King of the Castle (8 page)

“You are the Comte de la Talle?”

He bowed. He did not come towards me. His eyes surveyed me across the

gallery, and his manner was as cool as his voice. I noticed that he was tallish, and I was struck by his leanness. There was a slight resemblance to Philippe;

but there was none of Philippe’s femininity in this man. He was darker than his cousin; his cheekbones were high and this gave his face the pointed look which seemed almost satanic. His eyes were very dark sometimes they could seem almost black, I discovered later, depending on his mood; they were deeply set and his lids were heavy;

his aquiline nose gave to his face the look of haughtiness;

his mouth was mobile; it changed according to the man he was. But at this time I knew only one man the arrogant King of the Castle on whom my fate depended.

He wore a black riding-coat with a velvet collar and above his white cravat his face was pale, even cruel.

“My cousin has told me of your coming.” He advanced towards me now. He walked as a king might have walked through the hall of mirrors.

I had regained my poise very quickly. There was nothing like haughtiness to bring out my bristling armour.

“I am glad you have returned. Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, ‘for I have been waiting several days to know whether you wish me to stay and do the work. “

“It must have been tiresome for you to be uncertain whether or not you were wasting your time.”

“I have found the gallery very interesting, I assure you, so it will not have been an unpleasant way of wasting time.”

“It is a pity,” he said, ‘that you did not tell us of your father’s death. It would have saved so much trouble. “

So I was to go. I felt angry because I was so miserable. Back to London, I thought. I should have to find a lodging. And how could I afford to live until I discovered a post? I looked down the years and saw myself becoming more and more like Mademoiselle Dubois. What nonsense! As if I ever should! I could go to Cousin Jane. Never, never!

I hated him in that moment because I believed he guessed the thoughts which were passing through my mind. He

would know that a woman as independent as I, must have been desperate to have come in the first place, and he was enjoying tormenting me.

How she must have hated him, that wife of his! Perhaps she killed herself to get away from him. I should not be surprised if that were the answer.

“I did not realize that you were so old-fashioned in France,” I said with a touch of venom.

“At home I have done this work with my father.

No one minded because I was a woman. But as you have different notions here there is nothing more to be said. “

“I disagree. There is a great deal to be said.”

“Then,” I said, lifting my eyes to his face, ‘perhaps you will begin to say it. “

“Mademoiselle Lawson, you would like to restore these pictures, would you not?”

“It is my profession to restore paintings and the more in need of repair they are, the more interesting the task becomes.”

“And you find mine in that need?”

“You must know that some of these pictures are in poor condition. I was examining this one when I realized you had come in. What kind of treatment could it have had to be in that state?”

“Pray, Mademoiselle Lawson, do not look at me so sternly. I am not responsible for the state of the picture.”

“Oh? I presumed it had been some time in your possession. You see, there is a failing in the paint. It is chalky. Obviously it has been ill-treated.”

A smile twisted his mouth and his face changed. There might have been a glimmer of amusement there now.

“How vehement you are! You might be fighting for the rights of man rather than for the preservation of paint on canvas.”

“When would you wish me to leave?”

“Not until we have talked, at least.”

“Since you find you cannot employ a woman I do not think we should have anything to talk about.”

“You are very impulsive, Mademoiselle Lawson. Now I should have thought that was a characteristic a restorer of old paintings could well do without. I have not said I would not employ a woman. That was your suggestion.”

“I can see that you disapprove of my being here. That is enough.”

“Did you expect approval of your … deception?”

“Monsieur Ie Comte,” I said, “I worked with my father. I took over his commissions. You had previously approached him to come here. I thought the arrangement still stood. I see no deception in that.”

“Then you must have been surprised by the astonishment you caused.”

I replied shortly: “It would be difficult to do delicate work of this nature in an atmosphere of disapproval.”

“That I can well understand.”

“Therefore…”

“Therefore?” he repeated.

“I could leave today if I could be taken to the mainline station. I understand there is only one morning train from the Gaillard halt.”

“How thoughtful of you to look into such arrangements. But I must repeat. Mademoiselle Lawson, you are too impulsive. You must understand my uneasiness. And you will forgive me saying so, you do not look old enough to have had a great deal of experience in skilled work of this nature.”

“I have worked with my father for years. There are some who grow old and never acquire the skill. It is a feeling in oneself for the work, an understanding, a love of painting that is born in one.”

“You are poetical as well as an artist, I see. But at… er … thirty or so … one would necessarily not have had a lifetime’s experience.”

“I am twenty-eight,” I retorted hotly; and I saw at once that I had fallen into the trap. He had determined to bring me off the pedestal on which I was trying to take a firm stand and show me that I was after all an ordinary woman who couldn’t bear to be thought older than she was.

He raised his eyebrows; he was finding the interview amusing. I saw that I had betrayed my desperate situation and the streak of cruelty in him made him want to prolong the indecision, to torment me for as long as possible.

For the first time since I had set out on this adventure I lost my control. I said: “There is no point in continuing. I realize that you have decided I cannot do this work because I am a woman. Well, monsieur, I leave you with your prejudices. So I will go either today or tomorrow.”

For a few seconds he looked at me in mock bewilderment but as I moved towards the door, he was swiftly beside me.

“Mademoiselle, you have not understood. Perhaps your knowledge of French is not as expert as your knowledge of painting.”

Once more I rose to the bait.

“My mother was French. I have understood perfectly every word you have said.”

“Then I am to blame for my lack of lucidity. I have no wish that you shall go … just yet.”

“Your manner suggests that you are not prepared to trust me.”

“Your own assumption, mademoiselle, I do assure you.”

“Then you mean you wish me to stay?”

He pretended to hesitate.

“If I may say so without offence, I should like you to undergo a little test. Oh please, mademoiselle, do not accuse me of prejudice against your sex. I am prepared to believe that there may be brilliant women in the world. I am impressed by what you tell me of your understanding

and love of painting. I am also interested in the estimates of damage and the cost of repairing the pictures you have examined. It is all very clear and reasonable.”

I was afraid that my eyes had begun to shine with hope and so would betray my excitement. If, I told myself, he realized how very eagerly I desired this commission he might continue baiting me.

He had seen.

“I was going to suggest… but then you may have decided that you would prefer to leave today or tomorrow.”

“I have come a long way, Monsieur Ie Comte. Naturally I should prefer to stay and carry out the work providing it could be done in a congenial atmosphere. What were you going to suggest?”

“That you restore one of the pictures and if that is satisfactorily accomplished you continue with the rest.”

I was happy in that moment. I should have been relieved, of course, for I was certain of my capabilities. The immediate future was taken care of. No ignoble return to London! No Cousin Jane! But it was more than that. An inexplicable feeling of joy, anticipation, excitement. I could not explain. I was certain that I could pass this test, and that meant a long stay at the castle. This wonderful old place would be my home for months to come. I could explore it, as well as its treasures.

I could continue my friendship with the Bastides. I could indulge my curiosity concerning the inhabitants of the chateau.

I was insatiably curious. I had known this since my father had pointed it out to me and deplored this trait;

but I could not stop myself wanting to know what went on behind the facade people showed the world. To discover this was like removing the film of decay from an old painting; and to learn what the Comte was like would be revealing a living picture.

“This proposition seems to appeal to you.”

So once more I had betrayed my feelings, something I

prided myself on rarely doing. But perhaps he was particularly perceptive.

“It seems a very fair one,” I said.

“Then, it’s agreed.” He held out his hands.

“We will shake on it. An old English custom, I believe. You, mademoiselle, have been kind enough to discuss the problem in French;

we will seal the bargain in English. “

As he held my hand his dark eyes looked into mine and I felt decidedly uncomfortable. I felt suddenly innocent, unworldly, and that was, I was sure, how he intended I should feel.

I withdrew my hand with a hauteur which I trusted hid my embarrassment.

“Which picture would you select for the … test?” I asked.

“What of the one you were examining when I came in?”

“That would be excellent. It is more in need of restoration than anything in the gallery.”

We walked over to it and stood side by side examining it.

“It has been very badly treated,” I said severely. I was now on firm ground.

“It is not very old a hundred and fifty years at most and yet…”

“An ancestress of mine.”

“It is a pity she was subjected to such treatment.”

“A great pity. But there was a time in France when people like her were submitted to even greater indignity.”

“I should say that this picture has probably been exposed to the weather. Even the colour of her gown is faded, though alizarin is usually stable. I can’t see in this light the true colour of the stones about her neck. You see how darkened they have become. The same with the bracelet and the earrings.”

“Green,” he said.

“I can tell you that. They are emeralds.”

Tt would be a wonderful picture when restored. That dress as it must have been when it was painted, and the emeralds. “

“It will be interesting to see what it looks like when you have finished with it.”

“I shall start at once.”

“You have all you require?”

“For a beginning. I will go to my room for what I need and get down to work immediately.”

“I can see you are all eagerness and I am delaying you.”

I did not deny this and he stood aside for me as I passed triumphantly from the gallery. I felt I had come satisfactorily through my first encounter with the Comte.

What a happy morning I spent working in the gallery! No one disturbed me. I had returned with my tools to find that two of the menservants had taken the picture from the wall. They asked if there was anything I needed. I told them I would ring if there was. They looked at me with some respect. They would go back to the servants’ quarters, I knew, and spread the news that the Comte had given his permission for me to stay.

I had put on a brown linen coat over my dress and I looked very businesslike. Oddly enough as soon as I put on my coat I felt competent. I wished I had been wearing it during my meeting with the Comte.

I settled down to study the condition of the paint. Before I attempted to remove the varnish I must assess the tightness of the paint to the ground. It was clear that there was more discoloration here than from the ordinary accumulation of dust and grime. I had often found that before using a resin on varnish it was wise to wash carefully with soap and water. It took me a long time to decide on this course but eventually I did.

I was surprised when a maid knocked on the door to remind me that it was time for dejeuner. This I took in my room and as it was a practice never to work after lunch, I slipped out of the chateau and walked to the Maison Bastide. It seemed only courteous to tell them

what had happened since they had shown such interest in whether or not I stayed.

The old lady was in her rocking chair and delighted to see me. The children, she told me, were having lessons with Monsieur Ie Cure;

Armand, Jean Pierre and Gabrielle were working; but it was a great pleasure to see me.

I seated myself beside her and said: “I have seen the Comte.”

“I heard he was back at the chateau.”

“I am to restore a picture and if it is a success I am to complete the work. I have already started; it is a portrait of one of his ancestors. A lady in a red dress and stones which at the moment are the colour of mud. The Comte says they are emeralds.”

“Emeralds,” she said.

“They could be the Gaillard emeralds.”

“Family heirlooms?”

“They were … once upon a time.”

“And no longer so?”

“Lost. I think during the Revolution.”

“I suppose the chateau passed out of the hands of the family then?”

“Not exactly. We are far from Paris, and there was less trouble here.

But the chateau was overrun. “

“It seems to have survived fairly well.”

“Yes. It’s a story that’s been handed down to us. They were forcing their way in. Perhaps you have seen the chapel? It is in the oldest part of the castle. You will notice that over the door on the outer wall there is broken masonry. Once a statue of St. Genevieve stood there high over the door. The revolutionaries were bent on desecrating the chapel. Fortunately for Chateau Gaillard they tried to pull down St. Genevieve first; they were drunk on chateau wine when they attached ropes about the figure, but it was heavier than they thought