by Marie Laval
‘Very well,’ he muttered, tightening his thin lips.
He reclined in his chair, crossed his long legs, and entwined his fingers. ‘I know your mother had a rare talent as a painter and kept her watercolours and drawings of Beauregard in a sketchbook she took with her when she left for England.’
‘You mean when she escaped from Edmond Malleval’s fortress where he kept her a prisoner?’ Marie-Ange snapped. Even though she didn’t want to openly confront the physician, she was unable to hide her hostility. Together with Edmond Malleval, the man facing her had instigated her grandmother’s death and caused great harm to her mother, too. ‘Yes, she did have a sketchbook. Why should you be interested?’
‘I would like very much to see it. I believe the drawings hold clues as to the location of the Cross.’
‘Why would they?’ she asked. ‘And more to the point, why should I help you and Uxeloup Malleval get hold of this Cross? If it is as precious as you suggest, it should belong to the Church.’
She stood up. ‘Now if you will excuse me, I wish to retire to my room.’
She moved to the door but Karloff was faster and blocked her way out.
‘You don’t understand how important the Cross is for me, for Malleval. For all of us,’ he said, staring into her eyes. ‘You must help me. You must hand over your mother’s sketchbook and the locket.’
Marie-Ange parted her lips to breathe but there was no air in the room. Karloff’s eyes became darker and so large it felt as if she was being sucked into two bottomless pits with everything around her blurred like in a dream—or a nightmare. Tingling sensations, like pins and needles, crept onto her face and neck, and her body felt suddenly heavy and limp.
Fear made Marie-Ange’s heart pound so hard it hurt. It took all her willpower to tear herself away from his deep gaze. Immediately her heartbeat returned to normal and the room came back into focus. She swallowed hard.
‘I regret I cannot help you, Monsieur Karloff, and I can assure you there is nothing in my mother’s paintings that can be of interest to you.’
She tilted her head up and added. ‘Now please let me through or I shall call for help.’
Karloff reluctantly stepped away from the door. ‘Very well, but you know something, and I will find out what it is,’ he warned before opening the door.
She made her way to her bedroom through dark and quiet corridors. Dealing with Karloff after her encounter with Christopher and her sensual duel with Saintclair left her drained and nauseous. The physician was odd and intense, and just as obsessed as Uxeloup. Once in her room, she stripped off, bathed her face with cold water and slipped into her nightdress. She opened her travel bag to pull out her mother’s art book and settled into bed. Why were both men so certain her mother knew about the Cross of Life and had passed on her knowledge to her? And why did Karloff believe there were clues in the drawings?
Even though she had no idea what she was looking for, she studied every one of the sketches and watercolours until late into the night. She didn’t discern anything new. What was she missing?
Sighing, she closed the book shut. On an impulse, she wrapped it in one of her chemises, and together with the locket, hid it at the bottom of the bag under a pile of undergarments and clothing. She slid into bed and blew out the candle. Through the open curtains the city lights flickered in the distance on either sides of the river, which was now as black as a precipice. She closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.
She had no idea how long she had been dozing when she became aware of a presence in the room.
‘Do you remember the words, Marie-Ange?’ a man’s voice said close to her. She cried out. Her heart hammering against her ribs, she sat up to glance around the room. It was empty.
She heaved a sigh of relief. So it was just a dream.
She lay down and fell asleep again.
‘Tell me the words of the song your mother taught you, and then give me the sketchbook and the locket.’ The voice intruded on her dreams, this time with more insistence.
Startled, she opened her eyes to find she wasn’t lying in bed any longer but sitting against one of the bed posts. A tall, lean man stood facing her. Karloff! Why was he there? How did he get in? She tried to move but her body didn’t respond, and when she opened her mouth to protest, no sound came out.
Karloff bent down. His dark brown eyes shone like diamonds and locked on hers like a serpent’s compelling gaze. This time, Marie-Ange couldn’t look away.
‘You want to remember, don’t you? You want to tell me the words.’ His voice was smooth and persuasive.
Strangely, Marie-Ange knew exactly what he meant.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’
A tiny, childlike voice rose from deep within her and she started singing, using old French words.
Ma mie, ma rose de mai
Ma rose aux cinq pétales,
Qui dans la tour aux colombes
Pleure ton amant dans sa tombe.
‘This is lovely. This is what I want. Carry on, Marie-Ange.’
A disturbing, persistent sound, like the rattling of tree branches against the window broke the spell he held on her. She looked away from him for the briefest moment and the words of the song seemed to vanish from her memory like clouds of mist evaporating under the sun.
Karloff got up from the bed and cursed under his breath.
‘Tudieu! I almost had it.’ He stalked across the room, opened the door, and sneaked out like a shadow.
Marie-Ange collapsed on the bed. Her eyes closed and she slid into a deep sleep…
She woke to the sounds of water washing against the rocks under her window, river fowl splashing in the rushes, and birds calling in the evergreens. The room was bathed in a grey and pink light. She stretched, enjoying the sensual feeling of the fine linen sheets against her skin, but immediately images from her dream came flooding back—Karloff, in her room, asking her about a song while she sat on the bed, unable to move…
She frowned. What a disturbing, unpleasant dream it had been, probably caused by the strain of the past few days and her meeting with the physician the evening before. And yet it seemed so real.
A winter sun rose over the city, staining the sky with a bloody, fiery glow. She got out of bed, opened the window and breathed in the cool morning air which carried the silt scent of the river. The morning might look tranquil, yet she felt anything but peaceful. She dressed and went downstairs to the dining room where two maids were setting the breakfast table. They placed a basket of bread rolls and brioches, a plate of eggs and ham and a cup of coffee in front of her.
‘Did Madame sleep well?’ One of the girls enquired.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Marie-Ange lied. ‘The house is very quiet this morning.’
‘Monsieur Uxeloup didn’t return until dawn. He’ll sleep until lunchtime now. Monsieur likes his sleep, especially when he’s been smoking his pipe.’
‘Justine! Shh…Don’t be so indiscreet,’ the other maid scolded.
‘What about Monsieur Karloff?’ Marie-Ange hoped she wouldn’t see him this morning.
The girl called Justine shrugged. ‘He already left. He said he had patients waiting for him. He’s a well-known physician, you know. People come from all over France, Europe even, for his treatments and potions.’ She shuddered. ‘My grandma says he’s one of those hypnotists who can make you do things just by looking into your eyes.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She also says he belongs to some secret society…’
‘Justine!’ the other maid remonstrated forcefully. ‘You’ll never keep your place if you gossip about Monsieur and his guests.’
‘I’m only speaking the truth,’ Justine grumbled before going out.
Over breakfast, Marie-Ange pondered what the girl had said. So Karloff knew how to hypnotise people, like Anton Mesmer, a doctor who had caused a scandal some years ago for claiming he could treat his patients with the power of suggestion alone. Wasn’t that exactly what her grandmother had written about in
her letter and what Sophie had mentioned at Beauregard?
She sat back in her chair. How had she failed to understand before? She hadn’t dreamt the incident with Karloff last night. The man had actually come into her bedroom. A sudden, fierce anxiety constricted her throat and tightened her chest. Her hand shook so much she had to put her cup of coffee down. What intrigue had she gotten herself mixed up with? By coming here, she had fallen into a trap set by Uxeloup and his physician. Last night Karloff wanted the words of a song, the very same song her mother used to sing to send her to sleep. A song Marie-Ange had all but forgotten. Until now.
My sweet rose of May
My rose with the five petals,
You cry in the dovecote
For your lover, cold in his tomb.’
What about the rest? She frowned with concentration, but it was no good, she couldn’t remember any more.
She had been so young when her mother died. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if her memories were real or mixed with dreams and stories she had made up later. One thing however was certain. The song had been important. Her mother had sung it to her in the evening, over and over again.
She pushed her chair back and sprang to her feet. She needed some air, and a place to figure out what to do next. A walk on the island or into the city would clear her head. She rushed up to her room to fetch her cloak, bonnet and gloves, and ran back down again.
‘I’m going out,’ she informed Justine as they passed in the hall.
The young maid looked panic-stricken. ‘You can’t! I mean Monsieur said you weren’t to leave the house. Let me call Rochefort, he’s in the cellar.’
Marie-Ange shook her head. ‘No, I want to be by myself.’
She opened the front door and walked to the gates. They were locked, a thick metal bar across them. Disappointed, she turned round. There must be another way out of the estate. She would walk along the park’s stone wall until she found it.
‘Wait!’ Rochefort hailed her. He strode her way with a determined look on his thick, brutish features. ‘You’re not to go anywhere, M’ame, not without me.’
Marie-Ange leant against the gates and pressed her hands against her throat to fight a wave of nausea. She wasn’t Malleval’s guest any longer. She was his prisoner.
Chapter Eleven
Glancing around uneasily for fear of being discovered eavesdropping on Malleval’s and Capitaine Saintclair’s conversation, Marie-Ange tiptoed outside the study’s closed door.
‘I hope you’re not going back on your word. You can’t do that to her, not after she came all this way.’ Saintclair sounded angry but Malleval only laughed.
‘What I do with Marie-Ange Norton is none of your business, so keep well out of it. Don’t force me to review our arrangement, Saintclair. You owe me five thousand Francs, remember? You don’t want to cross me and have the bailiffs knocking at your door in St Genis and dragging your family out into the street at dawn. Think about poor Lucie’s health, your mother’s tears and your father’s shame if they found out their son lost their lovely house in a game of cards. Actually I find the whole thing is rather ironic, since that’s how you got the damned house in the first place.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten my family with eviction,’ Saintclair replied in a low, growling voice. ‘I will pay you back every sou I owe you, but you will have to give me a little time.’
Malleval laughed. ‘And where the devil will you find five thousand Francs?’
Saintclair muttered something Marie-Ange didn’t hear. She stepped closer to the door but voices nearby announced people were coming this way. Her heart fluttering, she pulled away from the door and walked to the drawing room.
Standing near the fireplace she waited for Capitaine Saintclair, anxious for news about his search for Christopher. Three days had passed since the ball. Three days, during which she had been in virtual house arrest, allowed only to take short walks in the park, always with Rochefort on her heels. Malleval had kept to his room, claiming the old battle wound was causing him too much pain to visit his notary and formalise her inheritance. Marie-Ange now doubted the existence of this mysterious injury—he had after all been well enough to dance at the ball.
She stifled a yawn. She hadn’t slept much the night before, haunted once again by strange and terrifying images and voices. The dreams always started in the same way. Karloff’s deep, soothing voice intruded into her sleep and asked her to remember the words of her mother’s song, which she never could. She saw a tall, round tower with strange symbols carved on its walls. One side of the wall opened onto a staircase descending into the bowels of the earth, to a place filled with obscurity, horrid whistling, thudding noises, and distant screams. There were shadows down there, entities that sought to snatch something from her.
Every time, she woke shaking with fear and drenched in sweat.
She shivered and wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders. Outside the windows, a thick fog floated above the greenish water, hiding the banks of the river. It seemed she was sailing alone on a ghost ship, lost on a faraway sea.
Footsteps in the corridor made her turn and look expectantly towards the door. She hadn’t seen Saintclair since the evening of the ball. She hoped she would be able to pretend nothing had happened between them but doubted very much her ability to do so. The memories of his caresses and her own unbridled desire still made her blush with shame. Even now as she put her hands to her cheeks she could feel they were burning.
Saintclair entered. His expression was sombre and tired. The scar on his face stood out starkly. He bowed silently, his blue glare filtered through his black eyelashes.
‘Malleval was always a wastrel but at least he used to keep his word,’ he declared without preamble, anger bubbling in his voice. ‘I fear he has now lost the last threads of decency he possessed.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t think he has any intention of giving you what he promised—what you came all this way for.’
‘I see…’ She twisted her wedding ring around her finger.
‘He said he was in no hurry to settle your bequest, that he had plans for you, whatever that means.’ He sighed. ‘I am sorry I ever agreed to escort you to France. I never thought…’
She had herself reached the same conclusion—Malleval lured her to France under a false pretence when all he wanted was the Cross of Life. Hearing Saintclair voice his opinion was the catalyst she needed and in a flash her resolve to flee solidified.
‘Will you help me get away from here?’ she asked, her voice barely a whisper. ‘If you take me to a coach terminal in Lyon, I will buy a passage to Beaujeu. I have enough money left. After that, I shall ask my great-aunt for help.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Saintclair’s face was impassive. ‘If you leave now, there’ll be no chance at all of any money coming to you.’
‘There was never an inheritance,’ she retorted. ‘Malleval fooled me. I need to get away from this house but Rochefort follows me everywhere.’ She moved closer and put her hand on his forearm. ‘Please, Capitaine. I know you have an agreement with Malleval about a gambling debt but…’
He glanced at her, startled. ‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No. Never mind how I found out,’ she replied, unwilling to reveal she searched his pockets and read his correspondence while he slept, as well as eavesdropped on his private conversations.
She bit her bottom lip as she waited anxiously for his response. She was asking him to betray a fellow cavalry officer—a man he had known and fought beside for years—and to jeopardise any chance of wiping his gambling debt off. Yet it only took Saintclair a few seconds to make his decision.
‘Get a few things together, only the essentials, and not your travel bag. We don’t want to arouse anyone’s suspicions,’ he instructed.
Marie-Ange nodded and went to her room. She put her mother’s sketch book, a couple of undergarments, and what was left of her travel money into her reticule before clasping the gold locket around her
neck and grabbing her cloak, hat and gloves. She glanced at Christopher’s dressing gown with a twinge of regret, started towards it, hesitated. There was no room for it in her small bag. She had to leave it behind.
She returned to the drawing room quietly, anxious to avoid any member of Malleval’s household staff, especially Rochefort.
‘Ready?’ Saintclair took her arm and they made their way from the house.
Marie-Ange’s heart sank when she saw Rochefort grooming a horse in the courtyard. The big man stared at them suspiciously and dropped his bristle brush in a bucket of water.
‘Where are you going, Capitaine?’ he asked.
‘I’m taking Madame Norton to a seamstress in town for a dress fitting. Malleval’s orders. I will bring her back later,’ Saintclair replied with a tone that suffered no questioning. ‘Bring my horse now, please.’
Rochefort frowned but fetched Saintclair’s horse from the stable block. The capitaine lifted Marie-Ange up and helped her sit side-saddled. He mounted behind her, loosened the reins, and touched the horse with his leg to send it forward and out of the courtyard.
‘We’d better hurry,’ he said, spurring the horse on as soon as they were on the lane. ‘Malleval will probably send his men after us as soon as he finds out we’re gone. He knows the only place you can go is your aunt’s castle in Marzac, so his men will check the inns where coaches depart for Belleville and Beaujeu first.’ He paused. ‘Which is why we’re not going there.’
‘Where are we going, then?’ Marie-Ange’s face brushed against his shoulder as she turned to speak to him. She sat uneasy, her back stiff against his chest. The warmth of his body brought back sensations she had tried to forget since the night of the ball. She wriggled and attempted to shift forward, away from him.
‘I am taking you to my family in St Genis.’ His arms closed in tightly around her.
‘Will I be welcome? They do not know me and…’ She stuttered and shuffled uncomfortably on the saddle again.
‘My family may be of humble origin, Madame, but they know how to welcome guests,’ he retorted, tightening his grip around her. ‘Now, will you sit still? You’re going to get us both thrown.’