We'll meet again

There were times when I felt I had been caught. I could picture the years ahead. I had been trapped here. I was married to a man who had ceased to attract me. I had a child who was more fond of Violetta and Nanny Crabtree than of me. I was not meant for the domestic life. I had always wanted excitement and admiration. Kind and gentle as Dermot was, he was not the ardent lover whom I required to give me contentment.

And then I had met Jacques.

It was Christmas. The feud was being thrust aside by Jowan, his grandmother, and Violetta. The grandmother was one of those sensible, down-to-earth women; she lived for her adored grandson in whom she could see no fault. She liked Violetta, which was fortunate-though she might think she was not quite good enough for her wonderful Jowan, but who could be? And everything seemed set fair in that direction. Then came this wretched war and the possibility of Jowan's being removed from the scene forever.

That was something I dared not contemplate. I feared it would have such an effect on my sister and I could not bear her to change.

It was Christmas time when Jacques was in Cornwall and it was at Jermyn Priory that I first met him. I was feeling particularly disillusioned with my life at that time, deeply aware of the mistake I had made, seeing the dreary years ahead-and there was Jacques.

It seemed that Jowan had met him somewhere on the Continent.

He must have talked to Jacques about Cornwall and said something like, "You must come and see us if you are ever our way." It was one of those casual meetings at which such invitations are lightly issued and seem little likely to come to anything at the time. And then fate plays an unexpected trick, and that seemingly insignificant fact is the catalyst which changes our lives.

Certainly it would have been better for me if Jowan had not met Jacques Dubois and issued that casual invitation.

Well, Jacques came. He was staying at one of the inns in Poldown.

He had a friend with him-Hans Fleisch, I remember, a German and an artist, as Jacques was.

They had arrived with their sketch pads and declared themselves excited by the beauty of the Cornish coast. I remember so vividly how I felt at that time-depressed by the dullness and monotony of life. Jacques was different from anyone I had known, very worldly, everything that Dermot was not. He seemed to sense how I felt and he understood it.

He was sympathetic and very attentive. I went home from that gathering at Jermyn's in that state of excitement which I needed in my life.

The next day I met him when he was painting on the cliffs. It was one of those mild winter days which one gets hereabouts. He looked remarkably pleased to see me. I sat beside him and asked if I were interrupting his work. Indeed not, he said. The work could only interrupt his meeting with me and could be set aside with the greatest pleasure. At times like that, Jacques always knew the right thing to say.

We walked and the time flew by. I had no idea I was with him so long.

"I am here every day," he told me. "The weather is not always as good as this, but if it is not, I shall be at the inn. I'd like to show you my work sometime.”

For three days we met on the cliffs. Then I began to see how it was between us. To me it was more than a passing flirtation. It was arranged that I should go along to the inn to see him. Of course, if anyone observed my going to his room, there would be a good deal of talk. It seemed an added excitement to plan my visits and seek an opportunity to slip up to his room unseen.

The outcome was inevitable. In a short time we were lovers. And what an exciting lover he was! How different from Dermot!

I knew how shocked my family would have been if they had known, and that included Violetta. She had always been rather conventional.

I could not imagine her straying from the path of virtue. I think I was more apprehensive of her discovering than I was of Dermot.

I have always been the sort of person who lives in the present.

Violetta calls it the "butterfly existence.”

"Fluttering hither and thither," she said, "round the candle until you scorch your wings.”

It could not last, of course. Though I made myself believe it would.

Jacques would not stay forever and then I would return to my old, dull existence.

Then one day Jacques said: "Why not come with me? You'd like Paris.”

I said: "How wonderful!" and let myself believe it was possible.

I suppose Jacques's nature is really like mine. We started to plan.

I love planning. I think up the wildest ideas, which I make myself believe in while they last. In the past Violetta had been there with her common sense. "How absurd you are being!”