A House Called Bellevigne

by Gilbert, Jacqueline

  ‘Today has been business, family business, which still must be discussed some time. Not now, I agree. I think you have had enough of de Seve history and affairs to last a lifetime.’ He walked before her and opened the door. The young girl who served lunch was passing and he said: ‘Tell Andre I want the car, Gabrielle.’

  ‘Out, Monsieur Lucien.’ The girl gave Troy a friendly, curious glance and hurried on her way.

  They followed more leisurely, Lucien giving a running commentary on various pieces of furniture, knowing Troy was interested, stopping when she admired a particularly fine corner chair set in a window alcove. Troy found him well versed in period history and when she enthused over an unusual pedestal table he said:

  ‘You must come and delve at your leisure. I shall tell JeanJacques that you have my permission, and you can come and go, whether I am here or not.’

  Troy turned her face to his, cheeks flushed with pleasure.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she stammered, and he waved a dismissive hand, opening another door leading out into the open. Once, across a small terrace and down a flight of stone steps Troy stopped and looked back. She pointed to a stone shield.

  ‘Is that your coat of arms, Lucien?’ When he nodded she squinted up at it. ‘It’s a gauntlet, isn’t it?’ and then her eyes were caught by the words. ‘ “Il sail se defendre” .. . “He can hold his own”,’ she translated thoughtfully, slanting him a glance. ‘Hm, I imagine there’s some truth there.’

  He smiled. ‘We are rather tenacious, I believe.’

  ‘And the animals either side of the gauntlet?’

  ‘The de Seve griffin,’ supplied Lucien, his smile broadening. ‘A fearsome beast, is he not? You’ll find him all over the place, we’re positively infested with the brute.’ He indicated a low pillar gracing the balustrade. ‘See, here he is, close to—a real hybrid monstrosity. Legend has it that he guards the de Seves from ruin and slaughter … which is nice to know.’

  ‘He is a mixture, isn’t he?’ Troy ran her fingers over the shape of the griffin. ‘He has the body, legs and tail of a lion,’ she peered round from all angles, ‘and the head and claws of an eagle, with eagle’s wings.’

  ‘Don’t forget the ears,’ urged Lucien, eyes amused. ‘I gather from the experts that they are extremely important.’

  Troy reflected that the de Seve griffin and its master showed a distinctive predatory similarity and it would be an ill decision to do battle with either.

  The Beaufighter drew up with a young man at the wheel. Lucien opened the door and Troy gained her seat gingerly. She expected him to say goodbye and had her smile and words of thanks ready on her lips when he surprised her by walking round and exchanging places with the young man.

  Lucien said: ‘Merci, Andre,’ and as the car moved slowly round the corner of the Chateau and out into the drive, Troy murmured in a troubled voice:

  ‘Andre could have taken me.’

  ‘So he could. When you know me better you will find that it is not necessary to concern yourself with my time. Why should I deny myself the pleasure of driving you? I have a position to uphold in the community—think what good it does my image to be seen in the company of a beautiful girl.’ He gave her a lazy glance.

  Cheeks aglow, Troy chuckled and shook her head. ‘How ridiculous you are! It’s much more likely to be the other way round,’ and seeing him arch his brows in question, explained teasingly: ‘The Beaufighter and a Count!’ There, she had made him laugh. Amazing how rewarding even that was.

  Lucien seemed indisposed to talk. Troy was not sorry. She needed a breathing space. She needed to analyse this strange sensation she felt each time he called her Victoire in that special way he had. So much had happened today that it was necessary to reflect. Certainly she felt in a strange mood after hearing the story of Valery de Seve and her grandmother. It had touched her deeply. She was a true romantic and blessed with a strong imagination, both characteristics emotional ones.

  And then there was Lucien de Seve, who was enough to throw anyone off balance. As he stopped the car to open the first field gate she watched him, the artist in her assessing his easy, relaxed walk, the neat symmetry of his physique. As a student of body form she was aware of what constituted a well-proportioned structure. As he walked back to the car she kidded herself that it was in a merely professional capacity that she liked to look at him, watch him move … and the sly little voice that insinuated otherwise was an idiot, an unrealistic idiot.

  As they drove slowly down the road towards the farm Lucien commented:

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  Troy came out of her reverie with a start. He was watching the road ahead and his profile was sharply etched, brow, nose and jaw outlined against the afternoon sunshine, which seemed exaggerated against the air-conditioned interior of the Beaufighter.

  Troy collected her wits. ‘Sorry … I was thinking.’

  He smiled and drew to a halt. ‘Don’t apologise.’ He turned the key and the engine died. Moving slightly in the seat, he faced her. ‘It’s an agreeable surprise to find a female who doesn’t chatter.’

  ‘Ouch!’ exclaimed Troy, half laughing, half annoyed. ‘You are hard on us, aren’t you? No wonder you’ve never found a wife, Monsieur le Comte! I’m beginning to think such a paragon could never exist!’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Victoire,’ Lucien said equably. He put his hand into his inside jacket pocket and drew out an envelope. ‘You remember I mentioned Grand’mere’s ball? It is on the seventeenth, and Grand’mere extends an invitation to join us on that evening. I hope you find that you can accept.’ He handed her the envelope.

  Troy raised puzzled eyes to his face. ‘It’s very kind of Madame la Comtesse … but she doesn’t know me … hasn’t met me.’

  ‘Grand’mere is a law unto herself. She has heard of you, of course, and quite rightly feels that it would be remiss to have a visitor staying at the Home Farm and not ask her along to join in the festivities.’ He paused. ‘Will you come?’ He waited a moment and asked mockingly: ‘You’re not frightened of her, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ protested Troy laughingly.

  ‘Then why do you hesitate?’

  She bit her lip and looked away, frowning slightly, her gaze following the flight of a bird as it darted in and out of the hedgerow searching for food.

  ‘If the family are not to know about me, about the true reason for my being here, what will you tell them?’ she asked, turning a curious face to him. Lucien said calmly:

  ‘I shall tell them nothing. It’s a policy of mine. It saves a lot of trouble in the long run.’

  This brought forth a reluctant smile to her lips, but she persisted.

  ‘But what will they think?’

  He lifted his hands in an expressive gesture of dismissal, smiling cynically.

  ‘A pointless exercise, Victoire, speculating upon another person’s thoughts. Will you come?’

  She turned the envelope in her hands. ‘If I’m still here, I shall be glad to come, and shall write and inform Madame.’ This was accepted with a brief: ‘Bon,’ and then they left the Beaufighter and walked slowly across the yard to the farm. Pushing a truant strand of hair from her eyes, Troy looked up at him, squinting against the sun. She held out her hand.

  ‘Goodbye, Lucien. Thank you for telling me about Grandmother. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  He still clasped her hand as he said: ‘I go to Bordeaux tomorrow, we have vineyards there also, and shall be away for a few days. JeanJacques will be on hand should you need anything. Do you think you could possibly try to keep out of trouble while I’m gone?’ The grey eyes smiled lazily down at her.

  An indignant protest, trembling on her lips, was replaced by a smile. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she promised, and withdrew her hand. She entered the farmhouse and stood by the window, watching the distinctive cream car back into the side field and then disappear down the farmroad, Lucien’s: ‘A bientot, Victoire,’ still
in her ears.

  See you soon …

  She remembered the invitation and opened the envelope. The wording was formal, the de Seve crest at the top. She turned from the window and went up to her room, a thoughtful expression on her face. It was all very nice Lucien adopting a policy of saying nothing. She knew jolly well people would be curious and the logical assumption would be that it was Lucien who was inducing her to stay on. Did she mind having her name coupled with his?

  She propped the invitation against the swivel mirror and nibbled her lip. Her spirits had plummeted and she knew why and it was laughable. To feel dismay because a man she hardly knew was going away for a few days!

  In her well-ordered life it was not acceptable to be knocked off balance by a man so quickly. She had known it happen to others and had always been sceptical, distrusting such rapid emotional involvement. She distrusted still, but it made little difference. Her sense of reason seemed to have deserted her.

  She lay back on the bed, her hands clasped behind her head, thinking what she had learned today. She felt confused, excited and apprehensive. A jumble of emotions, and all centred on Lucien de Seve.

  Perhaps it was for the best that he was going away, it would give her a breathing space, thought Troy, and wondered whether it was possible to fall in love, totally unsuitably in love, after only three meetings.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT was amazing how the sun shone every day and with such confidence. Looking at the pale blue sky with its white fluffy clouds, Troy supposed the Loiret to have rainfall, but to date she had not been caught in any. She was turning a gratifying tan, helped by wearing sun-tops and cool, sleeveless dresses. The injury to her thigh was much improved and the fresh air, the holiday mood and the good, wholesome food dished up by Modestine Marin suited her and brought an extra sparkle and vitality to her looks.

  Troy wrote a long letter to Fiona, explaining what had happened since leaving Paris. She wondered what Fiona’s reaction would be to the news that she had met, once again, the interesting ugly-attractive Frenchman, Fiona’s own turn of phrase. As for the story of the wartime romance between Valery de Seve and Victoria Courtland, Fiona had known Troy’s grandmother well and would no doubt share Troy’s own astonishment at what had happened in the rather awe-inspiring, so respectable old lady’s past.

  It was five days since Lucien de Seve had taken his leave. A breathing space of five long hot lazy days spent between the Home Farm and Bellevigne, graduating to a little gentle exploring of the village of Seve. At first, JeanJacques had ferried her to and fro, but then Troy found she was able to drive and soon Andre became used to having the red sports car under his expert care.

  He was an engaging young man, Andre, and it was from him that Troy learned that most of the staff were descendants of families who had served the de Seves for generations. He was courting the pretty little maid, Gabrielle, and they hoped to marry the following year, when Monsieur Lucien had promised them a house on the Estate.

  Monsieur Lucien …

  Five days without him in which Troy alternated between brisk peptalks full of common sense, and daydreams which flustered and confused, throwing her into excited panic at the thought of his return.

  Common sense won when she was away from the Chateau, but once at Bellevigne how could she stand back and take a cool assessment of her feelings when she was surrounded by people who never let her forget him for a minute? She found the staff friendly and helpful—Monsieur le Comte had left instructions that Mademoiselle Troy was to be welcomed and looked after, so welcomed and looked after Mademoiselle was. The Chateau itself was a constant reminder of the weight of Lucien’s responsibilities. It was not extravagantly run, but the amount of staff needed so that it could be maintained efficiently was an eye-opener, and all of them depending upon him for a living.

  Troy tried hard, never encouraging them to speak of him, but when they did, soaking in every word with concealed greediness. Bit by bit Lucien de Seve grew, and nothing she learned could diminish him. He was treated with loyalty, respect and deep affection, and even though she knew she was a fool to become involved in such a hopeless infatuation, she was powerless to stop the strengthening bond between them.

  On this fifth day, the Chateau hummed with the knowledge that Monsieur Lucien was due back from Bordeaux. It was purely accidental that the angle Troy had set her folding chair to gain a good view of the paddock and the black stallion, -Sable, also allowed sight of the main drive along which the sleek, cream Beaufighter had to pass. Purely accidental, she told herself sternly, as she bent over her sketch pad.

  When a shadow fell across the paper she thought that she had missed the car and her head came up eagerly. Disappointment was intense when she saw that it was Philippe and not Lucien. She hid her feelings and said pleasantly:

  ‘Bonjour, Philippe,’ and wondered why she was being honoured with his presence. She received a mumbled greeting and watched as he slouched to the paddock fence.

  If the staff of Bellevigne had been friendly and welcoming, the family was less so. Isabeau was politely gracious whenever Troy saw her, which was not often. The old Comtesse, ensconced in her south wing, remained a recluse, and up till now Philippe had studiously ignored her. Now he had sought her out, on a Saturday, with no lessons to fill his time.

  Troy carried on drawing, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye, feeling a rising exasperation. The boy had her sympathy, but really, with all his advantages, he ought to pull himself together. When he began to kick at one of the posts with the toe of his shoe, she said mildly:

  ‘Philippe, you are disturbing my concentration and distracting the horse.’

  Philippe gave a deep, bitter sigh, but he stopped kicking. Troy’s pencil moved quickly over the page. Another quick glance at his sullen face decided her. Shock tactics sometimes worked.

  ‘You know, Philippe, you’re becoming a bit of a bore … a pain, in fact. I know you’re fed up and unhappy, but the only person who can help you is yourself.’ She turned over a page and began again, making more lightening sketches while Sable obliged by staying still, his tail swishing gently. She did not look at Philippe but was encouraged by him not walking off in a huff. ‘Life’s much easier mixing with happy people, and if you go around with an enormous chip on your shoulder and being grumpy then you must expect a lack of sympathy.’

  He said stiffly: ‘I beg your pardon. I did not know you disliked me

  so.’

  ‘I don’t dislike you. I just wish you’d organise yourself a bit better.’ ‘You do not understand,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘I understand you want to go to Orleans as a weekly boarder but that your mother is against the idea. Adults are always going on about when you’re grown up, aren’t they? and it’s infuriating, but the fact remains that you’re only fifteen and still have a few years to go until you’re your own boss. Even then you can’t always do what you want, but there’s a better chance.’

  ‘That’s what Lucien says,’ Philippe said grudgingly, coming closer.

  ‘What you’ve got to do is come to terms with things. Life’s too short to waste it by being miserable. Accept your brother’s decision regarding Sable and the riding restrictions—I doubt either are to be for ever! Get your nose down to some work so that your tutor can praise— I gather you’re quite clever so that shouldn’t be difficult. And learn to smile a bit more.’ She smiled herself, her eyes kind. ‘You’d be surprised at the difference it makes! They’ll be completely charmed by the new Philippe, and you might just find your folk more reasonable.’

  ‘Maman would never let me go,’ Philippe said.

  ‘She might, if you get Lucien on your side.’

  Philippe glanced at the sketch block and a note of surprise sounded in his voice. ‘I say, they’re good!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Troy replied dryly.

  ‘I didn’t know you could draw. You’ve captured Sable perfectly.’ He paused and pointed a finger. ‘Especially this one. Could I have i
t? I wish to put it on my wall.’

  Troy was amused by the imperial request.

  ‘I’m sorry, I need these, but if I have time I’ll do one for you.’ She waited for sulks, but he merely asked a little stiffly:

  ‘Why do you need them?’

  Turning the page again, Troy spoke as she worked. ‘I have to choose something to sculpt, and Sable could become my choice. It’s necessary that I know the way he looks from every angle, the way his body moves, so I draw him and take photographs and then work from both.’ She selected a piece of charcoal and began a larger sketch. By gentle probing she learned a little more about the boy and realised that because most of the other boys his age who lived in the vicinity went to Bourges to the day school, Philippe felt an outsider. She tore off the sheet and held it out to him. ‘Here’s your picture of Sable, Philippe. Be careful, it smudges.’

  Philippe exclaimed: ‘Thank you—that’s good. I wish I could draw, but I’m hopeless. If I could draw like that …’ and his voice trailed.

  Troy said briskly: ‘There are other hobbies. What about photography? You could take photographs of Sable and the other horses, since they seem to be the only thing at the moment to interest you. You could even learn to develop and print. I have a camera you could borrow to try it out.’

  ‘But I know nothing about photography.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I do,’ and seeing his look, Troy burst out laughing. ‘My dear Philippe, do try to hide your doubts! Far from blowing my own trumpet, I merely tell you that we had to study photography at all levels at college.’ She rose and began to pack up, thinking how easy it was to give other people advice. She was very conscious of the empty drive. What she ought to do was to go to the lawyer in Paris and deal with Grandmother’s affairs through him instead of getting into a mess here!

  They began to walk back towards the Chateau. Philippe observed thoughtfully:

  ‘You’re not a bit like I thought.’

  Troy’s brows rose. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You being a model. I didn’t think you’d be able to draw or know about cameras and things,’ he went on ingenuously.