Before the Storm

by Melanie Clegg

  ‘Venetia!’ Eliza gasped, looking around at the lovely room. ‘How beautiful.’

  Her friend smiled wryly and gave a little shrug. ‘It’s my reward for presenting them with a grandson,’ she said, chewing at her fingernail. ‘I’ll take you up to the nursery in a while so you can meet the little Comte.’ She tried to sound dismissive but her eyes shone when she mentioned her son. ‘I’m told that he is an excessively beautiful child, but all mothers think that, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh Venetia.’ Clementine sank down on the vast bed then threw herself back against the embroidered pillows. ‘I can’t believe that you have a husband and a baby now.’

  ‘I know,’ Venetia said with a smile, wrapping her arms around one of the gilt twisted posts of her bed. ‘It seems like so long ago that we were all in Bath together doesn’t it?’ She looked at Eliza, who was perched on a low wooden stool in front of a vast lace and pink ribbon bedecked dressing table. ‘You’ll be next, mark my words.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Eliza demurred, toying with a small porcelain pot of rouge. ‘Paris is lovely but I don’t think we’re going to find husbands here.’ She opened the pot and applied some rouge to the apples of her cheeks, turning her head this way and that to admire the effect.

  ‘No?’ Venetia hid a smile. ‘Well, we shall see.’

  After a visit to the cosy lavender scented nursery, where the tiny Comte Alexandre proved to be every bit as beautiful as his fond little maman claimed him to be, they went down to dinner in the blue damask dining room on the ground floor, which had French windows that led out onto a wide terrace and then down to the gardens. ‘It will be hideously dull,’ Venetia warned her friends in a whisper before they entered the candlelit salon to be introduced to the family. ‘But if I can endure it for weeks on end, you can put up with it for one night.’

  The old Duc turned out to be every bit as formidable as they imagined - tall, and bad tempered with a red face that clashed with the gold embroidered crimson velvet of his coat. ‘So these are your friends, Venetia?’ he barked in French as he bent low over Eliza’s hand. ‘I had no idea that English girls could be so pretty. You’re usually a pallid, toothy lot.’

  ‘You are too kind, Monsieur le Duc,’ Eliza replied with a smile, before pulling Clementine, who was looking at the family portraits that lined the walls of the salon, forward. ‘This is my younger sister, Clementine.’

  ‘Enchanted, mademoiselle,’ the Duc looked Clementine over as she blushed and stared at the floor. ‘You were admiring the paintings?’

  Clementine curtsied uneasily. ‘They are very beautiful,’ she murmured, intimidated by his height and manner.

  ‘Yes,’ the Duc agreed before crooking a finger at one of a trio of silent, pale faced girls who sat beside the fire staring at the newcomers with mingled curiosity and hostility. ‘My daughter, Violette can show you some of them after dinner.’ He took Eliza’s hand and led both girls to Madame la Duchesse, a small redheaded wispy lady dressed in rustling emerald green satin, who was embroidering roses onto a cushion cover in her armchair on the other side of the vast ornately carved fireplace. ‘May I present the Mesdemoiselles Garland?’

  Madame la Duchesse graciously inclined her head as she thoughtfully looked them both up and down. ‘Welcome to Clermont,’ she said in a low voice that they had to step forward to be able to hear. ‘It is very kind of you to accept our invitation to visit.’ She smiled fondly up at her daughter in law, who came forward and took her hand. ‘I was afraid that poor Venetia would be lonely here with just us for company.’ It was clear that Venetia, mother to the only grandchild, could do no wrong as far as Madame la Duchesse was concerned.

  She put aside her embroidery and stood up, brushing down her crumpled satin skirts. ‘I am sorry that our eldest son, Edmond could not be here tonight to meet you,’ she said to Eliza, with a not very well disguised look of chagrin. ‘We hope that he will be able to join us tomorrow.’

  The elder Miss Garland blushed. ‘I shall be very glad to meet him,’ she mumbled, shooting a mortified look at the grinning Venetia. ‘What have you told them?’ she whispered to her friend as they walked together into the dining room, behind the Duc and Duchesse.

  Venetia laughed and shook back her long scarlet ringlets as her trio of sisters in law muttered and rolled their eyes behind her. ‘Only that you are very pretty, very rich and very well behaved.’ They took their places at the candle and flower covered round table in the centre of the room. ‘It needed only that to pique my mother in law’s interest.’

  Eliza sighed. ‘I don’t want to be married just for my money,’ she whispered. ‘Anyway, it’s not like they need a rich bride for this Comte Edmond is it?’ She looked around the beautiful dining room, which was lined with huge gilt framed mirrors and portraits of long dead Duchesses, curling their long dark ringlets between slender, white fingers and gazing out upon the diners with languorous, faintly amused black eyes. Above their heads there hung an enormous chandelier, with large gleaming crystal drops that swayed and twinkled slightly with every stray breeze.

  Venetia smirked. ‘Don’t be deceived, Eliza,’ she replied, spreading her fine linen napkin across her silk knees and smiling up at the solemn footman who filled her glass with red wine. ‘Like most of the French aristocracy, my dear parents in law are simply keeping up appearances.’ She took a large sip of her wine. ‘They fell like vultures upon my meagre little allowance so heaven knows what they’d make of all your thousands, darling.’

  ‘Oh hush.’ Eliza flushed crimson and looked quickly away.

  After dinner they went for a stroll through the formal parterres of flowers that lay at the back of the house. Dusk had fallen and the beautiful château was bathed in an eerie pink light that made it look even more like a fairytale castle than before.

  Venetia had drunk too much and almost tumbled to the ground several times as she danced in front of her friends, spinning around until she made them feel dizzy and implore her to stop. ‘So what do you think of them all?’ she asked with a laugh.

  ‘I liked them all very much,’ Eliza replied carefully. ‘Oh do stop spinning around, Venetia. You’re giving me a headache.’

  ‘How do you get along with Jules’ sisters?’ Clementine asked, with a look back over her shoulder at the house. Their hosts had retired to the salon again, no doubt to discreetly discuss their young guests, in particular Eliza, who had been the focus of much particular and embarrassing attention during dinner.

  ‘I get on very well with them,’ Venetia replied, pulling a porcelain snuff box from her sleeve and applying a sprinkle of powder to her wrist before sniffing. ‘They are not very interesting but then, not many convent bred girls are.’ She began to giggle. ‘You should have seen their faces fall when Madame la Duchesse said that she wanted me to invite you here. They’re terrified that your eccentric English charms will ruin things for them with all the young gentlemen.’

  Eliza strolled along the edge of the parterre and gently picked some lavender, which she crumbled between her fingers, freeing the gentle, spicy scent into the air. ‘Where is Jules, Venetia?’ she asked in an undertone.

  Venetia abruptly stopped laughing. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied after a moment’s awkward pause. ‘He could be in Paris or Versailles or visiting one of his friends in the provinces.’ She forced herself to smile and shrug. ‘He no longer feels the need to keep me up to date with his movements.’

  Clementine looked shocked. ‘But you have only recently had his baby, Venetia!’ she exclaimed, astounded. ‘Don’t you care?’

  ‘Care?’ Venetia raised an eyebrow. ‘No, I don’t especially care. That’s just how marriage is here in France.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clementine woke up early the next morning and immediately sprang from her bed, ran across the sun bathed wooden floorboards in her bare feet and pushed open her window, which looked out across the gardens at the back of the château. She gave a happy sigh as she leaned out and
breathed in deeply, enjoying the distant sounds of the Duc’s hunting dogs barking for their breakfast while a lone peacock called on the lawn, trailing its splendid feathers forlornly behind it.

  Whoever married the absent, mysterious Comte Edmond would one day become chatelaine of all this splendour and as Clementine turned reluctantly away from the window, she tried to imagine Eliza as mistress of Clermont. It was a becoming image, but not a convincing one.

  Venetia had promised them a wonderful surprise after breakfast and they were giddy with excitement as they clambered up into an open phaeton and set off at a brisk trot up the long avenue. ‘Where are we going?’ Clementine asked, holding on to her wide brimmed straw hat and looking back over her shoulder at the château as it receded from view.

  ‘I am taking you to one of the most beautiful houses in all France,’ Venetia said with a mysterious smile, settling back in her seat and putting up her yellow silk parasol. ‘It’s owned by a most adorable old gentleman, who has a terrible reputation for breaking the hearts of young ladies. He lives there with his beautiful daughter who has a habit of falling in love with penniless artists and his son, who is handsome and charming but, alas, too poor to be able to attract a wife.’ She lifted up a wicker basket that her maid had stashed on the floor of the phaeton and opened it to reveal a dusty bottle of champagne and three glasses. ‘Shall we?’

  The carriage rolled through a huge weatherbeaten sandstone gatehouse then rumbled down a winding tree lined avenue which led to a small wooded valley, in the middle of which there sat a perfect white stone château that gleamed like a pearl in the bright spring sunshine. It sat on a small island, surrounded by a large still lake, its silvery surface reflecting the château’s myriad of lovely graceful turrets and spires.

  ‘Oh my.’ Clementine gasped as their phaeton continued down the sun dappled driveway then swept around the edge of the lake. ‘I think this must surely be the most beautiful house in all the world. Who did you say lives here?’

  Venetia winked mischievously. ‘You’ll see.’

  The coachman drove slowly across a wide bridge that led to the main building and pulled up in front of a low sweep of white marble steps that led to the imposing carved entrance. A waiting footman darted down to greet them. ‘Welcome to Mon Clos,’ he said with a grin as he pulled open the phaeton door and helped them down. ‘Monsieur le Comte is waiting for you in the great hall.’

  Laughing and smiling they followed him up the steps and into a huge old fashioned chamber with a beamed ceiling and tapestries hanging on the walls. Two elderly wolfhounds came up and sniffed them in a friendly manner as they walked across the echoing hall towards their host, their high heels tip tapping on the polished wooden parquet floor.

  ‘You are most welcome to my home,’ the Comte, a tall, handsome man in his middle years said softly, stepping forward and taking first Venetia and then Eliza, who he looked over in an admiring fashion by the hand. ‘I am so charmed that you could bring your friends to see me, Madame la Comtesse.’

  Clementine lingered behind the others, enjoying the view across the lake from the hall’s huge windows and also feeling suddenly and absurdly shy as the Comte’s amused blue eyes swept over her. ‘This is my sister, Clementine,’ Eliza said, taking her hand and pulling her forward. ‘She loves old houses.’

  ‘Do you not have houses like this one in England?’ he enquired with a raised eyebrow.

  Clementine blushed. ‘I am sure that we do, but none so beautiful,’ she murmured.

  ‘I am sure my son will be only too happy to show you around,’ he said with a satisfied smile, offering Eliza his arm. ‘He is in the garden with his sister. We had rain yesterday so they are making the most of the sun.’

  They made their way slowly through a series of lovely, beeswax and rose pot pourri scented old rooms before finally coming to another huge door that led out into a beautiful formal garden that swept down to the lake. ‘My wife died several years ago so it is just myself and my two children who live here,’ the Comte said as they stepped out into the sunshine, the wolfhounds padding behind them. ‘May I present to you my daughter, Cécile and my son, Antoine.’

  Clementine smiled up at the handsome young man who stepped forward to take her hand, only for her smile to slowly drain away when she looked into his pale blue eyes and realised who he was. ‘Monsieur,’ she managed to murmur before snatching her hand away and stepping back behind Venetia again.

  ‘Mademoiselle Garland,’ Antoine said with a smile that gave nothing away. ‘What a pleasure to meet you at last.’ He held out his hand to his sister, a pretty blonde who Clementine immediately recognised as the girl in pink from Lady D’Eversley’s ball. ‘This is my sister, Cécile.’

  The girls exchanged curtseys before the Comte claimed Eliza’s hand again and led her away, leaving the others to stroll through the blooming parterres and admire the splendid view across the lake, where swans sailed elegantly through the still water. ‘I should apologise,’ Venetia murmured with a low laugh. ‘I intended it to be the most delightful surprise and instead the shock seems to have almost killed Clementine, poor love.’

  ‘Is it not delightful?’ Antoine asked Clementine, who walked in blushing silence at his side. ‘I must confess that I have been longing to be reunited with you in less awkward circumstances, Mademoiselle Garland.’

  ‘You didn’t mind that I was lying to you?’ Clementine asked in astonishment.

  He laughed and offered her his arm, which, after a moment’s hesitation, she took. ‘Not at all. I thought it the most delicious joke and when Jules explained to me the reasons for such a stratagem, well, how could I not be charmed?’

  She stole a sidelong look up at his profile, admiring the decided set of his chin, his full lips and the way that he wore his shoulder length dark hair loose. Small gold hoops swung from his ears, which made her think of pirates or Elizabethan adventurers. ‘I am glad that you found it amusing,’ she said. ‘I was worried that you would be scandalised.’

  ‘So scandalised that I felt it my duty expose your schemes, I suppose?’ He laughed and picked some lilac from a tree which he handed to her with a gallant bow. ‘Not at all. In fact I was at some pains that evening to cover your tracks - I told one confused lady that your mis-pronouncing of a certain word was all the rage at Versailles and another that I’d never seen you look lovelier in all the many years that I have known you.’

  Clementine blushed and dipped her head to sniff the sweetly fragrant lilac blossoms as Cécile and Venetia smiled at each other and silently slipped away, leaving them alone together. ‘That’s not fair - Mademoiselle Violette is very pretty,’ she said.

  ‘Not as pretty as you,’ he said.

  They paused at the edge of the lake and she gazed across at the swans as they bashfully dipped their heads to the water. ‘You are so lucky to live here,’ Clementine whispered. ‘I think this must be the most beautiful spot on earth.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ Antoine replied with a smile. ‘We are lucky though. Many people, my cousin Jules for example, would take all this beauty for granted but Cécile and I have always felt honoured by it.’ He turned to look back at the gorgeous little château with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘I could not bear to lose this place. It has been in my family for over two hundred years now and, God willing, will remain in our hands until the end of time.’

  Clementine nodded silently, envying him the fact that he belonged to a place so completely, a feeling that she felt sure she would never experience for herself. She thought of Highbury Place with a smart of shame as she recalled its gleaming newness and the portraits that Mrs Garland had bought from auction houses, the remnants of other more aristocratic homes. Even if her father gave in and bought the country estate that her mother so desperately desired, it would be generations before they’d be accepted as its owners or even felt properly at home.

  ‘You are quiet, Mademoiselle,’ Antoine said, smiling down at her. ‘Is the sunlight too much for you? Would
you like me to get you a drink?’ He gestured back to the house where several maids had appeared, carrying huge silver platters covered in carafes of wine and plates heaped high with delicious looking bread, cheese and cold meat. ‘We are more used to entertaining hunting parties here so I hope you weren’t expecting anything refined.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Clementine said, her stomach growling as she looked at what was to be their luncheon. ‘I am so hungry, I don’t think I care what I eat!’

  After their meal, there was enough time to escape the afternoon sun while looking around the main rooms of the château before they had to return to Clermont. Clementine was enthralled as Antoine walked with her down the sunlit long gallery, telling her the names and stories of all the noble and occasionally roguish subjects of the full length portraits that lined the wall, until they finally came to stand in front of a glorious painting of a beautiful blonde woman dressed in shimmering black and white satin, her red, plump lips stretched into a wide smile.

  ‘This is Diane de Poitiers,’ Antoine said. ‘She was the first owner of Mon Clos and had intended it to be a hideaway for herself and her lover, Henri II. Sadly though, he was killed in a joust in Paris before they could take up residence here and, unable to bear setting eyes on it again, she sold it on to my ancestor.’

  ‘But her portrait remains here,’ Clementine breathed, staring up into Diane’s smooth white face. ‘How lovely she must have been.’

  ‘Yes, very lovely,’ Antoine replied with a wry smile. ‘I’m told that she was very fond of some rather outlandish beauty treatments although I can’t imagine anything more peculiar than the paints, powders and pigeon excrement face masks that you ladies today subject yourselves to.’

  ‘You are too harsh, monsieur,’ Venetia said with a laugh. She had sneaked up behind them in the gallery and now took Antoine’s arm in a flirtatious manner. ‘You gentlemen are all the same - you criticise we poor women when you think we don’t put enough effort with our appearance and then when we do amuse ourselves with such trifles, you are quick to mock us.’ She turned to Clementine. ‘Well, we just can’t win can we?’