Troy asked curiously: ‘You prefer Classical architecture?’
Lucien nodded. ‘I have to admit that I do. Baroque and Rococo are too fussy for my taste.’ He stopped speaking to watch Philippe come in, mutter an almost inaudible apology for being late, and seat himself at the far end of the oval table. Lucien turned his eye from his brother and observed generally: ‘Mademoiselle Maitland has an art degree tucked under her belt, so we have a guest who can really appreciate the finer points.’
Isabeau lifted her brows, spoon poised above the delicious onion soup which a young maid had just served.
‘Really?’ There was the slightest note of incredulity in the word. JeanJacques’ expression was of friendly interest, Philippe showed none, friendly or otherwise. Isabeau went on, puzzled:
‘Forgive me, but I thought Lucien mentioned that you were a photographer’s model?’
The question was delicately put. Troy would have been amused had she been giving Isabeau her full attention, but she was too busy trying to remember if she had told Lucien about her art degree. Isabeau now gave an embarrassed smile, murmuring:
‘I must have been mistaken.’
‘Not at all, Isabeau,’ assured Lucien, ‘but Mademoiselle Maitland has now given up that job and is going to concentrate on what she has been trained for. She is one of England’s up-and-coming names—a sculptress, a most talented young lady.’
A meat and salad platter was being transferred from a side table to the dining table. The disturbance broke the conversation for a moment and helped to conceal Troy’s astonishment at this amazing statement.
She stared across the table at her host to meet his cool, enigmatic gaze, her thoughts in a whirl. How on earth had he learned that? And the praise! That was even more embarrassing. She looked down at her plate, confused. Could nothing be hidden from this man? At the lift of the telephone, could he find out anything he wanted to know? Such power was frightening.
She was aware that he had risen, was moving round the table, now filling the glasses. His murmured ‘Charon, of course,’ brought a quick, nervous answering smile to her lips, and the flickering of her eyes round the table. Almost of their own volition they lifted, were caught and held by Lucien’s grey ones, in thoughtful regard upon her.
A nerve fluttered in her throat and when JeanJacques spoke Troy thankfully turned to him, still very conscious of the disconcerting man opposite.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’VE asked for coffee to be served in here,’ said Lucien, opening another beautifully carved door and gesturing for Troy to go in. ‘We shall, I hope, be undisturbed long enough to unravel our mystery.’
The room was principally a library and had a masculine air of comfort about it. Troy looked round and, turning, found him watching her. ‘Your room,’ she stated, and he gave a slight smile.
‘I wonder why you say that? Quite true, in fact.’ He waited while she seated herself and drew forward a long tapestried footstool, easing it beneath her leg. He then began to competently pour the coffee, already set on a nearby low table.
Troy answered: ‘It’s essentially a man’s room … wood panelling, books, few ornaments … and I spy a stereo unit tucked away in the corner. Altogether a snug retreat.’ She smiled her thanks as he passed her the coffee and went on rather shyly: ‘You have a beautiful .home, Lucien.’
‘But not everyone’s ideal place to live. It has its drawbacks. We don’t officially open up to the public, but if anyone is interested enough to seek us out we always show them round the main block.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Thank the Lord the style for specialised rooms had come along by the time Bellevigne was built. Most are a reasonable size and make modern living in them a viable proposition. The main part of the Chateau is kept in period, but the rooms we use daily we’ve compromised … there’s nothing particularly comfortable about eighteenth-century chairs … or beds.’
It was an obvious afterthought and said casually, but Troy was vividly reminded of their clash earlier and his taunt that she should not underestimate either the beds of Bellevigne or himself. The chance to test the beds was remote, but the more she was in his company, the more she realised that Lucien de Seve was most definitely not to be underestimated. She asked quickly:
‘Who was the architect?’
‘Jacques-Ange Gabriel—you’ve heard of him?—although some of the interiors were commissioned to other designers. It’s been renovated several times, we’re finding it a continuing process, luckily escaping the cannons, bombs and shells of a few wars. Its simple classical style has weathered the years, I think.’
‘Indeed it has,’ agreed Troy.
The grey eyes rested on her pensively ‘You really do like the place, don’t you? As I say, not everyone’s idea of home, but when you’ve been born to it you accept all the disadvantages. Now, suppose you tell me about your grandmother.’ He took a stance near the fireplace.
Troy thought for a moment and began matter-of-factly: ‘I’m named after her, as you know. When you’re a child you take so much for granted. Bringing up a child of eleven in her early seventies couldn’t have been easy, but she never made me aware of the fact. She was extremely intelligent and a firm believer in independence. I suppose I’ve always been a little in awe of her, for she was rather oldfashioned in her ways and outlook, and strict too. Yet she didn’t ever try and influence me in any decisions … merely gave me her support. She was eightyfive when she died and it was only towards the end, when she was suddenly very ill, that she spoke of Bellevigne … in her ramblings, you understand. I had the feeling she was trying to tell me something that was important to her. Unfortunately, she left it too late.’ Her throat closed up in an emotional lump and she had to stop. Lucien remained silent, looking down at her, an elbow resting against the mantle. After a moment Troy was able to go on, giving a tremulous smile. ‘Strange how the realisation that you won’t see someone again hits you at odd times. I thought I’d come to terms with it. She had had a long, full life, and was, I think, happy. Anyway … her solicitor told me that part of her income came from France, from a house called Bellevigne. You know the rest.’ She had been staring at the coffee in her cup and now lifted her eyes to his, an odd, worried look on her face. ‘Why did the money come from Bellevigne, Lucien, and why is my grandmother connected with your family?’
‘I’ll tell you all I know, but don’t get uptight about it, will you? It happened a long time ago.’ Lucien put down his cup and walked to a group of photographs, taking down one particular one and bringing it back to her, saying: ‘My grandparents, Valery and Claudine. Claudine is still alive, living in the south wing, and coming up for her eightieth birthday.’ He moved away, leaving Troy still holding the sepia photograph containing double oval mounts. ‘Valery was twenty-three at the outbreak of the first world war. He joined the army, became an officer, and met your grandmother some time, I believe, in 1916 when she was over here nursing. Part of the Chateau was turned into a military hospital, and on brief spells of leave over the next two years Valery became committed to the pretty English nurse.’ He stopped. ‘She was pretty, wasn’t she? I’m only guessing. There’s no photograph of her.’ He was smiling slightly.
Troy nodded. ‘Yes, she was pretty.’
The smile deepened. ‘Yes, I thought she must have been. It was inevitable, don’t you think, that they fell in love? Your Victoria Courtney and my Valery de Seve? They were young, she was pretty, he was handsome, and both were vulnerable. Certainly during those terrible months when men were dying all around him Valery must have clung to this girl’s love with the tenacity of a lifeline. In August 1918 Valery de Seve was reported missing, presumed dead, and two months later Victoria Courtney was sent back to England. She would have stayed, had Valery been alive, and married him. You can imagine the loss and desolation she must have felt at the death of her lover.’
Troy had been engrossed in the story and while listening, was studying the photograph of Valery. She saw a grave-faced man with L
ucien’s eyes and mouth and could understand her grandmother falling for the sensitive, almost poetic quality that was predominant in his features. Not readily a fighting man, she had been thinking, when Lucien’s words penetrated. She looked up, startled.
‘Lover?’ She looked at him uncertainly and Lucien said gently:
‘Oh, yes, I think so. It would not have happened under normal circumstances, but during wartime happiness is snatched with greedy hands. I doubt my grandfather would have felt so committed afterwards unless they had been lovers.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘No, of course not,’ protested Troy. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all. If you’d known my grandmother you would understand.’ Her eyes shot to his, startled again. ‘Afterwards? Do you mean …?’
‘Life’s not fair, is it? My grandfather had not died. He’d been wounded badly and, at first, not expected to live. After several weeks he returned to Bellevigne, still a sick man, to find that everyone thought him to be dead, including Victoria, who was no longer there. He instigated a search for her, and reports came back from England that she was married.’
‘To my grandfather,’ broke in Troy, ‘but what could he expect? She could hardly mourn him for ever, could she? I can’t remember my grandfather, he died when I was five, but from what I know of my mother’s childhood, I think they were happy together. He was a lot older than Grandmother and a long-standing family friend. She probably drifted into it.’ She handed over the photograph and reflected softly: ‘Valery must have been a kind man, to want to look after her the way he did. He must have loved her very much.’
Lucien replaced the photograph. ‘This part of de Seve history, as I told you earlier, is not known among the family. I’ve often wondered if Grand’mere knows, but she’s never said anything. Valery waited three years before marrying her. He was thirty, she eighteen. He needed an heir.’
Troy found herself saying: ‘But you don’t intend to emulate him.’
Lucien shrugged and returned to sit down in the chair opposite her. ‘Every man, if he’s honest, likes to feel that something of himself lives on after him, but I think I’m too old to change my ways and I’ve never found anyone to make me want to. The situation here isn’t a bed of roses and neither would being married to me be, either. The de Seve line is not broken. There is Philippe. He is still my father’s son.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘Every now and again Grand’mere renews her attempts to find me a wife. Invitations have gone out for her birthday celebration, we’re opening up the salle de banquet and giving a ball, and no doubt I shall find included several eligible females whom Grand’mere will push forward hopefully.’
And the young girl, the one Doctor Dubois had spoken of, would she be there too? wondered Troy. She would be, of course! … especially as Madame Claudine approved.
‘Do these eligible females have any say in the matter?’ she asked lightly, and his tone was ironic.
‘I’m supposed to be a good catch.’ He reached for a cigar box. ‘Do you mind if I smoke? Let me refill your cup—the coffee is good, is it riot?’ He continued talking while performing this task, still in a mocking manner. ‘The silly creatures are dazzled by the Chateau and the title and do not realise that independence sits a lot more comfortably than unhappy bondage. There are more arranged marriages in our country even today than you probably think.’
‘Do you preclude the word love in all this?’
‘Oh, love! If you believe in love then anything is possible,’ he said dryly. ‘And you, Victoire, is there someone waiting for you, back in England? This Hal Lindsey, for instance?’
‘There are other things for women besides marriage,’ Troy replied a trifle curtly.
‘Of course there are,’ he agreed mildly, ‘and you have your work, we must talk about that some other time. There is still the question of how you prefer the payments to continue. For example, a quarterly
…’
‘Surely the payments cease on my grandmother’s death?’
Lucien raised his brows at her surprise. ‘Why do you suppose that? For legal reasons the money credited to your grandmother over the years has derived from a strip of Estate land on the south side, a slice of vineyard, a patch of woodland and some rather poor pasture. There’s a cottage which used to belong to one of the gamekeepers
but is now …’
‘A cottage!’ breathed Troy, her hands clasped in excitement. ‘How marvellous!’ She broke off as he shook his head, raising a hand to stem the flow.
‘Please, I beg of you, Victoire, not to get excited. Only the shell of this cottage remains. I’m sorry if you suddenly envisaged yourself a property owner.’
‘What a pity!’ Troy gave a soft laugh and shrugged. ‘For two minutes
I thought I had a house of my very own over here.’
‘That would please you?’ questioned Lucien, gazing at her narroweyed through cigar smoke.
Troy deliberated. ‘Yes, it would. I must have inherited my grandmother’s love of France more deeply than I first realised.’
‘Tell me how you come to have such a good knowledge of our language.’
She inclined her head at the compliment. ‘I had a flair for languages in general, but it was Grandmother who insisted I keep the French going. Almost as if she knew I’d be needing it.’
‘Which she did,’ observed Lucien. He hesitated momentarily and proceeded with his customary air of cool detachment: ‘I think it would be a good idea if you became aware of some of our more recent family history.’ He crossed an immaculately trousered leg over the other and went on: ‘You are too polite to touch upon the youthfulness of my stepmother.’ He waved a hand to a pair of portraits either side of the mantle. ‘My father, Philippe, and my mother … I never knew her, she died in childbirth.’
Troy studied the portraits in silence. Philippe de Seve was dressed in the uniform of a French army officer in the second world war. He had a stronger, more virile face than his father, Valery, although there was, again, a keen likeness around the eyes … those clear, cool grey eyes. There was an energy and zest for life that the formal pose could not subdue, which he had passed on to both his sons, reflected Troy. Her eyes moved over to Lucien’s mother. There was a frailty about her that was beautiful in its own way. On the calm, serene face there was the beginnings of a smile. There was more than a hint of Lucien in that smile. She looked gentle and very feminine.
Troy removed her gaze and said at last: ‘I can see that you are their son.’
He moved position and reached for an ashtray. ‘Shall I go on? I’m not boring you?’ He accepted her ‘Please do, I’m interested,’ and leaned back, eyes almost closed, voice —ruminative. ‘Nothing of outstanding importance occurred until I was sixteen. Up until then we lived together at Bellevigne … my grandparents and my father and I.’ He lifted his head, aroused by a thought. ‘Our inheritance laws differ from yours in England. Everyone has a share in an estate, not just the eldest son.’ His head dropped back. ‘I was away most of the time at school, but returned here for the holidays. I suppose I must have missed having a mother, but it didn’t seem to effect me much, there was always Grand’mere, and Zenobie, and Modestine over at the Home Farm. When I was sixteen, however, and my father forty-two, he came home one day and surprised us all with a bride, a girl twenty years his junior.’
In the ensuing pause Troy murmured: ‘Isabeau,’ and he nodded.
‘Yes, Isabeau. I realise now that my father, though not a young man, was healthy and strong and he couldn’t be expected to live his life out without a woman by his side. He had gone sixteen years and I suppose it was thought he would never marry again. You can imagine the shake-up it gave us all!’ There was another silence and Lucien gave a short laugh. ‘I’m told the middle teen years can be difficult—consider Philippe now! Certainly I was not an easy stepson for Isabeau. How could I be? She was only four years older than myself. When young Philippe came along, two years later, my father was delig
hted. At eighteen, I was less so, but away at university I chose to spend my vacations with friends and rarely visited Bellevigne. My grandfather, Valery, died, and then my father was thrown from a horse and killed instantly. I was in England at the time, doing a stint of banking. I took over the family reins at the age of twenty-five.’
Troy said quietly: ‘That must have been a difficult task for you to undertake.’ She carefully placed her empty cup back on the tray. She could understand his arrogance a little more now. To take on the responsibilities of the de Seve estate, the Charon vineyards, a place in the Charon banks so young would demand strength. He had obviously succeeded in his task. The family would bring its problems. The old Comtesse, up in her wing, Isabeau, overprotective and probably bitter about her husband’s untimely death, and Philippe, who obviously resented the authority of a mere brother.
Troy said suddenly: ‘How did you know about my sculpture?’
Lucien smiled lazily. ‘It’s easy if you know the right people.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ agreed Troy dryly. ‘You are a formidable person.’ She swung her legs off the footstool and stood up, Lucien following suit. ‘I can see that it would not do to get on the wrong side of you, Monsieur le Comte.’
They stood a pace away, their eyes held, Troy’s slightly challenging, Lucien’s enigmatic.
‘I’m sure there will be no cause for that to happen,’ Lucien remarked mildly, and matching his tone, Troy replied:
‘I sincerely hope not. I wouldn’t hold out much chance for my success. And now I really must go. I’ve taken up more of your time than I’m sure you can spare.’
He made no attempt to dissemble and she found herself liking his lack of flowery compliments.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 7
