me.

SOME INSTINCT MADE ME hide the letter from my parents. They would have tried to send a secret messenger to France with instructions to bring the child to us. It was the only reasonable thing to do, but something told me that it might very easily fail. For one thing we were at war with France. There was no normal communication between the two countries. No one could land except secretly; only Jacobites were welcomed in France from England.

My parents would do what they thought best to bring Clarissa to England, but it might not be possible. My father, once a soldier in the army, would be suspect. A man of his kind riding through an enemy country would not get far.

I read the letter through again and again. Carlotta dying … What could have happened? Lord Hessenfield was dead. It must be some sort of plague.

And Clarissa … an orphan … alone … No, not entirely alone, there was a servant Jeanne, a one-time flower seller.

I was bewildered. I had to do something, but what?

I was white and strained. My mother noticed and scolded me for doing too much. I must rest, she kept saying.

So I pretended to rest, and all the time I was thinking of Carlotta’s letter and Clarissa in France … needing me.

It was in the middle of the night that the wild idea came to me. I woke up in a state of great excitement. In fact I was trembling. I was sure at that moment that I could have got out of bed, ridden to the coast and crossed the sea to Paris.

I could feel strength flowing in to me so that when common sense said: It is impossible, I cried: “No, it is not impossible. I could do it.”

I lay in bed waiting for morning, and I must admit that with the coming of daylight all sorts of truths raised their heads and common sense said: It’s madness. It’s a dream—a fantasy of night.

My idea was that I should go to France myself and bring Clarissa home.

It was as though voices mocked me—my own voices! You … an invalid … who tires quickly … who has never been in the least adventurous … who has always taken the quite conventional path … plan such an adventure? It’s incongruous. It’s worse than that. It’s madness.

All the same I could not dismiss it.

It excited me, and what was so odd was that, almost like a miracle, I could feel new strength growing in me.

Before the morning was out I was not saying to myself: It is impossible. But: How can I bring it about?

A woman travelling through France would not attract much attention, would she? I could hire horses, grooms. Paris was a big city. It was easier in big cities to hide oneself than anywhere else.

I would go to the house in Paris. I had the address. What joy it would be to see the child again!

It was after I had been with her that I had first begun to improve. She had made me want to live again. That was it, and now that there was this tremendous project lying before me I was growing more and more alive with every minute.

But how … how …?

I knew if I broached the subject to my father he would think he must act. My mother would be frantic with anxiety. “We must see what we can do to bring her home,” she would say. And there would be lengthy deliberations and that would be too late. Something told me that I alone could bring Clarissa out of France.

All through the day and the following night the plan was with me. There were questions which kept coming into my mind. How? How?