opportunity to let Anna and the children relocate unfettered and at their leisure was the only thing that justified his absence. He was gone for eight days, and when he returned Anna had tentatively assumed control of the house. A picture of the Rhine hung unobtrusively in the sitting room that she had appropriated as her private retreat.
For Paul and Ondine, then thirteen and twelve respectively, the affluence of their new home far outweighed the inconvenience of having to move. For the first time they each had their own bedroom, side by side along a wide hallway on the second floor. Winton had made sure that both rooms were lavishly furnished so that the two children fancied themselves royalty as they leapt onto each other’s deep, soft beds and unpacked their meagre belongings.
When Winton arrived home he appeared happy to see them both. They feared he would be an old-style tyrant, the sort of demented aristocrat they had encountered in the fairytales and Gothic romances which their mother had read to them when they were younger and which they both still avidly consumed, frequently reading out loud to each other at night before they fell asleep. When Anna first mentioned moving to St Vincent Place, Ondine wondered about tombs and crypts where she might be locked up as punishment and imagined that Winton, a doctor after all, might try to hack out their eyes like Coppelius in “The Sandman”.
Her fears, which she had deliberately nurtured as a way of giving rein to her melodramatic temperament, were almost immediately allayed. They met the doctor in his new capacity as stepfather at dinner the evening after his return, and though he was evidently tired, he was in such good spirits that his warmth succeeded in melting the children’s reserve. They ate a meal of roast lamb and vegetables, which Mrs Norris had prepared, had a glass of wine from fine cut-crystal, which made both children a bit tipsy, and finished with spotted dick. The doctor politely inquired as to the children’s interests, talked about painting with Paul and the possibility of him studying it in a few years’ time, and chatted about novels with Ondine, who was delighted to find that he had read the writers she adored – the Brothers Grimm, Tieck and Hoffmann. She suddenly felt very grown-up.
Anna was quiet, but glowed with secret satisfaction, confident that they would all be secure here and that her children would benefit from the advantages of wealth and education. She and Winton were careful to avoid explicit displays of their amorousness, and this cult of secrecy lent their interactions a coyness that charmed them both when they were in public and heightened their passion when they were finally alone together.
After dinner, as the four of them retreated to a sitting room of leather-upholstered couches arranged in a semicircle around a fireplace, Winton presented each of them with a gift. He had bought Ondine a gold necklace and Paul a new set of paintbrushes and oils. Both were thrilled. Ondine put on her necklace immediately, shivering at the touch of the cold metal on her skin.
“She is quite a princess,” the doctor said softly to Anna as they watched the girl sit very upright and throw her blond locks over her back so that she could more easily link the chain.
“Haven’t you anything for Mum?” she asked.
“Ondine!”Anna said.
“Why of course,” the doctor said. “But she’ll have to wait a little while to receive it.” Anna looked at him. She was self-conscious about the prospect of her children confronting the fact that a new husband was also a new lover.
But before Paul and Ondine had time to ponder the implications of this mysterious deferral, Mrs Norris brought in a tray of coffee, tea and chocolates, which they lingered over with feigned reserve until Winton urged them to help themselves, waving them on towards the sweets with his ringed hand which, Anna remembered, had once seemed so menacing.
In the week or so
For Paul and Ondine, then thirteen and twelve respectively, the affluence of their new home far outweighed the inconvenience of having to move. For the first time they each had their own bedroom, side by side along a wide hallway on the second floor. Winton had made sure that both rooms were lavishly furnished so that the two children fancied themselves royalty as they leapt onto each other’s deep, soft beds and unpacked their meagre belongings.
When Winton arrived home he appeared happy to see them both. They feared he would be an old-style tyrant, the sort of demented aristocrat they had encountered in the fairytales and Gothic romances which their mother had read to them when they were younger and which they both still avidly consumed, frequently reading out loud to each other at night before they fell asleep. When Anna first mentioned moving to St Vincent Place, Ondine wondered about tombs and crypts where she might be locked up as punishment and imagined that Winton, a doctor after all, might try to hack out their eyes like Coppelius in “The Sandman”.
Her fears, which she had deliberately nurtured as a way of giving rein to her melodramatic temperament, were almost immediately allayed. They met the doctor in his new capacity as stepfather at dinner the evening after his return, and though he was evidently tired, he was in such good spirits that his warmth succeeded in melting the children’s reserve. They ate a meal of roast lamb and vegetables, which Mrs Norris had prepared, had a glass of wine from fine cut-crystal, which made both children a bit tipsy, and finished with spotted dick. The doctor politely inquired as to the children’s interests, talked about painting with Paul and the possibility of him studying it in a few years’ time, and chatted about novels with Ondine, who was delighted to find that he had read the writers she adored – the Brothers Grimm, Tieck and Hoffmann. She suddenly felt very grown-up.
Anna was quiet, but glowed with secret satisfaction, confident that they would all be secure here and that her children would benefit from the advantages of wealth and education. She and Winton were careful to avoid explicit displays of their amorousness, and this cult of secrecy lent their interactions a coyness that charmed them both when they were in public and heightened their passion when they were finally alone together.
After dinner, as the four of them retreated to a sitting room of leather-upholstered couches arranged in a semicircle around a fireplace, Winton presented each of them with a gift. He had bought Ondine a gold necklace and Paul a new set of paintbrushes and oils. Both were thrilled. Ondine put on her necklace immediately, shivering at the touch of the cold metal on her skin.
“She is quite a princess,” the doctor said softly to Anna as they watched the girl sit very upright and throw her blond locks over her back so that she could more easily link the chain.
“Haven’t you anything for Mum?” she asked.
“Ondine!”Anna said.
“Why of course,” the doctor said. “But she’ll have to wait a little while to receive it.” Anna looked at him. She was self-conscious about the prospect of her children confronting the fact that a new husband was also a new lover.
But before Paul and Ondine had time to ponder the implications of this mysterious deferral, Mrs Norris brought in a tray of coffee, tea and chocolates, which they lingered over with feigned reserve until Winton urged them to help themselves, waving them on towards the sweets with his ringed hand which, Anna remembered, had once seemed so menacing.
In the week or so
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