“Mademoiselle?”
She brought herself hastily back to earth when she realised that the woman was watching her, looking back with her bright, button eyes and holding open a door—apparently leading into one of the rooms off the hall. The look in the woman’s eyes told her that she knew well enough who she was and why she was there, and she smiled and pointed to the painting.
“Who is this?” she asked, and the woman did not even need to look at the portrait as she answered. Obviously she was well informed about her employer’s family and, Jesamine suspected, would be jealous in protecting their interests.
“Monsieur Charles Louis Vernais, Comte d’Armor,” she told her, and the name flowed easily off her tongue, as if it too was too familiar to need thought.
Jesamine looked again at the picture, feeling a strange sense of occasion as she stood face to face with her gallant but mysterious ancestor at last. If the likeness was a true one, there was little doubt that Mistress Louise Sutton would have found him irresistible.
“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plait!” Once more that reproving voice prompted her from across the hall, and she smiled apologetically as she hurried across to the open door. Those bright eyes questioned her curiously as she walked past her and into the room, and the woman’s voice sounded vaguely disapproving. “Mademoiselle Jesamine Arden, Monsieur le Comte,” she announced, and withdrew at once, leaving Jesamine standing just inside a huge, shadowed room that took her breath away.
It could have changed little since it was first designed, she thought, for the furniture was slim and elegant, too ornate for modern taste but perfect in this big, elegant room with its huge mirrors and crystal chandeliers. The fireplace was enormous and screened in this warm summer weather with a tapestry screen of immense proportions that depicted the chateau itself in an earlier age, with a hunt emerging from the trees.
The figure in the armchair by the fireplace startled her at first, and she felt her heart hammering anxiously in her breast as she walked forward. A lot depended upon the first impression she made on Francois d’Armor, she realised, and she guessed it must be he.
Her first impression of him was one of disappointment, for she found it hard to see the man before her as descended directly from that elegant, silken-suited gallant in the hall. Francois d’Armor was eighty-eight years old, she knew, but he looked every year of it, and he was so small and shrunken that she felt more pity in the first instance than the excitement she had expected.
He had a small, lined face that looked out from below thin white hair and sparse brows like thin white lines above dark, bright eyes, the most lively feature in the whole face. His hands were small too and looked as if they had little flesh left on their fragile bones, and from the waist down his body was swathed in a dark blue rug, so that he had a curiously doll-like appearance.
“Mademoiselle Arden!” A wrinkled hand signalled her to come closer and Jesamine obeyed its command, drawn by those dark, bright eyes that smiled at her from the drawn features. “I am Francois d’Armor,” he said, extending the same hand to her. “Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Arden! Do not heed the formality of Brigitte, s’il vous plait,” he added with a light shrug of his thin shoulders. “The title is as dead as the days that created it!”
He was charming, Jesamine decided with relief. No matter if he was over eighty years old, he was gallant in the old tradition, and she was not altogether surprised when he conveyed her hand briefly to his lips. “I’m delighted to meet you, Monsieur d’Armor,” she said, and sat, as he indicated she should, in one of the gilt chairs close to his own.
“Je vous demand pardon,” the old man apologised as she sat down. “I am seldom able to leave this chair—I hope you will forgive me, mademoiselle!”
“Oh, but of course, monsieur,” she told him with a smile. “I’m only sorry for your sake.”
“Vous etes bien amiable,” Francois d’Armor murmured. “And now, mademoiselle, has your journey been pleasant? You are not too wearied?”
“Not at all,” Jesamine assured him. “The only unpleasant thing was that my photographer friend caught a virus of some kind and I’ve had to leave him in a hospital in Nantes, though not for long, I hope. The journey here was lovely and I thoroughly enjoyed driving through your beautiful countryside.”
“Bien!” Her appreciation of the country obviously pleased him. “The traffic was not too busy?” he asked, and Jesamine was again reminded of that other and far less gallant Frenchman she had met along the road.
“I’m afraid I had a little trouble just before I got here,” she told him, pulling a rueful face. “I took a corner too sharply and almost had an accident.”
The old man looked concerned. “Oh, mademoiselle!” he said anxiously. “You were not harmed?”
“I wasn’t hurt,” Jesamine assured him, “only my dignity, Monsieur d’Armor! The man I collided with wasn’t as gallant as I’d always been led to expect of your countrymen and he left me in no doubt that the whole thing was my fault!”
“But this is terrible, mademoiselle!” He raised his fragile-looking hands in horror at his countryman’s shortcomings, and shook his head. “What an impression you must have gained of us!”
“Not at all,” Jesamine denied smilingly. “I think I was just unfortunate to have met the exception that proves the rule!”
“Merci,” he said, “you are too kind, mademoiselle! It is possible, Mademoiselle Arden, that this so ungallant young man was one of those accustomed to the company of femmes liberees. There are many courtesies to be lost in such changes, n’est-ce pas?”
“Possibly,” Jesamine, not prepared to commit herself, nor yet to openly disagree with her host.
“Ah, now! When you are suitably refreshed and rested after your journey,” the old man said, wisely not pressing the point, “we will speak of family matters, hmm?”
“It’s why I’m here,” said Jesamine, and he nodded. “But first you will take some tea in the English fashion?” he suggested with a twinkle. His laughter surprised her, and she wondered if he really was as frail as he appeared, or whether it was a triumph over adversity, and the spirit of Francois d’Armor was stronger than the body that housed it. “You see we are prepared for you!” he told her, and indicated a long gold tassel to one side of the fireplace. “If you will be so kind as to ring for Brigitte, mademoiselle!”
It was obvious, a few moments later, that the call had been expected, for the door opened to admit not only the same grey-haired woman who had admitted her, but another woman, tall, white-haired and evidently less sure about extending the same warmth of welcome that Francois d’Armor had.
He stretched out a hand to her as she came across the room and Jesamine watched her surreptitiously while the housekeeper wheeled a trolley of tea and petits fours into place in front of her. A tall figure, yet somehow fragile, as if her eighty odd years weighed heavily on her.
“Mon amie,” the old man said as she joined him, “je vous presente Mademoiselle Jesamine Arden; mademoiselle, je vous presente Madame Clothilde d’Armor, my wife.”
“Madame d’Armor!” Jesamine took the proffered hand and found it cool and dry, the eyes that looked at her briefly, anxious and uncertain, and the latter fact puzzled her to some extent.
“Mademoiselle.” She indicated that she should be seated again, and sat down beside her husband. “You will take tea?”
“Yes, thank you, madame.”
She studied her hostess as best she could from below discreetly lowered lids and decided that Madame d’Armor was a striking woman, even in old age, and she must once have been quite a beauty. Even though her uneasiness was recognisable, it did nothing to mar her elegant good manners and, given time, Jesamine decided, she could find her as charming as her husband.
The tea was thin and fragrant and drunk from tiny, delicate Sevres porcelain cups which Jesamine was almost afraid to handle, and while they drank tea and ate the delicious petits fours Madame d’Armor seemed to relax a little. It was a
lmost as if she had dreaded meeting her, but now that she had she was in some way reassured. Perhaps, Jesamine mused, it had something to do with the mysterious life and death of Louise d’Armor, her daughter, although Jesamine had given no indication that her interest lay in that direction.
Later the sharp-eyed Brigitte showed Jesamine to her room, when the almost ceremonial little tea-party was over, and for the first time she realised just how fortunate she was to be actually staying in the chateau. Her windows looked out over the lush Breton countryside, and the acres of grapevines strung like screens of green leaves across the stony fields.
A narrow river, or perhaps it was no more than a stream, ran along the foot of the sloping gardens, glinting in the sunlight and shaded over here and there by willows and chestnut trees as it wound through the extensive grounds. It was all lush and beautiful and must have cost a great deal to maintain, she thought.
No matter if Charles Louis Vernais had fled to England as a penniless refugee, his descendants must by now be as wealthy as ever their aristocratic forebears had been, and she considered the inheritance of Paul d’Armor, the one member of the family she had yet to meet.
Bathed and refreshed, she changed her clothes and prepared to join her hosts for dinner, wondering if she would meet Paul d’Armor this time. She had her own picture of him that had nothing to do with the portraits of his ancestors that hung on all the walls. A shortish man, she imagined, with dark eyes like his grandfather and perhaps a moustache, and charming, of course.
Living in style in a French chateau was something new to her, but she had no intention of being overawed by it, and she looked at her reflection in a full-length mirror with a critical eye. Blue had always suited her and lent more colour to her eyes, and the hyacinth blue dress she wore gave her a softly feminine look that was bound to please her host, if his implied dislike of the liberated woman was any indication.
She checked her slim legs for unexpected ladders, then walked across and opened the door. There was no one about on the long landing, or gallery, that she could see, but she could just hear voices coming from somewhere downstairs and as she started down the ornate curved staircase, someone came out of one of the rooms.
One look at the top of his head was enough for Jesamine to recognise him and she caught her breath as she carne to a sudden halt part way down, her heart suddenly hammering frantically hard at her ribs. She thought of all the trouble she had taken to make sure she neither said nor did anything to spoil Francois d’Armor’s impression of her, and now here she was faced with the man who had left her in no doubt that he considered her something of a fool. A man, what’s more, whom she had described to her host as an ungallant oaf, lacking in the manners she expected of the traditional Frenchman.
He looked up while she still stood there on the stairway, and she saw the quick flicker of surprise in those steely grey eyes when he recognised her. He was so obviously waiting for her to come all the way down that she had little option but to do as he expected, but she felt the warmth of colour that flushed her cheeks as he watched her.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle!”
She had little doubt who he was from his air of confidence, and she could have sworn that it was a glint of laughter she saw in his eyes as he looked at her. He took her hand, enfolding it in his own large strong one and his fingers squeezed hers slightly, a look in his eyes that challenged her to object to the familiarity.
“I am Paul d’Armor,” he told her with a slight bob of his head over the hand he still held. “We meet again, mademoiselle—an unexpected pleasure!”
CHAPTER TWO
KNOWING just how and where to begin an interview was not usually so difficult for her, but in this instance Jesamine felt the need to do rather more than simply ask the usual superficial questions about the character concerned. She wanted to get to know the present-day people too and learn about them. It was a much more personal matter than anything she had done before and she wanted to become more involved.
So far the impression she had received was that, although old Francois d’Armor welcomed her presence there, both Madame Clothilde d’Armor and her grandson would have preferred her at a greater distance. They both treated her with politeness, but there was an unmistakable something in their manner that left her in little doubt that they did not enjoy the idea of a stranger in their midst.
As if they had something to hide, she thought, and once more her thoughts went instinctively to Louise d’Armor, her hosts’ only child and the mother of Paul. She had no doubt that Brigitte, the housekeeper, could have been a rich source of information if only she could have broken through that barrier of suspicion, but Brigitte was, if anything, even less inclined to unbend than Madame d’Armor herself. She did not approve of strangers, and particularly journalists, poking into family affairs, and she made no secret of it.
Jesamine had slept well after an excellent dinner and an enjoyable evening, but it had been spent discussing her own family rather than that of her hosts, so she was no better informed this morning than she had been when she arrived. Francois d’Armor had expressed such interest in her grandfather’s years in the Merchant Navy that she had found herself recounting some of the more colourful exploits told to her by her grandfather, and the subject of Charles Louis Vernais had barely been touched upon.
Madame d’Armor had said little, but she had appeared quite interested, and it seemed to Jesamine that the old lady became less wary of her as the evening wore on, and for that she was thankful. She had high hopes of a closer rapport with her, perhaps a contribution in the form of the woman’s view of the romance she was investigating.
Paul d’Armor had left them soon after dinner, and shortly afterwards Jesamine had heard a car drive off and assumed he was spending the rest of the evening in more convivial company. It was not difficult to guess that there was a woman somewhere in the background, perhaps more than one, for a man as attractive and virile as Paul d’Armor was unlikely to be short of feminine admirers, she guessed, and she wondered idly why he had never married.
She took one more look out of her bedroom windows before she went downstairs, and made a vow to explore at least some of the acres around the chateau before she left for home. Charles Louis Vernais must often have ridden and walked in those lovely grounds, and they were surely a link with him that had changed little since his day. The hunting scene depicted on the firescreen downstairs, she recalled, had been easily recognisable.
Her first task must be to learn more about the man himself, for he was the pivot on which the whole of her story turned, and on her way downstairs the following morning she paused in the hall to gaze once more at his portrait—the man in the blue silk suit, who had wooed and won an English squire’s daughter and so forged a link between her own family and the aristocratic d’Armors.
She found him fascinating for more reason than that he was her ancestor. He had a look about him that was oddly and disturbingly reminiscent of someone else, and yet was nothing to do with his likeness to her grandfather. It was a certain look in the painted eyes, that had been so expertly captured by the artist, and a suggestion of arrogance in the angle of the head. Something challenging that stirred a flutter of recognition in her but as yet refused to be identified. Looking at him aroused all kinds of sensations that both puzzled her and made her uneasy.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle!”
At the sound of a voice immediately behind her, Jesamine swung round hastily and found herself looking into the steel-grey eyes of Paul d’Armor. It was in that moment that she recognised that challenging gaze of Charles Louis Vernais, for, apart from their difference in colour, the two pairs of eyes held exactly the same expression.
The blue silk and creamy lace of the eighteenth century had given way to a light grey shirt, fitted closely across a broad chest and shoulders, and slim-hipped grey slacks with wide bottoms, but the air of self-assurance was still there, undiminished by the centuries, and she found herself as much disturbed by the mo
dern man as by the image of his aristocratic forebear.
How easy it must have been, she thought a little dizzily, for the arrogant, compelling Frenchman to turn Louise Sutton’s quiet world upside down. She was experiencing much the same kind of reaction herself, and she was far more worldly than a country squire’s daughter would have been.
“Good morning, Monsieur d’Armor.” Her voice, she realised, sounded oddly breathless, and she was appalled to notice it. It was only to be hoped that Paul d’Armor would not do so too.
“You were admiring the last Comte d’Armor?” he asked, and Jesamine nodded.
“Yes, I was,” she agreed. “He must have been a very fascinating man, judging by his portrait.”
“Ah!” She would have sworn there was a hint of satisfaction in the barely audible exclamation, and she wondered if he was himself aware of his likeness to Charles Louis. “Then you also find him seduisant, mademoiselle?” There was a hint of mockery in his eyes as well as that unmistakable challenge and, although she did not know exactly what seduisant meant, she had a good enough idea for her to nod her head. She was ready to admit that their mutual forebear would have had no more difficulty in seducing an inexperienced country girl like Louise Sutton than his modern counterpart would.
“I’ve no doubt he was a very attractive man,” she said, “and Louise must have found him quite irresistible in the circumstances. He would be something quite—quite different from what she was used to in a small English village.”
“The traditional romantic Frenchman, n’est-ce pas, mademoiselle?” Paul d’Armor mocked, soft-voiced. “And you share the taste of your impressionable ancestor?”
Realising suddenly that he was laughing at her was something of a shock, and Jesamine caught her breath sharply. Laughter glittered unmistakably in his eyes and lent a suggestion of cruelty to his wide and rather sensual mouth as he looked at her, and she felt a warm flush of colour in her cheeks as she lifted her chin. It was not easy to meet the mockery in his eyes, but she held his gaze determinedly and with far more boldness than she felt.
Chateau D'Armor Page 2
