For a couple of days after that, nothing untoward occurred. I worked well, slept well, and enjoyed enormously the huge meals provided by Madame Barbou and her daughter Agnes. At this rate, I might sacrifice the trim Trafford waistline. I saw Jeanne and the children together at mealtimes or after school and spent a lot of time in my room working. My Joan was making exceedingly good progress, perhaps, I could not help thinking, because I’d come to a spot where she had once lived. Still, it was a strange thought.
Wednesday afternoons the children had off and I offered to relieve Jeanne, who was looking tired, and take them for a walk.
“Only if you’re sure it’s no trouble,” she said.
“Of course it’s no trouble! I’ve done a lot of work these past two days. Jeanne,” I said on an impulse, “did you speak to Rose after she’d seen me? Was it Rose who told you about my work on Joan of Arc?”
Jeanne gazed at me with that mild expression which seemed so knowing.
“No, Clare. I guessed Rose had been to see you because I heard her asking Madame Barbou if she knew where you lived. I knew how sly she was and that she would try to make trouble. She was also late for lunch that day and by the way she looked at me when she got back, I knew she’d been up to something.”
“You’re very perceptive, Jeanne.”
“Yes,” Jeanne began slowly, wondering whether or not to go on, “I do have a certain amount of second sight. I often know things before people tell me, or before I even see them. That’s how I knew you were writing about Joan of Arc.”
“But,” I began, and stopped.
“You think it’s nonsense, don’t you? It’s something I never wanted or asked for but have had since a child. I know things that are going to happen. As soon as I saw you, I knew you were going to move into the chateau, that we were going to know you a lot better. And, when you said you were writing a book, the knowledge sprang to my mind that it was about Joan of Arc.”
“Then you told the Marquis?”
She shrugged. “I told him you were an English writer working on a book about La Pucelle. I suppose it slipped out.”
“It must be very frightening, a power like that.”
“It doesn’t bother me. Sometimes I’m wrong, and I never know what is going to happen to me, only whether people will affect me for good or for bad. I ...” Jeanne hesitated and the expression on her face frightened me. “I ... as soon as I saw you on the beach talking to the children I was very apprehensive; I felt you were going to bring me harm.”
“You harm? Me?” I was incredulous.
“Clare, I can’t explain it, and I like you, I really do, but I was afraid of you.”
“Are you still now?”
“I don’t know. I can’t think what could happen.”
“That’s why you didn’t want me in the house?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, I see I’ve upset you.”
“Well, it’s not a nice feeling to think one might be a psychic force for the bad.”
“I have been wrong in the past. I may be wrong now.”
“I hope you are, Jeanne. Let’s try and forget about it.”
But this was easier said than done. My feelings about Jeanne were now in complete disarray. She could be mad, evil, or stupid, or she could simply be telling me the truth. As I’d spent years married to a psychologist – a broad-minded one at that – I knew a little about the paranormal. It was an absorbing subject, and it made my study of Joan fascinating. Did she hear voices or didn’t she? Was she hallucinatory? Joan definitely had had second sight. The Sword of Fierbois was an example, and so was the secret message she gave the Dauphin Charles at Chinon which convinced him she came from God. She also knew she would be wounded and when, and she undoubtedly knew that she would die, but not how.
My Joan and this Jeanne were rather alike. It was a bizarre thought.
Soon the fun of the afternoon, seeing the children and the dog race about on the sand, seemed to dispel these disturbing ideas from my mind. The afternoon sparkled, with the wind blowing over the sea and the waves cresting with foam. The cold of the early October day gave the air a crispness, a hard, diamond-like quality. The children had taken off their shoes and were running in and out of the water throwing sticks for Goofy. I thought it was cold for the sea, but they had heavy sweaters on.
“Be careful,” I cautioned. “Fabrice, be careful of the tide; it will soon turn and will take you with it.”
Philippe raced up to me, his handsome face eager to reassure me. “Have no fear, Clare. The water is shallow today. You could walk across the bay with the tide.”
“Well, don’t,” I said. “You keep your eyes on your brother who always wants to imitate you.”
Philippe laughed and sped off. As the tide began to retreat they followed it, and soon they were far out in the bay; I had kept a straight course and the tide was moving away from me at an angle. We had long passed the town and were approaching the dunes where I’d been shot. My hand flew to my cheek, and I was filled with a urgent, irrational fear. The force of the wind made me bend my body to strive against it, and to my alarm the children were moving farther and farther away as they followed the sea. Philippe had taken no notice at all of what I’d said. I started to pant as I ran after them, filled with dread. I was furious with them for giving me such a fright and that made my task harder; the wind blew and buffeted me and the sand swirled up, making each step more difficult than the last.
I stopped, rubbing the sand from my eyes, cursing the wind. Ahead of me, slightly to the right obscured by the dunes, a figure was gazing intently at the children, who were the only figures on the beach. He bent down, and when he straightened up, he held something in his hand which he raised to his shoulder.
A gun! Someone was aiming a gun at the children. I called out and started to run, tripped and came crashing to the ground. I raised my head, but the wind blew my hair across my face into my eyes. I beat the sand struggling to get up, but the wind roared in my ears, and I felt helpless and confused.
Then there was a firm hand on my shoulder and a man’s voice saying into my ear, “Madame, are you hurt?”
I grasped at the hand offered me, a firm, brown, masculine hand, and was pulled up onto my feet.
“I saw you fall. Did you twist your ankle?”
The gun was resting casually in the crook of his left arm as he helped me up with his right hand. I looked ahead of me and the children were only specks on the horizon.
The children!” I exclaimed angrily. “Look where they are!”
“They seem perfectly safe to me, Madame. True, I thought they were a bit far out, and I was examining them with my telescope to see how near the sea they were.”
“Your telescope!”
“I have a telescopic sight on my gun.”
He gave me such a charming, friendly smile I felt almost dizzy with relief. And I’d thought he was going to shoot them! What a disordered imagination I had. I leaned heavily on my protector.
“Ah, you saw me, you thought I was pointing the gun at them?”
I nodded, too weak and ashamed to reply.
“But Madame, why should I point a gun at your children? Still, it was a perfectly natural fear. I’m sorry.”
“Someone took a shot at me the other day,” I said by way of explanation. “Maniacs, you know, one never can be sure. I must go and get the children. They’re much too far out. They’ll be in the Channel before they’re finished.” I tried to go forward but my ankle collapsed under me; the pain was intense.
“Oh hell, I’ve sprained my ankle!”
“That is too bad. Here, let me go after them and then you will feel less anxious.”
As he left, he put his gun down and started to run with long vigorous strides. He was about fifty, a good-looking man of athletic build, a full set beard clipped close to his face, which was deeply tanned as though he spent a lot of time outdoors. His hair was thick and curly, mostly grey but streaked with black. He had on a duffle coat and high
boots over his trousers. I looked curiously at his gun and saw the telescope over the barrel. I lifted it. It was heavy, but by squinting along the sights I could see four figures on the waterline chatting animatedly. Philippe called to Goofy, who was wet and dripping, and the four began to walk back. My kind saviour had Fabrice by the hand. What luck!
But when I saw them close up I was less pleased. Fabrice was soaked to the skin, turning blue with cold, and the other two were very wet. My relief turned again to indignation, and I began to scold them almost before they were within earshot.
“Philippe, you should be ashamed. After all I told you. Noelle, you as the eldest ...”
The man laughed and took my arm, helping me along. “Madame, you are upset. The children are none the worse for wear and have had a very good time. Let me drive you in my car.”
The children eyed me warily and kept close to their protector as we trudged to the car parked by the side of the dunes. He had a large white Mercedes with a German number plate. He opened the boot for the dog and the back door for the children.
“I’m afraid they’ll ruin your car,” I said apologetically.
“That’s no problem. I’ll put a rug on the seat.”
The children shuffled in, glancing guiltily at me while the man helped me into the front.
“How’s your foot?”
“I’ll have to hobble for a day or two, but I think I’ll live, thanks to you.”
“Where to, Madame?”
“The chateau, the big pink chateau on the bay.”
“Ah, the Chateau des Moulins. I know it. My name is Gustav Schroeder, Madame.”
“I’m Clare Trafford.”
“You’re English?” He looked at me with surprise. “Your French is excellent!”
“I’m half-French, but England is my home. Your French is very good too.”
“Ah, but I’m half-French as well; my mother came from Alsace.”
“What a coincidence. I mean our both being half French.” Schroeder was driving expertly along the road towards the town.
“You’re familiar with this area?”
“Very familiar.”
“Did you know the de Frigecourt family?”
“Yes, before the children were born. It was a long time ago. Here is the lane, I think, and there is your chateau.” He looked lingeringly at it before he stopped by the gate.
It seemed that everyone who saw the chateau was impressed by it.
“Won’t you come in?” He was helping me out of the car.
“Thank you, not today. I have an appointment. A lucky chance made me see you as I was on my way to the car.”
“I’m very grateful.”
“Not at all, Madame. I hope we have the pleasure of meeting again another time.” He patted the children on their heads as they tumbled out of the car, then released a rather indignant dog from the boot; Goofy wasn’t used to that kind of treatment and shook himself vigorously, showering us with water.
“Philippe,” I commanded, “give me your arm. Thanks to you I can hardly walk. Au revoir, Monsieur, merci.”
“Rien de tout, Madame, rien de tout.” He gave a little Germanic bow, waved and got into the car.
“What a nice man,” Noelle remarked as he drove off, but I was too busy hanging onto Philippe, wincing with pain at every step, to reply.
CHAPTER 8
Rose’s room. Something had awakened me, and I lay in the dark room with those words forming and reforming themselves in my brain. Rose’s room, Rose’s room, Rose ... Why had I woken up? I felt a twinge of pain in my ankle; maybe I’d moved and disturbed it. We’d bathed it and bandaged it and I’d sat with it on a stool all evening, doing my best to look both disapproving and martyr-like. I was furious with the children for the shock they’d given me more than for the pain of my injury; after Rose the thought of their being swept out to sea was terrifying. However, to make up for their behaviour, they’d been angelic, doing everything they could to help and please me, long cuddles before going to bed.
Jeanne, also helpful and sympathetic, had nevertheless been rather amused by the whole incident.
I lay in the dark room thinking; my eyes began to close, heavy with sleep again. Suddenly there was a sharp and terrible scream. Without a thought of ankle or anything else, I hurled myself out of bed and flung open the door. The corridor was in darkness, but I had no doubt the scream had come from Noelle’s room, two doors away. I hobbled toward her door, flinging it open just as she was about to scream again. Her room was brightly lit by the moonlight streaming in through the window.
“Noelle ...” I rushed to her side and gathered her in my arms; she was trembling violently, and as I held her she began sobbing against my chest. I recalled the other night when the same thing had happened. Despite her tomboy air, Noelle was a very nervous child.
“Shhh ... there ... did you have a nightmare?”
It was some time before she could talk, and seeing that the moonlight made the room look eerie, I drew the curtains and put on the light.
“There. Was it the moonlight playing tricks?”
Noelle looked puzzled; she was staring at a corner of the room, the far corner from her bed, near the door.
“I was restless,” she began. “I kept waking and thinking how much we’d upset you, and then, then I saw ...” She pointed towards the corner of the room and dissolved into tears again. “Over there.”
I held her tightly, strangely fearful myself. “And saw, Noelle?” I was trying hard to keep my voice steady.
“Something in white, like a ghost.” She started trembling again.
“Darling, it was the moonlight. I swear it was; you should draw your curtains when there is a full moon. It plays tricks, especially with sensitive people like you.”
“But I saw it so clearly in the moonlight. It was a girl, like me.”
“A little girl?”
“Well, a bit older maybe.”
She seemed very sure. I went to the corner just to look round; but it was bare of furniture or anything that could have appeared ghost-like in the moonlight.
“Did you ever see anything like that before?”
“No.”
“Then it was a dream. Shall I stay with you until you fall asleep?”
“Please, can I come and sleep with you?”
“I don’t see why not.” The bed was big enough, I was too tired to sit up, and my ankle was throbbing. I nodded and she climbed out of bed and ran to my room. I hobbled after her, first putting out the light and opening the curtains. I looked about me, studying the room as she had seen it in the moonlight. Almost any place could look spooky with the moon like that. Perhaps a cloud had caused some shadow? But the sky was clear, a still Autumn night.
Noelle was already in my bed when, after taking a couple of painkillers, I got in beside her. She reached for my hand and held it tightly, and I talked softly to her, saying that she shouldn’t be afraid.
“What about the curse?”
“There really are no such things; they are all make-believe.”
“And ghosts?”
“Ghosts don’t exist either.”
Gradually the hold on my hand relaxed and she was asleep. But I lay awake a good while longer. It was strange that I had woken up thinking of Rose before Noelle screamed. Her scream didn’t wake me. Noelle was considerably younger than Rose, who had looked younger than she was. But why would Rose haunt a room two doors away? I shivered involuntarily and held Noelle’s thin body close to mine. I needed comfort too.
***
Both Noelle and I slept late, and so we looked tired and wan at breakfast, but everyone else was cheerful, especially Jeanne. She was most intrigued about Noelle’s story and questioned her closely. I watched Jeanne carefully. What was she up to now?
“Run along,” she told them after they’d finished their bowls of coffee, warm bread, which Madame Barbou brought from the boulangerie on her way to the chateau, and apricot jam.“Get out your books and I will b
e with you soon.”
Generally she went up with them and I finished my coffee in a pleasant stupor, usually with a cigarette while I had a look at Le Monde.
“Well?”
“Well, Jeanne?”
“Do you think she did see something?”
“Of course I don’t. Do you?”
“I don’t know.” Jeanne sat back tapping her fingers on the table. Her normally impassive face seemed alive with some secret excitement.
“A young girl, she said.”
“Yes?”
“Have you thought who it might be?”
“Rose?”
“Rose?” Jeanne repeated in a genuine astonishment. “Rose was not a young girl. She was twenty-three.”
“That seems young enough to me.”
“But it is not a young girl.” She was breathless now. “Jeanne d’Arc was a young girl.”
“Joan of Arc?” I almost fell off my chair in surprise.
“She was nineteen when they killed her, seventeen when she started her career, eighteen when she was imprisoned in the chateau at Port St Pierre.”
“You honestly think it was Joan of Arc?”
“Don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. I think Noelle was having some sort of emotional disturbance.”
“But Joan wore white – remember her white armour? I have thought for a long time there was a presence in this chateau. I told you I had second sight. I really believe that the spirit of Jeanne d’Arc dwells here, and that is how I knew about you.”
I took a lungful of smoke and gave the morning smoker’s hearty hacking cough.
“You don’t believe me at all, do you?” Jeanne went on accusingly. “You think I’m mad.”
“Of course I don’t think you’re mad. I just don’t believe in ghostly manifestations of people, especially saints, long dead. If we are to believe the church, your church incidentally, Joan is in heaven among the blessed.”
“Ah,” – Jeanne twined her hands together – “but spirits have many ways of manifesting themselves; look at the saints who have appeared to many people. St Martin de Porres was seen in several places at the same time.”
Rose, Rose Where Are You? Page 8