King of the Castle

by Виктория Холт

  Nounou was standing over me.

  “It’s rather sad,” I said.

  “She was a lonely child.”

  “But good. You can learn that. That brings her to life. She had a sweet temper. And it comes through, doesn’t it?

  She accepts things as they are do you know what I mean? “

  “Yes, I think I know.”

  “Not the sort, you see, to take her own life. There was nothing hysterical about her. And really Genevieve is the same … at heart.”

  I was silent, sipping the coffee she had brought to me. I felt drawn towards her because of the deep devotion she had felt to the mother and daughter. I sensed in a way that she was trying to win me to her point of view.

  In that case I should be frank with her.

  “I think I ought to tell you,” I said, ‘that on the first day I was here Genevieve took me to see her mother’s grave. “

  “She often goes there,” said Nounou quickly, lights of fear darting to her eyes.

  “She did it in a peculiar way. She said she was taking me to see her mother … and I thought that I was going to be taken to a living woman.”

  Nounou nodded, her eyes averted.

  “Then she said that her father had murdered her mother.”

  Nounou’s face wrinkled in fear.

  She laid her hand on my arm.

  “But you understand, don’t you? The shock of finding her … her own mother. And then the gossip. It was natural, wasn’t it?”

  “I shouldn’t like to think it was natural for a child to accuse her father of murdering her mother.”

  “The shock …” she repeated.

  “She needs help, mademoiselle. Think of this household. The death … the whispers in the chateau … the gossip outside. I know that you are a sensible woman. I know that you will want to do all you can.”

  The hands were clutching at my arm; the lips moved as though mouthing words that she dared not say.

  She was a frightened women and because of my recent experience at the hands of her charge she was asking my help.

  I said cautiously: “It would certainly have been a great shock. She must be treated with care. Her father does not seem to realize this.”

  I Nounou’s face twisted in lines of bitterness. She hates him, I thought. She hates him for what he is doing to his daughter . and what he did to his wife.

  “But we realize it,” said Nounou. I was touched and I put out my hand and pressed hers.

  It was as though we made a pact then. Her face brightened and she said: “We’ve let our coffee get cold. I’ll make some more.”

  And there in that little room I knew that I was being caught up in the life of the chateau.

  Four

  I told myself it was not my affair to assess whether or not the master of the house was a murderer, but to discover how much restoration the paintings needed and what methods should be used to produce the best results; and during the weeks that followed I became absorbed in my work.

  Guests came to the chateau, which meant that I was not invited to dinner. I was not really displeased about this, as the Comte’s attitude towards me disturbed me. I felt that he was almost hoping that I would fail. I feared that he might undermine my confidence, and while I was occupied in my delicate task I had to believe it would be a complete success.

  But after leaving me alone for a few days he came to the gallery one morning when I was at work.

  “Oh, dear. Mademoiselle Lawson,” he exclaimed as he looked at the picture before me.

  “What are you doing?”

  I was startled, for the picture had been reacting perfectly to my treatment and I felt the colour rush to my cheeks. I was about to protest angrily when he went on: “You are going to restore such colour to this painting that you will remind us all over again of those tiresome emeralds.”

  He was amused to see my relief that he had not implied criticism of my work.

  I said sharply to hide my embarrassment: “Then you are becoming convinced that a woman might have some ability?”

  “I always suspected you had great ability. Who but a woman of character and determination would have come to us in the first place, eager to defend what is I am sure misguidedly called the weaker sex? “

  “My only wish is to do a good job.”

  “If all the militant females in the past had had your good sense, what a lot of trouble might have been saved!”

  “I hope I shall be able to save you trouble, for I can assure you that had these paintings been neglected much longer…”

  “I am aware of it. That was why I decided to ask your father here.

  Alas, he could not come. But in his place we have his daughter. How fortunate we are! “

  I turned to the painting, but I was afraid to touch it. I dared not make a false move. Work such as this needed complete absorption.

  He came and stood close to me, and although he pretended to be studying the picture, I believe he was watching me.

  “It seems so interesting,” he said.

  “You must explain to me.”

  “I have carried out one or two tests, and naturally before beginning I have made sure that I am using what, in my opinion is the best treatment.”

  “And what is the best treatment?” His eyes were fixed on my face, and again I felt the uncomfortable colour in my cheeks.

  “I’m using a mild alcohol solvent. It wouldn’t be active on a hardened layer of oil paint, but this paint has been mixed with a soft resin.”

  “How clever of you!”

  “It is part of my work.”

  “At which you are such an expert.” :

  “Are you convinced of that then?” My voice sounded a little too eager and I felt my lips harden to counteract the effect my remarks might have had.

  “You are in the process of convincing me. You like this, picture,

  Mademoiselle Lawson?” | “It’s interesting. It’s not one of your best. It doesn’t compare, of course, with the Fragonards or Bouchers. But I think the artist was a master of colour. The alizarin is beautiful. He is daring in his use of colour. His brush strokes are a little harsh, but…” I broke off because I sensed he was laughing at me.

  “I’m afraid I become rather boring when I talk about paintings.”

  “You are too self-critical, Mademoiselle Lawson.”

  Self-critical! It was the first time anyone had ever told me that. And yet I knew it was true. I knew that I was like a hedgehog, putting out my prickles in self-defence. So I had betrayed myself.

  “You will soon have restored this picture,” he went on.

  “And then I shall know whether you have decided if I am worthy to be given this commission.”

  “I’m sure you have no doubt what the verdict will be,” he answered, and smiling, left me.

  A few days later the picture was finished and he came to pass judgment. He stood for some seconds frowning at it, and I felt my spirits sinking although before he had come in I had felt pleased with my work, knowing I had done a good job. The colours were startling and the fabric of the gown and the artist’s facility in handling his paint reminded me of Gainsborough. All this had been hidden when I had started the work; now it was revealed.

  And he stood there looking dismayed.

  “So,” I said, ‘you are not pleased? “

  He shook his head.

  “Monsieur Ie Comte, I don’t know what you expect, but I assure you that anyone who understands painting …”

  He turned his attention from the picture to me; he had raised those proud eyebrows very slightly; his mouth was curved in a smile which belied the astonishment his eyes were trying to convey.

  ‘...as you do,” he finished for me.

  “Ah, yes, if I possessed that talent, I should cry: “This is a miracle. That which was hidden has now been shown to us in all its glory!” It’s true. It’s magnificent. But I’m still thinking of those emeralds. You have no idea what trouble they have caused us. Now, du
e to you. Mademoiselle Lawson, there will be new treasure hunts. There will be new speculations. “

  I knew that he was teasing me and I told myself fiercely that he had been hoping I should fail. Now he was reluctant to admit that I had succeeded admirably, and as he couldn’t deny it, was talking about his emeralds.

  It was typical of the man, I told myself; and then quickly added a reminder that whatever he was, was no concern of mine. He was of no importance to me; I was only interested in his paintings.

  “And as far as the picture is concerned you have no complaints?” I asked coolly.

  “You live up to your credentials.”

  “Then you will wish me to continue with the rest of the paintings?”

  An expression I did not understand flickered across his face.

  “I should be very disappointed if you did not. “

  I felt radiant. I had won.

  But my triumph was not complete, for as he stood there smiling at me, I knew he was reminding me how well aware he was of my doubts and fears and everything I had sought to hide.

  Neither of us had noticed that Genevieve had come into the gallery, and as she did not make her presence known she could have been there for some seconds watching us.

  The Comte saw her first.

  “What do you want, Genevi eve?” he asked.

  “I… I came to see how Mademoiselle Lawson was getting on with the picture.” | “Then come and see.” | She came, looking sullen as she so often did in company!

  “There!” he said.

  “Is it not a revelation?”

  She did not answer.

  “Mademoiselle Lawson expects to be complimented on her work. You remember what the picture was like before.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Such lack of artistic appreciation! You must try to persuade Mademoiselle Lawson to teach you to understand pictures while she is with us.”

  “So … she is going to stay?”

  His voice changed suddenly. It was almost caressing.

  “I hope,” he said, ‘for a long time. Because you see there are so many in the chateau who need her attentions. “

  Genevieve gave me a swift glance; her eyes were hard; they looked like black stones. She turned to the picture and said:

  “Perhaps if she is so clever she will find the emeralds for us.”

  “You see Mademoiselle Lawson, it is exactly as I said.”

  “They certainly look magnificent,” I replied.

  “No doubt due to the artist’s … er … facility with paint?”

  I cared nothing for his mockery, nor for the brooding resentment of his daughter. It was these beautiful paintings which were my concern, and the fact that they were now shrouded in the fog of neglect only made my project the more exciting.

  Even in that moment he knew what I was thinking, for he bowed and said: “I will leave you. Mademoiselle Lawson. I can see you are eager to be alone … with the pictures.” He signed to Genevieve to go with him; and when they had gone I stood there in the gallery and let my eyes revel first in one and then in another.

  I had rarely been so excited in my life.

  Now that I was staying at the chateau to complete the work I decided to take advantage of the Comte’s offer and make use of the stables, which would enable me to see in more of the country. I had already explored the little town; had drunk coffee in the patisserie, chatting with the genial but inquisitive proprietress, who was pleased to welcome anyone from the chateau. She had talked with reverence but sly knowingness of Monsieur Ie Comte, with respectful contempt of Monsieur Philippe, and with pity for Mademoiselle Genevieve. And mademoiselle was there to clean the pictures! Well, well, that was very interesting, that was, and she hoped mademoiselle would come again and next time perhaps take a little of the gateau de la mais on which was highly thought of in Gaillard.

  I had wandered through the market and had seen the glances in my direction; I had visited the ancient hotel de ville and the church.

  So the prospect of going farther afield was pleasant and I was particularly pleased that I was expected at the stables.

  A suitable mount was found for me named Bonhomme and we approved of each other from the beginning.

  I was surprised and pleased when Genevieve asked me if she could accompany me one morning. She was in one of her demure moods and as we rode I asked her why she had been so foolish as to shut me in the oubliette.

  “Well, you weren’t afraid, so you said, and I didn’t think it would hurt you.”

  “It was a stupid thing to do. Suppose Nounou hadn’t found out!”

  “I should have rescued you after a while.”

  “After a while! Do you know some people might have died of fright?”

  “Died!” she said fearfully.

  “No one dies of being shut up.”

  “Some nervous people might have died of fright.”

  “But you never would.” She regarded me intently.

  “You didn’t tell my father. I thought you might… as you and he are so friendly.”

  She rode on a little way in advance, and when we returned to the stables she said casually: “I’m not allowed to ride alone. I always have to take one of the grooms with me. There was no one to ride with me this morning, so I shouldn’t have had a ride if you hadn’t come with me.”

  “I’m glad to have been of service,” I replied coolly.

  I met Philippe when I was in the gardens and I fancied he knew I was there and had come out purposely to talk to me.

  “Congratulations,” he said.

  “I’ve been looking at the picture. The difference is remarkable. It’s hardly recognizable.”

  I glowed with pleasure. How different, I thought, from the Comte. He is genuinely pleased.

  “I’m so glad you think so.”

  “Who could help thinking so! It’s miraculous. I’m delighted not only that the picture is a success but that you’ve proved you could do it.”

  “How kind of you!”

  “I’m afraid I was rather ungracious when you arrived. I was so taken by surprise and not sure what would be expected of me.”

  “You were not ungracious, and I can well understand your surprise.”

  “You see, this was my cousin’s affair, and naturally I wanted to do what he would wish.”

  “Naturally. And it is good of you to take such an interest.”

  He wrinkled his brow.

  “I feel a kind of responsibility …” he began.

  “I hope that you will not regret coming here.”

  “Indeed no. The work is proving to be most interesting.”

  “Oh, yes … yes … the work.”

  He began to speak rather hurriedly of the gardens and insisted on showing me the sculptured decorations which had been done by Le Brun soon after he had completed the frescoes in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.

  “Fortunately they escaped at the time of the Revolution,” he explained; and I sensed his reverence for everything connected with the chateau. I liked him for it also for his gracious apology for anything he might have said to hurt me during our first interview and his obvious pleasure in the fact that I had succeeded.

  My days had formed themselves into a pattern. I was in the gallery early and worked steadily all through the morning. After lunch I usually went out, returning before dusk, which at this time of the year was soon after four o’clock. Then I would occupy myself with mixing solutions or reading notes of past experiments which filled my time until after dinner. Sometimes I took this alone in my room, but on several occasions Mademoiselle Dubois had asked me to dine in her room. I could not refuse these invitations although I wanted to; I listened to her life history: how she was the daughter of a lawyer, brought up not to work, how her father had been let down through a partner, how he had died of a broken heart and how she, being penniless, had been obliged to become a governess. Told in her self-pitying way the story seemed incredibly dull and I made up my mind not to infli
ct boredom on her by telling her my own.

  After dinner I would read one of the books I had found in the library, for Philippe had told me that the Comte would be pleased if I made use of anything I wanted there.

  As the days passed through that November, I was on the periphery of the chateau life, aware of it yet not aware of it, just as I heard the music in my room-conscious of it, yet only now and then did I know what was being ;| played. | One day when I had left the chateau on Bonhomme I I met Jean Pierre on horseback. He greeted me with | customary gaiety and asked whether I was going to call on his family.

  I told him I was.

  “Ride with me first over to the St. Vallient vineyards and then we will go back together.”

  I had never been St. Vallient way and agreed. I always enjoyed his company and the Bastide household never seemed the same without him.

  He had a vitality and gaiety which appealed to me.

  We talked of Christmas, which would soon be with us.

  “You will spend the day with us, mademoiselle?” he asked.

  “Is that a formal invitation?”

  “You know that I am never formal. It is just a heartfelt wish on behalf of the family that you will honour us.”

  I remarked that I should be delighted and it was good of them to want me.

  “The motives are entirely selfish, mademoiselle.” With one of those quick gestures which were characteristic of him he leaned towards me and touched my arm. I met his warm glance unwaveringly, telling myself that his manner of making me feel I was important to him was merely the natural courtesy Frenchmen showed automatically towards all women.

  “I shall tell you nothing of our Christmas celebrations now,” he said.

  “It must all be a surprise to you.”

  When we reached the St. Vallient vineyards I was introduced to Monsieur Durand, who was in charge of them. His wife brought out wine and little cakes, which were delicious, and Jean Pierre and Monsieur Durand discussed the quality of the wine. Then Monsieur Durand took Jean Pierre off to talk business while his wife was left to look after me.

  She knew a great deal about me, for clearly the affairs of the chateau were the pivot round which gossip revolved. What did I think of the chateau, the Comte? I gave guarded answers and she evidently thought she would glean little from me so she talked of her own affairs, how anxious she was on Monsieur Durand’s behalf because he was too old to continue with his work.