“If she’s a friend of yours …”
“She’s a distant connection … cousin so many times removed that we’ve lost count. She must have been about fourteen when I last saw her. It was at the funeral of a great-aunt. She seemed to be such a good-natured girl and already she was looking after her mother. Shall I write?”
“Oh yes, please do.”
“If I could get her to come before I left I could show her a few things.”
“Evie, you’re a wonder. In the midst of all this excitement you can think of others. Please write. If she is related to you I am sure we shall love her.”
“I will… immediately. Of course, it may be that she has found something by now …”
“We’ll hope,” I said.
It was only two weeks after that conversation that Clare Massie arrived. She had accepted the offer with alacrity and Evie was delighted.
“It is just right for you and just right for Clare,” she said; and she was in a state of bliss. Not only was she marrying her dear James but she had settled us and her distant relative Clare at the same time.
I went with Evie in the dog-cart to the station to meet Clare and my first glimpse other was on the platform with her bags around her. She had looked quite forlorn and I felt an immediate sympathy for her.
What should feel, facing a new life among people I had never met before with only a distant cousin to help me over the first days and that prop soon to be removed?p>
Evie swept down on Clare. They embraced.
“Kate, this is Clare Massie. Clare, Kate Collison.”
We shook hands and I looked into a pair of large brown eyes in a rather pale, heart-shaped face. The light brown hair was smoothed down on either side of her head to end in a neat knob. Her straw hat was brown with one yellow daisy in it and her coat was brown too. She looked nervous . fearful of giving offence. She must have been about twenty-eight or thirty.
I tried to reassure her and told her how glad we were that she had come. Evie had told us so much about her.
“Oh yes,” she said.
“Evie has been very good.”
“We could have the luggage sent on,” said Evie, practical as ever.
“Then we could all go in the dog-cart quite comfortably. Bring a small bag. Have you got one? Oh yes, just the things you’ll need immediately.”
“I hope you are going to be happy here,” I said.
“Of course she will,” said Evie.
“I only hope I shall be able to …”
Evie silenced her.
“Everything will be just right,” she said firmly.
We talked about Evie’s marriage and imminent departure.
“I’m glad you’ll be here for it,” I said.
Thus we brought Clare home, and soon after that Evie was married. My father gave her away, the vicar performed the ceremony and afterwards we had a reception for her at Collison House with just a few friends and neighbours. Later that day the bride and bridegroom left on the first lap of their journey to Africa.
Clare quickly fitted into the household. She devoted herself to us with such assiduous care and determination to please that if she were not quite Evie and we had convinced ourselves that nobody could be that-she was undoubtedly the next best thing.
She was extremely gentle and easy to get along with, which made us realize that, wonderful as Evie had been, she could at times imply a little criticism to those who did not conform to her own high standards which of course none of us did.
Perhaps the house was not quite so well cared for. Perhaps the servants were not quite so prompt to answer our calls, and there was certainly an easing of discipline; but we were soon all very fond of Clare and delighted that she had come.
My father commented: “I think perhaps that although we like the effect of highly powered efficiency we feel ourselves unable to compete with it and a little slackness gives us a self-congratulatory glow of comfort.”
And I agreed with him.
Clare made friends quickly and seemed to get on particularly well with the Camborne twins. My father was quite amused. He said that Faith was beginning to look to Clare almost as much as she did to Hope.
“Two rocks to cling to now,” he commented.
Clare began to show a great respect for our work and asked my father if she might see his collection of miniatures, which delighted him. It was a considerable collection. It was mainly Collisons, but he did have a Hilliard and two Isaac Olivers, which I thought were even better than the Hilliard though possibly of not the same market value.
One of his greatest treasures was a small miniature by the French artist, Jean Pucelle, who had been a leading member of a group of miniaturists at the Court of Burgundy in Paris during the fourteenth century. My father used to say that this collection was our fortune.
Not that he would ever think of selling one piece. They had been in the family for generations and there they must stay.
Clare’s brown eyes shone with pleasure as she surveyed these treasures and my father explained to her the differences in tempera and gouache.
Even Evie had not understood about the paintings and secretly I believe had had a faint contempt for such work. But for the fact that my father earned a living by doing it I am sure she would have dismissed it as a rather frivolous occupation.
But Clare really did have a feeling for paint and admitted that she had tried her hand at a little oil painting.
It was clear that Clare was going to be a very successful addition to our household. The servants liked her; she was less definite than Evie but that could mean that she was not didactic and domineering.
There was about Clare a certain femininity which made people feel the need to be gentle with her. The servants sensed this and whereas they might have been resentful of a housekeeper-which I suppose in a way she was they all helped Clare to step into Evie’s shoes.
And that was what she did. She was different; she was gentler; and if she lacked that complete efficiency which we had found in Evie, we were prepared to accept something less from one who was so eager to please.
After a while she began to confide in me and when she talked about her mother she would be overcome with emotion.
“I loved her dearly,” she said.
“She was my life because I had looked after her through her illness. Oh, Kate, I hope you never have to see one you love suffer. It is heartrending. There were years of it…”
I knew she had an elder sister who had married and gone abroad and that her father had died when Clare was quite a child. It seemed that her mother had dominated her life, and that it had been a hard life I had no doubt. She had done a little painting herself, so she was excited to be in a household like ours.
“My mother thought my painting was a waste of time,” she said.
I guessed that her mother had not been easy to live with, although Clare never said so and always spoke of her with the utmost affection.
There was about her an air of one who has escaped to freedom; and my father and I were particularly pleased to have her in our home.
And then the commission came.
It threw my father into a state bordering on panic, exultation, apprehension, excitement and uncertainty.
It was the moment of decision for him. Here was one of the most important commissions of his life. Could he, in his present state, take it?
As soon as we were alone in the studio he explained to me. He was holding a heavily embossed piece of paper.
“This is from the steward of the Baron de Centeville. It’s in Normandy not so far from Paris. It’s a commission from the Baron although naturally it comes through his steward. Apparently he is to marry and he wants a miniature painted of himself for his fiancee, the Princesse de Crespigny. And when that is done, if the results are pleasing, I am to visit the lady and paint one of her, so that in accordance with the custom, miniatures can be exchanged between the happy pair. Kate, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. If he is plea
sed … if my miniatures are seen in such quarters … I could be painting the Empress Eugenic herself before long.” His eyes were glowing. For the moment he had forgotten his affliction. I watched him with a terrible pity and desolation in my heart as he remembered and the joy faded from his face. I had never seen him look so despairing.
Then suddenly his expression changed.
“We could do it, Kate,” he said.
“You could do it.”
I thought my heartbeats would suffocate me. It was what I had longed for: to be commissioned by some glittering personage . to travel beyond our little world . across a continent, to visit foreign Courts, to live among people who made history.
Of all the Courts of Europe, the most glittering was that of France.
The Court of our own Queen was sombre in comparison. She was still mourning the death of her Consort who had died of typhoid a few years previously. Since then the Queen had shut herself away and scarcely shown herself. The Prince of Wales seemed to live a very merry life but that was not the same thing. Charles Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, son of Louis Bonaparte who had been brother of the great Napoleon who had almost succeeded in conquering the world, had married the beautiful Eugenie Marie de Montijo, and between them they had made their Court the centre of Europe.
How I longed to see it! But of course these invitations did not come for me. They were for my father. And when he said:
“We could do it…” he had given me a glimmer of what was forming in his mind.
I said quietly: “You will have to refuse.”
“Yes,” he replied, but I could see that that was not the end of the matter.
I went on: “You will have to let it be known now. This must decide you.”
“You could do it, Kate.”
“They would never accept a woman.”
“No,” he agreed, ‘of course not. “
He was looking at me intently. Then he said slowly: “I could accept this commission …”
“Your eyes might fail you. That would be quite disastrous.”
“You would be my eyes, Kate.”
“Do you mean that I would go with you?”
He nodded slowly.
“I should be allowed to take you with me. I need a travelling companion. I am not as young as I was. You would be of use to me. They would think … perhaps to mix the paints … clean my brushes, my palettes … So they would think. And you would watch over me, Kate.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I could do that.”
“I wish I could say to them: ” My daughter is a great painter. She will do your miniatures. ” But they would never accept it.”
“The world is unfair to women,” I said angrily.
“The world is unfair to all at times. No, Kate, we cannot go unless we go together. I, because I need you to be my eyes; you, because you are a woman. When the miniatures are done, if they arc successful, I will say to this Baron: “This is the work of my daughter. You have admired it… accepted it… Now accept her for the painter she is.” Kate, this might be your chance.
It might be fate working in a mysterious way. “
My eyes were shining. I could scarcely bear to look at him.
“Yes,” I said.
“We are going.”
A mood of wild excitement and exultation took possession of me. I had never felt so jubilant before in all my life. I knew I could paint a miniature to compare with the greatest artists. My senses tingled and my whole being yearned to begin.
Then I was ashamed of my happiness because it came to me through my father’s misfortune.
He understood. I heard him laugh softly, tenderly.
“Don’t deny your art, Kate,” he said.
“You are an artist first of all.
If you weren’t you would not be a great artist. This could be your chance. Strike a blow for Art and Womanhood at the same time. Listen to me. I am going to accept this commission. We are going together to this chateau in Normandy. You are going to paint as you never did before. I can see it all so clearly. “
“There will have to be sittings .. and the sitter will know.”
“That is not insurmountable. You will be there during the sittings.
You will watch. I will paint and you will do your miniature when the sitter is absent. You will have seen him and have mine to work from.
It is only the fine strokes which are beyond me. We’ll work it, Kate.
Oh, this is going to be the most exciting adventure. “
“Show me the letter.”
I held it in my hands. It was like a talisman, a passport to glory. I often wondered afterwards why we do not have premonitions in life. to warn us. to guide us. But no, the important moments in our life slip by with no special seeming significance. If only I had known then that this letter was going to change the whole course of my life, what should I have done?
“Shall you write?” I asked.
“Today,” replied my father.
“Shouldn’t you wait awhile … consider …”
“I have considered. Have you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“It’s going to work, Kate. We’re going to make it work.”
It was a long time since I had seen my father so happy. We were like two children preparing for the treat of our lives. We refused to see the difficulties. We preferred to live in our euphoric dream convincing ourselves that everything would work out as we had planned.
“If I saw you accepted as you should be,” said my father, “I think I could become reconciled.”
We talked to Clare. Did she feel capable of taking on the responsibilities of the household after such a short time?
She replied earnestly that she would do everything within her power to justify our trust in her.
“I feel I have good friends here,” she said.
“They are so kind at the Manor and the vicarage, and I have the Camborne twins. Oh yes, I certainly do feel that I am among friends. I am sure that if there are any difficulties while you are away-which I don’t really anticipate - I shall have plenty of friends to help me out of them.”
“We are not quite sure how long this commission will take to carry out. It depends so much on the subject. Then, when we have finished in Normandy we may have to go on to Paris.”
“You can rest happy that all will be taken care of here,” Clare assured us.
So in less than two weeks after my father had received the invitation he and I were setting out for the Chateau de Centeville in Normandy.
Within the Chateau
The journey would have been tiring but for the fact that I was so excited by everything I saw. I had never been out of the country before and I was eager to miss nothing. The crossing was smooth and after what seemed like an interminable train journey we arrived at Rouen. There we took another train which would carry us to Centeville.
It was late afternoon when we arrived. We had been travelling since the early morning of the previous day and in spite of the interest of the journey I was immensely relieved to have come to the end of it.
As we left the train a man in livery approached us. I detected a look of disbelief in his eyes and I guessed that this was surprise at seeing a man and woman when he had been expecting a man only.
My father was the first to speak. His French was quite good and mine was adequate, so we had few qualms about language difficulties.
“I am Kendal Collison,” he said.
“Might you be looking for me? We were told that we would be met at the station.”
The man bowed. Yes, he said, he had come to meet Monsieur Collison on behalf of Monsieur de Manner, Steward of the Chateau de Centeville.
“Then I am your man,” said my father.
“And this is my daughter, without whom I do not travel nowadays.”
I received the same courteous bow, which I acknowledged by inclining my head, and the man then proceeded to lead us towards a carriage. It was magnificent-dark blue in colour
and emblazoned on it was a coat of arms, presumably that of our illustrious patron, We were helped in and told that our baggage would be brought to the chateau. I was relieved because it was certainly not worthy to grace such a vehicle. I looked at my father and almost giggled. It was sheer nervousness, of course. The ceremonial nature of our reception had had this effect, reminding me that we were about to face the consequences of our very rash act.
The horses were whipped up and we bowled along through the most enchanting countryside. It was wooded and hilly and suddenly we saw the castle perched above the town-a Norman, grey stone and impregnable fortress with its massive cylindrical columns, its long narrow slits of windows, its rounded arches and machicolated towers.
It looked forbidding-a fortress indeed rather than a dwelling place, and I felt a shiver of apprehension run through me.
We were climbing the gradual slope and as we grew nearer to the castle, the more menacing it seemed to be. We should have explained, I told myself. We have come here under false pretences. What will they do if they discover? Well, they can only send us back.
I looked at my father. I could not tell from his expression whether he felt the brooding power of the place as I did.
We passed over a moat and under a portcullis and were in a courtyard.
The carriage stopped and our splendid driver jumped down from his seat and opened the door for us to alight.
I felt suddenly small standing beside those immense walls of stone. I turned to look up at the Keep, with the tower on it which must give a view of miles surrounding the castle.
“This way,” said our driver.
We were facing a studded door. He rapped on it sharply and it was opened immediately by a man in livery similar to that worn by the driver.
“Monsieur and Mademoiselle Collison,” said the driver as though announcing us at some function. He then bowed to us and prepared to leave, having delivered us into the hands of our next guide.
The Demon Lover Page 3