Checkmate (45 page)

‘I want you to be sure,’ Philippa said. ‘I want you to think about yourself, and not about me. And I want … I should like Catherine d’Albon’s marriage to pass before I make any betrothal announcements. When that time comes, will you ask me again, if you want to?’

‘And if I do?’ said Austin Grey.

‘Then we shall go home,’ Philippa said. ‘To Allendale, and Kate; and be married.’

*

Self-respect forbade that Philippa should cry on her way back to the Hôtel de Guise; and when she arrived in her room, Célie was waiting to speak to her.

The Célestins had returned the Dame de Doubtance’s key, having discovered the door it belonged to.

The house to which it gave admittance was called the Hôtel des Sphères. And the occupier of the house, who had expressed interest in the Countess’s story and who would be happy to make the Countess’s acquaintance, was a widowed lady named Isabelle Roset.

*

Long ago, this southern corner of Paris between the Porte de St Antoine and the river had been filled with wide gardens, with white chapels and bowered galleries, with sweating chambers and aviaries, boar and lion-houses, lists and ball courts built for fine palaces. Most had gone, decayed into ruin or sold as separate mansions, but the little roads round the rue de la Cerisaye by their names kept a remembrance of them, and great houses here and there were still standing. A long ivied wall which Philippa passed the next morning held the blue turrets of part of the Palais Royal of St Paul, once the property of King François’s mistress: now one of the houses of Diane de Poitiers, the mistress of King François’s son. It was a fair haven, long accustomed to lovers.

And here Sybilla had stayed, with the man who had fathered her
children. Isabelle Roset was Renée Jourda’s widowed sister, Lymond had said. And kept house for Sybilla and her master somewhere in Paris. The child Francis Crawford was born there.

So he had learned at Flavy-le-Martel where the old woman Renée had died; Renée who with her sister Isabelle had served Sybilla as a young bride and who, eleven years after Sybilla’s marriage to Gavin, Lord Culter, had witnessed the birth of Francis Crawford here in Paris, and then of his sister Eloise. Who knew, and alone in the world might yet tell her, the name of the two children’s father.

This time, Philippa had left Célie in her chamber. There had been a fresh fall of snow just before sunrise and the rue St Antoine was already deep in rimed slush. Beyond it, the small roads lay tranquil and white, edged with ancient walls and speckled groups of brick and wood houses all chequered with snow like cloisonné work. The sky, smoky red behind the Bastille, turned the snow in the gardens to sherbet: the cherry trees bore it like blossom, and the bowers of birch, beech and elm, the weeping thorns and the lilac and vine stems which laced the sky over the gateways. Behind the Célestins’ wall there was holly, and the rilled ranks of a physics garden, and a row of Bergamot pear trees as high as their snowy steeples.

Behind her, when she stopped at the wrought iron gates of the Hôtel des Sphères there was only the single track of her chopines, and the flouncing blur from the thick hooded cloak which enveloped her. She had told Célie, before she left, to have Osias called in and given hot soup in the kitchen. Whatever had happened once in the Hôtel des Sphères, there was no reason why anyone remotely connected with Midculter now should know of it.

There was a bell by the gatepost but the clapper was missing, and when she put her gloved hand on the heavy gates, they gave way before her. So, pushing them slowly apart, Philippa carved her way over the creamy snow to a small elegant mansion of patterned brick laid between wrought bands of silvery wood. Above the chiselled door, modelled within a cartouche, was a celestial globe with two winged figures brooding over it. Philippa raised the ring knocker and rapped with it.

The serving-girl who opened the door was young, but well trained in her duties. She asked madame la comtesse to enter, and taking her pattens and cloak left her seated by the fire in the pretty, wainscotted hall, while she retreated to call her superior. Then, before Philippa could receive much more than a pleasing impression of a kind of shining and miniature richness, the maid returned, and she found herself in the parlour, being received by Isabelle Roset.

Unlike her sister’s, Madame Roset’s eyes had no flaw in them. They stared out, bright faded hazel from the blotched tussore skin of old age, under an old-fashioned goffered cap as white as her hair; and her black dress with its high neck and long, tight sleeves with epaulettes was old-fashioned also, unless you looked on it as a uniform. And indeed,
depending from the chain at her waist was the châtelaine’s cluster of keys and the hands, broad fingered and knotted, clasped before her were working hands: the hands of a housekeeper or, indeed, a peasant girl from Coulanges. Philippa said, ‘It is kind of you to see me, a stranger. Forgive me, too, for approaching you through your neighbours. I had looked for your name at the Hôtel de Ville, but could not find it.’

‘You thought perhaps I owned the Hôtel des Sphères. But that is not so,’ Madame Roset said. Her voice, thin and girlish was that, Philippa thought, of a talker with no one to talk to. Her eyes, active as monkeys, were brilliant with curiosity. ‘Pray be seated, Madame. It is a matter of a bereavement? Allow me to condole with you.’

The chair on which she sat was embroidered, and so were its cushions and footstool: the curtains over the paintings were taffeta, and the little bow window pictured in grisaille the story of Psyche. Philippa said, ‘The lady who left me your doorkey was not a relative. Her name was Camille, and she lived in a house called Doubtance in Blois, and another in the rue de Mercière in Lyon. I think you knew her.’

‘The Dame de Doubtance?’ said Isabelle Roset. She sat down. On her face, still, was nothing but the liveliest interest. ‘I remember. I think I remember. She had a daughter Béatris. I nursed her in childbed. Poor girl. In a convent, Madame, one sees many of such cases.’

‘Béatris died?’ Philippa said.

‘Oh, many years later. She herself gave day to a daughter, and died. Fickle men!’ said Madame Roset without a great deal of censure. ‘And, Madame, Mistress Camille spoke of me?’

The round eyes, staring at her, told Philippa that it was time to say something. She said, ‘Alas, Madame, I was not with the Dame de Doubtance when she died. But she left a legacy, as it happened, to my husband, and with it a keepsake she wished us to bring you. Here it is. It comes, I am sure, with her blessing.’

The brooch she handed over was her own, and so was the small bag of money; but Madame Roset was not to know that. She took them both, her cheeks red, her mouth open, and it was necessary to wait, and be patient, while she told it over, and exclaimed, and put questions.

Then it was simple to encourage her to talk of Mistress Camille and Beatris her daughter, and to express interest in what she could tell her.

‘And,’ said Philippa, ‘how many children did Béatris have? Or perhaps you would not hear.’

‘Oh, yes indeed, I heard,’ Madame Roset said. ‘One has many relatives, Madame, in Coulanges. The girl was brought to bed twice in eight years and died after the daughter was born. Marthe, they called her.’

‘And eight years before, while you were at la Guiche, Béatris had her first child?’ Philippa said. ‘Poor thing. Madame Roset, was it a son? And why was it not on the records?’

‘The father did not wish it,’ said Madame Roset. A small, lopsided
severity had descended, not surprisingly, over the nimble features. ‘Madame, if you were a friend of the Lady of Doubtance, did she not tell you of her two grandchildren?’

‘Was it a son?’
Philippa said; and, shaken into subservience, the elderly figure opposite her nodded its head.

‘It is of no matter now, Madame, but it was: a fair enough child, but afflicted. He lived ten years with his grandmother before the grand mal carried him off, and his father saw he wanted for nothing. That will be why——’ She broke off.

‘That will be why the Dame de Doubtance had the key to this house,’ Philippa Somerville finished slowly. ‘Because the father of the ten-year-old boy who died in 1526 in Lyon … and the father of Marthe … and the owner of this house, Madame Roset, are the same?’

It was one point on which she could be contradicted. ‘This house, Madame de Sevigny,’ said the old woman firmly, ‘is owned by a lady.’

He had lied to her. All along, from the beginning, he had lied to her
.

‘I know,’ said Philippa. ‘And I am married to her son, who was born here.’

‘How clever of you,’ said Leonard Bailey, from the doorway.

He had changed since last year in England, when he had accepted from his great-nephew Francis Crawford a life-pension to keep Sybilla’s reputation unblemished.

Then, Leonard Bailey had been a great, neglected hulk of a man in stained coat and bonnet, living meanly alone with his servants in the estate his treachery had brought him in England.

Now the heavy jowls were the same, and the great nose, spread like a garlic clove, and the odour of unbathed old age, and of malice. But his ribbed doublet and breeches this time were new and uncreased and stiff, and the sleeveless coat lined with some sort of fur, and his trailing hair trimmed under a new velvet bonnet.

He had done well from his great-nephew’s pension, had Leonard Bailey, who detested herself and Sybilla, and most of all loathed his great-nephew, who had forced his blackmail of Sybilla to finish. It was his doing that Lord Grey’s men had taken Francis at Flavy. It was because of him that Osias and his colleagues had been paid by Francis to safeguard her. It was because of him—did she know it? Or was there merely impatience in the look she was bending on him?—that Isabelle Roset had lost a sister at Flavy-le-Martel this winter.

But she could hardly know it, for she said, looking from one to the other, ‘Do you know each other?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Leonard Bailey. He did not move but stood, heavily expansive, on the threshold. Behind him two … men-servants? soldiers?—had occupied positions at each doorpost in silence. Bailey continued. ‘Madame de Sevigny has not had time to tell you who her husband is. You may know him merely as the Count of that designation, but I have to enlighten you, Madame Roset. His own name is Francis Crawford, and he is my great-nephew, the rogue, and that same base-born infant you tell me you delivered here in this house to Lady Culter.’

He smiled, with his strong lips, at Philippa. ‘Sybilla was kind enough to let me have the use of her house while I am in Paris. A charming bower for lovers. Do you not envy me?’

Nymphs, severe, delightful, gazed at her from the friezework. There was a blue Turkey carpet with roses, and roses wreathed the velvet housing of a pair of exquisite virginals. By the heaps of books bound in
Levantine marocain lay scrolls of music, tinted with sepia. There was a lute in a case, and a box inlaid in sandalwood with garlands of shells and sea flowers. And in marble over the fireplace ran a throng of light, laughing figures, following the spoked wheels of a frail Roman carriage being drawn by young men between tree stems. Below, were written two fine lines in silver:

The needlework and the music were Sybilla’s. But the verse belonged to somebody else. The Hôtel des Sphères was not a living house: it was a shrine. And it was beyond belief that Sybilla could have lent it. To this stupid, imbecile housekeeper Philippa said, steadily, ‘This gentleman has no right to be here.’

Madame Roset was offended. Perhaps she had doubts already. ‘I have the letter arranging it, in Lady Culter’s very own handwriting!’

But naturally. One had forgotten. He was also a forger.

The powerful man in the doorway smiled at her, while the two men behind him stood motionless. ‘You see? But of course, if there is any shadow of doubt, Sybilla herself will be in Paris shortly. We have only to place the whole matter before her.’ And stirring at last, he came forward into the parlour, rubbing his hands and glancing from her to the housekeeper.

‘Are we not fortunate, that you thought to call on us this morning! Such a high-born young lady, and so well connected: in the service of yet another crowned head, they tell me! Do you know, Madame Roset; the young lady and I have a great deal to speak of together. And while we are talking, perhaps a little refreshment might be prepared?’ He laughed, his lips spreading widely, at Philippa. ‘Madame Roset is a paragon among housekeepers. I have never been looked after so comfortably.’

‘Then,’ said Philippa, rising grimly, ‘it pains me to tell you that you will have to cook your own dishes this morning. M. le comte has asked to see Madame Roset, and I have undertaken to take her back to the Hôtel d’Hercule with me immediately.’

‘Indeed? I thought he was in Dieppe?’ Lymond’s grand-uncle displayed, perfunctorily, a kind of surprise.

‘Did you? He came home late last night. Madame Roset, would you be so kind as to come with me?’

Madame Roset, not unnaturally, hesitated. Philippa’s elderly relative by marriage strolled across and laying his hand on the housekeeper’s arm, patted it and then held it casually. ‘Came home, and sent you out alone so early this morning, and with no escort with you? I watched you come from my window and thought how unchivalrous the young are becoming, these days. Well, well. If he is really here, then his mother and brother … That is, the dowager and the Earl of Culter must be in Paris
also. And what could be better, for I should tell you, my dearest young lady, that when I think of it, there is a little matter I ought to discuss with Sybilla and her two sons, although the morning is hardly the best time to do it. You wouldn’t care, my dear Lady Sevigny, to stay and give me your opinion on the whole matter first? I am really very hungry, and Madame Roset does not want to go out into the cold. Indeed, she tells me she had very strict orders not to approach Lady Culter or any member of her family, for which, of course, one must feel the greatest sympathy.’

‘Master Bailey,’ said Philippa sharply. ‘You cannot afford to displease my husband.’

‘I should hope,’ said Leonard Bailey heartily, ‘not to distress any of my fellow-men, far less my own sister’s family.’ He conveyed Madame Roset to the door, placed her outside, smiling, and closing it, turned back to Philippa. His smile broadened. ‘I saw you admiring my doublet. Do you think I could afford these buttons on a mere three hundred pounds every twelvemonth? No. I have M. de Sevigny’s bond that so long as I maintain silence about his unfortunate conception, I shall receive such a pension, and I am not ungrateful. But now I have additional sources of income. I am no longer the pauper I was when we met last in England.’

‘The fees for betraying your own sister’s family to the English?’ Philippa said.

He smiled again. ‘Partly so. I am sure, for anyone so able, the incident at Ham proved merely a temporary inconvenience to my gallant great-nephew. And I am glad to say that my payments have continued without abatement. Your husband is a man of his word. Only in the event of my breaking silence, he ruled, would it cease. A step I should not lightly take. But a step I should not now require to avoid, if I felt it necessary.… I have been waiting for you to come, my dear, ever since your impulsive husband rushed off to Flavy. I made sure Renée Jourda would tell him everything, and you would find a way of extracting it from him. But instead, you used Camille’s key?’

Philippa said, ‘Renée Jourda died before he could learn this address. How did you know he was going to Flavy?’

‘I have friends in Coulanges,’ Bailey said. ‘I knew as soon as you went to la Guiche what you would report to him, and that he would go to see Rénee Jourda. I only wish I had been there to hear that overweening self-esteem pricked at last. And what do you think now of the honourable, clean-living Scottish family you have married into? Small wonder I hear you cannot wait for a divorce.’

It was, somehow, not so desirable to stand up. Philippa found a tall velvet chair by the fireplace and sat in it, taking some time to dispose of her petticoat and overskirt and hanging sleeves with their expensive gemwork.
I shall harness thee a chariot of lapis-lazuli and gold
said the thin silver writing, glittering in the weak sun striking white through the window panes.

The man—the person—the shapeless vessel of envy and malevolence
seated opposite her believed that Francis … 
Mr Crawford
 … had learned the truth at Flavy, and had imparted it to her. Whereas what Lymond had written was that Béatris and Gavin Crawford were now proved his parents, and Béatris’s daughter Marthe his full sister.

But Renée Jourda could not have proved such a thing to his or anyone else’s satisfaction. Béatris’s only son had died, aged ten, in the year Francis Crawford was born. And Lymond and Marthe must therefore have come of different mothers.

They were alike because the same man had fathered them.

A man whose real identity, it seemed, could not be countenanced, even for Sybilla’s sake. An irresponsible and, one supposed, irresistible man who must therefore have sired four different children, two to Béatris, the Dame de Doubtance’s unmarried daughter and two to Sybilla, already the wife of Gavin Crawford and the mother of Richard.

The daughters had been named Marthe by Béatris and Eloise by Sybilla. But the same name of Francis Crawford had been given to both the sons: to the beloved child born in this house to Sybilla, and to Béatris’s ailing child of ten years earlier, who had died of grand mal and whose death certificate his grandmother, the Dame de Doubtance, had kept.

‘What!’ said Leonard Bailey and Philippa looked up, after too long an interval, into those seamed and glistening eyes. ‘You are silent. Can it be … can it possibly be that your husband has not admitted you to his confidence? Do you not know, even yet, the name of the man who betrayed Sybilla’s good husband Gavin? Who enticed her again and again from her marriage vows, and lodged her here till brought to bed of each bastard?

‘Do you not know that Gavin was cuckolded by his own father?’

*

A lie is a broad and spacious and glittering thing, sweeping belief before it from its very grandeur. But the truth fits, like an old man cutting cloth in an attic.

And that, Philippa did not need to be told, was the truth, which Lymond had guessed long before her. The only circumstance in the world which now accounted for Marthe, for Eloise, for the erosion of all that lay between Lymond and Sybilla to the point where, brought face to face without warning, he could not support an encounter. And dear God, who would blame him … who would force him now to come back to Midculter and Scotland?

When, at Flavy, he had learned the true facts for certain he had lied to her. And with every reason.

Your father’s two sons will not meet in this world again
, the Dame de Doubtance had said, with cold-blooded accuracy. And Francis, believing
her, had stayed in Russia rather than put that prophecy to the test. So the meeting on the sands at Philorth for him had been terrible, indeed.

Francis Crawford had known the truth, and he had continued to fight. It would be a pity if she could not do the same. Sick in every thread of her body, Philippa stared the man direct in his suffused and ponderous face and said, ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Don’t you?’ he said; and smiling, moved to the small inlaid cabinet she had already noticed, set upon a side table. He opened it. ‘Of course, you have only to ask Madame Roset. But you might remember, there is written proof as well. Your husband burned the copies of these. Here—I would prefer that you do not touch them—are the originals. I found them, after a very short search, where you see them. A methodical creature, Sybilla, except in obedience to the laws of her Creator.’

And there they were, displayed in each powerful hand: the two papers written by Sybilla and witnessed by Isabelle Roset and Renée Jourda so long ago. The papers in which she confessed to have borne a son and a daughter, Francis and Eloise, of whom her husband Gavin was not the father.

And there, completed now in her writing, was the name of her lover, and the father of Francis … and Gavin. The name of Francis Crawford of Lymond, first baron Crawford of Culter. The gay, the gaillard, the remarkable man who died when Francis was three, and whom all the world thought his grandfather.

She read the words without speaking. But as he turned to put them away she said, ‘Why have you shown me these, Master Bailey? My woman knows where I am. You must know that if Mr Crawford comes here he will take them, and kill you.’

He finished what he was doing and turned round. His smile this time was pitying. ‘You think me a fool. What do you know of the world, my dear? I have no intention of keeping you. If you wish, you may leave forthwith: I have no objection. As for finding the papers … Do you imagine I mean to store them here? Hardly. Before you have reached the Hôtel de Guise, they will be out of the house also, and on their way to safe keeping. And should anything happen to these, I have made copies and sent them to London. Not as convincing perhaps, as the originals; but enough, if published, to create quite a scandal.’

‘Then you want more money, I take it,’ said Philippa. ‘In that case, why not approach Mr Crawford himself?’

‘Because I wished to give myself the pleasure of entertaining you,’ said Leonard Bailey.

There was a stool by her feet. With surprising smoothness for a heavy, elderly man he seated himself on it. ‘I dislike your husband. It pleases me that he should know, when he looks in your face, what you feel about that impious coupling.’ He took her hand unexpectedly in both his own and toyed with it. ‘Tell me: now you know, could you lie with him?’

He was the sort of person one could with justice kill if only—if
only
one had had the sense to bring a weapon. He was the sort of person who, if one offended him, was quite capable of destroying the whole house of Culter. Philippa withdrew her hand and said, ‘If I did, I should never obtain my divorce. Am I to give him some message?’

‘No,’ said Bailey. He picked up the cuff of her long sleeve and admired it. ‘I told you, I think, that I was no longer on the edge of pauperdom. I did not mention that it was because I have received a congenial—a most congenial commission. I wonder if you can guess what it is?’

‘I have no idea,’ Philippa said. ‘Except that it will probably be damaging to the Culters. Is that it?’

‘You understand me,’ said Lymond’s great-uncle. ‘It is going to be, if I may so term it, a labour of love. And lucrative. The only disappointment is that in the end, I shall have to forgo your husband’s pension.… He has, you must know, many powerful enemies.’