The gravel driveway narrowed, lined with towering yew trees. Though their branches were now bare, silvery and skeletal, they had grown together so thickly that the house was hidden from view. Every once in a while I would glimpse something, a domed marble summerhouse, a white statue that seemed ghostly. Like the gates, the park had surely once been grand, impressively laid out to surprise and delight visitors. But neglect laid over all like the chilly mist that crept around the floorboards of the carriage. I tucked my feet closer to the seat, and touched my mother's bracelet for reassurance.
Suddenly, we turned a last corner and the house loomed before us. I gasped at the sight. The driver was surely right—this had once been a most beautiful house indeed.
The formal gardens, though now overgrown and tangled from their neat square beds, led to a marble fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. The carved cupids and goddesses seemed to point to the house, as if anyone could miss it.
Pierpont rose to three stories of gleaming windows, up and up to that dark gray roof and forest of chimneys, with fanciful round towers at each corner and a horseshoe of marble steps leading up to a terrace and the front doors. Those towers were covered with ivy grown wild, adding to the fairy-tale of it all. Behind the house rose steep, rocky hills, making it seem as if the house had risen from the wild land itself.
The carriage lurched to a halt, and I stepped down from it carefully, still watching the house. I could see no one at the windows, not even the twitch of a curtain. The gleam I fancied I saw earlier was gone, leaving only the flat gray reflection of the clouds.
“You see, mademoiselle,” the driver said as he unloaded my travel trunk and valise, “just beyond that hill is the sea.”
I nodded, sure now that I could hear the rush of the waves. I started up the steps, trying to hold my head high, to smile. If I wanted to start of well in this new life, I couldn't show that I was frightened at all. I had to prove to myself above all that I could do this task.
Even before I could reach for the tarnished brass knocker on the heavy wooden door, it swung open to reveal an older lady in severe black silk. She was tall, much taller than my own sadly petite height, with rigidly upright posture despite her age. Her gray hair was pinned tightly beneath a neat cap, and her brows arched in question above dark, piercing eyes. A heavy set of polished keys swayed and clinked from her belt.
“Yes, mademoiselle?” she said, her voice crisp and cool.
“I am Mademoiselle Duplessis. I've come to begin my position as companion to Madame Monsard,” I answered, just as coldly. I reminded myself about holding a proud, if polite, stance, and being confident. It didn't seem so very easy.
“Indeed? We expected you tomorrow.”
I frowned, feeling a bit nonplussed. “Monsieur Favril wrote to me to arrive today.”
“Did he? Well, I fear the doctor has just departed, which means madame will be asleep for the rest of the day. You cannot see her until tomorrow.” The woman sighed, making her keys rattle even louder. “Well, you are here now. Come inside. I am Madame Charles, housekeeper here at Pierpont. I will send a manservant to help with your trunks.”
She turned and disappeared into the shadows beyond the door, leaving me to scramble after her.
I found myself in a vast entrance hall, all marble pillars and black and white tiled floor, with a domed ceiling arching overhead. It was painted in some classical scene, but the hall was not lit, and after the gray glare of the day outside I could not make out the images. At one end was a set of closed double doors, at the other a winding marble staircase with a gilded balustrade of carved flowers and fruits.
“Follow me, mademoiselle,” Madame Charles said, leading the way to the stairs. “Madame Monsard has ordered that you be given the Rose Room, as it is near her own. I am not sure if it is ready yet, but Marie, our housemaid, can air it out for you. Are you hungry after your journey?”
I wanted to say no, for the tone of Madame Charles's voice said it would be an imposition, but my stomach chose that moment to give a rumble. “A cup of tea would welcome, merci.”
“Marie will bring you up a tray. I fear we are rather short of staff at the moment. Servant girls these days are so flighty, never staying in one place for long.” She gave a long sigh. “I have been here since I came as a kitchen maid at fourteen. Standards are not what they were.”
I could not imagine living at Pierpont for so long. It was truly a beautiful place, I saw as Madame Charles led me over a landing and along a corridor. The walls were molded into fine white plasterwork scenes of fruit and flowers, and rich red and blue carpets muffled our footsteps, but it was all rather faded. There was a chill to the air, a cold dampness that made me shiver.
“What staff is here, madame?” I asked, just wanting to hear a human voice.
“Marie and Nellie, the maids; a cook; and Monsieur Gilles, the butler. He has been here as long as I have. There is a footman, and a few girls from the village who come in to help now and then. There is also madame's doctor and nurse, though no lady's maid at the moment. It is all barely enough, especially with Monsieur Harcourt in residence, too.”
“Monsieur Harcourt?”
I noticed Madame Charles's lips tightened. “Madame's step-brother. He claims he is here to help Madame in her illness, but he brought no valet, and his presence makes more work for everyone. At least he spends most of his days out hunting and riding.”
We turned a corner, and I almost screamed at the sudden, shocking sight looming before us. I quickly realized it was no living being, but a statue, life-sized, carved of some dark wood with raised arms and eyes created of a glowing blue stone. It was locked inside a glass case, and looked as if it was screaming to get out.
I stumbled back a step, my gloved hand pressed to my mouth to strangle that embarrassing shriek.
“Ah, yes. That.” Madame Charles's lips pinched even tighter. “Monsieur Monsard send that back from those heathen islands. This is supposed to be a god. I fear you will find a few such things dotted here and there around the house. They do not suit the décor of Pierpont, but Madame insists they remain.”
I edged carefully around the carving. As I studied it closer, I saw it was most beautiful, its powerful features and feathered cloak intricately carved. Yet those glowing eyes seemed to follow me. At the end of the corridor, Madame Charles opened a door.
“This is your chamber, Mademoiselle Duplessis,” she said. “And Madame's suite is just there.”
I noticed a door at the other end of the walkway, an ancient, iron-bound portal. “And what is there?”
“That is the entrance to the east wing. It is kept locked, and no one is allowed to go there,” Madame Charles said shortly.
Of course my interest was piqued. A locked door no one was allowed beyond? It sounded most intriguing.
But I had no time to ask more. Madame Charles led me into my chamber, and I had no choice but to follow. For a moment, I was afraid I might be faced with more island gods, yet that was quickly laid to rest. The Rose Room was lovely, small but prettily appointed with a white-painted bed and armoire, a dressing stand and a small desk near the window. The polished wood floor was laid with a flowered rug, the pink woven blossoms matching the wallpaper and the silk of the curtains and the counterpane. Two cushioned chairs were set near a fireplace faced in painted tiles.
It was a most modern and ordinary room, quite welcoming, and I breathed deeply in relief. The air was cool, but smelled of fresh lemon polish and rose potpourri.
As Madame Charles bustled around, tying back the window curtains and rearranging the stationery and inkpots on the desk, the carriage driver and a tall, gangling young footman delivered my trunk.
“I shall send Marie up with some tea, and to lay a fire,” Madame Charles said. “If you would care to join us in my sitting room later for dinner? We dine at seven.”
“Thank you, madame,” I said, wondering what my place would be in the household order. Would I dine with Madame, or w
ith the upper servants? Or by myself, from a cold tray?
“Madame Monsard does not eat heavily, but I am sure she will wish you to dine with her in future,” Madame Charles said. “I will leave you to unpack.”
As the door clicked shut behind her and her footsteps faded away, I felt well and truly alone in the chateau. I took off my cloak and hat, hanging them in the armoire, and as I peeled away my gloves I went to peek out the window.
I found I had a view of the gardens behind the house, rising from a neat lane of flowerbeds into terraced rock gardens until they rose into the face of the cliffs behind the property. The steep hills soared away into the sky, adding to the sense of being cut off from the world beyond the chateau.
A knock at the door startled me out of my gloomy thoughts. I whirled away from the sight of those stone cliffs. “C-come in,” I called.
It was a maidservant, short and plump, cheerful with her pink cheeks and ready smile beneath her ruffled cap. She carried a heavy silver tray covered with a napkin, and I was most glad to see her young, happy face.
“I'm Marie, mademoiselle,” she said with a bob of a curtsy. “I'm to make up a fire for you, and help you unpack if you wish.”
“Thank you very much, Marie,” I answered, already feeling less lonely with her there. “I confess a fire would be wonderful on a day like this.”
Marie gave an understanding smile as she knelt at the tiled grate. “Pierpont is always cold, mademoiselle, no matter how many fires are set! I'll bring you a warming pan for your bed later.”
“That would be most welcome.” I opened my trunk and set about taking out my few possessions. My gowns, mostly gray and lavender, creased from the journey; a wedding photograph of parents, and a carved ivory box that went on the desk; the precious books I arranged on a shelf. It felt better to have my familiar bits and pieces around me. “Have you worked here very long, Marie?”
“A few months,” she answered as she coaxed a fire into life. “My family lives in the village just over the hills. I didn't want to come. We've always heard such strange stories about the house, how quiet and odd it is. But the pay is good.”
“Strange stories?” I asked, interested.
“There are sometimes lights in windows where no one can be,” she whispered. “And I am sure I heard voices one night, along this corridor, when I know no one was there. And there is the perfume...”
“Perfume?”
Marie shook her head, as if she had said too much, when I wanted to know more and more. But she just curtsied and asked if I needed any more assistance.
After Marie left, I glanced back out the window. The day was fading into a pinkish-gray evening glow, casting the forlorn gardens into shadows. For an instant, I thought I saw a flicker of movement on the pathways, like a flowing skirt or shifting shadow, but when I blinked it was gone and the garden was empty.
“Sandrine, you are much too tired,” I told myself sternly. “You are seeing things that are not there. A good supper, and then to bed, that's what you need.”
Yet I feared I would not sleep very well at all on my first night at Chateau de Pierpont.
Chapter Three
I was not at all sure what to do with myself.
The evening meal in the housekeeper's sitting room, a quiet, solemn hour with the soft conversation drowned out by the tick of a clock on the wall, was over. (The food, at least, was excellent, a good sign for my new home). I was meant to retire to my chamber, to prepare to meet my invalid employer in the morning, yet I found myself hopelessly lost.
The picturesque exterior of the Chateau de Pierpont became a confusing tangle of corridors and stairways inside. I knew my own room was in the old, central portion of the house, and that the servants' quarters were in the west wing, but I wasn't sure where I was at that moment. Nothing looked familiar; it was merely rows of closed doors, a sea of polished wood floors. The meager light of my lamp only cast a small circle of amber light in the shadows now that night had fallen.
I regretted declining Marie's escort. I hadn't wanted to take up the maid's time, as she was obviously needed for the kitchen washing-up, but now I wished she was with me. Not only was I lost; something about the house made me shiver. Beyond the safety of my lamplight, it felt as if someone watched me, silent and patient. The back of my neck under the chignon of my hair prickled, and I spun around to hold the lamp higher.
No one was there, of course. There was no sound, no movement at all.
“Don't be a silly goose,” I told myself sternly. No one would hire a companion who was fanciful and nervous, who behaved like a girl in an English horrid novel populated by spirits and vampires and evil monks. I confess I did sometimes read such things and enjoyed them greatly, but I did not wish to live in one. Companions had to be practical and cheerful, if they wished to keep their position.
I turned down another corridor, and found myself in a most astonishing space. It was a long, narrow gallery, faced with tall windows along one wall, opposite a row of paintings, hung three or four deep on dark, medieval paneling. The ceiling high above, though mostly in gloom beyond my lamplight, seemed to be painted and gilded.
I glanced out the window, and saw the terraced garden with the hills rising behind, blotting out the night sky. I had to be near my own chamber. Perhaps it was only upstairs, above the gallery, yet I had no idea how to reach it.
A sudden banging noise startled me, and I spun around, my lamp swinging wildly. I saw nothing had fallen, no door had slammed. It must have been a servant in another room. I opened my mouth to call to them. The words strangled in a gasp as I glimpsed a pale figure, blurry and swaying, just across from me where no one had been before.
Then I laughed, for I realized the figure was myself, reflected in a silver-framed mirror. I knew it had to be me because of my mother's bracelet on the wrist. The lamplight made me seem to glow, a small, pale figure in my best dress of gray silk, unadorned but for the violet ribbon on the short sleeves and a bit of pleating at the neckline. It was assuredly my own gown.
I laughed nervously, and smoothed my brown hair back into its plain knot. I was clearly overly tired. The sooner I found my own room, the sooner I would feel more like myself. Like a woman not prone to wild fancies.
I couldn't leave yet, though, as I found my attention caught by the paintings on the gallery wall. They were portraits, mostly, a row of faces marching through time. There were ladies with long curls and satin gowns sliding off their white shoulders, as if they had escaped from Louise XIV's Versailles when that palace was new. Men in ruffs gave way to powdered wigs and fine lace. Military uniforms, high-waisted Napoleonic muslins, cameo diadems, silk crinolines such as my mother wore. All the men had the same eyes—dark, bottomless, full of sadness. They held me spellbound.
I came to the end, and found myself faced with a couple, painted with the towers of Pierpont in the background. The lady was pale and slender in gleaming white satin, her high-piled blonde curls seemingly too heavy for her delicate neck and shy smile. A man stood behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder. He was very handsome, tall and black-haired in a blue coat decorated with orders. He, too, had those dark eyes that seemed to see everything out of his frozen moment in time.
In his other hand he held, not a sword or a family badge, but a staff carved of some strange, dark wood. Vines and fruit twined along the length of it, intricate and beautiful. Surely this was the ill-fated Monsieur Monsard, who died so far away in tropical islands. He looked quite sad—haunted.
“Fascinating, is it not? The great march of time.”
The sudden voice, echoing along the vast gallery, startled me. I whirled around, almost dropping my lamp as my skirts tangled around me. Had I not just vowed not to be frightened, to be calm and vigilant? Now here I was, caught unaware yet again, my heart pounding loudly in my ears.
At least it was not a phantom I saw there in the gallery doorway, but a real man. I knew I hadn't seen him before, or I would have remembered. He was not the
sort of man any lady could forget. He was handsome in an almost greek-god fashion, with golden hair falling in over-long curls over his velvet coat collar, and aquiline features Apollo would have envied. He was tall and lean, clad in an almost artistic fashion in a pale blue coat and elaborate cravat.
“Forgive me for startling you,” he said as he slowly walked along the gallery. His boots clicked hollowly on the old wooden floor. “I didn't think anyone would be here. I'm usually alone in the gallery, a perfect place to do things I shouldn't.” He held up his hand, a burning cheroot clasped between long, elegant fingers. A green stone gleamed in a gold ring.
“I became lost on my way back from dinner,” I said. “I found myself interested in the pictures.”
He gave me gleaming smile. “You must be my sister's new companion. She was most excited about your impending arrival. I am Olivier Harcourt, Madeline's stepbrother.”
“Of course.” I now remembered Madame Charles mentioning him when I first arrived. “I am Sandrine Duplessis.”
“You must have just arrived.”
“This afternoon. I haven't even met Madame Monsard yet.”
“Poor Madeline. She was always delicate, and I fear the loss of her husband has made her much worse, even though she had not seen him in months. I hope you can help her.”
I found myself touched by his obvious concern for his sister. “I hope so, too.” I glanced back at the double portrait. “Was Monsieur Monsard in the islands very long? It seems so far away, a whole different world.”
“Indeed. Too hot for me, I'm sure, to many infernal insects. But he did love it. He had a chance to return to France. Madeline begged him to take it, and he refused. He preferred to stay on Tahiti. They say he quite adapted to native ways there. The only part of him Madeline got back was the crates of statues and such.”
I studied the carved staff in the portrait. I thought I could glimpse faces, mysterious and beautiful, in the wood. “I did see the statue of the god when I arrived. I've never seen such a thing before, even though my father studied many different mythologies of the world.”
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 2
