by Mary Nichols
James ran up the steps and hammered on the door. The sound reverberated through the house, but no one came. Juliette joined him as he pushed open the door and together they stepped inside. They were in a vestibule with a marble-tiled floor and a vaulted roof. A magnificent wrought-iron staircase curved up to a first-floor gallery. The walls were bare, but they could see by the darker patches that they had once been hung with tapestries or pictures. Half a dozen rooms led from the vestibule, some of which had lost their doors.
`Anyone here?' James called. 'Is anyone at home?'
He moved forward into a salon, followed by Juliette. It was an elegant room with a high plaster ceiling intricately carved, and long casement windows that looked out over the terraces of vines to the valley below, where nestled a group of houses, two churches and the town hall. The road by which they had travelled could be seen at intervals as it wound its way down to the valley floor and then alongside the river, to disappear behind an outcrop of rock two or three miles away. The chateau, Juliette realised, was very strategically placed to command a view of the surrounding countryside. If there was anyone in or near the building, they must have seen them arriving.
She turned back to survey the room. There was a threadbare rug on the floor, a battered sofa, a couple of chairs, a cabinet and a table, miserly furnishings for a room at least fifty feet square. She went back to the hall and in at the next door. It must have been the library for it was lined with shelves, but all were empty. Other rooms were equally sparsely furnished
`So, this is my inheritance,' she said with a wry smile, as they returned to the vestibule. 'Hardly worth the journey, was it? We would have done better to have turned back at Calais.'
A noise made them spin round. An old man had appeared from the gloom at the back of the stairs and stood facing them with a musket of immense length. 'Who are you? What do you want?'
`This,' said James, indicating Juliette, 'is Countess Juliette de Caronne.'
`Never heard of her.'
`Oh, I am sure you have,' James went on pleasantly. `You are old enough to remember the comte and comtesse who were guillotined in '94. This was their home, as you must know. Their son died on the same day, but their daughter...' He paused. 'Their daughter survived, and she has come home.'
The old man stared at Juliette for a long time and then burst into a cackling laugh that echoed round the empty hall. `Oh, that's a fine one, that is. The best yet. Do you think I am a fool?'
`No, but it would help to know who you are.'
`Me? I am Henri Caronne, cousin to the late comte and I would surely know if this one was his daughter.' He indicated Juliette with the barrel of the muzzle, making her step back in alarm.
`Would you? How close were you to the family? It is my guess, knowing how unpopular your kin were with the regime, you kept your distance. It is how you survived.'
The old man yelled over his shoulder, 'Jean! Anne-Marie! Come and see what the wind has blown in.'
A man and a woman appeared from behind him. They were in their forties and roughly dressed. The man was almost bald and had a rough stubble on his chin, but the woman's hair, beneath the grimy cap she wore, was pale gold, rather like Juliette's, or would have been if it had been clean and brushed. And her eyes, beneath fine winged brows, were clear blue. If Juliette had had any doubt about her identity before, it vanished now.
The younger man peered at the newcomers. 'Who are they?'
`The wench claims to be Juliette Caronne, daughter of the late comte, no less, with her head back on her shoulders and near twenty years older. As for him...' He indicated James and shrugged his shoulders 'Perhaps he thinks he is Antoine.' And he cackled with laughter again.
`No, he is nothing like him,' the woman said. 'But the girl, there is something about her...'
`Superficial, that's all. You don't think I am going to take their word for it, do you? Why, she cannot even speak French properly.'
`That is because she was taken out of the country as an infant,' James put in quickly before Juliette could answer, though she had no wish to. Over the last two weeks, she had become almost numb to sensation, either of pleasure or pain, fear or irritation. If thinking and feeling hurt, then it was better not to think or feel. Like a puppet, she allowed James to dictate her movements, to speak for her. `She was saved from the guillotine and brought up by foster parents. She has only recently discovered who she is.'
He had been carrying Juliette's bag and delved into it to produce the copy of the portrait that he had had the foresight to buy from Pierre with a fistful of gold coins. `Look at this. The artist was a French prisoner-of-war and recognised her.'
The older man took it and peered at it short-sightedly. `It is the old lady, the comte's mother. I have seen a portrait exactly like it.'
`Whoever painted this could have copied it,' Jean said.
`If you were to compare it with the original, you would notice the difference,' James said, while Juliette stood looking from one to the other, wishing she had never come; here was no welcome. Pierre had been wrong about that. 'The portrait you have in your hand is not of the old comtesse, but of the young lady standing before you now. It was painted this year in England, not Paris. See, it is signed and dated.'
`So what does that prove?' Jean demanded.
`She was - is - one of the innocents, an orphan of the Terror.' He turned to Juliette. 'Show them the ruby, my dear. Maybe that will convince them.'
Juliette hesitated, but they were all looking at her, waiting expectantly, and so she fetched out the jewel from the pocket round her waist, holding it on the palm of her hand, where it winked wine-dark in the gloom of the hall.
`Where did you get this?' the old man asked, reaching out for it.
Juliette closed her hand over it. 'I have always had it.'
`The rest,' he demanded. 'Where is the rest of it?'
`Shut up, old man, and put the gun away,' Jean said.
James gave a grin of triumph. 'I was right. You moved in and denuded the house, sold all the good furniture, the paintings, the ornaments, everything you could find, but you have not found the real treasure, have you?'
`Oh, so you have been listening to gossip, have you? That story is a fabrication, a myth, invented by the old servants. There is nothing here or we would have found it. Go back where you came from before we hand you over to the authorities. You have the look of an Englishman. Too much the aristocrat to be a citizen of France.' He stepped forward and fingered James's coat. `And I have not seen woollen cloth like that since the war began.'
James laughed. 'Not all Englishmen are enemies of France. I would hardly have travelled so far into the country without being stopped and imprisoned, if that were the case. We have been asked for papers at every town we passed through and nowhere were we so much as delayed by a minute. The countess will tell you that. Here, look for yourself.' He reached into his inner pocket, making the old man raise the musket again, but James ignored him and drew out a sheaf of papers. Juliette had seen them before. He had used them time and time again on their journey through France.
Jean examined them and laughed. 'So you have a letter signed by the Emperor himself. What does that prove?'
`It proves that I am not lying to you. The letter states quite plainly that I am to be given every assistance. I have orders to take over this chateau in the name of the young Comtesse de Caronne. His Majesty is desirous of seeing the lady reinstated here and the chateau restored. You may stay only if you wish to serve her.'
He was an accomplished liar, Juliette realised, and a forger too, for there was no way he could have obtained genuine papers. Her three relatives had already lost their bombastic attitude and were cringing slightly.
`Now, if you do not mind, we are both weary and need refreshment,' James said. 'Later we will talk of it.'
`Yes, monsieur,' Jean said, suddenly becoming affable. `Anne-Marie, make a room ready.'
`Two rooms,' Juliette put in quickly.
`The tw
o large rooms at the front,' Jean went on,
addressing his wife. And then to Juliette, 'By the time you have washed and changed, refreshments will be ready.'
Suddenly all was bustle and eagerness as Jean yelled for someone called Gerard, Henri returned to the kitchen and Anne-Marie disappeared up the stairs. Another old man, even more bent and gnarled than Henri, plodded in at the front door, not even bothering to wipe the mud from his boots.
`Gerard, we have guests,' Jean shouted as the old fellow cupped a hand round his ear. 'Bring in the luggage and see to the horse and then wring the neck of one of the hens.' All of this was reinforced by descriptive hand signals, for the benefit of the deaf man.
The ruby and the prospect of finding more jewels had ensured their welcome, but Juliette was under no illusions; heaven help them when her relatives found out that she had no more.
Not that James seemed perturbed; he was exhibiting remarkable coolness, when all she wanted was to turn tail and run. If it had been Pierre, they would have been relieved of the gem and thrown out on their ears long before now. But how long could they keep it up? How long did James intend to stay?
When they were shown to their rooms, she took the opportunity to question him. He was maddeningly unforthcoming but she did learn that he was calling himself James Stewart because he was pretending to represent rebellious factions in Scotland who were hoping to revive the French-Scots connection, though what that had to do with the Caronnes and Hautvigne she did not know. He surely did not believe there was treasure hidden about the château?
But in the days that followed she was forced to the conclusion that he did believe it. Watched in wry amusement by the rest of the Caronne family, he proceeded to search every inch of the building, from attics to cellars, and the latter were extensive and full of old wine-making implements, barrels and hundreds of bottles, though all but a few dozen were empty.
When that produced nothing he ripped out whatever wood panelling still remained in the reception rooms, pulled up floorboards, poked about up chimneys and covered himself with cobwebs and soot. All in vain.
`Do you think we have not done all that already?' Henri laughed. 'Twenty years we have been searching...'
`Then you were not thorough enough. Fetch me another bottle of wine, this is thirsty work.'
Juliette watched him with growing dismay. He was not interested in her; all her efforts to persuade him to give up and take her home as he had promised were met with drunken anger. Occasionally he struck her, shouting at her that if she wanted to go home so badly, the least she could do was to help him search.
`It is a foolish waste of time,' she told him one day when they were alone in the salon. 'Why can't we go back to England? I realise you no longer wish to marry me, not after I ran off with Pierre, but to tell the truth, I do not think we should suit, but Hartlea would still be yours when the time came. `I would be happy to live a simple life, working to earn my keep. But not here, not in France. Juliette Caronne died with her parents, she should never have been resurrected.'
`It is too late for regrets, my dear. I am afraid you have burned your boats. Now, I have a mind to search the library. There might be something hidden behind the bookshelves.' And with that he turned and strode away.
If she had been miserable before, she was doubly so now. She would retire to her room, or take long walks between the rows of vines or in the pine woods to the back of the château where the ground sloped up to the mountains. Again and again her thoughts turned to England, to the happy childhood she had had, even to the summer just gone when she had been fêted as the debutante of the Season. But most of all she thought about one man in particular, tall and powerful, with dark all-seeing eyes and a dimple in his chin. Thinking about him set her whole mind and body longing for him, for his gentleness and understanding, his warmth. She recalled his words to her at the ball, play for time, and she could not stop the tears.
She was returning home towards dusk one evening when she saw a lone rider approaching the chateau; for one heart-stopping minute she was reminded of Philip Devonshire, simply because of the way he sat in the saddle, head up and hands relaxed on the reins so that it appeared as if the horse were guiding itself. Ever since leaving England, she had had a dream, a vision: he would coming riding up on a white charger, like St George slaying the dragon, and carry her off, heedless of the obstacles that stood in their way, taking her to a land far way where no one knew of their past, where they could be happy. Without realising it, she began to run, her heart singing with joy. She reached the door as he dismounted and then came to a sudden stop, breathing hard.
The man who stood before her was not Philip Devonshire. This man was not, after all, so tall and he had a decided stoop. His hair was reddish, he had thick eyebrows, wore an untidy beard and there was a new scar across his cheek, as if he had been caught by the tip of a sword. He wore the faded uniform of a French cavalry officer, its epaulettes torn and its silver tarnished. His breeches were baggy, as if he had once been heavier than he now was.
He turned and stared at her, drawing his gaze up from her boot-clad feet, over the rough wool dress that Anne-Marie had lent her, to her face, sun-tanned and freckled. And there it rested. There was a flicker of humour in his eyes that made her catch her breath in remembrance, because Philip had sometimes looked at her like that, as if they shared a secret joke. But what could she and this stranger have in common to laugh at?
`Bonjour, mam'selle,' he greeted her.
She was still breathless. 'Who are you?'
`Captain Philippe Devereux. I am on my way south to rejoin my regiment in Spain and come to pay my respects to the Caronne family.' His accent had the heavy patois of the region; she recognised it as the same as that of Gerard, the only servant they had. At first she had found it very difficult to follow, but she was slowly becoming used to it and even her French had improved so that now she rarely had to ask James to translate.
`There will be a bed for the night,' he said. 'Henri Caronne will not turn the son of his old friend from the door.'
`Come in and I will see if I can find him.'
At that moment, Henri himself appeared, wandering round the corner of the house carrying a pitchfork. James's quest for treasure had infected everyone else and he had been using it to clear out one of the lofts in an outhouse.
`Henri, this is Captain Devereux,' Juliette said, indicating the man by the horse.
`Devereux?' the old man queried, peering into the soldier's face. 'Devereux? Do I know you?'
`You knew my father, sir. Antoine Devereux. The comte's young son was named for him.'
`Oh, that Devereux! Come in. You can tell us about the progress of the war.' He turned to Juliette. 'Fetch a bottle of the best, girl, and be quick about it. And tell Gerard to see to the captain's horse.'
Juliette was glad to turn away and do as she had been bid. The soldier had hardly taken his eyes off her since he arrived, staring at her as if he could not believe what he was seeing, making her feel uncomfortable. As she moved away, she heard him ask, 'Who is that?'
Henri laughed. 'Her name is Juliette, or so she says. She claims to be the dead comte's daughter...'
Juliette heard no more as they went in the direction of the salon and she hurried through the door into the kitchen, where she found Gerard toasting his stockinged toes by the fender of the kitchen fire. Above it hung a blackened pot which steamed gently, 'We have a guest,' she shouted in his ear. 'Henri says you are to see to his horse.'
Grumbling he pulled his boots back on and shambled out into the yard, while she went down to the cellar and selected two bottle of red wine. Knowing nothing of wine and assuming they ought to use up the old bottles first, she chose those with the thickest layer of dust. If they turned out to be undrinkable and gave the men a bellyache, then she would shed no tears. She returned to the salon where Henri and his guest had been joined by Jean and Anne-Marie.
`Will this do?' she queried, holding out the bottles. Henri
took them from her. 'Where did you find these?'
`At the back of the cellar. Why?'
`The best year we ever had. I thought they'd been drunk years ago.' He turned to the captain. 'She calls herself a Caronne and yet she knows nothing of wine. What the Caronnes don't know about wine-growing is not worth troubling about.'
`True,' the captain said, as Henri looked about for a corkscrew. 'It is common knowledge they have wine running through their veins instead of blood.' He laughed harshly, looking under his thick brows at Juliette. 'They do say that when their heads came off, it was wine that spurted into the basket and the executioner got so drunk on it he missed one of them.'
Juliette shuddered. How could they be so crude? But was it generally held to be true that one of the family escaped?
`It is a pity you don't put your knowledge to better use,' she said sharply to Henri, who was busy uncorking the first bottle. 'Even I can see the whole place has been allowed to fall into ruin.'
`We can't get the workers. They've all been conscripted. The captain will bear me out on that, won't you, sir?'
`Yes, war has a voracious appetite for young men, there are only women, boys and old men left. And even the boys are being taken now.'
`Then you should put the old men and women to work,' she told Henri. 'And work yourself. I have never seen you do anything except eat and drink and...' She stopped suddenly. She had been about to add, 'and search for non-existent treasure', but if she admitted she did not think it existed, then they would throw her out, might even harm her. She looked up, wondering how to finish her sentence and found herself looking into the captain's eyes, where there was a gleam of amusement as if f he knew what she had been about to say. Again she was reminded of Philip, who seemed to be able to divine her thoughts almost as soon as they came into her head. This constant comparison was foolish, she told herself. It was all wishful thinking, her own longing making her see things that were not there.