King of the Castle (19 page)

“My friend. Monsieur de la Monelle, needs his pictures restored immediately. I thought that if you were unhappy here … or you felt you would like to get away …”

“I have no wish to leave this work.”

He looked alarmed, fearful that he had said too much.

“It was only a suggestion.”

“You are very kind to be so concerned.”

His smile was very charming.

“I feel responsible. On that first occasion I could have sent you away.”

“But you didn’t. I appreciate that.”

“Perhaps it would have been better.”

“Oh no! I find the work here absorbing.”

“It’s a wonderful old place.” He spoke almost eagerly.

“But it is not the happiest of households, and in view of what happened in the past. My cousin’s wife died, you know, in rather mysterious circumstances.”

“I have heard that.”

“And my cousin can be rather ruthless in getting what he wants. I shouldn’t have said that. He has been good to me. I am here … it is now my home … thanks to him. It is only that I have this feeling of responsibility towards you and I would like you to know that if you did need my help … Mademoiselle Lawson, I hope you will say nothing of this to my cousin.”

“I understand. I shan’t mention it.”

“But please bear in mind: if my cousin … if you should feel you ought to get away, please come to me.”

He went to one of the paintings and asked questions about it, but I did not think he was paying attention to the answers.

When his eyes met mine they were rather shy, diffident, but very warm.

He was certainly anxious on my behalf and I understood that he was warning me about the Comte.

I felt I had a good friend in the chateau.

Christmas was almost upon us. Genevieve and I were 149

riding every day and there was a marked improvement in ;

her English. I told her of our Christmases in England and;

how we brought in the holly and the mistletoe; how we kissed under the mistletoe; how everyone had to have a stir at the Christmas puddings and what a great day it was when they were boiling and we hauled out the tiny basin, with the ‘taster’ in it. What an important moment that was when we each had our spoonful, for the taster was an indication of what the whole boiling of puddings would be.

“My grandmother was alive then,” I said.

“That was my mother’s mother.

She was French and had to learn all our customs, but she took to them very quickly and she would never have dreamt of giving up any of them.

”

“Tell me some more, miss,” begged Genevieve.

So I told her how I used to sit on a high stool beside my mother and help stone the raisins and peel the almonds.

“I used to eat them whenever I could.”

That amused Genevieve.

“Oh, miss, fancy your being a little girl once.”

I told her about waking on Christmas morning to find my stocking filled.

“We put our shoes by the fireplace … at least some people do. I don’t.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Nounou would be the only one to remember. And you can’t have one pair of shoes; you want a lot, otherwise it’s no fun.”

“You tell me.”

“Well, you put your shoes round the fireplace on Christmas Eve when you come in from Midnight Mass and then you go to bed. In the morning, the little presents are inside your shoes and the big ones round it.

We did it when my mother was alive. “

“And then you stopped?”

She nodded.

“It’s a nice custom.”

“Your mother died,” she said.

“How did she die?”

“She was ill for a long time. I nursed her.”

“You were grown up then?”

“Yes, I suppose you would call it that.”

“Oh, miss. I believe you were always grown up.”

We called in at the Bastides’ on our way back to the chateau. I had encouraged this because I felt that she should meet people outside the chateau, particularly children, and although Yves and Margot were younger than she was and Gabrielle older, at least they were nearer her age than anyone else she knew.

There was excitement in that household because of the nearness of Christmas whispering in corners and hinting at secrets.

Yves and Margot were busy making the creche. Genevieve watched them with interest and, while I talked to Madame Bastide, went over to join them.

“The children are so excited,” said Madame Bastide.

“It is always so.

Margot tells us every morning how many hours it is until Christmas Day.

”

We watched them arrange the brown paper to look like rocks. Yves took out his painting set and painted moss on it and Margot started to colour the stable brown. On the floor lay the little sheep which they had made themselves and which they would set up on the rocks. I watched Genevieve. She was quite fascinated.

She looked into the cradle.

“It’s empty,” she said rather scornfully.

“Of course it’s empty! Jesus isn’t born yet,” retorted Yves.

“It is a miracle,” Margot told her.

“We go to bed on Christmas Eve .. “

“After we put our shoes round the fire …” added Yves.

“Yes, we do that… and the cradle is empty and then … on Christmas morning when we get up to look, the little ‘| Jesus is lying in it.”

Genevieve was silent.

After a while she said: “Can I do something?”

“Yes,” replied Yves.

“We want more shepherds’ crooks. Do you know how to make them?”

“No,” she said humbly.

“Margot will show you.”

I watched the two girls, their heads close together, and I said to myself: This is what she needs.

Madame Bastide followed my gaze. She said: “And you think Monsieur Ie Comte will allow this? You think he will agree to this friendship between our children and his daughter?”

I said: “I have never seen her so … relaxed, so unconscious of herself.”

“Ah, but Monsieur Ie Comte will not wish his daughter to be carefree.

He wants her to be the grand lady of the chateau. “

“This companionship is what she needs. You have invited me to join you on Christmas Day. May I bring her with me? She has talked about Christmas so wistfully.”

“You think it will be permitted?”

“We can try,” I said.

“But Monsieur Ie Comte … ?”

“I will answer to him,” I replied boldly.

A few days before Christmas the Comte returned to the chateau. I had expected that he would seek me out to discover either how his daughter or his paintings were progressing, but he did no such thing. This was probably because he was thinking of the guests who would soon be arriving.

There would be fifteen people, I heard from Nounou. Not so many as usually came, but entertaining was rather a delicate matter when there was no lady of the house.

I was out riding with Genevieve the day before Christmas Eve when we met a party of riders from the chateau. The Comte rode at the head of them and beside him was a beautiful young woman. She wore a high black riding-hat swathed with grey and there was a grey cravat at her throat. The masculinity of her riding-habit served to-accentuate her femininity, and I noticed at once how bright was her hair, how delicate her features. She was like a piece of china from the collection in the blue drawing-room which I had seen once or twice.

Such women always made me feel even taller than I was, even more plain.

“Here is my daughter,” said the Comte, greeting us almost affectionately.

We pulled up, the four of us, for the rest of the party were some way behind.

“With her governess?” added the beautiful creature.

“Certainly not. This is Miss Lawson from England who is restoring our pictures.”

I saw the blue eyes take on a coolly appraising expression.

“Genevieve, you will have met Mademoiselle de la Monelle.”

Mademoiselle de la Monelle! I had heard the name before.

“Yes, Papa,” said Genevieve.

“Good day, mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle Lawson, Mademoiselle de la Monelle.”

We greeted each other.

“Pictures must be quite fascinating,” she said.

I knew then. This was the name of the people whom Philippe had mentioned as having pictures to be restored.

“Miss Lawson thinks so.” And to us, so cutting short the encounter:

“Were you returning?”

We said we were and rode on.

“Would you say she was beautiful?” asked Genevieve.

“What was that?”

is3

“You’re not listening,” accused Genevieve and repeated the question.

“I should think most people would.”

“I said you, miss. Do you think so?”

“She has a type of looks which most people admire.”

“Well, I don’t like her.”

“I hope you won’t take your scissors to her room, because if you did anything like that there would be trouble … not only for you but for others. Have you thought of what has happened to poor Mademoiselle Dubois?”

“She was a silly old woman.”

“That’s no reason for being unkind to her.”

She laughed rather slyly.

“Well, you came out of that affair well, didn’t you? It’s a lovely dress my father gave you. I don’t suppose you ever had a dress like that in your life before. So you see I really did you a good turn.”

“I don’t agree. It was an embarrassing situation for us all.”

“Poor old Esquilles! It wasn’t fair really. She didn’t want to go. You wouldn’t want to go either.”

“No, I shouldn’t. I’m very interested in my work.”

“And in us?”

“Certainly I hope to see you more fluent in your English than you are.” Then I relented and said: “No, I should not want to leave you, Genevieve.”

She smiled, but almost immediately the malicious look came into her face.

“Nor my father,” she said.

“But I don’t think he will be taking much notice of you now, miss. Did you see the way he looked at her!”

“At her?”

“You know who I mean. Mademoiselle de la Monelle. And she is beautiful.”

She rode on and looked over her shoulder at me, laughing.

I touched Bonhomme’s flanks and broke into a gallop. Genevieve was beside me.

I could not get Mademoiselle de la Monelle’s beautiful face out of my mind, and both Genevieve and I were silent as we rode back to the chateau.

The next day I came face to face with the Comte on my way to the gallery. I thought as he was no doubt preoccupied with his guests he would merely greet me and pass on, but he paused.

“And how is my daughter progressing with her English?”

“Very well. I think you will be pleased.”

“I knew you would be an excellent teacher.”

Did I look so much like a governess? I wondered.

“She is interested, and that is a great help. She is happier now.”

“Happier?”

“Yes, haven’t you noticed?”

He shook his head.

“But I accept your word.”

“There is always a reason why young people want to destroy things … without reason. Do you agree with me?”

“I am sure you are right.”

“I think she feels the loss of her mother deeply, and misses the fun that most children have.”

He did not flinch at the mention of his dead wife.

“Fun, Mademoiselle Lawson?” He repeated.

“She has been telling me how they used to put their shoes in front of the fire on Christmas Eve … rather wistfully I thought.”

“Isn’t she rather old for that sort of thing?”

“I don’t think one is ever too old.”

“You surprise me.”

“It’s a pleasant custom,” I insisted.

“We have decided that we will follow it this Christmas and … perhaps you will be surprised by my presumption but…”

“You have ceased to surprise me.”

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“I thought that you might put your present with the others. That would delight her.”

“You think that by finding a gift in a shoe instead of shall we say at the dinner-table, my daughter is less likely to play childish tricks?”

I sighed.

“Monsieur Ie Comte, I see I have been presumptuous. I’m sorry.”

I passed quickly on and he did not attempt to stop me.

I went to the gallery, but I could not work. I felt too disturbed. I had two images in my mind: the proud innocent man showing a defiant face to the world and . the callous murderer.

Which was the true one? I wished I knew! But then what concern was it of mine? I was concerned with the pictures, not the man.

On Christmas Eve we all went to the midnight service in the old Gaillard church. The Comte sat in the first of the pews reserved for the chateau family with Genevieve beside him and the guests in the pews immediately behind. Farther back I sat with Nounou; and as the servants were all there the chateau pews were full.

I saw the Bastide family in their best clothes. Madame all in black and Gabrielle looking very pretty in grey. There was the young man with her whom I had seen now and then about the vineyard; he was Jacques, who had been with Armand Bastide at the time of the accident;

I knew him by the scar on his left cheek.

Yves and Margot could scarcely keep still; Margot was no doubt counting the minutes now instead of the hours.

I saw that Genevieve was watching them and I guessed that she was wishing that instead of going back to the chateau she was going to the Bastides’ house that she might join in the fun which only children can give to Christmas.

I was glad I had announced that I was going to put my shoes by the schoolroom fire and suggested that she did the same. It could not be but a quiet little party when compared with the frivolity which would take place on Christmas morning round the Bastide fireplace, but still, it would be better than nothing; and I had been surprised by Genevieve’s enthusiasm. After all, she had never been used to a large family; and when her mother had been alive it must have been the three of them Genevieve, Francoise, Nounou and perhaps the governess of the time. And what of the Comte? Surely when his wife was alive and his daughter young, he would have joined in the Christmas customs.