Feather Castles (20 page)

Despite such minor annoyances, their first days at the chateau had flown by, for everywhere was beauty and elegance, everywhere new wonders to be seen and admired. Guests began to arrive, and for the next week Madame Fleur was able to relax her vigilance, for Rachel was surrounded by the glittering company. These were people Claude described as “very special”; there were several highly placed military men and their wives, a smattering of diplomats, a Count and his Countess from Italy, a French Chevalier, and a gracious English widow, Lady Arnold, squired by her brother, a Mr. Minchly. The pace was accelerated, the days became a whirl of riding and drives, luncheons on the terrace, sittings for the portrait, walks through the exquisite gardens, croquet, musical afternoons, gay dinner parties followed by dancing or cards, and little time for introspection. Claude had been the soul of tactful consideration, devoted, patient, kindly, and never pressing his attentions on his fiancée. When Rachel had taken him to task by reason of the new garments in her press, he'd murmured, “But,
ma chérie,
I thought it must be tiresome for you to shop, and I have a niece in rather straitened circumstances who was happy to execute such a commission for me. If they do not suit—” he spread his hands expressively, “discard them!” She soon found, however, that the gowns were a godsend. The chateau was a country house in location only. Dinners were at eight at the earliest, and the guests attired as though they dined in London or Paris. The few suitable gowns Rachel had brought with her would have proven sadly inadequate, and she was quickly driven to resort to the supply Claude had so thoughtfully provided.

Charity was thoroughly enjoying herself; she was too young to recall the brilliant gatherings that had once graced Strand Hall and was captivated by the elegant company Claude had summoned. Agatha, too, was happy. She had found an admirer in the person of one of the grooms, a charming Frenchman named Raoul, whose lack of stature was offset by an extremely theatrical manner, a pleasing countenance, and a whimsical twinkle that soon won the favour of the English maid. Rachel was struggling hard to crowd all thought of home and her tall soldier from her mind and was managing to convince herself that life here could be pleasant—if not perfect. Yet, try as she would, she could not be at ease and always it seemed that there was something to cast a shadow over her peace of mind. Small matters sometimes: the feeling that there was an undercurrent just below the polite laughter and merry good humour of their guests, that the extravagant embraces and fond words masked other emotions less seen than sensed. Worse, the feeling that Claude knew of this undercurrent and was amused by it. And if she argued that she imagined it all, she was faced by the matter of the guards. She did not imagine those hard-eyed individuals. When she'd first noticed them about the grounds, she had supposed them to be gamekeepers and wondered that they wore black rather than green. Their true purpose soon became obvious, for their only occupation was to engage in such pursuits as archery, target shooting, or wrestling. The thought of spending her life in an armed camp did not enchant her, but Claude pointed out that the surrounding areas were not affluent, and the fact that his home contained many valuable items presented a strong temptation to the poorer inhabitants. His response to her question as to the rather unorthodox weapons used by his guards was that the men found them interesting and that history was a passion of his. “How sad it is,” he sighed one afternoon while they watched a crossbow contest, “that we cannot step back in time. We live in so plebeian an age—a very dull time in the affairs of mankind.”

A greater cause of concern for Rachel was that the people living on the estates were not friendly toward her. At first, on her morning rides she had stopped if she encountered children or cottagers. But the children invariably fled to the protection of their parents, and the parents were quiet and reserved, their obvious curiosity mingled with an emotion she was for a while unable to pinpoint, but at last identified as scorn. She had glimpsed the same look in the eyes of the servants, though never when Claude or Gerard was about. She at first supposed this to be occasioned by the fact that she was from Perfidious Albion—as Bonaparte had dubbed Britain—but when she noted a quite different demeanour exhibited to Lady Arnold and her brother, could only conclude that the shame of the Strands had spread even as far as Brittany.

Perversely, the thing that most often worried her was the very matter that had at first given her such joy: Claude's decision that Charity might accompany them to Dinan. At first wholly opposed to the idea on the grounds that a second journey would be too tiring for the frail girl, he had abruptly reversed his stand, saying he'd come to believe that since the sisters were so devoted, to tear one from the other might constitute a worse hazard to Charity's precarious health. For some reason, this did not quite ring true, and Rachel wondered uneasily if, since he was very well acquainted with Dr. Ulrich, the surgeon had confided something of Charity's condition that was being kept from her. A worrisome suspicion, nagging always at the edge of her mind.

Towards the end of that week, the guests began to depart, and soon Rachel was again occupying herself with the effort to escape Fleur and Antoine—hence this retreat to the maze. It was surprising that the guests had left, and she was puzzling at it when a small hand touched her wrist and a soft little voice accused, “Dearest—you are not happy here!”

Startled, she refuted hurriedly, “Of course I am, you silly goose! How could one not be happy in so lovely a spot?”

Charity scanned her face worriedly, then, apparently reassured, turned to the chateau. “It
is
lovely, isn't it?” she mused. “An enchanted castle.”

The words stirred memory. Following her gaze, Rachel saw not only the great house above them, but the fluffy white clouds that drifted over it. Tristram's feather castles. A pang of such intensity lanced through her that she had to clench her hands tightly to keep from betraying herself. She would not think of him! She
would
not!

“I had no idea it would be so enormous, nor so beautiful,” Charity went on dreamily. “And to think that you will reign here! Is it not unbelievable?”

Recovering herself, Rachel managed a laugh. “You make me sound a queen!”

“You will certainly have a more magnificent palace than some real queens. And have you noticed how well trained are the servants? Monsieur Claude has merely to give them a look, and they literally run to do his bidding.”

It was quite true. Rachel had very soon noticed that at the chateau there was no trace of the infuriating tendency of old retainers to bully their employer. Claude was served with excellence; but not with love. So different, she thought nostalgically, to the proprietary air Fisher assumed with Justin, or indeed to the scolds to which she was subjected by her own Agatha. Scolds motivated by love. Impatient with herself, she dismissed such nonsensical notions. Neither Fisher nor her abigail would attempt any such behaviour in front of strangers, and besides, Claude had so many retainers he could scarcely be expected to know each of them personally.

Again lost in thought, she had failed to notice her sister's glance return to her. Confined as she was to her invalid chair, Charity was very responsive to the feelings of others, and, having no outlet for an intensely romantic nature, wove her dreams about those she loved. Rachel's uncharacteristic preoccupation struck dismay into her gentle, sensitive soul. “Something
is
wrong!” she asserted. “Do not try to fob me off with polite whiskers—I am your sister!” And as Rachel's alarmed eyes met hers, she rushed on, “It is Captain Tristram! I thought all along you had a
tendre
for him. And he was so deep in love with you, it must have been obvious to—”

“Then that was most improper in him!” Rachel intervened sharply. “I am betrothed to Claude!”

“Yes, you are!” Charity wrung her thin hands. “But is it because you love him—or because you love
me?
”

Inwardly reeling, Rachel gasped, “Charity! How can you think such a thing after all Claude has done for us?”

“Oh, forgive me! Is it not dreadful, but—but I know you would not wed for money if you had only yourself to consider.”

Good God! thought Rachel and, fighting for composure, said with faint amusement, “So you think me a fortune hunter? I do not doubt the world does also.” It was time, she decided, for the small speech she had rehearsed in the night silences for just such a moment. “But, do you know, love,” she embarked. “I have come to think that since marriage is undertaken for a lifetime, it should not be entered into only because two people fancy themselves ‘in love.' From what I have seen of such ill-planned matches, the magic fades all too soon, and two ordinary human beings discover they have nothing in common save the memory of a brief excursion into self-delusion.” That had gone off smoothly, and sounded very sophisticated, she hoped, and ignoring Charity's shocked gasp, she continued, “Since Papa died, Claude has shown me what a true friend he is. Indeed, I cannot think how we should have gone on without him—especially with Justin away.”

“So you
were
in love with Captain Tristram,” sighed Charity; having seized upon the one piece of this disclosure she found to have merit.

Rachel threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh, for heaven's sake! Have you heard nothing I said? Charity—Claude has done me the honour to ask me to become his wife—an honour half the ladies in Europe must have prayed would come their way. I am truly grateful for what he has done for you, dearest, but that was only one of many reasons persuading me to accept his offer. Captain Tristram was—was a fine young man, having much to recommend him. But—I'll not lie to you, it has been a struggle to keep us afloat, and I fear, my little innocent, that the adage, ‘Love flies out the window when poverty comes in the door,' is all too true. Besides,” she tucked a wisp of Charity's hair under a thick braid, “you would not have me break my given word?”

“Yes!” declared Charity vehemently. “Indeed, I would! If there is no real love here for you!”

“Oh! What a romantical little puss!” Standing, Rachel gripped the bar behind the chair and began to steer it toward the same path by which they had come. “I can see that when you escape the confines of this chair, you will be the biggest flirt in town, and quite put me to the blush with your escapades!”

“I have found you!” Holding a vibrant red rose, Claude Sanguinet came around the corner. He was elegant as always, the informal brown jacket excellent by its very simplicity, the topboots mirror-bright. Smiling a welcome, Charity nonetheless surveyed him with keen criticism. His height, his looks, his figure, she judged only average. His eyes were large and lustrous, but she did not care for that particular shade of brown, finding it too light to suit her taste, and their expression of lazy amusement was so unvarying that one could not but wonder if Claude owned another. The thought came into her mind that were he to stand beside Tristram, he would disappear.

“For you, my sweet sister-to-be,” he said in his mild voice, bending to hand her the rose.

She accepted it, stammering her thanks and blushing guiltily.

Sanguinet moved to drop a kiss upon Rachel's cheek. “You have my poor Aunt in a taking,” he smiled. “I warned you she was a bore.”

“Oh, but she is so kind,” she answered, reverting to the French Claude preferred them to speak. “It is only—well, this heat would fatigue her, and I—”

“And you are not fatigued,” he nodded. “But you
are
bored, I think. Still, we shall have our ball very soon, and you will be presented to my friends and neighbours as my future wife. There will be many invitations then. Meanwhile, are you finding the estate quite to your liking?”

“Indeed, we are. How proud of it you must be. The gardens are—
incroyable.
”

Pleased, he asked, “Have you one you especially favour?”

“The Cathay Garden, I think. There is such an air of peace about it. What is your choice, Charity?”

“I agree with yours, dear. That little red bridge across the pool is exquisite.”

“Yes, I admit I am not displeased with it,” Claude said modestly, “although it only crosses a small corner of the pool, you know. I must ask, Rachel, that you do not venture onto it. Oh, it is sturdy enough, but one might slip—and the pool was not man made, you see. It is bottomless. Two poor fellows, to my knowledge, have drowned there, for the water is so cold that only a few minutes are sufficient to render a man helpless and, unless one chances to be a strong swimmer…” He shrugged.

“How terrible!” Rachel exclaimed. “Were these recent tragedies?”

“Comparatively. One of my workmen fell in while constructing the bridge.”

“But—could none of his companions help?”

“Oh,
assurement.
But the peasants have a morbid fear of the pool. It was most difficult, in fact, for me to persuade them to construct the bridge.” He smiled. “One of the advantages of being the only landlord for miles around.”

Rachel glanced at him sharply, and he went on in his lazy way, “At all events, by the time someone had come up with the brilliant notion to throw him a rope, his hands were too cold to permit of his holding onto it.”

“How dreadful!” Charity shuddered.

“Yes. But pray do not refine on it. His widow received a most generous settlement from me, and I am told, considered it the luckiest day of her life.”

Charity looked shocked. Also offended by so unfeeling a remark, Rachel hurriedly changed the subject. “I was rather surprised when the guests left, Claude. I was sure they would stay for the ball—in fact, I had thought that was why you invited them.”