Despite Nicolas’ strange taste in women, I did think he would be careful. I trusted Nicolas that the children would be safe with him. Jeanne looked unhappy.
“You must not stay out long. It gets dark very early.”
“Not long. Nicolas, he is here.”
In through the back door came Nicolas, already clad in stout jacket, high boots, and a cap. The children jumped from the table into the hall, except Philippe, who leaned theatrically on his stick and had to have his boots and jacket brought to him.
“Can Goofy come too?”
“Of course.”
Nicolas and Lisa looked happy and the children were ecstatic. Only Jeanne and I appeared unmoved by all the excitement, and when they’d gone we stood on the terrace watching them jump over the wall by the jetty, the way Lisa had come back from her curious shopping spree in Port Guillaume.
“Don’t stay out late,” I called. “Your papa is coming back today.”
But I don’t think they heard me.
“I think I’ll go sit in the summer house,” Jeanne said. “After the bad weather we’ve had, it’s very mild today.”
“Yes, it is. The mist has gone and it’s quite warm. Summer house? I didn’t know there was one.”
Jeanne pointed to where the formal garden ended and a thicket of trees obscured our view of the bay, from ground level, not from the windows of the house.
“See that pointed roof, like a little pagoda? I love it there in the summer. I feel very close to her there.”
My scalp prickled. The vague apprehension I’d had all day became a certain, riveting fear. My mouth dried up, and my tongue stuck to my palate as I tried to speak.
“Her?”
“Jeanne d’Arc. Would you like to come with me and see if you can feel it too?”
No, no, I didn’t want to go. I wanted to go upstairs, to run away. I should have gone with the children. Instead, I was alone with Jeanne. Even Madame Barbou had gone off for the afternoon and Agnes wasn’t due to prepare supper until about five.
“Come,” Jeanne said, taking my arm and propelling me gently down the stairs. “You’re shivering, Clare. You’ll find it very warm in the summer house.”
I felt as though I were in a dream as I walked with her along the path, through the thicket, until we stood at the door of a perfect little pavilion, with a balcony all round and ornate turrets, as though someone had tried to imitate the chateau.
“It’s perfect!” I breathed. “Why have I never seen it before?”
“I am the only one who uses it. It’s too small for the children. They play here at the beginning of the summer, but they tire of things so easily. It’s only in the winter that you can see the roof, but during the spring and summer it’s entirely obscured. Through a gap in the trees you can have a marvellous view of the sea. Come.”
Of course, everything was normal. It was a lovely day and my imagination was making me neurotic; but as I went into the pavilion I felt like a small fly in the grip of a great web. Inside it was dark. The shutters were fastened against the windows, and only glimmers of light came in through the slats. I could hardly see anything. Why had she brought me here?
“Isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it peaceful?”
Jeanne moved around and began touching things, some chairs, two small tables. She seemed unaware of my presence and hummed a little song to herself.
Suddenly a gentle breeze wafted through the room. I recognised it. It was like no ordinary breeze. I lifted my head to listen. So did Jeanne. She was listening too. “You can feel it too, can’t you?” she said.
“What?” I was whispering.
“The presence. I know you can feel it. I saw your body stiffen. This site is part of the chateau, the old chateau, where Jeanne was imprisoned. The modern chateau is much smaller than the old one, you know. And next to the tower, her tower, there was a windmill – you can still see it in the old prints – and she used to stand at her window in the tower and watch the windmill turning, turning.
“When I first came to the chateau that’s why I asked for a room in the tower, but her tower was here, and the windmill just over there.”
She took my arm and led me to one of the shutters, which she unfastened. I saw along the promontory as far as the distant wall and beyond, across the bay.
“Can you see it?”
“What?”
“The windmill.”
“Of course I can’t. There isn’t a windmill. There’s just the wall and the sea.”
“You can see the windmill if you try very hard. Like this. Watch.”
Jeanne’s body stiffened and she closed her eyes tightly.
“There, I can see it. Turning, turning. That makes the breeze. Can’t you feel it?”
The breeze stirred again. I felt an uncanny chill. I closed my eyes tightly, very tightly.
“I can’t see any windmill,” I said, opening my eyes and looking at Jeanne.
“There is the windmill and there is the bay,” she said. “The ships have sails. I had never seen the sea before because I was born inland, in the tiny village of Domremy. As a child I was very happy, helping my father and mother, playing with my friends. But all during my childhood we were harrassed by the hated Burgundian soldiers who swept from their lands in Burgundy to the ones they owned in the low countries. The Burgundians pillaged, raped, and looted. I made a vow to drive them from our country, and St. Catherine and St. Michael helped me.”
“Jeanne ...”
“Yes, my name is Jeanne d’Arc. I never sought glory, only for God, and through my death He brought liberation to France. The rightful King was crowned, my poor Dauphin, never much of a man, but the real King; he didn’t even try to save me when I was captured. They brought me here and left me for a month. It was the only place I was ever happy in since I’d left Domremy, and here I had my first sight of the sea. God brought me contentment here and peace, and He told me that I would die but that I would live forever in glory with Him and the saints.
“How I loved the sea and the sight of the bay. I used to ask my gaolers to let me walk on the cliff, and I stood under the windmill which towered over me, and felt such peace. But I never forgave the Burgundians, and I cursed them. The son of Philippe the Good, Charles, was killed ignominiously in battle thirty-six years after my own death, and that was the end of the royal Burgundian line.
“I could forgive the English for what they did; after all, they were foreigners and our countries were at war. The French I could forgive, for they were my own people; they killed me as the Jews killed Christ by preferring Barabbas, a common thief, to Him. They acted out of stupidity rather than malice, for the English were their enemy. No, it was the special treachery of the Burgundians that I could never forgive -Frenchmen who allied with the English to cause the defeat of France. So I cursed the Burgundians, even to this day.”
Jeanne stopped talking, but her trance-like state continued for some moments. I hadn’t moved all the time she was speaking, and my flesh felt like marble, cold and hard to the touch.
Nothing could ever blot out that moment from my mind. I believed we were in the Fifteenth Century, that Jeanne was in her tower, and that the windmill turned and turned on the promontory overlooking the bay. And I, who was I? One of the many people who looked on and did nothing to help. But Joan was preordained to die; she wanted to, and because of it for centuries her name and ideals had been an inspiration to millions of people. Maybe it had helped them to die well too.
Jeanne gave a deep sigh and opened her eyes; she seemed to have difficulty in focussing at first and then she looked at me.
“Did you see it,” she said excitedly. “Did you see it?”
“No,” I breathed, “but I heard it. You talked to me as Joan.”
“And you believed it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good. Good. Now you will tell everyone that she was a holy person, a saint, not a witch.”
“Yes. Joan was not important in herself, but for what s
he did.”
“As an instrument of God. Yes, yes.”
“Then you have helped me with my book.”
We smiled at each other, and the atmosphere grew warmer. What time it was I had no idea; an hour could have passed, or five. But the sun was still high and I guessed we had not been in the summer house more than half an hour.
“Let’s sit down,” Jeanne said. “I want you to understand something.”
I felt so easy with her now, so relaxed.
“I am not evil,” Jeanne said. “You thought I was, didn’t you?”
I didn’t reply.
“Rose thought I was?”
“Yes.”
“She told you I was, but she was the evil one. There is a force here that threatens the family. I know you feel this and that is why you stay in the chateau.”
“Yes. Is it a supernatural force?”
“No. But Rose was involved in it, and her death was evil, an evil act. That’s all I know.”
“But you thought I was going to harm you.”
She looked at me solemnly and nodded. “Yes, I know, but now I’m not sure. A visitor to the chateau will harm me, but maybe it is not you.”
“Could it be Lisa?” I asked.
“Lisa?”
“I found Lisa in the library last night. She has a full set of keys to the house. I don’t think she is all that she says she is.”
Jeanne appeared to consider this very gravely. “I sense something bad in Lisa, but there is someone behind her.” Jeanne looked at me sharply. “Could it be your husband?”
“Tom?” I felt outraged.” Of course not. He’s never seen Lisa in his life before.”
“No, I’m sorry. The person is not a stranger, not to this house.”
“Nicolas Bourdin?” I said.
Jeanne jerked her head. “Maybe – the person is certainly not a stranger.”
My hands flew to my face. “Oh, my God, and we have let the children go out alone with Nicolas and Lisa!”
CHAPTER 17
Of course, that had been the cause of my apprehension, the reason for my fear. Not Jeanne, not the summer house, not Rose – not that day anyway. Something was going to happen to the children. I of all people should have known better than to let them go off to those dunes where danger lurked.
Jeanne and I hurried up to the house to get our coats, and as we put them on and ran out, Laurent came up the drive in his car, braking sharply when he saw us.
“What is it?”
“The children are out hunting.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“We have a feeling they’re in danger.”
Laurent looked angry. His face was already pale and unshaven. “Oh, my God, not that. Clare, you should see a psychiatrist – seriously.”
“Please,” I begged. “Let’s just be sure.”
“Are they alone?”
“No. They’re with Lisa and Nicolas.”
“Then they’re perfectly safe.”
“Please, Laurent. It will soon be dark.”
“All right, hop in, but Clare, about the psychiatrist ...”
“Yes, I promise, after today.”
I got in with him, and Jeanne got into the back. The sun had set by now and it was getting very dark. As Laurent sped through the lanes too angry to say anything, I began to have misgivings. Maybe they were driving home this very moment.
He parked the car in the wasteland by the side of the dunes; there were still a few others there.
“Now what do we do?”
I looked at Jeanne, who shrugged.
“I mean, where do we start?” Laurent said caustically. “You had this premonition; you should know.”
“Look, the car! There’s your Fiat. Nicolas must have taken it for Philippe.”
But Philippe wasn’t in the car. A strong wind had blown up and the dark clouds were racing in from the Channel. Laurent began to frown.
“Well, that’s funny, if the car’s still here.”
“And there’s Mr. Schroeder’s car. That white Mercedes.”
“Who?”
“He’s a writer. We met him here one day.” A twinge of fear ran through me, seeing the German’s car, and I recalled the day I had seen him watching the children.
“Papa, Papa ...”
Oh, heaven! Little Fabrice emerged over one of the dunes and ran to his father’s outstretched arms. My heart bounded with relief until I saw his face. He flung himself at his father, crying like someone whose tears would never stop.
“Fabrice! What is it?”
“Oh, Papa! Noelle is lost, and it is so dark, and Philippe has hurt his foot again, and we are alone. Oh, Papa.”
“Where, where is he?”
“Over there. We were sheltering from the cold behind that dune.”
Laurent was already over the shoulder of the mound, still hugging Fabrice, I following quickly after him. Philippe looked at us stoically, smiling but close to tears. We crouched by his side.
“Where are Lisa and Nicolas? What happened?”
“It was Goofy, Papa; the gun frightened him.”
“But Goofy is used to guns.”
“I think it went off too near him. He flew away and Noelle, who loves him best – you remember you gave him to her as a puppy for her birthday, Papa – went after him. Then she disappeared. We couldn’t see her because of the dunes. First Nicolas went to look, then Lisa. They told us not to move.”
“They should have put Fabrice and Philippe back in the car,” I said angrily. “A boy who can’t walk and one who is still only a baby. They’re blue with cold.”
“Let’s do that now,” Jeanne suggested.
We went back to the car and I took Fabrice on my lap, rubbing his frozen hands. Now that the danger was upon us, I felt calm – frightened, but composed. Yes, I’d known it was going to happen, and it had, but at least two of them were safe. Then I thought of the little angel, the sensitive one, who had snuggled up to me in my bed only the night before. I looked at Jeanne; her face was ashen.
“I’m going to look,” Laurent said. “Take the children back to the chateau.”
“Can’t we help?”
“You can help best that way. It’s nearly dark.”
It was. The row of lights in the distance were from Port St Pierre, and we could no longer see across the bay. Thank heaven the tide was out. It was the only consolation I had.
Jeanne drove while I comforted Fabrice. When we got back, the lights were on and the place looked cheerful. Dear Madame Barbou and Agnes were busy with the evening meal, and the succulent smells of a French kitchen greeted us with a familiar sense of homecoming.
Tom had just arrived and was looking cheerful. His expression changed when he heard our news.
“Let me get you drinks.”
“No. I want to change Fabrice. Give him a warm bath. Jeanne will see to Philippe. I think he fell over and hurt his shoulder. Maybe you’d call Michelle.”
Philippe was looking horribly pale. Fabrice started whimpering again, but I half-carried him upstairs and murmured soothing things to him. By the time he was in the bath and had started a complicated game with his bath toys, he was laughing again.
Afterwards I took him downstairs, where Philippe was also resting in his dressing gown and Michelle was rubbing his shoulder which she said was sore but not sprained.
“This is incredible,” she said. “I cannot believe so many bad things can happen. Maybe there is evil in this house.”
I looked at Jeanne and gave her a comforting smile.
“Jeanne and I think somebody is trying to harm the family.”
Tom was staring at me.
“We had a long talk this afternoon,” I continued, “and without saying too much, I can say we reached this conclusion for a number of reasons.”
“May we know what they are?”
“Not yet.” I looked meaningfully at the children.
The evening passed and we grew more fretful. For the sake
of politeness we sat down to the meal Madame Barbou had prepared with such love and care. Jeanne, Michelle, and I toyed with our food, while Tom ate a hearty four-course dinner washed down with plenty of wine. He was a brute, I thought, looking at him with disgust. Yet, I was glad Tom was there, the comforting, clumsy bulk of him. I knew he cared and that he was concerned but, like the rest of us, he didn’t know what to do.
We were on the cheese course when Laurent, Lisa, and Nicolas came in. They dropped into chairs, looking cold, pale, and exhausted. For an awful, seemingly endless moment, no one said anything. Then Laurent shook his head.
“No sign. We’ve called the police. I’m asking for someone from Abbeville.”
“But it was an accident ...” Nicolas began to protest. From the atmosphere I guessed there had already been words among the three of them. Laurent held up his hand.
“There have been too many accidents. My children keep on getting lost or falling down things; my nanny is found dead; my wife is killed in a crash – there are too many, too many. If we go back to Paris, how do we know it will end there?”
“The curse.” Michelle said softly.
Laurent looked at her. “Do I hear you right? A doctor of medicine? A scientist? You’re telling me a Fifteenth Century curse is what’s afflicting my family? Why now?”
I thought of Jeanne and the afternoon, but I said nothing. I wondered if Laurent knew that the original curse had come from Joan of Arc?
Laurent had poured himself a strong whisky and gave one to Nicolas. Lisa refused anything.
“It’s very late,” Laurent said.
Tom stood up. “You can always call me. Michelle? You don’t want us, Laurent?”
He shook his head.
“I’m staying,” I said, and when Laurent looked at me I also shook my head. “Don’t you see I can’t possibly leave? I’m too involved.”
There was pain in Tom’s eyes; once again he didn’t understand. I avoided his gaze.
After they’d gone, Lisa and Jeanne excused themselves, and Laurent and I were left alone.
“Not tired?”
“Anxious. “ I said. “Very anxious.”
Rose, Rose Where Are You? Page 18
