Will You Love Me in September

"You will see how it was with your mother," she said. "She was a stormy girl from the beginning. She was far too beautiful. Your character is quite different from hers. You had a harsh beginning, my child-I think it developed you in a certain way.

But you have been happy since Damaris brought you home.”

"Damaris did so much for me. I shall never forget it.”

"You did a great deal for her, my dear," said my grandmother.

On the day Lance and I were to leave for London I received a letter from Aimee. Over the last three years I had had about two or three letters. They had come at Christmastime.

I did know that there had been a close watch on Hessenfield Castle after the flight of the Pretender when the Jacobites were being rounded up and brought to trial. Lord Hessenfield had been questioned and suspected. His fate had been undecided for some time, and then, no doubt because of his disability, he had been left in peace.

My dear sister, [wrote Aimee] Everything has changed at the Castle. Our dear uncle has passed away. You can guess what an upheaval there has been, and now we have a new lord. Alas, I am unwelcome here. He is the son of one of our uncles, a younger brother of dear Lord Hessenfield, whose brothers were all executed-so the title and estates have gone to the nephew.

The fact is I cannot stay here. I feel my life is in ruins. I cannot go back to France.

My mother would not want me. She is settled in with her new family. She has stepchildren.

No, I could not face that. I thank God-and our father-that I am not in need of money.

But I feel bereft-alone-without family or friends. I often think of my little sister-the only relation I have here. Dear Clarissa, may I come and stay with you-just for a little while, until I know what I can do?

Jeanne came in while I was reading the letter.

"What is it, cherie?" she asked. "You look a little distrait.”

"I've had a letter from my sister.”

Jeanne frowned. "So?" she murmured.

"She wants to come and stay with me for a while.”

"But you are just married. You want to be alone with your 'usband.”

"She is my half sister, Jeanne.”

"Why now ... she want to come?”

"A great deal has happened up there. My uncle has died and a nephew has the title and the castle now. There are changes, evidently, and they have made it clear that Aimee is not wanted there. There will be plenty of room in the London house and in the country. Of course she must come. I daresay she will marry if she comes to London. She wouldn't have many opportunities for meeting people up there.

They were all intent on one thing putting James on the throne.”

Jeanne clicked her tongue. "Wasting time in silly plots when they might be marrying and having dear little babies!”

I laughed. "I shall tell Lance and see what he feels about it," I said.

I knew in advance what he would say. "Of course your sister must come.”

So I wrote and told her she would be welcome to arrive at any time.

Lance and I traveled to London about a week after our wedding day. I was enchanted by London. In the first place, I loved Lance's town house, with its big windows which let in the maximum of light and its large, uncluttered rooms. After Enderby it seemed airy and welcoming-a happy house.

My delight in everything was a source of pleasure to Lance. He devoted himself to me entirely. He wanted to show me London, that city of contrasts, such a place as I had never dreamed existed, having only before savored brief visits. I was amazed at the wealth and splendor which I saw side by side with poverty and squalor. I wanted to give to every beggar I saw, and whenever a flower girl crossed my path I would buy her entire basketful. Flower sellers always brought back such poignant memories.

We went often to the theaters. There was one in Drury Lane and that one called the New Theatre, in Portugal Street; there was a theater and opera house in Haymarket.

Lance was fond of the opera and was determined that I should also appreciate its delights. I found those days immensely exciting, full of new experiences as they were.

We would take our seats among those reserved for the quality, and I would often find the audience more entertaining than the play. After the first act, one of the theater employees would come round to take the money for the seats, which was a signal for many to sneak out-not, as they would imply, because they were disgusted with the play but because they did not want to pay for their seats. Lance said that many people made a habit of coming to first acts and then going to the coffeehouses, where they would discuss the play with a show of knowledge, and they called themselves patrons of the theater.

Up in the top gallery were the footmen who came with their masters and mistresses to the theater, where they had free seats, and oddly enough they were often the most vociferous among the audience, expressing their pleasure or, more often, their disgust.