by Sara Seale
The days went on and Sabina began to watch for the post, not for a letter from Brock, but for that expected angry reply from Tante.
“I do not think you will hear for a while,” Bunny said, and Sabina was again conscious that both the governess and Brock had knowledge which she herself did not share.
“She’s more likely to come herself to reason with me,” she said ruefully, but Bunny shook her head.
“Bunny—” Sabina said impulsively, “you know more than you will tell me, don’t you? Why are you always so sure of Tante’s reactions?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Bunny a little repressively, “and I know nothing that is my business to pass on. A governess learns very early not to betray a confidence or repeat gossip, if she wants to keep her job.”
“But you aren’t a governess any more, and I’ve always known the old gossip about Tante. She makes no secret of her affair with old Bergerac.”
“Very likely. Lucille Faivre was always a vain woman, but these things were long ago and do not concern me now.”
“Now! Then Tante hurt you at some time or other?”
“Only indirectly. We will not discuss Mrs. Lamb’s affairs, or Brock’s till he returns, dear child.”
Sabina sighed. Bunny could be firm enough when she chose, and whatever her knowledge, she was clearly not prepared to share it.
Despite the many occupations with which Bunny filled her days, Sabina began to grow impatient. Brock was gone she knew not where and there was still no news from Tante. The days were mild and spring-like and carried an air of expectancy, whether of the approaching season or the dictates of her own blossoming spirit, she did not know, but she had a desire to visit Penruthan once more and wander again, for perhaps the last time, through the deserted rooms.
Bunny she knew, would not permit a walk across the moor after that first alarming experience and she went out to the garden to find Willie and try to persuade him to take her.
He was amongst the graves, as usual, and she saw him bend lovingly over a clump of primroses, his rough hair the same colour as the flowers. She sat on a tombstone and watched his clumsy fingers dealing so tenderly with the choked roots of the plant, and he smiled at her over his shoulder and went on working in silence.
She was used to these silences of Willie’s now. It was not one of his sullen days, and his face as he bent over the primroses was blank and childlike. Around them the graves lay, quiet and peaceful in the pale sunshine, and Sabina had come to understand the boy’s strange liking for the churchyard.
“Willie,” she said softly, “will you do something for me?” “Mebbe,” he replied with his usual caution.
“Will you show me the way over the moor to Penruthan?”
He sat back on his heels in the grass and shook his head violently.
“Nay,” he said as once before; “I’ll not go there. ’Tes ’aunted.”
“Nonsense!” Sabina reproved. “It’s just a great old empty house, but there are no ghosts.”
“ ’Tes ’aunted,” he repeated, and she regarded him thoughtfully, her head on one side.
“And if it were,” she said. “I’m surprised at you, Willie, being afraid of a poor ghost when you’ll spend all day in the graveyard.”
“The daid don’t ’aunt—they lies quiet,” he said stubbornly. “I likes they daid ’uns—they’m powerful kind.”
“Poor Willie,” she said gently; “aren’t people kind to you?” His mild eyes clouded for a moment.
“Mis’ Fennell and Maister Brock be kind, and you too, missy—you’m a proper little maid.”
“Then you wouldn’t like me to get lost, like I did before, would you?” she coaxed, but he suddenly jumped to his feet, flapping his arms at a flock of starlings which had swooped on the churchyard.
“Git away, git away, you noisy varmints!” he cried and Sabina was reminded of the garden boy in Prunella chanting: Oh, you naughty birds, now, will you
Come into my garden and I’ll kill you . . .
“Don’t you like birds?” she asked.
Nay, they’m always cluttering. This be a place for quiet—quiet and sleep.”
She remembered Brock saying once that there was a natural poetry in the feeble-minded and she remembered his gentleness when he spoke to the boy and the patience that was no foreign to his nature.
“You’re fond of Mr. Brock, aren’t you?” she said, wanting to talk about him even to someone who was simple.
“He be gone abroad now,” he said sadly.
“Abroad?” Then she remembered that this was only another west-country expression not to be taken literally. “But he’s coming back very soon.”
Willie dropped on his knees again, still shaking his head. “Next year mebbe, but ’tes no manner of use,” he said.
“No, soon—at the end of the week, very likely. Perhaps he’ll bring you a present, Willie.”
He gave a slow grin at that, for presents were an unfailing delight to Willie.
“If you show me the way to Penruthan, I’ll give you a present, too,” Sabina said quickly.
“What’ll ’e be?”
“You shall choose. My aunt sent Mrs. Fennell some money for me last week. You shall have whatever you like.”
She anxiously watched the struggle in his face. It had now become absurdly important to her to visit Penruthan, and if Willie would not take her she must go the long weary way by the road.
“I’ll show ’e the way, then,” he said suddenly, “because you’m kind to poor Willie, but I’ll not set foot in the house, mind. I’ll come no nearer than gate in wall.”
“Oh, thank you!” she cried gratefully. “I’ll go and ask Mrs. Fennell if she will spare you.”
Bunny was not enthusiastic, but if Willie Washer had consented to go as well, she said, she would have no objection.
“But follow him, and don’t be tempted to choose your own path,” she warned. “Willie may be simple but he knows every inch of the moor and you’ll come to no harm with him.”
They set off after an early luncheon. Willie shambled ahead, sure-footed as any of the moorland ponies, for all his ungainliness, and Sabina followed, the light breeze sweet on her face, while the early springtide drew forth fresh beauty
from the moor. Now they were crossing the stream into which she had fallen on the day she had run away from Brock, and there were the hollowed boulders where they had sat and he had asked her to marry him. How life had changed for her since she had come to Truan, she thought, and laughed aloud as she remembered her fear of him that night of their first strange meeting.
Hearing her, Willie laughed too, the gentle, vacant laugh of a child who does not know why it is happy, and presently he began to sing in a queer cracked voice which had a certain sweetness, and Sabina joined in, humming a melody she thought she recognised. It was a strange, lightheaded passage across the moor. Presently the high walls of Penruthan rose to meet them over the next rise and Willie drew back.
“Be ’e going in?” he asked, still doubting her folly, and she laughed.
“Of course. You wait here, Willie. I’ll give a shout when I’m ready to go back.”
She left him standing there, and pushed open the broken door in the wall, remembering that snowy night when she had come upon it unawares. Now she could see the neglect into which the place had fallen. A wilderness of vegetation lay before her, and the house itself, without its concealing shroud of snow, spoke mutely of decay and the long neglect of years.
Only when she reached the terrace did Sabina remember that she had forgotten the key. Brock had given her a key that other time, but she did not think now he could have got it from the agent, whose office was in Truro or Bodmin. Brock then, or Bunny, must have had a key of their own, and that in itself was puzzling.
She walked round the house looking for a door or window that might be open, but the shutters were firmly bolted and no door yielded to her touch. She went round to the front of the house, nearly crying with vexa
tion, and stopped suddenly. A small car stood on the overgrown drive and the great front door was wide open. For a moment she thought Brock had returned unexpectedly, but the car was not his, and after a moment’s hesitation Sabina went into the house and called.
It was eerie standing in that vaulted hall with her voice echoing back from the roof high above her. No one answered, and she began to walk through the chain of rooms looking for the intruder, but there was no sign of a living soul. She thought of Willie’s fear of ghosts, then laughed a little uncertainly; ghosts did not arrive in cars. Sabina knew a moment’s panic. In this great house no one would hear if you called; any minute the front door might slam behind the unknown visitor and she would be locked in for the night. She turned with a feeling of stricture in her throat and ran swiftly back through the empty rooms to the hall. The front door was still open and a woman was coming very slowly down the stone staircase.
Sabina stood and watched her. She walked with graceful deliberation, as though she was making a studied entrance down a flight of stage stairs. She was bareheaded and her red hair was caught like a flaming aureole as she passed through a slanting ray of light. There was something very strange in the progress of that slow descent, for although she could not know that she was being observed, she gave an impression of being watched by a large audience.
“Who are you?” asked Sabina, speaking suddenly and loudly as she came forward out of the shadows.
The woman paused, but did not start, and her long, slender hand caressed the stone carving of the balustrade.
“Who are you?” she retorted, and her voice was deep and husky with the faintest trace of a foreign accent. She completed her passage down the stairs and smiled as she saw Sabina more clearly. Her mouth was exquisitely painted and her long eyes shadowed with mascara.
“Oh, just a little girl,” she said with amusement. “Do you trespass, finding the door open?”
“I found the door open, yes, but I wasn’t trespassing,” Sabina said. “What are you doing here?”
“I have an order to view. This is quite correct, you know.”
“The house is not for sale. Didn’t they tell you that?”
“Oh, yes, but I had a fancy to see the place that a good friend of mine is willing to barter his heart and his freedom for. It does not impress me.”
Sabina knew a moment’s excitement.
“Are you a friend of the Bergeracs, then?” she asked, and saw the other woman’s fine eyebrows lift in surprise.
“Why, yes; but how should you know?” she replied, then her eyes suddenly narrowed. “It is not possible that you are the little English girl who hopes to marry Rene!” She threw back her head and laughed till the house echoed.
“You are not very polite,” said Sabina gravely. “I’m the owner of the house, yes.”
The woman descended the remaining stairs and her high heels rang sharply on the stone. She was taller than Sabina and very elegant.
“You are Mademoiselle Lamb?” she said, her eyes travelling with amusement over the girl.
“Yes,” said Sabina, very conscious of her rough skirt and jersey and the artless disorder of her hair. “And you?”
“I am Jeanne Jouvez. You have heard of me, perhaps?” Sabina’s eyes were guarded.
“Yes, but not from M. Bergerac,” she said.
The woman’s smile showed little even teeth, sharp as any cat’s.
“No, no, it would be from Blaireau you have heard, of course,” she said.
“Blaireau?” The name sounded strange.
“It is my nickname for the good Brock. Do you not know that blaireau is French for a badger? When I wish to tease I call him that.”
“I see. But I understood that he had gone to see you. Why are you here?” asked Sabina, puzzled by yet another mysterious link with the Chateau Berger.
“But I told you, mademoiselle—to see for myself the house which is of such interest to my old friend, Rene Bergerac. And, look you, I find the bride elect also, so my curiosity is doubly rewarded,” said Jeanne Jouvez. “Come, mademoiselle, let us walk through the rooms together and plan the future of this house, yes?” She put a hand lightly under Sabina’s elbow and began to walk towards the first big salon.
Sabina was puzzled. Was it Brock or Rene Bergerac who held this woman’s affections, if, indeed, she had affection to offer? Brock had said that the part she had played in his life carried no ties, but he had wished to keep Madame Jouvez from coming to Truan all the same.
“Now this,” Jeanne was saying, “would make an excellent ballroom, no doubt, and the smaller salons have an air, yes; but the house is triste. I would not care to live here.”
“You will not have to, madame,” said Sabina politely. “If Penruthan became a hotel it would be the choice of guests whether they stayed or not.”
Jeanne gave her a quick glance, as though she had underestimated an adversary, and Sabina knew in that moment that, she was, in fact, just that. Madame Jouvez, she thought, had more at stake than the doubtful future of an English country house.
“But not, ma petite, a choice for the wife of the proprietor,”
Jeanne said.
“But I—” began Sabina, then the other woman’s meaning became suddenly plain.
Tante’s hints, Marthe’s philosophic conclusions were explained. The Bergeracs, both father and son, were given to entanglements of the heart. It was not surprising that Rene Bergerac might have committed himself more deeply with this elegant, utterly feminine woman before the need for a prudent marriage had arisen.
“Were you engaged to M. Bergerac?” she asked blankly.
“No. Rene has not thought of marriage until lately. And you, my little one—does the French arrangement not shock your sentimental English heart?” Jeanne sounded amused.
“I’m not easily shocked by a business arrangement, said Sabina, wishing to hold on to her advantage a little longer. “I have a French aunt.”
“Ah, yes, Lucille Lamb.”
“You have met her?”
“Naturally. I have been staying until a week past at the Chateau Berger.”
The colour came into Sabina’s cheeks. She could not like or trust this woman, who would, she felt instinctively, have little compassion where another woman was concerned, but she knew Tante. She knew that Tante, more ruthless still, would have allowed no one to stand in her way when she held the trump card.
“Forgive me, madame,” she said awkwardly, “but if you—if you want Rene Bergerac for yourself, I—I’m not standing in the way.”
Jeanne leaned against the dusty armoire that was the pair to Bunny’s, and surveyed Sabina with insolent amusement.
“And Lucille Faivre has already taught you that?” she said.
“What?” asked Sabina stupidly.
“That though you shall ranger yourself to the best advantage you will do well to close your eyes to the women your husband finds necessary to him?”
Now the bright colour mounted high to Sabina’s cheekbones. Jeanne made her feel gauche and immature, but she stood her ground.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I meant that you and Rene Bergerac are free to follow whatever plans you may have had, because I am not going to marry him. You would have left before my letters arrived at the Chateau.”
It was strange, talking of such things in this empty house, she thought uneasily; when you stopped speaking a silence fell, as if your voice had been an affront to the deserted rooms. Jeanne looked at her lazily through narrowed lids. It was as if her news had made no impression.
“And you, perhaps, have had a girlish fancy for another—for Blaireau, the good badger who visits so dutifully his old governess?” Jeanne said.
“Do you want them both?” demanded Sabina, outraged, and Jeanne laughed.
“Perhaps,” she said. “And what would you do then, my prim little schoolgirl?”
“I would hope,” said Sabina steadily, “that I was—important enough to fight for.”
/> “But no,” said Jeanne, her eyes tilting at the corners with careless amusement; “it would be you who fight, my inexperienced child. Do you think you have much chance against a woman of the world?”
“My chances,” said Sabina, lifting her chin, “would not depend on that, I hope. If a man wants a woman, I think he will know his own mind.”
The other woman surveyed her, still with that indolent air of amusement, but her red, painted mouth twisted in a wry smile.
“No man knows his own mind when it comes to women,” she said. “It is we, the desired, the pursued, who set the pace. That you must learn, cherie, before you can hope to hold your man.”
For a moment Sabina knew uncertainty. Had not Brock said the day before he left that possibly he wished to bid farewell to his old love? Had he known of that affaire in this double game of intrigue? with Rene Bergerac? Had she herself only been a catspaw?
“I think, madame,” she said, suddenly weary, “that we do no good here talking in riddles. I have told you that so far as M. Bergerac is concerned, I am no longer in the way.”
“And Blaireau?”
But she did not know what Jeanne Jouvez had been to Brock nor how either linked up with the Chateau Berger.
“I think you have seen Brock in the last few days, haven’t you?” she said, and Jeanne laughed.
“Oh, yes, but a man can talk nonsense, hein! Especially when he is unsure, himself.”
“Very likely,” said Sabina. “Have you finished your inspection, madame? We should be going, I think. The days are still short and I have some way to walk.”
“And you do not care to leave me in possession, even though I have an order to view?” laughed Jeanne. “Well, let us go—this house has few attractions for me. May I drop you, mademoiselle, at the rectory if you have far to walk?”
“No, thank you,” replied Sabina, remembering the waiting Willie. She did not ask where Jeanne was staying, nor if she knew when Brock would return.
Jeanne shrugged and began to walk back through the empty rooms, leaving a wave of heavy perfume behind her. In the hall she paused and tapped Sabina’s cheek with cool, flippant fingers.