Rose, Rose Where Are You?

by Nicola Thorne

“He couldn’t bear the personality of Henri,” Tom explained, “Henri the cheat, the betrayer, the coward.”

  “What shall we do?”

  Everyone looked at me, as though this was the last question they had expected.

  “Well, we must do something.”

  “Why? We know. We can’t prove it, as you said, but it is quite in keeping with the greedy, sneaky character of Henri as a young man. He would have done it for money and to save his skin. Maybe the Gestapo found out and used his weakness to their advantage. After all, he was very young,” Tom said. “Surely he has suffered enough from his memories.”

  “But he did have a memory,” I insisted. “He never lost it.”

  “I don’t think so, no.” Tom got out his pipe and puffed on it unlit. “But then we never thought so, did we?”

  I got up and walked about the room. “I don’t like any of this,” I said. “It’s too, too unfinished.”

  “Things arrange themselves,” Madame said to me, her old eyes bright with wisdom. “You will see.”

  Against Tom’s wishes, I went up to the chateau alone later that day. I did want to talk to Laurent; in a way I wanted to say goodbye. Tom and I had had a long talk that afternoon and decided that after Christmas we should go back to England and then complete the sabbatical year in the States. Sad as I would be to say goodbye to Port St Pierre, I was convinced that I would never get any work done here.

  Laurent was alone when I found him, standing by the summer house. He’d felled a tree and was stacking logs.

  “I’ve only just discovered this place,” I said. “Jeanne showed it to me.”

  “We loved it as children. Mine don’t seem so keen on it.”

  “Did your father build it?”

  “No. Some say it was the original hunting lodge, but my grandmother rebuilt it during that period of Victorian mania for the Gothic. We just added a coat of paint when we restored the chateau.”

  “Where’s Henri?”

  “He’s in the library. It’s a treasure chest for him. He’s writing a book, you know.”

  “Yes, he told me. Is he going to live here?”

  “We don’t know what we’re going to do yet. There’s a lot of legal business to see to. He may finish his book in the house across the bay.” Laurent looked at me and took my arm.

  “Clare, everyone seemed troubled when Madame Gilbert discovered he is Henri and not Jean. You don’t find it disturbing, do you?”

  Gazing at Laurent I realised the simplicity of ignorance. He seemed to have complete trust in his older brother.

  “I don’t understand much about it, Laurent. You must trust in your own good sense. The only thing that puzzles me is the nose. Didn’t you remember that Henri was the one with the broken nose?”

  “No, I was too young. We are talking about my childhood. I don’t recall the broken nose at all. However, that proves more than anything that he is my brother. Madame Gilbert recognised him at once. Besides, he knows many intimate things that only a member of the family could know. He is my brother; there’s no doubt about that!”

  Laurent went on sawing his logs, stacking them in a pile by the hut. “Did you ever see inside this place?”

  “Yes, Jeanne showed me. She’s very fond of it.”

  “You seem happier about Jeanne,” Laurent said, unlocking the door.

  “Yes, I am. I don’t think I understood her before. She is a visionary.”

  We now stood inside the summer house and, as Jeanne had, Laurent undid one of the shutters. The sun streamed in, dazzling me.

  “It’s really beautiful,” I said. “Look at the little staircase into the tiny turret. It’s bigger than I thought.”

  “Yes, there’s another landing. It was built to look like a miniature chateau.”

  I went up the narrow stairs and stood looking out of the window. Yes, I could see the wall and the bay. The setting sun was like a ball of fire, dazzling in its brilliance as it sank towards the horizon beyond Le Hourdel.

  I blinked my eyes and when I opened them again I saw the huge windmill standing there silhouetted against the sun, its giant sails turning, turning; there was a rush of air, and I heard a faint cry, as though for help, then the sound of the turning sails grew deafening.

  “Clare, are you all right?” Laurent was by my side, his hand on my arm. “... called and called you. Clare, your hand is so cold. Are you ill?”

  I shook my head. All I saw now was the wall and the bay beyond.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal. “I think I had a rush of blood to the brain. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Come and have a drink. You haven’t really met Henri.”

  The drink stilled my agitation, but it did not explain my vision. For I was sure it had been a vision. I did not have that kind of hallucinatory power, or did I? I had to get to Jeanne and ask her.

  When we’d looked in at the library, Henri had his head in a huge pile of books and seemed reluctant to be disturbed. He looked perfectly at home to me.

  “Do you mind if I just pop up and get my things?” I asked Laurent. “I won’t be long.”

  “You’re not staying?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s goodbye. I mean not finally goodbye, but Tom and I are reconciled.”

  “I thought you were. I saw the writing on the wall the day he breezed in here.”

  “Well.” I smiled. “I said we should know one way or the other. It was fate, I guess.”

  “Go and see the kids. I think they’re with Jeanne in her room. The central heating has failed upstairs. It won’t be repaired until after Christmas. Just as well you’re not staying. It’s awfully cold up there.”

  I smiled to myself as I climbed the stairs. So many little things could suddenly be logically explained. The cold, the central heating ...

  I knocked on Jeanne’s door and popped my head round. The children were seated near her being read to.

  How could I ever have thought she was evil?

  “Hello!” I said. “I just came to get my things.”

  “Oh, Clare! You’re not going?”

  “Yes, and I’m going back to my husband, now aren’t you pleased?”

  “I’m not pleased,” Noelle said. “I wanted you to marry Papa.”

  “Ssshhh!” Jeanne chided, but smiled at me.

  “I’m so glad for you; you seem very happy.”

  “Maybe you’ll have children now,” Fabrice said.

  “I hope so. Three, all like you.”

  The children squealed with laughter, and my heart contracted. I would miss them very much. I blew them kisses.

  “See you soon, Jeanne.”

  Jeanne waved and I closed the door. I felt I was leaving a chapter of my life behind me, in many ways not a very pleasant chapter, but an important and vital one. I opened the door of my room. The sun I’d seen from the pavilion was now low on the horizon, sending beams of red and gold into the room – Rose’s room.

  I’d forgotten Rose. Had I failed her? We would never know how she died. There were a lot of things we would never know, now that I was leaving. Well, Laurent was alert now to any danger, and it was his duty to protect his family, not mine.

  I quickly packed my things and stripped the bed. Yes, there were still many things unsolved – the missing pages, the loose bolts in the yacht. I shrugged, and then I paused and listened. I thought I heard a whisper. I listened again and opened the door. There was no one outside. I closed the door again. It was very cold. The pipes were icy to the touch.

  I heard the whisper again, and then I felt that sense of another presence, of not being alone. Only I was less certain now that it had been Rose trying to contact me. I’d recognised the breeze I’d felt in this room and the breeze that swirled about us in the summer house as one and the same. Yes, this was Rose’s room, but had I mistaken the spirit, if there was a spirit. Was it Joan after all?

  “Rose,” I whispered, less certain than I had been before. “Joan?
Whoever it is, are you there?”

  The sun had gone down abruptly and the room had lost its colour. I strained forward in the gloom.

  “Rose, Rose, are you there?”

  The door opened silently and I let out a small cry. “Jeanne!”

  “Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  “Only Rose,” I smiled. “I’ve always felt her presence in this room, or I thought I had. Now I wonder if it was St Joan. The summer house has made me doubt.”

  “Only the good come back,” Jeanne said with certainty. “Rose was not good; her spirit would not be benign. It is St Joan of Arc whose spirit you feel.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Someone who was wrongfully killed might come back, however good or bad.”

  Jeanne glanced round, less certain now herself. She shrugged. “Maybe,” she acknowledged. “After all, this was her room.”

  “Yes.” I went to the window and looked out. Now that the trees were almost bare it was quite easy to see the outline of the summer house. “Jeanne, I saw your windmill. I was in the summer house just now with Laurent.”

  “And you saw it?” Jeanne looked ecstatic.

  “I saw it and I heard it. What does it mean, Jeanne?”

  “It means you can see into the past as I can. The windmill was destroyed at the end of the Fifteenth Century at about the same time as the chateau.”

  “But I’ve never had an experience like this before.”

  Jeanne smiled. “Don’t worry about it; you might never have another. But as an historian isn’t it nice to be able to say you’ve seen into the past?”

  “I don’t think I’d dare tell anybody, except perhaps Tom. And what of the future, Jeanne, can you see that too?”

  Jeanne looked puzzled. “Sometimes I think I can, but now I can’t see very far into the future; I don’t know why.

  She was standing near me now looking out of the window, and I felt a sudden depression of the spirit and a sense of foreboding.

  “Jeanne, did you know Rose’s mother was a medium?”

  “Yes, she once did tell me; she said she thought it was rubbish. I felt sorry for her because she didn’t have much insight into that kind of thing.”

  “So you think my sensing her presence here is a trick of my imagination?”

  Jeanne looked at me gravely. “Who can say what mysterious happenings come from beyond? Clare, I must run back to the children. We shall see you again soon?”

  “Oh, yes, we’ll be here over Christmas. Jeanne ...”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry for the misunderstandings.”

  “There was a lot to misunderstand,” Jeanne said.

  “And there’s a lot I still don’t understand about Lisa and so on; but I feel now that Laurent knows it’s his problem and that it must be resolved.”

  “He will know what to do.” Jeanne smiled at me reassuringly. “Au revoir.”

  She closed the door. The room was now quite dark. I looked out of the window once more, with a sense of finality. I knew I would never sleep here again. My room, Rose’s room.

  I stood at the door and listened.

  “Goodbye Rose,” I said.

  But Rose had gone.

  Downstairs Tom had joined Laurent and Henri who had come in from the library.

  “You were an age,” Tom said. “I thought I’d better come and fetch you.”

  “She doesn’t want to say goodbye,” Laurent smiled. “She is in love with this house, Tom, you should take care.”

  “Clare is always in love with the past,” Tom said. “This is where one has so much competition, being married to an historian.”

  Tom was at it again, re-establishing that I was his. Oh, well, for the time being I certainly was.

  Lisa put her head round the door.

  “I go get the children, Monsieur?”

  “Please, Lisa. They’re with Jeanne. Lisa, come and meet my brother properly.”

  But Lisa shut the door, and Henri smiled.

  “No offence,” Laurent said. “She is shy and doesn’t understand the language well. Tom, Clare, will you stay to dinner?”

  “No thanks,” I answered quickly. “I’m actually going to do the little woman act and make Tom a lovely meal.”

  “It won’t last,” Tom said ruefully. “But it’s nice for now.”

  “We’ll go out the back, Laurent. I want to say thanks to Madame Barbou.”

  But Madame Barbou wasn’t in the kitchen. Agnes, her face very hot from the oven, looked up as we went through and explained that her mother had gone home with a headache.

  “I’m sorry, Agnes. Please wish her well.”

  Agnes came over and gave Tom and me a conspiratorial look. She jerked her head in the direction of the salon.

  “The brother! Eh!” she said, tossing her head disdainfully.

  “Why, Agnes, why ever should you say that? He really is Monsieur Laurent’s brother. There is no doubt about that.”

  “I’m not saying there is,” Agnes replied defensively, wiping the perspiration from her face. “It is simply that he is the one who was Rose’s boyfriend. It is I who saw them together when I went to the market in Port Guillaume!”

  I stared at her. “Are you sure, Agnes?”

  “Quite sure, Madame.”

  “You told your mother?”

  “Yes. She said not to tell anybody.”

  “But you told us.”

  Agnes hung her head. “I knew you’d be interested, Madame, because of Rose’s death.”

  “Agnes, I’m sure Monsieur Henri had nothing to do with Rose’s death, and if I were you I would take your mother’s advice and tell no one else.”

  Tom took a fifty-franc note out of his wallet.

  “Monsieur Laurent has had enough trouble,” he said quietly as he carefully pressed it into her hand.

  CHAPTER 19

  For the next few days Tom and I stayed away from the chateau. When we weren’t working, we talked incessantly about the family and the brother, and Jeanne’s vision and my hallucination, as Tom insisted on referring to it. Apparently it was all right for Jeanne to have visions but not for me.

  “I refuse to be married to a visionary,” Tom insisted. “It was a trick of the light coupled with your overripe imagination. You wanted to see the windmill.”

  “Perhaps I did. Darling, you did say you’d get the coffee this morning, didn’t you?”

  I took off my glasses and gazed severely at him from across the desk we’d decided to share.

  Tom returned my stare, and I thought he was going to be rude, but he was trying – we were both trying – so without a word he put down his pen, got up, and went into the salon. In a second he was back.

  “Clare, there’s a letter. Look at the size of it.” He waved a bulky envelope at me. “It’s from Northern Ireland.”

  “Cliff!” I cried excitedly. “Gimme.”

  As Tom tore open the envelope, the jaggedly torn pages fluttered to the floor. There were also two letters; one was from Cliff.

  Dear Mr. Trafford,

  I’m sorry I couldn’t see you when you called on my mum. There’s a lot I’d have liked to talk to you about in connection with the death of my late fiancee, Rose.

  I got her last letter, plus the pages which I am enclosing, after her death. They were held up by the military authorities here in Northern Ireland who are very strict about censorship. They couldn’t make head or tail of them, nor can I. I hope they are of some use to you, as I loved Rose, although my mum thought she was no good.

  Being on active service here there’s nothing I can do. I hope you can.

  Yours sincerely, Clifford Brown.

  Tom then read Rose’s last letter out loud to me. Listening to it was like hearing a voice from the dead – the familiar Rose whom I knew and whose room I had lived in these for some of three short months.

  Dear Cliff,

  Be an angel and keep these pages for me. I think I’
m onto something quite big and could make myself a lot of money. There’s a man here who is ever so interested in the chateau and the family. He’s offered me money to let him in when no one’s about. I think it’s ever so fishy.

  Then the other day, that Jeanne, whom as you know I can’t abide -she’s so weird, Cliff, honest - lent me this book on Joan of Arc. I could hardly believe my eyes when I read these pages. But I don’t want anyone to know. Keep them for me, Cliff angel; they are safe with you. I hope you don’t go to Northern Ireland. May see you very soon?

  Rose.

  I listened with my head on my hands, my arms propped on the desk. There was a sudden movement behind us, and I looked up.

  “Sorry, did I startle you? The door was open.”

  “Michelle, we’re just in the middle of a drama. Sit, listen. Tom, show Michelle the letters while I skim through these pages. I may get on to what is important more quickly than you.”

  My hands were trembling as I took the torn pages from The Last Journey of the Maid. I had to control myself and start reading from the beginning, not skip. The author continued the narrative of Joan of Arc’s last journey until she came to Port St Pierre. Then the name Jehan de Frigecourt appeared and I read quickly on:

  The good people of Port St Pierre believed in the saintliness of the Maid, whom many considered to be a witch, and entreated the governor not to hand her over to the English, offering to ferry her down the river and out of Burgundian hands.

  It is said that the governor was a man of like mind and would have weakened, save that the squire Jehan Sire de Frigecourt, the bastard son of my lord John, the late Duke of Burgundy, hated the Maid with his whole evil heart and threatened the governor with an awful death if he set her free. It is said that the Maid, hearing of this, cursed the whole family of Burgundy ... and there were many who remembered this and told the story long after Charles Duke of Burgundy was savagely done to death on the battlefield at Nancy and all with him perished.

  There was a legend, however, that the son of Jehan de Frigecourt, who served with Charles the Bold in his efforts to conquer the Swiss, saved much of the Burgunderbeute, the famous booty or treasure of the dukes, and took it safely back with him to Picardy.