A House Called Bellevigne

by Gilbert, Jacqueline

  Doctor Dubois straightened, his task finished. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

  It was Troy who was now gazing out of the window, trying to dissociate herself with the talk going on around her. She was growing decidedly uneasy about her deception and decided to confess she could understand French at the first favourable opportunity. She would look a fool, but that seemed to be the role she was destined to play for Lucien de Seve.

  ‘I shall tell your grandmother,’ the doctor was saying as he crossed the room and entered another, the sound of running water accompanying his words, ‘that the girl’s injury is promising to heal nicely and that you will soon be absolved of all responsibility. I think Madame fears our visiting beauty has captivated your eye! You know her love of the English and what her thoughts on that would be!’

  Out of the corner of her eye Troy could see him standing in the doorway, drying his hands. She also sensed that Lucien de Seve was watching her. The doctor chuckled, disappearing again, his voice wafting through teasingly:

  ‘You have reassured her, I hope, Lucien, and told her you consider the girl to be a termagant?’

  Troy consigned the drunken Georges to the devil and wished she had never begun this stupid charade. A casual glance told her that the pair of grey eyes were still resting upon her with steady appraisal and it was necessary to find great interest in a picture on the wall.

  ‘You may tell Grand’mere that she need not worry,’ Lucien drawled. ‘Would you say, Marcel, that our termagant is a virgin?’

  ‘Never can. tell these days, Lucien,’ replied the doctor with gruff humour. He appeared once more and made for his medical case. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Too pretty. Are you looking for a virgin, my boy? Going to be difficult, eh? You’ll have to seek a young, untamed filly.’ He eyed the young man slyly. ‘There’s one I can think of—your grandmother approves of her, as you well know.’ He slapped his hat briskly against his leg. ‘I’m going. Take care, Lucien.’ He turned to Troy, saying in English: ‘Goodbye, young lady. I’ll see you in ten days to take out the stitches, if you’re still around. If you intend to leave I’ll give you a letter for your own doctor,’ and giving her a quick handshake he bustled out of the room.

  Lucien waited until the door closed and speaking in his own language he said conversationally:

  ‘You’ll still be around, Mademoiselle Maitland, I’m quite sure. What do you think?’

  Her voice choked with indignant anger, Troy replied in her excellent French:

  ‘Good manners prevent me from telling you!’

  ‘You surprise me. I did not realise it was good manners to listen in on conversations on the pretence of non-comprehension.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault,’ flared Troy, incensed at the injustice of his rebuke. She began to struggle up from the chair.

  ‘Sit down. I have no intention of allowing you to go yet.’ The grey eyes were cold, the face a blank mask.

  Troy’s lip curled. ‘Bully, as well as …’ she searched frantically for a suitable French word and spat it out, ‘… slimy reptile!’ She sank back and glared accusingly. ‘You baited me on purpose! You were perfectly outrageous just to see if I would react!’

  ‘And I succeeded, didn’t I? I merely wished to test my suspicions, and it was fairly obvious that you could understand what I was saying. You jumped a mile and that maidenly blush was quite something … I thought them to be out of date.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I can understand why termagant might cause the bristles to rise, but virgin?’ He quirked a brow, his voice cool. ‘In this day and age?’

  ‘It’s not what you said,’ retorted Troy, stung, ‘but the cat-and-mouse way you went about it.’

  ‘I only had suspicions … and no insult was intended. I could, I assure you, have embarrassed you even more, had I chosen.’

  ‘I’m sure you could have, monsieur. Your imagination and expertise must be vast!’ retaliated Troy scathingly. ‘I had no intention of pretending I couldn’t understand, and it was all Georges’s fault …’ She stopped short and bit her lip, vexed. ‘I was going to tell you, anyway,’ she added impatiently.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ He paused and went on thoughtfully: ‘Georges’s fault… ah, yes, now it comes back to me. Something to do with a man being happy in your arms, was it not? And the delightful assertion that my bed would not be cold with you in it.’

  ‘God forbid! I’d sooner sleep in the fields,’ Troy observed icily.

  Lucien smiled sardonically, his look shrewd and ironic. ‘You misjudge Bellevigne and myself, Mademoiselle Maitland.’

  With face aflame, Troy demanded impetuously: ‘Have you finished? May I now go, Monsieur le Comte?’ His title was voiced with exaggerated politeness.

  ‘By no means. We have only touched the tip of the iceberg …’ Lucien looked up with a frown as the door burst open and a boy flung himself into the room. He was in a white-hot rage and could hardly get his words out.

  ‘Lucien! Patrice says you’ve given orders that I’m not to ride Sable!’

  ‘Good morning, Philippe. Do I have to remind you yet again that it is the custom to knock on this door before entering?’

  ‘But Sable, Lucien! You know I can manage him!’ Philippe declared passionately.

  ‘You are over-optimistic, Philippe. When you have closed the door, perhaps you will say good morning to Mademoiselle Maitland?’ There was an edge of steel in Lucien’s voice and eye which finally got through. Philippe turned abruptly and closed the door and then looked sullenly over to where Troy was sitting. Lucien said: ‘Mademoiselle Maitland, my half-brother, Philippe. Philippe, Mademoiselle Maitland is from England, but she speaks excellent French, so you will not have to practise your English on us at the moment.’

  Troy felt a stab of pity for the boy, although she knew he probably deserved his brother’s recrimination. He was a good-looking youth, or would have been had his expression been sunnier. He was as fair as Lucien was dark but had his build and what she was to come to recognise as the de Seve nose.

  ‘Good morning, Philippe,’ Troy said kindly, giving him a smile. He was not to be mollified nor sidetracked.

  ‘Good morning.’ He allowed her a sweeping glance and turned back to his brother. ‘Patrice says I mayn’t ride in the mornings. Lucien! Do you hear?’

  ‘I hear, and imagine Grand’mere can also. Please control yourself, Philippe. Either say your piece in a reasonable manner or leave.’

  Philippe flushed but stood his ground. ‘Did you give those orders?’

  Lucien eyed him fully for some seconds, saying at last: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lucien, how could you?’ burst out Philippe. ‘You’ve allowed Maman to persuade you …’

  ‘Your mother is naturally concerned over Sable. The rest is my doing. Until you show some improvement in your studies, Philippe, you will not ride in the mornings. You’ve abused your privileges and cannot be trusted any more.’ Lucien paused and said more kindly: ‘Come, Philippe, admit that you have been neglecting your books. Is that fair to your tutor? A man whose living depends upon you? You take your examinations next year. What sort of chance will you have if you do not work? No decisions will be made about your future until your formal education is over. Do you hear me, Philippe?’

  ‘Yes! I hear you!’ The words were venomously spoken, and swinging violently on his heel, Philippe stormed out of the room, banging the door behind him.

  The silence left behind seemed weighted with words. Lucien stared hard at the door for some seconds before turning to frown out of the window, hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.

  Troy sat waiting. At last he turned, saying abruptly:

  ‘I’m sorry you were subjected to that.’

  She said quietly: ‘I’m sorry too … you would have preferred being alone.’

  He gave a brusque laugh. ‘You will learn, mademoiselle, that Philippe cares nothing for keeping his grievances to himself. That outburst was a minor one, believe me.’ He walked back to the desk and h
itched himself on the corner, looking down at her. ‘Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I remember … any advance on slimy reptile? I must congratulate you on your accent, it is excellent.’

  Grey eyes held brown for a long moment.

  Troy looked down at her hands in her lap. ‘I’m afraid you bring out the worst in me.’

  ‘I do seem to have the unlucky knack, do I not?’

  Was there a hint of amusement in his voice? Her lashes flew up.

  ‘I should have told you—you’re quite right. But once you’d assumed, it was difficult. I can only repeat that a confession was trembling on my lips and would have been made today,’ and this last was said with a slight uplift of the chin.

  Lucien folded his arms across his chest. Troy could see a handsome gold wristwatch and the glint of gold cuff links. There was a tiny white scar across the knuckles of his left hand.

  ‘And have you any other confessions trembling on those lips of yours?’

  Troy’s eyes widened as they searched his face.

  ‘For instance, why you were looking for Bellevigne?’ His tone was almost offhand.

  She stared in consternation. Incredible though it seemed, she had been so busy reacting to the man she had forgotten the real purpose of her visit. Her lips parted and closed. Where on earth to start?

  ‘Is it so difficult?’ he asked mildly.

  Troy brushed her lips with the tip of her tongue and gave a half

  laugh. ‘Yes, it is.’

  He leaned forward, encouragingly. ‘Try me,’ he urged.

  She shrugged. ‘It sounds preposterous, and I know so little about …’ She broke off. She remembered the slight emphasis on the word ‘confessions’ and said slowly: ‘You know exactly why I’m here, don’t you? You know who I am and …’ She stopped and drew a deep breath. ‘You really are the most aggravating man! How long have you known?’

  Lucien pursed his lips, replying calmly: ‘About you, personally? A few moments ago. About your grandmother—we were informed of her death some days back. However, we were under the impression that your mother was still alive.’

  ‘Both my parents were killed in a train derailment when I was eleven and my grandmother, then a widow, brought me up. You say, a few moments ago …?’

  ‘After your illuminating question yesterday as to the whereabouts of a house called Bellevigne I realised you were probably related to Victoria Courtney. Early this morning I rang through to my lawyers who, in turn, got in touch with London. My lawyers rang me back a few moments ago while Marcel was attending you, and they confirmed my suspicions.’

  Troy grimaced in dismay at the word ‘suspicions’. ‘Look, I’m completely in the dark about all this. I didn’t even know that Bellevigne existed until after Grandmother’s death. I don’t know why she’s connected with the Chateau, or why money has been coming from France all these years. Please believe me …’

  ‘I do,’ he replied mildly.

  She was amazed and showed it. ‘You do?’

  ‘No other member of my family is aware of your grandmother’s existence, or your own. I, as eldest son, inherited the knowledge from my father, who, in his turn, was told by his father.’

  ‘I see,’ said Troy, not seeing at all.

  ‘And being a curious young lady you decided to find out for yourself instead of waiting for your lawyers to unravel the thread.’

  She nodded. ‘I had a holiday due and had to come to Paris …’

  ‘… for a photographic session,’ broke in Lucien. ‘You seem surprised. It is quite simple. I asked Armand Descartes who you were.’

  There was a pause and then the implication of his words swept over her and the blood rushed to her cheeks. She said a feeble:

  ‘Oh, did you?’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘I dislike receiving “charitable” birthday gifts only knowing the donor name.’ He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I see it’s very close to lunch. I hope I can persuade you to stay and eat with us. I promise to tell you all I know about your grandmother afterwards. Can you wait that long?’

  ‘I’ve remained in ignorance for so long, a little longer isn’t going to make much difference,’ observed Troy with a grin, and his brows quirked.

  ‘Remarkable patience and almost unknown in a woman.’

  She gave him a very level look. ‘Spoken like the true cynic!” She allowed him to help her up. ‘I shall walk— Doctor Dubois said I may.’ She eyed him defiantly. ‘Either I walk on my own two feet or I go hungry.’

  ‘Feet it shall be,’ he returned smoothly, and gestured to the door that the doctor had used. ‘There are a few letters I must sign. Perhaps you would like to freshen up while I do them?’

  Troy found herself in a shower-cloakroom and was grateful for his thoughtfulness. Washing her hands, she lifted her eyes to the mirror and saw bright red cheeks and sparkling eyes. She splashed water on her face to try and cool it, but the warmth came from within. In Lucien de Seve’s presence she seemed charged with an inner energy, and while this excited her, stimulated her, it also gave rise to an underlying uneasiness. She dragged the comb through her hair, trying to tame it into some semblance of neatness, but it bristled with electricity. Like me, she thought ruefully, quickly applying cologne to her wrists. I either bristle with antagonism or collapse into a shambles of apologies. She took a deep breath and rejoined him. He was sitting, writing, at the desk, but stood and came round to meet her.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked. ‘Then we’ll go in search of lunch. Are you going to accept the help of my arm, or does your independence balk at even that?’ The grey eyes quizzed her.

  Troy’s lips curved. ‘Not at all, Monsieur le Comte,’ and she slipped her hand through the offered arm, grateful for his help. They walked slowly in deference to her limp, leaving the office and turning deeper into the Chateau. Lucien observed whimsically:

  ‘You say Monsieur le Comte delightfully, but do you know, I think I prefer to hear Lucien on your lips?’

  Troy’s eyes danced. ‘Oh, I can manage Lucien, if you insist, but

  Monsieur le Comte appeals to me so much more.’

  An amused wariness crept into his voice. ‘Dare I ask why?’

  ‘I’ve never met a real live Count before. It does my ego good.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘What a set-down!’ he mourned, and then the amusement was replaced by one of politeness as he went on: ‘Ah, here is Isabeau.’

  Troy looked up to see the woman who had interrupted them on the Descartes’ balcony coming towards them. She made to withdraw her arm, but Lucien, sensing her intention, tightened his grip slightly and she was forced to remain as she was. That brief glimpse of Isabeau was now confirmed. She was attractive and impeccably groomed, slim and petite, with thick blonde hair coiled in a knot, and the well-cut linen suit she was wearing was Paris-bought. As they drew nearer their steps halted.

  Lucien said: ‘Isabeau, this is Victoria Maitland, on holiday from England. You remember I spoke of her unfortunate accident yesterday? I considered the least we could do would be to ask her to lunch, and we are on our way there now. Victoire, I would like you to meet Isabeau de Seve, my stepmother.’

  Troy hoped that her start of surprise at this astonishing news did not show. Lucien’s stepmother? But Isabeau only looked a handful of years older, if that! Hardly old enough to be Philippe’s mother, although she undoubtedly was—the likeness was apparent.

  As Troy held out her hand she could see that Isabeau recognised her. The polite smile on Isabeau’s lips did not quite reach her eyes, although her voice was friendly enough as she murmured a greeting.

  Lucien offered Isabeau his other arm, saying: ‘If you’re in to lunch today, Isabeau, will you join us?’ and they all three began to walk again, passing through a series of corridors and ante-rooms, all beautifully in period, with picture-lined walls and windows giving an occasional view of an inner courtyard or sweeping expanse of green parkland.

  The conversation turned to Philippe and
Isabeau said:

  ‘Lucien, thank you for banning Sable. Philippe can be quite impossible at times, as we both know, and that horse petrifies me. I’m so terribly afraid that Philippe will have an accident like his father.’

  ‘You’ll not be able to keep Philippe away from horses entirely, Isabeau,’ pointed out Lucien reasonably, ‘but we’ll do our best to keep him off Sable.’

  ‘Do you ride, Mademoiselle Maitland?’ Isabeau asked, and Troy replied enthusiastically:

  ‘Yes, I do, whenever I can.’

  ‘What a pity your injury will prevent you taking advantage of the excellent de Seve stables,’ sympathised Isabeau, and Lucien observed:

  ‘We must try and persuade her to stay long enough to do so.’

  Troy shot him a startled look and there was an odd pause which she finished by saying quickly:

  ‘What a beautiful home you have. You must be very proud of it.’

  At this, Lucien glanced her way, a faint smile on his lips. ‘I’m glad it pleases you. It has been in the family for a few centuries and with good luck will continue for a few more.’ He stood aside, and Troy followed Isabeau through a door and gave an exclamation of appreciation at the room they had now entered. Lucien held a chair for Isabeau to be seated, while JeanJacques, who had risen at their entrance and smiled and murmured a greeting, did the same for Troy. Lucien caught her eye over the table.

  ‘You like the Salle Ovale?’ He gave a swift look round the room and went on with wry amusement: ‘I have always felt grateful that Boffrand could only find the time to turn his talents to this one room. To have the whole of Bellevigne Rococo would strain my appreciation to the full.’

  Troy laughed at his comical grimace. The Salle Ovale was the most ornate interior she had seen so far and was, as Lucien stated, decorated in the Rococo style. Flowers, nymphs, delicate leafwork were evident in the panels and ceiling as well as on the furniture, and a magnificent chandelier hung from the centre of the domed ceiling. Gilt and pastel colours made the room light, helped by the arched windows emphasising its oval shape.