Chateau Despair
By
Linda Sole
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Chateau Despair by Linda Sole
Red Rose Publishing
Copyright© 2008 Linda Sole
ISBN: 978-1-60435-092-0
ISBN: 1-60435-092-X
Cover Artist: Nikita Gordyn
Editor: Terri Morris
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any ebooks away.
Red Rose Publishing
www.redrosepublishing.com
Forestport, NY 13338
Chateau Despair
By
Linda Sole
FRANCE JANUARY 1921
Madame Fanchot watched in triumph as the child entered the world in a mess of slime and blood. However, her feeling was short-lived as she turned to its mother. She was dying.
Her labour had been long and hard, and the months of carrying had taken their toll. No one would care what became of her or her child. She’d been foolish and careless and her behaviour had brought shame to her family. For herself, she could have little reason left to live, but Madame Fanchot knew that she feared for her child.
“Where is she?” The woman’s voice was barely more than a whisper. The blood drained out from between her thighs, sluggish and thick. Madame Fanchot gave up any attempt to staunch it. She believed nothing more could be done to help the woman, or perhaps she was either too indifferent or too ignorant to try to save her. “Let me see her…just once.”
“She is beautiful, Madame,” Madame Fanchot said. She laid the small bundle in the mother’s arms. The child was wrapped in nothing but the shawl the woman had been wearing when they’d found her wandering in the woods some hours earlier. “You have a lovely daughter.”
“I want to call her Elena,” the mother said. “Her name is Elen…”
The rattle of death caught in her throat, causing her head to fall back against the pillows.
“She has gone,” a man said from the doorway. He spat on the floor of the filthy cottage. “So perish all such whores as they deserve.”
“You are too harsh, Jean,” his wife said. She took the squalling child from its mother and held it to her breast to quiet it. “How can you know who or what the poor woman was? She has scarcely spoken a word since we found her wandering.”
“No decent woman would be alone in a wood in her condition,” he muttered sourly. “If she came of good family they threw her out – and she isn’t wearing a wedding ring.”
“That doesn’t mean she was a bad woman,” Madame Fanchot gave the dead woman a pitying look. “What are we to do with her now?”
“I’ll bury her in the wood. I’ve no money to pay the priest for a proper burial for a stranger?”
“But shouldn’t we tell someone? Supposing someone comes looking for her or the child one day?”
“We never saw her.”
“What of the child?” she cried in horror at his callous words.
“Get rid of it…” He growled deep in his throat . “I don’t mean kill it – take it to the church. Leave it near the altar. The priest will know what to do. It won’t be the first time he’s had to deal with an abandoned bastard I’ll swear. I don’t care what you do with it, just get it out of the house.”
“The shawl is hers. Was there nothing else – no ring or trinket of any kind that might help them to trace who the child’s mother was?”
“Nothing,” he muttered in a way that immediately told her he was lying. “Nothing at all.”
She scowled at him. If he’d stolen something from the woman, he would likely keep it until he thought it was safe to sell. She would not receive the smallest part of his ill-gotten gains, even though she was the one who’d gone through the trouble of attending the woman.
“I’m going to take the child,” she told him. She hated his brutality; she hated the poverty of her life. She wished she dared to leave him and take the child with her. It was impossible. Poor as her life is, it was still better than starving on the streets. “If you mean to bury the woman, Jean, be careful. If anyone sees you there could be trouble.”
“No one will see,” he shrugged. “No one ever comes to the woods these days. Not after what happened up at the chateau.”
Madame Fanchot crossed herself as she hurried out into the bleakness of a cold winter evening. The chateau remained empty for the past five years, save from the crazy old woman that owned it.
The last of her family, she had lived there alone, hardly seeing anyone since the tragedy. Madame Fanchot’s mind shied away from what had happened all those years ago.
Indeed, she did not truly know for sure what had happened at the chateau. She’d only heard the rumours, but it was certain three people were brutally murdered there.
Shivering, she ran all the way to the church. She looked about her, but could see no one. Hurriedly, she deposited her bundle behind the priest’s pulpit. He would surely see it there when he came to take evening confession.
Afraid and guilty for leaving the child, Madame Fanchot made the sign of the cross over her heart and then ran from the church hastily. In her anxiety to get away, Madame Fanchot failed to notice the figure sitting quietly in the shadows.
Nor did she ever know what happened after she’d left, though there would be times over the years when she wondered what had become of the child. Times when she believed she knew…
Chapter One
England 1945
The day began much as any other. Long afterwards, Christine thought that surely there should have been a storm with thunder and lightening – something dramatic to warn her that her life was on the brink of change.
How lucky she was to be Christine Kavanagh and live at Penhallows, the beautiful old house she shared with her mother and grandfather. She looked up from her breakfast as she heard the sound of heels tapping on the polished floor. Her mother walked into the room. Christine experienced a wave of love. Elizabeth Kavanagh was at forty-five, still a very beautiful woman. Christine coveted her mother’s golden hair, but had inherited her late father’s dark colouring.
“Good morning, Mummy,” Christine greeted. She received only a mumbled reply. Beth had her nose in a letter and held several more unopened ones in her hand. Christine poured her a cup of tea and placed a dish of hot toast beside her. “You must try this honey. It is delicious.”
“Is it, darling? That’s good.” Beth did not look up from her letter as she sipped her tea.
Christine smothered a sigh. She was used to being ignored by her mother, who was a busy woman and usually too wrapped up in her work to notice her daughter. Despite this, Christine knew she was loved. Indeed, her mother treated both her and her brother Harry exactly the same, loving them but leaving them to get on with their lives.
“Is there a letter from Harry?”
Beth looked up at last. “No, Christine. I’m sorry. I expect he’s too busy to write.”
Christine frowned as she thought about her brother. Harry was nearly twenty-two. He had been born three months after Beth Winthrope’s marriage to Alexander Kavanagh, which had been rather scandalous but couldn’t be helped because of the divorce.
No one ever talked of the divorce these days, but Christine believed her father had been married before he’d met her mother. It had caused a terrible scandal, of which she’d
been told only the bare bones. However, she understood from Harry that her father’s former wife had been involved in a wild, extravagant love affair with a Frenchman of good family.
Harry had told her about the old scandal after their father’s death. He’d come home on leave the previous summer and they’d sat together in the summerhouse, comforting each other as they’d talked of the past. Christine had asked him to tell her about the divorce. After a moment’s hesitation, he’d explained.
“It was a terrible scandal,” he’d said. “Father’s first wife was the daughter of an earl, and a leading socialite of her day. Can you imagine what a furore it must have kicked up at the time?”
Christine had been thoughtful before she’d given voice to her question. “Do you think Daddy still loved her when he married Mummy?”
“I doubt any man could love a woman who’d put him through all that.”
The tragic loss of Alexander Kavanagh had been recent then, and Christine spent several sleepless nights wondering about her father’s state of mind. She knew that he had loved her mother and his children – but sometimes wondered if he’d ever truly forgot the woman who had betrayed him.
Christine suddenly became aware of her mother speaking to her.
“What are you dreaming about now? Millie wants to clear the table and it’s time for your piano lessons.”
Christine studied her mother as she came out of her daydream. Was it her imagination or did she seem worried about something?
The war made things difficult and taking care of a big old house like Penhallows was never easy. Christine thought that being a widow and running a business must put an intolerable strain on her mother, which was why she tried to help as much as she could.
“You might like to take this with you.” Beth handed Christine a letter across the table. “It’s from one of the evacuee children who’d lived with us at the beginning of the war. Matthew asked if he can visit us next month. His uncle will bring him down and take him back at the end of his stay. What do you think, Christine? Can you tolerate a visit from Matthew Crane? He might have been a bit of a tearaway when he was last here, but that was three years ago and I dare say, he has grown up now.”
“Yes, of course…if it wouldn’t be a problem for you?”
Christine enjoyed being with the children when she was home from her boarding school. She would have liked to leave school early to help with them more, but her family would not hear of it. Of course, she wasn’t old enough to join any of the special women’s units. Her mother insisted that she finish her education before thinking of anything else.
“I’ve never found the children any trouble,” Beth replied. Her smile made her look years younger than her forty odd years. “If the ministry had gone ahead with its plans to turn this house into a convalescent home for wounded soldiers, it would have been far more disruptive. We are lucky that they decided Penhallows is too small to make such a thing practical.”
“I don’t think Penhallows is small at all,” Christine was annoyed at any criticism of her beautiful home. “But I am glad they thought so!”
“Go along, Christine. Miss Timpson is waiting.”
Christine rose obediently as her mother gathered her things. “Is there something I can do for you, Mummy – write letters, address envelopes…anything?”
“I have a secretary to do those things,” Beth replied, softening her refusal with a smile. “It’s very kind of you to ask though.” She gave her daughter an assessing look. “You need new clothes. Perhaps we can go to London soon. I’ve been saving my coupons, and Uncle Jack says he can spare a few for you.”
“Is Uncle Jack coming here this weekend?”
“Yes, I believe so. He is bringing someone…a young lady. His letter was rather mysterious…” She broke off to make a note on the pad she habitually carried with her. “We need flowers for the best guest rooms, which reminds me…I shall want extra flowers for the church this weekend. Now you can help me with the flowers, darling.”
“Yes, of course, Mummy.”
“Miss Timpson arrived some minutes ago. You mustn’t keep her waiting. As for me, I have a great deal of work to do. Your uncle has sent me several new designs to approve – and one of them is bothering me. I am not certain that it is right for us.”
“I still like your own designs best, Mummy. I think they were much better than any of the new stuff they sell now.”
“Thank you, my darling, but we have to move with the times. Your uncle relies on my judgement when picking our new lines, but I couldn’t possibly come up with different ideas all the time. Now I really must get on.”
Christine walked quietly from the room, making her way towards the sunny little parlour at the back of the house where Miss Timpson always waited for her. Sometimes it hurt her that her mother was always preoccupied with other matters. She did her best to understand Beth carried a great burden on her shoulders, what with the house and her commitment to the family business.
Elizabeth Kavanagh had become prominent as one of the leaders in the Art Deco movement in jewellery design. Christine was proud of the fact that some examples of her work were displayed at the Paris Exhibition of 1926, where the style had first been generally recognised.
Her designs had enjoyed wide acclaim; unfortunately demand had faded during the years of the depression. This horrible war had made things difficult for the trade as a whole.
Christine paused in the hall to pat one of the golden Labradors who made up a family of five currently residing at Penhallows. Her mother and grandfather liked having dogs about and she had grown up with them always around.
“Good boy, Rover.” She rubbed the dog behind the ears, laughing at his obvious pleasure as he heard his name. He wagged his tail and jumped up her, wanting to be taken for a walk. “Not yet, old fellow. For the moment, duty calls.”
The dog followed close on her heels. Christine talked to him as she always did when alone. “Do you suppose that Mummy minds her own designs are no longer as important to the business as they once were?”
Rover barked as if in answer, making Christine smile. Sometimes she believed he understood every word she said.
She supposed her mother had enough to do without taking the responsibility for all the new lines the shop required. Uncle Jack ran the business itself these days, although he always consulted Beth on any new venture. However, he had to combine the business with official work for the War Ministry.
“I have to count myself lucky that I have flat feet, Christine,” he’d told his niece when she asked what he thought of being obliged to do work for the Ministry. “Otherwise, I could have found myself out there with the rest of the poor devils fighting to keep us safe. Giving up my time to do committee work is a small price to pay.”
Christine was fond of Uncle Jack. He always made time for her.
She stopped to rummage through the mail lying on the silver salver in the hall. Beneath the pile of letters for her grandfather, she found one from her friend from boarding school. She popped the letter into her pocket, sighing as she resumed her trek toward the music room. She couldn’t keep Miss Timpson waiting any longer.
“Ah, there you are, Christine.”
Miss Timpson was a tall and bony woman. Her mousy hair, as usual, was drawn back into a tight bun, making her features appear plain and without charm.
She wore a shapeless dress that looked as if it had been washed so many times that the material was worn thin in places. Christine’s pity for Miss Timpson was why she continued with her music lessons despite the fact that they were no longer needed.
From what Christine knew Miss Timpson earned a precarious living giving piano lessons to various girls from the village. Christine was rather proud of the fact that her teacher told everyone she was her most accomplished pupil.
“How are you, Miss Timpson?”
“Very well, thank you. It is just like you to ask. My mother was pleased with the magazines you sent her. They kept her busy for
hours…”
“Is her arthritis any better?”
“Worse if anything, but she keeps going as best she can.”
Christine made a mental note to ask Jack for more magazines. The old lady had so little to look forward to but was always cheerful when people called.
“Would you like to run through that new piece we discussed, dear?”
Christine sat on the bench and flexed her fingers. It might not be so bad if she was allowed to belt out some of the popular songs she’d heard on the wireless.
However, Miss Timpson insisted that she practise the classical composers, because they were the best.
Christine would never be a great pianist, not like some of the artists she admired, but she had a natural ear and could usually play anything she heard after a few times without needing a music sheet. She sometimes wished she possessed her mother’s talent.
As she played, she allowed her thoughts to wander back to her brother. Harry could do anything! Perhaps he would write one day, because he sent her the most wonderful letters.
Her thoughts were with her brother as her fingers skipped skilfully across the keyboard, filling the room with a light Chopin piece. It seemed ages since she’d heard from Harry. He had been in the army for nearly two years now and complained that he wished they would send him overseas.
The trouble was Harry was too clever. He was lean, thin-faced, and his eyes were a little owlish behind his thick spectacles. With the tide of war beginning to turn the Allies’ way at last, Harry had got stuck with the mountains of paperwork required for moving a vast force. His ability to read and speak several languages had been the final nail in the coffin of his ambition to be a real soldier. He was stuck at Headquarters for the duration – so why hadn’t he written to her?
After Christine finished the piece, she turned to Miss. Timpson, surprised by the tears in her tired eyes.
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