‘In other words you thought I was just an empty-head?’ suggested Troy mildly, and Philippe went scarlet. She took pity on him. ‘Don’t worry, Philippe, I’m quite used to it, but you should never make judgements on outward appearance. For instance, you’re not really a bore, are you?’ and her eyes twinkled and Philippe grinned reluctantly. He said:
‘Lucien and Grand’mere were talking the other day and Lucien said it didn’t matter what you were like, it was enough just to look at you … and Lucien is a good judge.’
‘Is he now?’ managed Troy.
‘I’ll say! Lucien has an eye for horses and females. He never fails.’ There was pride in Philippe’s voice.
‘Do you like your brother, Philippe?’ Troy asked tentatively, and he looked surprised.
‘Gosh, yes, Lucien’s all right… decent really … it’s just that… oh, well, it’s no use going on about it.’
‘Not a bit,’ agreed Troy cheerfully. ‘I’ll bring my camera tomorrow and we’ll have a lesson on how to use it.’ She glanced up at the house. ‘Is Zenobie waiting for you, or me, do you think?’
They climbed the stone steps and Zenobie said: ‘Your mother is looking for you, Philippe,’ and he gave Troy a wry smile and went inside. Zenobie went on: ‘Madame Claudine wishes you to take coffee with her, mademoiselle, if you would come this way.’
Oh Lord! thought Troy, unnerved, and begged to be allowed to wash the charcoal from her fingers. When that was done she hastily checked herself in the mirror. The navy and white striped dress was presentable, her hair was a little wild, she had washed it that morning— because it needed it, she had told herself, and not because a certain person was expected back from Bordeaux—and slicked it down with water, trying to tame it.
Zenobie gave her an encouraging smile and preceded her along the corridors and up flights of stairs so that Troy was soon lost.
As they entered the Comtesse’s set of rooms Troy told herself sternly: The old lady can’t eat you!
Claudine de Seve sat, straight-backed, in an elegant armchair with padded arms and buttoned upholstery of red and gold brocade. As Zenobie said: ‘Mademoiselle Maitland, madame,’ Troy moved forward to come beneath the sharp scrutiny of tiny button-bright eyes that travelled from her head to her toes and back again with intent regard.
‘Good morning, Miss Maitland. How extremely good of you to visit me at such short notice,’ Claudine de Seve said in excellent English. ‘Thank you, Zenobie. Miss Maitland will pour.’ Zenobie murmured: ‘Very well, madame,’ and gave Troy another supportive smile as she glided past. When the door closed behind her, Claudine de Seve gestured a hand towards the tray of coffee things.
Troy walked to the table and began to pour, asking the usual questions as to sugar and milk, carrying Madame’s cup over to her and placing it within easy reach. She was amused, but careful not to show it. It could easily have been her own grandmother sitting with a critical eye waiting for her to make the tiniest mistake. Years of presiding at her grandmother’s table gave one the utmost confidence in such matters, but Madame Claudine could not know that. Troy went back for her own cup and following another wave of the hand sat down on a similar chair opposite her hostess, who opened fire with all guns.
‘You walk well, Miss Maitland, but I suppose that is part of your job.’ She raised spectacles attached by a thin silver chain round her neck and peered through them. ‘Is your hair naturally that colour, I wonder? It must be very difficult to manage … so thick and…’ Madame paused to seek the word in English and resigned herself to one in French: ‘… crepu.’
Crepu, Troy knew, meant frizzy. Boucle meant curly, a word Madame could have used to make sure of not offending. She was, Troy suspected, aware that her guest spoke French.
Troy remembered her manners and smiled. ‘Your grandson tells me, madame, that you are soon to celebrate your eightieth birthday, and you have been kind enough to invite me to your ball. May I congratulate you? I hope that when I reach that great age my hair will look as beautiful as yours does now. As you suppose, mine brings its problems, but the colour is not one of them.’
Madame allowed the spectacles to drop, her gaze never wavering. After a moment the white, immaculately coiffured head inclined slightly at the compliment and she reached out a tiny hand to take her cup. Like everything else in the room the china was exquisite, fragile-thin and white, a fine gold rim its only decoration.
‘You met my grandson at the Descartes’, I understand,’ Madame observed, dabbing her lips gently with a lace handkerchief. ‘You know the Descartes well, Miss Maitland?’
‘No, madame … I was merely a friend of one of their guests.’
‘And now you find yourself on holiday, so conveniently close to Bellevigne, and my grandson.’
Troy said carefully: ‘Coincidentally is a word I would rather use, madame.’ She stared back at the accusing eyes and refused to be intimidated. She wished she could tell the old lady that she was no threat, that the reason her grandson was showing her attention was because of a wartime romance, but that story could not be retold here.
‘Your leg is recovered?’ Madame asked.
‘Very nearly, madame. Dr Dubois will be removing the stitches on Monday.’
‘Ah, le bon docteur! And will you then be savouring the further delights of our country?’
‘I may stay a while in the Loiret, madame. It is a district unknown to me and one which appeals.’
This was received by a slight tightening of the lips and narrowing of the eyes. Dressed in black, relieved only by fine white lace at neck and cuffs, one hand resting on the top of an ebony cane, the other lying in her lap, Claudine de Seve looked every inch a Countess and a very formidable lady.
‘You admire my room, Miss Maitland?’
‘It is beautiful,’ agreed Troy, her eyes wandering.
‘You know something about period furniture?’
Troy gave a deprecating shrug. ‘A little, madame.’
‘You will appreciate, therefore, that we are surrounded by Louis Seize. I take a delight in keeping in the period, Miss Maitland. That secretaire over there is a fine example of Riesener.’
Troy followed her gaze. ‘Indeed it is, madame.”
‘And my little bureau. Is that not also a fine example?’
Had Troy been completely ignorant of eighteenth-century furniture she would still have had a prickling sensation at Madame’s question. The tiny pixie face was bland and the button eyes slightly hidden by lowered lids, but there was something about the old lady that made Troy rise and study the bureau closer.
‘I think you are teasing me, madame,’ she said mildly, crossing her fingers and taking a chance. ‘The bureau is, I think, Louis Quinze … sometimes called the Pompadour style, is it not?’
She could not tell whether Madame was pleased or annoyed at her bluff being called. She inclined her head and waved her stick imperiously for Troy to be reseated.
‘Not many English girls have heard of Riesener and fewer still could recognise one Louis reign from another,’ Madame said, and Troy observed dryly:
‘I doubt whether many French girls could either, madame. I studied furniture design at college and the eighteenth century particularly interests me,’ and thank the Lord I had to do a special project on it too, thought Troy.
‘I see. Have you been taken over the Chateau, Miss Maitland?’ Madame asked abruptly, and Troy smiled warmly.
‘Yes, madame, and it is beautiful. You must be very proud of Bellevigne.’
‘Do you, perhaps, see yourself as the future Comtesse de Seve?’ The button eyes snapped and a faint colour tinged the powdered cheeks.
Troy carefully put down her empty cup before replying.
‘Isn’t that rather an odd question, madame? I have known your grandson only for a few days.’
The ebony stick cavorted and Madame’s voice was harsh. ‘Time means nothing! Within the first few minutes of meeting my husband I knew he was the man for me. If Lucien fanc
ies you, he’ll have you, but marriage is not in his mind. Has he made love to you?’
‘You can hardly expect me to answer that question, madame.’
The old lady smiled grimly. ‘If he hasn’t, he will. A gorgeous thing like you—Lucien couldn’t resist you! But he knows what is expected of him. An unknown English girl is not to be Comtesse de Seve!’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about, madame,’ urged Troy with studied calmness.
‘He knows I dislike the English intensely …’
‘Madame, you are mistaken if you think …’
‘… and Juliette Descartes is being groomed for the role. A union with the Descartes is an admirable course of events. She would know what is expected of her and …’
‘Madame, I beg you, do not upset yourself.’
‘Lucien must marry within his own kind …’ The angry tirade stopped and Troy rose to her feet, concerned. Madame’s hand clawed at a small box on the nearby table and Troy hastened to open it for her, quickly handing over one of the tablets and waiting anxiously while the old lady’s face became calmer.
‘Shall I ring for Zenobie, madame?’ she asked, and received a slight shake of the head. She sat down in her chair and waited, still perturbed.
At last Madame Claudine’s colour improved and the button eyes, almost back to their original brightness, rested malevolently upon Troy. Madame said:
‘My own fault. Dubois is always warning me to take life calmly. Calmly! How can I do that when there is so much to do and so little time to do it in!’ Her lips pressed together. ‘Don’t fall in love with Lucien, girl. He’ll only cause you heartbreak.’
The blood rushed to Troy’s face. ‘You are mistaken regarding your grandson. I am sure he has every intention of marrying a French girl, if he decides to marry at all. You need not concern yourself, madame,’ she said quietly.
‘I wish I could believe you. I have a tingling in my bones,’ Madame replied sullenly, and briefly, Troy was reminded of Philippe. ‘You have come here at the wrong time—I cannot pretend otherwise. Everything has been negotiated between the Descartes and myself.
All that is necessary is for the announcement to be made. Lucien has merely been waiting for Juliette to finish her education.’ She stared hard at Troy. ‘I cannot like this modern view of life. A girl obeys first her parents and then her husband. You English are a bad influence.’ Her hand lifted in a dismissive gesture. ‘Ring for Zenobie, if you please, Miss Maitland. Thank you.’ The stick stabbed the floor. ‘Come, I wish you to have this.’ The stick pointed to an exquisite cluster of porcelain flowers, no more than two inches in diameter, placed on the Pompadour bureau.
Troy stammered: ‘But, madame, I couldn’t possibly ..
‘Of course you could, girl—take it.’ It was the royal command. ‘It is supposed to be Vincennes, but we cannot prove it. Go… take it.’
Troy could only obey. Refusing might bring on another attack. She was trying to convey her thanks, the flowers resting in the centre of her palm, when the door opened and Madame cut her short by saying firmly:
‘Zenobie, Miss Maitland has finished her coffee. Thank you, Miss Maitland, for your company.’ It was dismissal.
‘Goodbye, madame. Thank you for your gift and for allowing me to see your beautiful room.’ Troy followed Zenobie out, her thoughts and feelings in a jumble. Zenobie glanced at her face and smiled.
‘You feel you have been through an ordeal, mademoiselle?’
Troy pulled a face. ‘I do rather.’
‘Madame has no time for people sans caractere,’ stated Zenobie.
No time for the weak-kneed! Well, mine are shaking, thought Troy with grim amusement. A bleak feeling settled over her. A silly, stupid feeling, brought on entirely by her refusal to face facts. She asked: ‘Has Monsieur Lucien returned?’ The words were uttered before she realised she was thinking them.
‘No mademoiselle. JeanJacques has just left for Paris with papers that need to be signed today. I understand that Mademoiselle Juliette has tickets for the ballet and Monsieur Lucien has made a detour to escort her.’ They passed the hounds, Cesar and Satan, who were lying across the doorway of the library. ‘Those two will not rest contented until their master returns,’
Zenobie observed indulgently. ‘You will stay to lunch, Mademoiselle Troy?’
‘No, thank you, Zenobie,’ and Troy softened the refusal with a smile. Zenobie looked uncertain but said nothing, watching as Troy collected her sketch-block and satchel. Walking out to the car, she received a cheery wave from Andre and as she drove down the drive she remembered how eagerly she had waited earlier for the Beaufighter to appear.
Juliette Descartes. As Madame Claudine said, a most suitable liaison, and Troy wondered whether Lucien would end up obliging his grandmother. Juliette was young and pretty and Lucien was obviously extremely fond of her …
Stop this! she told herself firmly. The Beaufighter was probably already nosing its way into Paris and Lucien was escorting Juliette to the ballet tonight. Remember that, Troy Maitland!
The following morning the first thing she saw was the china flowers. Highlighted by a shaft of sunlight, they sat, delicately beautiful, on Madame Marin’s highly polished chest of drawers. Troy had not slept particularly well and the flower-cluster vividly brought back Madame Claudine’s angry interview. She wiped the worried look off her face as Modestine brought in the breakfast tray, a service she insisted on performing every morning, and refusing to pander to the Comtesse’s wild theories any more Troy set to and tackled breakfast, surprised to find how hungry she was.
She had hardly begun before Modestine was back, consumed with an air of urgency.
‘Mademoiselle Troy, you must come quickly to the telephone. Monsieur le Comte wishes to speak with you.’ She picked up Troy’s silk dressing-gown and held it out for her.
Troy stared in mounting exasperation, not helped by a surge of panic.
‘But, Modestine, my egg will get cold,’ she protested weakly, seeing no softening in her landlady’s expression. ‘Couldn’t you say I’d ring him back?’
Modestine was shocked. ‘Mais non, Mademoiselle Troy! Hurry, we must not keep Monsieur waiting.’
‘No, we mustn’t do that,’ grumbled Troy irreverently under her breath, and slipping her feet into mules and her arms into the dressing-gown she allowed herself to be hustled down the stairs.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘You are extremely formal, Victoire, this morning.’ The voice at the other end of the telephone was just as she remembered it.
‘How can I be otherwise, when for five days your title has been on everyone’s lips?’ she replied coolly, ignoring the leaping of her senses as she heard him laughing softly.
‘But I do not wish to hear it on yours … and five days! Is it really five days, Victoire?’ The familiar teasing note was back in his voice.
Troy ground her teeth, brain working madly. Did he think she had counted the days? ‘I believe so … yes, it must be, as Dr Dubois is removing my stitches tomorrow.’
‘Ah, yes, and how is your injury—are you recovered? Have you had any more adventures while I’ve been away?’
I had a particularly formidable one yesterday, thought Troy broodingly, but said: ‘I’m much better, thank you, and I’m not normally accident-prone—perhaps it’s something to do with you?’
He laughed. ‘It might be, at that. I’m pleased to hear you are improved. I shall call for you in under the hour and we shall inspect the remains of the cottage and…’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Troy, who was not sorry at all, ‘but I can’t this morning.’
There was the fraction of a pause. ‘I see.’
The bloody arrogance of the man! raged Troy. He’s been gone five days—and damn him, of course he knows I’ve counted them—and returns blithely expecting me to be waiting and available.
‘You are, perhaps, free after lunch?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bon!
I shall pick you up at two o’clock. A tout a I’heure!’
Troy walked slowly back to her room and eyed the cold egg distastefully. The coffee was still hot in the pot, however, and she drank it down gratefully—nerves had dried up her throat. Which was ridiculous. Why should Lucien de Seve make her nervous, for goodness’ sake! She would see him this afternoon purely on business matters. She would be on guard, no more allowing the way he said Victoire to undermine her resolve either. Let him do his philandering in Paris. At the ballet. With Juliette Descartes.
She chose one of her prettiest dresses to wear—and why not? she argued with that sly other-self that mocked, why not? It was a hot day and the dress a cool one, did it matter that the buttermilk colour complemented her tanned skin and flaming hair, or the deep square neck and flared skirt showed off her figure? Her hair she brushed until it bristled and her face she finger-tipped with sun-cream. A generous helping of perfume in the right places and a touch of coral lipstick and she was done. She collected her camera and paused briefly at the mirror.
A slow deep smile parted her lips. No harm in looking and feeling one’s best, even for a business meeting, she told the girl in the mirror. With a toss of hair, a tilt of hip, she swung away and ran lightly down the stairs.
Troy and Philippe spent all the morning with the camera. The time passed so quickly that both were surprised when they were informed that lunch was served. They walked leisurely back from the paddock where Philippe had been putting theory into practice, still discussing the principles involved, and Troy, watching the boy’s animated face, thought that the bug had bitten.
‘You will, of course, stay to lunch,’ said Philippe, sounding very much like his brother. Troy felt a quickening of the pulse as they entered the Salle Ovale. Lucien was pouring wine. No change, then, she told herself helplessly, as she allowed herself to be seated at the oval table, having made her greetings to Isabeau, JeanJacques and finally, Lucien, who was regarding her with slight amusement on his lean, sardonic face. Almost, Troy thought crossly, after that first upward glance, as if he knows what’s going on inside my head— which he can’t possibly! Throughout lunch she barely spoke two sentences to him, studiously avoiding catching his eye. Tiresomely juvenile, as she afterwards admitted to herself.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 9