“She is mad, Maman told me,” the boy said. “It’s because of the murders…”
“What murders?” Clothilde stared at him. She had no idea of what he was talking about. “Who has been murdered? It isn’t Blanche or Betrand. I wish someone would kill them.”
“Don’t you know anything?” Andre looked at her loftily. “Everyone knows about the terrible murders.”
“I’ve never heard of them – and I don’t want to.” His attitude angered Clothilde and she was about to turn away when he spoke again, his words holding her rooted to the spot.
“It was the old woman’s daughter, the daughter’s lover – and her husband. The husband found them together…fornicating…and he killed them in a temper. Then he died by falling from the gate tower and breaking his neck. They say the old woman killed him in revenge for what he had done…that’s why she’s crazy. It turned her mind.”
“Grandmere never killed anyone!” Clothilde denied angrily. “You are lying. You are a horrid boy and I hate you.”
“I am not!”
“Yes, you are!”
She flung herself at him and there was a fierce tussle for a few minutes, ending with her lying on her back on the ground. She breathed hard as she looked up at him. She could see the marks on his cheek where she had scratched him.
“You are mad too,” he panted. He held her down as she tried to claw at him again. “Mad and wild…”
“I am not!”
“Yes, you are – and I didn’t say the old woman did it,” Andre yelled. “Other people say it, but Maman says that is nonsense. Nothing was proved. When the authorities came they decided he had taken his own life because he had murdered the wife he loved.”
“Then you shouldn’t have told me lies!” Clothilde’s eyes flashed with temper. She was thin and pale but strong. Andre let her up from the ground, helping her to brush the debris from her skirt.
“I’m sorry. Do you want me to go away?”
“No, why should I?”
“These are your grandmother’s woods. I shouldn’t be here.”
Clothilde thought about it. She could play the imperious lady and send him away, but she didn’t want to do that. He was the only playmate she’d ever had and she liked him despite what he’d said about Grandmere.
“You can stay – but my grandmother isn’t mad, she’s just old and forgetful.”
“If you say so. Shall I come again to meet you here?”
“Yes – tomorrow?”
“I might not be able to come tomorrow, but I’ll come when I can. I have to go now.”
Clothilde watched as he ran off. Would he come again? She thought he’d probably just said it to please her.
Clothilde apologised to Grandmere that evening for breaking the vase. She knelt at the old woman’s side as she picked over her treasures, looking up at the beloved face and the faded eyes.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” she said. “Truly I am sorry, Grandmere.”
“You are a good child.” The thin, blue-veined hand stroked her head gently. “It wasn’t fair of me. I should never have done it. If Caillebotte knew the truth…”
“What truth, Grandmere? Has Father Caillebotte been talking to you about me again?”
“He wants me to send you to school with the Nuns, Clothilde,” her grandmother said. “Perhaps I should do as he says. It is a lonely life for you here and I am of little use to you.”
“I am not lonely,” Clothilde lied valiantly. “I am learning all that Father Caillebotte tells me, and I have a friend. His name is Andre and I play with him in the woods.”
“Father Caillebotte wants you to have your lunch with him on Sunday after morning service,” Grandmere said. “He says it will give you a sense of normality, and help you to make friends in the village. I have agreed that you shall, Clothilde, because the time will come when I am no longer here to take care of you.”
“No, Grandmere, no!” Clothilde cried and flung her arms about the old woman. “I love you. You must not talk of dying. And I can look after you.”
“Do not strangle me, child,” Madame Sanclere smiled as she disentangled herself. “There, there, my little one. I shall not leave you just yet, but Caillebotte is right. You must meet other people. It is good for you. And if I give him this much perhaps he will forget about the Nuns.”
“Then I shall go and he will not grumble at you,” Clothilde said and kissed her soft cheek.
“Run along to bed now, child, and leave me to my dreams – but do not forget what I have told you.”
Clothilde obeyed without question, but when she reached her room, she did not immediately go to bed. Instead she sat on a little stool at the window. She gazed out towards the woods, thinking about the boy she had met there.
Would Andre be waiting for her the next day?
“So you came then, Clothilde. I am pleased to see you,” Father Caillebotte greeted her with a smile as she joined him outside the church after the service. The sun was very warm that day, turning the walls of the old church to a golden rose in the heat haze. “Come, child, I shall take you home and introduce you to Marie.”
Clothilde skipped at his side as they left the churchyard and walked along a narrow track towards his cottage. Its roof was tiled but covered in moss and the stone walls surrounding the back garden crumbling and ancient. A fat ginger cat lay slumbering in the sun as they walked up the flagstones to the side door.
“Is Marie your housekeeper or your wife?”
“Priests cannot marry, Clothilde. Marie is my housekeeper.”
Clothilde looked at him guiltily. Would Marie know she was the girl who had stolen an apple from his garden – and would the priest be angry with her if he knew? Perhaps it would be better to confess her sin at once.
“I stole an apple from your garden once, Father. Marie saw me and she shook her fist at me.”
“She did not mean to be unkind to you, Clothilde.”
“But it was a sin, Father.”
“Not such a terrible one,” he smiled and laid his hand on her head for a moment. “I forgive you. I do not think we need trouble God with this sin, do you?”
“Not if you are not cross with me.”
“Many children steal my apples, Clothilde. Stealing is wrong, but if you steal nothing more you will be forgiven.”
Clothilde did not dislike the priest as much now. He was always kind to her, and she had often wondered what it would be like inside his house.
She was surprised at how small it was. The rooms were tiny compared with those she was used to at the chateau, though much warmer and more comfortable; the furniture was old but well polished and cared for. He took her into his parlour, which had a fireplace but no fire since it was summer, and lots of books. Clothilde particularly noticed the books. She went to touch one of them, which was covered in leather, stroking it with her fingertips.
“You like books, don’t you, Clothilde?”
“Yes, Father, very much. What does this one say? I can’t read the words.”
“That’s because it is written in English.” Caillebotte’s brown eyes were thoughtful as they rested on her face. “Tell me, Clothilde – would you like to learn to read English and speak it?”
“Yes, please, Father.”
“Then I shall teach you, but in return I ask that you come to have either lunch or tea with me every Sunday, and that you attend church as often as you can – will you promise me that?”
Clothilde gazed at him for a moment or two before she answered. He was striking a hard bargain with her, because she did not like to leave Grandmere alone too much, but she did want to learn – and there were so many wonderful books on his shelves.
“I promise to come when I can,” she agreed. “But if Grandmere needs me I shall not come that week.”
“Very well, child. Now – come and meet Marie. She has a good dinner for you, and perhaps she will give you some of her homemade toffee to take home. I should tell you that all the children love Mar
ie’s toffee.”
Clothilde wondered if Andre liked Marie’s toffee. She would ask him when she next saw him in the wood. They had met every day that week, but not today because Andre said that he must go somewhere with his parents. She had looked for him in church, but he wasn’t there. She would go back to the woods the next day and tell him that she was to visit the priest every Sunday from now on. Perhaps she would see him at church another day.
Would Andre be here today? Clothilde’s heart beat with excitement as she ran towards the woods. They had been meeting for almost a month now, and they had discovered a secret together. It was in the woods, and rather odd but nice. Someone had planted daisies and lavender in a little clearing, where the sunshine filtered through the trees. It was a warm spot and they found it pleasant to sit on a fallen tree.
“Why do you suppose someone made a garden here?” Clothilde asked Andre the day they found it. “It is strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes…” Andre was as puzzled as she was. “It seems a waste to put flowers here where no one can see them.”
“We see them,” Clothilde pointed out. “I like flowers and one day I shall make a beautiful garden. I shan’t grow vegetables and keep hens – I want lots and lots of flowers.”
“Are you going to be a rich lady then?” Andre teased. “Shall you have gardeners to look after your flowers?”
“Yes, perhaps. Don’t you think it would be nice to be rich, Andre?”
“It would be if everyone had all the things they need – like food and warmth and shelter,” he agreed.
Clothilde was thinking of her friend as she ran into the woods. She knew exactly where she was going – to the little garden. It was strange that anyone should make a garden in the middle of the woods, but it was a special place. She was sure that Andre would be waiting for her somewhere nearby.
Clothilde always felt at peace in that place, but though she came again and again to see the garden she had never seen anyone tending the flowers.
Until today, that was. Clothilde froze as she saw the woman kneeling to plant something…it looked like a clump of lavender. Once again she was struck by the question. Why? Why would anyone come to this place to plant flowers? Hadn’t this woman got a garden of her own? Most of the village cottages had back gardens. Clothilde had seen some of them when she went to the priest’s house.
Clothilde inched her way forward to gain a better view of the woman. She was old, but not as old as Grandmere, and she was not as ugly as Blanche. Her face looked nice but sort of sad, as if she had known a lot of unhappiness.
Would she run away if Clothilde tried to talk to her?
She had to try! She was overcome with curiosity and prepared to risk frightening the woman away.
“Bonjour, Madame…”
The woman’s head came up. She was clearly startled. For a moment Clothilde thought she was going to run away, but she didn’t. Instead, she stayed on her knees, dusting her hands against one another to rid them of the earth that clung about her fingers and was ingrained under her nails. Her hands looked rough and hard, as if she worked with them all the time.
“You frightened me, child.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Clothilde said, advancing a little. “Is this your garden, Madame?”
“I made it,” the woman replied. “But the woods do not belong to me. Do you come here sometimes?”
“Yes. It is my favourite place.”
The woman nodded, not seeming in the least surprised. “I am glad you like it.”
“Why did you make it?” Clothilde pressed her advantage. “Who are you, Madame? Where do you live?”
“My name is Madame Fanchot – and I know who you are. Your name is Clothilde Sanclere.”
“Do you know Grandmere? Why do you come here – and why did you make a garden here?”
“You ask too many questions,” the woman. She got to her feet. “I must go.”
“Why? Are you angry with me?”
“Bless you no, child. I have to go or my husband will be angry because there is no food when he gets home.”
Clothilde nodded her understanding. The only time her grandmother was angry with the servants was when there was no food and the fire was out.
“Will you come again? Shall I see you here another day?”
The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, then inclined her head. “Next week at this time – provided that you do not try to follow me when I leave.”
“I promise not to,” Clothilde drew a dramatic cross over her heart. “Thank you for the garden, Madame. I like it here.”
“You are welcome.”
Clothilde watched as she walked away. The temptation to follow was strong but she had given her promise. Grandmere said a promise was sacred and should never be broken.
Besides, it was a mystery. Clothilde liked secrets. She hoarded them like a mouse might store food for the winter. One day she would solve the mystery, but for now she would simply keep it to herself.
She knelt down to smell the lavender, but it hadn’t opened yet and there was no scent. She closed her eyes and whispered a little prayer. She did not know why, but whenever she came here in distress, there was a feeling of peace, as if something reached out to her, comforting her…almost like a mother’s arms.
That was so foolish! Clothilde had never felt the warmth of a mother’s arms about her. Grandmere was usually too sad to think about the child she had had taken in after her daughter died, too wrapped up in her own grief to think about kissing or hugging the girl who longed for love.
Andre had lied to her about the way her mother had died. Grandmere had told her that her daughter had died in a hospital far away giving birth to her, Clothilde, and that she had paid someone to bring the child to her at the chateau.
“You are not much,” Grandmere had told her, “and I am even less, Clothilde, but together we are something. I was right to bring you here despite what that old fool says…”
“What old fool, Grandmere?” Clothilde asked. “Do you mean Father Caillebotte?”
“We had such parties here once,” Grandmere said. “You should have seen this place when I first came here, before Sanclere lost all his money. Such parties…I remember when that English duke came to stay. He was a handsome man for all his wild ways…”
“Tell me more Grandmere, please. Tell me how it was in the old days.”
“We drove along the Champs Elysees in our carriages when the chestnut trees were in bloom” she told Clothilde many times. “Oh, what a fine sight the horses were child, and the gentlemen in their frock coats and tall hats, us in all our finery...such pretty, silly creatures! We spent our time going from one party to another...”
“Yes, Grandmere, I know. Tell me about the parties…”
But Grandmere was lost in her dreams of long ago. Clothilde knew she dreamed of when she was young…a young, privileged girl living in the lap of luxury. Over the years Grandmere had often told her about parties, about when the chateau had been full of laughter and life instead of the empty shell it was now, its treasures long gone.
“What happened? Why did it become the way it is now?” Clothilde wanted to know, but there were no answers.
There were never any answers in this place…Chateau Despair the villagers called it, and sometimes Clothilde thought they were right.
She wondered if a part of what Andre had told her was true…perhaps terrible things did happen in this place, perhaps that was why such a desolate air hung over the house, which was slowly crumbling into a ruin. And yet why should her grandmother lie about a thing like that?
Clothilde longed to know the answers to so many questions. She wondered how much Blanche and Betrand knew of the tragedy that was said to have happened here, but they arrived later – after she herself was brought to the chateau.
Sometimes she thought they knew secrets, for they looked at her mockingly, as if they could speak if they wished, but if they knew something she didn’t, they never spoke of it in her
hearing.
But what was the point of questioning her life? Grandmere was right – as long as there was food and warmth, what else mattered?
She sat on the fallen tree and waited for Andre until the sun began to sink beyond the woods and it was almost dark, and then she turned and ran home. It was the first time Andre had failed to meet her in almost two weeks, and she had a strange, sad feeling as if she had lost something precious.
For two more weeks Clothilde continued to visit their special places in the hope of seeing Andre, but he did not come, nor did she see him on Sunday when she went to church, and she asked Father Caillebotte if he knew anything of her friend.
“Andre?” Caillebotte looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Ah yes, I believe I know who you mean.” He placed his hand on her head. “Andre’s father has sent him away to school, child. Did he not tell you he was to go?”
“No…” Clothilde felt the hurt deep inside her. Why hadn’t Andre told her the last time they had met?
“Well, perhaps it was better that way…”
Clothilde wondered what he meant. How could it be better? Andre was her only friend!
Sometimes she saw other children at church and one or two of them spoke to her She believed it was because Father Caillebotte told them to, but they didn’t like her. Andre had liked her, but now he’d gone away and it hurt.
She thought Betrand knew something about it. He looked at her with gloating eyes for a month, as if he knew that she was missing her friend. He had narrow set, piggy eyes, and when he farted he smelled worse than the dung heap by the sties.
Betrand never said a word about Andre, but he knew. He knew and he was deliberately goading her, trying to tempt her into asking – but she would never give him that pleasure.
Chapter Six
England 1945
Chateau Despair Page 7