by Dana Roquet
It had been just days ago she had shared a pleasant morning with her parents. Just days ago she had kissed them, touched them, spoke with them and she felt guilty now. Guilty that she had not told them she loved them that last morning. She wished she had spent more time with her father in recent years. Wished she had listened more intently when her mother spoke to her of everyday happenings. She wished she had accepted the invitation and joined her mother in the parlor just four days ago when she had come in from an evening stroll with Honore' instead of retiring for the night. She wished she could turn back the hands of time and not have spent eleven of the last twelve months of their lives in Paris, spending that time here instead. She wished—Enough!, she chided herself mentally—no more looking back, it will do no good to look back with regret now! She lowered her eyes from the upper floor of the Château, until they rested upon Bridgett who waited patiently to be joined on the front veranda. Slowly Desiree plodded up the steps but before she could even reach out to grasp the handle, the door was swung wide and Mary had her in a warm embrace.
“Desiree, I am so happy to see you sweet! Let me look…” she released her hold and looked at Desiree from arms length, studying her face carefully, “You look fine, much improved from yesterday. I think you shall be fine now, eh? Don’t you agree Bridgett?” Mary asked as she relieved Desiree of her bag.
“Yes indeed.” Bridgett nodded, with a reassuring signal to the elderly housekeeper that the worst seemed to have passed.
“Oh thank you Mary. I must admit it is so very painful to go on, but I am trying. I can’t seem to stop the tears, but I’m sure Papa and Mama would want me to overcome, don't you think?” Desiree questioned, with tears slipping down her cheeks, against her will.
“Of course my sweet, but don’t you worry about it.” Mary crooned, dabbing at Desiree’s tears with the hem of her apron, “You are doing just fine. We can’t help the tears now and again, can we? Those tears will help us all to heal and move on.”
Desiree hugged the old woman affectionately, “I thought I best get home and see about things.” She sniffed, shoring up her resolve and pulling herself up straight.
“Very well dear,” Mary began as she set Desiree’s bag inside the front hallway and gestured for the two to follow as she started through the house before them.
Like Bridgett, Mary was English. She was well into her sixties and a bit on the heavy side, but Desiree had never really noticed her size and could still recall the sense of security and love she had felt, when as a small child she was gathered up onto Mary’s generous lap, when frightened or hurt. She would cuddle against her warm and sheltering form and listen to stories of knights and princesses, wizards and sorcerers, of English lore, until her fear or her pain would abate.
Mary’s hair, which was always pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, had been silver for as long as Desiree could remember. Her face was round and jolly, with apple cheeks and sparkling gray eyes. She had become more of a supervisor in the house, in recent years, delegating work from her mistress to the other servants. She had been with her parents for over twenty-five years and in France a good score before that. She was the closest likeness to a grandmother Desiree had ever known, and she loved her as such.
“We have been busy here, to be sure.” Mary was saying, “Julien is in the garden right now, weeding. With the mild winter and here only the beginning of May, a few of the new tomatoes have already begun to bud, if you can imagine!”
As Mary rambled on about daily duties and they moved across the main hall, Desiree glanced to her left into the parlor and noted the furnishings had been returned to their original positions, with no sign her parents had been laid there just the day before. All was neat and tidy, all traces of the houseguests and mourners gone.
“Well it looks as though Bridgett and I have little enough to do here. You have taken care of everything, but I should have known you would.” Desiree declared, placing her arm about the old woman’s shoulders.
Looking to her right Desiree paused there at the drawing room door, as she noticed the door to her father's study on the opposite side of the room, stood ajar. The study door was usually kept closed. Mary saw the curiosity and question in her eyes and hurried to explain.
“It’s all right dear, Jacques Monet is here trying to set your father’s things in order for you. He was hoping to see you.”
“Monsieur Monet? I haven’t seen him for quite some time. I don’t believe he was at the funeral was he Bridgett?”
“No sweet, he has been away on business in England, remember?” Bridgett coaxed her memory gently.
“Oh—I recall now. It must have slipped my mind. I really must go in and say hello to Jacques.”
“Very well sweet.” Bridgett agreed, “I shall retire to my room for a bit.”
“And I will be heading back to the kitchen if you need anything at all dear.” Mary added.
***
Desiree stopped at the threshold of the study and knocked lightly upon the open door. Jacques Monet sat at the desk, his spectacles low upon his nose, studying a ledger, when her knock drew his attention.
“Desiree my child!” he exclaimed and stood abruptly, coming around the desk with open arms. She came into his warm embrace, accepting his kiss upon her cheek. He stepped back then and removed his spectacles, studying her face as he held her hand in one of his own.
“How are you Monsieur Monet?” Desiree asked before he could speak.
“How am I? The better question would be how are you? You have been through some very trying times my sweet. I only returned this morning and was utterly shocked when I heard the news. Your father was one of my closest friends and your mother—well Celeste was one of the finest women I have ever known.”
Desiree gazed into the tender eyes of her father’s business partner and smiled, “Merci beaucoup Jacques. I do miss them terribly. I see you have been busy working.” Feeling the tears rising, Desiree changed the subject, glancing at the desk, scattered with papers.
He raised his bushy brows, stroking his bearded jaw and turned briefly to the desk, before smiling warmly at her once more, “Oui, business does go on, doesn’t it?”
“You will then, I presume, continue to look after my interests until such a time as I can take over some of the responsibilities?” Desiree smiled when he nodded, “I am afraid that I have never had much involvement with such things.” She shrugged.
“Of course you have not. Perhaps you will allow me to instruct you in the ways of business? I would not want anyone else to teach you. It’s enormously complicated work but you are bright and I am confident you can adapt.”
He turned toward the cluttered desk and gestured to the tangle of documents, proving his statement. Desiree laughed softly and his amused chuckle joined hers as he placed an arm around her shoulders, squeezing affectionately before releasing her.
“I had hoped you would offer your expertise. None other than father himself knows as much about our business. I would be grateful for your help.” Desiree stated truthfully, fixing him with a look of warm regard.
Jacques was getting on in years and although he was quite a fine looking gentleman, he had remained a bachelor all of his life. Her father often claimed him to be married to his work and his diligent efforts had been one of the main factors in the acquiring of the offices in Rouen. Her father had cared for his lands and ships, while Jacques talents were best suited for figures and the counting house had been his main interest. His voice and manner were still that of a younger man and if not for the thinning thatch of light hair, beginning to gray and the brows and beard also turning in color, one might guess him years less than his true count. He rose to only Desiree’s height, which was not overly tall for a woman but his well-conditioned frame, though small for a man, had a strength and agility.
Jacques began pulling the desk into some semblance of order, shuffling the papers into neat piles, “I am going to take these to the office in town. It will be much eas
ier access for me there.” He explained.
“Of course.” She agreed, watching him work.
He slipped the papers and bound ledgers into a small satchel and gazed apologetically at Desiree, “I really must be going but I would like you to come to the office next week and we can begin your introduction to the business world.” He said with a wink.
He stooped over, retrieving a dust cover from behind the desk and with Desiree’s assistance, covered her father’s dark walnut desk and chair. Desiree looked about her father’s study as she followed Jacques to the door. At the threshold, he took her hand in his and bestowed a gentle kiss, “Until next week then and once again, I am truly sorry—for all of us.”
“Merci Jacques. I shall see you out.”
“No need sweet. I know the way well. Au Revoir.”
Jacques turned and walked through the drawing room to the main hall while Desiree softly closed the study door and then feeling suddenly very alone, went to spend some time with Mary in the kitchen.
***
It was late morning when Desiree finally made her way upstairs. She first paused at her parent’s room, staring at the closed door and then reaching for the handle, turning and finally releasing it again, leaving it unopened. She did not have quite the courage—not just yet.
She moved down the hall to her own bedroom, slowly turned the knob and as she entered the room she had occupied all of her life, a wave of sadness engulfed her. Here more than anywhere else in the house, everything in the room reminded her of the happy childhood she had enjoyed with her parents. She entered with hands clasped tightly before her and with the gait of one who was being led against their will, halting just over the threshold and looking about with trepidation, noticing details that she had overlooked for years.
Her tiny rocking chair, bought years ago when she was still small enough to occupy it, sat in a far corner. A rag doll, with stringy braids and a smudged and faded face, lounged casually in the seat, wrapped in the remnants of her much used and treasured security blanket. It was here, near the window curtained in delicate mallow colored brocade matching the spread and silk canopy of her tester bed, she had often waited patiently for her father. Rocking and watching down the road, as the day drew to a close, to see his carriage come around the bend and then rushing to meet him at the front door.
Beautiful porcelain dolls, dressed in the most festive attire of their homelands were displayed lovingly upon a heavy oak shelf above her dressing table—gifts from her father. Whenever he arrived home from a trip abroad, she would be waiting at the front door, bright-eyed and expectant; to see what new face she would have to add to her collection.
Desiree turned about and her eyes fell across a familiar painting gracing the far wall and she crossed the room to stand before it. It was a scene of a little girl and her dog playing on a sunny afternoon. Her mother had painted this. She had been quite an accomplished artist and had spent many hours teaching herself the craft, by trial and error. Often she could be found sitting in a straight backed chair on the front lawn, with an easel before her—her face, hair and clothing, touched haphazardly with brilliant hues, as she attempted to bring a tree or a bed of flowers to life upon her canvas.
Desiree remembered well her mother asking her to run along the shore of the lake with her dog while she quickly caught the antics with bristle and canvas; and since its completion, the painting had graced this wall as a silent testimony to things past.
Life had changed so very much since this painting had been completed. The grove of young saplings, that lined part of the lake were now full grown trees. The dog, a sweet and shaggy black mutt, had long since run away as abruptly as he had come to live with the Chandelles. The little girl, no more than four years old at the time, with ebony hair whipping about her as she ran with the dog trailing behind, was now grown. And the artist, her beautiful mother, was gone forever.
Desiree stood before the painting, lost in thought. She did not hear the silent intruder, quietly moving closer and closer behind her. White-hot pain exploded in her head and lights flickered before her eyes, then when out, as she crumpled like a marionette whose strings suddenly had been snipped.
***
“Mary! In here—Desiree’s room!”
Bridgett coughed and choked as the acrid smoke burned her eyes and throat. She fell to her knees beside Desiree, turning her to her back and brushing hair from her pale face. Mary rushed in with her apron held to her mouth to filter the deadly fumes.
“Oh Lord! Is she dead?” she cried.
“Mary, help me.” Bridgett gasped, as she attempted to lift Desiree, “Let’s get her out of here, the whole house is going up.”
Bridgett and Mary struggled to pick Desiree up between them, grasping her about the waist and pulling her arms over their shoulders. They staggered from the room and along the smoke filled hall, using a small window at the top of the stairs, to gage their progress.
Reaching the flight, they could see flames licking at the main hall. Sheers and heavy velvet draperies over the front windows were falling in flaming tatters to the oaken floors. The arch of the front hall was a blaze of shimmering light dropping crimson embers in a shower to the entryway below.
With no other choice, they grasp the banister and drug Desiree down the stairs between them, making their way to the front door and struggling to open it. The cool air from outdoors rushed in through the open portal, causing the flames to leap with new fervor and in moments, the staircase was engulfed.
Bridgett and Mary collapsed, with their mistress, on the lawn next to the other servants, facing the huge mansion. As they expelled the smoke from their lungs, Desiree’s coughs and moans drew their immediate attention.
“Desiree child—are you all right?” Bridgett asked, as she brushed strands of hair from Desiree’s face.
Slowly Desiree opened her eyes, then closed them again, as the tall green trees above her seemed to be spinning like tops.
“Oh my head.” She choked out with a grimace and reached up to gingerly touch the lump that had formed at the crown.
“What is it child? Did you bump your head?”
Desiree opened her eyes again and drawing her hand before her saw that it was covered with bright red blood.
Bridgett carefully helped her to a sitting position while Mary moved aside the hair to find a small, nasty gash seeping a fresh flow from the scalp.
“It sure is a goose egg you have there.” Mary announced, tearing a strip of cloth from the hem of her singed dress and pressing it gently against the wound.
“I was hit! Something hit me!” Desiree exclaimed trying vainly to look up at Bridgett as her head was tilted down toward her chest while Mary tended to her, “I was in my room, looking at mother’s painting, when someone must have come up behind me and struck me over the head. The next thing I remember is being here with you.”
Desiree placed her hand to the cloth Mary held, taking over the task, as Bridgett looked into Mary’s eyes. Worry was plainly written on the elderly housekeeper’s face.
“Oh the house!” Desiree moaned, as she looked up at the flames licking out the upstairs windows.
“Are you all well?” Julien called out loudly to be heard over the breaking of glass and crackling of wood. He puffed and panted, as he gingerly approached on aged legs. He was very old; nearly four score and the stoop of his once tall frame, made the effort at running look almost painful to Desiree.
“Oui, we are fine.” Bridgett assured him, “But for a bump to Mademoiselle Desiree.”
“I saw someone running into the woods after the fire began." He pointed off toward a stand of trees. “I don’t know who it might have been but it was a man. I could not give chase so I tried to douse the fire but my attempts were futile. It was as though it had been set in three or four locations.” He shook his head apologetically and then trotted back toward the Château to help the stable hands battle the blaze.
***
Madeleine Roche’ happened
to glance out the window, where the warm sunshine beckoned her and a scream caught in her throat. Across the lake, a pitch black cloud of smoke billowed into the clear blue sky.
“Nooo!” she cried, “Francois—Francois!”
She ran along the hall and into the study where Francois was already on his feet and heading toward her frantic cries, when she flew in, gesturing wildly for him to follow as she raced to the French doors, “It’s burning—the Chandelle’s! The entire house! Look!” She pulled aside the sheer draperies, with an agonized sob.
“Mon Dieu!” Francois rasped as he dashed from the room. He raced from the house, clearing the railing of the front veranda with a bound and crossing the distance to the stables at a gait that little testified to his age.
“Men! The Chandelle’s is afire!” he shouted, skidding to a halt at the overturned carriage.
“Oh Lord!” Georges’ whispered dropping the mallet and chisel he had been using to disassemble the carriage.
Philippe leapt from the partially enclosed compartment with a groan, “Desiree!” he rasped.
Without another word, all hands raced to the tack room, then to the stalls, quickly saddling every available mount. Francois Roche’ was the first out the stable door and the echoing clatter of horseshoes at a fevered pitch, marked his rapid departure.
***
Francois slowed his mount as he rounded the drive, seeing a group of women standing on the lawn before the Château. Desiree was cradled in Bridgett’s arms and was weeping, as she watched all that had been her home and all that was left of her parents, vanish into the thick black plume. Bounding off the heaving horse before it had come to a complete halt, he exclaimed, “Ladies is everyone out? Is anyone injured?”
Bridgett rubbed Desiree’s back consolingly as she spoke, “We are all fine but this was deliberately set. Someone rendered Desiree unconscious. We fear this was an attempt at murder!”
