Chapter Two
By the time he had enjoyed a hot bath in a surprisingly up-to-date bathing chamber and changed into dry clothes, which had arrived in good time, Ned’s usual good humor had returned. He could appreciate the incongruities of the Morvan chateau now that he had experienced its luxuries.
The medieval castle, with its impressive gloom and maze-like corridors, would be dim even on a sunny day. The two windows of his room were mere slits in stone walls a good two feet thick. The stone flags of the floor were old enough to have been worn into a hollow by centuries of footsteps passing through the doorway. Though small, the room was dominated by a fireplace with a massive stone mantle at least five centuries old—and a roaring fire adequate to warm the room.
He was not a medievalist himself, but Ned knew enough to be able to recognize the authenticity of the architecture, and to be amused by the oddity of the modern furnishings. These were medieval only in the way that Pugin or the Pre-Raphaelites were medieval. The bed sported a heavy oak canopy supported on pillars that were in turn separated by pointed arches filled with carved traceries. Several chairs were placed around the room, chairs on which not a square inch of wood had escaped the carver’s chisel.
He had seen similar pieces in the catalog his mother had been examining when she was considering redoing some of the rooms at Penworth. Now that he had tried sitting in one of the chairs, he was glad she had decided against the medieval look.
The stone walls of his room were hung, appropriately enough, with tapestries, but these had been woven not more than twenty years ago. On one, a knight with a soulful expression rode a horse as pale and wan as he. On another, an etiolated damsel leaned mournfully from her tower.
Tony might consider him a romantic, and Ned knew himself well enough to acknowledge that he might on occasion get lost in daydreams about the past, but he also knew the difference between the reality and the prettified version that decorated too many drawing rooms.
Whatever the shortcomings of the furnishings might be, the view from the windows could not be faulted. This part of the castle was built into the western wall. When Ned looked out, there was nothing to be seen but the wild Atlantic. Not so wild today, with fog off in the distance so there was no sea, no sky, no horizon, only a darkening mist. A timeless, eternal prospect offering nothing but infinite possibility.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the window, sending a chill to recall him to the present and prompt him to laugh at himself. The roaring fire under that stone mantle meant that the room was warm and the mattress on that grotesque bed would be soft. There was nothing like a day spent riding through a chilly fog to make a man appreciate creature comforts, and he was not such a fool as to prefer medieval reality to modern comforts. He was looking forward to that bed, but first came dinner and an introduction to the mysterious cousins.
Clivers, his man, gave a final whisk to his evening dress coat and nodded approval of his appearance. Ned stepped out into the corridor and realized he had no idea where to go. Fortunately, his confusion had been anticipated and Louis, the gaunt footman, detached himself from the wall and silently positioned himself to guide Ned through the gloomy corridors.
His destination turned out to be a room that had probably once been the Great Hall of the medieval castle. A massive stone fireplace, at least double the size of the one in his room, stood at one end, with a blaze that almost warmed the room. Almost, because no contained fire could warm a room this size, any more than a dozen lamps could illuminate it. The corners of the room were hidden in darkness, and high above, the ceiling vanished in the gloom above the blackened beams that ran the full width of the ceiling.
Here was a medieval room, but furnished as a fashionable drawing room. Here the stone walls were hung with paintings of heroic scenes from history interspersed with gilt-framed mirrors. The half-dozen tables around the room were covered with draperies and topped with oil lamps and a clutter of knick-knacks. Various chairs were scattered about, all looking finicky and uncomfortable.
Tony looked up at Ned’s entrance with a smile of relief. He seemed to have been trapped against a potted palm by an older man with grizzled whiskers and a lugubrious mustache.
“Milk, not brandy. And remember to take the tonic,” the older man said, shaking a finger at Tony.
Tony nodded dutifully and called out, “Ned, come and meet Dr. Fernac, who is caring for the old man.”
The doctor scowled. “A bit of respect for the vicomte on your part would not come amiss.”
“You know that is beyond me, Fernac. But please allow me to introduce my friend, Lord Edward Tremaine, who will be delighted to listen to the old man’s tales.”
The introduction did not win a smile from the doctor, but his scowl lessened slightly as he inclined his head at Ned, who murmured polite greetings. Then the doctor looked past Ned and did smile.
Ned turned and stared. It was quite possible that his mouth was hanging open. He could not be certain, but he did not care.
It was the angel from the staircase. She was every bit as beautiful as he had thought. No, she was more beautiful. She was absolute perfection.
Those ringlets of pale gold framed a delicate face with a rosebud of a mouth over an exquisite little chin. Large eyes of soft blue looked up at him through thick lashes under a high, smooth forehead. The faintest blush of pink touched her rounded cheeks. Her figure was all soft and round, a full bosom above a tiny little waist. He could span that waist with his hands, he was sure.
She was all softness and roundness, looking as sweet and gentle as an…as an…well, as an angel. The very sight of such a delicate, fragile creature roused all his protective chivalrous instincts. Were he a knight, he would kneel at her feet, dedicating himself to her service. What greater joy could there be in life than to serve such a creature?
He could feel himself smiling, and that faint blush of pink on her cheeks deepened slightly.
“And here are my cousins.” There was a hint of laughter in Tony’s voice.
Cousins? Ned was confused for a moment until he realized that the angel was not alone. Beside her stood a tall dark woman, dressed in black. She was young, he realized, probably in her early twenties, so only a little older than the angel, but she looked stern and forbidding. Dark eyes under slashes of brows, a wide mouth pinched in a tight line… She was an intimidating creature, harsh and angry.
Still another woman stood behind them. This one was much older, though dressed in black like the tall young woman. Also like her, this one was stern and unsmiling. The pair of them were almost frightening, hovering over the angel like a pair of wicked spirits in a fairy tale.
Trailing them was a hulking young man, probably a servant since he remained in the corridor when they entered the room. Though he was not dressed in livery, as the servants in the castle seemed to be.
“Ladies, may I present my old school friend, Lord Edward Tremaine, who has come for a visit. He will, I trust, help to entertain you while he is here. Ned, these are my cousins, Mlle. Delphine de Roncaille and Mlle. Marguerite Benda, and their companion, Mme. d’Hivers.”
The ladies all curtsied—the angel with a graceful flutter, the other two with brief, chilly courtesy. Ned bowed and did his best to force his face into a courteous mask. He feared he had been looking like a moonstruck calf, and Tony had been finding too much amusement in the sight.
“Lord Edward Tremaine, we are enchanted to have you here.”
The angel—Mlle. de Roncaille—had a soft, sweet voice with an enchanting accent. Just what he would have expected. Although they all spoke in English, she pronounced his name in the French way—Edouard—making almost three syllables of it. He managed to form a response. “How could I fail to be enchanted here, when I discover myself in such delightful company?”
Mlle. de Roncaille clasped her hands together at her breast. “Ah, but how delightful it will be, how much more amusing now that we have such an elegant cavalier among us. We shall have such gaiety!”
She beamed her smile at him, looking up through those long golden lashes.
Ned swallowed. No one had ever considered him an elegant cavalier before. Certainly not his sisters, but perhaps all sisters viewed their brothers as something of a joke. That was certainly the case in his family. He hoped they were wrong and Mlle. de Roncaille had the right of it. Before he could frame an elegant response, the elderly companion spoke.
“Gaiety, Delphine? You forget how ill the vicomte is, and you forget that we are still in mourning.” Mme. d’Hivers sounded as cold as her name.
Immediately contrite tears threatened to spill from Mlle. de Roncaille’s blue eyes as she turned to her cousin. “Forgive me, Marguerite. I know how much you must miss your poor papa. I am desolated that I forgot for even one moment the pain you suffer, the pain I share.”
Mlle. Benda turned a quelling look on her. “There is no need to be quite so dramatic, Delphine. It is simply that we should be grateful that the vicomte has offered us shelter here, even though he is old and ill himself.”
“You are so cold, Marguerite.” The younger girl pouted—quite prettily, but it was still a pout. “Gratitude is such a cold emotion. After all, he is our relative as well as Antoine’s, and this is our ancestral home too, is it not? Why should we not reside here as well?”
“No reason at all,” said Tony, intervening before Mlle. Benda could make the cutting retort that seemed to be on her lips. “Shall we go in to dinner?”
Mlle. Benda took Tony’s arm with a sigh of resignation. Ned could not be entirely displeased, since this allowed him to lead in Mlle. de Roncaille. Still, there were currents he did not understand. The temperature of the room could not explain the shiver that ran down his spine.
Chapter Three
If he expected the move to improve matters, he was mistaken. The dining room was another stone-walled room, as chilly as the hall. It seemed oppressed rather than lightened by the weight of gleaming silver on the table. An enormous epergne in the center of the table bore, for some unknown reason, a display of beaded fruit. It also blocked Ned’s view of Mlle. de Roncaille so that he had to tilt his head at an awkward angle in order to see her, and his neck was beginning to hurt.
The discomfort lasted throughout dinner. It was not the food—which was very good in the French fashion, though not very warm—and the impeccable service made him realize that the chateau was indeed well staffed. In the fog, he must have chosen to enter through the wrong door. That would explain why it had taken so long for anyone to open to him. He would have to ask Tony later.
However, none of that had anything to do with the air of tension in the dining room. All of them, save Mlle. de Roncaille, seemed watchful, on their guard against something.
Tony’s discontent seemed focused on his stomach, and looking at his dinner, Ned was hardly surprised. While the rest of them feasted on scallops cooked with mushrooms, shallots, wine and cream, Tony’s plate bore a piece of plain boiled fish accompanied by a boiled potato. Even Tony’s mustache seemed to uncurl and droop at the pitiful sight.
“Trust me,” said the doctor. He signaled to a footman who poured a glass of mineral water for Tony.
Tony looked at it with despair.
“Trust me,” the doctor repeated. “You must treat your liver gently.”
Tony glared at him.
“Poor Cousin Antoine.” Mlle. de Roncaille clasped her hands to her heart and tilted her head. “I do pray that it is not The Curse!” Her eyes grew round and she spoke as though the words required capital letters. An excited smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.
“What curse…?” Ned began.
“The Curse of the Morvans, of course. Do you not know of it?” Her eyes glittered and rosy spots of color appeared in her cheeks.
“Such foolishness,” exclaimed Mme. d’Hivers.
“Delphine! Stop that nonsense at once,” said Mlle. Benda. “You know there is no such thing as a curse.”
“But there is. Why do you try to pretend it isn’t true? Is that not why we are all here?” The girl lifted her chin defiantly.
The two older women exchanged glances.
“Delphine…” Mlle. Benda spoke softly. It was as if she were trying to soothe a frightened kitten.
Mme. d’Hivers was far less gentle, and her look was cold and stern. “You are upsetting yourself, Delphine. Do you wish to dine in your room?”
Mlle. de Roncaille froze and then drew back in her seat. “No, I am not upset.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Do not send me away. Please.”
“Oh, leave her alone,” said the doctor, waving his fork in his hand. “Children like to frighten themselves with such tales. We all know that it is nonsense.”
The young girl glared at him and opened her mouth as if to protest, but then looked at the older women, who were frowning at her, and subsided into a sulky silence. Mlle. Benda stared at her for a long minute and then returned to her meal.
Ned wanted to comfort the girl, but hesitated to say anything that might allow the other women to vent their displeasure on his angel. How ridiculous to get so upset over the mere mention of something as ludicrous as a curse. As if young girls did not always delight in frightening themselves with ghost stories. He searched his mind frantically for a neutral topic of conversation, but he had no idea where the explosive ones might be lurking. It wasn’t that he had any objection to offending Mlle. Benda, who seemed accustomed to having things her own way. He just wanted to protect Mlle. de Roncaille, who was obviously too timid to stand up for herself.
This was preposterous. He was never at a loss socially. His family had seen to that, having inflicted thundering bores and irascible old ladies on him as dinner partners ever since he had been out of the nursery. Surely he could smooth the ruffled feathers here. He picked up his glass and drank off half the wine in an effort to calm down.
He turned to Mlle. Benda. “Your English pronunciation is excellent, but every now and then, your phrasing sounds French. Am I mistaken in thinking that English is not your native tongue? ”
She smiled slightly—he was startled to see how even this tiny change softened her face. “My native tongue? I am not sure I have one. My mother grew up in England, so she spoke English to me to ensure that I learned it. My father was from Bohemia, so he spoke to me in German and Czech, and we lived mostly in Paris, so perforce we all spoke French.”
“Don’t be silly, Marguerite,” Mlle. de Roncaille said. “Of course your native language is French. We are all French, after all, though we are delighted to speak English now that Lord Edward is here.” She sent a beaming smile in his direction, which compensated in part for the frozen look that reappeared on Mlle. Benda’s face.
All right. Languages were a bone of contention. What else could he try?
The weather. Surely they could talk about the weather without distressing anyone. No one got heated about fog.
But it was Tony who spoke up first. “I heard from Georges today. He’s my partner in the steel venture”—he turned to Ned with that explanation—“and he thinks he’s found the perfect site in Franche-Comté for a steel mill. Close to iron mines, close to transport for coal, and with access to workers.”
“That sounds promising.” Ned looked up with a smile. At last—an unobjectionable topic of conversation.
Alas, he was wrong. The doctor also looked up from his meal. “Franche-Comté? Too close to Germany. They’ve already taken Alsace and Lorraine. If they invade us again…” He shook his head.
“If France modernizes, we will be too strong for them to invade.” Tony’s color rose along with his voice. “That is precisely why we need steel mills and railroads.”
“So you would dangle a rich prize in front of their noses?” Fernac’s color matched Tony’s. “They will be salivating at the prospect of the next invasion.”
Mme. d’Hivers slammed down her wine glass, sending the golden liquid splashing across the cloth. “They will attack us or we will attack them, and what does
it all mean? A few generals will have more medals, and a few bankers will have more gold. And for the rest of us? Death and misery once more.” Mme. d’Hivers’ sudden outburst of anger and anguish was such that Ned almost jumped in his seat. He would not have been surprised to see her hair turn into writhing snakes.
Mlle. Benda put her arm around the older woman and held her close, murmuring softly, “Be easy, Tante Héloise. Do not distress yourself.” Her voice was surprisingly gentle, and even her features seemed to soften as she spoke to the older woman.
Mme. d’Hivers took a deep breath and seemed to pull herself in. “Please forgive my outburst,” she said stiffly without actually looking at anyone in the room.
She stood and turned to leave, and everyone else rose as well. The two younger women followed her, Mlle. Benda with an apologetic glance and Mlle. de Roncaille with a roll of her eyes. The doctor hesitated for a moment and then excused himself to follow.
The hulking fellow must have been waiting just outside, because he detached himself from the wall to follow the women. Ned frowned. Something about him, about the way he followed them, seemed odd. Was it the way he stood? Hovering, but not really protectively.
As soon as the ladies had withdrawn, Tony went over to the sideboard, opened the lower cabinet and, with a sigh of pleasure, brought forth a decanter of port and two glasses.
Ned took one look and began to laugh. “What? Port instead of cognac? And you call yourself a Frenchman.”
“I call myself nothing of the sort,” said Tony, carefully placing the decanter on the table. “My mother was English, my father’s mother was English, so that makes me three-quarters English even if everyone here insists on calling me Antoine. I greatly prefer port to cognac at the end of a meal, and do not see why I should let an unknown ancestor decide what I may drink.”
Lord Edward's Mysterious Treasure Page 2
