Katerina's Secret (3 page)

She looked up and saw the young girl, black-haired, pretty and blue-eyed, standing just inside the green wooden gate.

‘Child, what are you doing there?' Her French had what Celeste thought must be the attractive accent of a well-educated citizen of Paris.

‘Oh, nothing at all, madame, nothing at all.'

‘You're just looking?' She smiled, and Celeste was entranced.

‘Many pardons, madame. Please forgive me.'

The woman hesitated, casting a glance over her shoulder. The wide garden was a picture of lushness and colour. It was also quiet and empty. No voices, no people, no children. So very empty. And here was a child, here was a child who looked sweet and delicious, a young girl with blue eyes.

‘What is your name, child?'

‘Celeste, madame, but I'm almost sixteen.'

The woman smiled again.

‘Oh, many many years ago I too was sixteen,' she said.

‘Many years ago, madame, many?' said Celeste in wonder.

‘Many years, Celeste.' The clear grey eyes reflected memories of joys and innocence. ‘Where are you from?'

‘The hotel. It's owned by my mother. I'm Celeste Michel, you see. Goodbye, madame. I'm sorry to have been so inquisitive.'

Again the woman hesitated, then said, ‘Would you like some lemonade? Yes, you would. In summer, there's never too much lemonade when one is sixteen, do you agree?'

‘I'm always avid for lemonade, madame,' said Celeste earnestly.

‘Come,' said Madame. ‘Please close the gate first, and bolt it. Thank you. Come.' Carrying a trug filled with blooms, she walked along the garden path with Celeste, her white dress waisted by a narrow belt of black velvet, the skirt slightly flared, so that it whisked and whispered, flirting with the shrubs.

Celeste felt excited and enchanted. As far as she knew, no one in the area of La Roche
had ever been inside the high walls of the Villa d'Azur. The extensive garden, with its lawn still green after the protracted heat of summer, was beautiful. The villa rose a pale, washed pink above the terrace.

Madame, with Celeste beside her, crossed the lawn towards the terrace steps. She had the grace of a woman and a natural vitality. There was a little air of defiance about her, as if she was ready to meet any challenge to her wisdom. Celeste sensed it. She knew it was to do with herself and her presence here.

The terrace was magnificent with its colourful tiles, its steps and its walls, its flowers and its hanging baskets. It looked out over the lawn and the deep blue of the sun-kissed Mediterranean. The vista was a grandeur, an unparalleled gift of nature. Man's handiwork in all its genius could never match such splendour.

The dry warmth pervaded the terrace, and the shutters of the villa's windows were closed to resist the infiltration of heat. The large French windows were open, however.

‘Please sit down, Celeste,' said Madame. Celeste slipped into a seat beside a white ornate garden table, above which was a huge umbrella. Madame put her trug down and clapped her
hands. ‘Anna?' A servant appeared at the French windows. She was a stout woman with a broad homely face. Madame said something to her in a language foreign to Celeste. The servant disappeared.

‘Madame, it's beautiful, your villa,' said Celeste.

‘Thank you, child.' Madame's smile was warm, if a little strange and wistful. ‘I shall now pray that the lemonade is not less than perfect. It wouldn't do to serve indifferent lemonade to a guest who considers my residence beautiful.'

‘Oh, but—'

‘Ah, you see, when I was sixteen and indifferent lemonade was served, we did not send it back, of course. Papa wouldn't have allowed us to. But the disappointment could be quite tragic.'

Celeste laughed. Madame's eyes sparkled. She saw the quick, vivid eagerness for life in the girl, the responsiveness. She removed her wide-brimmed hat, and the mass of looped auburn hair took on tints of fire in the sunlight. That light made the grey eyes so bright that there was a hint of palest blue in them. She sat down with Celeste and under the shade of the umbrella the fiery tints died and the hair softly shone.

‘Madame – oh, such beautiful hair,' said
Celeste, who was neither shy nor inarticulate. ‘Truthfully, I'd give my fortune to have hair so lovely.'

‘You have a fortune, child?' said Madame, smiling.

‘I have forty francs, I think,' said Celeste.

‘Yes, that's a fortune without doubt to one who is only sixteen,' said Madame. ‘I had no money at all to speak of when I was your age. That is, I was never aware of having any. It seemed not to matter. I'm very aware now that money is of no consequence whatever to people who have always had too much, and that it's only the poor who are honest enough not to despise it. Ah, here is Anna with our lemonade.'

It came in a tall jug, with two glasses. Anna, clad in her black-and-white servant's habit, stood with her hands clasped in front of her as Madame poured the liquid. Slices of lemon floated. Celeste tasted the drink. It was cool and sweet, yet contained the little bite of the fruit that lingered on the palate. Madame smilingly awaited her comment.

‘Oh, it's quite perfect,' said Celeste.

Madame's grey eyes again sparkled in evidence of her participation in the girl's enjoyment of life.

‘You are sure, Celeste?'

‘But yes, madame.'

Madame spoke to her servant, again in the language foreign to Celeste. Anna said something in return, then smiled cautiously at the girl and retired.

‘Anna agrees that there are always times when the lemonade should be just right,' said Madame.

‘I must confess, madame,' said Celeste ingenuously, ‘that until now I've always thought lemonade was only lemonade.'

‘What a discussion we're having about it,' said Madame, eyes dancing. ‘But it's true, lemonade is only lemonade on ordinary occasions. It becomes memorable only when the occasion is memorable. I must tell you, Celeste, that the summers in my country aren't what they were. When I was young, the summers were such that every day was memorable, and therefore so was the lemonade – except when it was indifferent.'

Celeste laughed. Madame smiled.

‘You aren't French?' said Celeste in interested enquiry.

‘It isn't important, child. After all, I live in France now and am grateful—' Madame checked herself. ‘It's beautiful here in the
Riviera, and you are a dear girl to sit and talk with me.'

‘Oh, I'm happy to have met you, madame. I've often wondered what you were like.' Celeste was not given to the art of dissembling. She still had some way to go before she was a woman. ‘You've lived here two years and no one—' She stopped. One could not be inquisitive to the point of impertinence.

Madame's expression was a little rueful.

‘Everyone is curious about me?' she said.

‘A hundred pardons, madame. I didn't mean to—'

‘No, no, it's perfectly natural,' said Madame gently. ‘But I have to live a quiet life. I cannot entertain, for I've little money and I also suffer with my heart.'

Celeste found it difficult to believe that anyone who lived in such a beautiful villa could be short of money. Nor was it easy to accept that any lady with so creamy a skin and such an air of vitality could have a weak heart. But it was possible, of course.

‘Madame, how sorry I am,' she said, and Madame let her lashes fall.

‘It's difficult, you see, Celeste, to live as other people do, to bustle about, to entertain and participate in excitements. One must do
as one's doctor advises or become a victim of one's foolishness.'

‘Oh, that's what Monsieur Somers says.'

‘Who, pray, is Monsieur Somers?' asked Madame.

‘An English guest of ours,' said Celeste. ‘He was gassed in the war, madame, and his lungs don't permit him to endure winters in England, so he spends them with us. Mama allows him favourable terms, of course.'

‘Ah, during the war I worked in a hospital, and it was so sad to see—' Again Madame checked herself. ‘Continue, child.'

‘He's a deserving man, madame, and very charming and kind. It's a worry, yes, that he has no wife to look after him, although he's told me he would be more of an affliction than a husband.' Celeste smiled reminiscently.

‘That's very wry in a man who has breathed in poison gas, isn't it? To make jokes of that kind about himself? Men with a sense of humour are the most tolerable ones, aren't they? It's always good to laugh, Celeste, even in the company of a man with crippled lungs. He's a better man for making his jokes.'

‘Oh, yes,' said Celeste with feeling.

‘And you have other guests who are interesting?'

Celeste, who enjoyed observing people and talking about them, said, ‘Well, there are often some ladies and gentlemen who are unattached, and one cannot help noticing how the ladies become more ladylike and how the gentlemen gradually become trapped. One follows developments as closely as one can, for it's always terribly interesting, isn't it, to watch and to wonder? One can find oneself most interested in a certain lady and a particular gentleman, and wonder if they're falling in love.'

Madame's laugh was rich with amusement.

‘You are incurably romantic, dear child, as most of us are,' she said. ‘We weave our dreams about those we observe. Do you dream, perhaps, about your charming Monsieur Somers?'

‘Madame?'

Madame's smile was teasing.

‘You are in love with him, perhaps, and dream of looking after him yourself later on?'

Celeste blushed.

‘But he's old enough to be my father, madame. Well, almost.'

‘Ah, yes. Almost. It's a sensitive emotion, the feeling of being too young.' Madame's eyes filled with memories, and she looked like a
woman who dwelt in companionship with the past. ‘My own papa was – yes, a Bulgarian count and was appointed to the household of a most high and distinguished family. Naturally, I spent many hours each day with the children. There were five of them, four girls and a boy, and I was just two years younger than the eldest girl. She was the eldest, yes, but also the shyest of all of us – that is, the shyest of the family. I was almost one of them, of course, for we were all very close, though I wasn't shy myself. We had such fun, such wonderful days, and when the eldest girl fell in love she was desperate to be older than sixteen. I could tell you many stories—' Madame halted.

Celeste looked up. At the open French windows of the villa stood a man, tall, bearded, and middle-aged. He was frowning.

‘Your husband, madame?' asked Celeste impulsively, and then, glancing instinctively, saw that Madame wore no wedding ring.

‘My doctor.' Madame's voice was a little vibrant. ‘Please excuse me a moment.'

‘I must go—'

‘No. Please wait a moment, child,' said Madame. She rose to her feet, walked over the terrace and disappeared into the villa with the bearded man.

‘This is foolishness of a mad kind, Katerina Pyotrovna.'

‘It is not.' She spoke firmly and defiantly.

‘I absent myself for a brief moment, to go to the village, and no sooner is my back turned than there are strangers in the place.'

‘There's a young girl here, that's all. And she's hardly a stranger. Her mother owns the hotel. Boris Sergeyovich, am I to wither away? I will if I'm to be denied all communication with people. I might as well be in a convent.'

Tall, slender and straight-backed, chin high, she was in elected confrontation with the bearded man. And he, for all his severe reproach, was in admiration of her.

‘Residence in a convent can be arranged, as you know,' he said, ‘and indeed was suggested years ago.'

‘I do not have the disposition to make a suitable nun.'

‘Countess—'

‘I'm not a countess, I'm a nobody.'

‘You are not,' said Boris Sergeyovich Kandor.

‘I'm a nobody turning into a cabbage. Is there a more dreadful fate?'

‘Yes, Countess Katerina, there is,' he said.

She winced. Shadows darkened the clarity of her eyes.

‘Boris Sergeyovich, see, I beg you – let me make a few friends, discreet friends.'

‘You cannot command discretion of curious people. They will go away and talk about you. They will describe you. I'm not sure that you shouldn't dye your hair.'

‘Never! Oh, don't you see, one can dispel the curiosity of people by mixing with them?'

‘Madness,' said Dr Kandor. ‘Am I to let you cast yourself into revelation and destruction?'

‘One friend only, then,' she begged. ‘The girl. She's so sweet, she has eyes so like—'

‘I know her, I've seen her. As you say, her mother owns the hotel.'

‘They are our closest neighbours,' she said, ‘our only neighbours.'

‘How did she get in?'

‘The wall gate was open. I stepped outside for a moment, to look down at the beach. People are sometimes on the beach, and my eyes are hungry for any kind of people. I'm frequently of the feeling that people have disappeared from the world.'

‘You should not show yourself. If you're recognized, who knows what would follow?'

‘Boris Sergeyovich, you speak as if the whole world would recognize me. But who would recognize me here, in the South of France? It's a place my family never visited.'

‘That's why we thought this villa very suitable,' said Dr Kandor.

‘Boris Sergeyovich?' She was wheedling, beguiling, and casting her magic over a man who she knew held her in stern but affectionate guardianship, a man who would give his life to protect her. ‘One friend, please? To reject all people will invite curiosity as dangerous as accepting them all. I've been here two years and have met no one, no one.'

Dr Kandor sighed.