Daughter of Deceit (30 page)

“Tell me about it.”

So I told her about
Countess Maud
and
Lavender Lady,
the
songs, the dances, the clothes, the first nights, the tussles with Dolly; and she was entranced.

“I love your mother!” she cried. “And she died!”

“Yes.”

“She was young to die, wasn’t she?”

“Oh yes.”

“Why do beautiful people have to die young?” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I suppose if they were old, they wouldn’t be beautiful anymore. So that’s why beautiful people die young.”

I had a picture of my mother which I carried with me. I showed it to her.

“She’s lovely,” she said. “You’re not like her.”

I laughed. “Thank you,” I said. “As a matter of fact there couldn’t be anyone like her.”

“We both had beautiful mothers … you and I … not just ordinary beautiful but beautifully beautiful.”

I was silent, thinking about Desiree, radiant after a first night, talking all the time … the mishaps which had nearly resulted in disaster … the man in the front stalls who had been waiting at the stage door while she slipped out at the back. Memories … memories … I could never escape.

“It makes you sad, thinking of your mother, doesn’t it?” said Marie-Christine.

“Yes … but she is gone.”

“I know. So has mine. Tell me, how did your mother die? She was young, wasn’t she? Well … not old. My mother wasn’t old either.”

“She had been ill. It was nothing much … just something she had eaten. The doctors thought it was a plant which grew in our garden.”

“A poison plant!”

“Yes. It was called caper spurge. It grows wild. If you get the juice on your hands and taste it … it can make you ill.”

“How terrible!”

“It’s nothing much. It just upsets you. It makes you sick and giddy. Well, she was feeling sick and giddy. She got out of bed and
fell over. She struck her head against a piece of furniture and that killed her.”

“How strange … because my mother died … not by falling against a table but by falling off a horse. It is a bit like your mother, is it not? They both fell. They were both young. They were both beautiful. Perhaps that is why we are friends.”

“I think it is more than that, Marie-Christine.”

“You still think a lot about your mother, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“I do of mine. I think about her a lot and the way she died.”

“Marie-Christine, we have to try to forget.”

“How can you make yourself forget?”

“I suppose by looking ahead and trying to put what is past behind you. Stop thinking about it.”

“Yes. But how?”

It was a reasonable question. How did one forget?

I had been at La Maison Grise for four weeks and I had no desire to leave it. I had come no nearer to making a decision as to what I should do with my life; and I was now beginning to remind myself that I could not be a permanent guest, however hospitable my hosts.

Robert went to Paris fairly frequently on banking business. He had a small house there and would stay for several days at a time. Both he and Angele said I must certainly pay a visit to the capital. I could shop and see some of the sights.

I asked Robert if he would see much of his nephew while he was there.

“I doubt it,” he said. “He seems to be working all the time and I imagine does not want interruptions. I don’t think he’s aware of anything else at such times, so I shall wait for him to invite me to the studio. Then he may come and stay here for a week or two. He does that now and then. It gets him away from Paris for a while.”

“Then he works in the north tower?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Robert, do you realize I have been here for a month?”

“Well?”

“I can’t go on taking your hospitality.”

“That sort of talk makes me angry. You are taking nothing that we do not want to give you. You are very welcome. Angele says Marie-Christine is so fond of you. She has been far less difficult since you have been here. Mademoiselle Dupont says you have done excellent work on her English … something she never could have done. So please, don’t talk like that anymore. You are feeling better, are you not?”

“Yes, I am. I forget … for periods … then it all comes rushing back. But there are moments when I am happy.”

“That’s good. I knew it was right for you to come here. You should have come in the first place.”

“You are good to me, Robert. I know how you felt about my mother, but that does not mean you have to extend that devotion to me.”

“I beg of you to stop talking nonsense, Noelle, or I shall be really angry, and I do not like to be angry. Tell me about Marie-Christine. How have you managed to change her?”

“I think we got off to a good start with the language.”

“And now you are together riding or something every day?”

“She takes pleasure in introducing me to the life here … and I tell her about my childhood.” I paused and he nodded, realizing there must be omissions. “It makes an interest for her.”

“Then please do not talk of leaving.”

“I don’t want to go, Robert.”

“That is the best news I could hear.”

So I was lulled into a sense of security. There need be no decisions yet.

I was beginning to realize that it was not easy to know Marie-Christine. She had her moods and could be full of high spirits one moment and fall into near melancholy the next. It was this trait in her character which intrigued me. From the beginning of our acquaintance I sensed there was some secret matter which troubled her—but only at times.

Once I said to her: “Marie-Christine, is there something on your mind?”

She pretended not to understand, as she did now and then when I asked a question which she was not eager to answer.

Now she said: “On the mind? What is that?”

“I mean, is something troubling you?”

“Troubling me? Oh yes, Mademoiselle Dupont says my mathematics are terrible.” She pronounced the word in the French manner, drawing it out to make it sound horrific.

I laughed at her. “I think it is something more important than mathematics.”

“Mathematics are of the utmost importance, Mademoiselle Dupont says.”

“What I mean is, Marie-Christine, is something worrying you … something that you might like to talk about?”

“Nothing is worrying me,” she said firmly. “As for those silly old mathematics, who cares?”

But still I wondered. But I understood. Had I not secret sorrows of my own which I could not bring myself to discuss with anyone?

One day she said: “I am going to take you to see my Aunt Candice.”

I was surprised, because I had never heard Robert or Angele mention such a person.

“She’s my mother’s sister,” Marie-Christine told me as we walked our horses out of the drive.

“She lives near here?”

“Not far. It takes about half an hour. She and my mother were twins.”

“She doesn’t visit La Maison very often, does she?”

“No, she doesn’t. Grand-mere Angele has asked her. So has Grand-oncle Robert. At least they used to. They don’t anymore. She doesn’t really want to come. I suppose it brings it all back … and she wants to forget. In any case, she does not come.”

“But you see her often?”

“Not often. I go there, though … sometimes. I think I remind Tante Candice of my mother too much and she doesn’t like to be reminded.”

“You’ve never told me about your aunt before.”

“Well, I can’t tell you everything … yet. There has to be time.”

We rode on and very soon were taking a direction which was new to me.

We came to a stream.

“The mill is not far from here,” said Marie-Christine.

“The mill?”

“Moulin Carrefour. That’s the name of the house. It’s on the crossroads, really. That’s where it gets its name. It’s not a mill anymore. It was my great-grandfather who was the miller.”

“I’m finding all this a little hard to follow. It might be helpful if you explained a little to me about the place and the people you are taking me to.”

“I told you, I was taking you to see my Aunt Candice, and she lives at Moulin Carrefour, which was once a mill on the crossroads.”

“I have already gathered that, but …”

“Well, my great-grandfather was the miller, but my grandfather made a lot of money gambling or something, and he said he wasn’t going to be a miller all his life. So he closed the mill down and became one of the nobility. But he disgraced himself by marrying a gypsy girl from nowhere. She had two daughters, Candice and Marianne. Marianne was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. She went to Paris and became an artist’s model. She married my father and I was born … and when I was nine years old she died. Tante Candice lived on at Carrefour with Nounou.”

“With whom?”

“Their old nurse, of course. Nounou would never leave Candice. She will be there, too.”

“And Candice … she did not marry?”

“No. She and old Nounou just live together. I don’t think they will ever forget Marianne.”

“It is strange that they don’t visit the house.”

“It’s not strange at all … really. Not when you know them. Candice hasn’t been for three years.”

“Not since her sister died.”

“Yes, that’s right. Come on. I’ll
show you the place where my mother fell. It’s an unlucky place. Someone’s horse threw him there at exactly the same spot where my mother died. It’s called the
coin du diable.
You know what that means?”

“Devil’s Corner. There must be a reason for these accidents.”

“They say it is because people come galloping across the field and forget they come out suddenly at the crossroads and have to pull up sharply. Look. It’s just here.”

She had drawn up suddenly. I did the same. We were looking across a stretch of grass. There were the crossroads by a stream which could have been the tributary of a river flowing nearby. And there was the mill house. The windmill dominated it, and behind the house were what I presumed to be barns.

On the gate opening onto a path which led to the house were the words “Moulin Carrefour.”

“Is your aunt expecting us?” I asked.

“Oh no. We are just paying a call.”

“She might not wish to see me.”

“Oh, she will. And she likes to see me. So does Nounou.”

She dismounted and I did the same. We tied our horses to the gatepost and went up the overgrown path.

Marie-Christine took the knocker and let it fall with a resounding bang. There was silence. I felt a little uneasy. We were unexpected. What had suddenly put the idea of visiting her aunt into Marie-Christine’s head?

I was thinking with relief that no one could be at home when the door opened and a face was peering round the edge of it. It belonged to a grey-haired woman who must have been in her late sixties.

“Oh, Nounou,” said Marie-Christine. “I’ve come to see you. And this is Mademoiselle Tremaston, who has come from England.”

“England?” The old woman was peering at me suspiciously,
and Marie-Christine went on: “Grand-oncle Robert was a friend of her mother and she was a very famous actress.”

The door was opened wide and Marie-Christine and I stepped into a darkish hall.

“Is Tante Candice home?” asked Marie-Christine.

“No, she is out.”

“When will she be back?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll talk to you, Nounou. How are you?”

“My rheumatism is troubling me. I think you’d better come up to my room.”

“Yes, let’s do that. Perhaps Tante Candice will not be long.”

We went up some stairs and along a corridor until we came to a door which Nounou opened. We entered the room and Nounou signed to us to sit down.

“Well, Marie-Christine,” she said. “It is a long time since you have come to see us. You should come more often. You know Mademoiselle Candice does not care to go up to La Maison Grise.”

“She would come if she wanted to see me.”

“She knows you’ll come here if you want to see her. Are you comfortable, Mademoiselle … ?”

“Tremaston,” said Marie-Christine.

I said I was very comfortable, thanks.

“I am showing Mademoiselle Tremaston our countryside … interesting places and people and all that. And you and Tante Candice are part of that.”

“How do you like it here, mademoiselle?”

“I am finding it all very interesting.”

“It’s a long way to come … from England. I haven’t been away from this place since before Marianne and Candice were born. That’s going back a bit.”

“Nounou came here when they were born, didn’t you, Nounou?”