“Nothing to do with you. Stay here, Clothilde. Go to sleep. I may not get back for sometime.” Kurt rushed out as if in shock, still wearing only his breeches.
Clothilde leaned back and closed her eyes. She was trembling all over and she felt sick. Had it not been for Kurt she would still have been standing there staring at Von Sturmbakker when the soldiers arrived to investigate. The blood on her clothes would have been all the proof they needed that she was guilty of his death. She would undoubtedly have been arrested, probably tortured and then shot.
She felt faint as all the horror of the evening washed over her, leaving her drained. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Kurt had said he would prove his love for her one day, and he had done so by saving her from certain death – but nothing could change what had happened. Because of her several members of the Resistance had been shot as they waited in the woods – and many more were probably being dragged from their beds even now.
Helene was dead – a cruel, horrible death that would remain in Clothilde’s memory for a long, long time. She had been a party to Von Sturmbakker’s plot, and was guilty of betraying her friends – but even so to die like that…
Clothilde wept for the men and women who had died in the woods, for Helene – that poor, foolish, jealous girl who had loved unwisely – and for Andre.
Sturmbakker had had him tortured until he died of his wounds. Clothilde knew that the pain of what he had suffered, and her guilt for his death, would live with her for the rest of her life.
“There is going to be an investigation of Sturmbakker’s death,” Kurt told her a few days later. “I am not sure whether you will be questioned or not.”
“But we were allowed to leave the chateau…to return to Paris.”
“For the moment,” Kurt agreed. “Hans believed my story, but others may not be so trusting. There was no time to think. I made mistakes. I should have put the gun in her hand so that it looked as if they had fallen out and killed each other. Steinberg is sure there was a third person involved. At the moment he suspects it was either a member of the Resistance who somehow penetrated the security of the chateau, or a soldier with a grudge against Von Sturmbakker. But if you were interrogated…”
“What shall I do?” Clothilde asked.
“You must leave Paris – leave France if you can.”
“But what will happen to you if I go? Surely they will suspect that I was involved somehow – even if not directly?”
“I shall deny all knowledge of what happened – and where you’ve gone. I shall say that you told me you were going to visit your family.”
“I have no family.”
“My poor Clothilde…” Kurt drew her to him, kissing her gently on the mouth. She clung to him for a moment, weeping. Then he put her from him and she knew it was time for her to leave. “I do not want you to go, but you must – for your own sake.”
“You saved my life, Kurt. I could not move until you made me. They would have arrested me…”
“I love you. I could do no less.”
She brushed the tears from her face, lifting her head. “I have been lucky to have known you. I shall never forget you.”
“Perhaps one day we shall meet again.”
“Perhaps.” She raised her head. “I shall go tomorrow.”
“You must go today. Remember what you told me, Clothilde? Seize the moment for it can never be recalled.” He smiled and kissed her again. “Go now before it is too late – before I beg you to stay.”
“He is right, Clothilde, you must go,” Madame Robards told her a little later. “It is too dangerous for you to stay here now. If you were questioned...” She shuddered. “It does not bear thinking about.”
“Yes, I must go,” Clothilde agreed. “I am not sure where…”
“I can give you a name,” Madame Robards said. “Leon came here while you were away. He knew what you had been doing and he told me that if you were in danger you were to go to him. He will help you…”
“Leon is willing to trust me – in spite of what happened to …Father Lombard?”
“Leon loves you, as I do.” Madame Robards blinked away a sudden rush of tears. “I am closing the showrooms. I do not have the heart to carry on without you.”
“I am sorry to desert you, madame. Perhaps if…”
“No, you must go,” the older woman said and drew her into a crushing embrace. “I shall never forget you, Clothilde. Come back to me when the war is over if you can…”
Chapter Twenty-One
Penhallows
There was stunned silence as Clothilde brought her story to a close. Christine felt as if she had aged ten years during the telling of it. She had never imagined that the girl she had believed to be Helene Picard had lived through such a terrible experience.
“I am so sorry,” she said, the first to recover and to realise what the story meant. “I was a stupid, selfish brat to have behaved the way I did when you first came here.” She got up from the comfortable old sofa where she was sitting and went over to Clothilde, who rose a little uncertainly. Christine put her arms about her, holding her close, feeling the tremors run through her as she embraced her. “Please forgive me, Clothilde.”
Clothilde drew back to look at her. “You do not hate me for lying to you? I came here under false pretences – but I knew nothing about the property. I did not expect to gain anything from pretending to be Helene Picard. I would never have claimed the cottage in Cromer, though I could not help going to look…”
“You mean you thought about it but realized you might not get away with your story when it came to legal matters,” Jack said harshly.
“I have Helene’s papers,” Clothilde said. “She had left them in her room and I took them after the Germans had finished there. I took nothing else, but I thought the papers might come in useful one day.”
“Then it was in your mind to come here,” Jack said. “Did you hope to get money from us?”
“Jack! Be quiet,” his father commanded. “You are being unfair to Clothilde, and I won’t have it.”
“I have lied to you all…” Clothilde looked distressed but she seemed to speak to Christine. “Please forgive me.”
“If I had been through half of what you have, I might have done worse,” Christine told her. “Good grief, after the way you have suffered it is perfectly understandable that you told a few lies. You wanted a home and a family – and as far as I’m concerned you’ve got one.” She gave Jack a hard look. “We’re friends, Clothilde. You’ll always be welcome here – won’t she, Mummy?”
“Yes, of course,” Beth said, looking stunned. “That was a harrowing story, Clothilde. I feel quite exhausted.”
“Why did you lie to us?” Jack asked and all eyes turned towards him. His expression had not softened, nor was there a sign of forgiveness in his eyes. “And how can we be certain that you are not lying now?”
“I can prove nothing. I have no papers of my own,” Clothilde said. “I managed to get some when I worked in Paris, but they are false and I knew they would not be accepted here. I might have been sent to a refugee camp or sent back to France. So when I was finally smuggled out to England I used Helene’s name. I knew she had family here, and I might not have been allowed to stay otherwise. I wanted to be allowed to live here after the war…”
“Why?”
“Be quiet, Jack,” Henry commanded again. “I think Clothilde has been interrogated enough for one day. If you have more questions you may ask her another time, in private.”
“Why did you come to the workshops that day?”
“Jack, have the goodness to leave us, please.”
“I am not ashamed to answer,” Clothilde replied, her face pale but proud. “You would not understand, Jack. You do not know what it is like to have no family, nothing, not even a name that truly belongs to you. I knew that Helen Picard had been married to Elizabeth Kavanagh’s husband, and I had heard of her jewellery designs. I discovered her connection to your workshops
– and I watched you come and go for some weeks. Then I saw the advertisement and applied for the job as a cleaner. I was curious about you – about the people Auguste told me of. I never imagined you would bring me here or that I should meet and like your family.”
“Is that everything?” Jack’s voice was harsh.
“No, I shall tell you it all,” Clothilde said, her face pale. “During the time after I left Paris I had a child, a daughter. She was the child of Kurt Von Secker and I left her with the Nuns when she was born, because I was working with the Resistance and I thought she would be safer. I visited her when I could until I left France and I have written to her since – sent her things. It was partly for her sake that I lied. I wanted my daughter to be brought up in England, and once I was established here I intended to fetch her.”
“Have you no idea who your parents were?” Christine asked. Her heart was wrenched with pity. She couldn’t even begin to understand how that must feel. “Did you never have any clue at all?”
“I do have something,” Clothilde said. “I have kept this with me wherever I went, and I brought it to England with me when I escaped.” She crossed the room to pick up the parcel she had put down earlier, untying the string. “This shawl may have belonged to my mother. I was wrapped in it when I was left in the church – and the woman who left me there gave me this ring some years later. I never knew why, she just said she wanted me to have it. I learned later, that she told the priest who attended her as she lay dying, that her husband had stolen it from my mother when they carried her into their hut…” Clothilde held up the shawl for them to see, then handed the ring to Beth. “Is this the one Henry lost or a copy? I do not know how it came to be in my mother’s possession, but I think it was precious to her.”
Beth took it, examining it carefully before replying. “Yes, this is the ring I had made for my father. I am quite certain.”
“What’s this?” Henry had gone very still. “Would you oblige me by letting me see the ring, Beth – and the shawl please?”
“I don’t understand…” Beth frowned but took the ring to him, laying it on the palm of his outstretched hand, which she noticed was trembling slightly.
Clothilde seemed as if she couldn’t move so Christine took the shawl from her. “It’s beautiful. Chinese silk and good quality.” She shook it out of its folds and took it closer for Henry to see. He reached out as if he wanted to touch it, then drew his hand back and gave a little moan of despair.
“What is it, Henry? What is the matter?”
He was silent for what seemed an eternity, raising a shaking hand to his face. No one spoke as he struggled to control his emotions, the tension in the room electrifying. Then at last he lifted his head and looked not at Christine but directly at Clothilde.
“I gave this ring and that shawl to a young French girl…”
“I believe her name may have been Elena Dubois, though I have no real proof,” Clothilde said, her face as white as his. “She was Auguste Picard’s cousin and she disappeared after a quarrel with her family, who cast her out. Grandmere cut out and kept old advertisements someone had placed asking for information about her whereabouts…” She clutched at a chair rail for support. “And if Elena was my mother, she died giving birth to me in a hut at the edge of the Sanclere woods…”
“You have reminded me of her so many times, although I did not want to admit it. Yet I have felt it since you came here…felt that I knew you…” Henry’s face was grey as he went on, “Months after Elena left home her father told me that he had thrown her out because she was having my child. By then he had begun to regret the quarrel, to wonder where she was. I tried to find her. I advertised for information of her whereabouts, and I employed agents to search for her in France and this country, but she had vanished.”
“She died giving birth to me,” Clothilde said again, because she needed to make it clear in her own mind. “I have been told that Madame Fanchot’s husband buried her in the woods because he thought the priest might want money for a funeral. I found her grave when I was a child. Madame Fanchot had made it into a garden. Father Caillebotte wrote to me during the war, telling me of Madame Fanchot’s confession before she died. She had begged him to tell me the truth and put right the wrong that had been done. He has had my mother’s remains removed to the churchyard and blessed. I have not been back there since to see it, but I know that he told me the truth. I believe she is at peace now…”
“God forgive me for what I did to her…” Henry’s voice was broken, his shoulders bowed with sorrow. “For I surely never can.”
No one spoke for some minutes. His grief was too deep, too private for anyone else to intrude, and then Jack got up suddenly and left the room as though he could not bear it a moment more.
Christine felt numb from the shock, her mind reeling as she tried to take in this further revelation. She understood perfectly what had caused Jack to go storming off the way he had.
“If Clothilde is Henry’s daughter…” She stared at her mother in dismay. “Jack is…”
“My half brother,” Clothilde said as she lapsed into shocked silence. “My poor Jack. I pray that he will forgive me for what I have done to him.”
“Oh, my God! What has this done to him?” Christine cried as the terrible consequences of these revelations came home to her. “But none of this is your fault, Clothilde. It’s…” She floundered to a halt as she realized what she was saying. “I mean…”
“Mine,” Henry finished for her as she hesitated. “Yes, the blame is mine. I have known that one day I should have to pay for my sins, and that day has come.” He rose a little unsteadily to his feet. “I must ask you all to excuse me. I need to rest and to think. Perhaps tomorrow we could talk, Clothilde? I do not expect forgiveness, but perhaps I may be able to make up a little for the injustice you have suffered. If you are kind you will allow me to try.”
No one answered. Clothilde was crying, softly, silently, the tears slipping down her cheeks. Christine felt a terrible ache in her chest. She didn’t know who she felt more sympathy for at this moment. Clothilde, Henry – or Jack.
“I’m not sure what to say,” Beth broke the silence at last. “Except – welcome home, Clothilde. I always wanted a sister…”
Clothilde seemed to be searching for a handkerchief. Christine was suddenly able to move, and rushed to offer hers.
“Don’t cry,” she begged in a wavering voice. “Or I shall start too.”
“Poor Jack,” Clothilde wept. “And Henry. This has been such a shock for him. It would have been so much better if I had never come here. I have caused so much trouble. I had no idea Henry might be my father. You must believe me.”
Christine’s throat was tight with emotion. She had resented Helene being here and now it turned out that Helene was really Clothilde, Henry’s love child – and that she had as much right to be here as any of them.
“You have every right to be here,” Beth recovered first. “I think perhaps I should go up and see how Henry is. He may ask me to go away, but I think I should ask. We’ll talk privately later, Clothilde…when you feel up to it.”
Christine watched her mother leave the room. Clothilde hesitated and then prepared to follow.
“If you were thinking of looking for Jack, I shouldn’t – not yet. Better to let him calm down first. Why don’t you come for a walk with me? If you can bear it, I should like to hear more about your life when you were at the chateau – or am I being terribly insensitive?”
“No, you are not insensitive. I think I should like to tell you more about my life,” Clothilde said. “I have never told anyone what it was like. And I agree that Jack needs time to think. Obviously we can’t marry if Henry is my father, though of course there is no real proof.”
“I think that shawl and the ring is fairly conclusive. It might not stand up in a court of law, but Henry isn’t going to contest it, none of us are. As far as I’m concerned you are Henry’s daughter but it’s going to take a
bit of getting used to. I didn’t even know Henry had been over in France after the first big war until a few weeks ago. I’m sure even Mummy didn’t know about…your mother.”
“I think she wasn’t as surprised as you, Christine – but she couldn’t have known that I was Elena’s daughter. I don’t know for sure. It was just a feeling I'd had for some time and when Henry spoke of his affair with the woman who had owned that shawl somehow I felt I was right. Until then it had just been a suspicion, perhaps wishful thinking, because I wanted my mother to be Elena. All I had was the shawl and the ring – and something Auguste told me about my looking a little like his cousin. Helene and I were alike in certain ways, so I suppose there must be a family resemblance…After all she must have been a distant cousin, mustn’t she?”
“Don’t think about Helene anymore,” Christine said as they left the house together. “What happened to her that night was not your fault, Clothilde.”
“No – but I have felt that I owed it to Auguste to help her, and I failed.”
Christine saw the shadows in her eyes and was determined to banish them.
“Tell me about Grandmere. Was she really mad – and whereabouts in France is the chateau? I want to know everything…” She laughed and made a face. “Or you can just tell me to mind my own business – if you like?”
“No, I shan’t do that, Christine. It will be good to talk…”
“I thought you would come.” Henry gave his daughter a weary smile. “Sit down, Beth. There’s no need to worry. I’m not ill, just heartsore. It was a shock to me when I saw the ring and the shawl – but in my heart I’ve known it for a while. I should have said something sooner, but I kept thinking it was my imagination. Besides, there was Jack. I knew that if I was right it would be a terrible blow for him.”
“So you believe her story?
“Don’t you?” Henry’s brows rose.
“Yes. Yes, I do. She had no idea, Henry. She knew about the connection with Alexander and Helene’s mother; she may even have suspected that her mother was Elena Dubois – but she hadn’t the faintest idea that you were her father. She may have instinctively felt that some clue might lie with us…or simply hoped for it.”
Chateau Despair Page 31
