Chateau Despair

by Red Rose Publishig

  “Thank you for everything, Father,” she said, old beyond her years as she offered him her hand and he solemnly shook it. “I should not have known how to do this if you had not helped me.”

  “It was my duty and my wish to see Madame Sanclere buried as was fitting for a lady of her rank. She was not always as you remember her, Clothilde. There was a time when she was young and beautiful and the toast of Paris so they tell me…”

  “Yes, she told me her stories. She remembered Paris as being gay, the haunt of artists and opera dancers. That is why I want to go there. Grandmere was happy in Paris. I want to see it for myself.”

  “But it was very different for your grandmere. She had loving parents, money and breeding. You will find it much harder. Besides…” He faltered as she turned her clear bright gaze on him. “You have no money, Clothilde, no friends – no one to care for you. It would be better if you allowed me to find work for you.”

  Clothilde had longed for a family once, for people to care for her and love her, but now she had no need of them. She was old enough and strong enough to stand alone, and she was determined that the priest should not stop her.

  “I have a little money. And I have things to sell; I do not know about the house – would anyone buy it?”

  “That is difficult,” he replied with a sigh. “To sell land and property you need proof of ownership. Did your grandmother leave a Will bequeathing everything to you?”

  “I do not know. She told me there was something for me, but I haven’t looked yet.” She had meant to but something had made her uneasy and she had kept putting the moment off.

  “Then I suggest you do. If you own the property you may be able to sell it. It will not fetch a fortune, but sometimes Americans come looking for old houses to buy. It might be enough to get you an apprenticeship. Is there a trade you would like to learn, Clothilde?”

  “Perhaps…” She was not going to tell him her plans, though she believed she knew what she wanted. Her life was her own now. “Is Andre here? I should like to say goodbye to him.”

  “Andre has gone. He has dedicated himself to God, child. He cannot offer a woman love in the normal way. You must not think of what is forbidden. You are young and life awaits you. There are many other young men.”

  “Yes, of course. I am going to Paris. Goodbye.”

  Clothilde was hurt by his words, but she would not let him see it.

  The priest watched her as she walked away. Ought he to have told her what he had always suspected, that she was not the granddaughter of Madame Sanclere?

  The trouble was that he had no proof either way, no way of knowing where Clothilde had come from.

  Even on her deathbed the old woman had not confessed that, though she had told him of a sin so terrible that he was not surprised it had driven her mad. And if he had taken the child away that first time, when he had found the old woman crooning over the crib in the bitter cold of what had once been a nursery – what then?

  At least he had attended to the child’s education; his conscience was clear on that. He had visited the chateau three times a week to set work for her and check on her progress, and there were the Sunday lunches and teas.

  Sometimes he had invited other children to have tea with her, so that she could make friends, but he had known that the friendships did not extend beyond his parlour. He had tried to make life better for the girl, give her a taste of life as it ought to be, but it had not been enough. Yet she had seemed content in her own way.

  He sighed as he heard his housekeeper calling to him that someone was waiting to see him. There was no point in thinking about Clothilde. She had refused his offer of help, and he had done all he could for her…and yet sometimes he wished that he had made more effort to discover the truth of her birth.

  Clothilde hesitated as she knelt in front of Grandmere’s big oak chest of drawers. The room seemed colder than usual, bleak and bare without the presence of its owner. She had delayed this moment until she was almost ready to leave, because she was afraid of what she might find.

  She had always been secure in one thing in her life – she was Clothilde Sanclere, granddaughter of the Comtesse Sanclere – but now she was no longer sure.

  Betrand had sown the first seeds of doubt, but her grandmother’s dying words and the priest’s doubtful looks as he spoke of a Will had struck deeper into her heart. If she was not Clothilde Sanclere, who was she? But she must be! Why would Grandmere lie to her all these years? Fear gnawed at her heart like the rats at the wainscot in the older parts of the house, but she fought to conquer it as she always did.

  She began at the top drawer, working her way steadily to the bottom. The larger part of what she found was old clothes, much worn and long out of date. However, there were also old theatre programmes, some faded sepia photographs of Grandmere as a young woman, which Clothilde had seen before, and a couple of newspaper cuttings from some sixteen or more years ago. Why had Grandmere kept them? They seemed to be adverts for something or other

  Clothilde glanced at them without much interest, but she placed them with the items she had decided to keep. If Grandmere had kept them they must have had some meaning for her. She found nothing of real interest in the top three drawers, no trinkets of value or anything that related to her. Grandmere’s jewels had been sold one by one over the years to keep them in food.

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Clothilde drew out the last and deepest drawer to find that it was almost empty except for a small parcel wrapped in brown paper with her name written on it.

  For Clothilde so that she will know what I have done.

  That was all, no other message, no word of love…nothing that might tell her what was inside. She untied the string carefully, letting the covers fall back to reveal an old silk shawl. It was very beautiful and looked as if it might be Chinese and expensive, but it was stained with little brown marks in some places. Clothilde wasn’t sure but she thought the stains might be blood. There was nothing else, but as she took it out to examine it further, a single sheet of paper fluttered to the floor.

  Clothilde picked it up, recognising her grandmother’s spidery writing. It was a letter to her.

  My dear child. First I must ask for your forgiveness for what I have done. It was a great sin and I know I shall be punished for it one day when I stand before my Maker. I have robbed you of the life that ought to have been yours for my own selfish ends.

  As perhaps you have begun to guess you are not the child of my flesh, indeed I had no illegitimate daughter. My only child was brutally murdered before she could give birth, and perhaps she would never have done so, for I believe a curse lies heavy on this family and we were doomed to die out at the last. I pray it is so for we have done much wrong in our lives – my husband, my child and I – all have the same bad blood that now is no more.

  But you, Clothilde, the child of my heart if not my body, have not, and I tell you this now to set you free of the curse that was ours. Leave this house of despair, and find a new life for yourself.

  I ought to have asked the priest to help me find your mother, though I fear the worst for her. You were placed in the church by another, not the woman who bore you. Her name was Fanchot and I believe she and her husband live somewhere in the woods in a poor hut that has been used by charcoal burners for a hundred years. Perhaps she can help you to find your mother, but I do not hold out much hope for it. I think she must have died at your birth.

  It was cold that night I found you. You were crying, and I took you home to warm you. I never meant to keep you, but when the priest asked me where you had come from, I lied. By then I had learned to love you and you were the one bright spot in my loneliness. It was wrong and selfish, for I know your life has been hard, and I am to blame.

  I have nothing left to give you, my dearest child, apart from the few items of value that Betrand and Blanche have left to us, and I know you will take those when you leave here – as you must. The chateau will rot until it fall
s to the ground, for I would not burden you with it by leaving it to you. One day the Government of this country may decide that they own the land it stands on, but I pray that there will be nothing left of this accursed house by then.

  I have known nothing but unhappiness here, and those who fear to step inside its walls rightly call it the House of Despair. It was wrong of me to bring you here and to lie to the priest who would otherwise have taken you to the Nuns, but I was alone and in torment. I meant to be good to you, Clothilde, but I could not always keep my mind from straying…the memories would not stay away. I was haunted by them and near mad sometimes.

  I shall not burden you with what I suffered. I pray only that you will find happiness and that you will forgive me. Your loving Grandmere, Louise Sanclere.

  The tears were stinging Clothilde’s eyes as she rose to her feet. For a moment the room seemed to spin around her and she thought that she might faint. It could not be true! Surely it was all a bad dream and she would wake to find everything was as it always had been?

  Clothilde took the package and went slowly back down the stairs to the little parlour where she had lit a small fire on her return from the churchyard. The house was so empty, so cold, seeming to mock her with its ugliness and a feeling of desolation swept over her.

  She wanted to scream, to shout and hit out at something – someone. She wished that Grandmere was alive so that she could demand recompense for what she had done. Anger and bitterness streamed through her as she recalled all the abuse, all the blows she had received from Blanche and Betrand. She had taken it all without complaint because she did not want to distress her grandmother.

  How could the old woman have done this to her? Allowing her to believe in something that was a lie. It was so unfair, so cruel! She had suffered the years of loneliness, the longing for a family, and all for the sake of a woman who had never had the right to her devotion.

  She might even have a mother somewhere, but no – if her mother were alive she would surely not have let her child be left in a church to be found by a mad old woman.

  The villagers were right, Madame Sanclere had been crazy. No sane person would have taken a newly born child and brought it to a place like this. Only God knew how Grandmere had cared for and fed her in the early months. It was a miracle that she had survived at all.

  Clothilde’s heart swelled with bitterness. It would not have mattered if she had died, for there was no one who cared. Her mother was dead, her father unknown…but he had not cared or he would not have allowed her to be abandoned. He had probably abandoned her mother long before the birth.

  Grandmere’s letter had said that it was the woman Fanchot who had placed her in the church, wrapped in that shawl. It was Madame Fanchot who had made that garden in the woods, Madame Fanchot who had given her that ring. Why?

  A suspicion entered her mind that was so painful, so terrible that she dismissed it at once. No, she must be wrong. She must! But before she left for Paris, she would see Madame Fanchot and discover what she could. She had known for a long time where the woman lived, discovering the hut in the woods by accident, though she had never broken her promise to Madame Fanchot by going there. Now she would. She would speak to the woman whose actions had shaped her life before she began a new one.

  Clothilde’s knock went unanswered. She opened the door and glanced inside, but the poor room had a look of neglect that seemed to indicate no one lived here any longer. Perhaps Madame Fanchot had gone away to live?

  Clothilde sighed, sensing that her questions would go unanswered for the moment. She had hoped that the woman who had lived here might be able to help her discover the truth of her birth, but even in her wildest thoughts she had not really believed that.

  Yet she would leave the letter she had prepared for Madame Fanchot. It was unlikely that anyone would ever want to come back to a place like this, but she would leave the letter just in case.

  She placed it on the table, startled as she saw a rat scuttle away into the corner of the room. The rats would eat anything left out, Clothilde realized, and seeing a small tin on the table she opened it and put the letter inside.

  For a moment she considered going to Father Caillebotte’s house to ask if he knew where Madame Fanchot had gone, but she knew he would just try to persuade her to let him find her a place in a good house.

  No, she was not to be persuaded. Her dreams had formed over the years, and she was going to find some way of making them come true.

  Chapter Nine

  Penhallows 1945

  “It was terribly sad about poor Bumble,” Beth said that evening at dinner. “But he was old, darling. He couldn’t have gone on for much longer.”

  “That wasn’t the point,” Christine objected. “I know there was nothing they could do for him – but I wasn’t going to let them take him off to the slaughterhouse to be made into dog meat. I want him buried in the paddocks.”

  “That’s ridiculous sentiment,” Simon protested. “The creature is dead – what difference can it make?”

  “I agree with Christine,” Henry said. “I’ve already put the matter in hand. Don’t worry, Christine. Bumble will get his own little corner of…”

  “Good God! You make me sick, the lot of you,” Simon scraped back his chair. “All this fuss over a pony! What about the thousands of men killed in battle who were trodden into the mud or blown into so many pieces that it was impossible to recognise them as men – do you imagine they ever got a decent funeral?”

  There was silence as he left the room. Beth saw Henry’s frown and gave him an appeasing look. “He didn’t mean to be rude. I’m sure he will apologise.”

  “He probably meant every word,” Henry’s his frown eased. “It doesn’t matter. He has a right to be angry after what he’s been through, and what he says is true. But Christine loved that pony and so did Harry. Bumble is staying where he belongs and that’s final.”

  Christine glanced across the table at Jack and Helene. Neither of them had offered an opinion, and from Jack’s expression it seemed likely that they were at odds with one another.

  Christine felt guilty; this atmosphere was partly her fault. “Simon is upset,” she said and sent a look of accusation at Helene.

  “Excuse me.” Helene said stood up. “Forgive me, Beth. I have a headache.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Beth said. “Why don’t you go up and have a rest?”

  “Yes, I shall – if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Would you like something for the pain? I think I have some Aspirin somewhere…”

  “Thank you, no. Excuse me.”

  “Oh dear,” Beth said lowering her voice as Helene left. “Do you think all that talk of war upset her?”

  “Helene is angry with me,” Jack said. “I’ve been pushing her too hard for an answer.” He looked directly at his father. “You may as well all know that I’ve asked her to marry me. Several times actually – but she hasn’t made up her mind.” He shrugged, a rueful expression on his face. “I’ve never been a patient man, but this time I’ve no choice.”

  “Jack…” Beth stared at him uncertainly. “You hardly know her. And she’s so young…”

  “I know all I need to know, and I can’t see what difference age makes. Don’t stare at me like that, Beth. I don’t need anyone’s approval.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that you did. It is a surprise that’s all.”

  “Not a very pleasant one it would seem from your manner. I find that odd since you’ve been urging me to marry for as long as I can remember. It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that she’s the daughter of Alexander’s first wife, would it?”

  “That’s a beastly thing to say to Mummy!” Christine cried and burst into tears. She jumped up from the table. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” With that she ran from the room, leaving Jack to stare after her with a mixture of annoyance and bewilderment.

  “Oh dear,” Beth sighed. “What is the matter with everyone? I wasn
’t criticising you, Jack – or Helene.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t have snapped your head off like that.” Jack gave her a rueful look. “I’m sorry, Beth. It’s just that I’m on edge. I was hoping Helene felt the same as I do and I suppose it has given my pride a knock.”

  “Oh, Jack. Of course I hope it works out as you want it, my dear. Nothing would make me happier.”

  “You do like her – don’t you, Beth?”

  He looked like a young boy in his eagerness for approval. Even if she had thoroughly disliked Helene she couldn’t have told him so.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “She is a lovely, talented girl.”

  It was just that they knew so little about her, but it was pointless to warn Jack to be careful, he was already much too involved.

  “Yes, she is,” Jack sighed. “Perhaps I’m being unfair to her. She hasn’t had much of a life lately. I suppose it’s unreasonable of me to expect her to settle down before she’s had a chance to try her wings.” He laughed suddenly. “They say there’s no fool like an old fool – and she has certainly knocked me for six.”

  Christine felt foolish as soon as her outburst was over. She went up to her room, washed her face and tidied her hair, knowing that she would have to apologise. It wasn’t her place to remonstrate with Jack – besides, it was all her fault. She had stirred the whole thing up by telling Simon about what she’d overheard outside the study.

  She ought not to have listened to the quarrel between Jack and Helene, and she certainly shouldn’t have told Simon about it.

  Who should she apologise to first? Her uncle would still be at dinner. She could talk to him later alone; he was more likely to accept her apology than Simon.

  The lights were dimmed in the hallway because the Government were urging everyone to save electricity and Beth had removed half of the bulbs. It seemed that there was going to be no let up in the hardships the country was enduring, even if the Allies were making their way into Germany now.