Sepulchre

by Kate Mosse

  Léonie turned and looked back in the direction they had come. Now she could see, steeply below them but close still, the red and grey sloping roofs of Rennes-les-Bains. She could even identify the hotels and the central square where they had disembarked the carriage. The water shimmered and teased, a ribbon of green and silver, even red with the reflection of autumn leaves, running as smooth as silk.

  After a slight dip in the track, they reached a plateau.

  Ahead stood the stone pillars and gates of a country estate. Wrought-iron railings disappeared as far as the eye could see, shielded by fir and yew. The property seemed both forbidding and aloof. Léonie shivered. For a moment, her spirit of adventure abandoned her. She recalled her mother’s reluctance to discuss the Domaine and her childhood spent within it. And then the words of Dr Gabignaud at luncheon echoing in her ears.

  Such an ill reputation.

  ‘Cade?’ Anatole queried.

  ‘It is a local name for juniper, Sénher,’ the maid replied.

  Léonie glanced at her brother, then stepped forward with determination and put both hands upon the railings, like a prisoner behind bars. She pressed her flushed cheeks to the cold iron and peered through at the gardens that lay beyond.

  Everything was shrouded in a dark, filtered green, chinks of sun reflected through an ancient canopy of leaves. Elderberry trees, shrubs, formal hedges and once-elegant borders were unkempt and lacking colour. The property had an air of beautiful neglect, not yet gone to ruin, but no longer expecting visitors.

  A large stone birdbath stood dry and empty in the centre of a wide gravelled path that led straight from the gates into the grounds. To Léonie’s left, there was a round stone ornamental pond, a rusty metal frame stretched over it. It, too, was dry. To the right was a row of juniper bushes, growing wild and untended. A little further back was the remains of an orangery, the glass missing and the frame twisted.

  If she had come upon this place by accident, Léonie would have thought it abandoned, such was the air of dereliction. She glanced to her right and saw there was a sign of grey slate hanging upon the fence, the words partly obscured by the deep scratches scored in the stone. Like claw marks.

  DOMAINE DE LA CADE.

  The house did not look as if it would welcome visitors.

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘There is another approach to the house, I presume?’ asked Anatole.

  ‘Oc, Sénher,’ replied Marieta. ‘The main entrance is on the north side of the estate. The late master had a track built, up from the Sougraigne road. But it is a good hour’s walk, all the way round the town of Rennes-les-Bains, then back up the hillside. Much longer than the old forest path.’

  ‘And did your mistress instruct you to bring us this way, Marieta?’

  The girl blushed. ‘She did not say not to bring you through the woods,’ she said defensively.

  They stood patiently while Marieta hunted in the pocket of her apron to retrieve a large brass key. There was a heavy clunk as the lock opened, then the maid pushed open the right-hand gate. Once they were through, she shut it again behind them. It juddered and creaked, then clattered back into position.

  Léonie had butterflies in her stomach, a mixture of nerves and excitement. She felt herself the heroine of her own story as she followed Anatole along narrow green pathways, clearly little used. Shortly, a tall box hedge came into view with an arch cut into it. However, rather than passing through, Marieta continued straight on until they emerged on to a generous driveway. This was gravelled and well kept, no hints of moss or wild grass, and was flanked by an avenue of châtaigniers with fruit hanging from their branches.

  At last, Léonie caught her first glimpse of the house itself.

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped in admiration.

  The house was magnificent. Imposing, yet well proportioned, it was perfectly situated both to catch the best of the sun and to benefit from the views to the south and west afforded by its position looking out over the valley. There were three storeys, with a gently sloping roof, and rows of shuttered windows set within elegant whitewashed walls. Each of the windows on the first floor gave on to stone balconies with curved iron balustrades. The entire edifice was covered with flaming red and green ivy, gleaming as if the leaves themselves had been polished.

  As they drew closer, Léonie saw that a wall ran unbroken along the ledge of the entire top storey of the house, behind which were visible eight round attic windows.

  Perhaps M’man had once looked down from one of those very windows?

  A wide, sweeping semicircular stone staircase led to a substantial double front door, painted raven black, with a brass knocker and trim. It sheltered beneath a curved stone portico, bordered by two substantial planters holding ornamental cherry trees.

  Léonie climbed the steps, following the maid and Anatole into a large elegant entrance hall. The floor was a chequerboard of black and red tiles and the walls were covered in a delicate cream paper decorated with yellow and green flowers, giving an impression of light and space. In the centre was a mahogany table with a wide glass bowl of white roses, the highly polished wood contributing to an atmosphere of intimacy and warmth.

  On the walls hung portraits of whiskered men in military uniform and women in hooped skirts, as well as a selection of misty landscapes and classical pastoral scenes.

  There was a grand staircase, Léonie noticed, and to the left of it a miniature grand piano, with a whisper of dust upon the closed lid.

  ‘Madama will receive you on the afternoon terrace,’ Marieta said.

  She took them through a set of glazed glass doors, which gave on to a south-facing terrace, shaded by vines and honeysuckle. It ran the width of the house and was situated to overlook the formal lawns and planted beds. A distant avenue of horse chestnut trees and evergreen firs marked the furthest boundary; a gazebo of glass and wood painted white glinted in the sun. In the foreground was the smooth surface of an ornamental lake.

  ‘This way, Madomaisèla, Sénher.’

  Marieta led them to the far corner of the terrace, to a patch of shade created by a generous yellow awning. A table was laid for three. White linen tablecloth, white china, silver spoons and a centrepiece of meadow flowers, Parma violets, pink and white geraniums, purple Pyrenean lilies.

  ‘I will tell the mistress you are here,’ she said, and disappeared back into the shadows of the house.

  Léonie leant back against the stone balustrade. Her cheeks were flushed. She unbuttoned her gloves at the wrist and untied her hat, using it as a fan.

  ‘She has led us around full circle,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Léonie pointed at the high box hedge at the distant reaches of the lawn. ‘If we had come through the arch, we could have walked across the park. But the girl has led us through the grounds in a circle so as to approach from the front.’

  Anatole removed his straw hat and gloves and placed them on the wall.

  ‘Well, it is a splendid building and the prospect was excellent.’

  ‘And no carriage, no housekeeper to greet us,’ Léonie continued. ‘It is all most peculiar.’

  ‘These gardens are exquisite.’

  ‘Here, yes, but at the rear, the entire property appears quite derelict. Abandoned. The orangery, the overgrown beds, the—’

  He laughed. ‘Derelict, Léonie, you exaggerate! I admit it is more in the state that nature intended, but more than that . . .’

  Her eyes glinted. ‘It is completely overgrown,’ she argued. ‘No wonder the Domaine is viewed with suspicion locally.’

  ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  ‘That impertinent man Monsieur Denarnaud, at the railway station - did you see the expression upon his face when you said where we were headed? And poor Dr Gabignaud. The manner in which that disagreeable Maître Fromilhague chastised him and forbade him to speak. It’s all most mysterious.’

  ‘It is not,’ Anatole said with exasperation. ‘Do you imagine we
have stumbled accidentally into one of those ghastly little stories of Monsieur Poe you have such a taste for.’ He pulled a grotesque face. ‘ “We have put her living in the tomb”,’ he quoted in a trembling voice. ‘ “I tell you that she now stands without the door!” I can be Roderick Usher to your Madeleine.’

  ‘And the lock on the gate was rusty,’ she said doggedly. ‘No one had passed that way for some time. I tell you, Anatole, it is most peculiar.’

  From behind them came a woman’s voice, soft and clear and calm.

  ‘I am sorry to hear you find it so, but you are most welcome all the same.’

  Léonie heard Anatole catch his breath.

  Mortified to have been overheard, she spun round, her face aflame. The woman standing in the doorway suited her voice precisely. Elegant and assured, she was slender and tall. Her features were intelligent and perfectly proportioned and her complexion was dazzling. Her thick blond hair was piled high on her head, not a strand out of place. Most striking of all were her eyes, a pale grey, the colour of moonstone.

  Léonie’s hand flew to her own ungovernable curls, wayward in comparison.

  ‘Tante, I . . .’

  She looked down at her dusty travelling clothes. Their aunt was immaculate. She wore a fashionable high-necked cream blouse of contemporary cut with gigot sleeves, matched with a skirt, flat-panelled at the front and nipped tight at the waist, with a gathering of material at the back.

  Isolde was stepping forwards. ‘You must be Léonie,’ she said, extending long, slim fingers. ‘And Anatole?’

  With a half-bow, Anatole took Isolde’s hand and raised it to his lips.

  ‘Tante,’ he said with a smile, looking up at her from beneath his dark lashes. ‘It is a great pleasure.’

  ‘The pleasure is mine. And, please, Isolde. Tante is so formal and makes me feel quite old.’

  ‘Your girl brought us through the rear gates,’ Anatole said. ‘It is that, and the heat, that have disturbed my sister.’ He took in the house and grounds with a sweep of his arm. ‘But if this is our reward, then the tribulations of our journey are already a distant memory.’

  Isolde inclined her head at the compliment, then turned to Léonie.

  ‘I did ask Marieta to explain the unfortunate situation with the carriage, but she is easily flustered,’ she said lightly. ‘I am sorry that your first impressions have not been favourable. But no matter. You are here now.’

  Léonie found her tongue at last. ‘Tante Isolde, please forgive my discourtesy. It was inexcusable.’

  Isolde smiled. ‘There is nothing to forgive. Now, do sit. Tea first - à l’anglaise - then Marieta will show you to your rooms.’

  They took their seats. Immediately, a silver teapot and a jug of fresh lemonade were brought to the table, followed by plates of both savoury and sweet dishes.

  Isolde leaned forward and poured the tea, a delicate pale liquid that smelled of sandalwood and the Orient.

  ‘What a wonderful scent,’ said Anatole, breathing in the aroma. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is my own blend of lapsang souchong and verveine. I find it so much more refreshing than those heavy English and German teas that are currently so popular.’

  Isolde offered Léonie a white china dish filled with large slices of bright yellow lemon. ‘Your mother’s wire, accepting my invitation on your behalf, Léonie, was perfectly charming. I do hope I shall have the opportunity to meet her too. Perhaps she might visit in the spring?’

  Léonie thought of her mother’s dislike of the Domaine and how she had never regarded it as home, but she remembered her manners and lied prettily.

  ‘M’man would be delighted. She suffered a period of illness at the beginning of this past year, brought on by the inclement weather, otherwise she would of course have come to pay her last respects to Oncle Jules.’

  Isolde smiled, then turned to Anatole. ‘I read in the newspapers that temperatures fell well below zero in Paris. Can that be true?’

  Anatole’s eyes glittered bright. ‘It seemed the world had turned to ice. The Seine itself froze and so many were dying at night on the streets that the authorities were obliged to open shelters in gymnasiums, shooting galleries, schools and public baths; they even set up a dormitory in the Palais des Arts Libéraux in the Champs-de-Mars, in the shadow of Monsieur Eiffel’s magnificent tower.’

  ‘The fencing halls too?’

  Anatole looked puzzled. ‘Fencing halls?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Isolde said, ‘the mark above your eye. I thought, perhaps, you were a swordsman.’

  Léonie jumped in. ‘Anatole was assaulted four nights ago, on the night of the Palais Garnier riots.’

  ‘Léonie, please,’ he protested.

  ‘Were you hurt?’ Isolde said quickly.

  ‘A few cuts and bruises; it was nothing,’ he said, throwing a fierce look at Léonie.

  ‘Did word of the riots not reach here?’ asked Léonie. ‘The newspapers in Paris carried nothing but news of the arrests of the abonnés.’

  Isolde kept her eyes fixed upon Anatole.

  ‘Were you robbed?’ she asked him.

  ‘My watch - my father’s timepiece - was taken. They were interrupted before they could take anything else.’

  ‘A street robbery then?’ Isolde repeated, as if wishing to convince herself of it.

  ‘That’s right. Nothing more. It was bad luck.’

  For a moment, an awkward silence fell over the table.

  Then, remembering her duties, Isolde turned to Léonie. ‘Your mother spent some time here at the Domaine de la Cade in her childhood, did she not?’

  Léonie nodded.

  ‘It must have been rather lonely for her growing up here alone,’ Isolde suggested. ‘No other children for company.’

  Léonie smiled with relief that she did not have to pretend an affection for the Domaine de la Cade her mother did not feel, and spoke without thinking.

  ‘Do you intend to make this your home or return to Toulouse?’

  Isolde allowed confusion to cloud her grey eyes. ‘Toulouse? I am afraid I don’t . . .’

  ‘Léonie,’ said Anatole sharply.

  She blushed, but met her brother’s eye. ‘I was under the impression from something M’man said that Tante Isolde came from Toulouse.’

  ‘Really, Anatole, I am not in the least offended,’ Isolde said. ‘But, in point of fact, I grew up in Paris.’

  Léonie leaned closer, pointedly ignoring her brother. She was increasingly intrigued to know how her aunt and uncle had first made one another’s acquaintance. From what little she knew of Oncle Jules, it seemed an unlikely marriage.

  ‘I was wondering—’ she began, but Anatole leapt in and the opportunity was lost.

  ‘Do you have much contact with Rennes-les-Bains?’ Isolde shook her head. ‘My late husband was not interested in entertaining, and since his death, I regret to say I have neglected my responsibilities as a hostess.’

  ‘I am sure people are sympathetic to your situation,’ Anatole said.

  ‘Many of our neighbours were most kind during the final weeks of my husband’s life. Prior to that, his health had not been good for some time. After his death, there were so many matters to take care of, away from the Domaine de la Cade, and I was here less than perhaps I should have been. But . . .’ She broke off and drew Léonie into the conversation with another of her calm, steady smiles. ‘If it would be pleasing for you, I had thought to use the excuse of your visit to hold a dinner party for one or two local guests this coming Saturday evening. Would you like that? Nothing on a grand scale, but it will be an opportunity to introduce you to them and them to you.’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ said Léonie, immediately, and forgetting everything else, she began to quiz her aunt.

  The afternoon rolled pleasantly on. Isolde was an excellent hostess, conscientious, careful and charming, and Léonie enjoyed herself hugely. Slices of thick-crusted white bread, spread with goats’ cheese and sprinkled w
ith chopped garlic, thin fingers of toast topped with anchovy paste and black pepper, a platter of cured mountain ham with purple half-moons of ripe fig. A rhubarb tart, the pastry sugared and golden, sat beside a blue china bowl filled to the brim with a compote of mulberries and blackheart cherries, and a jug of cream, a long-handled silver spoon lying beside it.

  ‘And what are these?’ Léonie asked, pointing to a dish of purple bonbons coated with a white frosting. ‘They look delicious.’

  ‘Pearls of the Pyrenees, drops of schoenanthus scent crystallised in pieces of sugar. A favourite of yours, Anatole, I believe. And these . . .’ Isolde gestured to another dish, ‘are homemade chocolate creams. Jules’ cook is really quite excellent. She has served the family for almost forty years.’