Chateau Despair

by Red Rose Publishig

  “Grandmere resisted when they came to take over the chateau. She was much braver than I was then. She killed three German officers before they shot her.”

  “Your grandmother was shot?” Christine was horrified. “I had no idea. I am so sorry.” She stared at the French woman, her sympathy aroused at last. “So you have no family of your own at all?”

  “Grandmere was the last,” Helene said, a strange, reflective expression on her face. “She was a stern woman, not easy to love – but I missed her just the same.”

  “Yes, of course. You must have.” She was thoughtful for a moment, then, “I suppose we are your family in a way…”

  “I did not come here to ask for charity.” Helene’s eyes blazed with sudden anger. “I do not need anything from you or your family. I can work. I should not have come here if Jack had not insisted.”

  Christine knew that the French woman’s story would have touched harder hearts than hers. Helene had been brought up in a wonderful environment, for her parents had been wealthy. Even though her mother’s family had disowned her after the divorce, she must still have expected to enjoy a life of ease and privilege. Now because of the war she had nothing, no family and no home.

  Christine was ashamed of her attitude, but couldn’t quite rid herself of her feelings of hostility to the French woman.

  “I’m sorry. You’ve had a terrible time.”

  “Others have suffered more. They died for what they believed.” Helene was angry now. Yet Christine sensed something more behind the anger…guilt perhaps? “Don’t pity me.”

  “I wasn’t…” She searched desperately for something else to say that wouldn’t cause another outburst. “You speak very good English, much better than my French.”

  “I learned it from…my mother.”

  Had she had been going to say something different before she checked herself?

  “Well, of course you are welcome to stay here.” Christine wondered what it was about Helene that had made her instantly dislike her. She wasn’t usually like that with people she had only just met. “But of course you do have a home if you want it. You own a cottage in Cromer. Did you know that?”

  “There was some mention of a property,” Helene said, an oddly defensive expression in her eyes. “But I do not know. I did not come here for that.”

  “No…” Christine wasn’t entirely convinced. Helene was hiding something – and yet Jack had checked her story out. She was genuinely a war heroine, and she did have a right to the property left to her mother by Alexander Kavanagh. “I suppose not…”

  Helene laughed suddenly. “This is foolish, do you not think so? You do not trust me and I envy you – I envy you your home and your family – but still we might be friends if we tried.”

  “We might. We shall have to try anyway or it will upset the family.”

  “You should go to London with Caro. When you come back it will not seem so strange to find me here.”

  Christine was sure she would never get used to having this woman around. She couldn’t like her even though she felt guilty because of it – but despite her feelings, she was going to have to accept her for the time being.

  “Yes, I think I shall go,” she said. “It will give us both time to adjust. I’ll leave you to settle in. You will want to change for dinner I expect?”

  Was that a gleam of satisfaction in Helene’ eyes?

  Her manner was so superior. She seemed determined to treat Christine as if she were a child and beneath her notice.

  Christine wasn’t sure if she believed her story, but even if every single word of it was true, she didn’t trust her. Helene was hiding something…something she was afraid to tell them.

  Chapter Three

  France 1928

  “You should send the child to the Nuns,” Father Caillebotte said. “It is not fitting for her to be here in this place – and you are not well enough to care for her.” His eyes swept round the room.

  It was cold despite the small fire flickering in the grate. Finding no answer to his problem, his gaze returned to the old woman, who sat hugging her shawl about her shoulders, her expression defensive and wary.

  “The child is mine,” she told him. “I brought her here to save her from the kind of life you would condemn her to with those sour-faced hags, who have never known what it is to live. Go away and leave us alone. We do not need you.”

  Caillebotte’s expression was one of patient resignation. He had made the same plea each time he came to the house for the past seven years, and it was always refused. He was wasting his time. It was only duty that made him continue to call at the house, which was crumbling into a ruin from neglect and had an air of despair about it.

  “Perhaps not, but I shall continue to call even though you say you do not need me, Madame. If you have no thought for your own soul, the child must still be brought up in the way of the Lord – and she must be educated. It is time for her to begin her lessons. If you will not send her to school, I shall come myself to teach her to read and write.”

  Caillebotte was a good man. He would do his duty as he saw it. His conscience would not allow him to abandon either the child or the woman, even though he sometimes wondered if his visits meant anything at all to either of them.

  The old woman gave him a sour look. “Please yourself. I should have taught her when she was ready. She likes to look at my treasures, and already she knows some of her letters. I do not neglect her as much as you imagine, Caillebotte. I tell her my stories. She likes stories…”

  The priest was silent. He knew that the old woman had her good days and her bad days; he also knew that if he had done what was right, he would have taken the child into care long ago.

  This decaying chateau with its damp rooms and its dark secrets was not a suitable place for a child to grow – and yet the girl seemed to thrive on it.

  She was a pretty child with large grey, wondering eyes. Her hair was long and dark; it flew wildly about her face as she ran bare foot about the house and the estate. He knew that she hid from him as much as she could, and suspected that she was somewhere around even now, listening to their conversation.

  Clothilde listened from behind the painted screen, where she had hidden herself so that she could hear what they were saying. She was fiercely glad that Grandmere had refused yet again to send her to the Nuns. She did not want to go away from her grandmother, though she would not have minded escaping from certain other people in this house. But that would have meant leaving Grandmere, and she would never, never do that! If the priest took her to the Sisters of Mercy she would run away and come home to Grandmere.

  Father Caillebotte was mistaken if he thought that she went nowhere and saw no one but her grandmere and the servants. Clothilde visited the village often. She knew the cottage where the priest lived behind the church, with its back garden where he grew herbs and vegetables, also fruit and a few flowers. Once she had stolen an apple from his tree, and his housekeeper came out shaking her fist. Clothilde ran away laughing; she was certain that the woman would never catch her.

  The village itself was old; the houses built of some kind of stone that looked golden in the sunshine. Outside the small, dark inn, with its shuttered windows, old men sat drinking wine and dreaming in the sun while stray cats roamed where they would. Once Clothilde took one of the cats home with her, but it scratched her hand and ran away.

  The street was cobbled and there were potholes where the rain lay in the winter, the houses close to the road without gardens at the front. Some of them had bright window boxes, from which pink and red flowers trailed. In the back gardens the women, who always seemed to wear black, kept hens and some of them owned a pig, others grew herbs but not many of them grew flowers.

  Clothilde loved flowers, but there were none at the chateau, and no one to tend them. The servants were interested only in growing the vegetables they needed for the kitchen.

  Clothilde waited until the priest left, then crept out from her hiding
place and went to Grandmere. Climbing on to her lap, she sat before the fire, staring into the flames as they flickered and burned lower in the grate for want of kindling.

  Grandmere stroked her head in an absent-minded manner. Clothilde knew that her grandmother’s thoughts were far away. She was always like this after the priest came, as if his visit made her want to shut out her surroundings.

  “Are you dreaming about when you were young, Grandmere?” she asked, but received no reply. “Will you tell me a story?”

  Sometimes her grandmother did not speak to her for hours, at others she would bring out her treasures and tell her stories. Clothilde liked those times best, but Grandmere was the centre of her world. Even when she was far away, lost in her world of dreams, she loved her.

  From the moment she could walk and do things, Clothilde cared for Grandmere, understanding that the old woman needed her. She got down from her lap now and went to put more wood on the fire. Grandmere needed warmth because she was so often in pain from her poor crippled hands that ached with the rheumatics.

  She went back and kissed the soft cheek, then slipped from the room. She would come back later when it was time for their supper. Grandmere would be ready to talk to her then, but for the moment Clothilde was free to escape into the woods. There she could run and hide, escape for a while from the harsh reality of her life at the house.

  She was not sure that she liked the idea of lessons with the priest, but perhaps he would teach her to understand what was in the books in the library. There were a great many of them, some with pictures, which Clothilde liked to look at, others with strange letters that meant nothing to her.

  “Where are you, little pig?”

  Hearing the voice she hated most in the world, Clothilde made a dash for the door and freedom. She had stolen two buns fresh from the cooling tray earlier that morning and Blanche would beat her if she found her. However, the servant was fat and lazy, and she would not search far. Once Clothilde was in the woods she would be safe.

  As she reached the door a bulky figure came darting out of the kitchen and grabbed her, shaking her until her teeth rattled.

  “I have the little pig for you,” Betrand called to his wife. “Here is the thief who stole your cakes.”

  “I didn’t steal them,” Clothilde protested. “They are Grandmere’s cakes. You work for her. It’s your job to cook the food…”

  She gave a scream as Betrand shook her, her head snapping back and forth. Blanche was coming towards her, stick in hand. She was going to be beaten again. Blanche was a vicious bully and beat her whenever she had an excuse.

  The last time she’d been black and blue all over for more than a week; she cried herself to sleep every night. She did not dare to complain to Grandmere, for it might upset her and make her ill. The servants treated her shamefully, but Clothilde was learning to fight back.

  She turned her head and bit Betrand's hand. He gave a cry of pain and let her go, dropping her with such force that she felt the pain shoot through her wrist. Yet in a second she was on her feet, scuttling away and out of the door before he could recapture her.

  She could hear them arguing about whose fault it was that she’d escaped, as she ran for her life, through the gardens towards the woods and safety.

  It was evening now; the fire was burning merrily. Clothilde was feeling satisfactorily full, and she knew Grandmere felt the same. She was always at her best at this time, when she had eaten. She looked at Clothilde, smiled and held out her hand to her.

  “Fetch my box to me, child, and I’ll show you my treasures.”

  Clothilde scrambled off her chair and went to the big bureau in the corner of the room where the box was kept. She carried it carefully back to her grandmother. The box was fashioned of several different kinds of woods in an intricate design, and like many of the things in this room had once been valuable. She watched as the battered old box was opened and its contents removed one by one, to be displayed as if they were precious jewels.

  “This was my fan at my first ball,” Grandmere told her, opening it to show her the pastoral scene painted on chicken skin. “It is made of ivory, and the handle is silver, but unfortunately it is broken…” She laid it down with a sigh.

  “Who did you dance with that night, Grandmere?”

  “That was the night I met Pierre…he was my first lover…” Grandmere sighed. “It was such fun in Paris in those times, Clothilde. Oh, the fine jewels we wore and the clothes; the clothes were so beautiful then, so elegant. Everything is ugly now; the age of charm has gone.”

  “Tell me about Pierre. Was he very handsome?”

  “The most handsome man I had ever met – and he rode so well. He was always teasing me, bringing me flowers…”She sighed again. “I remember that we danced five times that night! It was so scandalous. Three times was all that was thought right and proper, and I was scolded by my father.”

  “But why? I do not see why you shouldn’t dance with the man you loved.”

  “Because I knew I could never marry him, child.” Grandmere’s face was sad. “Love fades in time but my father believed money went on forever. He did not know Sanclere!”

  “What do you mean, Grandmere?”

  “It does not matter, but always remember that nothing lasts, not even money.” In the firelight her face was soft with dreams and almost beautiful again, so that Clothilde thought how lovely she must have been as a young woman. “It was so wrong of me to let him make love to me. My father would have killed us both if he had discovered us…but he never did…”

  “What happened to Pierre?” Clothilde asked, though she knew all Grandmere’s stories, for she had heard them so many times. “Did you love him very much?”

  “I loved him as much as I was capable of loving. It wasn’t enough. He had no fortune and Sanclere was rich. My father wanted me to marry him…”

  “Did it break Pierre’s heart when you told him you were to marry someone else?”

  “He said it did – but he recovered soon enough and married a rich widow.” Madame Sanclere’s face clouded. “Never trust a man, Clothilde. They are all faithless. Sanclere was never faithful to me – even on our wedding trip he took one of the maids to his bed…”

  “What did he do to her?” Clothilde asked.

  “I forgot what I was saying,” Madame Sanclere shook her head. “Take no notice, Clothilde. I am old and sad, and I say foolish things. Come kiss me and then go to bed, child. You will not be fit to start your lessons in the morning.”

  “Must I have lessons with the priest?”

  “Yes, I think you must,” Grandmere said. “Otherwise he might send you to the Nuns – and I do not want you to leave me yet, Clothilde.”

  “I shall never leave you. Never!”

  Clothilde threw her arms about her. She could not bear it when Grandmere spoke of her leaving. The old woman smiled, touched her head gently.

  “Hush, child, no nonsense. One day you will go. But I hope that day will not come too soon.” She pushed Clothilde from her. “Leave me to my memories now.”

  Clothilde knew that she would sit before the fire, taking out all the faded treasures from her box and dreaming over them until the fire went out and she turned cold. Perhaps then she would remember to go to bed herself.

  Clothilde left her reluctantly, wishing that she could do more to help Grandmere.

  As she reached the top of the stairs, a bulky figure darted out at her, grabbing her arm. “Got you at last, little pig! I’ll teach you to steal from me!” Blanche cried spitefully.

  Clothilde pinched her arm hard, and then kicked her on the shin with all her strength. Blanche squealed with pain and let go of her, in an instant Clothilde was away, darting inside her room and locking her door.

  She leaned against it, closing her eyes as she fought for breath. Another narrow escape, but tomorrow battle would commence once more. Blanche would have her revenge one way or another. Clothilde knew that sooner or later she would be caught
and beaten, and her fear made her shiver.

  There were times when Clothilde was so desperate that she thought she might run away, but that would mean leaving Grandmere alone with the pigs – and that was something she could never do.

  Chapter Four

  England 1945

  “Isn’t this fun?” Caro asked as they left the department store weighed down with bags and parcels. “I don’t think I’ve enjoyed myself this much for ages – not since before the start of the war.”

  They stood on the pavement outside Peter Robinson’s, waiting for a pause in the traffic and shivering as a sudden cool breeze sprang up. The fine spring weather had broken and storm clouds were gathering overhead.

  “I feel guilty about using everyone’s coupons,” Christine confessed. “So extravagant and greedy.”

  “Nonsense! If it were not for this wretched war we should buy twice as much. There isn’t anywhere near as much choice as I should have liked for you, but the end of the cloth ban meant we could at least buy something with pleats.” Caro hailed a taxi but it went sailing past her. “Damn! It looks like rain and I hate the thought of walking home. You were very welcome to my share of the coupons, Christine. I had masses of things I’d never worn in my wardrobe before this ridiculous rationing started, far better quality than we bought today. Oh, do look, that’s Freddie Steadings in his car. He has seen us…he’s going to stop, lovely man!” She ran forward a few steps as the sleek black Bentley pulled into the kerb. “We’ve been waiting for a cab for ages…would you be a dear, Freddie? You are wonderful! Thank you. Christine darling – come along.”

  The uniformed driver was out of the car. He smiled at Christine as he opened the back door for Caro, before placing their parcels in the boot.

  “You sit in the front with Browne,” Caro said, sliding into the back seat and inhaling the scent of leather upholstery as she settled beside the man already occupying it. “This car always smells gorgeous! You are sweet to come to our rescue, Freddie. I quite thought we were going to get wet.”