Daughter of Deceit (29 page)

“She seems to be a nice girl.”

“She’s a little difficult at times, I understand. Angele makes excuses for her. She lost her mother … and being brought up with older people … Mademoiselle is something of a dragon, I believe. However, come to the stables. I want to choose a suitable mount for you.”

“Now?” I asked.

“Why not?”

We walked across the garden to the stables. Jacques was there.

He said:
“Bonjour,
” and Robert spoke to him about the horse. Jacques was ready. He produced a small chestnut mare. Her name was appropriately Marron. She was docile and not one for tricks, said Jacques. She liked a nice steady rider, and she could be trusted.

“It seems we have the right horse for you, Noelle,” said Robert. “For a beginning, at least.”

He explained to Jacques that I should be riding with Mademoiselle Marie-Christine that afternoon and Marron should be prepared. Jacques asked at what time. Well,
dejeuner
was at one o’clock. What about two-thirty? He was sure that would be all right.

When we left the stables we met Angele, who was looking for me.

“I wish to show Noelle the house,” she said. “These old houses can be a little … unexpected … you lose your way … but you quickly learn. It is only at first that it is a little … baffling.”

Robert passed me over to Angele and we began our tour of the house. She explained that, like many old houses, it had been repaired over the years. There had been additions and embellishments which make a house change its character. It must be different now from when it was first built.

“That is what makes it so interesting,” I said.

“Well … perhaps, in a way. In this hall, you see …there used to be a fireplace in the centre of the room … a sensible place to have a fireplace, for people could sit round it.”

“But dangerous,” I said.

“As all fires are, I suppose. You see, the smoke used to go up through a hole in the ceiling. Well, the roof has been repaired so many times that you can’t see it now. But you can see the outline on the floor.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Then there are the weapons that were used in battles. These are relics of the Hundred Years’ War, when your country was fighting mine. And here are the weapons from the Napoleonic Wars, when we were enemies once more.”

“I hope we never are again.”

“Let us hope. Our Emperor is eager for friendly relations with England. We have commercial treaties and that sort of thing. Then there are our interests in the Suez Canal. So let us hope that we never go to war with each other again.”

“The Emperor, I believe, is very popular here in France.”

“Oh yes … but he has his enemies. What ruler has not? The Empress Eugenie is beautiful and charming. There is a son and heir. So … all seems well. They are gracious and handsome, and wherever they go the people cheer them. Robert and I are sometimes invited to certain functions and we have been received with the utmost graciousness.”

“It seems that all is well, then.”

“Who can say when all is well? We remember that it is not so very long ago that we were in revolution. That is something a country does not very easily forget.”

“There would be no reason now.”

“People find reasons,” she said soberly. “But what a dismal conversation! It is all those weapons. I shall suggest to Robert that they be removed and we put up tapestries in their place. They are far more attractive. Well, this is the great hall and, apart from the removal of the central fireplace, it is almost the same as it has been through the ages.”

“It is very impressive.”

“Now, through there are the kitchens. We’ll leave those. The servants will be there.”

We went up a staircase and she took me through several rooms. They were all furnished in a style similar to that of the room I was occupying. Most of them were shuttered.

We mounted more steps and I was taken through a gallery in which several portraits hung. We paused to look at them and she pointed out members of the family, among them Robert and herself.

“This is my husband,” she said. “And here is Gerard.”

I paused before Gerard. He was more interesting to me because he was living and I should probably meet him.

He wore a dark coat with a white cravat; his hair looked almost black against his white skin. He had dark blue eyes and he reminded me of Marie-Christine. It was natural that there should be a likeness. Was she not his daughter? There was the same restlessness in his eyes which I had detected in hers; it was as though they were burdened by something … one might say haunted.

Angele said: “You find my son, Gerard, interesting?”

“Yes. He looks unhappy.”

“It was a mistake to have it painted at that time. But it was all arranged, you see. It was painted by Aristide Longere. Do you know his name?”

“No.”

“He is one of our fashionable painters. Oh yes, it was a mistake to have it painted so soon after …”

“After … ?”

“He had just lost his young wife. It was a terrible time.”

“I see.”

We moved away. “This is our father … mine and Robert’s.”

I could not stop wondering about Gerard as we went on through the gallery.

“This leads to the north tower,” she said when we were confronted by a spiral staircase. “Gerard’s quarters are here when he comes to La Maison. It is the north light you get here. He likes that. It’s ideal for his work.”

“May we go in?”

“But certainly.”

We came to a door at the top of the staircase. She opened it and we were in a large room with several windows. There was an easel at one end and canvasses stacked against the wall.

“Gerard works mostly in Paris,” said Angele. “So he is not here for much of the time. Then he has this tower. He has his bedroom and other rooms up here, so we call the north tower his studio.”

“You must miss him when he is so often in Paris.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It is best for him. There he has his artistic friends. Here … he remembers …”

“His wife must have been very young when she died.”

She nodded. “They were young when they married. Gerard is now thirty-two. It was three years ago when she died. Marie-Christine was nine then, so Gerard must have been twenty when she was born. It was far too young. Neither Henri, my husband, nor I wanted it, but …”

She lifted her shoulders in a familiar gesture. “Now he has his work. He has his life in Paris. It is better so. Down here … oh … no … it all happened here.”

I nodded. I knew all about memories.

I saw the portrait then. I guessed who it was before I asked. She was very beautiful in a wild, gypsy kind of way. Her hair was reddish brown and she had light tawny eyes. There was a wilful, wayward look about her mouth, and her eyes were mischievous. She was very attractive.

“That is Marianne,” said Angele.

“Marianne … ?”

“Gerard’s wife. Marie-Christine’s mother.”

“She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Angele quietly.

I wondered how she had died. I felt there might be some mystery and therefore it was something I could not ask just yet. I sensed that Angele was wishing she had not brought me up to the north tower.

The tour of the house continued. In the west tower was the schoolroom.

“We had better not interrupt Marie-Christine at her lessons,” said Angele, though doubtless Marie-Christine would not mind that.

She did mention Gerard again during the tour. She said: “I suppose one day he might come and live here. He’ll inherit it in due course. Perhaps he’ll marry again. I always hope he will.”

I told her how interesting I had found the house. “Although,” I added, “I don’t yet feel capable of finding my way about.”

“That will come,” she said, smiling.

That afternoon’s ride with Marie-Christine marked the beginning of our friendship. I think her interest in me was as great as mine in her. We were both frustrated by the language difficulties, and her determination to overcome this was as strong as mine.

I did manage to gather a little information. She told me that she had been riding since she was two and had her first pony.

I replied that I had lived in London and did not start until I went to stay in the country, and that was not very long ago.

“Did someone teach you?”

There was that terrible desolation sweeping over me again. I could see Roderick so clearly, holding the leading rein, urging me on.

Marie-Christine was quick to observe my change of mood.

“Who taught you?” she asked.

“A friend at the house where I was staying.”

“Was it fun?”

“Oh yes … yes.”

“Do you ride with your friend when you are at home?”

“No … not now.”

She was thoughtful, looking for words.

“What’s London like?”

“It’s a very big city.”

“Like Paris?”

“There is a similarity about all big cities.”

“Little ones are nice. Villemere is not far from here. Only a mile or so. There is a cafe where they sell the most wonderful
gateaux.
You sit under the trees and drink coffee and eat it. You can watch the people if you like.”

“I should like that.”

“I wish we could talk more easily. When you have to hunt for words all the time, you can’t say all the things that matter. I know, I’ll teach you French and you can teach me English. This is too slow.”

“That seems a good idea.”

“All right. Let’s begin.”

“We can do that by talking. We could read together, too. That would be a help.”

Her eyes shone. “Let’s do it. Let’s start today.”

“As soon as we can.”

“I hate waiting. Start now.”

So we spent the afternoon giving each other little tests, correcting where necessary. It was amusing and stimulating.

It was one of the most pleasant hours I had spent since Charlie had said those words which had shattered my happiness.

I was with Marie-Christine every day. She was amazingly quick to learn when she wanted to, and even in a week she was grasping a fair command of the English language. I think my French progressed at a slightly lower rate; but communication between us was growing.

I had made the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Dupont. She was middle-aged, completely absorbed in her profession, respectful to me and pleased that I was helping to improve Marie-Christine’s English. So there was no trouble from that quarter. Moreover, both Robert and Angele were delighted by the friendship between us and I think Robert was congratulating himself that he had done the right thing by bringing me to France.

It was true my sadness had lifted a little. I still thought of Roderick every day and knew in my heart that I would never forget him, never cease to hanker for what I had lost; but at least I was finding some small consolation and I was grateful to Robert for bringing me here, to Angele for being so understanding and perhaps most of all to Marie-Christine, who had provided me with an interest.

I was amazed at how quickly time was passing. Marie-Christine had decided to become, as she said, my
patronne.
She showed me the little town of Villemere; we sat outside the cafe and sampled the excellent
gateaux
and coffee. She introduced me to Madame Lebrun, who owned the cafe—a large, rather formidable lady who sat in the cash desk and counted the francs with an avid interest— to her small, mild husband, who did the baking, and to Lillie, the waitress, whose lover was at sea. I found I could laugh again when we wandered round the stalls on market day, which was every Thursday in Villemere. I was hunting for bargains and feeling triumphant when I secured one. Marie-Christine knew a great many people.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,
” they would call as we passed. Marie-Christine told me they were all very interested in
la mademoiselle anglaise.

I was surprised that I could take the interest I did in the life around me, but when I saw wives and husbands laughing together my deep melancholy would return. That close companionship was something I should never know; but at least there were times when I could feel pleasure … however fleeting.

I owed that mostly to Marie-Christine. Reading together, talking, our outings, her obvious interest in me, were the greatest help I could have.

She talked continuously. She was constantly asking questions. She wanted to know about my life and was very interested in theatrical circles.

“Mademoiselle Dupont says it is good for me to learn about the English theatre. She says your Shakespeare is the greatest poet that ever lived. He must be very good, for Dupont usually thinks the French must be better than anyone else. I wonder it wasn’t Racine or Moliere or someone like that.”

“The theatrical world in which I moved is not quite the sort to win Mademoiselle Dupont’s approval.”