Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  CHATEAU D’ARMOR

  Rebecca Stratton

  Jesamine’s assignment, doing research into an old French family in a romantic chateau, would be fascinating. But her work, and her relationship with the attractive Paul d’Armor, led her into deeper waters than she had expected .

  CHAPTER ONE

  JESAMINE Arden, journalist at large, sounded very grand, but Jesamine felt she had earned the title, for this was her fourth trip to Europe in six months, though her first to France. Being freelance had its advantages, she thought, although it meant that she was very much on her own when anything went wrong with the planned schedule—as now.

  James Terril had come with her as far as Nantes, but there he had been stricken with a particularly malevolent virus and transported hurriedly to the nearest hospital. James was to have taken the pictures illustrating the article she was to write, but as she watched him go off in the ambulance she had decided to take his whispered advice and go on alone. The photographs could be taken later, when he recovered sufficiently to follow her. In the meantime she could carry on to Grosvallee and get to know her subject.

  The idea of linking families in England with their ancestral roots in the various Common Market countries had been her own, and Jesamine was rather proud of it. Woman’s Life, for whom she had worked before, had taken up the idea enthusiastically and she had been given a more or less free hand, as long as she produced a series of eight articles within a specified time.

  The fact that she was well ahead with her schedule was thanks largely to the fact that she was a willing traveller and, after choosing the families she wanted in England, she dashed around Europe tracking down their Common Market roots with a zest that brought co-operation from the most unlikely quarters. She had left France until last for her own specific reasons, and she faced this trip with even more than her usual excitement.

  The coincidence of her own family being connected to the d’Armor family in the Loire valley area of France had only been revealed when she spoke about the project to her maternal grandfather, and it added spice to the whole scheme to think that she was closely involved herself.

  Jesamine had often wished that she could have seen more of her grandfather during her childhood, but his career as a sea captain had made that impossible, since he was so often away, though she had always been fond of him. A big, weathered man, he had the traditional seaman’s gift for telling a story, and she had listened with interest and excitement when he related his family’s history, a history she had been unaware of, except as a vague fact in the background, until now. Leaving her own story until last had been deliberate, for it gave her more time to spend on the project and still meet her scheduled limit.

  She had listened raptly while her grandfather told her about a certain Charles Louis Vernais, Comte d’Armor, who fled from France in the year 1793, following the execution of King Louis XVI. From her grandfather she learned that the line descended directly through his side of the family via Louise Sutton, an English squire’s daughter who had taken the fancy of the escaping French nobleman.

  The gallant Comte, however, had not lingered long enough to marry the lady, but her son, who was also called Charles, had eventually married respectably and founded the family from which descended Jesamine’s own mother. She had frankly admitted to one or two qualms when she first wrote to the present head of the d’Armor family and it came to mentioning her own nebulous connection with them, but his reply had been very gracious and helpful.

  Not only had he offered her every assistance in her task, but added the hope that she would honour them by staying at the Chateau d’Armor during her sojourn in France, however long it might be—the invitation to include her companion, James Terril, as well.

  It was a pity about James, she thought, but there was little she could do to help him even if she stayed in Nantes until he was well again, and she could not still the fluttering sense of excitement she felt as she neared her destination. Driving through the lovely Breton countryside she could think of little else but the coming meeting with the family d’Armor.

  It was incredibly exciting to think that the people she was on her way to see were linked with her own family by ties that went back almost two hundred years, and the feeling got stronger the nearer she got to Grosvallee and the Chateau d’Armor.

  The hire car she was driving had been meant to take both her and James to the chateau, but she had only a few minor qualms about leaving him to drive on alone, for she felt that this journey was something very special. There was an historically romantic link here that she felt she wanted to discover alone—James could come into the matter later when she had made the first approach.

  She had researched the project with her usual thoroughness before she left home, but the information available on their personal lives had proved sparse, although their reputation as wine producers was in no doubt at all. They were among the best known in the area, and in the Loire valley that was quite a reputation to have.

  She had managed to learn one or two facts about the family members, however, enough to give her some idea of their characters, she thought, and she was confident she could manage the interview as successfully as she had the others in the series. Her main task would be to establish the actual connection between her own family and the d’Armors and if possible make friends with them so that they saw her as a distant link in their own history and not simply as a journalist after a story.

  The letter she had received from Monsieur Francois d’Armor suggested that it would be possible to get to know them quite well, for he sounded quite charming and willing to help in any way he could. Once that certain rapport was established she could then go on to write a potted history of the two families, to be illustrated by the photographs James would take later of the chateau and its surroundings.

  The car was handling well, and she had somehow managed to remember to drive on the right-hand side of the road, even while she was preoccupied with admiring the countryside. It reminded her rather of parts of Wales she had visited, and she recalled that she had once read somewhere that Brittany and Wales had quite a lot in common, both historically and linguistically.

  Both could claim to have been ancient kingdoms in their own right, much fought over and hardly subdued, and their language and cultures were very similar. Both people were still very Celtic in character too, being fiercely nationalistic and proud of their traditions. It was a land of beautiful forests and moors, of clear bright streams and lovely valleys. It was, Jesamine decided on first acquaintance, well worth the visit even had she had nothing else in mind but sightseeing.

  She was now in the Loire valley region and the first glimpse of vineyards gave her a tingling thrill, for it meant she could not have so much further to go. The d’Armor vineyards were famous and produced the grapes for one of the very fine wines for which the area was justly famed. Everything was new, delightful and exciting, and she felt no more than a small twinge of guilt for having left James behind.

  She was so entranced by the view that she almost missed seeing a sign erected at the turn of a sudden and rather sharp bend and indicating the way to Grosvallee. It was because she so nearly missed her turning that she spun the wheel round hard to cope with the sharp curve and consequently took the corner very wide.

  She hung on grimly when she realised that she had misjudged badly and prayed there was nothing coming from the other direction. The hire car veered round, its tyres shrieking on the rough surface, and came jerkily to a standstill on the wrong side of the road and hair-raisingly close to the bonnet of a big, dark Mercedes that braked to a halt, though not quite soon enough to avoid hitting her.

  Jesamine sat still behind the wheel for a second, her heart thudding heavily, not only in al
arm at the near accident, but because she was so obviously in the wrong, and the driver of the Mercedes was already out of his seat and frowning darkly at the front of his car. Another couple of strides and he was facing Jesamine as she stepped out to meet him, gazing anxiously at the two cars now apparently bound together inextricably by their bumpers.

  The man was tall, too tall for her to feel at ease, for he towered over her, and he had ice-grey eyes that glittered angrily as he spoke to her in French, apparently under the impression she was a compatriot. “Qu’avez-vous, mademoiselle?” he demanded. “Etes-vous insensee?”

  Jesamine was pale and she felt more than a little shaky, though it seemed not to concern him in the least. A steep drop into the vine-covered valley yawned only inches from the front wheels of their vehicles, and she was too shaken by the thought of what might have happened to even resent his abuse. Instead she swallowed hard and shook her head.

  “I—I don’t speak French,” she told him, and the watching eyes narrowed slightly, she thought, although she had paid little heed to his appearance so far.

  “You are English, mademoiselle?” he asked, and she nodded. “So!” He shrugged resignedly, as if that explained it all. “You drive on the wrong side of the road!”

  “But I wasn’t!” Jesamine denied hastily. She noted the way he glanced at the hired car, bumper to bumper with his and on the wrong side of the road, and she shook her head. “I almost missed the sign to Grosvallee,” she explained. “I might have taken the corner a little wide.”

  “As you say, mademoiselle!” He indicated the locked bumpers and frowned. “It will not be easy to disengage,” he guessed, “and I have an appointment in half an hour!”

  “I’m sorry!” She looked on helplessly. It was useless for her to suggest anything, for she had no mechanical knowledge at all, and always had to depend on someone else to solve problems like this. “If I could help,” she ventured, convinced he would refuse, but to her dismay he nodded.

  “Take one side of the pare-choc,” he told her, and frowned again when she looked mystified. “The bumper, mademoiselle. We can lift my car free!”

  He walked around to the other side, seeming to stand dangerously close to that long drop into the valley, and put his hands on the bumper of the car. Being the bigger vehicle it was on top, but to Jesamine it suggested an incredible feat of strength to move it, and she blinked in dismay at being expected to help.

  “Can we do it?” she asked, looking doubtfully at the big car, and the man gave her a pitying look.

  He was already rocking the vehicle and heaving on the metal bumper with both hands. “We can, mademoiselle,” he informed her tersely. “Alone I think I may not! Lend me your assistance, s’il vous plait, I have to be on my way!”

  There was nothing for it but to do as he said, and Jesamine moved round, laying hold of it as he did, amazed to find that it actually worked and the two cars parted. Even so, with her inexpertness, she bruised the fingers of one hand when they eventually achieved their object. The cry she gave was completely ignored, however, indeed she doubted if he even noticed it, and she stood with her bruised knuckles pressed to her mouth, looking at him reproachfully.

  He examined his own vehicle for damage, but omitted to do as much for hers, then he turned and looked at her, and she really saw him for the first time. He was not as she would have described a typical Frenchman, although she was in some doubt if there was such a thing. Somehow she thought of them as dark, typically Gallic, but this man was quite fair, with thick straight hair, and those steely grey eyes that now regarded her with almost embarrassing interest.

  He was not good-looking, rather too strong and rugged for that, with craggy features that were well tanned by sun and weather as if he spent most of his time out of doors, although that gleaming dark car scarcely suggested a farmworker and neither did his manner. He was self-assured to the point of being arrogant, and he was looking at her now as if she was some kind of inferior being, albeit an attractive one.

  Jesamine was not unused to men showing an interest in her, for she had her share of good looks. Petite in build with a slim rounded figure and a small oval face; she had long black hair and blue eyes that were fringed with dark lashes and large as a child’s. She never failed to attract masculine attention, but there was something quite blatantly speculative about this man’s gaze that caused her a twinge of uneasiness, and she condemned herself for a fool for standing there talking to him on an apparently deserted road.

  She was no more easy when he eased his firm, straight mouth into a faintly ironic smile suddenly. “I hope, mademoiselle, that you are now aware of the dangers of driving on the wrong side of the road!” Briefly he inclined his head in a curtly formal bow. “I trust you will achieve the remainder of your journey without further mishap,” he said, and turned away. “Au revoir, mademoiselle!”

  Still rather dazed by the whole incident, Jesamine did no more than incline her own head slightly, then watched him get back into his car and drive away. He had been brusque and arrogant, and not in the least like the traditional gallant Frenchman, but somehow he had impressed her, and she found herself wondering about him, who he was and where he had come from.

  Suddenly realising where she was, she shook her head, impatient with her own bemusement, and turned to see if her own car had survived the bump as unscathed as the Mercedes had. If it had not, she would be stranded, for she had no hope of helping herself. Sliding behind the wheel, she held her breath while she tried the starter, letting it out in a deep sigh of relief when the engine whirred into life. Now that she was on her way again it should not take her long to reach Grosvallee, and she hoped for a more warm welcome at the Chateau d’Armor than she had received from that brusque, disturbing stranger on the road.

  A breathtaking glimpse through a cluster of chestnut trees of rounded towers and slim, pointed roofs gave Jesamine her first glimpse of the Chateau d’Armor, and she felt her heart give a skip of excitement as she drove through the gateway. A curious tingling shivered along her spine, and she felt the warm flush of colour in her cheeks as she anticipated the coming interview.

  A long tree-lined drive wound with leisurely grace until it broadened into a wide, gravel-covered area in front of the chateau, and when she stopped the engine the silence seemed to fall around her in a wave of blessed peace.

  Close to, the building itself was even more delightful than she had expected from that tree-shrouded glimpse earlier and she took a second or two to admire it. Even though it was built of the local granite which lent a rather gloomy look to the chateau’s elegant lines, it was attractive, and in her mind she hastily recalled something of its history.

  The d’Armor family, she knew, had commissioned its design from one of France’s most famous architects during the sixteenth century and, apart from a time following the revolution when it had stood deserted, it had been in the same family ever since. Charles Louis had escaped from here to England and founded her own family’s place in history.

  The current head of the family was Francois d’Armor, although he was now eighty-eight years old and the reins of the family vineyards and the wine business were in the hands of his grandson, Paul d’Armor. Old Francois’s wife, Clothilde, was also alive, though now in her eighties, but their only daughter, Louise, had been killed during the last war.

  It was of Louise d’Armor that Jesamine thought now, as she sat in her car still, for there seemed to be several facts that were puzzling about her. Her death had apparently been something of a mystery, also there seemed to be no report of her ever having married, although she was the mother of Paul d’Armor. All these facts combined to arouse Jesamine’s journalistic interest, although she had not come, she reminded herself, to cause anyone any unhappiness by raking over too recent history.

  Since there was little else to do, she left her car where it was and climbed the wide stone steps to the iron-studded door, then hesitated for a moment before she rang the bell. There was a strange un
easiness in her suddenly, and she looked up at the elegant, peaceful facade of the chateau with eyes that were darkened with doubt.

  It was ridiculous, of course it was, to feel so uneasy, and she jolted herself out of her indecision, reminding herself briskly that she had a job to do. Her summons on the big iron bell pull beside the door was answered with such promptness that she almost suspected someone had been waiting for her to ring, and she smiled a little uncertainly at the woman who answered it.

  The woman was in her sixties, Jesamine guessed, and she had iron grey hair and eyes that were as bright as dark buttons in an incredibly plain face. She looked at Jesamine with a frankly curious look and raised sparse brows in enquiry. “Oui, mademoiselle?” she asked.

  Jesamine produced a card with her name on it and handed it over. “Monsieur d’Armor is expecting me,” she said, and repeated her name so that there should be no misunderstanding. “My name is Arden, Jesamine Arden.”

  “Ah, mais oui, Mademoiselle Arden!” The woman stood back, apparently satisfied that she was who she claimed to be, and opening the door a little wider to admit her. “Monsieur le Comte expects you!”

  The grandeur of the title surprised Jesamine for the minute, for she had studied her subject as well as was possible and there was no record of the present head of the family using his legally obsolete title. It was little use questioning the woman about it, however, but she made a note to raise the matter with Francois d’Armor himself.

  The interior of the chateau was every bit as delightful as its external design had suggested it would be. Tall, slim windows balanced the wide hall and gave it grace and proportion, while a curved white stone staircase followed the elegant curves of the semi-circular hall, with its domed ceiling and gilded relief of garlands of vine leaves and grapes.

  One or two paintings on the walls caught her eye as she followed the woman across the tiled hall, and she could not decide why the strong expressive faces reminded her of someone. It came as such a shock when it did occur to her that she stopped and stared at the portrait of an eighteenth-century gentleman in pale blue silk. With a very few changes it could have been a portrait of her own grandfather as a young man, and this first link in the chain thrilled her as nothing had ever done before.