King of the Castle

by Виктория Холт

  I was arrogant. Governessy, as Genevieve would say. Did I really think that because I could bring its old glory back to a painting I could change a man?

  But I was obsessed by my desire to know him, to probe beneath that often sardonic mask, to change the expression of the mouth from a certain bitter disillusion. But before I could attempt this . I must know my subject.

  How had he felt towards the woman whom he had married? He had ruined her life. Had she ruined his? How could one know when the past was engulfed in secrecy?

  The days when I did not see him were empty; and those encounters which seemed so short left me elated and exhilarated by a happiness I had never in my life known before.

  We talked of pictures; of the chateau; of the history of the place and the days of the chateau’s glory during the reigns of the fourteenth and fifteenth Louis.

  “Then there was the change. Nothing was ever the same again. Mademoiselle Lawson. Some saw it coming years before.

  “Apres moi Ie deluge,” said Louis XV. And deluge there was, with his successor going to the guillotine and taking so many of our people with him. My own great-great-grandfather was one of them. We were fortunate not to lose our estates. Had we been nearer Paris we should have done so. But you read about the miracle of St. Genevieve and how she saved us from disaster. ” His tone lightened.

  “You are thinking that perhaps we were not worth saving.”

  “I was thinking no such thing. As a matter of fact I think it’s a pity when estates have to pass out of families. How interesting to trace one’s family back hundreds of years.”

  “Perhaps the Revolution did some good. If they had not stormed the chateau and damaged these pictures, we should not have needed your services.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “If the pictures had not been damaged, they would not have needed restoration certainly. They might have needed cleaning.”

  “But you might not have come here, Miss Lawson. Think of that.”

  “I am sure the Revolution was a greater catastrophe than that would have been.”

  He laughed; and he was different then. I caught a glimpse of the light-hearted person through the mask. It was a wonderful moment.

  I joined him and Genevieve for dinner each night during the absence of Philippe and Claude. The conversation was animated between us, and Genevieve would look on in a kind of bewilderment; but attempts to draw her in were not very successful. She, like her mother, seemed to be afraid of him.

  Then one evening when we went down to dinner he was not there. He had left no message that he would not be in, but after waiting for twenty minutes, dinner was served and we ate alone.

  I felt very uneasy. I kept picturing him lying hurt or worse in the woods. If someone had tried to kill him and failed wasn’t it plausible that they should have another attempt?

  I tried to eat, tried to disguise my anxiety, which Genevieve did not share, and I was glad when I could go to my room to be alone.

  I walked up and down; I sat at my window; I could not rest. There was a mad moment when I thought of going to the stables and taking a horse to look for him. How could I do so at night and what right had I to concern myself in his affairs?

  Of course, I reminded myself, the Comte who had been such a gracious companion to me had been the invalid. He had been recuperating from his accident and while he was confined to the chateau found me a substitute for his friends.

  Why hadn’t I seen it?

  It was daylight before I slept and when the maid brought my breakfast to my room I looked at her in surreptitious anxiety to see if she had heard any terrible news. But she was as placid as ever.

  I went down to the gallery feeling tired and strained and in no mood to work; but I had told myself that if anything had happened I should have heard by now.

  I had not been there very long when he came into the gallery. I started when I saw him and he looked at me strangely.

  I said without thinking: “Oh … you are all right then?”

  His face was expressionless, but he regarded me intently.

  “I’m sorry I missed seeing you at dinner last night,” he said.

  “Oh … yes. I… wondered …”

  What was the matter with me? I was stammering like the foolish girls I so despised.

  He continued to look at me and I was certain he had detected the signs of sleeplessness. What a fool I had been! Did I expect him to explain to me when he went out visiting his friends? Of course he would go out. He had only confined himself to the chateau because of his accident.

  “I believe,” he said, ‘you were concerned for my safety. ” Did he know the state of my feelings as well as or perhaps better than I knew them myself?

  “Tell me, did you imagine me shot through the heart… no, the head, because I believe you secretly think. Mademoiselle Lawson, that I have a stone where my heart should be. An advantage in a way. A bullet can’t pierce stone.”

  I knew it was no use denying my concern so I tacitly admitted it in my reply.

  “If you had been shot once it seemed plausible to imagine that it might happen again.”

  “It would be too coincidental, don’t you think? A man shooting a hare happens to shoot my horse. It’s the sort of thing that could only happen once in a lifetime. And you are expecting it twice in a few weeks.”

  “The hare theory might not be the true one.”

  He sat down on the sofa beneath the picture of his ancestress in emeralds and regarded me on my stool.

  “Are you comfortable there, Mademoiselle Lawson?”

  “Thank you.” I could feel animation coming back into my body; everything was gay again. I had only one fear now. Was I betraying myself?

  “We’ve talked about pictures, old castles, old families, revolutions, yet never about ourselves,” he said almost gently.

  “I am sure those subjects are more interesting than I personally could be.”

  “Do you really think that?”

  I shrugged my shoulders a habit I had learned from those about me. It was a good substitute for the answer expected to a difficult question.

  “All I know is that your father died and you took his place.”

  “There is little else to know. Mine has been a life like many others of my class and circumstances.”

  “You never married. I wonder why.”

  “I might reply as the English milkmaid, ” Nobody asked me, sir, she said”.”

  “That I find extraordinary. I am sure you would make an excellent wife for some fortunate man. Just imagine how useful you would be. His pictures would always be in perfect condition.”

  “What if he had none?”

  “I am sure you would very quickly remedy that omission.”

  I did not like the light turn of the conversation. I fancied he was making fun of me; and it was a subject about which, in view of my new emotions, I did not care to be mocked.

  “I am surprised that you should be an advocate for marriage.” As soon as I had spoken I wished I hadn’t. I flushed and stammered: “I’m sorry”

  He smiled, the mockery gone.

  “And I’m surprised that you are surprised. Tell me, what does D stand for? Miss D. Lawson. I should like to know. It is such an unusual name.”

  I explained that my father had been Daniel and my mother Alice.

  “Dallas,” he repeated my name.

  “You smile?”

  “It’s the way in which you say it… with the accent on the last syllable. We put it on the first.”

  He tried it out again, smiling at me.

  “Dallas, Dallas.” He made me feel that he liked saying it.

  “You yourself have an unusual name.”

  “It’s been used by my family for years … since the first King of the Franks. We have to be royal, you see. We throw in an occasional Louis, a Charles, an Henri. But we must have our Lothairs.

  Now let me tell you how wrongly you pronounce my name. “

  I s
aid it and he laughed and made me say it again.

  “Very good, Dallas,” he said.

  “But then everything you do you do well.”

  I told him about my parents and how I had helped Father in his work.

  Somehow it came through that they had dominated my life and kept me from marriage. He mentioned this.

  “Perhaps it was better so,” he said.

  “Those who don’t marry, often regret the omission; but those who do so, often regret far more bitterly. They long to go back in time and not do what they did. Well, that’s life, isn’t it?”

  “That may be so.”

  “Take myself. I was married when I was twenty to a young woman who was chosen for me. It is so in our families, you know.”

  “Yes.”

  “These marriages are often successful.”

  “And yours was?” My voice was almost a whisper.

  He did not answer and I said quickly: “I’m sorry. I am being impertinent.”

  “No. You should know.”

  I wondered why, and my heart began to beat uncomfortably.

  “No, the marriage was not a success. I think I am incapable of being a good husband.”

  “Surely a man could be … if he wanted to.”

  “Mademoiselle Lawson, how could a man who is selfish, intolerant, impatient and promiscuous be a good husband?”

  “Simply by ceasing to be selfish, intolerant and so on.”

  “And you believe that one can turn off these unpleasant qualities like a tap?”

  “I think one can try to subdue them.”

  He laughed suddenly and I felt foolish.

  “I amuse you?” I said coolly.

  “You asked an opinion and I gave it.”

  “It’s absolutely true, of course. I could imagine you subduing such unpleasant characteristics if only I could so far stretch my imagination as to picture you possessing them. You know how disastrously my marriage ended.”

  I nodded.

  “My experiences as a husband have convinced me that I should abandon that role for ever.”

  “Perhaps you are wise to make such a decision.”

  “I was sure you would agree.”

  I knew what he meant. If what he suspected was true and I had allowed my feelings for him to become too deep, I should be warned.

  I felt humiliated and wounded and I said briskly: “I am very interested in some of the wall surfaces I have noticed about the chateau. It has occurred to me that there might be some murals hidden beneath the lime wash.”

  “Oh?” he said; and I thought he was not paying attention to what I said.

  “I remember my father’s making a miraculous discovery on the walls of an ancient mansion in Northumberland. It was a wonderful painting which had been hidden for centuries. I feel certain that there must be similar discoveries here.”

  “Discoveries?” he repeated.

  “Yes?”

  What was he thinking of? That stormy married life with Francoise? But had it been stormy? Deeply unhappy, entirely unsatisfactory since he had determined never to run the risk of such an experience again.

  I was aware of an intense passion engulfing me. I thought: What could I do? How could I leave this and go back to England back to a new life where there was no chateau full of secrets, no Comte whom I longed to restore to happiness?

  “I should like to have a closer look at those walls,” I went on.

  He said almost fiercely, as though denying everything that had gone before: Dallas, my chateau and myself are at your disposal. “

  Nine

  A few days later Philippe and Claude returned.

  “And where is Mademoiselle Lawson?”

  “I have told them to take up her tray. She cannot expect to eat at table with us. After all, she is not a guest; she is employed to work here.”

  I saw his face darken with contempt for her and . regard for me.

  “What nonsense, Boulanger, another place please. And go at once to Mademoiselle Lawson’s room and tell her that I am looking forward to her presence at dinner.”

  I waited. The food on the tray was getting cold.

  It did not happen as I had hoped. There was no message. Now if ever I should see what a fool I was. This woman was his mistress. He had married her to Philippe so that she could be at the chateau without arousing scandal, because he was wise enough to see that he could afford no more scandal since even kings in their castles had to be a little careful.

  As for me I was the odd Englishwoman, who was so intense about her work and to whom it was amusing to talk for a time when one was indisposed and confined to the chateau.

  Naturally her presence was not needed when Claude was at hand.

  Moreover Claude was the mistress of the chateau.

  Startled out of my sleep, I awoke in terror, for someone was in my room, standing there at the bottom of my bed.

  “Miss.” Genevieve glided towards me, a lighted candle in her hand.

  “I heard the tapping, miss. Only a few minutes ago. You said to come and tell you.”

  “Genevieve …” I sat up in bed, my teeth chattering. I must have had a nightmare in those seconds before waking.

  “What’s the time?”

  “One o’clock. It woke me up. Tap … tap … and I was frightened and you said we’d go and see … together.”

  I put my feet into slippers and hastily put on my dressing-gown.

  “I expect you imagined it, Genevieve.” She shook her head.

  “It’s like it was before. Tap … tap … as though someone is trying to let you know where they are.”

  “Where?”

  “Come to my room. I can hear it there.” I followed her through the chateau to the nursery which was in the oldest part of the house. I said: “Have you awakened Nounou?” She shook her head.

  “Nounou never wakes once she’s. She says once she gets off she sleeps the sleep of

  I took the candle from her and led the way down the staircase to the lower floors.

  Genevieve’s belief in my courage gave me that quality. I should have been very uneasy walking about the chateau alone like this at night.

  We reached the door of the gun gallery and paused there listening.

  Distinctly we heard a sound. I was not sure what it was, but I felt the goose pimples rising on my flesh. Genevieve gripped my arm and in the candle-light I saw her startled eyes. She was about to speak but I shook my head.

  Then came the sound again.

  It was from the dungeons below.

  There was nothing I wanted so much as to turn and go back to my room; I was sure Genevieve felt the same; but because she did not expect such behaviour from me I could not tell her that I, too, was afraid, that it was all very well to be bold by daylight and quite another matter in the dungeons of an old chateau at dead of night.

  She pointed down the stone spiral staircase and holding up my long skirts with the same hand as that which grasped the candle, for I needed the other to grip the rope banister, I led the way down the stairs.

  Genevieve, behind me, suddenly lurched forward. It was fortunate that she fell against me, thus preventing herself from tripping down the stairs. She gave a little scream and immediately clapped her hands to her mouth.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered.

  “I tripped over my dressing-gown.”

  “For heaven’s sake hold it up.”

  She nodded and for a few seconds we stood there on that spiral staircase trying to steady ourselves; my heart was leaping about uncomfortably and I knew Genevieve’s was doing the same. I believed that in a moment she would be saying: “Let’s go back. There’s nothing here.” And I would be willing enough.

  But some persistent faith in my invincibility prevented her from speaking.

  Now there was absolute silence everywhere. I leaned against the stone wall and could feel the coldness through my clothes in contrast to Genevieve’s hot hand which was gripping my arm. She did not look
at me.

  This was absurd, I thought. What was I doing wandering about the chateau at night? Suppose the Comte should discover me? What a fool I should look! I should go straight back to my room now and in the morning report the sounds I had heard during the night. But Genevieve would think I was afraid if I did that. She would not be wrong either.

  If I did not go on now she would lose that respect for me which I believe was what gave me some authority over her; and if I was to help her overcome the demons in her which forced her to strange acts, I must retain that authority.

  I gathered my skirts higher, descended the staircase, and when I reached the bottom pushed open the iron-studded door to the dungeons.

  The dark cavern yawned ahead of us, and the sight of it made me more reluctant than ever.

  ‘^f sound comes from,” I whispered.

  for I could see one or two of the cages with great chains which had held men and women prisoners of the de la Talles.

  I said: “Is anyone there?”

  My voice echoed uncannily. Genevieve pressed her body against me, and I could feel her shaking.

  I said: “There’s no one here, Genevieve.”

  She was only too ready to admit it.

  “Let’s go, miss.”

  I said: “We’ll come and have a look in daylight.”

  “Oh yes … yes….”

  She had seized my hand and was pulling me. I wanted to turn and hurry from the place, but in those seconds I was conscious of a horrible fascination. I could easily believe that somewhere in the darkness, someone was watching me . luring me onwards . farther into the darkness to some sort of doom.

  “Miss … come on.”

  The feeling had passed, and I turned. As Genevieve went before me up the staircase, I felt as though my feet were made of lead and I could scarcely lift them; I almost fancied I heard a footstep behind me. It was as though icy hands were laid on me pulling me back into the gloom. It was all imagination; my throat was constricted so that I could scarcely breathe, my heart a great weight in my chest. The candle dipped erratically and for one second of horror I was afraid it was going out. I felt we should never reach the top of that stairway.