It was not to be expected that Philippe would change instantly from an angry young man into one of sunshine and laughter, but he joined in the general conversation quite amiably and when asked, proved voluble on the morning’s instruction. As soon as he was able, Philippe escaped, Troy’s camera slung round his neck. When the door closed behind him, Lucien remarked:
‘You must have magic powers, Victoire. Will it last, do you think? My eternal thanks, if it does. We shall cross our fingers and pray, eh, Isabeau, that photography eclipses the urge to ride Sable!’ Having toasted Troy with his glass, forcing her to meet his eyes, he then turned his head to smile at Isabeau.
Isabeau returned the smile and murmured something appropriate. For the rest of the meal Troy was trying to work out why Isabeau was not pleased. There had been something in her eyes, some quick flash of . . coldness? .. . resentment? that Troy found disturbing. Surely she was not jealous of Troy’s friendship with Philippe?
Andre’s eyes looked on with approval as he brought the Beaufighter round from the garage and opened the door for Troy to get in. If Lucien noticed the look and the subsequent flush on Troy’s cheeks, he made no comment, but as the Beaufighter eased its way out of the park Troy felt compelled to ask:
‘Is the reason for my being here still a secret?’ and when Lucien answered with a nod of the head, she went on: ‘Where have you said we’re going this afternoon?’
Lucien gave a lift of his dark brows. ‘My dear girl, there’s no necessity to say anything. Many moons ago I realised the less people know the easier life becomes.’
It doesn’t stop people speculating, thought Troy, remembering Madame Claudine’s accusations and Andre’s look, and there had been an odd little silence after lunch when Lucien had glanced at his watch and asked Troy if she had finished as he had ordered the Beaufighter for two o’clock.
‘If you think that anything you do passes unnoticed you must be singularly obtuse—and that you certainly are not!’ retorted Troy, and he threw back his head and laughed.
‘Poor Victoire! I’m so used to Bellevigne that I’m immune to the feudal atmosphere. Has it been getting you down?’ He slanted her a glance. ‘I gather you had the royal summons yesterday. I had hoped to be with you when that occurred. How did you get on with Grand’mere? She can be a battleaxe sometimes.’
‘I found her amazingly like my own grandmother,’ confessed Troy, relieved to find that Madame Claudine had said nothing of her outburst.
‘Mon Dieu! I didn’t think there could be two in the same mould!’
Troy chuckled and then became serious. ‘Lucien, your grandmother gave me a gift yesterday and I’m riot sure I should keep it. She insisted that I should have a lovely porcelain flower cluster. It must be awfully valuable.’
Lucien frowned and shot her a sharp look. ‘Oh, hell! Grand’mere must have been damnably rude to you— I’m sorry. She does that, insults someone and then gives them a present to make up.’ He flicked her another shrewd glance. ‘She’s not done that for a long time—I wonder what she said to you?’ When Troy remained silent, only her heightened colour betraying that there might be some truth in his speculation, he went on: ‘Hm … you’re not going to tell, evidently. Well, we’ll leave that for the time being … and yes, you’re to keep the thing, it might make Grand’mere hold her tongue in future.’
Troy shifted uneasily in her seat. He sounded philosophical, but something told her he was keeping his true feelings in check. There was a set look to his face that worried her, and the thought that she might be the cause of trouble between Lucien and Madame Claudine gave her some concern. She asked quickly:
‘Can we reach the cottage by road?’ to change the subject.
Lucien shook his head. ‘Not completely … and here is where we park.’ So saying, he pulled off the road on to the grass verge. They left the car and walked through a gateway along a track bordered by rows and rows of waist-high vines. Lucien pointed to a helicopter hovering over the Estate further south.
‘We’re having the vine sprayed against pest and disease. It’s a good day for it, very little wind.’ He paused and bent to examine a nearby plant, his hands parting the leaves with professional confidence. As they continued to walk, his eyes covered the vines with critical intensity, talking as he did so. ‘We’re into the second half of the crop’s year, it starts in the autumn, after the vines are stripped of the grape.’ He glanced at her, saying positively: ‘You’d like that, it’s a glorious sight, all red and gold.’
‘What happens then?’ asked Troy, curious, liking to hear him discourse on a subject he obviously knew inside out.
‘The shoots are trimmed and pruned and nursed through the winter and by the middle of March the sap begins to rise and then we have to be careful of late frost. We climb this stile, can you manage? Yes, of course you can. Those long legs of yours can tackle anything!’
This observation inhibited Troy slightly, but she managed the stile in comparative modesty and Lucien followed, swinging himself over easily. Their path now lay through a wood, the undergrowth hard and dry beneath their feet, the trees thickening as they progressed deeper.
‘You’ve just got the vines through the late frosts,’ prompted Troy, who did not like to leave things half finished. She was interested, anyway, and it seemed a safe subject to talk about. She also had the excuse to look at him if he kept on, and that gave her satisfaction too. She was still trying very hard to treat the afternoon as a business meeting, but was helplessly aware that her resolve was slowly, but steadily, crumbling. The touch of his hand on her arm as he helped her over the stile cracked the already weakened structure and now, whenever she could, she feasted her eyes on him, giving in to the inevitable. Somehow, whatever Lucien wore seemed right. He had the happy knack of being totally at ease in the clothes of the moment. This afternoon he was casually dressed in lightweight grey pants and a short-sleeved open-neck shirt. He looked tanned and fit and without a trouble in the world. At her prompting he turned his head and regarded her steadily for a moment and, satisfied that she was not being merely polite, replied:
‘Then comes the all-important flowering in June and we pray for settled warm weather. In July the grapes begin to appear in tiny clusters and by the end of August they’re full grown and ripening nicely. There’s comparative calm until September when the most crucial decision for every vigneron arrives—when to pick the grape. Careful!’ Lucien grabbed hold of her as she stumbled on the rutted earth. ‘Do you intend to sprain an ankle next?’ he asked teasingly.
Although they were brief, Troy was very conscious of those few seconds of contact. She covered up with a laughing exclamation:
‘Don’t tempt fate, please!’ and swung her eyes to the ground. It was better if she did not look at him. ‘Go on … what do you do when the date is decided?’
‘Life becomes extremely serious,’ Lucien told her promptly. ‘Once we start we are committed for three weeks. We have the same families come to us year after year for the picking, often comprising three generations, plus everyone who can be spared from
Bellevigne.’
‘And Monsieur le Comte? Does he join in?’ Troy asked teasingly, and he replied with mock severity:
‘Of course! It is the custom for the head of the house to pick the first grape, but I have to confess that other commitments have claim to my attention. For the pickers, it is heads down, backs breaking, starting in the cold mists of early morning and going on until sunset. At the end, however, we have a good feast and sample a few glasses of wine!’ He touched her arm and stopped. ‘There is the cottage, or rather, what remains of it.’
Troy peered through the trees and saw a clearing in the centre of which stood the ruins of a small house. In silence they walked up to it, and Troy felt disappointment spreading over her. Even though Lucien had warned her, she had been hoping that in some way the house could be made habitable, but now she saw that this was not possible. She picked her way carefully through nettles, long gr
ass and brambles, circling the shell, finally joining Lucien who stood watching her.
‘You are disappointed,’ he stated at last, and Troy gave him a quick, selfconscious smile and shrugged.
‘It’s a pity,’ she said.
‘What would you have done with it, had it been habitable?’
She turned her head in surprise, eyes wide. ‘Why, turn it into a studio, of course!’
Lucien nodded slowly. ‘A studio … naturellement.’
Troy glanced at the ruin and asked curiously: ‘Do you think our grandparents met here?’
‘It is possible.’ He was amused at her romanticism.
‘You are thinking of a trysting place? But, mignonne, there was no one to oppose their love for each other, no need for secrecy … but it is possible that they met here.’
Mignonne! It did not mean anything, was merely a term of affection, but how thankful she was that her face was turned from him at that moment. She went on stubbornly: ‘I’m sure they met here,’ and shivered suddenly.
‘You are cold?’ Lucien asked, concerned, and Troy smiled uneasily and shook her head.
‘Ghosts, I think.’
‘Let us go. There is something I want to talk about, to show you, in fact, and although I scoff at your ghosts this place always saddens me. Now that it is so overgrown and the trees have encroached, the sun never reaches it.’
Some way along the track Troy looked back. Poor Valery and
Victoria … tossed apart by the fragments of a war.
‘Victoire! Allans donc!’
Lucien’s voice, calling her to hurry, broke the spell, scattered the ghosts. She turned and hurried towards him and allowed him to help her over the stile, glad to feel the sunlight on her face once more.
CHAPTER SIX
As the Beaufighter sped smoothly along the winding lanes, Troy said thoughtfully:
‘If the cottage has been a ruin for all these years why has Grandmother received an income from it?’
Lucien replied patiently: ‘The cottage and the land merely provide sanction in legal terms. So far as you are concerned, as her beneficiary, the Estate will continue these payments. However, if you wish, you could sell your claim back to the Estate and the lump sum can be invested—but you would need to seek advice on that.’ He swung through the gateway and into Bellevigne park. ‘There is no necessity to make a hasty decision.’ He gave her a fleeting glance. ‘I have a proposition to put to you.’
‘Oh?’ said Troy guardedly, and his lips twitched.
‘Mats oui … a most proper one, I assure you.’ He negotiated the fountain, and pulled up outside the office wing. Andre, his head inside Isabeau’s car, working on the engine, looked their way, ready to be on call. Lucien killed the engine and swivelled in his seat to look at her appraisingly. ‘If I could offer you the use of a studio, would you stay on for a while?’
Troy stared at him in astonishment. ‘I don’t understand. A studio? Where?’
‘Here, right under your nose.’ He opened the window and called Andre, who abandoned his job and came over. ‘Andre, will you fetch the keys to the store rooms, please?’
‘A proper studio?’ prompted Troy, her feelings in a whirl, eyes wide and intent upon every expression on his face, each nuance in his voice.
‘Yes, a real studio. When the new stables were built some years ago we converted the old stable block here into space for’ the cars. The loft above was used as store rooms, but part of the area, in Grandfather’s latter life, was converted into a studio. He painted in his spare time and as no one else had either his talent or his interest, the studio after his death became another store room. It wouldn’t take long to clear and clean up the place … et voila . . . your studio!’
Troy put fingertips to forehead and said helplessly: ‘That sounds terrific, but I couldn’t possibly, I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because … oh, because it would be too much of an imposition.’
‘Tell me, Victoire, had the cottage been habitable would you have made it into a studio?’
‘Well, yes, but …’
‘There is your answer. We cannot provide a habitable cottage, but we can provide a studio here at the Chateau. One, moreover, that is being wasted. You also need time to consider your inheritance. It seems perfectly straightforward to me.’
‘You make it sound like that, but it isn’t,’ Troy protested.
‘There’s someone in England who would not approve?’
‘No! I’m free of all commitments in England,’ she told him impatiently. ‘I’m not thinking of my side of i t … what about your grandmother? How is Madame Claudine going to like me using her husband’s studio?’
‘Grand’mere is not a sentimentalist. I shall talk to her.’
‘Just like that? Monsieur le Comte wishes it?’
‘Power is useful if it isn’t abused,’ Lucien replied calmly.
‘But what will people think?’ The colour rushed to her face beneath his ironical look. He waited before answering, taking the keys from Andre, the young man giving Troy a shy smile before leaving them.
‘Why should they think anything?’ asked Lucien. He pushed open the door and got out, walking round to open the passenger door. ‘I am a realist. I suspect that you are a very determined young lady, Victoire Maitland, and that ultimately you will accept ‘my offer because it is too good to refuse. I predict that in one week you will be working in the studio and will have forgotten all the arguments trembling on your lips at this moment. They are as nothing compared to your work.’
Troy regarded him gravely. He was an astute man. To work, really work, in such glorious surroundings was an opportunity she would be an idiot to turn down. She made up her mind quickly before having second thoughts, saying abruptly:
‘Very well, thank you, if Madame permits, I accept your offer.’
‘Bon. Valery would have liked the idea of his studio being used again.’ Lucien led the way across the courtyard and climbed the stairs on the outside wall, unlocking the door at the top and guiding Troy through a storage room, unlocking another door at the far end. He stood aside for her to enter.
‘You will have to use your imagination a little,’ he claimed, following her in, ‘but when the windows are cleaned the light is good, the walls need a coat of paint but are basically sound. There’s a sink …’
‘With running water? Oh, good!’ exclaimed Troy, her eyes travelling round, assessing the place. She began to feel excited. ‘This would do splendidly,’ she murmured, her mind already planning where her things would go. ‘In fact, it’s perfect.’
Lucien watched her, a half-smile on his lips. He brought out a pocket-book and pen and asked: ‘What will you need?’
Troy swung round, thinking hard. ‘A good strong work bench … perhaps a couple more shelves, and do you think we could put in a heavy-duty sludge trap in the sink, for blockages?’ She stopped, feeling a surge of uneasiness rushing through her, her eyes fixed on his bent head as he wrote in the notebook. ‘Lucien … why are you doing this?’
He looked up. ‘Does there have to be a reason …’ he paused and a brow quirked, ‘… other than those I’ve already given?’
Troy dropped her gaze. ‘No, I suppose not.’ She absently rubbed a finger to her forehead, smoothing away the tiny frown that had appeared. ‘I shall need polythene sheeting and three plastic bins with airtight lids for the clay. A modelling stand, two, if possible, but if you know a carpenter I can draw what I want, it wouldn’t take much to knock together. As for my tools, it’s ridiculous to get more when my own are sitting over in England. In any case, I’m used to them, they’re old friends. I suppose I could go back for them …’ and she lifted her eyes once more, questioningly.
Lucien thought for a moment. ‘No, there’s no need. Have you someone who can pack them up for you?’
‘Yes, Fiona, we share the house, but there’s quite a list.’ She began to tick the items from her fingers, eyes dancing. ‘
Hammer, saw, screwdriver, hacksaw, pliers, wire cutters, knives, scissors, chisel and mallet, not to mention screws, nails, nuts and bolts.’ She pulled a comical face. ‘Not a very ladylike occupation, is it?’
Lucien looked amused. ‘I do know a little about the technique of sculpture and quite understand that you need a framework—I’ve forgotten the term used, though.’
‘Armature,’ supplied Tory. ‘I assume I can get clay locally?’
‘I’ll make enquiries.’ The book was opened again and a note made. ‘All you have to do is to telephone your friend Fiona, give her the list and I’ll contact someone who’ll collect the case—can they all be packed into a suitcase?—and bring it over on the ferry. I have a cousin, a wine shipper, who’s always crossing the Channel.’
‘Do you think he could manage two suitcases?’ asked Troy hopefully, adding: ‘Clothes … I shall need a few more if I’m to stay on longer.’
‘I’m sure he could.’ Lucien perched on a packing case and watched her prowl among the boxes, old furniture, rolls of carpeting, coming to a halt at an upright piano.
‘What medium did your grandfather use, do you know, Lucien?’ Troy lifted the lid and touched the keys gently. It sounded tinny and out of tune.
‘Watercolours, mostly, but there’s one of the Chateau done in oils in Grand’mere’s room.’
Troy frowned across at him and said with great firmness: ‘I don’t think we should do anything until you ask Madame Claudine.’
Lucien regarded her indolently, hooded eyes faintly amused. ‘Very well,’ he said.
I won’t get too excited, Troy was thinking, just in case she puts her foot down.
‘What’s the matter? Ghosts again?’ His voice was teasing and Troy smiled ruefully and put down the lid, walking back slowly.
‘They’ll only be friendly ones, won’t they?’ she observed lightly, and came to a halt in front of him. Something in the way he was considering her brought a hint of colour to her cheeks and she wanted to look away but could not.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 10
