Zipporah’s Daughter

Philippa Carr

The Rejected

ON THE DAY WHEN the Comte d’Aubigné arrived at Eversleigh I had been out riding and when I came into the hall he was there in close conversation with my mother. I was aware at once that we had a very distinguished visitor. He was not young—about my mother’s age, perhaps a few years older—and he was most elegantly dressed in a manner not quite English; his frogged coat of dark green velvet was a little more fancy than I was accustomed to seeing, the fringed waistcoat more delicate, the striped breeches fuller, and the buckled shoes more shining. He wore a white wig which called attention to his flashing dark eyes. He was one of the most handsome gentlemen I had ever seen.

‘Oh, there you are, Lottie,’ said my mother. ‘I want you to meet the Comte d’Aubigné. He is going to stay with us for a few days.’ She put her arm through mine and thus presented me to him. ‘This,’ she went on, ‘is Lottie.’

He took my hand and kissed it. I was aware that this was no ordinary meeting and that something very important was taking place. Knowing my mother well, I guessed that she was very anxious for us to like each other. I did like him immediately, mainly because of the way in which he kissed my hand and made me feel grown-up, which was just how I wanted to feel at this time, for the fact that I was not quite twelve years old was a great irritation to me. If I had been older I should have eloped by now with Dickon Frenshaw, who occupied my thoughts almost exclusively. There was a family connection between Dickon and myself. He was the son of my grandmother’s cousin and I had known him all my life. It was true he was about eleven years older than I but that had not prevented my falling in love with him, and I was sure he felt the same about me.

Now there was a lilt in my mother’s voice. She was looking at me earnestly as though to discover what I thought of our guest. He was watching me intently.

The first words I heard him say, and he spoke in English with a strong foreign accent, were: ‘Why, she is beautiful.’

I smiled at him. I was not given to false modesty and I knew that I had inherited the good looks of some long-dead ancestress whose beauty was notorious in the family. I had seen a portrait of her and the likeness was uncanny. We had the same raven black hair, and deep-set dark blue eyes which were almost violet; my nose might have been a fraction shorter than hers, my mouth a little wider, but the resemblance was striking. She had been the beauty of the family. Her name had been Carlotta, and it added to the mystique that before this likeness was apparent, I should have been christened Charlotte, which was so similar.

‘Let us go into the winter parlour,’ said my mother. ‘I have sent for some refreshment for our guest.’

So we did and the wine was brought, over which he talked in a way which I found both exciting and amusing. He seemed determined to charm us and it was clear that he knew how to do that very well. He told us a great deal about himself in a short space of time and I felt he was presenting himself to me, even more than my mother, and wished to make a good impression. He need not have had any doubt about that. He was a spellbinding talker and seemed to have led a varied and most vivid life.

The time sped by and we parted to change for dinner. I had certainly not been so amused and interested since I had last seen Dickon.

During the next few days I spent a great deal of time in his company. Often I rode with him, for he said he was eager for me to show him the countryside.

He talked to me about life in France where he was attached to the Court as some sort of diplomat, I gathered. He had a château in the country and a house in Paris, but he was often at Versailles where the Court was mostly, for, he told me, the King scarcely ever went to Paris … only when it was impossible for him to avoid going.

‘He is very unpopular because of the life he leads,’ said the Comte; and told me about King Louis XV and his mistresses, and how heartbroken he had been on the death of Madame de Pompadour, who had not only been his mistress but virtually ruler of France.

The glimpses of life in France fascinated me and I was delighted that the Comte talked openly to me as though he were unaware of my youth, which my mother was constantly stressing ever since she had known of my feeling for Dickon.

The Comte described the fantastic entertainments which were given at Versailles and which he was expected to attend. He talked so vividly that he made me see the exquisite gentlemen and beautiful ladies as clearly as I could the life in the country to which he escaped now and then.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that one day you will do me the honour of visiting me.’

‘I should like that,’ I replied enthusiastically, and that pleased him very much.

It must have been about three days after his arrival. I was in my bedroom getting dressed for dinner when there was a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in,’ I called, and to my surprise my mother entered.

There was a glow about her which I had noticed lately. I guessed she was pleased to have a visitor and I was glad, because we had had enough tragedy lately and she had been so unhappy since my father’s death. Following that she had lost a very dear friend in the doctor who had attended my father. He had suffered a horrible death in a fire at his hospital. That had been a terrible time, for my governess was burned to death in the fire also. Such events had had a sobering effect on us all, but most of all on my mother. Then of course there was the matter of Dickon, about which she was very upset and this worried me a great deal, for as much as I should like to comfort her, I could not, because doing so meant promising to give up Dickon. So I was very relieved that she was lifted out of her depression, if only temporarily.

‘Lottie,’ she said, ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ I replied, smiling at her.

‘What do you think of the Comte?’ she asked.

‘Very grand,’ I answered. ‘Very elegant. Very amusing. In fact a very fine gentleman. I wonder why he called on us? I think he must have been here some time. I get the impression that the place is not quite strange to him.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Was he a friend of Uncle Carl?’

‘A friend of mine,’ she said.

She was really behaving rather oddly, fumbling for words. She was usually so direct.

‘So,’ she went on, ‘you do … like him?’

‘Of course. Who could help it? He is most interesting. All that talk about the French Court and the château. All those grand people. He must be very important.’

‘He is a diplomat and works in Court circles. Lottie, you do … er … like him?’

‘Mother,’ I said, ‘are you trying to tell me something?’

She was silent for a few seconds. Then she said quickly: ‘It was long ago … before you were born. … It had to be before you were born. I was very fond of Jean-Louis.’

I was astonished. It seemed strange that she should call my father Jean-Louis. Why did she not say ‘your father’, and in any case she did not have to tell me how fond she had been of him. I had seen her nurse him through his illnesses and witnessed her grief at his death. I knew more than anyone what a loving and devoted wife she had been.

So I said: ‘Of course!’ a little impatiently.

‘And he loved you. You were so important to him. He often said what joy you had brought into his life. He said that when you came into it you made up for his affliction.’

She was staring ahead of her; her eyes were bright and I thought that at any moment she would start to cry.