The Postcard (11 page)

‘I’m Caroline, but I only answer to Callie. I think that’s French enough.’ Suddenly a gong rang downstairs, and Callie threw her case on the bed, pulled her stockings
straight and shoved her hair behind her ears, hoping she would pass muster.

Her disarray did not go unnoticed as Madame glared at her with contempt as she addressed the new intake. ‘You are an investment – your parents have invested their assets in your
welfare, an education fitting for society girls and those unfortunates among you who must earn a living. Now I will impart the finishing touches so that should one of you be so fortunate as to
marry the Prince of Wales, no one will say you don’t have the grooming and graces of a princess-in-waiting. You understand me?’

She eyed them one by one with a piercing glare. ‘I am looking for snake hips and fine bones, but alas,’ she sighed, ‘nothing do I see but slumped shoulders and puppy fat. You
must look like racehorses, not cart horses. I am looking for pearls and simple elegance, Vanessa, not glittery trinkets. We French are the masters of making the most of what we have. You see I am
petite, but if I lift my figure, my hair, my neck, I grow inches, and with heels I can be a gazelle.’

Callie was trying to keep a straight face at the thought of anyone round this table as a gazelle.

‘Three things I teach: how to walk, how to dress, how to conduct yourself with grace and charm. I allow no smoking in my salon – it spoils the skin; no Belgian chocolates or pastries
– they thicken what should be slender. I demand correct standing, fresh air and, above all, a curious mind. We plan many visits so that you can lace your conversations with interesting
anecdotes. Your parents will get value for their investment in you here,’ she smiled. ‘Now you may talk.’

Everyone was too shocked to say a word, but pulled themselves out of their chairs and tried to walk elegantly to the door before collapsing in giggles. The grooming marathon had begun.

There were visits to every museum in Bruges, which Madame said was the Venice of the North. They watched the lace makers at work; admired all the Dutch and Flemish painters. Mornings were
crammed with activity, but in the afternoons the countess disappeared to her room, leaving her pupils to read on the lawn, go riding or swimming. The food was delicious but Spartan. Callie had
never eaten so many eggs and vegetables. The two American girls complained bitterly about the portion sizes until they noticed their waistbands were slacker, feeling bones rather than flesh. Soon
the girls began to relax and share their experiences.

‘I was supposed to go to Miss Porter’s Academy, the best finishing school in the States,’ said Vanessa. ‘That was until they couldn’t take me . . .’ she
confided. ‘I had the wrong surname. There are no Greenbergs or Cohens allowed into the school so my pa decided Europe would be better. I love it here, well, not quite here . . .’

Everyone laughed, knowing this was an endurance test of sticking together and seeing it through.

‘Do you think we’ll get a diploma?’ Vanessa asked.

The other girls seemed to look to Callie as the fount of all knowledge, as if she was some sort of mothering prefect, especially when they got stuck in language classes. It was like St
Maggie’s all over again.

‘We’ll have to pass the gazelle test first,’ she suggested. They all fell about laughing.

A few weeks later, the faded grandeur of the countess’s château took on another dimension with the unexpected arrival of one of her sons. He turned up at the dining table in a dinner
jacket and wowed all the girls with his Gallic charm. He had dark curly hair, enormous grey eyes, and an electric smile that crackled the air as six pair of eyes examined this Adonis with a
collective sigh.

‘Mes enfants,
this is my son, Louis-Ferrand, who I thought was in the Ardennes but is now on vacation. He is at the university.’ He smiled at each of them and Callie tried
not to blush. ‘Vanessa, Adele, Sophie, Clemence, Pamela and Caroline . . .’ the countess continued, bowing to each in turn.

‘Enchanté,’
he said in a deep voice.

When they returned to their drawing room Vanessa pretended to swoon. ‘Oh, what a hunk of manhood!’

‘I think she did that on purpose to sharpen us up. Nothing like a handsome male to cause a flutter in the hencoop. Look at you all, batting your eyelashes, blushing. He’s only a
student,’ Callie said.

‘So?’ Pamela replied. ‘What’s wrong in practising our charm on him?’

‘Bags I get first pick,’ whispered Clemmie.

‘We can take it in turns and see who scores a bull’s-eye,’ Vanessa added.

Callie felt sorry for Ferrand. He’d come home on vacation to face a roomful of love-starved girls all waiting to be noticed. ‘I vote we leave the poor boy alone. He looks as if he
wants peace and quiet, not pestering. Count me out.’

‘Don’t be so stuffy, Callie . . . Miss Goody Two-shoes. Still, one less for the competition,’ Vanessa laughed. ‘Go and read your book.’

Callie didn’t mind being the odd one out. The girls were hungry for attention and Ferrand was going to be the sole object of their interest now. She felt protective of him. Madame had
pictures of her sons in gilt silver frames everywhere. Anyone could see she’d not be letting foreign girls interfere with her time with her precious boy.

Two afternoons later, Callie saddled up one of the school’s horses and rode out into the copse and along the path towards the other side of the lake at the back of the estate. It was
getting warm so she tethered Alphonse, and stripped off her shoes and socks to cool off in the water, splashing about as she used to do at Dalradnor. A movement under a tree suddenly startled her.
Had someone been following her? For a second she froze, but then Ferrand stepped out of the shade, holding something in his hand.

‘
Pardon, mademoiselle . . . je vous en pris
. . . I think this belongs to Alphonse.’ He was holding a horseshoe. He strolled to the horse, waiting in the shade.
‘Bien sûr.
He has lost it on the path.’

‘I better walk him back then, sorry.’ Callie felt flustered at being caught playing in the water like a child. ‘I hope it’s not done any damage.’

‘He’s fine.’ Ferrand flashed a smile. ‘Are you enjoying your visit? Maman can be very . . . how you say . . . demanding?’

‘Don’t worry, I have an escape plan,’ she laughed, thinking how close by the van Hooge family were. She told him about Marthe and how Marthe had been her nursemaid. ‘My
father died in the war at Lesboeufs.’ It was the first time she’d ever talked openly about Arthur Seton-Ross, especially to a stranger, but somehow it felt natural.

Ferrand spoke excellent English and she shocked him by practising some Flemish. ‘Don’t let Maman hear you speaking this, Caroline. She is so proud of being French. My father was
Flemish. I prefer just to be Belgian.’ In addition to his studies at university, he was training as a cavalry officer. ‘Not that we use horses as they once did, and I prefer to study
rather than carry on the family tradition.’

‘My mother was in the theatre and now is in films but I’m not going to follow her into that. I can’t sing a note in tune.’ She walked in the direction of the bridle path
while he followed on horseback, showing her the way to the blacksmith’s forge where they left Alphonse to be re-shod.

‘I’m going to be so late,’ she sighed, ‘and the countess hates us to keep her waiting.’

‘Then up you come. Acteon can hold two of us for a kilometre or two.’

And so it was that Callie arrived back holding onto Ferrand, facing a posse of open-mouthed, envious students. She dismounted and thanked her rescuer, feeling her cheeks burning, but not with
the sun.

‘So, the dark horse wins the race. My pa always says you limeys are a tricky race to beat.’

‘Oh, please, it was nothing like that. Poor Alphonse lost a shoe.’

‘And Sir Galahad came to the rescue, smart girl,’ laughed Pamela.

‘For the want of a nail the shoe was lost, for the want of the shoe, the horse was lost and for the want of a horse . . . the battle was won,’ Clemmie teased, pushing Callie up the
stairs. ‘I wonder what our countess will say to this.’

How could she say anything when there was nothing to talk about? But when Ferrand left suddenly for Brussels, Callie felt as if the sun had gone out a little.

Then, two weeks later, a letter arrived in strange handwriting. It was from Ferrand, saying how much he had enjoyed their ride. He would be coming home for another weekend and wondered if she
would like to accompany him for a picnic.

Callie hid the letter from prying eyes, secretly thrilled that she would be seeing him again. She’d never bothered much with boys, or friends’ brothers, and she’d always shied
away from all the silly talk about Valentino and film star heroes, but now she was discovering a whole new side to herself, a yearning, daydreamy secret self, waiting for when Ferrand appeared
again. There was a fluttering excitement in her whole body. She couldn’t wait to be alone with him and when the momentous weekend arrived and he passed a note into her hand arranging the
rendezvous, she was shaking with a strange fever.

They rode out separately from the woods to end of the estate wall as Callie wasn’t allowed out of the château grounds without permission. She trusted no one had noticed anything
unusual in her disappearing as she often took solitary rides. They dismounted under the shade of large oak tree. Ferrand produced a knapsack and pulled from it baguettes, cream cheese, a little
fruit tart and a bottle of chilled white wine. He’d even brought napkins and wine glasses. This was a proper picnic. They sat munching, silent, each aware of the other gazing out.

‘Have you visited England?’ Callie asked.

‘
Mais oui,
several times with Maman.’

‘Your mother is very proud of you, I think.’

‘She has plans. For Karel it will be the seminary, and for Jean-Luc, my eldest brother, the estate. It leaves me free to continue my studies in Ancient Civilizations, but we must all do
some military training in case there is another war. It is hard for her without her husband . . . For your mother, too?’

Callie didn’t want to spoil the moment thinking about Aunt Phee. She smiled and shrugged, lying back, feeling the sun on her face. ‘There can’t be another war,’ she
said.

‘Who knows? They say Germany is building new roads and its army in secret. They will avenge their defeat . . .’

‘But they are not allowed to arm . . . It won’t happen again, not in our lifetime, surely?’

‘Don’t worry, the Belgian army will be there to protect you,’ he laughed. Suddenly he bent over her and kissed her cheek gently. Callie felt her whole body explode with
excitement. ‘You don’t mind that I kiss you?’ he whispered, and she could smell the wine on his breath.

‘No one has ever kissed me before,’ she smiled. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Why ever not? You are lovely. The others girls are pretty but like children. How old are you?’

‘Nearly eighteen.’

‘Then I will kiss you as a woman.’ His lips crushed hers with more intensity as they clung together, until Callie began to be afraid at the passion his kiss evoked.

She sat up, shocked and pushed him away.

‘It’s different to kiss like this,’ Ferrand said. ‘But I must not take advantage of you. It is not fair . . . you are our guest and . . .’ He turned away as he
spoke.

‘Why not fair?’ Now Callie didn’t want their kissing to end.

‘Come, let’s head back. We don’t want to spoil our secret.’

They rode back in silence together, separating just before they came in full view of the château. ‘Tomorrow, we will kiss some more?’ he smiled, waving as he left her to see to
her mount. She felt she was floating on a cloud of warm air, reliving in her head the passionate kiss, her first kiss, and how she wanted to go on kissing him forever.

‘You are late again, Miss Boardman. Where have you been?’ snapped the countess, when Callie returned, but it was Ferrand, entering through the front door just behind her, who came to
her rescue.

‘She’s been out riding with me.’

‘Is that so? Go and change for dinner,’ Madame ordered, then turned to her son. ‘I want a word with you . . .’

Callie raced up the stairs. Tonight she would dress with the utmost care, nothing too flashy or skimpy, but as a lady who had just been kissed by a handsome man. The others were busy primping
themselves and for once the bathroom was empty. She hoped there was enough lukewarm water to have a quick soak in the tub and borrow some of the attar of rose oil that was sitting on the basin
ledge.

Lying in the bath was a luxury, and Callie soaked in the anticipation of seeing Ferrand again. He had changed her world from girlish dreams to womanly desires. If he kissed her again in the
moonlight, how would she resist the passion with his hands all over her body?

There was a brief tap on the door and in marched the countess with a face like thunder.

‘Get dressed, Caroline. I will talk with you, now.’

Callie jumped out from the tub and grabbed a bath towel, aware that the woman was staring at her naked body. Wrapped only in the towel, she followed her down the corridor to her study.

‘Now, young lady, this has to stop, this silliness!’

The countess pointed to a chair behind her desk. ‘You are young, you are both still children, too young for this nonsense. I will not have you making eyes at my son, leading him on to make
promises he cannot keep.’

Caroline sat, not understanding the torrent of rapid French
.
‘Pardon?’ she offered.

‘I forget you speak French like a Belgian peasant. My sons are not for the likes of you. You are English and a Protestant. We are Catholic. He is highborn; you, I gather, are an
actress’s daughter with no father or family of note.
C’est incroyablel
There is to be an end to this at once. He is promised to my cousin’s child, Albertine
d’Orlange. He knows his duty to the family. Do not think this is the first time his eyes have led him astray. I do not bring young girls into this house to have them try to seduce my sons. I
bring you into my home because I have a roof to repair and bills to pay, not because I want to be subject to all your noise and troublesome behaviour. Do you understand what I am saying?’ she
cried, waving her hands in the air.