What was getting into her?
“I’m feeling much better,” she said, guilty when she pulled free of his hug. Nervously, she glanced to see if he was hurt by her inexplicable rejection. He was eyeing her with what appeared to be genuine amusement.
“Then, we shall be on our way,” he said and made no move to touch her as they walked back to the car.
Petre opened the door for her. Charles went around to the other side and crawled in. Ten minutes later, he was pointing out an exceptionally attractive roadside growth of purple-red bougainvillea, and Marie was, again, fighting a losing battle with nausea.
Possibly sensing Marie’s return of car sickness, Charles limited his conversation to an occasional query as to whether or not she wanted to stop, again, for a few minutes. Finally, however, without his having put in any verbal request, the car, again, pulled to the side of the road.
“Let’s take a moment or two,” Charles suggested, as if he had anticipated this particular pause; which he had. “We can see the Château from here.”
Petre came to open the door, and Marie stepped out. Charles exited and came around to join her. This time, however, he made no move to touch her, and Marie found herself missing his physical support.
“There!” he said. His arm outstretched toward a distant clearing amid the abundant greenery that covered one lower mountain flank.
Marie saw an obviously large lawn, beyond which was a quadrangle stone structure with an impressive square tower at each corner. There were large windows that caught sun and reflected it like spider eyes. A broad flight of steps, and a classical pediment, each provided a gracefulness and grandeur. From a closer perspective, the edifice undoubtedly would be even more impressive. Constructed of granite from the very mountain upon whose leveled slope it sat, the building was partially mirrored within a large adjoining reflecting pond. The source of the water was a stream, visible to Marie only as an impressive waterfall that tumbled a breach in the greenery farther up the mountain: the mountain dwarfed everything.
“Home!” Charles announced a strange smile playing at the corner of his sensuous mouth.
At that moment, Marie was mainly concerned with the road that remained, twisting and turning, between her and the estate. She might be seeing her new home, but she definitely wasn’t there yet.
“Cacao,” Charles said. His extended arm indicated a stretch of vegetation growing three sheltered mountain depressions within their immediate view. “Coffee farther up the mountain. Most of the natives live in quarters through those trees over there. You’ll, of course, get a better idea of the layout after you’ve been here a few days. The stables are in the rear of the Château grounds. The lake within The Cauldron is up that way.”
Marie’s gaze followed the slope upward to where green became lost in swirling gray mist. She saw no sign of visible paths through the far tangle, suspecting it would be very easy to become lost on this island she had originally misconstrued as merely a wee speck of sand in the Caribbean.
“I imagine, by this time, you’re ready for a nice hot bath, yes?” Charles said, his mouth actually breaking into a wide smile.
His eyes seemed to be stripping the clothes from her body—like a man who hadn’t yet seen what was underneath. The sensation brought goose bumps to Marie’s flesh, and sent strange inner warmth racing to flush her cheeks.
“There are hot springs when you get rested enough to become more adventurous,” he continued. “Better let me point those out to you, though. There’s one in particular that has the nasty habit of going from ninety degrees to boiling within virtual short seconds, and I’d hate to have my wife become stew like one poor soul once did.”
Marie would have laughed if she had known for sure Charles was joking. However, the Charles whom Marie knew—had known—hadn’t shown much by way of a sense of humor.
“I’ll point that to-be-avoided pool out to you the day we head up The Cauldron to see the lake,” he promised. “We can catch fish in a stream but a few feet away, and, then, boil them in the thermal pool for a nice lunch.”
Marie followed her husband back to the car, trying desperately to put together more of the little things which made him different than she remembered.
Despite all of her efforts to be rid of it, she continued to have a niggling premonition that something wasn’t quite right.
* * * * * * *
Someone had possibly spotted the car when it had stopped at the lookout overlooking the house, because the staff was outside in full force to meet the new mistress, Mrs. Camaux. The surprisingly long line was headed by a wrinkled old woman whose age defied estimation.
“Look what I’ve brought, Little Mother,” Charles said, a firm hand having guided Marie to a position directly in front of the female gnome.
Small black pupils stared out at Marie from a wrinkled face that looked more wizened monkey than human.
“Charles has told me so much about you,” Marie said. That was a lie. Charles had told her nothing about this woman whose position in the household was made obvious by her prominent placement at the head of the reception line.
The old woman said nothing. Except for a slight dilation of her pupils, she showed no indication whatsoever that she’d heard Charles or Marie.
Marie felt ill at ease. Apparently Charles felt only amused, because he laughed and, then, nudged his wife onward to pause at the next person.
Marie would remember only one seemingly friendly face among the crowd that day: Karena, the fat Negress cook. On the other hand, she experienced no blatant hostility, either, except from Charles’ mysterious “Little Mother”. Mainly, the servants were distantly respectful as Marie so often found the well-trained help to be in aristocratic households. A couple of the youngest girls, apparently not long in service, had smiled shyly to excuse poorly executed curtsies.
“I thought you would prefer selecting your own personal maid,” Charles said, guiding Marie through the impressive entrance hall to a larger room dominated by a walk-in fireplace and walls hung with animal trophies brought back from the far corners of the world. Anyway, Marie could secretly hope no similarly fanged live beasts were presently making their present homes in the jungle around the Château
“You’ll have your pick of any girl from the village,” Charles continued. “Or, if you’d rather not go through the tiresome bother of training one of the locals, I can have someone, already trained, sent in from Villeneuve. Either way....”
He trailed off in mid-sentence; apparently, he realized Marie still felt the aftereffects of her boat trip and car drive.
“There’s plenty of time for all of that,” he said after a moment. “For now, we’ll have Madeleine show you your rooms.”
He put his arm around Marie: the first time he had touched her since she had shrugged him off earlier. This time, she left his arm where it was.
Would you prefer I have Karena prepare a cold plate and a little white wine for you to have upstairs?” Charles suggested. “I assume you’re too tired to go through the rigmarole of formal dining your first night, here.”
“I’m going to be much more presentable tomorrow,” she promised.
“Of course you are,” he said, leaning to give her an affectionate peck on one cheek. Simultaneously, he motioned for the young servant girl who had been waiting on the sidelines to show Marie Camaux up the grand in-house staircase to her rooms.
* * * * * * *
The bath relaxed her. Her glance in the full-length mirror assured her that she was visibly none the worse for wear. Obviously, youth was resilient; although, at twenty-six, Marie realized she was no longer a child. Still, her breast remained firm, her waist thin, and her legs long and shapely.
She selected a ruffled pink negligee, far sexier than one she would have chosen if she’d made the selection prior to her lengthy soak in the tub. She was even able to devour, with considerable gusto, the two cold chicken sandwiches that arrived with a carafe of cool white wine.
She
was tempted to ask Madeleine about the hostile little old lady, but she didn’t, probably because Marie was reluctant to confess not knowing the answer already.
By the time she had swallowed the last tasty morsel, she had revived sufficiently to contemplate going in search of her husband. She had a bit of apologizing to do, not because she had failed to respond like a seasoned traveler, but because she had let her imagination begin all sorts of fanciful flights. Why had she found it so strange a man was different, in his natural habitat than in foreign surrounds? After all, there was little similarity between England and Saint-Georges, although possibly the Château would have been more at home in France.
However, Madeleine, apparently assuming Marie would be going directly to bed, turned back the blankets, revealing clean white sheets. The vision proved so inviting, Marie surrendered all plans for anything save the comforts of the large supporting mattress.
She was no sooner in bed than she was asleep, waking some time later to darkness within which Charles sat the edge of the bed next to her.
“Charles?” she asked, extending a hand; he took her fingers and gave them a comforting squeeze.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, his voice a whisper.
“Are you coming to bed?” Marie asked, suppressing a yawn. The bed continued to be seductively comfortable, retaining the warmth from her body. She was quickly being enticed back into complete lethargy.
“I just stopped in to check on you before going to my rooms,” he said.
Marie was struck by the sudden realization that she had been assigned a suite separate from that of her husband. Although, why it had taken her this long to figure that out was beyond her. It should have been obvious from the absence of male toiletries in the bathroom, and the absence of male clothing in the closets (quite aside from the decidedly feminine décor of the rooms), that Charles stayed elsewhere. Marie didn’t know if she liked the arrangement of not. She had always imagined a man and wife sharing the same bedroom—certainly the same bed, especially before the newness of matrimony wore off. For all intents and purposes, their marriage hadn’t yet technically progressed beyond its honeymoon stage.
“Come to bed. Here,” she invited, patting the bed clothes directly beside her.
“We need you rested for tomorrow, don’t we?” he said, his smile evident even in the dimness. He leaned over and placed a tender but erotic kiss against her slightly parted lips. Rather than appease her swelling passions, his kiss merely added to them.
“Please, Charles,” she said, taking her husband’s arm as he obviously began his move to leave her. “Come to bed.”
“What would your husband say?” he asked, gently disengaging her fingers from his large left bicep and continuing to his feet.
“My husband?” Marie asked, genuinely confused. She was positive she’d misheard. “Charles, you’re my husband.”
“Oh, but you’re mistaken,” he said, moving through the shadows to the door, gone before Marie was fully cognizant of his having left her.
For a brief moment, she thought she had been dreaming and still was. After all, the conversation of which she’d just been a part couldn’t possibly have taken place; it was too bizarre? Obviously, it had been nothing more than a figment of her exhausted mind and body.
Yet, she wasn’t asleep. She was sure Charles had been there on the bed but moments before.
She threw back her covers and came out from underneath them. She found her slippers and worked her feet into them before coming to a standing position. She reached for her robe which as thrown over the back of a nearby chair.
She followed Charles’ route, opening the door to the sitting room.
The old woman was waiting for her in the darkness, blocking the path that would have allowed Marie access to the hallway. The sight of the gnome-like shadow within deeper shadows brought Marie to a sudden startled stop, a small gasp of shocked surprise escaping her lips.
“What are you doing here?” Marie asked, using her right hand to pull her robe tightly shut across her neck. “What do you want?”
“Why did you bring him back, you little fool!” the old woman asked, disgust evident in her voice. “You’ve brought disaster on us all!”
“I want to see my husband,” Marie said, indignant that her voice should come out sounding like that of a chastised child asking for her father.
“He doesn’t want to see you,” the old woman said, not moving from her position. “Go back to bed!”
Marie tuned, went back into the bedroom, and drew the door sharply closed behind her. She was breathing hard. She could hear herself panting, the rhythmic expansions contracting her chest. She could hear the throbbing beat of blood in her ears.
What right did that old woman have to be in Marie’s rooms, bossing Marie around? Marie was mistress of Château Camaux! She didn’t know by what authority the old crow got off telling her what to do.
In a sudden flush of anger, at having been cowed by someone half her size, she once again opened the door to the sitting room. If she wanted to see her husband, then she would see him! If anyone tried to stand in her way, then that person could very well be expected to get shoved to one side.
The sitting room was empty. The spot once occupied by the old woman now held only a patch of moonlight which had managed to enter through a small breach in the drawn curtains.
Marie quickly crossed to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hall.
The corridor was empty and silent. The whole house seemed mysteriously empty and silent.
Marie got a blood-chilling shiver that left her feeling icy. She stepped back into the sitting room and shut the door behind her. She quickly surveyed her surroundings, thinking, perhaps, the old woman was still there. There was only furniture, moonlight, and shadows.
Imagination? Was that what it had been? Was that all it had been? Had Charles really been at her bedside? Had she really followed him to be confronted by the old woman standing in this very room?
Another chill shivered its way along her spine. She went back to the bedroom and climbed into her bed, finding the sheets completely absent of any consoling warmth she might have left there.
It was a long time before she could find the peace of mind to surrender the strangeness of the night to slumber.
CHAPTER THREE
INEXPLICABLE...“THINGS”
Morning was something Marie felt rather than saw. After all, the room was still dark behind drawn curtains; the house was as silent as a tomb.
She didn’t feel rested. So, maybe it wasn’t morning after all. Maybe her senses played tricks on her.
Her eyes were sticky with sleep that came free on the backs of her rubbing hands. Her mouth was dry. She had a headache.
Her sleep had been fitful and spread through with dreams mainly unremembered...except for her husband, sitting on the edge of her bed...except for the old lady standing guard in the sitting room like Cerberus at the gates of Hades.
It took Marie several minutes to get oriented. She kept wondering where she was. This definitely wasn’t England, or the plane, or the ship.
She threw back the blankets and came to a sitting position, dropping her legs over the edge of the bed. Without looking, she worked her toes into her slippers.
She picked up her robe en route to the French doors, fastening its cord before pulling back the curtains. The sudden entrance of light temporarily blinded her. Her right hand came to her forehead to offer shadow.
It was morning, but only barely. The sun, low on the horizon, only managed to reach the glass through a unique breach among the distant trees.
Marie was about to exit onto the small balcony, beyond, when the figure appeared beneath her and headed off across the lawn.
It was Charles, walking slowly, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, apparently completely unaware he was being watched. Reflexively, Marie, somehow feeling guilty in spying, stepped to one side so she’d be less likely seen by him should he chance to gl
ance her way.
She wondered why she didn’t just proceed with unlatching the glass doors in order to call out to him, in that that seemed the more logical thing for her to do. Surely, he would much rather greet his wife than proceed on any early morning stroll?
Still, she intuitively sensed he would be less than pleased were he suddenly to be made aware of his wife’s Peeping-Tom status directly above him.
Marie couldn’t help feeling like a spy. That was silly, wasn’t it? What could possibly be suspect about her husband out on the lawn? Heading from where? Heading to where? For whom were the flowers?
She pulled back farther, unconsciously taking hold of the curtain to edge it more closely back into the position it had maintained throughout the night.
Charles continued across the grass, veering right toward the trees that bordered the long rectangular lawn on that side.
Movement in the shadows formed by the trees! There was someone there. Someone was waiting just within the border of darkness dividing the lawn from the thicker underbrush.
Charles stopped, obviously seeing the figure, too. Were the two talking? If so, no voices traveled to Marie, if just because the shut French doors kept out all such sounds.
The figure moved imperceptivity; just enough so Marie could identify the old hag from Marie’s bad dream (not a dream?) from the night before.
Charles continued forward, stopped on the very edge of the forest, looked down on the old woman who was pathetically dwarfed by his powerfully impressive physique.
What was he saying? What was the old woman saying? What mysteries had driven those two to that specific spot, on that particular early morning, while the rest of the household was possibly assumed asleep?
“Oh!” Marie exclaimed, turning toward the unexpected sound behind her, her heart leaping into her throat. She felt a combination of guilt and embarrassment as she saw that her cry of alarm had so scared the entering Madeleine that the girl had dropped a vase of flowers. Several habernia fimbriata had ended up scattered across a water-spotted rug, one orchid stem awkwardly bruised and bent.
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