Katerina's Secret (7 page)

‘Well played,' said Colonel Brecht, ‘and thank you, madam, for an excellent game.'

‘No, I missed the cannon,' said Rosamund.

She could, thought Edward, have easily pocketed her ball off the red. She might have got the cannon. Instead, she had missed it with beautiful finesse. Damn me, he thought, if she isn't going to let him beat her.

‘Your ball just stroked the red,' said the colonel.

‘No, no,' said Rosamund, ‘it missed.'

‘I'm happy to concede the cannon,' he murmured.

‘We'll refer to Mr Somers,' said Rosamund. ‘Edward, was it a cannon or not?'

Edward, frankly keen to see how they would resolve it themselves, said, ‘It may have been, it may not have been. It was all too much of a whisker for me, and I declare myself undecided.'

‘Very well,' said Rosamund smoothly, ‘I claim a miss. It's your shot, Colonel Beck.'

‘Ah – I – '

‘Please proceed,' said Rosamund.

The colonel gave in and with the balls nicely set up rattled off three cannons. Edward sat rooted, for they were both on ninety-nine now. And damned if the colonel didn't miss his next shot, a simple pot.

Rosamund gazed in haughty disbelief at him as he straightened up. He coughed. Edward laughed. The colonel tugged his moustache. Rosamund's proud bosom quivered.

‘You're laughing, Edward,' she said.

‘I should think I am,' said Edward. ‘Why not call it an honourable draw?'

‘If Colonel Beck—'

‘Now, Rosamund.' Edward's smile was reproving.

‘Names confuse me,' said Rosamund, ‘but very well, if Colonel Brecht is willing to call it a draw, so am I.'

‘Yes, yes, of course,' said the colonel, tugging his moustache, ‘Thank you for the game, madam. Ah – would you care – may I suggest a cognac for all of us in the lounge?'

‘You're very kind,' said Rosamund, ‘but if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I shall now retire to my bed. Goodnight.' She picked up her evening bag and sailed in splendour from the room.

Colonel Brecht took his handkerchief out and dabbed his brow.

‘Heavens,' he said.

‘The ice is broken,' said Edward, ‘do you realize that?'

‘I realize it all too well, my friend, for I'm sinking beneath it. What an extraordinary woman.'

‘Magnificent,' said Edward. ‘Noble.'

‘Ah, yes – quite so. Shall we enjoy a cognac, then?'

There were several other guests in the lounge, enjoying conversation. Edward and Colonel Brecht did not intrude on them. They found comfortable armchairs in the larger well-furnished room, and Celeste brought them their cognac. She slipped a note into Edward's hand. He read it. It was the little note from the countess.

‘I'm delighted, Celeste,' he said, ‘please accept for me.'

‘Oh, I will, m'sieur, and Mama is permitting me to go too. We aren't too busy, you see.'

There were ten guests in the hotel, a comfortable number for this time of the year.

Breakfast of rolls, croissants and coffee was served in the light and airy dining room the
following day, the tables covered with their morning cloths of white. Red tablecloths were used for dinner.

Not all guests were down yet. Present were Colonel Brecht, Edward, Rosamund, a retired American doctor, Martin K. Bush, an anonymous-looking silver-haired couple who spoke to nobody and rarely to each other, but smiled vaguely at all, and a slim, dapper man. A new guest, he was fair-haired and amiable, although his sharply-pointed nose was rather at odds with his agreeable air. Another guest entered the room, a lady in her thirties, whose silver-grey costume set off her brunette richness and put a neat, tidy outline on her figure. She glided past the dapper, eager-nosed gentleman rather as if he weren't there, but said a cheerful good-morning to everyone else. She eyed Edward with interest and selected a table next to his.

Edward gave her a smile, then returned to the notes he was scanning over his coffee. They were notes covering the first chapter of his assignment. It was time he began to seriously concentrate, to remember he was not exactly on holiday. Usually, he got down to work without difficulty. Things were a little different this year.

Celeste, coming to refill his cup, whispered to him, ‘That lady is from Paris, m'sieur, and arrived last night. A designer of theatrical costumes. But I think she's looking for a little flirtation.'

‘Who is?' he asked absently. ‘Oh, yes.'

The lady in question, Estelle Dupont, once breakfast was served to her, consumed it with as much relish as she devoured the front page of the
Nice Gazette
. On the other side of the dining room, Rosamund went through her meal with an air of aloof graciousness, like a woman who accepted the presence of other guests but hoped they would not spoil the moment by talking to her. She had no glances for Colonel Brecht, and for his part he too seemed solely interested in his food and coffee. Only the dapper gentleman, Monsieur Valery, appeared eager to communicate, smiling encouragingly whenever he managed to catch someone's eye.

Edward scanned on. Mademoiselle Dupont, finishing her breakfast, came to her feet and moved from her table. Edward looked up as she passed.

‘Bonjour, m'sieur,' she said with a smile quite vivacious.

‘Bonjour,' said Edward.

An attractive creature.

He stopped on his way back to his room five minutes later to speak to Celeste, catching her on her way from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee.

‘Little angel and light of my life,' he said, ‘you were right.'

‘What about, m'sieur?'

‘About Colonel Brecht and Madame Knight,' he whispered. ‘She's begun a fencing match with him.'

‘A fencing match?'

‘Fascinating,' murmured Edward.

‘You mean it's an opening engagement between two people not yet aware they're falling in love?' she whispered.

‘Who knows, my infant, who knows?'

‘Oh, by now I'm in a fever of interest,' she breathed.

‘Let it be only a light fever,' said Edward, ‘for I don't think developments are going to be too dramatic. A little delicious, perhaps, but nothing one could compare with an earthquake.'

‘Oh, m'sieur,' she smiled, ‘you are a lovely man.'

Edward was at work by the summer house twenty minutes later, the morning sunshine warm and mellow. His breathing was easy, his lungs appreciative of the clarity of the air. He concentrated successfully, perhaps because the knowledge that he had been invited to call on the countess tomorrow had induced mental relaxation. His pencil raced over the paper. The silver-haired couple wandered out and did a quiet turn or two around the garden before disappearing. Then Rosamund emerged. She found a seat on the far edge of the lawn, where she sat reading, putting aside her hat and parasol to let the sun finger her chestnut hair.

Colonel Brecht appeared a few minutes later. Edward watched him eyeing Rosamund, deep in a book. He advanced casually in her direction. He paused midway, uncertainty taking hold of him. Rosamund looked up.

‘Good morning, madam, good morning,' he said, and gazed hard at flowering shrubs.

‘Good morning,' said Rosamund.

‘Ah – yes,' said the colonel, turned left and advanced on Edward. ‘Another beautiful day, my friend.'

‘Quite beautiful,' said Edward.

‘You're writing, I see.'

‘I think I should, you know. I have to earn my pay.'

‘I won't interrupt,' said the colonel. ‘I'll take a brisk stroll.'

‘Good idea,' said Edward. ‘Ask Rosamund to go with you.'

‘What? What? Heavens, you serious are?' In his agitation, Colonel Brecht fluffed the composition of his English. ‘I am to be eaten alive this morning after last night making only the narrow escape?'

‘Rosamund likes walking.'

‘I am off,' said the colonel and marched quickly away over the path that led around to the front of the hotel and the road. Rosamund, lifting her eyes from her book, smiled as she watched his retreat.

A wheelbarrow came into view on the path, the gardener pushing it. Edward got up and strolled over.

‘Good morning, Gregory,' he said.

The gardener halted. His broad face, brown and weathered, broke into a friendly smile. His eyebrows hung bushily and his moustache needed trimming. His teeth showed pale nicotine stains.

‘Good morning, m'sieur. A fine day.' His French was heavy, his voice a deep bass.

‘You're new to me,' said Edward amicably.

‘Yes, m'sieur.'

‘You're a powerful runner,' said Edward.

‘M'sieur?' Gregory did not shift his ground or lower his eyes. He merely looked puzzled.

‘What happened two days ago that made you jump out in front of my car?' Edward's enquiry was friendly. ‘I might have knocked you down, and that would have been very unhappy for both of us.'

‘Ah, that was you, m'sieur?' Gregory shook his head. ‘A close thing, yes.'

‘Very. Did you go to the police, to the local gendarme?'

‘M'sieur?'

‘If someone fired a rifle at me, I'd certainly report it.'

‘A madman, m'sieur,' said Gregory, ‘but I wish for no trouble. I'm a Russian émigré, so better for me to live a quiet life, you understand. This is good work here with Madame Michel, work I like, so I keep from making trouble.'

‘Yes, I see that, but why were you fired at, do you know?'

‘M'sieur, on my way back from the village after ordering potash, I entered the little wood there, just to look. A man came after me. For
the sake of peace, m'sieur, I ran. Better for an émigré to run, not argue, yes?'

‘You're probably right. But I wondered, of course.'

‘A madman, m'sieur, that's what it was,' said Gregory.

‘Then I should have run myself,' smiled Edward. ‘I must say the lawn looks perfect for this time of the year.'

‘Silver sand, m'sieur, that is what sharpens it and makes the grass stand up and breathe.'

‘It doesn't always work like that for me at home,' said Edward amiably, as if his interest in the incident of two days ago had been superseded and dismissed.

‘Ah, you must feed your grass first, m'sieur,' said Gregory.

‘Generously, I suppose?'

‘That is so, m'sieur. ‘

‘Thank you, Gregory,' said Edward. ‘What part of Russia do you come from?'

‘Kiev, m'sieur. Russia is a sad country now, a sad and bitter country.'

‘Yes, very sad. You don't like the Bolsheviks?'

Involuntarily, Gregory spat. Then he said, ‘Your pardon, m'sieur.'

‘No, I understand,' said Edward and returned
to his table and his work. His breathing was a little painful. He sat back and let his body relax. The feeling of constriction often came on for no apparent reason at all. He had walked no farther than the length of a cricket pitch a few moments ago, and here he was feeling the pain in his lungs. He grimaced at the knowledge that it would be like this all his life. But he was luckier than others and could not complain. He even had a job, a fulfilling job. Some poor devils could not even rise from their chairs without going blue in the face. Poison gas. That was Satan's own brew.

‘Coffee, yes, Edward?'

It was a soft whisper in his ear. He opened his eyes. Celeste was there, gently enquiring and solicitous.

‘Great Scott,' he said, ‘I fell asleep. In the middle of a perfect morning.'

‘Only for a few minutes,' said Celeste. ‘I was watching, you see. I didn't want you to fall out of your chair. You'd like to order coffee?'

‘Thank you, angel.' He looked across at Rosamund. The Frenchwoman in the silver-grey costume was sitting with her, and the two ladies were conversing loquaciously. ‘Ask the ladies if they'd care to join me, Celeste.'

Celeste tripped across the lawn with the
supple, rhythmic fluency of a girl destined to make heads turn in a few years' time, if not to some extent now. She spoke to the ladies, who turned their eyes on Edward.

‘Thank you, dear man,' said Rosamund, ‘we should love to join you.'

They drank coffee, the three of them, around the white-painted iron table. The Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Dupont, was as vivacious as Rosamund was stately. Her conversation was about Paris and the theatre, and Edward's genuine interest was a stimulation to her. She had mobile features, her good looks a smooth ripple of activity, her teeth a repetitive flash of white between carmined lips. Rosamund made no attempt to intercede. She seemed amused by the Parisian woman's flowing monologues, all directed into Edward's ear. Everyone liked Edward. Everyone used him as a confidant. He was a kind listener. And he would have been a handsome man had his face not been so ravaged by strain and pain.

‘The theatre,' said Mademoiselle Dupont, ‘is more true to life than life itself, if you agree that life itself is people. In the theatre, all emotions play their part. In life, many emotions are repressed, for people generally behave not as they feel, but as they wish other people
to see them. Calmness is used to hide rage, sweetness to hide malice, respectability to hide desire. Don't you agree, Monsieur Somers, that we all behave at times in a way that is a falsification of our true emotions? When one wants to scream with temper, one thinks of people regarding us in shock and horror, and so most of us, instead of screaming, go no further than looking offended.'

‘It's an exercise in self-control, isn't it?' suggested Edward.

Mademoiselle Dupont's shapely round mouth opened, and she laughed.

‘Ah, you see, you are English, and use self-control to hide all your emotions.'

‘One can't go around baring one's teeth and frightening little girls and small dogs,' said Edward.

‘Without civilized self-control,' said Rosamund, ‘we should create a jungle.'