‘Umm, do you want a cup of coffee or some water?’ Mathilde swiftly changed the subject, brushing her hands down her trousers and looking at her feet. She could feel her ears burning although at the same time she felt strangely cold and empty without his arms around her.
‘Yes please, I’d love a cold drink.’ He was displaying none of the awkwardness that she was feeling. ‘Any chance of having another closer look at your triptych? I’ve got my eye glass in the car.’
‘Oui, sure, of course,’ she agreed. A perfect excuse to keep him at the hall a while longer. She hadn’t yet explained to him about her dream and she wanted to prevent him from rushing off to visit his grandmother.
Once inside Mathilde took their drinks through to the dining room where she’d covered the painting with a cloth to keep any dirt off. Pulling the curtains open a little the dust rose into the air in the shaft of light, flooding the room like champagne from a shaken bottle, and she was pleased she’d protected everything.
‘It really is amazing,’ Oliver bent close over the left-hand panel examining the myriad of scenes.
‘I had a strange dream about it,’ Mathilde blurted out hardly knowing how to explain to Oliver without sounding like an idiot. ‘Several dreams in fact. Each time I was living in the scenes on the triptych. These here,’ she pointed to the boat scene, ‘it was just like when I came over on the ferry from France but I was in an old boat like this one and last night I was here in a palace watching people. Everything was silent and I saw your queen, Elizabeth I, and she looked at me.’ Even to her ears it sounded ridiculous and she wasn’t going to mention the first dream she’d had in the black, soulless hole depicted at the top corner of the first panel. She shuddered. ‘And I thought I saw a ghost in here the other night, while I was looking at the painting.’ Oliver straightened up and looked at her.
‘Everyone has strange dreams from time to time,’ he said slowly, ‘but most people don’t see ghosts. Tell me more.’
She relayed what had happened the previous night realising as she told him how unlikely it all sounded. He must think she was some hysterical foreigner who imagines things. Why was she trying to tell him how scared she’d been about a dream for goodness’ sake? She didn’t have the English words to describe how it had made her feel. Terrified, sucked into a world that felt as real as the one she was living in. Perhaps it was just as well she couldn’t explain or she might never see him again.
‘There’s probably a simple explanation for what you saw,’ he reassured her, ‘although there are plenty of people who believe in ghosts. Maybe the dreams are a backlash from all the emotional turmoil recently? Discovering a family you didn’t know existed, that your father didn’t pass away all those years ago and suddenly inheriting this house. All of this is light years away from what you’re used to so it’s bound to have an effect.’
Mathilde nodded slowly keeping her eyes on the painting in front of her. She knew what she’d seen and it wasn’t her imagination. And she was certain the dreams she’d had were connected to the eerie feelings she was getting around the house. Someone or something was trying to talk to her, to explain something. And it was connected to the triptych.
They both moved at the same time to lift the dust cloth back over the painting, their hands brushing together momentarily. Mathilde snatched hers away as if she’d been burned, pushing them into her pockets and letting him finish off. He unnerved her and yet she couldn’t stop gravitating towards him: she was a moth dancing towards his shining light.
Chapter Twenty-Four
October 1584
As directed, Tom was waiting at the knot garden. The air was still, the darkness closing in around him like a cloak. He stood with his back against the palace wall and watched for any movement, his head twisting back and forth as his eyes swept across the grounds laid out in front. He wasn’t certain if this was some sort of trap, especially after his spying mission, and he wanted to see anyone approaching.
After a couple of minutes he spotted a shadowy form move slowly across the garden. The moon was behind the building and he could see the movements the person was taking: short, light strides, creeping along. A gentle night breeze wafted across the scent of apple blossom and roses and instantly he knew it was her. He stepped out from where he was hiding, deliberately kicking at the stones to alert her.
Within seconds she was standing in front of him. He could just make out the silhouette of her features etched in the half-light as he saw her smile and her lips move as she spoke. She clasped his fingertips in hers and her soft warm skin felt like velvet. He couldn’t see well enough to understand what she was saying. Even if he’d had a candle it would have been too dangerous to light it and alert anyone to their clandestine meeting. He shook his head; he still couldn’t grasp the words and although she was also now moving her hands he was lost. She pointed to herself and him and he nodded in understanding but the next part seemed to just be random arm waving together with whatever she was saying. Frustrated he shrugged and held his arms out shaking his head and pointing up to the dark skies above them, now pinpricked with the first of the night’s stars where on the horizon a thin strip of faded orange clung on to the remains of the day. Maybe meeting outside as twilight claimed the day hadn’t been such a good idea. And he had no indication if she understood as he couldn’t see her mouth.
She hung her head down, shaking it slowly before reaching forward and giving him a hug, after which she was gone. He waited for over half an hour wondering if she was coming back before realising she wasn’t. Walking back to the side door from where he’d crept out to the garden, he continued into his room and sat on the bed, his head in his hands. Once again his deafness had robbed him of something special. It was doubtful she’d be throwing him any smiles or meaningful glances next time their paths crossed. Nothing changed. His good looks may win him a smile from a pretty girl but as soon as she realised what hard work it was trying to communicate with someone who could neither hear nor speak, she’d disappear like the mists at dawn. He was destined to be alone forever.
Tom awoke the following morning with his head hurting, a frown etched into his forehead from where he’d slept in a bad mood. Staggering through to the stillroom he stoked up the embers of the fire and proceeded to make himself a tisane of feverfew and camomile to stop the ache. When Hugh came through carrying some bread and slices of cheese together with a platter of fruit and a jug of ale, Tom watched him take one look at his morose expression and put the breakfast on the floor beside him.
Knowing he couldn’t spend all day brooding over the catastrophe of the previous evening’s meeting he quickly ate the food Hugh had given him before getting to his feet and helping in the preparation of an ointment needed to soothe the bed sores of one of Elizabeth’s former ladies who was now too frail to move from her bed.
He was so busy working, pounding the herbs into the grease to make a smooth paste, that he didn’t notice Isabel standing in the doorway. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up his muscular forearms were taut with the effort he was exuding and suddenly she was there, close to the bench and bent down so her face appeared in his field of vision. Startled and a little horrified he stepped back and automatically bowed to her. After the embarrassment of the previous evening had she come to gloat or to tell him never to come near her again?
She was smiling at him and his heartbeat began to slow down a little.
‘I do not think,’ she spoke slowly and he watched her perfect pink lips, ‘that meeting up at night is very beneficial to us.’ He frowned as she said ‘beneficial’ and she thought for a moment before supplying ‘helpful’. He nodded slowly and waited for her to tell him they needed to stay away from each other and go back to leading their separate lives as dictated by their stations.
‘Perhaps we could try meeting at dawn?’ she suggested. ‘The same place tomorrow?’
Tom was so astonished at this turn of events he could only nod his head in delight, trying not to look too over
enthusiastic. But he hoped she saw his eyes shining with appreciation that she was prepared to risk another meeting with him.
‘Tomorrow then,’ she mouthed before turning, her heavily embroidered gown in rich burgundy sweeping behind her as she left the room. He watched her as she hurried down the corridor, her head high and her back straight. She had the walk of a woman who was confident and strong, sure of everything in life.
He returned to his work, this time with a wide smile lighting up his face. Hugh had left the room as soon as Isabel entered, as if by a secret signal Tom had missed, so as he stepped back in and raised his eyebrows in question Tom would only waggle his head slowly from side to side, his sign to Hugh that he wouldn’t – or couldn’t – explain.
Chapter Twenty-Five
July 2021
Enjoying the cool of the early morning air, Mathilde walked across the field towards the marshes and the river lying beyond. The ground was already beginning to dip, the grass becoming increasingly coarser. Away to her left stood Alice and Jack’s farmhouse, rising up from the meadows, a custodian of all that had happened in the past. Beneath its coarse thatched roof, the dormer windows looked out like dark, suspicious eyes watching the world pass by. Lifting her ever-present camera to her face, Mathilde took shot after shot, the pale blue sky beyond a perfect washed out backdrop. She thought she saw a movement behind one of the windows but decided it was just the reflection of the oak tree opposite the house as it danced in the wind.
Pausing at the edge of the reeds, she quietly lowered herself to her haunches. The grass was still wet and she didn’t want to kneel on it; these were her last pair of clean jeans and she hadn’t yet asked Rachel how to operate the ancient washing machine that lurked in the boot room off the kitchen. It made a loud screaming noise when it got to the spin cycle; the sort of sharp wheeling thumps that would have made her mother cower, hands clasped over her head. Thank goodness Mathilde had still been young when they left Beirut and couldn’t remember the sounds of war.
Her memories were interrupted by the warbling of a bird somewhere in the tall rushes in front of her. Without moving them it was impossible to see the water beyond although she heard an occasional splash and wondered if it was a bird or a mammal enjoying its secluded, safe life. Isolated, hidden from predators who would take what they wanted. She’d been dragged into a life exactly like that and thinking about her mother had brought it all back. Always running away, moving on. Now as an adult she understood her mother had been too frightened to stay anywhere for long, her mental state too precarious after living with the bombs falling night and day. She’d learned to hide, secrete them away from danger and then run. Flee to France where life would be quieter. Except she wasn’t able to stop the tortured memories that haunted her and every time they seemed to be settled somewhere, a villager would start a rumour or make an accusation about their unconventional lifestyle and they were off again, moving on. It had broken them both.
She took several photographs through the tall reeds at the sunlight filtering through, a wavering dapple of dusky hues. There was a sudden flash of electric blue as something hit the water and it sparkled like a diamond winking at her, then it was gone as the ripples stilled once more. Getting to her feet she stretched her legs where they’d cramped up. Reminiscing wouldn’t do her any good. All she’d missed out on, everything she had wanted in life had been here across the water and she hadn’t known. But perhaps the chasm that had always been gaping in her life could finally be completed by this new-found family. Maybe, just maybe, they would close the exposed wound she carried inside. Pulling at the tops of the grasses and throwing the seeds to the ground she walked back up to the house, a frown etched on her face, her eyes dark.
After much pressure Mathilde had promised Fleur she could take some photographs with her camera, so after lunch the two of them went out for a walk. It was the first time the little girl had properly connected with her and Mathilde didn’t want to mess it up.
‘Stay around the grounds, won’t you?’ Rachel called as they pulled their shoes on, ‘it’s not always easy to see where the boggy land begins.’
‘Yes, yes, we’ll be careful,’ Mathilde reassured her. She knew the dangers of the flat land around them, understood the way the water beneath their feet seeped up through the earth and laid in thick muddy crevices ready to pull an unsuspecting person down beneath its depths. She caught hold of Fleur’s hand and smiled down at the little girl. A child who carried her blood, whose grandfather was her father. Parentes, kin. She’d looked the word up in her dictionary.
Out in the vegetable garden Fleur immediately found a butterfly, its white wings tipped with soft, pale green and dotted with velvety black smudges. Mathilde kept the strap to the heavy camera around her own neck and silently crouched down, pulling Fleur into the circle behind the camera, the little girl’s warm back pressed against her torso as she looked down the lens and squeezed on the red button as Mathilde had shown her. The clunk of the shutter disturbed the butterfly who took flight and in its haphazard way wavered away across the potato flowers.
‘Papillon,’ Mathilde told her. ‘In French, papillon.’ She showed Fleur the photo she’d just taken on the screen on the back of the camera and the little girl sighed in delight before squeezing out from under the strap and skipping away around the garden looking for more things to photograph. Lifting the camera Mathilde took several shots of her small face and blond plaits weaving between the overgrown plants. Her relationship with the little girl was growing and felt so natural but there was still a wall between herself and Rachel, as they danced around each other trying to carve out a bond that had been stalled for so many years. It was developing slowly but being a sister was new to both of them; at least they had that in common.
They ended up beside the chapel. Rachel had insisted locking the door again, saying someone might start squatting in it. They couldn’t be too careful of travellers she’d added, and Mathilde felt her blood start to sing in her veins as Rachel realised what she’d said. She knew that was exactly how Mathilde and her mother had often found accommodation, when times were hard. An abandoned house or building could offer them protection when the weather was rough or cold. Thankfully in the south of France it rarely snowed but it certainly got cold at night. And when the mistral whipped up and threw hot wind and dust into people’s eyes you needed somewhere to shelter. Mathilde had opened up to her sister and tried to explain what her life had been like but in that single throwaway comment she’d wondered if her sister could ever truly understand.
Fleur slumped against the wall, her legs braced out in front to stop herself sliding down. Mathilde took a few more photos, the sound of the shutter alerting the little girl. Instead of disappearing as the butterfly did, her niece turned her head towards the camera, the sun behind her making her hair shine like a pale gold halo around her head. She smiled shyly and in an instant Mathilde had caught her, digitally, forever.
‘Time for tea?’ she suggested and the little girl nodded pushing herself to her feet against the wall and trotting on ahead back to the house. Mathilde paused for a moment, looking up at the silent building. She was no further in finding out why the triptych seemed to have some sort of hold on her nor why the locket had drawn her to find it hidden in this tiny place of worship, but she was convinced it was trying to tell her something.
Back in the kitchen Mathilde felt her heart sink as she saw that they had company; the two people she least wanted to see. Alice and Jack were sitting nursing cups of coffee, their faces like a pair of matching gargoyles, stony and scowling.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Rachel’s voice sounded falsely bright, ‘we have some visitors.’
‘Yes, I see.’ Mathilde filled a glass with water and drank it down in one go, the condensation from the outside dripping onto her T-shirt. She laid her camera on the table. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, putting one hand on her hip.
‘We know what you’re up to and we’re here to tell you to sto
p.’ Alice’s voice came out as if she was spitting shards of glass across the room. Mathilde raised her eyebrows and looked at Rachel in puzzlement. She had no idea what they were talking about. Jack, who rarely said a word, merely nodded, his hair bouncing up and down in agreement.
‘What do you think Mathilde is up to?’ Rachel kept her voice quiet and modulated. No wonder she was a primary school teacher, Mathilde thought, she had the ability to take the reaction out of a situation.
‘I saw her taking photos of the estate this morning; of our house. Spying on us just like when I found her in the village. Ready to run round to the estate agents and get them measuring up. I bet old Danny Jones at Harbord and Jones is rubbing his hands together at the commission for this place. Well, I’m going to stop you in your tracks young lady. You know we’ve been to see our solicitor. The farmhouse is our home and we’ll stop you inheriting so don’t bother with your “For Sale” signs; we’re going nowhere.’ They both held smug smiles on their faces, as if they were holding a royal flush in a game of poker and they no longer cared who knew it.
Mathilde looked at them in confusion, she had no idea what her aunt was talking about.
‘Yes, I took photographs this morning,’ she agreed, ‘I take photos, that’s what I do. I sell them to agencies, it’s how I earn my money. But even though I wasn’t taking photos of your home to sell this morning, somebody else will be in September when I leave here and the house is put up for sale.’ Saying the words out loud felt wrong and her chest was tight even if it was the truth.
‘And you’re mistaken about the will,’ Rachel turned to the couple on the other side of the table. ‘You’ll get nowhere. I was with my father when he drew it up. There was a discussion about the farmhouse and Dad decided he didn’t want to split up the estate. He was absolutely clear in his decision that Mathilde was to have it all to do with as she pleased. Yes, if she couldn’t be found within twelve months then it would have reverted to you but I for one am very pleased we finally have my sister here, where she belongs.’
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