Time for Silence by Philippa Carr

Wars are good for no one, and when one’s neighbors indulge in them, events must be closely watched. One never knows when one’s country might be brought in.”
    However, it had been pleasant to be able to forget the war and discuss the capital cities of Europe such as Paris, Brussels and Rome, all of which we read about and talked of with a certain amount of aplomb—the Bois de Boulogne, Les Invalides, the Colosseum of Rome, the art galleries of Florence—just as though we knew them well. This made us feel very sophisticated, knowledgeable and much-traveled—in our minds at least.
    But that summer there had been moans of dismay when war broke out again. Serbia, Greece, Turkey and Rumania were quarreling with Bulgaria over the division of the spoils gained from the last war. We were delighted when Bulgaria was quickly defeated and peace returned.
    Now, a year later, Madame Rochère still seemed rather grave—and so did some of the other teachers. The atmosphere had become a little uneasy. All the same it was a delightful summer; the weather was perfect and the days sped by. Soon the term would be at an end and we should be on our way home once more for the summer holidays. Aunt Celeste would come for us on the first day of August. School broke up on the last day of July.
    We were coming toward the end of June. There was just over a month to go and Annabelinda and I were already making plans.
    “This time next year, I shall be thinking of leaving,” she said. “I shall have a season. Do they have seasons in France? I must ask Grandpère. Of course, they haven’t got a king and queen. It wouldn’t be the same. I suppose my season will be in London. I shall see the King and Queen. Queen Mary looks a little stern, doesn’t she?”
    How can she talk so lightly of such things? I thought. Does she ever give a thought to the baby?
    Little Edouard was now nearly a year old. He was beginning to take notice. He could crawl and was learning to stand up. Sometimes he would take a few tentative steps. I would sit opposite Marguerite and he would stand between us, his face alight with pleasure. It was a game to him, to totter from Marguerite’s arms to mine without falling. She would stand behind, ready to catch him should the need arise. Then he would take his faltering steps and fall into my arms, which were waiting to receive him. We would clap, applauding his triumph, and he would put his hands together and do the same, beaming with pride in his achievement.
    It was amazing what pleasure I found in that child. Perhaps he was so important to me because I knew he was Annabelinda’s. I felt that he belonged to our family. One day I should have to leave him. When my days at La Pinière were over, that would be the end. No. I would come back. I would pay a visit now and then…so that I could see how he was growing up. Marguerite would welcome me. She understood my feelings for the child. She shared them.
    Edouard had done so much for her. He had assuaged her grief. I sometimes believed she could not have loved her own child more than she loved Edouard.
    One day when I returned from the cottage and went up to the dormitory, Caroline was waiting there with Helga.
    “You’re late,” said Caroline. “Why do you always go off on your own?”
    “Because I like it.”
    “To get away from us. That’s not very polite.”
    “It’s to get away from school. I like…to walk around.”
    “You haven’t got a secret lover, have you?”
    I flushed a little, thinking of Annabelinda creeping out to meet Carl.
    “You have! You have!” shrieked Caroline.
    “Don’t be silly! How could I?”
    “There are ways. Some do.”
    Again that feeling of unease. Did they guess about Annabelinda? Why should I feel guilty because of her?
    “I’d better get ready,” I said. “I’ll be late for conversazione.”
    When we reached the hall, Madame Rochère was already there. She looked as though she had an important announcement to make. She