Free Adam Gould by Julia O'Faolain Page A

claimed, but he guessed that doing so wouldn’t bother her at all. His skin was hot. He wondered if the valet noticed.
    ‘Do you want to take it off a moment? I could attend to it better.’
    Adam, whose namesake had masked his nakedness with leaves, felt in need of some cover. Tassart’s fossicking hands tickled and Adam spun away from them in a cloud of powder. Might his jacket have been Maupassant’s?
    ‘Talc!’ Tassart was wielding a small brush. ‘I always carry this. The powder sinks into the velvet pile. I
thought
I noticed this earlier. Couldn’t be sure in the dark of that corridor.’ Peeling back Adam’s collar, he scrubbed, then, moving to the fireplace, shook his brush out over the grate. ‘It can look like dandruff.’
    ‘It’s from Dr Blanche’s gloves,’ Adam remembered with relief. ‘
Il m
’
a blanchi
!’
    Madame d’Armaillé’s full-throated laugh at this weary joke was unexpected. She’s young, he remembered, and felt friendlier towards her. ‘Why don’t we all have some port,’ he suggested, ‘to raise our spirits. Or Marsala?’ He took decanters and glasses from a cupboard and put them on an intarsia table inlaid with festive motifs. ‘We’ll each drink a thimbleful, shall we? Then, though, I must ask Mademoiselle Litzelmann to leave. I have no choice. The director left precise instructions, and Monsieur Tassart may well get me into hot water over your being here at all. He is almost certainly about to say that it isn’t his place to drink in the drawing room. Perhaps it isn’t mine either, or Mademoiselle Litzelmann’s. But, in a house like this, places shift. And many have no idea where they belong.’
    To Adam’s surprise, Tassart, when his turn came, accepted two glasses in quick succession and promptly drained both. They all drank, even Mademoiselle Litzelmann, who had stopped crying. Tassart looked as though he might be thinking of taking the floor.
    ‘Biscuits?’ Adam brought out a jar of
langues de chat
and handed them round. Soon there were sounds of delicate crunching and a scent of vanilla. Crumbs drifted and were brushed away.
    ‘I have no wish,’ the valet wiped his lips, ‘to cause pain. But, for her own sake, Mademoiselle Litzelmann should know how hopeless her endeavours are. I understand why she keeps on with them because for a long time I too refused to accept what was happening to my poor master. There were remissions, and with each our hopes would revive. A change of air, a trip in his yacht, even a visit to a spa could brighten his mood, and when it did, how could we – he and I – help thinking he was on the mend? In the end though – this was ten months ago – I had to admit to myself that our interests were no longer the same, and that if I didn’t ask him for a character reference soon I risked being unable to get employment when he was gone. Delicacy, you see, Gould, was beyond my means. Servants like me have a professional need to understand it but can rarely afford it. This is painful, and in my master’s case it forced me to cause him pain too. Just now you mentioned “my place”, and this reminded me that I cannot hope to find another one such as I had with him. He got me used to being treated like a man of feeling. That rarely happens to a servant. Do you mind if I take another glass of port? Thank you. Forgive me if I sound upset. I have been so for some time, you see. Not only on his account! On my own too. For nine years my life revolved around his. So did his mother’s, of course, though in a quite different way. He was hers. She called him “My son the great man!” whereas I was just
his
man – a small man. But, unlike her, I was
there
all the time. Close up. Nursing and sharing. I’m a bit overcome. I’ll try to be quick. I am hoping to make Mademoiselle Litzelmann see that those close to Monsieur have to give up their closeness. You’ll see what I mean if you imagine my dilemma ten months ago. To ask for a reference