by Blake Pierce
The boots retreated out of her vision. A burst of music came from below, followed by a shouted argument.
The room was quiet.
She was shivering; if she was going to spend the night hiding, she needed a blanket. She’d better get it now. She eased herself away from the wall.
But as she slid her hand out, a rough hand grabbed it.
“So there you are!”
He yanked her out—she clutched at the bed frame, cold steel scraping her hands, and began to scream. Her terrified cries filled the room, filled the house …
And she woke, sweating, screaming, hearing Jess’s worried voice. “Hey, Cassie, are you OK?”
The tendrils of the nightmare still lurked, waiting to draw her back in. She could feel the raw grazes on her arm where the rusty bed frame had cut her. She pressed her fingers there and was relieved to find unbroken skin. Opening her eyes wide, she switched on the overhead light to chase the darkness away.
“I’m fine. Bad dream, that’s all.”
“Do you want some water? Some tea? I can call the flight attendant.”
Cassie was going to refuse politely, but then she remembered she should take her meds again. If one tablet didn’t work, two would usually stop the nightmares from recurring.
“I’d love some water. Thank you,” she said.
She waited until Jess wasn’t looking and quickly swallowed another pill.
She didn’t try to sleep again.
During the plane’s descent, she swapped phone numbers with Jess—and just in case, she took down the name of the family Jess would be working for, and their address. Cassie told herself it was like an insurance policy, that hopefully if she had it, she wouldn’t need it. They promised each other that the first chance they got, they would tour Versailles Palace together.
As they taxied into Charles de Gaulle Airport, Jess gave an excited laugh. Quickly, she showed Cassie the selfie her family had taken for her while waiting. The attractive couple and two children were smiling, holding a board with Jess’s name on it.
Cassie had received no message—Maureen had just said she would be met at the airport. The walk to passport control seemed endless. She was surrounded by the babble of conversations in a host of different languages. Tuning in to the couple walking alongside her, she realized how little spoken French she was able to understand. Reality was so different from the school classes and language tapes. She felt scared, alone, and sleep deprived, and she was suddenly aware of how crumpled and sweaty her clothes were, compared to the elegantly clad French travelers around her.
As soon as she had her bags, she hurried to the restroom, put on a fresh top, and fixed her hair. She still didn’t feel ready to meet her family and had no idea who would be waiting. Maureen had told her the house was over an hour’s drive from the airport, so perhaps the children hadn’t come along. She shouldn’t look out for a big family. Any friendly face would do.
But in the sea of people watching her, she saw no recognition, even though she’d placed her “Maureen’s Au Pairs” backpack prominently on the luggage cart. She walked slowly from the gate to the arrivals lounge, looking anxiously for someone to spot her, wave, or call out.
But everyone there seemed to be waiting for someone else.
Grasping the cart’s handle with cold hands, Cassie zigzagged around the arrivals hall, searching in vain as the crowds gradually dispersed. Maureen hadn’t said what to do if this happened. Should she call someone? Would her phone even work in France?
And then, as she made one final, frantic pass round the floor, she noticed it.
“CASSANDRA VALE.”
A small notice board, held by a lean, dark-haired man in a black jacket and jeans.
Standing near the wall, absorbed by his phone, he wasn’t even looking for her.
She approached uncertainly.
“Hi—I’m Cassie. Are you…?” she asked, the words trailing off as she realized she had no idea who he could be.
“Yes,” he said in strongly accented English. “Come this way.”
She was about to introduce herself properly, to speak the words she’d rehearsed about how excited she was to be joining the family, when she saw the laminated card on his jacket. He was just a taxi driver; the card was his official airport pass.
The family hadn’t bothered to come and meet her at all.
CHAPTER THREE
The cityscape of Paris unfolded as Cassie watched. Tall apartments and somber industrial blocks gradually gave way to treed suburbia. The afternoon was cold and gray, with patchy, blowing rain.
She craned to see the signboards they passed. They were heading toward Saint Maur, and for a while she thought that might be their destination, but the driver passed the turnoff and continued on the road out of town.
“How much further?” she asked, attempting conversation, but he grunted noncommittally and turned the radio up.
Rain pattered on the windows and the glass felt cold against her cheek. She wished she’d taken her thick jacket from the trunk. And she was starving—she hadn’t eaten breakfast and there’d been no opportunity to buy food since.
After more than a half hour, they reached open countryside and drove alongside the Marne River, where brightly painted barges provided a splash of color in the grayness, and a few people, swathed in raincoats, walked under the trees. Some of the trees’ branches were already bare, others still clothed in russet-gold leaves.
“It’s very cold today, isn’t it?” she observed, giving conversation with the driver another try.
His only response was a muttered “Oui”—but at least he turned the heater on, and she could stop shivering. Cocooned in the warmth, she slipped into an uneasy doze as the miles flew past.
Sharp braking and the blare of a horn startled her awake. The driver was forcing his way past a stationary truck, turning off the highway onto a narrow, tree-lined road. The rain had cleared and in the low evening light, the autumn vista was beautiful. Cassie stared out the window, taking in the rolling landscape and the patchwork tapestry of fields interspersed with huge, dark forests. They passed by a vineyard, the neat rows of grapevines curving round the hillside.
Slowing his speed, the driver passed through a village. Pale stone houses with arched windows and steeply sloped, tiled roofs lined the road. Beyond, she saw open fields, and glimpsed a canal lined by weeping willows as they cruised by a stone bridge. The tall church spire drew her gaze and she wondered how old the building was.
This must be close to the chateau, she guessed, perhaps even in its local neighborhood. Then she changed her mind as they left the village behind and wound further into the hills, until she was totally disoriented and had lost sight of that tall spire. She hadn’t expected the chateau to be so remote. She heard the GPS give a “Lost Signal” notification and the driver exclaimed with annoyance, picking up his phone and glancing closely at the map while he drove.
And then, a right turn through high gateposts and Cassie sat straighter, staring down the long, gravel driveway. Ahead, tall and elegant, with the setting sun highlighting its stone-clad walls, was the chateau.
Tires crunched on stone as the car stopped outside a high, imposing entrance and she felt a stab of nerves. This home was far bigger than she’d imagined. It was like a palace, topped with tall chimneys and ornate turrets. She counted eighteen windows, with elaborate stonework and detailing, on the two stories of its commanding frontage. The house itself overlooked a formal garden, with immaculately trimmed hedges and paved pathways.
How would she relate to the family inside, who lived in such grandeur, when she had come from nothing?
She realized the driver was tapping his fingers impatiently on the wheel—he clearly wasn’t going to help her with her bags. Quickly, she climbed out.
The unforgiving wind chilled her immediately, and she hurried around to the trunk, manhandling her suitcase out, across the gravel, and into the shelter of the porch, where she zipped her jacket up.
/> There was no doorbell on the heavy wooden door, only a large, iron knocker that felt cold in her hand. The sound was surprisingly loud, and a few moments later Cassie heard light footsteps.
The door opened and she found herself facing a dark-uniformed maid, hair drawn back into a tight ponytail. Beyond her, Cassie glimpsed a large entrance hall with opulent wall coverings and a magnificent wooden staircase at the far end.
The maid glanced around as a door slammed.
Immediately, Cassie sensed the presence of a fight. She could feel it, electric in the air, like an approaching storm. It was in the maid’s nervous bearing, in the bang of the door and the chaos of faraway shouts fading to silence. Her insides contracted and she felt an overpowering desire to get away. To run after the departing driver and call him back.
Instead, she stood her ground and forced a smile.
“I’m Cassie, the new au pair. The family is expecting me.”
“Today?” The maid looked worried. “Wait a moment.” As she hurried into the house, Cassie heard her calling, “Monsieur Dubois, please come quickly.”
A minute later, a sturdy man with dark, graying hair strode into the foyer, his face like thunder. When he saw Cassie at the door, he stopped in his tracks.
“You are here already?” he said. “My fiancée said you were arriving tomorrow morning.”
He turned to glare at the young, bleached-blonde woman following him. She was wearing an evening gown and her attractive features were taut with tension.
“Yes, Pierre, I printed the email when I was in town. The agency said the flight lands at four in the morning.” Turning to the ornate wooden hall table, she shoved a Venetian glass paperweight aside and brandished a page defensively. “Here. See?”
Pierre glanced at the page and sighed.
“It says four p.m. Not four a.m. The driver you booked obviously knew the difference, so here she is.” He turned to Cassie and held out his hand. “I am Pierre Dubois. This is my fiancée, Margot.”
He didn’t introduce the maid. Instead, Margot snapped at her to go and make up the room opposite the children’s bedrooms, and the maid hurried away.
“Where are the children? Are they in bed already? They should meet Cassie,” Pierre said.
Margot shook her head. “They were having supper.”
“So late? Did I not tell you that supper must be early on school nights? Even though they are on holiday, they should be in bed already to stay on schedule.”
Margot stared at him and shrugged angrily before walking over to the doorway on the right, stiletto heels clicking.
“Antoinette?” she called. “Ella? Marc?”
She was rewarded by a thunder of feet and loud cries.
A dark-haired boy sprinted into the foyer, clutching a doll by her hair. He was closely pursued by a younger, chubby girl in a flood of tears.
“Give my Barbie back!” she screamed.
Skidding to a stop as he saw the adults, the boy made a dash for the staircase. As he hurtled toward it, his shoulder caught the curved side of a large blue and gold vase.
Cassie clapped her hands over her mouth in horror as the vase teetered on its plinth, then crashed to the floor where it shattered. Shards of colorful glass spilled across the dark wooden boards.
The shocked silence was broken by Pierre’s enraged bellow.
“Marc! Give Ella her doll.”
Feet dragging, lower lip jutting, Marc shuffled back past the wreckage. Reluctantly he handed the doll to Pierre, who passed it to Ella. Her sobbing subsided as she smoothed the doll’s hair.
“That was a Durand art glass vase,” Margot hissed at the young boy. “Antique. Irreplaceable. Do you have no respect for your father’s possessions?”
A sullen silence was the only response.
“Where is Antoinette?” Pierre asked, sounding frustrated.
Margot glanced up and, following her gaze, Cassie saw a slim, dark-haired girl at the top of the stairs—she looked to be the eldest of the three by a few years. Elegantly dressed in a perfectly ironed frock, she waited with a hand on the balustrade until she had the family’s full attention. Then, chin high, she descended.
Anxious to make a good impression, Cassie cleared her throat and attempted a friendly greeting.
“Hello, children. My name’s Cassie. I’m so pleased to be here, and happy to be looking after you.”
Ella smiled shyly in return. Marc glared unrelentingly at the floor. And Antoinette met her gaze for a long, challenging moment. Then, without a word, she turned her back on her.
“If you will excuse me, Papa,” she said to Pierre. “I have homework to finish before bedtime.”
“Of course,” Pierre said, and Antoinette flounced upstairs again.
Cassie felt her face flame with embarrassment at the deliberate snub. She wondered if she should say something, make light of the situation or try to excuse Antoinette’s rude behavior, but she was unable to think of suitable words.
Margot muttered furiously, “I told you, Pierre. The teenage moods are starting already,” and Cassie realized that she hadn’t been the only one Antoinette had ignored.
“At least she was doing her homework, despite nobody helping her with it,” Pierre countered. “Ella, Marc, why don’t you both introduce yourselves properly to Cassie?”
There was a short silence. Clearly, introductions weren’t going to happen without a fight. But perhaps she could ease the tension with a few questions.
“Well, Marc, I know your name but I’d like to find out how old you are,” she said.
“I’m eight,” he muttered.
Glancing between him and Pierre, she could see a definite family resemblance. The unruly hair, the strong chin, the bright blue eyes. Even the way they frowned was similar. The other children were also dark, but Ella and Antoinette had more delicate features.
“And Ella, what’s your age?”
“I am nearly six,” the small girl announced proudly. “My birthday is the day after Christmas.”
“That’s a good day to have a birthday. I hope it means you get lots of extra presents.”
Ella gave a surprised smile, as if this was an advantage she hadn’t yet considered.
“Antoinette is the oldest of all of us. She’s twelve,” she said.
Pierre clapped his hands. “Right, it’s bedtime now. Margot, will you show Cassie the house after you’ve put the children to bed. She will need to know her way around. Make it quick. We must leave by seven.”
“I still have to finish getting ready,” Margot replied in acid tones. “You can put the children to bed, and call a butler to clear up this mess. I will show Cassie the house.”
Pierre drew an angry breath before glancing at Cassie and pressing his lips together. She guessed her presence had made him swallow his words.
“Upstairs and into bed,” he said, and the two children followed him reluctantly up the staircase. She was heartened to see that Ella turned and gave her a small wave.
“Come with me, Cassie,” Margot ordered.
Cassie followed Margot through the doorway on the left and found herself in a formal lounge with exquisite, showpiece furniture, and tapestries lining the walls. The room was huge and chilly; there was no fire lit in the massive fireplace.
“This lounge is seldom used, and the children are not allowed in here. The main dining room is beyond—the same rules apply.”
Cassie wondered how often the massive mahogany dining table was used—it looked pristine and she counted sixteen high-backed chairs. Three more vases, similar to the one Marc had broken earlier, stood on the darkly polished sideboard. She couldn’t imagine happy dinner table conversation flowing in this austere and silent space.
What would it feel like growing up in such a house, where whole areas were off limits because of furnishings that could be damaged? She guessed that it might make a child feel as if they were less important than the furniture.
“This we call the Blue Room.” It was
a smaller lounge, wallpapered in navy, with large French doors. Cassie guessed they opened out onto a patio or courtyard, but it was fully dark, and all she could see were the room’s dim lights reflected in the glass. She wished the house had higher-wattage globes—all the rooms were gloomy, with shadows lurking in the corners.
A sculpture caught her eye… the marble statue’s stand had been broken, so it lay face up on a table. Its features looked blank and immobile, as if the stone were coating a dead person’s face. Its limbs were chunky and rudely carved. Cassie shivered, looking away from the creepy sight.
“That is one of our most valuable pieces,” Margot informed her. “Marc knocked it over last week. We will have it repaired soon.”
Cassie thought about the young boy’s destructive energy and the way he had knocked his shoulder into the vase earlier. Had the action been totally accidental? Or had there been a subliminal desire to shatter the glass, to get himself noticed in a world where possessions seemed to take priority?
Margot led her back the way they had come. “The rooms down that passage are kept locked. The kitchen is this way, to the right, and beyond it are the servants’ quarters. There is a small parlor to the left, and a room where we dine as a family.”
On the way back they passed a gray-uniformed butler carrying a broom, dustpan, and brush. He stood aside for them but Margot did not acknowledge him at all.
The west wing was a mirror image of the east. Huge, darkened rooms with exquisite furnishings and works of art. Quiet and empty. Cassie shivered, longing for a homey bright light or the familiar sound of a television, if such a thing even existed in this house. She followed Margot up the magnificent staircase to the second floor.
“The guest wing.” Three pristine bedrooms, with four-poster beds, were separated by two spacious drawing rooms. The bedrooms were as neat and formal as hotel rooms, and the bedcovers looked as if they had been ironed flat.
