Next, Ferdinand expounded on the continuing social triumphs of Evangeline Bruce. ‘She’s reputed to host her soirées at the American Embassy with just as much charm as she rejects would-be lovers,’ he said, before concluding with a description of the notorious affair between Pamela Churchill and the handsome young Fiat automobile heir, Gianni Agnelli. ‘I know for a fact he takes care of all madame’s accounts, including those very substantial bills from our very own maison,’ he confided with an arch expression.
Ferdinand’s droll remarks provided just the diversion Grace needed. For a short time, at least, she forgot her troubles, but when it came time to say goodbye, she frowned anxiously.
‘Do you really think the maison will give me back my job?’ she asked.
‘They would be foolish not to,’ Ferdinand said brightly as he climbed into Claude’s waiting trap.
Grace was grateful for his reassurance. However, as she watched his elegant form disappear into the distance, she realised that her loyal friend, who knew all there was to know about life in the Dior atelier, had avoided giving her an answer.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
December 1949
While new life grew within Grace, each day stronger and more vigorous, the surrounding landscape became increasingly barren. With the exception of the conifers’ defiant needles, the trees were stripped bare, their exposed limbs clawing at the pale sky in a menacing fashion.
By Christmas Eve the weather had turned very cold. Grace usually loved this time of the year, yet now she struggled to join in the merriment. Although she tried to smile during the aromatic dinner of roast goose and chestnuts she shared with Claude and Marie, it was not without effort. Afterwards, during midnight mass in Sainte Jeanne’s freezing chapel, she found it impossible either to keep her mind on the service or to stop shivering.
The nuns’ songs of praise for the Christ child receded as Grace thought longingly of Christmases spent at home during days of scorching heat. She missed the bunches of flowering red gum on the gaily decorated table, the ridiculously hot, heavy meal that always finished with a chilled, passionfruit-topped pavlova, the blessedly cool swim in the dam that would follow a doze on the veranda. She missed Alfred. And she missed her mother.
February 1950
Snow began falling.
‘What a glorious sight!’ Grace called out to Claude. As she gazed at the sparkling landscape, the low mood that had clung to her during the past weeks drifted away.
Claude paused as he unloaded a bundle of firewood from the back of the trap. ‘That snow is too heavy for my liking.’ He frowned. ‘If it keeps coming down like this the roads will be closed. I’ve cleared the path for you,’ he added, ‘though I doubt it will stay like that for long.’ The pony snorted, creating a plume of steam. ‘If you ask me, it’s a good day to keep inside — even Jezebel agrees.’
Bundled up in a heavy brown woollen overcoat she’d discovered at the bottom of the former housekeeper’s wardrobe, Grace waited until the trap had rattled away before she began walking around to the front of the château. Regardless of Claude’s advice, she wanted to see how Charincourt looked in the snow.
After plodding for only a few metres, she felt one of her boots begin to slide on an unexpected stretch of ice. She cried out and had a vision of herself flying through the air but, by planting the other boot firmly down on a patch of more stable ground, she managed at the last minute to right herself.
I should probably be more careful, Grace thought, but she couldn’t help smiling. Something about this new white world made her excited rather than fearful.
‘What a sight,’ she murmured as she reached the driveway.
With a thick layer of glistening snow on the roof, the parapet, the deep reveals of the windows and the great front door’s threshold, with its turrets and silver spires shimmering in the winter sunshine, Charincourt was no longer a ruin but an enchanted castle of light.
After a week, Grace changed her mind.
‘This is unbearable!’ she declared, pacing restlessly up and down the paved floor. For several days now, fresh snowfalls had made it impossible for her to leave her two lonely rooms.
She tapped her fingers impatiently against the bay window. The frost prevented her from even glimpsing the outside world; the icy glass had become a mirror. I’m trapped, she thought. Rapunzel was better off than I am.
What could she do? She couldn’t settle down to answering Charlotte’s latest letter, nor to drawing or reading in front of the fire. The thought of cooking was unappealing. Grace sank into one of the armchairs and rested her head in her hands.
Enforced confinement had given her a great deal of time to think. Without either company or distraction, she could not avoid returning to the painful conclusion she had reached. She’d acted in a manner as impulsive as it was foolish, not just once, but over and over again.
Why hadn’t she given Olive a chance to explain her past? Instead, she’d been hot-tempered and quick to judge. Then, when she’d seen Reuben at La Voiture Folle, the shock had been so great she had fled from the club. What was even worse, afterwards she’d lacked the courage to question Philippe about his father. If only she had, she might have uncovered the vital missing piece of the puzzle that had caused her so much grief. She loved Philippe more than ever. Yet now, because of her actions, the riddle of how her life and his intersected would never be solved.
Grace groaned. Each time I had the chance to learn the secrets of my past, I ran away. I squandered every opportunity to discover what really happened.
She’d made assumptions, guessed at the truth — but what if she’d been wrong? Now it was too late to do a thing about any of it; she had no choice but to live with the grim consequences of the rash decisions she had made.
Grace left her armchair and walked back to the window, but still she could see nothing other than her own reflection. She turned sideways, tracing the outline of her great swollen belly with one hand. Suddenly, she felt tears prick her eyes. She had tried not to become attached to the babe, told herself that to develop affection would only make their inevitable parting more painful.
She had not been successful. Nor could she quell her fears. As birth became imminent, her anguish increased. Would the child bear the mark of her parents’ sin? Lately, Grace’s nights had been plagued by terrible dreams. Her baby born dead. Or alive, but of monstrous appearance. Now, with nothing to do but wait, she thought only of what would become of the mite.
In an effort to rid herself of these desperate thoughts, Grace gazed around the room — there had to be something that would provide diversion. Her eyes came to rest on the shiny circle of keys Claude had given to her when she’d first arrived at Charincourt. She picked up the brass ring, then examined each key in turn. There was one she had never used. Small and silver, it gleamed invitingly. Her mind turned to the door at the end of the stone-paved hall. Perhaps that was what it was for?
Claude had warned her not to go off exploring. Grace put the keys back where she’d found them.
Although . . . surely a peek inside wouldn’t hurt? I’ll just see if it fits in the lock, she decided.
The sliver of metal turned smoothly, yet the door itself remained stubbornly shut. Having rattled the handle to no avail, Grace pushed against the door with her shoulder. It sprang open so abruptly she would have fallen to the ground if she hadn’t grasped the corner of a handsome brass-inlaid cabinet.
She gasped. The room was enormous, with high moulded ceilings, the delicately carved wood panelling known as boiserie on the walls and fine parquetry on the floor. Yet so much else had been ruined. The glass in one of the huge mirrors was shattered, some of the beautiful antique furniture was damaged and almost all the gold brocade seat covers were badly torn. Several windows had been broken, letting in a draft so icy that each time she exhaled the air turned white and vaporous. Still, a fine tapestry depicting nymphs and a shepherd, as well as a set of portraits and several landscapes, seemed largely undamage
d, if only it were possible to see them properly beneath their shroud of cobwebs.
Grace sneezed — dust lay everywhere. It clung to the folds of the pale green taffeta curtains that rustled gently in the chill breeze, hung in strands from the crystal chandeliers that dangled tipsily above her, and coated the limestone mantelpieces.
As she wandered across the deserted room, picking her way through the debris, Grace tried to imagine what it would look like if she could wave a magic wand. With the furniture mended, the shattered glass replaced and everything given a thorough spring cleaning, it would be magnificent. All that was required was the means, the will — and love. Love transforms everything, she thought forlornly.
One by one, she pulled out the drawers of a handsome marquetry chest, although all she discovered was a pile of mildewed linen and some cracked gold-edged porcelain. She was examining a plate when, from across the room, she heard a muffled sound. It seemed to be coming from a large, rickety armoire of surprisingly poor quality.
Her curiosity piqued, Grace drew closer. There was a gap where the armoire’s two ill-fitting doors should have met — just a single rusted lock held them in place. Grace was attempting to prise the doors apart when, suddenly, the lock broke and they sprang open. She peered into the dark interior, then jerked back with a scream. A pair of monstrous, ruby-eyed rats, which had been gnawing on piles of old newspapers, were glaring at her. Horrified, Grace backed away.
She then found that she’d stumbled into a soaring entrance that boasted a grand marble staircase with a black wrought-iron balustrade and, high above it, a painted ceiling depicting a heavenly scene. Though sorely tempted to explore the upper floors — for dear Claude had clearly overestimated the château’s danger — Grace walked only to the landing at the top and no further. Congratulating herself on her willpower, she turned around. I’ll go back to my room and do something useful, she vowed, recalling her unwritten letter.
As she descended the sweeping staircase her mind wandered back to the dazzling entrance she and Philippe had made at Count de Beaumont’s glamorous ball, the way his guests had applauded as the two of them entered the salon in their dramatic costumes. She could almost hear the orchestra’s romantic music wafting towards her, feel Philippe’s intense presence by her side. How carefree, how blissfully happy she had been. Now it seemed more like a dream.
With her thoughts on that thrilling night, Grace trod heavily upon the next step. She cried out as a sharp piece of marble sheared away. Grace lost her footing. She flung her arms out wide, scrabbling frantically for the wrought-iron balustrade, only for the tips of her fingers to glide past its smooth rail. She felt herself falling, plunging through space.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
It was so very pleasant to be lying on the big rock next to the creek and the gum trees. Just for a moment she’d felt alone — even a little frightened. But now that her father was near, Grace knew she would be all right.
At first she’d been sure she had imagined his voice. Sometimes, when a southerly blew through the silver-grey leaves of the eucalypts, they made a fluttering, ghostly sound. She wondered if the murmur she heard was really this unearthly noise, carried to her ears by a willy-willy’s gusty spin.
Grace felt a chill spiral of air pass over her face. Open your eyes, her father’s voice seemed to whisper. It’s not your time yet.
Her eyelids quivered. She looked about. The creek, the rock and the trees had disappeared. Instead, Grace saw cherubs frolicking on fleecy clouds hovering overhead. Where was she?
With a jolt, it came to her. She’d fallen from the stairs onto the château’s parquetry floor. Rubbing a tender lump on the side of her skull, she attempted to stand. Then she felt a wave of pain.
‘Damn!’ Grace exclaimed, kneading the base of her spine. She must have injured her back as well as her head when she fell. But what if she’d hurt her baby too? She needed help urgently, yet not a soul knew of her predicament and she’d freeze — or worse — if she couldn’t reach her room. Cautiously, she crept on her hands and knees over to the balustrade and hauled herself to her feet.
‘Thank God,’ she muttered. Now, if she could just take the first step . . .
It wasn’t possible. The jabbing back spasm had returned, much stronger this time, as if a blade was twisting deep inside. That was when she knew she’d been mistaken. The excruciating pains were not the result of her fall. She was in labour.
Grace clenched her jaw. She would not panic. If I have to give birth to this child alone, and in the condition I’m in, then I damn well will, she told herself.
Half staggering, half crawling, she slowly made her way out of the hall, back across the cavernous reception room and through the door that led to the paved corridor. Finally, she reached her bedroom, exhausted and in pain, yet with an unexpected sense of profound exhilaration.
Grace had been in labour for hours when she saw a blurred face at the window. She felt weak and feverish, had endured her agony for so long she couldn’t tell whether she was hallucinating. One minute it was there, the next it was gone. Grace screamed with terror. The face belonged to a man sent by Orly to kill her. They had found her at last, just when she was utterly defenceless.
No. Grace was overwhelmed by joy and relief. Finally, when she needed him most, Philippe had come.
Again, she was wrong. It was Claude who stomped into the sitting room, a sprinkling of snow lying white on his shoulders.
‘When you didn’t answer my knock I used my spare key. I hope that was all —’ Claude broke off, as he stared through the open door of the bedroom at Grace, white-faced and writhing. ‘Do not worry!’ he shouted. ‘My wife will attend you.’
Marie arrived just in time. Not more than fifteen minutes after she entered the room, Grace gave birth to a tiny daughter.
‘What will you call her?’ Marie asked as Grace cradled her child.
‘Serena,’ Grace murmured. ‘I pray that her life will be blessed with more serenity than mine.’
The abbess was among Grace’s first visitors.
‘I am glad your child has been safely delivered,’ she said evenly, ‘especially after your lucky escape. It is fortunate that you are so tenacious.’
Grace looked away, towards the bleached world outside. She dreaded hearing what Mother Francis Xavier would say next.
‘But you do understand,’ the abbess continued, her face an ivory oval against the white of her wimple, ‘that the arrangements we discussed are in place.’
Grace didn’t answer.
‘Remember when we first spoke about relinquishing the baby, in the chapel on that grey rainy day? At the time, it occurred to me that once you held your child in your arms, your decision would require great courage,’ she said gently. ‘Now, for Serena’s sake, are you still prepared to make that sacrifice?’
She laid her hand on Grace’s. ‘I wish circumstances were different, but there is also a family to consider and they are waiting to welcome a new baby into their home. It isn’t fair to you, to Serena or to them to draw this process out — it can only cause pain for everyone.’
‘How long do I have?’ Grace whispered, her cheeks wet with desolate tears.
‘One week,’ the abbess said.
The plan had sounded so prudent, so rational, so acceptable when Brigitte had first suggested her baby be adopted. But with Serena in her arms, gazing up at her from beneath her faintly etched brows and pursing her tiny pink mouth, Grace knew she could not let her go. She loved the child, in her breath and her blood and her bones.
Yet it was impossible to stay in the château forever, and Alfred’s small legacy had all but run out. Alone and penniless, how could she care for Serena, let alone protect her from the shame of having an unknown father who might be her own mother’s brother?
Then it hit her; the realisation that there was, in fact, a way to keep her baby. When she’d discovered she was pregnant she had sworn that, no matter what, she wouldn’t go back to her husband. But that w
as before she’d given birth to this wondrous tiny being. Despite everything that had happened between them, if she told Jack that Serena was his, the result of their final tryst, he would take her back, she was certain of it. But could she bear to return to Merindah and to a relationship that had been irredeemably poisoned? Her throat constricted as she considered the prospect of being bound forever to a man who had chosen to exercise his power over her in the most unspeakable way. Grace let out a strangled moan. In her desperation, she’d actually been contemplating trapping Serena in exactly the same deceitful situation as the one in which Olive had placed herself. She would be allowing her child to think one man was her father, when all the time it was very likely someone else. At least, Grace thought bitterly, Olive knew the identity of my true father. I don’t even have that certainty.
As she suckled Serena, Grace felt fresh tears spill onto her cheeks. The abbess had been right. There was only one alternative.
Grace didn’t want to open her eyes. If she did, she would be forced to acknowledge that the day — this awful day — had begun.
As if sensing an impending catastrophe, Serena emitted a piteous wail. Grace rose from her bed. She picked up her baby then lifted the lid of the little music box, that long-ago present from Reuben. Grace hoped that the last time her daughter gazed up at her she would not see a face marked by misery. Yet, try as she might, as the ballerina twirled in endless circles and the tinkling tune played on and on, she could not stop her tears from falling.
She changed Serena and dressed her, then held her close. The past week’s rising temperature meant a thaw had set in; melting snow dripped past the window in silvery streams.
‘Look outside, can you see?’ Grace said to her child. ‘Soon it will be spring.’
She told Serena she would love her forever, kissed her tender neck and her cheeks, soft as petals, but knew she couldn’t put the moment off any longer.
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