Both were damaged, done for, lying in the emotional cinders.
16
Day was breaking with a warm flaxen light. The early-morning sky was veined, a variegated pearl and salmon pink. Overhead, the moon was receding, bleached to a distant white ghost hanging high. All was still. Jane, motionless, hands in her lap, sat contemplating the dawn, waiting for the day. The sun was breaking now, gilding the vineyards, turning the vines’ dark unruly forms into an aureate display, a torrential river of gold. The morning promised fresh summer. An early-in-the-season day, not yet humid, not yet burdened by the debilitating heat of late July or August’s sultry extremes. A bird overhead was warbling, flitting from branch to branch in the cherry tree. It chirruped and whistled with such unencumbered merriment Jane might have thought the tree itself was in song. Luc would have been able to identify the little soloist, but Jane had no clue. The sounds, longer or shorter whistles, were more or less the same to her.
Beyond the fence along the lane, a fox came stalking, russet and lean, hungry-looking, pointed head wheeling from left to right. In front of the closed gate it froze, one front paw drawn cautiously off the ground, leg crooked, sniffing. It had caught a whiff of human scent. Then, reassured, it continued on its way. Jane was in a wicker chair she had carried out from indoors and placed on the grass between cottage and cherry tree, her knees pressed tight against her chest, Clarisse’s bloodied shawl knotted about her shoulders to keep out the chill. Clarisse was upstairs in her bed, sleeping, snoring, sedated. Jane had called in Beauchene, who had dressed the gashed arm – fortunately no arteries had been severed – and administered a potion to calm Madame, to take the edge off her anxiety.
‘Go on, drug the shit out of me,’ she had rasped, but had eventually submitted to his reassuring tones, too spent not to let go.
After Beauchene had cleaned and plastered Jane’s hand, she had agreed to stay over at the lodge. The second bedroom was a storeroom, stacked from floor to ceiling with the Lord knew what; it was impenetrable. Jane had curled up on the sofa, from which she listened out for her mother-in-law directly above. The old woman had not stirred. The sedative had worked its magic, while Jane had barely closed her eyes. Tossing and turning, her mind working overtime, her neck was cricked, her back ached. Dark and terrible emotions, jealousy and fury, were wrestling within her. Rage tussled with reason, against incredulity. What if this was not true? What if Clarisse had lied, taunting her with the unlikely yarn that she had given birth to a child by Peter? But if it was true, where had the infant been born? Was there a record of the birth? Where would she find it? In the ledgers at the Malaz church?
Jane had lain on the sofa, contorted and uncomfortable, going back over dates to bring logic and order to the jigsaw puzzle. Had Clarisse been pregnant on the night Jane had interrupted her father’s adulterous tryst? Had Peter been aware of an illegitimate second daughter? Clarisse had claimed not, but was she lying, fantasizing? Was the entire story fantasy? While she was giving birth - if she had given birth – Jane’s mother had been wasting away, heartbroken, dying of cancer. And if Peter had known, what choice would he have made? Would he have left home and settled here with Clarisse and Annabelle?
And then the sudden implausible possibility that Jane had a sister, a half-sister. And a nephew … The actuality of a family. A sibling. That she was not alone. But a sibling of Clarisse’s making, with Clarisse’s genes. Her father’s too. What freaked her more than any other thought was Luc’s role in this scenario, Luc’s relationship to Annabelle and Annabelle’s son, Patrick.
Who was Patrick’s father? Annie was his mother, wasn’t she? Patrick was Annie’s boy, Matty’s family. It was a maze, a minefield, it made no sense …
Jane was tired, befuddled, drained. Logic was evading her. She had half risen from the sofa, deciding to return to the manor house, to Luc’s hoard, to reread the letter he had penned to Clarisse, to reconsider it in the light of all that she had discovered that night. Luc’s gun lying on the sideboard. Its hidden presence had returned to her during the night. If he had discovered he’d fathered a child with his half-sister … The complexity of such an existence might have driven any sane man to contemplate an act of suicide. Suicide as his last remaining solution. The car driven off the road. End of it.
It was urgent that Jane complete the discharging of his professional affairs. Bring the remainder of the material upstairs, store it all in the petit salon. There, in comfort and tranquillity, she could sort through Luc’s life. Or pass it all over to Dan, if he would accept the task. She could pay Arnaud to carry the heaviest of the boxes and files, the old film stock, up from the cellars and place them all in the one room. From there she would work, executing the task as efficiently and swiftly as possible.
And what of Luc’s gun? Might she give it to Arnaud? If not, who else?
The coffee brewing in the kitchen began to gurgle. Jane yawned, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand, rose, rubbed her face, bringing it to life, and padded inside to pour a large mugful. The ground floor still reeked of gin. It sickened her empty stomach. Clarisse, overhead, was groaning or muttering in her sleep. Even so she must have been disturbed by Jane’s entry into the house, a presence below, for now she was calling, yelling for Jane, who turned and climbed the stairs. Her feelings towards her mother-in-law were fuelled by the woman’s perfidious act. She hovered at the threshold of the room, uncertain that she would be able to form any words. By what twist of fate had it come about that she should find herself the carer of this creature towards whom she felt murderous?
‘If looks could kill … I smell coffee. Bring me up a cup, will you?’ Clarisse’s arm, bound from wrist to beyond elbow, hung loosely from the bed, her ringed fingers almost brushing the carpet. Morning sunlight bled through the beige muslin curtains and streamed into the room. The sun’s brilliance haloed the cherry tree, as though it had been plugged in or possessed a supernatural transparency. Jane gazed at it and beyond to an endless sea of vineyards, lit up as though consumed by flames, before she plodded back down the stairs and returned with two full mugs.
‘Put it on the night table and sit down. I’ve been thinking about how similar we are. Both of us with our broken hearts.’
Jane placed the coffee on the white wood bedside table and waited, standing.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
Jane shrugged. She was bone-tired and had no idea what to believe.
‘Annabelle was born in the January, six months after you and your father hot-footed it from here.’
‘How can you be sure that she was his?’
‘She is his. There was no one else. I was pretty smitten with Peter. The only man I loved after Luc’s father.’
‘Luc’s father, the inspiration for Luc’s film?’
‘Ugh! Adrien? He was a bastard. A cruel individual. I hoped Luc would never find out the depths to which his father had sunk.’ Clarisse turned her head towards the window, the veiled sunshine, then closed her eyes. ‘I’d foolishly hoped Peter and I might have a future together, a different life, but you put paid to that.’
Jane ignored this declaration of love. ‘Tell me about Annabelle.’
Clarisse lay silent. Then: ‘Pass my cigarettes.’
‘What happened, Clarisse?’
‘Cigarettes!’
Jane handed the packet and lighter across the bed and waited.
‘It was unthinkable that I could keep her, not here in this community. Isa and I were hated right from the outset. Pieds-Noirs from Africa, that’s how they judged us. These Provençaux villagers are narrow-minded and jealous, living in tight-knit little factions. Back then, more than forty years ago, they even perceived the inhabitants of their neighbouring villages as foreigners, and they did not, still don’t, take kindly to outsiders coming in, buying up the best land, giving the orders. We were two women with no men. Two women and one small boy living in a society of superstitious Catholics, Communists and misogynists. No one wanted us her
e, no one trusted us. We were excluded, walled out. How could I rear and educate an illegitimate child under such circumstances? Imagine her days at the local school. And what was I going to tell my son when he returned from university in Paris? “Guess what, you have a sister”?’
‘So?’
‘I gave her away.’
‘Gave her away? You mean Matty adopted her?’
‘I did a deal. She was less than a day old. Quiet little thing, hardly bawled at all. Slipped into this world like a petite ballet dancer and lay there sleeping at my side. But I knew she had to go. I’d steeled myself.’
‘And the doctor? What did he say? Was it Beauchene? No, not Beauchene, surely. A midwife, then.’
‘She was born up at the manor house. In the room you and Luc have shared these last five years. No doctor, no midwife. No one to leak the family secret.’
Jane was now perched on the foot of the bed. ‘You gave birth to her alone? Or was Isabelle … ?’
‘Matty. Matty was with me. She delivered her. When she took her first look at the little girl, she began to weep. More than anything in the world Matty had wanted a girl. It seemed as if it was meant to be. Matty took her, and when I was stronger we signed a contract. Isa drew it up. Matty, Claude and I signed it. One copy only.’
‘Did you destroy it?’
‘It’s in my safe.’ Clarisse began to cough again, a hacking that racked her. Jane plumped up her pillows and the wizened woman sank deep into them. ‘I need to sleep,’ she whined. ‘Pass me my pills and the coffee, then leave me be.’
Jane handed her mother-in-law her sleeping pills and a glass of water. She stroked the old woman’s head. Clarisse shrugged her off, but Jane understood now, finally, after all these years, the sacrifice Clarisse had made. She had lost Peter and given up her daughter. Her bitterness made sense now. ‘I’m sorry if, as an angry girl, I forced that sacrifice upon you.’
‘You?’ Clarisse slurred. ‘You wrecked my bid for happiness, but that wasn’t the sacrifice. Now leave me be.’
17
‘What sort of a contract was it, Matty?’
Matty was stewing chick-peas for their midday bajane. Steam clouded the kitchen, fogging the windows. ‘At that time, we judged it a fair one, more or less. I brought Annie home that very day in a bundle of bedclothes. Just like that, Clarisse passed her over to me from beneath the sheets as though she were handing over a blouse she wouldn’t be wearing again. I was taken aback, speechless, but I took the little love in my arms and she didn’t make a sound. Into our lives she came. No resistance. I never even consulted Claude because I knew he’d be over the moon to have her.’ Matty’s face softened with the memory. Crow’s feet appeared, like corrugated sheeting, around her eyes. ‘In return, we were obliged to keep Clarisse’s secret. Not a soul was to know.’
‘No money was exchanged?’
‘Lord, no. She and Madame Isabelle moved us here to School House, so that we had a bigger home to raise the girl in along with the boys. Annie, whom Clarisse had intended to christen Annabelle, was baptised “Annie”, along with our family name up at the local church and she was registered at the mairie with our names as parents. Annie Lefèvre. In return, the girl, when she grew up, could make no claims whatsoever against the estate or any of its household members, most especially Luc, who stood to inherit everything. Clarisse also requested that Annie move away from the estate altogether when she reached eighteen – she wanted no reminders – but Isabelle felt that was harsh. I don’t remember if it’s in the signed paper or not. We were sworn to secrecy. The girl was ours and that was the end of the matter. She was never to know her true heritage. There was nothing to trace Annie back to Clarisse.’
‘Except the contract. Do you have a copy of it?’
Matty shook her head. ‘There was just the one. The madames kept it. They said we had no need of it.’
‘Were you informed who Annie’s father was?’
Matty shook her head. ‘I had my eyes, my suspicions, but no one ever confirmed anything. I never asked and I was never told. Prying is not my way. We were over the moon to have our own daughter, and that was enough for us. I never thought I’d done wrong. Better Annie was brought up here, we’d thought, close to her biological mother, but Clarisse would have nothing to do with her. She showed no interest in her or affection towards her. Quite the opposite. She seemed to hate the sight of her and sometimes was even unnecessarily cruel towards her. Arnaud hates Madame Clarisse to this day for the way she treated his sister. Occasionally, I noticed resentment towards me as well, but that came later and has grown over the years, worsening since our dear Luc died.’
‘Cruel in what way?’
‘As a child, Annie was forbidden to play up at the main house and in the surrounding grounds, forbidden to show her face. She and the boys were afraid of Madame’s sharp tongue. They kept their distance, and knew their lowly place. If they ever wandered too far, they were scolded. Clarisse discovered Annie in the stables with her horses one afternoon. The girl had gone up there when the mistress was out riding. She loved the horses and would have liked to learn to ride. She got a right whipping for that. Well, you remember the night of your wedding party?’
Jane nodded.
‘Arnaud, in particular, has suffered from Clarisse’s harshness. He’s particularly fond of his sister.’ Matty fell silent, her face closed off. From outside came the insistent thwack of a hammer. Arnaud was repairing a rabbit trap. His two hunting dogs had been at his side when Jane pulled up. He had watched her arrival with suspicion. Since his discovery of her in their home, he had shown no warmth towards her.
‘Do your sons know the truth?’
‘They do now. All three were told the Christmas just before Annie turned seventeen. I broke it to them myself. Claude was with me. We sat together as a family by the fire in the sitting room and I spilled it all out.’
‘Why did you violate the agreement?’
‘It was their business to know. It wasn’t right of us to hide it from them. I think the revelation was what sent Annie off the rails for a while. She wanted to leave home immediately, she couldn’t bear to be here, and the first fellow that came along … Well, you know the rest.’
‘And Luc? Was Luc also let in on the secret, Matty?’
Matty frowned. ‘I thought you knew all this. The reason for your trip to Paris … It was Annie who told Luc. The pair of them had always got on well. She looked up to him, and when she learned of her true heritage, she spoke to him over Christmas. He was shocked, of course, but being Luc took it in his stride. I think it quite chuffed him, the thought of a little sister.’
Jane dropped her head. ‘So, Patrick is whose child?’
‘Raymond’s, of course. Raymond Palomer. Annie’s ex-husband. For what he’s worth. The boy doesn’t see much of his father, who’s never contributed to his son’s upbringing. Luc stepped in for all of that. Whose son would he be? Take your pick.’
Jane burst into tears. The deliverance.
‘Whatever’s up, lass?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Matty, I’m so relieved that it’s … it’s out in the open, for all our sakes.’ She was too ashamed to voice the doubts that had diseased her these past months and the judgements she had levied against her innocent dead husband.
18
It was the last week of June. The wings of midsummer were unfolding and shimmering with a fluted incandescence. The days were long, scented, luxurious, the evenings caressed with their warmth. Lavender perfumed the air, its blossom buzzing with honey bees, Swallowtails and Hummingbird Hawk Moths. Swallows abounded, swooping to the pool, skimming its surface as though it were a helterskelter ride. Martins were nesting in the eaves of several disused properties on the estate. Butterflies were everywhere on the wing.
Before the heat rose, after breakfast and a swim, Jane hiked to Malaz, going up through the village, passing the old men in worn hats playing boules in shirtsleeves or vests in the dappled place. She wa
ved a shy greeting to them and to the priest, Père Simon, who had said the Requiem Mass for Luc’s funeral. He was seated at one of the outdoor cafés in the shade opposite the fountain, enjoying a glass of refreshment with the commune’s mayor, well-heeled Monsieur Romerio, who owned a caravan site, a thriving tourist business, in a neighbouring canton set back from the sea. The pair watched her walking by and nodded a greeting.
Beyond the square, she strode, climbing the stone steps carved into the cliffside to the ramparts beyond which the church was situated, to Luc’s grave. She was carrying an armful of burnt-orange and creamy-white roses gathered from the garden in the hour before she had set off. Their scent was rich with notes of cinnamon. The mid-morning call to weekday Mass was chiming from the tower as she stepped onto the pathway that led to the main church entrance. These days, it was sparsely attended.
The petals in her bouquet had begun to wilt after her long hike and she drenched the cut stems with water from a tap in the holy grounds, splashing her face and hands as well. Then she carried the flowers, dripping, to Luc’s graveside.
‘The flat has sold,’ she told him. ‘It’s gone. Not ours any more. Robert completed yesterday. Best of all, the debts have been transferred to the various parties. We owe nothing. You can rest in peace now.’
A warbler or similar small passerine broke into song. She watched it chirruping, perched atop a row of hawthorn bushes that had been trained as a hedge along the south-eastern stone wall of the cemetery, from which, on a clear, crisp day, you could see all the way to Italy. Luc would have instantly identified the Sardinian warbler, a common enough sight in these parts. Its tune was melodious, lighthearted, befitting Jane’s mood. Lighthearted, yes, in part, although her loved one’s absence continued to tear at her. She carried her grief as a murmuring ache buried within her, unquiet, always present. There was so much that had been left unsaid. Each time she visited here, she was bewildered by where to begin.
The Forgotten Summer Page 28