by Marie Laval
‘What was that, Capitaine?’ she whispered.
He gave her a quick glance then gestured to the staircase.
‘It came from upstairs. Malleval must be up to his old tricks.’
‘What old tricks?’
He tightened his mouth. ‘Stay here. I will go up and take a look. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘How can you say that? Whoever screamed sounded in terrible pain.’
‘I said, stay here,’ he instructed once again.
Just as he started going up the staircase, another high-pitched cry resounded in the chateau. Marie-Ange gasped and put her hand to her heart. There was no way she would stay down here on her own. She raced up the stairs after Saintclair.
He turned to look at her, a deep frown creasing his forehead.
‘What do you think you’re doing? This is no place for you. Go back down.’
‘Why? What is he doing in there?’
He let out an impatient sigh.
‘If you can’t do as you’re told, stay behind me. But I’m warning you, you won’t like it,’ he grunted before knocking on a double door at the end of the second floor corridor.
‘Malleval! It’s Saintclair. Is everything all right?’
There were a few seconds of silence, followed by sounds of a man and woman laughing inside the room. Then the door opened.
‘Saintclair. Have you come to join us?’ Malleval exclaimed.
Marie-Ange peeped from behind Saintclair but recoiled at the man’s flushed face and feverish eyes. He was stripped to the waist and held a short leather whip. A strange tattoo of a snake biting its tail adorned his chest.
‘You’re here too, chère niece,’ he added when he saw her. ‘Do come in.’ He opened the door wider.
‘What’s happening? Who is it?’ A woman called.
She was lying naked on black silk sheets on the massive bed at the centre of the room. Rolling over, she stood up and walked unsteadily towards them, kicking several empty bottles of wine out of the way with her bare foot. Marie-Ange recognized the maid who served them at supper. She gripped Saintclair’s arm and opened her mouth in shock. Red marks marred the maid’s milky white thighs and buttocks. ‘I’m sorry if I woke you, but Monsieur likes it when I scream.’ The girl threw her head back and let out a drunken laugh.
‘Are you not going to do anything?’ Marie-Ange asked Saintclair.
The officer turned to her and sighed. ‘Do what exactly?’
‘She’s fine, of course, there’s nothing to worry about.’ Malleval placed a hand on the woman’s waist, another on her shoulder. The girl laughed again and snuggled close to him, seemingly oblivious to the fact she was naked in front of strangers.
‘Now, shall you join us? It will be just like old times.’ He cocked his head to one side and grinned again.
Disgusted, Marie-Ange turned away. She walked as fast as her shaky legs allowed but the girl’s loud, cajoling voice pursued her down the corridor.
‘Your friend here is a true Hussar, Capitaine,’ she was saying. ‘But I’m ready to wager you’re not bad in bed yourself. Maybe you could let me find out?’
Saintclair muttered something and Malleval’s bedroom door slammed shut. He caught up with her in a few long strides and glanced her way.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, his tone casual. ‘I did tell you to stay in your room.’
‘So you knew what was going on up there?’ She breathed out, incensed.
She didn’t give him time to reply. Her cheeks burned with anger, her heart beat fast, too fast. ‘Of course you knew! You must have had your fair share of that kind of…’ she drew in breath as she searched for the right word, ‘that kind of entertainment! After all, Malleval did talk at supper about the wild nights you two used to have during the hunting season.’
She ran down the stairs but wasn’t fast enough. He caught up with her outside her door, put his hand on her arm, and spun her round to face him.
‘For the record,’ he said, his eyes narrowed in anger, his grip a tight vice on her arm, ‘I have never treated, and will never treat, a woman like that. I can assure you that I know of more pleasurable ways to make a woman scream.’
She let out a gasp. How conceited of him! But why was she surprised? He was the man who claimed all women were helpless in his arms. He was the man who believed women were too shallow, too inconsistent to experience honest, true and lasting feelings.
They faced each other in the dark corridor, the candle throwing gigantic shadows onto the walls. He looked down at her, his eyes skimming her body from her tousled hair which covered her shoulders and breasts down to her bare feet, then back up again. Her lips parted and she breathed faster, acutely aware of the heat from his body, of the burning touch of his fingers on her arm. Her whole body tingled, tightened. She should avert her eyes, turn away. Yet, like a mouse mesmerised by a feline, she stood petrified and unable to move.
He spoke in a very low voice, breaking the spell. ‘Get back in your room and lock your door. I will take you to your Aunt Marzac in the morning.’ Without another word, he opened her door and left her there.
Snapping out of her trance, she did as he ordered. She wrapped herself in Christopher’s dressing gown and sat in front of the dying fire. Never could she have imagined her journey to Beauregard would turn out in this way. Nightmarish images of Uxeloup played in her mind, over and over again. Images of him sucking on his opium pipe, talking about a long lost ancient relic, beating a naked woman with a black leather whip, and that strange tattoo vivid on his chest.
If only she didn’t need that bequest so badly, she could leave the following morning. If only Norton Place and Robert weren’t relying on her. And if only she wasn’t so desperate to meet Fouché and ask him about Joseph Nallay…
It was very late when she finally slid Christopher’s dagger under her pillow and got into bed.
The gentle, melodious cooing of doves on her windowsill woke her the following morning. She turned in the soft feather bed, opened her eyes and yawned. Her few hours of fitful sleep had left her with a headache and a heavy, anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach, made worse at the thought of having to face Saintclair and Malleval.
A maid came in to pull the curtains open onto a grey morning and help her get ready. Marie-Ange chose her best dress—a dark blue silk gown with white lace at the collar and at the wrists. She wanted to make a good impression on her Great-Aunt Hermine today.
She ventured downstairs, hoping Malleval was still in his room sleeping off the excesses of the night and found Saintclair in the dining room, eating eggs and ham and drinking black coffee. Without a word, he stood and pulled a chair out for her. A servant girl brought her plate and some coffee.
‘I have arranged to borrow Malleval’s carriage and a driver to go to Marzac this morning,’ Saintclair said when the girl had left. ‘Then I am going back to Lyon.’
She felt a sudden, incomprehensible, stab of sadness at the news. She might not like his arrogance and resent what he implied about Christopher, but he was the only man she trusted in this place. When he left, she would be alone with Uxeloup Malleval…
‘Will you be at the ball tomorrow night in Lyon?’ she enquired.
‘I suppose I shall have to be,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘I don’t care much for these events. Too much parading and prancing around for my taste, but my superiors expect me to put in an appearance. Thankfully the Palace Saint-Pierre is across the square from the barracks, so I can leave when I have had enough.’ He hesitated, cleared his throat. ‘Madame Norton, about last night…’
‘I do not wish to be reminded of last night and the awful things which went on upstairs,’ she retorted primly, shuddering at the memories of Uxeloup’s crazed eyes, his fingers gripping the handle of the whip and the servant’s white body covered with bloody marks. The young woman’s drunken laugh still resounded in her ears. How could any woman submit willingly to such degrading treatment? She was annoyed t
o see Saintclair smile.
‘I’m not talking about Uxeloup’s bedroom antics but about the story he told us in the library about the Cross of Life. What do you intend to do about it?’
Should she tell him of her plan? Somehow she thought he wouldn’t betray her to Malleval. She leant over the table and answered in a hushed voice.
‘I never heard about it before yesterday. I don’t know much about Saint Germain either. My mother died when I was little and my…father…’ She swallowed hard. William Jones would always be her father since he was the man who had brought her up. ‘He never talked much about Beauregard. I can’t give Malleval what he wants. However, he strikes me as dangerously obsessed. It is in my best interest to pretend I can help him find this Cross. Until he has released my inheritance, that is. Then I shall return to England and never see him again.’
He raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘I admire your bluff, Madame. You would make an ideal partner at cards.’ Serious again, he considered her for a few seconds. ‘You are doing the right thing, of course. Go along with him for as long as you can.’
They left for Marzac after breakfast.
Located in a wine-growing valley north of Beaujeu, Marzac was an impressive medieval castle with square turrets, high walls, and a deep moat complete with a drawbridge. As the carriage drove through the gates, Marie-Ange’s nervous fingers fiddled with the ties of her cloak, adjusted the ribbon of her bonnet under her chin. Hermine was the first member of her mother’s family she would meet. Malleval called her a battleaxe, a woman stuck in the old Regime. Would she be happy, tearful or indifferent to see her? Maybe she wouldn’t care at all for her long-lost great-niece.
The carriage stopped in front of the main entrance and Saintclair jumped down from his horse to open the door. He held her hand tightly as she stepped down, glanced around, and whistled between his teeth. ‘It’s quite a place.’
They climbed the imposing stone porch and found an elderly servant waiting at the top of the steps. As she came nearer the man let out a loud gasp, and his face drained of all colour. When she told him her name she was sure she saw tears shine in his eyes. He coughed to clear his throat and asked them to follow him into a parlour. Soon after, a small woman with light grey hair walked in, leaning heavily on a walking stick with a carved silver pommel.
‘So you are Catherine’s daughter,’ she declared without preamble.
Marie-Ange curtsied. ‘Yes, Madame.’
The woman turned to Saintclair. ‘And you are?’
Saintclair bowed. ‘Capitaine Saintclair, of the Second Regiment of Cuirassiers. I escorted Madame Norton from England.’
‘A cavalry officer?’ Her tone was disapproving. ‘Well, I suppose you needed a man for the journey.’ She turned to Marie-Ange again. ‘Where is your mother?’
Her cold, abrupt voice made Marie-Ange wince. ‘She died a long time ago, Madame.’
‘Oh…’ The old woman’s face seemed to crumple. She closed her pale grey eyes a few seconds. ‘I am sorry, child. I must have sounded cold-hearted just then. The thing is, your arrival took me by surprise. I had no idea you existed. Last time I heard about Catherine was when she sent me a note to let me know she had reached England safely. That was in July of 1791.’
‘I was not aware of your existence either, Madame, until a chance encounter in Paris with a former friend of my mother’s a few days ago.’
Hermine Marzac’s face softened, and she raised a hand to touch Marie-Ange’s cheek.
‘You have her hair and her smile, definitely. You must tell me all about her and yourself. But before…’
She turned to Saintclair. ‘You may wait in the kitchen. I am sure my servants will put up with you for a little while. They might even give you a bowl of soup if you ask nicely. But beware! I do not tolerate gambling or funny goings-on with my girls.’
Saintclair’s face grew pale under the insult.
‘Capitaine Saintclair has been a most valued travel companion,’ Marie-Ange said quickly, embarrassed by the way her aunt had dismissed him. ‘I would never have reached Beauregard safely without him.’
Saintclair walked to her. ‘It was my pleasure, Madame, but now is the time for me to take my leave. As I said before, I must return to Lyon.’
She gave him her hand and he brushed it lightly with his lips. She was surprised once again at the sadness the thought of his leaving woke in her.
He bowed stiffly to Hermine Marzac. ‘Madame.’ And he left.
The old lady tapped her stick onto the floor.
‘These cavalry officers, so many of them are lowly born ruffians. Napoleon has a lot to answer for by allowing thugs and rabble to the highest ranks of our once great army. The result was abominable. Fortunately, our royal family is back in charge. Even if they cannot undo all the harm that was inflicted on our poor country, they will rid us of the riffraff.’
She sighed. ‘Now, I want to know everything about you and your poor mother.’ She slid her arm under Marie-Ange’s and the two women walked to a small, cosy drawing room.
Marie-Ange spent the next hour answering her great-aunt’s questions about her parents, about Christopher, and her life at Norton Place. She said nothing however about her suspicions that William Jones wasn’t her real father or about her brief encounter with the man she believed to be Christopher.
After lunch and a succulent dessert of vanilla cream and sponge biscuits, she decided it was her turn to question Hermine about her family’s past.
‘Would you mind telling me about the winter of 1791, when my grandfather Philippe was arrested?’
Hermine heaved a shaky breath. Her hand shook and she dropped her spoon in her plate.
‘Even after twenty-four years, I cannot forgive or forget what happened. My brother did not deserve to be executed. He was a good man who always tried to improve the estate and the life of his people.’
The elderly woman stood up and pulled a cord next to the fireplace. ‘I will let you read Aline’s letters. I still have most of them, and they will answer your questions better than I could.’
A short while later Hermine’s servant walked in and gave her a bundle of papers.
‘Thank you, Pierre.’
She handed the letters to Marie-Ange before walking to the door. ‘Take your time, child.’
Marie-Ange untied the blue ribbon that kept the letters together and looked through the papers. The letters spanned several years and started with the announcement of her mother’s birth.
Paris, 28th July 1775
Dear Hermine,
Philippe and I are delighted to let you know of the birth of our daughter, Catherine Marie-Ange, who was born ten days ago. She was christened at the Saint-Louis church yesterday. Our friend, Saint-Germain, kindly agreed to be her godfather and my aunt, Abbess Antoinette Fleury, is Catherine’s godmother.
I hope you and dear Armand are keeping well and I am looking forward to seeing you again. Philippe sends his regards.
With love,
Aline R. Beauregard
The next letter had been written some years later and was addressed to Hermine.
Beauregard, 4th January 1783
Dear Hermine,
I hope that my letter finds you in good health and that you are enjoying your stay at Versailles. I am missing you dearly.
Count Saint Germain paid us a long visit at Christmas. He seems rather taken by his goddaughter. He gave Catherine a wonderful gift: a gold locket which he said was very old and has belonged to our cousins, the Beaujeus, since the reign of Philippe le Bel. He also gave her an art book. He spent many hours with her, teaching her some rudiments of drawing and watercolour, singing, talking about poetry, or walking in the park.
Saint Germain said Beauregard wouldn’t be complete without a dovecote and promised to send a team of craftsmen—from Malta of all places!—to build one in the rose garden. He said these men were the best. Doves at Beauregard! How wonderful!
Yours respectfully,
&nbs
p; Aline R. Beauregard
So her locket had indeed belonged to Saint Germain, and to the wealthy and powerful Beaujeus family before him. Uxeloup’s ranting about the Beaujeu family came back to her. He had said that one of them, Guichard, hid the mysterious Cross of Life at Arginy castle in 1307 and that his descendent, Anne, retrieved it later, sometime in the fifteenth century.
Aline’s next letter was dated a few months later.
Beauregard, 10th May 1783
Dear Sister,
The dovecote is finished at last. Philippe had two dozen pairs of doves sent from a breeder in Belleville. Our rose garden now echoes with the birds’ cooing and I do not tire of listening to them and watching them fly around the park.
Saint Germain’s Maltese builders left a few days ago. I found them most intriguing. Everything in them, the colour of their skin, their language, and their clothing was alien and exotic. There were five of them, including an interpreter, a charming young man who introduced himself as Baldassere dei Conti. The servants were rather terrified of them, but Catherine wasn’t in the slightest impressed. In fact, she befriended the interpreter and they spent many hours together, although I am not sure what they found to talk about!
The men set camp in the park. It was most peculiar, a fire burnt at the entrance of their tent and a guard kept watch at all times. But they worked wonders and I never saw a more beautiful dovecote. There are one hundred and one niches for the birds, all partly closed by wooden shutters, and each shutter is carved with a different pattern. The central pole is chiselled and engraved from top to bottom. The result is simply stunning.
Philippe’s plan to renovate the workers’ cottages has encountered much hostility from other landowners in the region who say that he is setting a dangerous precedent, but he is determined to improve the life of his people.
I remain as always,
Yours,
Aline R. Beauregard
The following letter reminded her of Malleval.
Beauregard, 30th March 1784
Dearest Hermine,
We were all deeply aggrieved to learn that our dear friend, Saint Germain, died of pneumonia at the court of the Grand Duke of Holstein in Denmark last month. I cannot bring myself to believe this is real. He always had such a strong constitution, I never saw him ill or even unwell once in all the years I have known him. Catherine was distraught at the news and spends hours hiding away in the dovecote and drawing. Poor Saint Germain…He died abroad, without his closest friends and family. The shocking news was that there was no funeral mass held for him and he now rests in an unmarked grave somewhere in a far off Danish cemetery, making it impossible for any of us to visit his grave and pray for his soul.