Feather Castles (17 page)

Despite herself, Rachel's attention wandered, and she was mildly startled when Charity exclaimed, “Did you hear that, dearest? Monsieur Claude is descended from the ancient kings of Brittany! You are marrying into a royal family!”

“Is that indeed so, Claude?” Rachel asked, surprised. “You never mentioned it.”

He shrugged. “One does not go about bragging of one's ancestors. You also are from a fine old house, my love,
n'est ce pas?
”

Her smile was forced. What he said was true; the name Strand had once been a proud one. But now, she thought sadly, trampled in the dust.

They left the coast and headed inland. There were few habitations to be seen, and the terrain was very broken and rocky. With sinking heart, Rachel thought it lonely and inhospitable, so different from the beautiful French countryside she knew, or her lush and gentle Sussex. Up hill and down, rumble and jolt and jingle, until quite suddenly they plunged into thick woods, and soon the way ahead was blocked by giant iron gates hung from white stone pillars, and with a high wall leading off in either direction. Just inside the gates, and to one side of the drive, was a lodge, and three men in black livery sat at a table before it, throwing dice. They all sprang up as the carriage approached, and ran to open the gates. The carriage swept through; Gerard, who rode with the outriders, pausing to call that a second vehicle followed. Rachel caught only a fleeting glimpse of the men, but they seemed to her a grim lot, their shouts of welcome, which were accompanied by neither smiles nor enthusiasm, appearing a concession to protocol rather than an evidence of affection.

Immediately, there was a vast improvement in the scenery. These woods were well-thinned, the undergrowth lush but confined to pleasantly shaped shrubs and fern. Leaving the leafy shade, they came out into an area of downsloping turf, dotted with little arbours and neatly tended flower beds. As if in welcome, the sun came out, drawing a flash from the top of a broad hill that lifted ahead, much of it concealed by trees. Claude, seated beside Rachel, drew her hand through his arm. “See how even the sunshine greets you, my dear,” he said kindly. “It knows you come to your future home. I must explain that my Papa built the chateau. He scoured the world for the
objets d'art
you will see. The drivepath we follow loops around the hill through many gardens, each true to its own theme, and separated from the others by trees. The first of these we are now entering. Beyond is the Baghdad Garden.”

The trees fell away. Rachel's gasp was echoed by a delighted exclamation from Charity. They were in an area of indescribable beauty, a place of exotic shrubs, mosaic-tiled walks and statuary that of itself must be worth a fortune. The lawns were like rippling green velvet, and gardeners laboured among flower beds that were riots of colour. The path wound gently upward, revealing its wonders gradually. Rachel gasped again when a mosque came into view. It was scaled down to the size of a cottage, but startlingly authentic, even to the gilded towers and minarets.

“Oh!” she cried. “
Never
have I seen so lovely a sight!”

“You have but begun!” proclaimed Madame Fleur exuberantly. “Beyond the next wood is—” She stopped as Claude glanced at her, and then finished lamely, “A lot more.”

Several men were scattered about, busily at work, and Charity, awed, said, “You must have an army of gardeners here, Monsieur Claude.”

“An unhappy necessity,” he smiled.

They were entering another wooded belt. Coming into the open, Claude announced, rather in the manner of a conjurer pulling rabbits from a hat, “The Cathay Garden!”

Here were quaint winding streams, crossed by stepping-stones, and edged with flowers. The shrubs and trees were of unique delicacy and conformation, and even the turf was different, being of a darker, more dense, and springy texture. Dominating this peaceful garden a great bronze Buddha, oxidized by the dampness to a dusty light green, sat atop a black onyx platform and nearby, black swans floated regally along the stream. There was scarcely time to fully appreciate these beauties before the next curve brought an even more exquisite sight, an enchanting pagoda beside a large pool, with a red lacquered bridge arching over the lily-strewn surface. The huge tree that shaded the pagoda was gnarled and twisted, and the branches stretching protectively over the enameled roof were bare of leaves save for occasional flat clumps that created a most attractive form, perfectly complementing the oriental architecture.

And so it went, the carriage moving steadily upward through the Grecian garden where marble ruins and statuary were scattered about plantings of classic symmetry, dominated by another pool—a long rectangle this time, providing a mirror-like reflection of the superb temple that loomed beside it; through the Egyptian garden with its sphinx and bullrushes and papyrus; the English garden, complete with moated, miniature castle and charming flowers; each seemingly more lovely than the last.

The sisters were captivated and had exhausted their store of superlatives when the carriage rounded the last curve. The chateau, bursting upon their sight like the final crashing chord of a symphony, was the
pièce de résistance.
A sprawl of white marble, fronted by wide steps, it stood proudly on the crest of the hill. The architecture was Italian rather than French, the main block being set back between forward-reaching wings on either side, thus creating a wide court which was lined with fountains. The sun was stronger now, and its beams awoke sparkles from the sweeping sprays and brightened the white walls so that the house shone like a thing of faerie.

The coachman blew up a blast on his yard of tin as the carriage circled a wide, level area devoted to an extensive maze where more gardeners trimmed the tall hedge walls. Servants appeared on the broad steps and began to hurry down to them. The carriage stopped. The door was thrown open, and a magnificent being in ivory satin and powder let down the steps. Claude sprang out and handed Rachel down. She paused, looking dazedly at the great, gleaming structure above her.

“Well,
chérie,
” he murmured in her ear. “What do you think of it all?”

She thought it a palace, so magnificent as to be terrifying, and experienced a deep yearning for the dear dilapidations of Strand Hall. But she
must
put away such thoughts! She had entered this bargain willingly, and it was both pointless and unfair to her betrothed to do anything less than make the best of it. “I think it superb,” she said quietly.

Claude nodded. “Yes. But—just wait until you see the suite that I have had prepared for you!”

As lovely as was the exterior, inside, the chateau was indeed like a palace. The entrance hall was oval, the domed ceiling arranged into six panels radiating from the central star, each panel embellished with paintings of exotic birds fluttering about well-endowed and nude ladies. The floor was of pink marble, having in the centre a large oval Persian carpet woven in tones of red and white. Two enormous chandeliers graced this large chamber, and charming statuary was set about, interspersed with benches and intricately carven chests. Wide corridors led from either side towards the other areas of the ground floor, and at the rear a staircase flowed gracefully around the contour of the wall to spill its widening red-carpeted steps onto the roseate floor. Glancing down the corridors, Rachel gained an impression of red and gold and crystal; of exquisite chandeliers; walls lined with gilded chests whereon were priceless porcelains, jade, and marbles; sparkling mirrors within filigreed Chinese Chippendale frames. Everything rich, tasteful, and regal.

A very large footman carried Charity into the house and followed as Claude and Madame Fleur led the way upstairs.

“Had I only thought,” Claude sighed, “I could have made arrangements for a downstairs room to be equipped for your sister's needs. Alas, there are steps everywhere, but she need never feel constrained. My servants have so little to occupy them that they will delight to carry the poor child about.”

He had spoken in a loud whisper that Rachel was sure Charity had heard. She fought a surge of irritation, reminding herself that he doubtless fancied he had been all consideration, but she could have shaken him for such tactlessness. Like most invalids, Charity was less distressed by her own illness than by her dread of being a burden to others. Rachel, who went to great lengths lest her sister harbour such a suspicion, forced a smile and enquired in a rather brittle voice as to how many rooms the chateau boasted.

“Approximately ninety. Not as many as you may have supposed, but you will have noticed that both wings have only the ground and first floor. Only the main block has another floor, and that, I must confess, I keep all to myself; it is where I conduct my many—concerns and because of the extremely confidential nature of some of my ventures, is necessarily kept locked. However, I shall be very eager to conduct you through the rest of the chateau when you are rested, my love.” He bowed over her hand. “I leave you now. If there is anything—
anything
you desire, I pray you will call for it at once.”

He smiled upon Charity and hurried away, to be succeeded by a middle-aged housekeeper clad in a gown of dark blue linen fastened to the throat with small mother-of-pearl buttons. She spoke politely, but with brevity, and did not so far unbend as to reveal her name. The sisters were assigned a suite having bedchambers on each side of a central
petit salon.
There was also a spacious dressing room where a cot had been set up for Agatha, so that she could be near to Mademoiselle Charity at night. Listening politely to these arrangements, Rachel was past being surprised when the woman flung open a pannelled door. The
petit salon
was delightful, the walls papered in a design of pale pink flowers interspersed with gold
fleurs de lis.
The furnishings were from the era of Louis XIV, upholstered in soft pinks and greens. Charity's room was blue and white and charmingly feminine. Having viewed it, the small procession journeyed across the petit salon to the bedchamber allotted to Rachel. It was large and sumptuous, but not oppressively so. A dainty canopied bed with a small sofa at its foot; thick carpets; a cozy fireplace framed with Italian painted tiles and flanked by two small wing chairs; ample chests and two large clothes-presses, and wide windows looking out over the side of the hill that fell away in a sheer drop below. Rachel crossed to the small table before the windows, enjoying the breeze that ruffled her hair as she removed her bonnet.

“It is all—so exquisite!” said Charity. “Dearest—do you—” She broke off as Agatha uttered an exclamation of surprise.

The abigail stood before one of the presses, staring in bewilderment at a neat row of dresses and ball gowns. “Well! I never did!” she gasped. “One might think as you wasn't never going home again, Miss Rachel!”

Chapter 8

“Do you know, Dev,” said Tristram thoughtfully, “we have been three days journeying together, and I've not yet called you out.”

Attempting to settle himself more comfortably against the hayrick on this warm July morning, Devenish inspected his left hand and replied, “Had you expected to have done so?”

“I cannot deny it. I marvel, in fact, at my restraint. Never in my life—or as much of it as I can recollect—have I encountered such a firebrand!
Must
you challenge everyone we meet?”

“Firebrand?” snorted Devenish, indignantly. “Was it my fault that clod of a farmer attacked us last evening?
He
was the one named you a ‘gert creature,' and—”

“And
you
were the one objected. Had you not retaliated in kind—”

“I did but say he was a yokelly jack-at-warts. Which was purest truth—did you see the one on the end of his nose? The trouble with you, Tris, is that you waste your time in trying to reason with these upstarts.” He addressed his companion earnestly. “You must learn to be more firm. More decisive. If a man offends you—knock him down.
Then
you can reason, old fellow. Mark my words, you'll get nowhere in life do you not change your ways.” Pleased with this little lecture, he nodded and resumed his inspection of his hand.

“You struck first last night,” Tristram remarked mildly. “And instead of the warm bed I'd almost convinced the landlord we should have, we paid almost as much for the privilege of racking up in a stable.” He scratched his ribs and added with a rueful smile, “Some of whose occupants I fear still accompany us.”

“Blasted fellow was a rogue! Gouging the public, just as I told the greedy mawworm! When I think—” In the midst of a heated gesture, Devenish winced and swore.

Tristram sat up. “Let me see that.”

“It's the thumb, I think.” Devenish held out his hand. “Trifle puffy.”

“A trifle dislocated. Baconbrain! Why could you not have told me? Hold on.”

“Hey! Wait!”

Tristram did not wait and, having pulled hard, was enveloped in a flood of profanity. He lay back, and when Devnish ran out of breath, asked, “Did it do?”

“Blast your eyes! You half killed—”

This exaggeration was cut off by the frenzied barking of a large black and tan dog that came at them, lips curling back from long and efficient-looking fangs, and hair standing on end all across powerful shoulders.

Tristram sprang to his feet. Looking desperately about for a weapon, he found none. “Dev!” he exclaimed. “Get up, you clunch! It's likely the farmer's hound. We're trespassing, and—”

“Come on, you old fool,” Devenish said lazily and extended one hand, palm up towards that double row of gnashing teeth.

The dog crouched lower. The growls in its throat were deep and murderous. Tristram took a pace nearer his friend.

“Be still,” said Devenish, perfectly calm. “There's no danger to me.”