Philippa Carr: Lament for a Lost Lover

I found myself replying in similar vein. I deeply regretted their departure. I should have been happy to entertain them longer, but of course I understood the need for them to move on. They had their work and we were grateful indeed to have been given such a dazzling example of it, which we would never forget. …

As they were about to sit at the table Madame Lamotte said: “Where is Harriet?”

I had, of course, noticed her absence, for she was the first one I looked for. Any moment I had been expecting her to descend to the hall.

Madame Lamotte was looking at Fleurette, who shrugged her shoulders.

“I woke her up, just as I was coming down,” said Madame Lamotte. “She should be here by now.”

I said I would go and tell her that they were ready to eat.

I went to the room which I had assigned to the women and saw Harriet, who was lying on the bed. She looked just as beautiful in the morning as she had in candlelight. Her hair was escaping from a blue ribbon with which she had tied it back and she was in a low-cut bodice and petticoat.

She smiled at me in a way which I felt had some meaning but I was not sure what.

“They are waiting for you,” I said.

She shrugged her shoulders. And held up her foot. “I cannot put it to the ground,” she said. “I could not walk on it. What am I going to do?”

I went to the bed and gingerly touched the ankle which was faintly swollen. She grimaced as I did so.

“It’s sprained,” I said.

She nodded.

“But on the other hand you might have broken a bone.”

“How do I know?”

“In time you will. Can you stand on it?”

“Yes, but it’s agony.”

“Madame Lambard has lots of remedies. I could ask her to look at it. But I do know one thing and that is that you should rest it.”

“But … we have to move on. What is the weather like?”

“Cold but clear. There’s no more snow … just a thin layer of yesterday’s on the ground. Nothing to stop travelling.”

“They will have to move on. There’s the engagement in Paris.” Her lips curved into a smile. “Mistress Tolworthy … would you … could you possibly be so good as to let me stay here until I can walk properly? Let me explain. I sing and dance on stage … as well as act. You see, if I hurt my foot through not taking care now, my career could be ruined.”

I felt a sudden wild excitement. The adventure was not over. She was going to stay … the member of the troupe who excited me most.

I said quickly: “I should never turn anyone away who needed our help.”

She reached out her hand and I went and took it. I held it for a moment, looking into her strange but beautiful face.

“God bless you,” she said. “Please let me stay awhile.”

“You are welcome,” I replied smiling, and my pleasure must have been apparent.

“Now,” I said briskly. “I will call Madame Lambard. She may well know what has happened to your foot.”

“I slipped on the stairs last night,” she said.

Yes, I thought, when you were quarrelling with Fleurette.

“It is most likely to be only a sprain. I will tell Madame Lambard.”

I went down to the hall where they were eating quantities of bread and bacon and drinking ale.

I said: “Mistress Main has hurt her ankle. She is unable to walk. I have invited her to stay here until she is able to do so. You need have no fears that we shall not look after her.”

There was a deep silence at the table for a few seconds. Fleurette could not hide a secret smile and Jabot kept his eyes on his tankard of ale.

Madame Lamotte rose and said: “I will go and see her.”

I went into the kitchen and said to Jeanne and Marianne: “Mistress Harriet Main is going to stay on for a few days until she is fit to rejoin her companions. She has sprained her ankle.”

Their faces lit up with pleasure. The kitchen seemed a different place; the fire seemed to glow more brightly.

The adventure was not over then.

The air was sharp and frost glittered on the trees as we waved them off and stood watching their departure. Slowly, because of the packhorses they made their way to the road, Monsieur Lamotte leading his troop like a biblical patriarch.

I felt as though I were watching a scene on a stage. This was the end of the first act and I was thankful that it was not the end of the play. Upstairs lay the leading actress, and while she was on stage the drama must continue.

As soon as they had gone I went upstairs. She lay on her bed, the rugs pulled up to her chin, her hair spread around her. She was smiling, almost purring; I thought she had a grace which could only be described as feline.

“So they’ve gone,” she said.

I nodded.

She laughed. “Good luck to them. They’ll need it.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I have had the good fortune to hurt my ankle here.”

“Good fortune. I don’t understand.”

“Well, it is more comfortable here than on the road. I wonder what shelter they’ll find tonight. Not as cozy as this, I’ll swear. I’ve never played before an audience which gave me such rapt attention before.”

“Oh, but we know so little here of plays and suchlike.”

“That would explain it,” she said, and laughed again. “As soon as I saw you,” she went, “I hoped we should be friends.”

“I am so pleased. I hope we shall.”

“It is so kind of you to let me stay here. I was terrified that I should do my foot some harm. My feet are an important part of my livelihood, you understand.”

“But of course. And you will soon recover. I am going to get Madame Lambard to look at your ankle.”

“There is no hurry.”

“I think there is. She will know if anything is broken and what should be done.”

“Wait awhile and talk.”

But I was firm. I was going immediately to call Madame Lambard.

Madame Lambard greatly enjoyed doctoring us. She always assumed an air of wisdom, lips pursed, head on one side, trying to talk of things we should not understand. There was a room in the Lambard dwelling which was entirely devoted to the distilling of her herbs … a room full of strange odours with a fire and a cauldron perpetually simmering on it and dried herbs hanging from the beams.

When she heard that one of the players had hurt an ankle, had stayed behind and was in need of her help, she was overcome with delight. Of course she would come. She would lose no time. The players had been wonderful. Alas that they could not stay and give them another performance. Even her sons had been excited. They had talked of nothing else since.

She came bustling up to the room in which Harriet lay, exuding a desire to be of service. She prodded the ankle and made Harriet stand on it, at which Harriet cried out in pain.

“Rest it,” declared Madame Lambard sagely. “That will heal it. I can find no bones broken. I shall put a poultice on it. My own special one. I’ll swear that by tomorrow you will feel the benefit. There is no great swelling. It will be healed, I promise you, very, very soon.”

Harriet said she did not know how to thank us all.

“Poor lady,” said Madame Lambard. “It must be irksome for you. All your friends gone on … and you left here.”

Harriet sighed, but I thought I detected a secret smile about her lips that seemed to indicate that she was not as sorry to stay here as might be expected.

“Alkanet,” said Madame Lambard mysteriously. “It’s in the poultice. It’s sometimes known as bugloss. There’s viper’s bugloss and field bugloss and the healing properties are without doubt. I’ve known it work wonders.”

“I know it well,” replied Harriet. “We call it dyer’s bugloss. The sap gives a red dye. It’s good for colouring the cheeks.”