King of the Castle

by Виктория Холт

  As he held my hand his dark eyes looked into mine and I felt decidedly uncomfortable. I felt suddenly innocent, unworldly, and that was, I was sure, how he intended I should feel.

  I withdrew my hand with a hauteur which I trusted hid my embarrassment.

  “Which picture would you select for the … test?” I asked.

  “What of the one you were examining when I came in?”

  “That would be excellent. It is more in need of restoration than anything in the gallery.”

  We walked over to it and stood side by side examining it.

  “It has been very badly treated,” I said severely. I was now on firm ground.

  “It is not very old a hundred and fifty years at most and yet…”

  “An ancestress of mine.”

  “It is a pity she was subjected to such treatment.”

  “A great pity. But there was a time in France when people like her were submitted to even greater indignity.”

  “I should say that this picture has probably been exposed to the weather. Even the colour of her gown is faded, though alizarin is usually stable. I can’t see in this light the true colour of the stones about her neck. You see how darkened they have become. The same with the bracelet and the earrings.”

  “Green,” he said.

  “I can tell you that. They are emeralds.”

  Tt would be a wonderful picture when restored. That dress as it must have been when it was painted, and the emeralds. “

  “It will be interesting to see what it looks like when you have finished with it.”

  “I shall start at once.”

  “You have all you require?”

  “For a beginning. I will go to my room for what I need and get down to work immediately.”

  “I can see you are all eagerness and I am delaying you.”

  I did not deny this and he stood aside for me as I passed triumphantly from the gallery. I felt I had come satisfactorily through my first encounter with the Comte.

  What a happy morning I spent working in the gallery! No one disturbed me. I had returned with my tools to find that two of the menservants had taken the picture from the wall. They asked if there was anything I needed. I told them I would ring if there was. They looked at me with some respect. They would go back to the servants’ quarters, I knew, and spread the news that the Comte had given his permission for me to stay.

  I had put on a brown linen coat over my dress and I looked very businesslike. Oddly enough as soon as I put on my coat I felt competent. I wished I had been wearing it during my meeting with the Comte.

  I settled down to study the condition of the paint. Before I attempted to remove the varnish I must assess the tightness of the paint to the ground. It was clear that there was more discoloration here than from the ordinary accumulation of dust and grime. I had often found that before using a resin on varnish it was wise to wash carefully with soap and water. It took me a long time to decide on this course but eventually I did.

  I was surprised when a maid knocked on the door to remind me that it was time for dejeuner. This I took in my room and as it was a practice never to work after lunch, I slipped out of the chateau and walked to the Maison Bastide. It seemed only courteous to tell them

  what had happened since they had shown such interest in whether or not I stayed.

  The old lady was in her rocking chair and delighted to see me. The children, she told me, were having lessons with Monsieur Ie Cure; Armand, Jean Pierre and Gabrielle were working; but it was a great pleasure to see me.

  I seated myself beside her and said: “I have seen the Comte.”

  “I heard he was back at the chateau.”

  “I am to restore a picture and if it is a success I am to complete the work. I have already started; it is a portrait of one of his ancestors. A lady in a red dress and stones which at the moment are the colour of mud. The Comte says they are emeralds.”

  “Emeralds,” she said.

  “They could be the Gaillard emeralds.”

  “Family heirlooms?”

  “They were … once upon a time.”

  “And no longer so?”

  “Lost. I think during the Revolution.”

  “I suppose the chateau passed out of the hands of the family then?”

  “Not exactly. We are far from Paris, and there was less trouble here.

  But the chateau was overrun. “

  “It seems to have survived fairly well.”

  “Yes. It’s a story that’s been handed down to us. They were forcing their way in. Perhaps you have seen the chapel? It is in the oldest part of the castle. You will notice that over the door on the outer wall there is broken masonry. Once a statue of St. Genevieve stood there high over the door. The revolutionaries were bent on desecrating the chapel. Fortunately for Chateau Gaillard they tried to pull down St. Genevieve first; they were drunk on chateau wine when they attached ropes about the figure, but it was heavier than they thought and it collapsed on them and killed three of them. They took it for an omen. It was said afterwards that St. Genevieve saved Gaillard.”

  “So that is why Genevieve is so called?”

  “There have always been Genevieves in the family; and although the Comte of the day went to the guillotine, his son, who was a baby then, was cared for and in time went back to the chateau. This is a story we Bastides like to tell. We were for the People for liberty, fraternity and equality, against the aristocrats but we kept the baby Comte here in this house and we looked after him till it was all over. My husband’s father used to tell me about it. He was a year or so older than the young Comte.”

  “So your family history is close to theirs.”

  “Very close.”

  “And the present Comte … he is your friend?”

  “The de la Talles were never friends of the Bastides,” she said proudly.

  “Only patrons. They don’t alter … and nor do we.”

  She changed the subject and after a while I left and went back to the chateau. I was eager to continue with my work.

  During the afternoon one of the servants came to the gallery to tell me that Monsieur Ie Comte would be pleased if I joined the family for dinner that night. They dined at eight o’clock, and as it would be such a small party it would be in one of the smaller dining-rooms. The maid said that she would take me there if I would be ready at five minutes to eight.

  I felt too bewildered to work after that. The maid had spoken to me with respect, and this could only mean one thing: not only was I considered worthy to restore his pictures, but of even greater honour, I was to dine in his company.

  I wondered what I should wear. I had only three dresses suitable for evening, none of them new. One was brown silk with coffee-coloured lace, the second very severe black velvet with a ruffle of white lace at the throat, and the third grey cotton with a lavender silk stripe. I decided at once on the black velvet.

  I could not work by artificial light, so as soon as the daylight faded I went to my room. I took out the dress and looked at it. Velvet fortunately did not age, but the cut was by no means fashionable. I held it up to myself and looked at my reflection. My cheeks were faintly pink, my eyes reflecting the black velvet looked dark and a strand of hair had escaped from the coil. Disgusted with my silliness I put down the dress and was adjusting my hair when there was a knock at the door.

  Mademoiselle Dubois entered. She looked at me disbelievingly and then stammered: “Mademoiselle Lawson, is it true that you have been invited to dine with the family?”

  “Yes. Does it surprise you?”

  “I have never been asked to dine with the family.”

  I looked at her and was not surprised.

  “I dare say they want to discuss the paintings with me. It’s easier to talk over the dinner table.”

  “The Comte and his cousin, you mean?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  “I think you should be warned that the Comte has not a good reputation where a woman is con
cerned.”

  I stared at her.

  “He doesn’t regard me as a woman!” I retorted.

  “I’m here to restore his paintings.”

  “They say that he is callous, and in spite of that some find him irresistible.”

  “My dear Mademoiselle Dubois, I have never yet found any man irresistible and don’t intend to start at my time of life.”

  “Well, you are not all that old.”

  Not all that old! Did she too think I was thirty?

  She saw that I was annoyed and hurried on deprecatingly: “There was that poor unfortunate lady his wife. The rumours one hears are … quite shocking. It’s terrifying, isn’t it, to think that we are under the same roof with a man like that.”

  “I don’t think either of us need be afraid,” I said.

  She came close to me.

  “I lock my door at nights … while he is in the house. You should do the same. And I should be very careful… tonight. It might be that he wants to amuse himself while he’s here with someone in the house. You can never be sure.”

  “I will be careful,” I said to placate and get rid of her.

  As I dressed I wondered about her. Did she in the quiet of her room dream erotic dreams of an enamoured Comte’s attempts to seduce her? I was certain that she was in as little danger of such a fate as I was.

  I washed and put on the velvet gown. I coiled my hair high on my head using many pins to make sure no strands escaped. I put on a brooch of my mother’s simple but charming, consisting of a number of small turquoises set in seed pearls. I was ready a full ten minutes before the maid knocked on the door to take me to the dining-room.

  We went into the seventeenth-century wing of the chateau the latest addition to a large vaulted chamber, a dining-hall in which, I imagined, guests were entertained. It would have been absurd for a small party to sit at such a table and I was not surprised when I was led on to a small room small, that is, by Gaillard standards leading off this dining-hall. It was a pleasant room; there were midnight-blue velvet curtains at the windows mullioned, I imagined, and different from the embrasures in the thick walls which narrowed to slits and while providing the utmost protection from outside, excluded the light. At each end of the marble mantelpiece stood a candelabrum in which candles burned. There was a similar one in the centre of a table which was laid for dinner.

  Philippe and Genevieve were already there. They were both subdued.

  Genevieve wore a dress of grey silk with a lace collar; her hair was

  tied behind her back with a pink silk bow, and she looked almost demure and quite unlike the girl I had met previously. Philippe in evening clothes, was even more elegant than on our first meeting; and he seemed genuinely pleased to see me there.

  He smiled pleasantly.

  “Good evening, Mademoiselle Lawson.” I returned the greeting and it was almost as though there was a friendly conspiracy between us.

  Genevieve was bobbing an uneasy curtsy.

  “I dare say you have had a busy day in the gallery,” said Philippe.

  I replied that I had and was making preparations. It was necessary to test so many things before one attempted the delicate work of restoration.

  “It must be quite fascinating,” he said.

  “I am sure you will be successful.”

  I was sure he meant it, but all the time he was talking to me I was aware that he was listening for the arrival of the Comte.

  He came precisely at eight and we took our places at the table the Comte at its head, I on his right, Genevieve on his left, and Philippe opposite him. The soup was served without delay while the Comte asked me how I was progressing in the gallery.

  I repeated what I had said to Philippe about my start on the pictures, but he expressed more interest, whether because he was concerned for his pictures or whether he was making an attempt to be polite, I was not sure.

  I told him that I had decided that the picture should first be washed with soap and water so that any surface grime should be removed.

  He regarded me with an amused glint in his eyes and said: “I have heard of that. The water has to stand in a special pot and the soap made during the dark of the moon.”

  “We are no longer ruled by such superstitions,” I replied.

  “You are not superstitious then, mademoiselle?”

  “Not more than most people of today.”

  “That could be a good deal. But I am sure you are too practical for such fancies; and that is as well while you stay in this place. We have had people here …” His eyes turned to Genevieve, who seemed to shrink into her chair. ‘. governesses who have refused to stay.

  Some of them declared the chateau was haunted; some gave no reason but silently departed. Something here was intolerable . either my chateau or my daughter. “

  There was a cool distaste in his eyes as they rested on Genevieve and I felt resentment rising. He was the sort of man who must have a victim. He had baited me in the gallery; now it was Genevieve’s turn.

  In my case it was different. I had come under false pretences and I was able to take care of myself. But a child-for Genevieve was little more and a nervous, highly strung one at that! And yet what had he said? Very little. The venom was in his manner. It was not unexpected, either. Genevieve was afraid of him. So was Philippe. So was everyone in the place.

  “If one were superstitious,” I said, feeling I had to come to Genevieve’s rescue, ‘it would be very easy for one’s fancies to grow in a place like this. I have stayed in some very ancient houses with my father yet I have never encountered a single ghost. “

  “English ghosts would perhaps be more restrained than French ones.

  They would not appear without an invitation, which means they would only visit the fearful. But then perhaps I am wrong. “

  I flushed.

  “They would surely take their code of manners from the days in which they lived, and etiquette in France was always more rigid than in England.”

  “You are right, of course, Mademoiselle Lawson. The English would be far more likely to come uninvited. Therefore you are safe in this chateau … provided you do not invite strange company.”

  Philippe was listening intently; Genevieve with some awe. For me, I think because I dared engage in conversation with her father.

  Fish had replaced the soup and the Comte lifted his glass to me.

  “I trust you will like the wine, Mademoiselle Lawson. It is our own vintage. Are you a connoisseur of wines as well as of pictures? “

  “It is a subject about which I know very little.”

  “You will hear a great deal about it while you are here. Often it is the main topic of conversation. I trust you will not find it tiresome.”

  “I am sure I shall find it most interesting. It is always pleasant to learn.”

  I saw the smile at the corner of his mouth. Governess! I thought.

  Certainly if I ever had to take up that profession I should have the right demeanour for it.

  Philippe spoke rather hesitantly: “What picture are you starting on, Mademoiselle Lawson?”

  “A portrait, painted last century in the middle, I should think. I place it about seventeen-forty.”

  “You see. Cousin,” said the Comte, “Mademoiselle Lawson is an expert.

  She loves pictures. She chided me for neglecting them as though I were a parent who had failed in his duty. “

  Genevieve looked down at her place in embarrassment. The Comte turned to her.

  “You should take advantage of Mademoiselle Lawson’s presence here. She could teach you enthusiasm.”

  “Yes, Papa,” said Genevieve.

  “And,” he went on, ‘if you can persuade her to talk to you in English, you might be able to speak that language intelligibly. You should try to persuade Mademoiselle Lawson when she is not engaged with her pictures, to tell you about England and the English. You could learn from their less rigid etiquette. It might give you confidence, and er aplomb. “<
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  “We have already spoken together in English,” I said.

  “Genevieve has a good vocabulary. Pronunciation is always a problem until one has conversed freely with natives. But it comes in time.”

  Again spoken like a governess! I thought; and I knew he was thinking the same. But I had done my best to support Genevieve and defy him. My dislike was growing with every moment.

  “It is an excellent opportunity for you, Genevieve. Do you ride.

  Mademoiselle Lawson? “

  “Yes. I am fond of riding.”

  “There are horses in the stables. One of the grooms would advise you which was your most suitable mount. Genevieve rides too … a little.

  You might ride together. The present governess is too timid.

  Genevieve, you could show Mademoiselle Lawson the countryside. “

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Our country is not very attractive, I fear. The wine growing land rarely is. But if you ride out a little way I am sure you will find something to please you.”

  “You are very kind. I should like to ride.”

  He waved a hand, and Philippe, no doubt feeling that it was time he made an effort in the conversation, took the subject back to pictures.

  I talked about the portrait I was working on. I explained one or two details and made them rather technical in the hope of confusing the Comte. He listened gravely with a faint smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. It was disconcerting to suspect that he knew what was going on in my mind. If this were so, he would know that I disliked him, and oddly enough this seemed to add to his interest in me.

  “I am certain,” I was saying, ‘that although this is far from a masterpiece, the artist had a mastery of colour. I can see this already. I am sure the colour of the gown will

  Philippe was listening intently; Genevieve with some awe. For me, I think because I dared engage in conversation with her father.

  Fish had replaced the soup and the Comte lifted his glass to me.

  “I trust you will like the wine. Mademoiselle Lawson. It is our own vintage. Are you a connoisseur of wines as well as of pictures? “

  “It is a subject about which I know very little.”