King of the Castle (35 page)

“I thought he would be interested to look at the wall.”

“When I see him I will tell him you sent for him.” I pretended not to see the mockery.

“Thank you,” I said, and went back to my work. But the Comte did not come.

Genevieve had a birthday in June which was celebrated by a dinner-party at the chateau. I did not attend this although Genevieve had invited me. I made excuses knowing full well that Claude, who was after all the hostess, had no desire for my presence.

Genevieve herself did not mind whether I went or not;

nor, it seemed, to my chagrin, did the Comte. It was a very lukewarm affair and Genevieve was almost. sullen about it.

I had bought her a pair of grey gloves which she had admired in one of the town’s shop windows and she did say she was pleased with these, but she was in one of her gloomy moods and I felt that it would have been better not to have celebrated a birthday in such circumstances.

The day after, we went riding together, and I asked how she had enjoyed the party.

“I didn’t,” she declared.

“It was hateful. What’s the good of having a party when you don’t invite the guests? I would have liked a real party … perhaps with a cake and a crown on it…”

“That’s not a birthday custom.”

“What does it matter? In any case there must be birthday customs. I expect Jean Pierre would know. I’ll ask him.”

“You know what your Aunt Claude feels about your friendship with the Bastides.”

Fury broke out all over her face.

“I tell you I shall choose my own friends. I’m grown up now. They’ll have to realize it. I’m fifteen.”

“It’s not really such a great age.”

“You’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

For a few moments I saw her stormy profile before she broke into a gallop and was away. I tried to follow her but she was determined I shouldn’t.

After a while I rode back to the chateau alone; I was very uneasy about Genevieve.

The hot days of July passed like a dream to me; August had come, and the grapes were just ripening in the sun. As I passed the vineyards one of the workers would usually comment on them.

“Good harvest this year, mademoiselle.”

In the patisserie where now and then I took coffee and a slice of the gateau de la mais on Madame Latiere talked to me of the size of the grapes. They would be sweetened by all the sunshine they had had this year.

The harvest was almost upon us, and it seemed that. the thoughts of all were on it. It was a kind of climax. I still had work to do on the wall-painting; and there were pictures still to be cleaned; but I could not stay indefinitely at the chateau. Was I being foolish to reject Claude’s offer?

But I refused to think of leaving the chateau; I had lived in it for about ten months but I had felt that I had never truly been alive before I had come; and a life away from it seemed impossible, vague, no life at all. Nothing, however interesting, could compensate me if I went away.

Often I recalled the conversations which had taken place between us and asked myself if I had read something into them which did not exist; I was not sure whether the Comte had been mocking me, in truth telling me to mind my own business, or whether he had been telling me obliquely of his regard for me.

I threw myself into the life of the chateau, and when I heard of the annual kermes se I wanted to play my part.

It was Genevieve who told me.

z8i

“You ought to have a stall, miss. What will you sell? You’ve never been to a kermes se before, have you?”

I told her that they occurred regularly in our villages and towns. I had made all sorts of things for our church bazaars and I imagined that a kermes se was not very different from these.

She wanted to hear about this and when I told her she was delighted, agreeing that I was very well acquainted with what went on at a kermes se

I had a notion for painting flowers on cups and saucers and ashtrays.

And when I had completed a few and shown them to Genevieve, she laughed with pleasure.

“But, miss, that’s wonderful. They’ve never had anything like it at our kermes se before.” I painted enthusiastically not only flowers but animals on mugs little elephants, rabbits and cats. Then I had the idea of painting names on the mugs. Genevieve would sit beside me telling me what names I should do. I did Yves and Margot, of course; and she named other children who would most certainly be at the kermes se

“That’s a certain sale,” she cried.

“They won’t be able to resist buying mugs with their own names on. May I be at your stall? Trade will be so brisk you’ll need an assistant.”

I was happy to see her so enthusiastic.

“Papa will be here for this kermes se she told me.

“I don’t remember his being here for one before.”

“Why was he not here?”

“Oh, he was always in Paris … or somewhere. He has been here more than ever before. I heard the servants talking about it. It is since his accident.” t “Oh?” I said, attempting to appear unconcerned.

Perhaps, I reminded myself caustically, it is because Claude is here.

I talked of the kermes se and I was delighted because Genevieve shared my excitement and recalled previous ones.

“This,” I said, ‘must be the most successful of all. “

“It will be, miss. We have never had mugs with children’s names on before. The money we make goes to the convent. I shall tell the Holy Mother that she has to be grateful to you, miss.”

“// ne faut pas vend’re la peau de fours avant de I’avoir tuer,” I reminded her. And added in English: “We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched.”

She was smiling at me, thinking, I knew, that whatever the occasion I would always play the governess.

One afternoon when we were returning from our ride I had the idea of using the moat. I had never explored it before so we went down there together. The grass was green and lush; and I suggested that it would be original to have the stalls there.

Genevieve thought it an excellent idea.

“Everything should be different this time, miss. We’ve never used the old moat before, but of course it’s ideal. How warm it is down here!”

“It’s sheltered from all the breezes,” I said.

“Can you imagine the stalls against the grey walls?”

“I’m sure it’ll be fun. We will have it here. Do you feel shut in down here, miss?”

I saw what she meant. It was so silent and the tall grey walls of the chateau so close were overpowering.

We had walked all round the chateau and I was wondering whether my suggestion to have the stalls here on the uneven ground of the dried-up moat had not been rather hastily made, considering how much more comfortable one of the well-kept lawns would be, when I saw the cross. It was stuck in the earth close to the granite wall of the chateau, and I pointed it out to Genevieve.

She was on her hands and knees examining it and I joined her.

“There’s some writing on it,” she said.

We bent over to examine it.

I read out, “Fidele, 1747. It’s a grave,” I added.

“A dog’s grave.”

Genevieve raised her eyes to me.

“All those years ago! Fancy.”

“I believe he’s the dog on my miniature.”

“Oh, yes, the one Papa gave you for Christmas. Fidele! What a nice name.”

“His mistress must have loved him to bury him like that… with a cross and his name and the date.”

Genevieve nodded.

“Somehow,” she said, ‘it makes a difference. It makes the moat a sort of graveyard. “

I nodded.

“I don’t think we would want to have the kermes se down there where poor Fidele is buried.”

I agreed.

“And we should all be badly bitten, too. There are lots of unpleasant insects in this long grass.”

We entered a door of the chateau and as the cool of those thick walls closed in on us, she said: “I’m glad we found poor Fidele’s grave, though, miss.”

“Yes,” I said, ‘so am I. “

The day of the kermes se was hot and sunny. Marquees had been set up on one of the lawns, and early in the morning the stall-holders arrived to set out their wares. Genevieve worked with me to make ours gay; she had spread a white cloth over the counter and had decorated it most tastefully with leaves, and on this we set out our painted crockery.

It looked very charming, and I secretly agreed with Genevieve that ours was the most outstanding of all the stalls. Madame Latiere from the patisserie was supplying refreshments in a tent; needlework figured largely in the goods for sale; there were flowers from the chateau gardens; cakes, vegetables, ornaments and pieces of jewellery.

Claude would rival us, Genevieve told me, because she would sell some of her clothes, and she had

wardrobes full of them; of course everyone would want to wear her clothes, which they knew came from Paris.

The local musicians, led by Armand Bastide and his violin, would play intermittently all afternoon and when it was dusk the dancing would begin.

I was certainly proud of my mugs and the first buyers were the Bastide children who shrieked delightedly when they found their own names as though they were there by a coincidence; and as I provided plain mugs to be painted with any names which were not already on display, I was kept busy.

The kermes se was opened by the Comte-and this in itself made it a special occasion for as I was told several times in the first half-hour, it was the first kermes se he had attended for years.

“Not since the death of the Comtesse.” This was significant, said some.

It meant that the Comte had decided that life should be more normal at the chateau.

Nounou came by and insisted that I paint a mug with her name on it. I worked under a blue sunshade which spread itself over our stall; I was conscious of the hot sun, the smell of flowers, the jumble of voices and constant laughter, and I was very happy under that blue sunshade.

The Comte came by and stood watching me at work.

Genevieve said: “Oh, Papa, isn’t she good at it? The quick way she does it. You must have one with your name on it.”

“Yes, certainly I must,” he agreed.

“Your name isn’t here, Papa. You didn’t do a Lothair, miss?”

“No, I didn’t think we should need one.”

“You were wrong there. Mademoiselle Lawson.”

“Yes,” agreed Genevieve gleefully as though she, as much as her father, enjoyed seeing that I could make a mistake.

“You were wrong there.”

“It’s a wrong which can quickly be remedied if the com mission is serious,” I retorted.

“It’s very serious.”

He leaned against the counter while I selected one of the plain mugs.

“Have you any preference for colour?”

“Please choose for me. I am sure your taste is excellent.”

I looked at him steadily.

“Purple, I think, purple and gold.”

“Royal colours?” he asked.

“Most appropriate,” I retaliated.

A little crowd had collected to watch me paint a mug for the Comte.

There was a little whispering among the watchers.

I felt as though the blue umbrella sheltered me from all that was unpleasant. Yes, I was certainly happy on that afternoon.

There was his name in royal purple the ‘i’ dotted with a touch of gold paint, and a full stop after the name also in gold.

There was an exclamation of admiration from those who looked on and somewhat deliriously I painted a gold fleur-delis below his name.

“There,” I said.

“Isn’t that fitting?”

“You must pay for it. Papa.”

“If Mademoiselle Lawson will name the price.”

“A little more, I think, don’t you, miss, because after all it is a special one.”

“A great deal more, I think.”

“I am in your hands.”

There was an exclamation of amazement as the Comte dropped his payment into the bowl Genevieve had placed on the counter. I was sure it meant that we should have the largest donation to the convent.

Genevieve was pink with pleasure. I believe she was almost as happy as I was.

As the Comte moved on I saw Jean Pierre at my side.

“I would like a mug,” he said, ‘and a fleur-delis also. “

“Please do one for him, miss,” pleaded Genevieve, smiling up at him.

So I did.

Then everyone was asking for the fleur-delis, and mugs already sold were brought back.

“It will cost more for the fleur-delis,” cried Genevieve in triumph.

And I painted and Genevieve grew pinker with pleasure, while Jean Pierre stood by smiling at us.

It had been a triumph. My mugs had earned more than any other stall.

Everyone was talking about it.

And with the dusk the musicians began to play and there was dancing on the lawn and in the hall for those who preferred it.

This was the way it always was, Genevieve told me, yet there had never been a kermes se like this one.

The Comte had disappeared. His duties did not extend beyond being present at the kermes se Claude and Philippe had left too; I found myself wistfully looking for the Comte, hoping that he would return and seek me out.

Jean Pierre was at my side.

“Well, what do you think of our rural pleasures?”

“That they are very much like the rural pleasures I have known all my life.”

“I’m glad of that. Will you dance with me?”

“I shall be pleased to.”

“Shall we go on to the lawn? It is so hot in here. It’s much more pleasant to dance under the stars.”

He took my hand and led me in the dreamy waltz which the musicians had started to play.

“Life here interests you?” he asked, and his lips were so close to my ear that he seemed to whisper.

“But you cannot stay here for ever. You have your own home.”

z87

“I have no home. Only Cousin Jane is left.”

“I do not think I like Cousin Jane.”

“But why not?”

“Because you do not. I hear it in your voice.”

“Do I betray my feelings so easily?”

“I understand you a little. I hope to understand you more, for we are good friends, aren’t we?”