that the large store to which we were taken was of greater interest to me than the exploits of the great Duke. I bought some sugar almonds in a beautiful blue and silver box for my mother, a model of the church for my father and a penknife for Charles.
When we went back I sat with Annabelinda. I asked what she had bought.
“Nothing,” she replied briefly.
“You look bored,” I said.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh, you’d like anything.”
She seemed genuinely disgruntled, and when I asked if she was annoyed about something she snapped at me, “Of course not. Why should I be? But old Carruthers did go on about that church and the bells.”
In due course we left for home for the holidays.
Aunt Celeste came for us and we spent a night at Valenciennes. Neither the Princesse nor Jean Pascal was there, and soon we were on our way to England.
My parents were at Dover to meet us. We kept hugging each other and they wanted to hear all about school. Annabelinda was staying the night with us, and Aunt Belinda was coming to London on the following day.
It was a wonderful homecoming. I told them all about school life and described Madame Rochère and the only slightly less formidable Mademoiselle Artois, Miss Carruthers, the whole lot. They wanted to hear about the midnight feasts and Marie Christine’s sleepwalking.
I was on the point of mentioning the ghost, but I held back. Somehow I felt that Annabelinda, in her present mood, would want that.
“It is quite clear to me,” said my mother, “that you enjoy that school.”
I assured her I did, although I wished it were not so far away. The Princesse had been wonderful, I went on, and her title did much to enhance our prestige with Madame Rochère.
“What of Jean Pascal Bourdon?” she said. “I have not heard you mention him.”
“We haven’t seen him,” I replied.
“He is busy at Château Bourdon, I suppose,” my mother said. “The wine and all that.”
“Yes, and Aunt Celeste just took us to their house at Valenciennes, didn’t she, Anna B? That’s what the girls at school call her. They say ‘Annabelinda’ is too long.”
“I don’t like it,” said Annabelinda. “I forbid you to call me by anything but my proper name.”
When we were alone, my mother said, “What’s wrong with Annabelinda? She doesn’t seem so enamored of the school as you are.”
“Oh, she likes it. She would have liked to stay on and not come home for the holidays, I believe.”
“Oh, dear, we must try to make her change her mind.”
There was so much to do during those holidays, so many things to talk about, that I forgot Annabelinda’s mood.
The Denvers spent Christmas week with us, and after that I went down to Cornwall to be with Aunt Rebecca, which was always enjoyable. Aunt Rebecca was as eager to hear about the school as my mother had been.
We came back to London and preparations for the return to school began in earnest. A few days before we were due to leave, Annabelinda and her mother came to London.
Annabelinda looked no better than she had when the holidays began. She did not seem to want to talk to me, but the night before we left I was feeling so anxious about her that I went along to her room, determined to talk.
I knocked and without waiting for an answer went in.
She was in bed but not asleep.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously.
“Annabelinda,” I said. “I’m worried about you. Are you ill or something? Why don’t you tell me? There might be something I could do.”
“You can’t do anything,” she replied. “I shall never see him again.”
“Who?”
“Carl.”
“Carl…You mean the gardener?”
“He wasn’t really a gardener. That was only a bet. He just left without saying. I didn’t know he was going. He didn’t tell me.”
“Was there any reason why he should tell you?”
“Every reason,” she said. “We were friends.”
“Friends,” I repeated. “You only saw him in the
When we went back I sat with Annabelinda. I asked what she had bought.
“Nothing,” she replied briefly.
“You look bored,” I said.
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Oh, you’d like anything.”
She seemed genuinely disgruntled, and when I asked if she was annoyed about something she snapped at me, “Of course not. Why should I be? But old Carruthers did go on about that church and the bells.”
In due course we left for home for the holidays.
Aunt Celeste came for us and we spent a night at Valenciennes. Neither the Princesse nor Jean Pascal was there, and soon we were on our way to England.
My parents were at Dover to meet us. We kept hugging each other and they wanted to hear all about school. Annabelinda was staying the night with us, and Aunt Belinda was coming to London on the following day.
It was a wonderful homecoming. I told them all about school life and described Madame Rochère and the only slightly less formidable Mademoiselle Artois, Miss Carruthers, the whole lot. They wanted to hear about the midnight feasts and Marie Christine’s sleepwalking.
I was on the point of mentioning the ghost, but I held back. Somehow I felt that Annabelinda, in her present mood, would want that.
“It is quite clear to me,” said my mother, “that you enjoy that school.”
I assured her I did, although I wished it were not so far away. The Princesse had been wonderful, I went on, and her title did much to enhance our prestige with Madame Rochère.
“What of Jean Pascal Bourdon?” she said. “I have not heard you mention him.”
“We haven’t seen him,” I replied.
“He is busy at Château Bourdon, I suppose,” my mother said. “The wine and all that.”
“Yes, and Aunt Celeste just took us to their house at Valenciennes, didn’t she, Anna B? That’s what the girls at school call her. They say ‘Annabelinda’ is too long.”
“I don’t like it,” said Annabelinda. “I forbid you to call me by anything but my proper name.”
When we were alone, my mother said, “What’s wrong with Annabelinda? She doesn’t seem so enamored of the school as you are.”
“Oh, she likes it. She would have liked to stay on and not come home for the holidays, I believe.”
“Oh, dear, we must try to make her change her mind.”
There was so much to do during those holidays, so many things to talk about, that I forgot Annabelinda’s mood.
The Denvers spent Christmas week with us, and after that I went down to Cornwall to be with Aunt Rebecca, which was always enjoyable. Aunt Rebecca was as eager to hear about the school as my mother had been.
We came back to London and preparations for the return to school began in earnest. A few days before we were due to leave, Annabelinda and her mother came to London.
Annabelinda looked no better than she had when the holidays began. She did not seem to want to talk to me, but the night before we left I was feeling so anxious about her that I went along to her room, determined to talk.
I knocked and without waiting for an answer went in.
She was in bed but not asleep.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously.
“Annabelinda,” I said. “I’m worried about you. Are you ill or something? Why don’t you tell me? There might be something I could do.”
“You can’t do anything,” she replied. “I shall never see him again.”
“Who?”
“Carl.”
“Carl…You mean the gardener?”
“He wasn’t really a gardener. That was only a bet. He just left without saying. I didn’t know he was going. He didn’t tell me.”
“Was there any reason why he should tell you?”
“Every reason,” she said. “We were friends.”
“Friends,” I repeated. “You only saw him in the
Similar Books
