The Song of the Siren

Clarissa commanded a good deal of Hessenfield’s attention and one day he said to me: “We shall have to stay at St. Germains at times. There is work for me to do and it can only be done there. We can’t take Clarissa. We should have a good nursery governess for her. Someone who can teach her and look after her at the same time.”

“I should not want her to speak French entirely. It would change her somehow.”

“She shall speak both languages.”

“But a French nurse would not speak English to her.”

“We should do that. It is hardly likely that you would find an English nursery governess here. We must look round. I have already let it be known that we are searching for someone suitable.”

“It must be someone of whom I approve.”

He kissed me. “It must be someone of whom we both approve.”

It seemed the greatest good fortune when Mary Marton arrived.

I was with Clarissa when she was announced. I left the child and received her in the salon. She was of middle height, very slender, with pale yellow hair and light blue eyes. She had an extremely deprecating manner. She had heard that I needed a nursery governess for a young child and had come to offer her services.

She told me that she had been brought to France by her mother, who had followed her father, who had been in the service of the late King. Her father had died almost immediately and she and her mother had gone to another part of France-near Angouleme.

Her mother was now dead and she had come to Paris to see if she could earn a little money as she had become very poor.

She had a family in England and hoped eventually to return to them, but as her father had been a Jacobite it would not be easy for her to return. In the meantime she had to earn a living.

She was well educated, was fond of children and qualified to take on the care of a child. In any case she would be most grateful for the chance.

I was delighted because I wanted Clarissa to retain her English characteristics.

I was always hoping that we should return to England. I wanted to see my mother, and Damaris was on my conscience a great deal. She and Benjie were like two reproachful shadows who would appear at any moment to cloud my happiness.

I believed, and so did a good many other people, that when Anne died James would be invited to come back. That was the time we Were all looking forward to. Anne was a sick woman; surely she could not live very long. She had that fearful dropsy which made it difficult for her to walk; and she had long given up hope of producing an heir.

So when we did go I wanted my daughter to be English. She could already chatter a little in French, which she did with the servants. That was good but her main tongue must be English.

Therefore I was delighted to engage Mary Marton, and when Clarissa seemed to take to her that settled it. Clarissa of course took to everyone; she had the beautiful notion that everybody in the world loved her and therefore she must love them. I would have liked to have taken that up with some of those who had declared she was spoilt. Spoiling perhaps had its point. It had certainly turned my child into an extremely affectionate one.

Hessenfield was delighted that we had found our nursery governess so quickly. He was beginning to talk to me about his plans and how members of his society were constantly going back and forth to England and that when the day came for the great invasion it would be known where they could most safely land and how many people they could rely on.

There was a tremendous project in progress at that time. Several men were going over to land arms and ammunition. They knew where it could safely be deposited. It would be left in the possession of trusted Jacobites who lived in England posing as loyal subjects of the Queen.

“There will be these strongholds throughout the country,” he explained to me. “We already have one or two but the one we are now planning will be the most important so far.”

“You are not going ... ?” I said fearfully.

“Not this time. I have work to do here.”

I was thankful for that.

It was two weeks or so after Mary Marton joined us when Jeanne, one of the maids, came in to tell me that a gentleman was asking to see me.

“Who?” I asked.

“Madame, he would give no name. He is an English gentleman.”

“A ... a stranger?” I asked.

“I have not seen him before, Madame.”

I said he should be shown in.

My amazement was great when Matt Pilkington entered.

“Matt!” I cried.

He looked at me helplessly.

“Carlotta,” he said, and coming forward seized both my hands. “I know I shouldn’t have come... but I couldn’t help it. I had to see you again....”

“Matt!” I cried. “How could you? How did you get here ... ?”

“It was not too difficult,” he said. “I came on a boat... landing along the coast, and made my way to Paris.”

“You are mad. England is at war ... and you are a soldier. You’re in enemy territory.”

“Yes, I know. I know all that... but I had to see you. I heard, you see.”

“What did you hear?”

“That you had been forcibly taken away.”