Katerina's Secret

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Good idea,’ said Edward. ‘Ask Rosamund to go with you.’

  ‘What? What? Heavens, you serious are?’ In his agitation, Colonel Brecht fluffed the composition of his English. ‘I am to be eaten alive this morning after last night making only the narrow escape?’

  ‘Rosamund likes walking.’

  ‘I am off,’ said the colonel and marched quickly away over the path that led around to the front of the hotel and the road. Rosamund, lifting her eyes from her book, smiled as she watched his retreat.

  A wheelbarrow came into view on the path, the gardener pushing it. Edward got up and strolled over.

  ‘Good morning, Gregory,’ he said.

  The gardener halted. His broad face, brown and weathered, broke into a friendly smile. His eyebrows hung bushily and his moustache needed trimming. His teeth showed pale nicotine stains.

  ‘Good morning, m’sieur. A fine day.’ His French was heavy, his voice a deep bass.

  ‘You’re new to me,’ said Edward amicably.

  ‘Yes, m’sieur.’

  ‘You’re a powerful runner,’ said Edward.

  ‘M’sieur?’ Gregory did not shift his ground or lower his eyes. He merely looked puzzled.

  ‘What happened two days ago that made you jump out in front of my car?’ Edward’s enquiry was friendly. ‘I might have knocked you down, and that would have been very unhappy for both of us.’

  ‘Ah, that was you, m’sieur?’ Gregory shook his head. ‘A close thing, yes.’

  ‘Very. Did you go to the police, to the local gendarme?’

  ‘M’sieur?’

  ‘If someone fired a rifle at me, I’d certainly report it.’

  ‘A madman, m’sieur,’ said Gregory, ‘but I wish for no trouble. I’m a Russian émigré, so better for me to live a quiet life, you understand. This is good work here with Madame Michel, work I like, so I keep from making trouble.’

  ‘Yes, I see that, but why were you fired at, do you know?’

  ‘M’sieur, on my way back from the village after ordering potash, I entered the little wood there, just to look. A man came after me. For the sake of peace, m’sieur, I ran. Better for an émigré to run, not argue, yes?’

  ‘You’re probably right. But I wondered, of course.’

  ‘A madman, m’sieur, that’s what it was,’ said Gregory.

  ‘Then I should have run myself,’ smiled Edward. ‘I must say the lawn looks perfect for this time of the year.’

  ‘Silver sand, m’sieur, that is what sharpens it and makes the grass stand up and breathe.’

  ‘It doesn’t always work like that for me at home,’ said Edward amiably, as if his interest in the incident of two days ago had been superseded and dismissed.

  ‘Ah, you must feed your grass first, m’sieur,’ said Gregory.

  ‘Generously, I suppose?’

  ‘That is so, m’sieur. ‘

  ‘Thank you, Gregory,’ said Edward. ‘What part of Russia do you come from?’

  ‘Kiev, m’sieur. Russia is a sad country now, a sad and bitter country.’

  ‘Yes, very sad. You don’t like the Bolsheviks?’

  Involuntarily, Gregory spat. Then he said, ‘Your pardon, m’sieur.’

  ‘No, I understand,’ said Edward and returned to his table and his work. His breathing was a little painful. He sat back and let his body relax. The feeling of constriction often came on for no apparent reason at all. He had walked no farther than the length of a cricket pitch a few moments ago, and here he was feeling the pain in his lungs. He grimaced at the knowledge that it would be like this all his life. But he was luckier than others and could not complain. He even had a job, a fulfilling job. Some poor devils could not even rise from their chairs without going blue in the face. Poison gas. That was Satan’s own brew.

  ‘Coffee, yes, Edward?’

  It was a soft whisper in his ear. He opened his eyes. Celeste was there, gently enquiring and solicitous.

  ‘Great Scott,’ he said, ‘I fell asleep. In the middle of a perfect morning.’

  ‘Only for a few minutes,’ said Celeste. ‘I was watching, you see. I didn’t want you to fall out of your chair. You’d like to order coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, angel.’ He looked across at Rosamund. The Frenchwoman in the silver-grey costume was sitting with her, and the two ladies were conversing loquaciously. ‘Ask the ladies if they’d care to join me, Celeste.’

  Celeste tripped across the lawn with the supple, rhythmic fluency of a girl destined to make heads turn in a few years’ time, if not to some extent now. She spoke to the ladies, who turned their eyes on Edward.

  ‘Thank you, dear man,’ said Rosamund, ‘we should love to join you.’

  They drank coffee, the three of them, around the white-painted iron table. The Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Dupont, was as vivacious as Rosamund was stately. Her conversation was about Paris and the theatre, and Edward’s genuine interest was a stimulation to her. She had mobile features, her good looks a smooth ripple of activity, her teeth a repetitive flash of white between carmined lips. Rosamund made no attempt to intercede. She seemed amused by the Parisian woman’s flowing monologues, all directed into Edward’s ear. Everyone liked Edward. Everyone used him as a confidant. He was a kind listener. And he would have been a handsome man had his face not been so ravaged by strain and pain.

  ‘The theatre,’ said Mademoiselle Dupont, ‘is more true to life than life itself, if you agree that life itself is people. In the theatre, all emotions play their part. In life, many emotions are repressed, for people generally behave not as they feel, but as they wish other people to see them. Calmness is used to hide rage, sweetness to hide malice, respectability to hide desire. Don’t you agree, Monsieur Somers, that we all behave at times in a way that is a falsification of our true emotions? When one wants to scream with temper, one thinks of people regarding us in shock and horror, and so most of us, instead of screaming, go no further than looking offended.’

  ‘It’s an exercise in self-control, isn’t it?’ suggested Edward.

  Mademoiselle Dupont’s shapely round mouth opened, and she laughed.

  ‘Ah, you see, you are English, and use self-control to hide all your emotions.’

  ‘One can’t go around baring one’s teeth and frightening little girls and small dogs,’ said Edward.

  ‘Without civilized self-control,’ said Rosamund, ‘we should create a jungle.’

  ‘But it’s strange, isn’t it,’ said Mademoiselle Dupont, ‘that people go to the theatre to absorb themselves in Molière’s gift for emotionalizing life? Isn’t it true that the English are passionately devoted to Shakespeare, whose plays are about treachery, murder, anger, revenge, love, hate and jealousy? Think of Othello and the sublimity of extreme, emotional jealousy.’

  ‘I’ve never thought of extreme, emotional jealousy as being sublime,’ said Rosamund. ‘I’m sure jealousy should be repressed, not indulged. Didn’t Shakespeare teach us the lesson of Iago’s indulgence?’

  ‘But how fascinating are people and their emotions,’ said Mademoiselle Dupont, ‘how fascinating that it is only the theatre which brings to life our darkest and most devious feelings.’ She elaborated on the theme. Rosamund, sensing eyes on her back, looked round. Celeste stood at the open French windows of the lounge, and there was a perceptible frown on her face as she watched the lady from Paris monopolizing Edward’s ear.

  The dear child is jealous, thought Rosamund. I must tactfully hint to Mademoiselle Dupont that Edward is regarded by Celeste as hers alone.

  ‘If you two will excuse me,’ she said, ‘I shall go for a little walk, a short constitutional.’ She rose to her feet and put up her parasol.

  ‘Yes, do go, Rosamund,’ said Edward. ‘You may, with luck, bump into Franz Brecht.’

  ‘I’m flushed with hope at the prospect,’ said Rosamund. ‘So nice to have talked with you, Mademoiselle Dupont. If you’re here long enough, perhaps we may enjoy many conversations.’

  ‘I
’m not sure how long I shall stay,’ smiled Mademoiselle Dupont. ‘A week, perhaps, or two. It will depend on Paris. But it’s so enchanting here that I’m tempted to stay indefinitely.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Rosamund and sailed away, a blue dress gracing her handsome figure. She smiled as Celeste approached.

  ‘Take care, my dear,’ she murmured, ‘Mademoiselle Dupont is already beginning to smother him.’

  ‘Oh, what is she up to?’ said Celeste, eyes flashing. ‘All that energy and all those words. She’s pouring herself all over him and will tire him into distressed frailty.’

  ‘Distressed frailty? How imaginative,’ said Rosamund and sailed on. She made her way to the road. She crossed it and took the winding path that led down to the beach. It was very narrow, and at one point there was simply no room to pass Colonel Brecht when he appeared on his way up. He halted, tall, broad and upright.

  ‘Ah,’ he said and fixed his blue eyes on her parasol.

  ‘Ah?’ enquired Rosamund.

  ‘You are going down to the beach, madam?’

  ‘I was,’ said Rosamund. ‘I’m at a full stop now.’

  ‘Himmel,’ breathed the colonel, ‘a fool I am.’ He stood aside, pressing himself against the brown rocky outcrop. ‘Your pardon, dear lady – dear madam – ah – madam.’

  ‘The beach,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘A splendid tonic, madam. The air is like wine down there, the wine of the sea.’

  ‘The wine of the sea?’ Rosamund smiled. ‘Are you referring, sir, to Homer’s wine-dark sea?’

  ‘Madam?’ Colonel Brecht was cautious.

  ‘You haven’t read Homer? Your arm, sir, if you’ll be so good, and you shall escort me down this trembling, dangerous path, and we’ll breathe in the wine of the sea together.’

  ‘Good God,’ said the astonished colonel. The path was a winding one, yes, but by no means dangerous.

  ‘Sir, your arm,’ said Rosamund with all the flair of a true Edwardian gentlewoman, although she was hard put to it to hide her amusement.

  ‘A pleasure, madam, a pleasure.’ What else could the floundering colonel say?

  ‘I trust so,’ said Rosamund.

  The path widened a little. They proceeded to negotiate it together, her hand light on his arm, her parasol shading them both. The sea was a shimmer of light, the air touched by the faintest of breezes.

  ‘A beautiful day,’ said Colonel Brecht.

  ‘How fortunate we are,’ murmured Rosamund, ‘although privilege is an uncomfortable garment in a world of misery. But one must wear it bravely and without hypocrisy. What would happen if, driven by conscience, I cast mine off? A thousand shameless people would rush to pick it up.’

  ‘True, madam, yes, true.’ The colonel guided her slowly round a corner, Rosamund in her white shoes picking her way carefully. ‘One must, however, do what one can to raise the lot of the poor.’

  ‘Your English is so good, sir, that we are actually holding a positive conversation.’

  ‘The leg is being pulled, madam?’ said the colonel.

  ‘I’m a little disgraceful at times,’ murmured Rosamund.

  ‘You are a very good billiards player.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it, Colonel Brecht. What woman could wish for sweeter praise?’

  ‘You use your cue most efficiently, most.’

  ‘Oh, pray continue,’ said Rosamund, ‘I’m enthralled.’

  The scent of wild shrubs and aromatic lavender, sharpened by the clean air and the light breeze, was a fragrance that invested the walk with enchantment. It made Colonel Brecht sigh, and his sigh made Rosamund smile.

  They reached the beach. Its sand was golden. A man and a woman were disporting themselves in the sea, their cotton bathing suits glistening.

  ‘I must try that while the weather remains warm,’ said the colonel.

  ‘I too am tempted,’ said Rosamund.

  ‘You have brought your costume, madam?’

  ‘I always do. I’ve always managed to take a dip once or twice during October.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the colonel, and emitted another sigh. The thought of Rosamund Knight clad in a bathing costume, her abundance at the mercy of clinging wet cotton—

  ‘Himmel,’ he breathed.

  ‘Colonel Brecht?’

  ‘One’s imagination soars, madam.’

  ‘Really? At what?’

  ‘At such beauty,’ he said, observing the laughing, splashing couple, the golden sands and the brilliant sea.

  Rosamund smiled. She was ahead of the colonel, for her imagination was far more comprehensive than his.

  Chapter Six

  Lunch had been delicious. So much so that Edward felt he needed exercise.

  ‘Celeste, I’m trying a walk to the village to get that pipe and tobacco for old Pierre.’

  ‘Oh, you must wait,’ said Celeste from behind her reception desk. ‘I must ask Mama to let me go with you.’

  ‘I think I can manage, my infant, and your mama has already given you time off for our visit to your countess tomorrow.’

  ‘Please wait, m’sieur,’ said Celeste, quite set on the pleasure of walking with him. She flew to the little room which was her mother’s hotel office, with its escritoire and its pen and ink. She rejoined Edward a few minutes later, wearing an outdoor frock and a straw hat. ‘Mama has said everything must be done to accommodate you, even to the extent of parting with her valuable daughter for an hour.’

  ‘Your mother is an institution of benevolence,’ said Edward. ‘We’ll bring her back a box of nougat.’

  ‘We’re going to shower your money about?’ said Celeste, then spoke to Jacques, telling him she would be back in an hour and to refer any enquiries to her mother.

  ‘No money will be wasted,’ said Edward as he and Celeste left the hotel. ‘I’m sure the pipe and tobacco are going to a deserving cause, and the box of nougat for your mother will be an investment. It will ensure favoured treatment for me. Favoured treatment from an hotel proprietor is a privilege much sought after by guests. More international crises have been caused by friction between hotel proprietors and guests than by the unsheathing of sabres.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ said Celeste. ‘Come, m’sieur, let me take your arm and ensure you don’t try to run.’ She slipped her arm through his and they began a measured walk along the verge of the road. Edward used a walking stick to pace himself. The village was not far, no more than twelve minutes for a brisk walker, but twenty to twenty-five minutes for Edward. Celeste did not mind a leisurely progress at all. She was always happy to be with him.

  From the window of her bedroom on the first floor, Rosamund saw them, Celeste in a pretty yellow frock arm in arm with him.

  ‘The dear child,’ murmured Rosamund, then turned and took a bathing costume out of a drawer.

  Colonel Brecht had actually brought himself to suggest a dip, though not without coughing a bit.

  Edward took the ups and downs of the road in sensible style. He needed to stop only once, when he sat on a boulder and took a few deep breaths. Celeste was still concerned.

  ‘We should have driven in your car,’ she said.

  ‘No, I must do some walking,’ he said, ‘and it’s no great distance to the village.’

  He did not look distressed, nor was his colour that of a man struggling to breathe. He had his own way of taking in air, slowly and evenly. They reached La Roche in twenty-five minutes. Its sunny, dusty triangle was surrounded by dry, dusty trees. Timber seats under the trees offered shade. Elderly men were playing boules on the triangle. On a seat sat old Pierre, the hotel’s retired gardener, his shoulders bent and his face as wrinkled as a walnut. Celeste and Edward first went into the shop which, though small and almost as dark as a cave, sold a great variety of goods, including pipes and tobacco. And nougat from Montelimar. Edward bought a handsome box of nougat, which Celeste assured him would make her mother’s eyes pop, then selected a briar pipe he knew Pierre would like. He also purch
ased 200 grammes of Pierre’s favourite tobacco.

  They took the modest gifts to the old man, and the wrinkles of his face disappeared inside a thousand new ones as he smiled in delight. They sat and talked to him.

  ‘Oh, there’s Gregory,’ said Celeste. ‘He’s come to see if the potash has been made up.’

  Edward saw the Russian gardener walk into the shop. From the opposite direction a swinging figure approached. It was Mademoiselle Dupont, vivid in the sunshine. Gregory came out of the shop, carrying a heavy sack. He deposited it in a little handcart, kept outside the shop for the convenience of customers, as long as they swore an oath to bring it back. The Russian went back into the shop for a second sack. That went into the handcart too. Mademoiselle Dupont stopped, smiled at Gregory and spoke to him. When he began to trundle the little cart, she walked with him, talking as vivaciously to him, it seemed, as she did to everyone. She saw Edward. She waved. He lifted his cap to her. She looked for a moment as if she would desert the gardener, but gave another wave and walked on with him. Celeste smiled.

  ‘Do you think she’s made her choice, Edward?’

  ‘Choice?’ said Edward, while Pierre peered at the sturdy figure of the man who had replaced him.

  ‘She’s a Parisienne,’ said Celeste, ‘she flirts.’

  ‘You know her well?’

  ‘No, this is the first time she’s stayed at the hotel. You must avoid her, or she’ll eat you.’

  ‘She’ll have to be very fond of bones if she wants me for her supper,’ said Edward.

  ‘Please, m’sieur,’ said Celeste, ‘you know I care deeply for you. You must not make me jealous.’

  Edward laughed. Old Pierre, slightly deaf, was talking away, and the sounds of the game of boules interspersed his monologue like metallic thuds.

  ‘A good man, a good man,’ Pierre said, ‘but not one to talk about himself.’

  ‘You mean Gregory?’ said Edward.

  ‘Ah, he can make things grow,’ said Pierre, ‘but his tongue has little life to it.’

  ‘Perhaps what he has to say he would rather keep to himself,’ said Edward.

  ‘Oh, Mademoiselle Dupont will find enough words for both of them,’ said Celeste. ‘Beware of her honey, Edward. You are so innocent.’