Chateau D'Armor

by Rebecca Stratton

  “I am delighted, Mademoiselle Arden!”

  In the company of her young guide, Jesamine found herself further into the country on the far side of the village from the chateau, and walking through some beautiful shady woods. They were sun-dappled and silent, save for the occasional cry of a bird among the thick undergrowth and she could have enjoyed the scenery even without the aid of a guide.

  Rene Marais knew his recent history, and it became more and more obvious as he talked, that either Monsieur Marais the schoolteacher had actually experienced the stories firsthand, or had studied his subject well and been equally diligent in passing it on to his son. The stories were complete and detailed, and lost nothing in the dramatic nature of their telling.

  The time passed so quickly that when she at last looked at her wristwatch she was startled to realise that it was more than two hours since she had left Paul in the vineyard. It was time she cut short the tour, interesting as it was, or the boy’s parents might become anxious about him. When she suggested as much to Rene Marais, however, he pulled a rueful face and looked disappointed.

  “I wished to show you the place near the bridge where the Nazi was drowned,” he told her with youthful relish for gruesome detail. “It is a tale of mystery, mademoiselle, for no one will say the name of the collaborator, though I believe that they know—even my father!”

  Jesamine shivered. “Perhaps some other time, Rene,” she told him. “We really should get back now.”

  “Tres bien!” He shrugged resignedly. “But I should like to be your guide again, Mademoiselle Arden,” he informed her gallantly, and she thought he was not entirely prompted by the generous contribution she had made to his pocket money.

  “I’d like that,” she told him.

  They were walking along the village street again when an elderly man spotted them from further along the street and came hurrying towards them. “Papa!” Rene exclaimed, and pulled a face, as if he would rather not have seen him.

  Jesamine watched the man anxiously, hoping there was not going to be any unpleasantness because the boy had been gone for so long. “You didn’t do wrong, taking me on this tour, did you, Rene?” she asked. “I mean your father does know you act as a guide when you can?

  “Mais oui,” Rene assured her with a smile. “There is very little opportunity in Grosvallee, naturellement, but Papa is pleased that I show the independence—he encourages me!” His bright dark eyes twinkled at her wickedly for a second. “I think it is that in your case, mademoiselle, he would have liked to act as your guide himself!”

  Jesamine barely noticed the compliment, she was watching the man as he came closer and thinking how much older he was that she would have expected the father of a fifteen-year-old to be. It was obvious, she thought, that those stories Rene had regaled her with had been experienced first-hand by his father.

  The nearer he came the more obvious it became that he was not happy seeing his son in her company, and he lengthened his stride so as to reach them the sooner. Rene made an attempt to introduce her when he at last joined them, but he allowed little time for ceremony and merely inclined his head in the briefest of nods, then drew the boy to his side.

  “I am aware of your identity, mademoiselle,” he informed her stiffly, but in such excellent English that it was obvious why his son had such a good command of the language. “Pere Dominic has already met you, I think—you are a journalist!”

  So that was it, Jesamine thought a little dazedly. Pere Dominic had revealed that she was staying with the d’Armors as well, she had no doubt, and informed the schoolteacher that she had been curious about the d’Armors’ part in the wartime activities of the village. There was a traditional bond between the priest and the schoolteacher, she seemed to remember, but she was puzzled in this instance as to why the old priest had seen fit to issue a warning.

  “I’m a journalist,” she agreed, and met the man’s eyes with a determined steadiness. “At least in more usual circumstances I am, at the moment I’m working for Monsieur d’Armor at the chateau.”

  “So I understand, mademoiselle,” the schoolteacher said in a flat dry voice. “Monsieur d’Armor, like his predecessors, is noted for his hospitality!”

  Something in his voice, the implication that she was in some way abusing that hospitality, brought a swift flush to Jesamine’s cheeks. “I can’t deny it,” she said in a voice that she held determinedly steady despite a tendency to shake. “He’s—they’ve all been very good to me.”

  The man’s dark eyes held hers, slightly narrowed as he looked at her for a moment. “Precisement!” he said. He took his son’s arm and inclined his head in a brief formal bow. “You will please excuse us, mademoiselle,” he said. “My wife expects us shortly.”

  Jesamine concealed her hurt at the situation with a rather tight little smile. “Of course, monsieur,” she said. It was seldom that she came upon such antagonism towards her profession, and she found it rather hard to accept. It gave her a curiously alien feeling, as if she had no right there, and she found it oddly discomfiting.

  Rene, she thought, was as puzzled by his father’s attitude as she was herself, and he looked at her anxiously, resisting for the moment his father’s pull on his arm. “I may be permitted to conduct you again, Mademoiselle Arden?” he asked, but she had no time to answer.

  Monsieur Marais spoke up first, firmly but politely. “I think not, Rene,” he told his son, then explained briefly to Jesamine. “My son is a little young for such duties, mademoiselle,” he told her, and firmly quelled Rene’s half-voiced protest. “We feel it would be better if he did not undertake to act as your guide again.”

  There was little she could say. The man had made up his mind and she could scarcely stand there and argue with him on the right to employ his son as guide. Rene was young and his father must have the last word, but the man’s mistrust was as puzzling and hurtful as the old priest’s had been, and she wished she knew the reason for it.

  “I understand,” she said in a small voice, then smiled at Rene apologetically. “Goodbye, Rene. I don’t suppose I shall see you again, but—thank you!”

  She walked past them with her chin a little higher than usual, and it occurred to her that Monsieur Marais was watching her with a certain regret. He was not a naturally unfriendly man, she guessed, and his attitude towards her stemmed purely and simply from the fact that she was, or had been, a journalist. A journalist staying in Francois d’Armor’s home—for that, she thought, was the significant factor. What prompted such reticence, the reason behind it, she had no idea as yet, but she could not help feeling that eventually she would learn, perhaps without even trying to.

  It seemed cooler once she was clear of the village, but it was still very warm and there was almost no wind at all. It was later than she had realised too, and she wondered whether she had been missed yet. Even if Paul had already returned to the chateau without her, it was unlikely that anyone would actually worry about where she had gone since she left him, although certainly old Francois would be curious.

  There were still people working in the vineyards, although there was no sign of Paul’s car now and she wondered what explanation he would give his grandfather if he had returned without her. It was doubtful if he would be as frank about his suspicions to the old man as he had been to her.

  Recalling his mocking disbelief that she knew nothing of any plan of his grandfather’s, she felt the same sensation of embarrassment as when she faced him in the vineyard, and she was suddenly unwilling to face him again, knowing he still believed it. Instinctively she stopped in her tracks and dropped down on to the sun-warmed grass beside the road, resting her elbows on her knees.

  It was obvious, now that she thought about it, that Paul was trying, hoping to embarrass her into leaving, and the fact that he set about it so ruthlessly was what hurt most, no matter how she tried to be uncaring. Twice he had kissed her in a way that made her tremble just to remember it, but each time he had left her in no doubt t
hat he was aware of the effect he could have and was simply amused by her reaction. Now, she thought, she knew his reason.

  If he really suspected that his grandfather had some scheme to marry her off to him, which she could hardly credit even now, then she supposed his resentment was understandable to some extent, but it did not hurt any the less. If only there was some way she could discover exactly what the old man had in mind, she could act accordingly. Until then—

  She sighed deeply and poked with the toe of one shoe at the dusty surface of the road, raising her head when she thought she heard a car coming. It would scarcely do to be found by some passing motorist, sitting there in the gutter.

  Getting to her feet, she brushed the dust from her jeans, then started once more to walk in the direction of the chateau. The car was coming fast, and recognition came in the same instant that the brakes were put on hard, sending up a cloud of dust from its shrieking tyres.

  Paul looked at her for a second through the window of the car, but said nothing, and after one brief, searching glance he restarted the car, turned skilfully on the narrow road, then drew up once more beside her. Jesamine had expected him to drive on and she watched him warily, her legs strangely weak suddenly, and a rapid fluttering beat to her heart.

  Why on earth he should have come out to look for her after all those harsh accusing words he had used, she had no idea. He got out of the car and stood looking down at her, a curiously bright and anxious look in the grey eyes, a hint of frown drawing his fair brows together.

  “Where have you been, petite idiote?” he demanded at last, and with such vehemence that Jesamine blinked for a moment in surprise. His manner suggested that she had not only been missed, but that he had actually been anxious about her whereabouts, and she felt less indignant than curiously excited by his abrupt question.

  “I walked into the village,” she said as coolly as she knew how.

  Paul’s mouth tightened ominously. “But you did not think to tell me of your intention.” he accused harshly, and Jesamine flushed.

  Lifting her chin, she looked him straight in the eyes. “When I left you,” she reminded him in a slightly unsteady voice, “you weren’t interested where I went as long as it was well away from you! And I don’t have to account to you for every move I make, Monsieur Paul!”

  “Zut! Vous—” He made a determined effort to pull himself up, then took her arm roughly and half persuaded, half pushed her into the passenger seat of the car, slamming the door after her. Striding round the car, he slid in beside her, still in silence and still looking angry.

  Jesamine had it in mind to question him about why he had come to look for her, but on second thoughts she wondered if he might simply have come in response to his grandfather’s request, and she was reluctant to have it confirmed at the moment. At the moment she preferred to foster the illusion that he had come of his own accord.

  It was as they approached the entrance to the chateau that she saw a couple of policemen standing beside the tangled wreckage of two cars, and she shook her head. How it could have happened on such a quiet, little used road puzzled her. It had apparently been a pretty bad crash, although most of the chaos was removed now and only the two guardian policemen remained with the wrecks.

  “Someone must have been pretty badly hurt in that,” Jesamine observed as they drove by.

  “Several people,” Paul agreed shortly, and she realised he must have passed it on his way out.

  “How awful!” She looked back through the rear window and shuddered. “No one was killed I hope.”

  He did not answer at once, but drove in through the gateway to the chateau. “A girl was killed,” he told her abruptly, almost reluctantly. “An English girl—she was taken to the Hopital de Sainte Marie in Nantes and died there.”

  Jesamine looked at him for a moment with a curious sense of anticipation curling in her stomach, though heaven knew why. “Did you see it happen?” she asked.

  “Non!” His voice was harsh and he still spoke as if reluctant to say anything about it. “I came along only a short time ago, when it was all over, but the police told me.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  He said no more, but Jesamine’s heart gave a violent leap as she looked at the strong, rugged profile turned so determinedly to her. She thought she knew now why he had been driving at that breakneck speed when she saw him, travelling in the general direction of Nantes.

  He had been told that one of the victims of the crash was an English girl, and he had thought of her walking back to the chateau alone. He had probably not even stopped to reason why she had taken so long to walk that far, but had turned the car around and gone like fury back towards the Nantes road to check on the victim’s identity.

  “You thought it might be me?” she guessed, soft-voiced, but Paul did not turn his head, nor did he confirm or deny her guess.

  Instead he drove in silence down the tree-lined carriageway. But Jesamine sat beside him feeling suddenly warm and slightly lightheaded when she thought of him driving like fury to find what had happened to her. Relief at seeing her safe and well would account for that vehement demand to know where she had been and why she had not told him she intended walking into the village instead of coming back to the chateau.

  She leaned her head back and watched him from the thick shadow of her lashes as he drove round in front of the doors. She said nothing more, for she knew he would never admit to having been concerned for her, but there was a faint smile on her mouth as he cut the engine, and she found her own certainty that she was right incredibly satisfying.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JESAMINE had expected the list of antiques she was compiling to take some time, but she was amazed just how long the list was proving to be, and her alarm at their being unprotected increased the longer it became. The d’Armors must be incredibly wealthy by any standards, but even Francois was moved to exclaim that he had no idea they were housing such a veritable treasure trove.

  In the three weeks she had been working on it, she had completed only two rooms and barely started on a third, and there were any number of rooms yet to receive her attention. It would be a very long job, as Monsieur d’Armor had anticipated when he offered it to her, but she wondered if he had realised just how long. At her present rate of progress she could expect to take as much as another six months to catalogue the entire contents of the chateau, and she thought it expedient to mention the fact during dinner one evening.

  Paul looked up curiously when she mentioned an estimate of six months, but she could not tell whether or not he disliked the prospect. Lately he had been less openly resentful of her presence, although he was still a discomfiting feature in an otherwise pleasant situation. Sometimes he teased her, but he had never again attempted to kiss her or to practise his particularly disturbing brand of seduction on her.

  Francois d’Armor seemed completely unconcerned how long the job took, and she was once again driven to speculating whether he actually did harbour the kind of devious aspirations his grandson had accused him of. He merely accepted her estimation, nodding his head and smiling.

  “Did I not inform you that it would take much time, ma chere?” he asked, and Jesamine smiled ruefully.

  “You did, Monsieur d’Armor,” she agreed, “but did you anticipate it being quite so long?”

  “I had no idea how long it might be,” the old man admitted cheerfully. “Surely it is of little consequence, ma chere?”

  “Are you weary of the task, enfant?” Madame d’Armor enquired kindly, and Jesamine hastened to deny it.

  “Oh no, madame!” she assured her. “I don’t think I ever would get tired of it, no matter how long it took!” She did not consciously look across at Paul when she spoke, but when he caught her eye he had a half-smile on his mouth that made her heart flutter anxiously. “It’s just that—” She laughed and shook her head. “I don’t know, it’s just that I feel—I sometimes wonder if anyone suspects I’m making the job last longer than it sh
ould.”

  She had not mentioned who was the most likely person to suspect her of such a thing, but she did not really need to—Paul would know she referred to him.

  “And are you—making it last longer than it should, Jesamine?” he asked, his quiet voice demanding attention as usual.

  His grandfather clucked at him reproachfully. “Mais non, mon gargon,” he told him. “Why should Jesamine do anything so—unnecessary, huh?”

  Paul shrugged. One elbow rested on the table and his long fingers curled about the stem of his wine glass while he regarded Jesamine with a steadiness that she always found unnerving. “Je ne sais pas, Grandpere,” he said. “The idea was Jesamine’s, not mine!”

  Her glance held reproach as well as defiance, and she saw the glitter of laughter in his eyes as he watched her from across the table. Even after more than six weeks under the same roof with him, she still found him the most disturbing man she had ever met, nor was she any more immune to the irresistible fascination he had for her.

  “Monsieur d’Armor understands me well enough,” she told him, and went on to explain, “It’s just that I’m so afraid of missing something, or of putting the wrong value on something very precious, that I’m taking so long. It’s really quite hair-raising at times, wondering if I’m making a complete shambles of it all.”

  “Oh, mais non!” old Francois denied firmly. “That I will not believe! You do excellently, ma chere, and I would trust no one else to do it!”

  “Thank you, Monsieur d’Armor, you’re very kind to say so!” She could not resist another glance at Paul, and the slight wrinkling of her nose was purely instinctive. She only realised how provocative it might be thought when she saw the glittering look he regarded her with.

  “You need reassurance?” he asked, and she thought for a moment before she nodded agreement.

  “I suppose that’s it really,” she confessed. “I’m not an expert, not like my parents are, and I’m only hoping that I shan’t be—found out, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve made any mistakes yet, but I still keep holding my breath in case I do!”