Island of Secrets

by Karen Abbott

  She indicated the floor in front of her.

  A rapid sentence followed. She picked out the word ‘chambre’. She knew what that meant—and he certainly wasn’t going to take her bags up to her bedroom, however freely he used the downstairs living quarters! She shook her head in a determined way.

  “Non. Je … er … will take them,” she added lamely.

  He raised an eyebrow, casting his glance over her unconventional attire. She felt decidedly disadvantaged at being wrapped only in a towel. She involuntarily glanced to where her clothes were steaming at the other side of the fire—then immediately wished she hadn’t because he followed her glance. He grinned impudently at her discomfort. Lowering one bag to the floor, he reached out his hand and hooked up her flimsy bra on one finger.

  “Vous desirez cellui-ci?”

  She blushed crimson. How dare he be so insolent? Even madame looked shocked. Allowing her left arm and shoulder to slip through the neck-opening of the towel and tightening her hold on the front folds with her right, she snatched the article of underwear out of his hand. “Just put down my bags and go!”

  She wriggled her arm back inside the folds of the towel, glancing down to make sure she was still well-covered.

  He merely laughed and held out his hand.

  “Donnez les moi. Je le renderais.”

  She knew he was asking for something—but what? She bit her lower lip. Of course! He was asking for a tip. Well, if that’s what it took to get rid of him! Her shoulder bag was on edge of the large table just behind him. She struggled to her feet, brushing past him so that she could get at her purse. Changing the hand that clutched at the neck of the towel, she half-turned away from him. She then slipped her right hand out of the front fold of the towel, reaching towards her bag.

  As the man realised what she was doing, his face lost its teasing expression and his eyes darkened. He gripped her wrist.

  “Non. Ce n’est pas …”

  For a moment he looked angry.

  Christi tried to pull her hand away but his grip was too strong. And she didn’t dare struggle in case the towel slipped from her shoulders.

  As her eyes flashed with fire, his expression changed to one of contrition. He let go of her hand and stepped back, making an almost formal bow.

  “I am sorry, mademoiselle. I have teased you long enough. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jean-Claude St. Clare. I am one of the main proprietors here. This is my aunt, madame Marie St. Clare, the wife of my uncle Georges.

  A look of fury greeted his words.

  “You deliberately let me think you were a hired hand.”

  He shrugged.

  “You were minded to think so. I simply didn’t contradict you.”

  “You were making fun of me.”

  “I am sorry. I meant no harm.”

  He smiled disarmingly.

  Her heart lurched but she instantly suppressed the fluttering that followed. She couldn’t quite determine whether the smile that lit his eyes was genuine or mocking. And he wasn’t going to be forgiven that readily, however charming he might make himself! She lifted her chin, trying to appear more dismissive than she really felt as she nodded in acceptance of his apology.

  He laughed.

  “Now, if you will allow me, I will carry your bags to your room. I hope they are waterproofed. From the look of them, I think I had better get you some other clothes to wear … until your own are dry.” He cast his eyes up and down her towel-encased figure. “Size 38, I think”

  She bristled indignantly.

  “Indeed not! My clothes are size 12—and you needn’t bother. My own clothes will be fine.”

  “If you say so.” He picked up her bags. “Follow me.”

  Madame St. Clare had watched their interchange with a puzzled air. She now looked relieved that it was sorted out. Christi realised that she had been distracted from greeting her properly and did it now, putting together a few words of French, inwardly pleased at the way that long-forgotten words of vocabulary were re-surfacing in her brain.

  She understood madame’s, “Appellez moi tante Marie,” and smiled in recognition of the fact madame St. Clare was inviting her to call her Aunt Marie. “Oui. Merci, madame … er … tante Marie.”

  Tante Marie shooed her out of the kitchen. “Allez, allez … après Jean-Claude … a la droite,” indicating to the right with her hand.

  Murmuring her thanks, Christi left the kitchen. She could hear Jean-Claude’s footsteps ahead of her along the dimly-lit passage and up an un-carpetted stairway. When she caught up with him, he was standing in the doorway of a small bedroom.

  “Voici la chambre d’amis. La salle de bain est le longue du couloir. Prenez un bain chaud. Il y a beaucoup de l’eau chaud.”

  “I would understand you better if you spoke in English,” Christi sharply admonished him. Did he delight in making things difficult for her?

  “And you would never learn to speak French! I won’t always be around to translate for you. The sooner you learn the better it will be. Ask me to translate only when necessary. But for now … Here is the guest-room. The bathroom is along there. There is plenty of hot water, so have a bath. It will do you good.”

  She knew he was right but it wasn’t easy to say so. She contented herself with a vague, “Mmm. Thank you,” and preceded him into the room.

  It was prettily, if sparsely furnished. The cover on the double-sized bed was cream with tiny pink roses trailing across it, matching the curtains at the small window. A large jug and basin stood on a low cupboard and two wardrobes stood side by side against the opposite wall. Two rugs adorned the polished-wood floor. A glance through the window showed it to be overlooking the central garden near the gate where she had entered. Some bushes were dropping their blossom, indicating that it didn’t always rain like this. The blossom was only just opening out at home … or, rather, at what ‘had been’ home!

  She sighed. She supposed this was home now, though for how long, she didn’t know. Samantha had been rather vague about it and had managed to evade answering direct questions. She now wished she had pressed for an answer. Maybe Jean-Claude …?

  But when she turned round, he had gone. Her bags were at the foot of the bed. When she unzipped them she was dismayed to discover that Jean-Claude’s prediction had been correct. Everything was either soaked or damp, depending on whereabouts in the bag it had been. She spread sundry articles on the rugs to dry out and placed her wet clothes in a neat pile ready to take downstairs later—but first, that hot bath.

  Hot water streamed from the tap and a handful of bath crystals made a bathful of fragrant bubbles. She gratefully lowered herself down into them. Mmm! Heaven! She closed her eyes and sank even lower. Perfect!

  Hardly had she completely relaxed when she became aware of the pounding of feet along the passage, a loud shout and—CRASH! The door flew open. In an instant, she sat up, her arms crossed in front of her. She found herself staring into the startled face of a boy aged about ten or twelve—and slid swiftly back into the frothy suds.

  The boy was nonplussed. His face reddened and began to back away stuttering, “Je regret, mademoiselle. Je n’ai connais pas …”

  Jean-Claude’s face appeared high above the boy’s head. His hand on the boy’s collar almost lifted him ceiling high as he was whisked out of sight.

  “Mes regrets, aussi,” he murmured, nonetheless grinning broadly at her pink face. She was thankful that was all that was showing above the suds.

  “Excusez mon cousin Luc. Il est incorrigible. Il s’excusera de l’intrusion!”

  He withdrew and shut the door.

  Christi took a deep breath. Her moment of relaxation had vanished. She decided to cut short her hot bath before the rest of the family had joined in the fun.

  Clutching the towel around her body, she scurried back to her room, thankful that she had brought upstairs her nearly-dry bra. A light tap on the door and a short series of words drew her attention. She opened the door a
fraction and carefully peeped outside. No-one was there but, sitting in a neat pile, were some clothes. She scooped them up and closed the door. Now let’s see what size Jean-Claude thought she was!

  The labels were marked 38 but, when she held the clothes—a red checked shirt and denim jeans—against her, they appeared to be correct and sure enough, they fitted perfectly. She pulled them on, wondering whose they were.

  She spent a few minutes tidying her hair. It was shoulder-length, with a natural curl. She decided to fasten it back with a dark blue scrunchie. Satisfied that she looked presentable, she gathered up her wet clothes and went downstairs.

  Loud voices, serious undertones, then a shout of laughter met her ears as she made her way back to the kitchen. She recognised Jean-Claudes’ voice, tante Marie’s, another male voice and then Luc’s younger tones. She hoped he wasn’t in trouble on her behalf. His intrusion had been accidental, of that she was certain.

  Silence fell as she entered the room and everyone swung round to face her. For a moment, she was alarmed at the expression on their faces. They looked … she couldn’t quite determine … apprehensive? … wary? Tante Marie smiled, spoke a few words and indicated her improved appearance.

  Christi smiled.

  “Oui. Merci bien.”

  She swept her smile over the three males. Jean-Claude took command and introduced her to his uncle Georges, who bent over her extended hand with a Gallic gesture. “Enchante de faire votre connaisance.”

  He pulled the reluctant Luc forward.

  “Et ce coquin est mon fils, Luc!”

  Luc’s cheeks reddened and he bowed stiffly.

  “Mademoiselle, je regret …”

  “En anglais!” Jean-Claude snapped.

  Luc flickered a glance in his direction. He lifted his head and straightened his shoulders with a show of defiance.

  “I am … sorry … to have alarmed you … Miss … er … Davies,” he faltered.

  He looked from Christi’s face back to Jean-Claude and then to his father and mother, to see if anything else was expected of him.

  Christi took pity on him, poor lad. He hadn’t been his fault. She flicked her brain into gear.

  “Thank you, Luc. It doesn’t matter. And please call me Christi.”

  Luc flashed her a quick smile.

  “D’accord!” He glanced longingly at the door and turned to his father. “Puis-je partir, maintenant, Papa?”

  Georges nodded and the boy thankfully slipped away, leaving the four adults in what seemed to Christi to be a very stilted atmosphere.

  Marie poured more coffee for them all and brought out a plate of appetising pastries. More by instinct than knowledge, Christi coped with the flow of conversation as they sat by the glowing fire, eating delicious pastries and sipping hot coffee. She suspected that the conversation was made simple and at a slow pace for her benefit and she managed to ask a few stumbling questions about the farm. Understanding the answers was another matter altogether—but, with pauses and gestures, she felt she hadn’t done too badly.

  It seemed that the family farm had recently changed its main emphasis from market-gardening to a holiday complex, housing a mixture of static caravans—mobile homes, the owners preferred to call them apparently—and chalets, with a few places for touring caravan and tents. They had retained a vegetable plot, mainly for their own use; a field of vines; and a number of the salines, where they cultivated oysters. They bred their own horses and ran a riding school in the summer, when they also opened a bar by ‘la piscine’, which, from the movements of Georges’ arms, obviously meant a swimming pool. His miming evoked much amusement but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Jean-Claude then turned the attention on Christi, asking her to tell them about herself. Haltingly, supplementing what little French she knew with English words (which Jean-Claude translated for his aunt and uncle) she explained how her parents had died in a car-crash fifteen years ago and how, firstly, her aunt Edith and, later, her cousin Samantha had taken her into their homes. Apart from the fact that her grandmother had been called Angela, she knew nothing else about her grandparents. All she could tell them was that her mother, Fleur, had been madame Francine’s God-daughter and she believed that she was of French descent, but that no-one ever talked about it. Something, she wasn’t sure what, had happened during the Second World War.

  As Jean-Claude rapidly translated her words, Maria and Georges exchanged glances but their faces remained impassive. What were they thinking?

  She haltingly expressed her sadness at her lack of knowledge of her family history. She had always felt that she didn’t really know who she truly was … where her roots were. No mention was ever made of her maternal grandfather. She wasn’t even sure her grandmother had been married.

  The faces around her seemed to understand her sadness. She caught glances being passed between them—maybe they too had lost dear ones in the War. The French had certainly suffered far more than the other nations at war—their land had been ravaged, as well as their people. She wished she had the vocabulary to enquire but was afraid of her words sounding impolite.

  It only now occurred to her that these people possibly knew more than she did. Maybe she could learn more from her grandmother’s friend? Her mother’s God-mother. She wondered where the elderly lady was.

  “Et vous, mademoiselle? Pourquoi avez-vous décidé de visiter ici?”

  It was Georges who asked the question. Christi looked at him uncertainly. She realised he was asking her why she had decided to visit them but felt that she must have missed something in the questions, as, surely, she was there at the invitation of her mother’s Godmother? That was what Samantha had said, wasn’t it? Where was she, by the way? Didn’t she actually live here at the farm?

  “Er … Madame Francine. Elle m’a invité.”

  She looked from one to the other in growing apprehension, as they exchanged puzzled glances. A rapid exchange of words between them left her even more anxious. Something was very wrong. She could feel her face reddening as she waited.

  It was Jean-Claude who enlightened her as the cause of their consternation. He spoke in perfect English, so that she was in no doubt as to what he was saying.

  “Madame Francine, Georges’ mother and my grandmother, could not have invited you to come here. She died in 1990, nearly two years ago? So, I ask you again. What made you want to come here, mademoiselle Davies?”

  Chapter Three

  Christi stared in disbelief.

  The room seemed to spin around, leaving her in the midst of a heavy silence. Her throat felt tight.

  “But … she can’t! I mean … How …?”

  She stopped. How, indeed? There was only one answer. Samantha had lied. Madame St. Clare hadn’t invited her to visit—Samantha had written, asking them to take her! How could she! She was appalled.

  She swallowed hard. It took all her courage to hold up her head and meet the three pairs of eyes that were fastened upon her face, watching the various emotions as they flickered across it.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “My cousin asked you to invite me to stay, didn’t she? I didn’t know. What did she say?”

  This last was to Jean-Claude. She was too upset to cope with trying to translate her thoughts into French—or to cope with trying to work out the reply.

  Jean-Claude understood. He studied her face. When he replied, he spoke lightly, for which Christi was grateful.

  “Your cousin said that, after her mother became too old and infirm to manage you, she had struggled for nearly five years to raise you according to her own standards, standards which she felt sure were the standards your parents would have also desired. She was sure she had fulfilled her duty—but, at this stage in her career, it was impossible to continue. She gave me the impression that you didn’t fully appreciate her dedication to ‘standards’ and ‘duty’.”

  He emphasised the last words, raising an eyebrow as he smiled wryly.

  Christi reddened. Yes, she had
often heard those words mentioned, usually in tight-lipped tones. She hardly dared meet Jean-Claude’s eyes. When she did glance up, she was sure there was a twinkle in his deep eyes—but when she looked again it had gone. Only his raised eyebrow made her compelled to excuse her behaviour.

  “Samantha’s sense of duty was … extreme … to say the least. I used to hate the word.” Her face reflected her sadness she had endured during the early years after her parents died. “But … why did she think that you would want me? I knew nothing about you. You didn’t know anything about me, did you?”

  Georges and Marie were listening intently but taking no part in the conversation that they didn’t understand.

  Jean-Claude glanced at them before answering. He spoke hesitantly, as if choosing his words with care.

  “We knew of your mother’s existence and knew Grandmère would have wished to meet you, her friend’s granddaughter. She never actually met your mother. Things were difficult at the end of the war. Angèlique ... that was how we knew her ... wrote to her, telling her of your mother’s birth, begging her to keep the previously arranged agreement of her being her baby’s Godmother. They had been such friends. The letter had taken a long time to get here. Grandmère agreed and wrote back to say so ... but didn’t hear from Angèlique again.”

  “My grandmother died soon after my mother’s birth. They said she pined away after she heard that Pierre had died and only held on until she had given birth.” She gave a hard laugh. “My cousin even suggested that they had never actually married – that my mother was illegitimate and had fled from France to hide the shame.”

  Jean-Claude reached out and touched her hand. His eyes were full of compassion. “I can set your mind at rest on that matter. Their marriage is recorded in the church in Le Chateau. With Pierre being on active service in the resistance, Angèlique continued to live here until Pierre sent her back to England. You see, this island was under German occupation. Pierre knew a dangerous operation was being planned and he thought England would be a safer place for their baby to be born. He hoped they would be reunited within a few months. The allied landings in Normandy had altered the course of the war ... but it was almost another year before this island was liberated.”