Rose, Rose Where Are You?

by Nicola Thorne

  “Children,” she said quietly but with authority, “what are you doing here?”

  The effect on the children was startling. They had been clustering round me and Goofy, squatting on the sand. Now they jumped to their feet and stood almost at attention, their heads hanging abjectly. I thought their behaviour curious, as they had not been doing anything terribly wrong. I turned to look at the governess because I knew it was she.

  In her appearance Jeanne seemed harmless enough, unsmiling, though, and obviously perplexed by the unexpected situation. She was of medium height and slender, with smooth black hair and an olive complexion, which suggested she came from the south of France. She had a rather short nose, a narrow mouth, and luminous eyes of that dark velvet brown that is almost black. They were large and slanted attractively at the corners; they seemed to be concealing her secrets even as they bore into the eyes of others.

  I could understand that the children would treat her with respect, maybe even with fear. I can’t remember now what she wore that first day I saw her, because Jeanne’s clothes were always completely anonymous, toneless; they were mostly brown or black or dark green in colour and all with a little collar and small pearl buttons leading down to a neat belted waist. Unfashionable, a reminder of the turn of the century when poor girls of genteel birth became governesses as the only way of earning a living.

  I go into Jeanne here in great detail because she was to become such an important part of the story I have to tell; but even though I later saw her often, I never really got to know her well or understood her at all. Or rather, when I did get to know her better it was in the context of St Joan, the subject of my own study, and that came about in a most extraordinary and unexpected way ....

  The children went on mumbling about the dog and me and goodness knows what, and I went on looking at Jeanne; it was left to Goofy to bound away and relieve the uncomfortable moment.

  “Mademoiselle is reading, can’t you see?” Jeanne chided gently. “It is rude to disturb her. Apologise for the behaviour of the dog and come now; your play time is over and we have work to do before tea.”

  “Oh, they have apologised,” I said quickly, trying to soothe her with the well-known Trafford charm. “They were charming and I enjoyed talking to them. I was telling them I’ve come to live here for a year, so it’s nice for me to meet people.”

  “Live here?” Mademoiselle Jeanne reacted with the same startled disbelief as had her charges.

  “Just to write a book. I’m English.”

  For a moment Jeanne’s impersonal mask dropped and she looked genuinely interested.

  “English? But you speak perfect French. You have no accent at all.”

  “My mother was French but has lived in England since she married my father when she was very young. My name is Clare Trafford.”

  I paused invitingly, but Mademoiselle didn’t volunteer her own name. One by one the children had slipped away, with polite nods, and were running after Goofy in the direction they had come. Mademoiselle’s eyes followed them.

  “We must get back to class, Mademoiselle. The children have a normal school day. Au revoir.”

  She bowed to me and walked away and I sank back dejectedly in my chair. It had been a start; but I saw I would have to make a great effort if I were ever to penetrate the defences of the pink house.

  Certainly everyone was friendly enough, especially the children, but was there a reason for their apparent reluctance to receive new people –even Madame Gilbert had appeared to think it would be a hopeless task –or was I being fanciful?

  CHAPTER 3

  Though it was no business of mine, all that summer I pondered over the affairs of the de Frigecourt family and wove little fantasies about them in my mind. Except for my work, I hadn’t much else to do. Tom and I had agreed not to correspond except on essential matters. I didn’t have a television, and there was only one cinema in Port St Pierre, which seemed to specialise in lurid films of little appeal to me. I did a lot of walking and some driving to research background material for the book. Quite a few local places had been associated with Joan as she made her way from her capture at Compiegne to Rouen, a journey that took seven months. There were Arras and Beaurevoir, Drugy, St-Riquier, Cambrai, and numerous small shrines and places where she’d stayed.

  Joan’s life was extraordinarily well documented, and some devoted historians had discovered where she was, what she was doing, what she wore, and what she was saying almost every hour of every day. It amazed me when one considered that we had no clear idea of what she looked like, and the few representations of her that have come down to us are of doubtful authenticity.

  By November 1430 Joan had reached Port St Pierre and had been imprisoned in the castle here for almost a month. The castle was built almost on the spot where the Chateau des Moulins now stood, only it occupied more land than the Chateau. The topography of the town, too, had changed a great deal since the Fifteenth Century. In those days the sea had made inroads as far as Rue, and over the centuries the land had silted up so that now the two ports of St Pierre and Guillaume on opposite sides of the bay guarded the approach to the Somme canal.

  Joan had crossed from St Pierre to Port Guillaume where she’d spent the night, and historians still debated whether she’d gone by boat, by horse, or on foot across the bay, citing tide tables for the year 1430 as evidence. What particularly interested me was Joan of Arc’s personality. Was she a madwoman or a saint, an hysteric, a witch, a satanist, a political pawn, or a victim of the Church which she loved so much and which served her so badly? What really motivated her? Joan was a puzzling phenomenon, and as I carefully sorted out the details of her short life and cruel death I tried to make my account relevant and comprehensible to the people of today.

  I now knew for certain that the Chateau des Moulins stood on the spot of Joan’s castle, and I couldn’t wait to inspect the house and grounds in detail. The chateau seemed to beckon and call me, to entice me with its mysteries. And indeed it was fascinating to speculate how much, if anything, of the old fortress remained and was enclosed within the walls of the current house.

  An historian like myself, who is completely absorbed in her subject, looked for any item or clue that would connect the past with the present and provide further insight into the people and events of those far-off days – a piece of stone, a fragment of timber. Could it be that there was something in the chateau to connect it with Joan? I couldn’t wait to get in and find out. Almost every day, depending upon the tide, I wandered hopefully past the house, but I didn’t see the children or their governess again, or even their dog, until I decided to take matters into my own hands and invite them to tea.

  The person I spoke to was Rose. She answered the phone and sounded a pleasant, uncomplicated girl, delighted to hear an English voice, her own French being poor. I asked them all to tea, Rose included, but she said she’d have to ask Mademoiselle Jeanne, for the children were directly under her care.

  I’d had to phone from the post office on the main street because my own house didn’t have a phone, and as I waited I could hear a whispered conversation. When she came back to me, Rose sounded flustered.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It is not convenient. The children are expecting their father.” She paused, and I could feel her reluctance to ring off.

  “Well, could we leave it open?” I ventured. “After their father’s gone? I mean there’s no urgency.”

  But to my surprise and consternation Rose put down the phone. Or someone put the phone down for her.

  I was so unnerved by the unexpected conclusion to my initiative that I immediately went and called on Madame Gilbert.

  “It was such a strange ending,” I concluded. “She sounded so happy and keen. It almost seems as though they want to discourage visitors.”

  “Very strange and sad.” Madame Gilbert nodded sagely, fiddling with her pince-nez.

  “What is wrong with that house, or rather that family?” I wondered.
“I can’t say why or how, but I know something is wrong.”

  Madame Gilbert gave me a look of mild disapproval. “Wrong? Nothing is wrong.”

  “They don’t want visitors, yet there are three normal young children on their own. I can’t believe their father would want it like that.”

  “But they didn’t say they didn’t want visitors,” Madame replied gently. “Did they?”

  I looked at Madame Gilbert and recognised that same gallic obduracy I myself possessed. I was, after all, a stranger and there was a close community bond and a loyalty to the de Frigecourt family that no newcomer could penetrate.

  The following morning I was at work in my study, considering the position of Jean de Luxembourg, who sold the Maid to the English – at the instigation of the Burgundians – when there was a knock at the front door.

  I couldn’t think who would want to visit me at eleven in the morning and wondered if it was the post. I half wanted to hear from Tom, which was silly of me, I knew, but it was a bit hard to accept the fact that he’d taken my desertion so calmly. I took off my glasses and went to the door. A perfect stranger stood there, a young girl of about twenty-three. She had a direct, open face and was looking rather ill at ease.

  “Mrs Trafford?”

  How did she know my name?

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Rose, from the chateau, the nanny. I’m sorry to call on you like this, it must seem rude, but I wanted to explain ...” She was nervous and tumbled over her words.

  “Come in, come in,” I reassured her. “I was just about to make coffee.”

  As Rose stepped nervously in, I was both excited and intrigued by her manner. The whole thing looked very suspicious.

  I left her standing by the stove – Autumn was setting in and the day was cool – and went into the kitchen, where the percolator was kept more or less permanently on the boil while I was working.

  “There.” I gave her a steaming cup and put the milk and sugar on the table between us. “This is a pleasant surprise. I was beginning to think the people at the chateau were trying to cold-shoulder me.”

  Rose gave me a startled look.

  “It’s not the people,” she said, gulping the coffee. “It’s her – Jeanne. I wanted to see you to explain about yesterday. She’s very odd.”

  The staccato sentences punctuated by intermittent gulps of scalding coffee made me realise that Rose was very ill at ease indeed. Then to my utter consternation she thumped her cup on the table and dissolved into tears.

  “Rose, here, take this tissue. Why, Rose ...”

  What could I say? She blew hard.

  “Sorry, I’m a fool. But it’s the children. I don’t think they’re safe. I’m frightened.”

  Goodness, even in my most exotic fantasies I hadn’t anticipated anything like this. I sat down abruptly beside the tearful girl.

  Rose was a pretty girl, even with her face distorted by tears. She was above average in height with a good figure and an alert, intelligent face that made one suspect more went on in Rose’s mind than one could discern from the outside. She was no run-of-the-mill English nanny, but a girl of considerable intelligence, with a well-defined character and a strong will for one in her early twenties. Now she wasn’t acting at all in accord with the first impression she’d made upon me. She hadn’t seemed like someone who would be afraid or would break down easily.

  “Why don’t you have a spot of brandy with your coffee?” I suggested.

  “Oh, no thank you! She’d smell it on my breath. I don’t want her to know I’ve been here.”

  “Jeanne?”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “I met her briefly on the beach. I can’t say she gave me long enough to get to know her.”

  “She wouldn’t. She doesn’t like people. She’s frightened they’ll find out about her.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s evil. She’s trying to put a spell on those children. They were perfectly all right until she came. Now they’re becoming horrible.”

  Shades of Henry James. Good heavens. I began to feel in need of brandy myself.

  “They seemed like awfully nice children to me,” I reflected, “though their behaviour did change when Jeanne appeared ...”

  “There!” Rose looked at me triumphantly.

  “But it’s quite natural, isn’t it, for children to react to those in charge of them? Rose, why don’t you start at the beginning? Tell me how you got there and what exactly is worrying you?”

  Rose nodded. Her tears had dried and colour had come into her cheeks. Yes, she was a girl of pronounced character. She had a firm chin and a determined light in her eyes.

  “I got the job when the children’s mother had her accident. The father, the Marquis, liked an English nanny, as his others had been English, and the last one had left just before the accident – to get married I think. The kids were very upset, of course, but you know how it is with young children, they quickly re-adapt, and they liked coming to Port St Pierre.

  “Of course I didn’t think the Marquis would leave us here. I wanted to work in Paris, and I understood it was just for the summer holiday – last summer, that was. But then the mother didn’t get better and they knew how ill she was and, before I knew what had happened, he’d decided to get a governess and Jeanne turned up. He’s like that, the Marquis, just makes up his mind without asking anybody. Didn’t ask me what I thought or what I wanted to do. I didn’t want to live permanently in a place like this with no shops or a proper cinema. But I couldn’t leave the children. I’d grown fond of them. So I stayed.”

  Rose looked at me and I quickly nodded my head in encouragement, for I didn’t want her to stop. However, in retrospect, it did seem odd to me that a young girl just looking for a summer holiday job could become so attached to the family for whom she worked. There were to be many doubts in my mind about Rose until the truth was finally revealed. I was wondering about her now – her earnest talk, her obvious desire to impress me.

  “After she came,” Rose went on, “the children began to change towards me. It was so slow I didn’t realise it at first. They got secretive and started telling lies. I couldn’t put it down to anything I’d said or done. I couldn’t even put it down to Jeanne because she likes to keep to herself and stays in her room when she is not teaching.”

  “Doesn’t she ever go out?”

  “She goes out sometimes but I don’t know where. I can’t drive, but she can and uses the car the Marquis has here. It’s a small Renault. I don’t know where she goes. In all the time I’ve been closeted together with her, I feel I’ve never got to know her at all, and except for discussions about the children, we never talk about anything. She never joins me to watch television and never comes with us on outings.”

  “It must be a lonely life.”

  “It is. My boyfriend wanted me to leave it, but I said, ‘No, not until I’m happy about the children.’ And I’m not.”

  “In what way aren’t you, besides their behaviour? I mean, why don’t you think they’re safe?”

  Rose hesitated. For the first time, I wondered how much of this was genuine? Her tears had dried up awfully quickly. And why did she hesitate? Was it simply that she didn’t like Jeanne?

  “Well, I don’t mean she would actually harm them, at least I don’t think so, but she seems to have a sinister effect on the children.”

  “I think you should talk to their father,” I counselled. “He’s coming soon, isn’t he? Did she actually tell you to put me off?”

  “Oh, yes. She was very firm about it. Said she couldn’t meet strange people without the Marquis knowing. I think he’s coming on the weekend.”

  “Then you should tell him your fears. He’s the only one who can do something about it, Rose. I can’t.”

  “Oh, I could never tell the Marquis.”

  “Why not?”

  “He thinks a lot of Jeanne. I know he does. He’s told me she’s excellent for the children. Discipline
s them.”

  Ah, perhaps this was it. A case of jealousy. Young girlish Rose was too free with the children. Let them run wild. Jeanne had introduced a bit of discipline. But then, why was she telling me all this?

  “I must go.” Rose looked at her watch. “Lunch is at twelve-thirty. I’m sorry I came now. I think I’ve upset you.”

  “Oh no, Rose, you haven’t upset me. I just don’t think I’ve been able to help much. You’ve given me so little to go on.”

  “I just needed to talk,” Rose said, shrugging and giving me a helpless look. “You sounded nice on the phone.”

  But she surprised me anew with her next remark.

  “Do you think we could meet secretly with the children? You can see if you think she has affected them, if they’re all right.”

  Her words troubled and excited me. This would be my chance, perhaps, to see inside the chateau. I was reluctant to become involved in the family’s troubles, and above all to agree to secret assignations. I was also exceedingly curious.

  “Well, I do teach older people, Rose. I am not at all an expert in child psychology. However, I daresay I know enough to see if they are disturbed. Anyway, I like kids and they usually like me. I’ve got some doubts about doing this secretly, though, but – perhaps just this one

  time ...”

  “Oh thank you!” Rose’s gratitude appeared genuine. “Can we make it for tomorrow? It’s Wednesday and they have the afternoon off.”

  “That’s fine then. I’ll take my car along the Cayeux Road and you can walk on the beach toward the dunes. At about three?”

  “But we mustn’t let anyone know we planned it.” Rose had become furtive again.

  “No, I promise you it will look accidental.”

  I saw Rose to the door and stood watching her until she disappeared around the corner at the end of the street.

  Rose mystified me, even more than Jeanne, and I wondered now if there really was something about that chateau, or at least the staff in it, that could make one genuinely afraid for the children who lived there?