The adulteress

He was now in his fifteenth year but he looked eighteen. He had shot up amazingly and was nearly six feet tall and there was more growing time left to him. He was very handsome, with light blond hair—thick and waving—and very piercing blue eyes; he had perfect teeth and his skin was flawless; moreover, his feature was so perfectly chiseled that he might have been a Greek god. In fact he reminded me of Michelangelo's David. There was one flaw and it was only apparent at times. It was most obvious when that calculating look came into his face and then it reminded me of a fox's mask. Cunning was there, ruthlessness, an absolute disregard for what stood in the way of his getting what he wanted. But I seemed to be the only one who saw this. I knew that he had tried to shift the blame for the fire onto the gardener's boy. I would remember that because it was the beginning of the decline in Jean-Louis's health. I knew too that for some time he had come to manhood physically. I had seen his watchful eyes on some of the prettier maids; he reminded me then of a fox waiting to spring on a chicken. I knew that he was growing up into a ruthlessly ambitious man whose sexual appetites would be voracious and that he would not care in what manner they were satisfied as long as they were. Perhaps these qualities were born in him—although I understood his father had been a kindly idealistic man, and Sabrina might have been rebellious in her youth but there was an inherent goodness in her. But the indulgence he had received from those two doting women had certainly not helped to eradicate his less attractive qualities.

But there was no doubt now that he was going to work hard. He was constantly with James Fenton and would ride with him round the estate listening intently to all that passed between the agent and the farmers. He was also often in the company of Jean-Louis, which meant that he came over from the Hall almost every day.

"That boy has a real flair for estate management," said Jean-Louis. "He reminds me of myself at his age. I always wanted to manage the place."

"He seems to have changed so suddenly," I said. "He did not seem to be interested in work before."

My mother and Sabrina were delighted. They thought he was more wonderful than ever—if that were possible.

I found James Fenton very interesting. He was fond of talking. He had been abroad for some time in France so that he felt he had a knowledge of that country. That was what had first aroused my interest in him. He was a very good agent, Jean-Louis said; and he was grateful to have someone on whom he could rely just now, for he tired very easily and he could not walk at all without the aid of his stick. I often wondered whether he was getting worse but he always shrugged aside my inquiries, and as I knew he hated talking of his disability I refrained from mentioning it.

They were peaceful days and there were long periods when I was lulled into a sense of security. My life with Jean-Louis was satisfactory. I knew my attitude toward him had changed since I had made that fateful visit to Eversleigh. I had been very solicitous toward him and he was immensely grateful and I believe he thought it was something to do with his disability. He loved me very tenderly and was always anxious to assure me of this. I knew I was lucky in my husband. I did sometimes wonder what life would have been like with Gerard—wild, passionate, stormy. There would have been jealousy perhaps, misunderstandings, quarrels and reconciliations. Life would have been lived on a different plane, but would our love have stood the stress? I wondered. Could such violent passion as that which we had shared go on? Surely its power must diminish. Sometimes I even thought it had been so overwhelming for me because it was illicit. I couldn't understand myself yet. I still longed for that ecstasy I had shared so briefly with Gerard. That comes once in a lifetime, I told myself. You achieved it; you have recovered from it; you have had a miraculous escape. Be contented.

And I had my Lottie—my delightful wayward sprite of a child, who was, my mother was fond of saying, so unlike what I had been at her age. "You were such a good little thing, Zipporah," she said often. "So easy to understand."

So life went on. Uncle Carl coddled and contented through our clever strategy with his Jessie; myself a happy wife and mother who had succeeded in forgetting her own now long ago lapse; and my mother and Sabrina looking on with admiration at their darling's preoccupation with work.

James Fenton said to me: "It is a good thing really that he is taking such an interest. It could be useful to have him working with us when he's older, for Jean-Louis gets more tired than he will admit, and young Dickon does make himself useful."