by Kate Mosse
‘Sorry, what a ridiculous thing to say.’
‘It’s OK.’ She smiled. ‘And yes, I am.’
‘Just arrived?’
‘A couple of hours ago.’ She took another sip of wine and felt the alcohol hit her stomach. ‘What about you?’
‘My father . . .’ He stopped, a desperate expression on his face. ‘My uncle owns the place,’ he finished. Meredith figured it was Hal’s father’s funeral she’d witnessed, and felt even worse for him. She waited until she felt his eyes come back to her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not a great day.’ He drained his glass, then reached out for the refill the barman had placed in front of him. ‘Are you here for business or pleasure?’
Meredith felt like she was stuck in some kind of surreal play. She knew why he was so distracted, but couldn’t admit it. And Hal, trying to make small talk with a total stranger, missing all his cues. The pauses between comments were all way too long, his train of thought disjointed.
‘Both,’ she replied. ‘I’m a writer.’
‘A journalist?’ he said quickly.
‘No. I’m working on a book. A biography of the composer Claude Debussy.’
Meredith saw the spark go out of his eyes and the same hooded look come down again. Not the reaction she was looking for.
‘It’s a beautiful place,’ she said quickly, taking in the bar with her gaze. ‘Has your uncle been here long?’
Hal sighed. Meredith could see his anger in the way he clenched his fists.
‘He and my father bought it together in 2003. Spent a fortune doing it up.’
Meredith couldn’t think of what to say next. He wasn’t exactly making it easy.
‘Dad only came out here full time back in May. He wanted to get more involved in the day-to-day running of the . . . He . . .’ He stopped. Meredith heard the catch in his voice. ‘He died in a car crash four weeks ago.’ He swallowed hard. ‘It was his funeral today.’
In her relief that the information was out in the open Meredith reached over and took Hal’s hand before she even realised she’d done it.
‘I’m sorry.’
Meredith saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. They just sat there a while, hand in silent hand, then she gently slid her fingers away under the cover of picking up her glass.
‘Four weeks? That’s quite a time before . . . ’
He looked at her. ‘It wasn’t straightforward. Post mortem took a while. The body was only released last week.’
Meredith nodded, wondering what the issue had been. Hal sat in silence.
‘Do you live here?’ she asked, trying to get the conversation going again.
Hal shook his head. ‘London. Investment banker, although just handed in my notice.’ He hesitated. ‘I’d had enough anyway. Even before this. I was working fourteen-hour days, seven days a week. Great money, but no time to spend it.’
‘Do you have other family out here? I mean, relatives in this part of France?’
‘No. English through and through.’
Meredith paused a moment. ‘What are your plans now?’
He shrugged.
‘Will you stay in London?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Doubt it.’
Meredith took another mouthful of wine.
‘Debussy,’ Hal said suddenly, as if it had only just registered what she’d said. ‘I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know the first thing about him.’
Meredith smiled, relieved he was at least making an effort.
‘No reason why you should,’ she said.
‘What’s his connection with this part of France?’
Meredith laughed. ‘Tenuous,’ she said. ‘In August 1900 Debussy wrote a letter to a friend saying he was sending his wife Lilly to the Pyrennees to convalesce after an operation. Reading between the lines, a termination. So far no one’s proved the story one way or the other - and if Lilly did go, it sure wasn’t for long because she was back in Paris in October. ’
Hal pulled a face. ‘It’s possible. It’s hard to imagine it now, but I believe Rennes-les-Bains was a very popular resort at that time.’
‘It was,’ Meredith agreed. ‘Particularly with Parisians. And also, partly, because it didn’t specialise in treating only one kind of problem - some places were known for treatments for rheumatism, others, like Lamalou, for majoring on syphilis.’
Hal raised his eyebrows, but didn’t pick up the thread. ‘You know, it seems a lot of effort to go to,’ he said, in the end. ‘Coming all this way on the off-chance Lilly Debussy was here. Is it that important in the overall scheme of things?’
‘If I’m honest, no, not really,’ she replied, surprised at how defensive she felt. As if her real motive for coming to Rennes-les-Bains was suddenly painfully transparent. ‘But it would be a great piece of original research, something no one else has got. That can make all the difference to making one book stand out from the others.’ She paused. ‘And it’s an interesting period of Debussy’s life, too. Lilly Texier was only twenty-four when she met him, working as a mannequin. They married a year later in 1899. He dedicated a lot of his works to friends, lovers, colleagues, and it’s undeniable that Lilly’s name doesn’t figure on many scores, songs or piano pieces.’ Meredith was aware she was gabbling, but she was caught up in her own story now and couldn’t stop. She leaned closer. ‘The way I see it, Lilly was right there during the crucial years leading up to the first performance of Debussy’s only opera, Pelléas et Mélisande, in 1902. That was when his fortunes, his reputation, his status changed for good. Lilly was by his side when he made it. I figure that’s got to count for something.’
She stopped to draw breath and saw, for the first time since they’d started talking, that Hal was smiling.
‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘I didn’t mean to get so carried away, be so full on. It’s a terrible habit, assuming everyone will be as interested as I am.’
‘I think it’s great there’s something you’re so passionate about,’ he said quietly. Caught by the shifting tone of his voice, Meredith looked across at him and saw his blue eyes were fixed firmly on her. To her embarrassment, she felt herself colouring up.
‘I like the research process better than the actual writing,’ she said quickly. ‘All the mental excavation. All the obsessing over scores and old articles and letters, trying to bring to life a moment, a snapshot, from the past. It’s all about reconstruction, about context, about getting under the skin of a different time and place, but with the benefit of hindsight. ’
‘Detective work.’
Meredith shot a sharp glance at him, suspecting his thoughts were on something else, but he followed through.
‘When are you hoping to finish?’
‘I’m due to be done April next year. I’ve got way too much material as it is. All the academic papers published in the Cahiers Debussy and the Œuvres complètes de Claude Debussy, notes on every biography ever published. Added to which, Debussy himself was a prolific letter-writer. He wrote for a daily newspaper, Gil Blas, as well as producing a handful of reviews for La revue blanche. You name it, I’ve read it.’
Guilt hit her when she realised she was still doing it, going on talking when he was having such a hard time. She glanced over at him, intending to apologise for her insensitivity, but something caught her. The boyish expression, his expression, he suddenly reminded her of someone. She racked her brain, but couldn’t figure out who it was.
A wave of tiredness washed over her. She looked at Hal, lost in his own depressed thoughts. She lacked the energy to keep the conversation going any longer. Time to call it a night.
She got down from the stool and gathered her things.
Hal’s head snapped up. ‘You’re not going?’
Meredith gave an apologetic smile. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course.’ He got down from his stool too. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know this probably sounds outrageous, I don’t know, but perhaps . . . if you�
�re around tomorrow, maybe we could go out. Or meet for a drink?’
Meredith blinked with surprise.
On the one hand, she liked Hal. He was cute, charming, and clearly needed company. On the other, she needed to focus on finding out what she could about her birth family - and in private. She didn’t want anyone else tagging along for the ride. And she could hear Mary’s voice in her head warning her that she knew nothing about the guy.
‘Of course, if you’re busy . . .’ he started to say.
It was the undercurrent of disappointment in his voice that made her mind up. Besides, apart from the time spent with Laura during the reading - and that hardly counted - she’d not had a face-to-face conversation with anyone longer than a couple of sentences in weeks.
‘Sure, why not,’ she heard herself say.
Hal smiled, properly this time, transforming his face. ‘That’s great.’
‘But I was intending to head out pretty early. Do some research.’
‘I could come along for the ride,’ he suggested. ‘Might be able to help out a little. I don’t know the area that well, but I’ve been coming here on and off for the past five years.’
‘It might be pretty boring.’
Hal shrugged. ‘I can do boring. Do you have a list of places you want to visit?’
‘I thought I’d play it by ear.’ She paused. ‘I had hoped to get something from the old spa buildings in Rennes-les-Bains, but they’re all closed up for the winter. I’d thought maybe if I went to the Mairie there might be a person who could help.’
Hal’s face clouded over. ‘They’re useless,’ he said savagely. ‘Like beating your head against a brick wall.’
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to remind you of . . .’
Hal gave a sharp shake of his head. ‘No, sorry. It’s me.’ He sighed, then smiled at her again. ‘I have a suggestion. Given the period of time you’re interested in for Lilly Debussy, you might find something useful in the museum in Rennes-le-Château. I’ve only been there once, but I remember it gave a pretty good account of what life might have been like round here at that time.’
Meredith felt a spike of excitement. ‘That sounds great.’
‘Shall we meet in reception at ten?’ he suggested.
Meredith hesitated, then decided she was being too cautious.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Ten is good.’
He stood up and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Night.’
Meredith nodded. ‘See you tomorrow.’
CHAPTER 33
Back in her room, Meredith was too wound up to sleep.
She ran the conversation between them over in her mind, remembering what she’d said, what he’d said. Trying to interpret what lay between the lines.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, feeling desperately sorry for him. He seemed so vulnerable. She spat the toothpaste into the basin. He probably wasn’t interested in her at all. He probably just needed a little company.
She climbed into bed and turned off the light, plunging the room into a soft and inky darkness. She lay staring at the ceiling awhile, until her limbs went heavy and she started to drift off to sleep.
Straight away, the face Meredith had seen in the water, then the weird experience on the road, came rushing into her mind. Worse, the tortured, beautiful face of her birth mother, crying, begging the voices to leave her in peace.
Meredith’s eyes snapped open.
No. No way. I will not let the past get to me.
She was here to find out who she was, about her family, to escape the shadow of her mother, not bring her back, more real than ever. Meredith pushed her childhood memories away, replacing them with the Tarot images she’d been carrying around in her head all day. Le Mat and La Justice. The Devil with blue eyes, the Lovers chained, hopeless, at his feet.
She replayed Laura’s words in her mind, let her thoughts wander from card to card, slipping down into sleep. Her eyes grew heavy. Now, Meredith was thinking of Lilly Debussy, pale and with a bullet lodged for eternity in her chest. Debussy scowling and smoking at the piano as he played. Of Mary sitting on the porch in Chapel Hill, her chair rocking back and forwards as she read. The sepia soldier framed by the platanes in the Place de Deux Rennes.
Meredith heard the slam of a car door and the crunch of shoes on the gravel, the hooting of an owl setting out to hunt, the occasional judder and rattle of the hot water pipes.
The hotel fell silent. Night wrapped its black arms around the house. The grounds of the Domaine de la Cade lay sleeping beneath a pale moon.
The hours passed. Midnight, two o’clock, four.
Suddenly, Meredith jolted awake, her eyes wide open in the dark. Every nerve in her body was vibrating, alert. Every muscle, every sinew, pulled as tight as a violin string.
Someone was singing.
No, not singing. Playing the piano. And real close.
She sat up. The room was cold. The same penetrating chill she’d felt under the bridge. The darkness was different too, less dense, more fragmented. Meredith felt almost as if she could see the particles of light and dark and shadow breaking down in front of her. There was a breeze coming in from somewhere, even though she could swear all the windows were shut, a light breeze brushing over her shoulders and neck, skimming without touching, pressing, whispering.
There’s someone in the room.
She told herself it was impossible. She’d have heard something. Yet she was gripped with an overwhelming certainty that someone was standing at the foot of the bed, watching. Two eyes burning in the darkness. Trails of sweat slid cold between her shoulder blades and into the hollow between her breasts.
Adrenalin kicked in.
Now. Do it.
She counted to three, then, with a burst of bravado, rolled over and flicked on the light.
The darkness was sent scattering. All the regular everyday objects rushed back to greet her. Nothing out of place. Closet, table, window, mantelpiece, bureau, all just as they should be. The cheval mirror, standing by the door to the bathroom, reflecting the light.
No one.
Meredith slumped back against the mahogany headboard. Relief washed over her. On the nightstand, the clock blinked the time in red. Four forty-five. Not eyes at all, just the flashing LED of the radio alarm, reflected in the mirror.
Just a regular nightmare.
She should have expected it after the stuff that had happened today.
Meredith kicked back the covers to cool herself down and lay still awhile, hands folded on her chest like a figure on a tomb, then got out of bed. She needed to move around, do something physical. Not just lie there. She grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the minibar, then walked over to the window and looked down over the silent gardens still in the moonlight. The weather had broken and the terrace below glistened with rain. There was a veil of white mist floating in the still air above the line of the trees.
Meredith pressed her warm hand against the cold glass, as if she could push the bad thoughts away. Not for the first time, doubt at what she was getting herself into slipped in. What if there was nothing to find? All the time, the idea of coming to Rennes-les-Bains, armed with only a handful of old photographs and a piece of piano music, had kept her going.
But now she was here, and could see what a small place it was, she felt less certain. The whole idea of tracing her birth family back here, without even having proper names to search for seemed crazy. A stupid dream that belonged in a feel-good movie.
Not real life.
Meredith had no idea how long she stood there, just thinking, working things through at the window. Only when she realised that her toes were numb with cold did she turn to look at the clock. She gave a sigh of relief. It was past five o’clock in the morning. She’d killed enough time. Chased away the ghosts, the demons of the night. The face in the water, the figure on the road, the intimidating images on the cards.
This time when she lay d
own to sleep, the room was peaceful. No eyes staring at her, no shimmering presence in the darkness, just the blinking electric numbers of the alarm clock. She closed her eyes.
Her soldier melted into Debussy, became Hal.
PART V
Domaine de la Cade September 1891
CHAPTER 34
MONDAY 21ST SEPTEMBER 1891
Léonie yawned, and opened her eyes. She stretched her pale, slim arms above her head, then propped herself up on her generous white pillows. Despite the surfeit of blanquette de Limoux drunk last evening - or perhaps as a consequence of it - she had slept well.