“I have never seen such an interesting house before,” I answered truthfully. “And it's beautiful here.” That part of Normandy was indeed windswept and lonely, but also dramatic and moving. “I hope to have more space to think here.”
Madame's lips pursed. “Oh, yes. There is much room to think here. Nothing else to do. That is why I am glad you have come here. I haven't seen a new face in ages, except for my brother. And he does not care to entertain the ill very much.”
I thought of Monsieur Harcourt, so handsome and affable, yet according to the servants always disappearing to hunt and ride. “Families must help one another.”
Madame Monsard laughed. “So everyone would think. Yet Mathieu is more help to me from miles away than Olivier. Olivier has always been quite charming, but I fear there is little to occupy him here. He will surely soon leave.”
I thought of Monsieur Favril when I met him in his Rouen office, how handsome and fascinating he seemed, but how forbidding, as if he was not telling me everything about Pierpont and this task. Was he truly so kind to Madame Monsard? “Have you known Monsieur Favril very long?”
“As long as I have been married to Monsieur Monsard. Mathieu stood up for us at our wedding. He and my husband always served the same office. How very long ago that all seems now! I was a silly young girl, wild in love. My mother, God rest her soul, said I would not like leaving my home and friends in Rouen to live in a country chateau. The young never listen, do they? They must learn their lessons the painful way.”
I thought of the couple in the portrait, so beautiful together. How sad that madame was left alone now, grief-stricken. “But Pierpont is lovely, madame.”
“Once it was. And when I was well, I did have house parties here for my old friends, balls and teas and such, and went to visit my family often. After my husband left for those islands, though, I became so ill—this room is my world now.”
Her tone was so wistful, so sad, I could not help but ache for her. “I hope that I can help cheer you now, madame.”
She smiled, and her thin, pale face was quite transformed. I saw how pretty she must have been when she first married, so hopeful and romantic. “Indeed you already have. You must call me Madeline, and I will call you Sandrine. I feel as if we are friends already.”
I nodded, though I couldn't help but think cynically that I was paid to be a friend. But Madame Monsard—Madeline—had such a sweetness and charm, such a deep sadness, about her that I couldn't help but like her and want to help her. It was obvious that her marriage, with her husband away at the other end of the world, had been unhappy, and that her illness isolated her.
I wondered about her friendship with the handsome Monsieur Favril, and if it could be something more. Somehow that thought gave me a pang.
“Of course, Madeline,” I said.
“Perhaps you would read to me for a while? Books were once a great pleasure to me, and I tried my hand at writing my own poetry, but I fear my eyesight has grown weak and I get headaches.” She reached for a stack of volumes next to the medicine bottles and handed them to me.
I studied the titles. Poetry, of course, and romantic novels, most of them of a historical nature called things like Chivalry in Flower and The Rose of Rouen. At the bottom were a couple of tomes about the customs, mythology, and botany of the Society Islands, where Monsieur Monsard had vanished. They looked little read, as if Madame Monsard's curiosity about her husband's abode only extended to ordering the books, but I very much wanted to take a look. Perhaps there would be an explanation there about the identity of the strangely beautiful god statue or the carved walking stick on the portrait.
“What would you care to hear today?” I asked. “Perhaps one of these travel books about the islands?”
Madame Monsard wrinkled her nose. “Oh, non! Horrid places. I never want to think of them again, and how they stole my husband from me. I forgot Mathieu even sent them. Perhaps a bit of poetry? You do have a lovely voice for poetry.”
I opened a volume of Moliere at random and began reading. We passed a most pleasant hour, until Madame Charles entered the room, her keys jangling. “It is time for your luncheon, madame,” she announced sternly.
Madeline nodded. “Merci, Sandrine, that was most pleasant,” she said. “I fear I do grow weary now. Perhaps we could walk in the garden later? I have a wheeled chair now, a great device. Madame Charles has been helping me with it, but I'm sure will be happy to pass the duty to you. I give her too much work as it is, she is quite a saint.”
I glanced at the housekeeper. The sturdy, hawk-like figure in black silk hardly looked saintly, but the smile she gave frail Madeline was full of fondness.
“Oui, madame, you are a slave-driver,” she said as she shook out and folded the clothes discarded on the chaise. “I would wager you have not taken your medicine this morning, either.”
“It makes me feel quite weary,” Madeline said peevishly, plucking at her blankets.
“Doctor's orders, madame, and well you know it.”
“I will leave you to your rest,” I said, rising from my chair. “May I take these books with me?”
“Of course, whatever you like,” Madame Monsard said. “Don't forget our walk later.”
As I passed the dressing table, I noticed a cut crystal flagon half-full of an amber-colored scent. Madame was busy taking her medicine from the housekeeper, so I surreptitiously took a sniff. Roses and lilies of the valley, nothing like the heady tropical scent from the night before.
Feeling even more foolish for my nocturnal fancies, I decided to fetch my cloak and go find the beach. Perhaps a bit of sea air would clear my mind.
Chapter Six
I followed a narrow, rocky pathway one of the gardeners pointed out, a winding walkway leading away from the chateau and its formal gardens. I slipped out a gate and found myself on a steep staircase cut into the rock of the hillside, overgrown with dried winter vegetation. I found myself out of breath as I climbed, clutching at my small parcel of books, but it was worth it when I at last emerged at the top.
If Pierpont seemed to nestle deep into its own hidden valley, the cliffs hovered at the top of the world. All gray and sharp, cut into the austere stone, they looked over a vast expanse of rocky sand, washed by endless mossy-green waves. They broke like tiers of frothy white lace and washed away again, leaving the stones tumbled and glistening in the pale sunlight.
It all seemed to stretch on forever, empty and lonely. I shielded my eyes with my hand, staring out at the endless, dark, mysterious sea. Somewhere over there was England, a land I had only read about in books. It wasn't really so far away, yet it might as well have been a different world, beyond those cold, dark waves.
I slowly scanned the horizon, and saw I wasn't truly alone. There was a small fishing boat, bobbing on the sea, just a small, white speck. Beyond it was an ancient monastery, rising in solitary stone splendor on its own island, windswept and wrapped in lonely prayers. It could be visited, I had read, when the tide went out. Its prayers were there for everyone. Yet at that moment it seemed impossibly distant. I felt as if Pierpont had been all I knew for so long, and the rest of the world had become the dream.
I found a low, flat rock and sat down on it to study the sea and the sky some more. My parcel held sandwiches from the kitchen as well as books, and I nibbled at one as I opened the first volume. The quick walk up the cliffs in the cold wind had sharpened my appetite. I wondered if such exercise might not help the frail Madame Monsard, as well.
A History of the Society Islands didn't look vastly interesting at first glance. The plain leather cover bounds pages and pages of tables and charts, lists of facts and plants, but I soon found myself intrigued by the land it described. If England was far away, Tahiti was surely another planet entirely. I was astonished Monsieur Monsard had actually traveled there, lived there, and never came back.
Tahiti, I read, is the largest of the Society Islands of the southeast Pacific Ocean, formed of volcanic activity,
high and mountainous, surrounded by treacherous coral reefs. The coast is well-settled in the north, with plentiful churches and houses, dairy farms and citrus groves. The southeast half is quite wild, accessible only by boat or on foot through the lush green rainforests.
I skipped ahead a few chapters. Ancient emigration from southeast Asia left the islands with a complex system of clans and all-powerful chieftains, sometimes called the Ari'i—rahi. Their inhabitants are circled around open-air cult sites (the narae) that are quite sacred and not to be touched by outsiders. There gods are invoked, chiefs enthroned, births and deaths celebrated. They are protected by a tapu, an absolute ban. Trespassing the tapu (taboo) brings on a terrible curse, death or illness.
The greatest of these gods is the Ta'Aroa, god of war and creation, served by a great secret society, the Arioi. His priests are his voice. The priests are all powerful, beautiful and blessed with visions from the god, but they are also restricted, forbidden to marry or have children. They are merely there to serve the god and protect his sacred artifacts.
I flickered through the pages to find a series of etched illustrations. Lovely, dark-eyed women wearing loose floral-print gowns, blossoms woven in their long, waving hair. White beaches fringed with shady palm trees. A ring of towering stones, surely that marae hiding sacred secrets. A carved statue of a feathered god, with a wrapping of coconut leaves.
I lowered the book, and the sight of the austere, rocky beach below me seemed a shock after being absorbed in the heat and lush flowers of an island far away. How very strange it all seemed.
I shivered to think of the mysterious god in his solitary stone splendor, striking down those who would violate his rules. Was the statue I had glimpsed in its glass case here at Pierpont one of those god's aspects? Surely he wouldn't be happy to find himself in such a cold, alien land. What had Monsieur Monsard done there, seen there?
I thought of Monsieur Favril in his stark office in Rouen, also surrounded by information about a place so far away. What did he know? What did he fear here at Pierpont?
Bells suddenly tolled from the monastery, a slow, deep, solemn sound that reminded me of the hour. I had to return to the house to check on Madame Monsard, to see if she required anything. I did understand something of her loneliness now, her tired confusion as she went on living here in this chilly, austerely beautiful place while her husband vanished into the sun.
I tucked the book away, resolved to read and learn more later, and made my way back to the cliff pathways. As the shore vanished behind me and I returned to the valley of the chateau, it felt as if a cold wind swept around me, catching at my cloak. The sky gathered in close, darkening.
As I pushed open the garden gate, I glimpsed a sudden flash of amber light in one of the shadowed windows of the house. I blinked, sure that could not be right—the light was in the locked east wing. I had certainly been told no one went there.
I closed my eyes, but when I opened them the light was still there, behind a small window on the top floor. It flickered, like candlelight, grew fainter, and at last vanished. The house was shrouded in silence again, concealed in the gathering mist.
I glanced over my shoulder, and found I was still alone in the garden. It was quite an ordinary afternoon. Yet I still had the prickling sense of being watched. Of something—something waiting.
I dashed up the garden pathway, and through the doors of the house, not daring to look up. Perhaps tomes about the mythology of exotic islands, no matter how dryly written, were not the best reading for me now. I resolved to try Madame Monsard's poetry instead.
I removed my mist-damp cloak and bonnet, and hurried up the stairs toward my own room. I saw no one there, not even Marie the maid. The house was hushed.
“Mademoiselle Duplessis,” someone called as I reached for my door handle, so close to sanctuary. A cold nervousness shot through me. I whirled around to see Monsieur Harcourt walking toward me, smiling teasingly, so ordinary I felt very foolish.
“You look startled. I hope I did not frighten you,” he said.
“Not at all, Monsieur Harcourt. Am I needed by Madame Monsard?”
“Madeline? No, I believe she is sleeping. I only wished to invite you to sup with me in the dining room tonight. With my sister so quiet, mealtimes are rather dull.”
Was that part of my job? “I am not sure...”
“Oh, do please say yes, mademoiselle. Have some pity on my loneliness. I promise not to bore you too greatly. We can talk of the joys of city life.”
I found I was curious about him, about he had ended up at Pierpont with his sister if he disliked it so. And he was quite handsome. “Very well, Monsieur Harcourt. Thank you.”
He bowed and strolled away, whistling a merry little tune, and I let myself into my chamber. As I rang for Marie and took out my one evening gown to be pressed, I wondered what sort of evening I had let myself in for.
**
Apparently, a dull one. Though not, I would admit, quite as dull as eating alone in my room.
The dining room at Pierpont was very grand, almost like something I would imagine in a palace, with sparkling crystal chandeliers and walls papered in pale blue silk, hung with gilt-framed landscapes. Two place settings were laid at one end of that heavy, carved medieval table, gleaming silver and thick, gilt-edged china that seemed to vanish in the vast gleam of the room.
A fire was laid in the enormous marble grate, which seemed to have been built for roasting an oxen, but now just seemed to warm two small people. Heavy. Faded tapestries of Biblical feasts hung on the walls near the mantel, the golden threads running through the cloth gleaming.
I took a sip of wine from the crystal goblet and smiled at Monsieur Harcourt. He looked rather handsome in the candlelight, with his fashionable Paris-cut evening coat and cravat, but he did not seem to eat much of Madame Charles's savory fare. Instead he kept refilling his glass.
“It was kind of you to invite me to dine, monsieur,” I said. “I haven't seen this room before, it's most impressive.”
He smiled crookedly. “It looks as if Joan of Arc could come riding through at any moment, doesn't it? I know my brother-in-law disliked any modernization in his house, but I would have imagined Madeline would have made a few changes by now. Swept away some of the dust.”
I thought of how I had left poor madame, with a dose of her medication to dull the evening pain and restlessness. “Madame Monsard doesn't really seem capable of refurbishing work right now. Perhaps once she has recovered her health.”
“Yes. Poor Madeline.” Monsieur Harcourt drained his wineglass and gestured to the hovering Monsieur Gilles for a refill. “I hadn't realized she was so very ill until I came here. I was hoping to lure her back to Paris soon. This place is so gloomy.”
I took a nibble of my beefsteak in sherry sauce. Despite everything else, the food was quite fine. “I believe Madame Monsard said you are step-siblings. Have you known each other long?”
“Since we were small children. My father married her mother when we were mere babes in arms. I can't remember another family.”
“I often wished I had a sibling when I was growing up.”
“Madeline is the best of sisters.” Monsieur Harcourt leaned closer across the table, his eyes reddened and glowing in the firelight. “I must confess, Mademoiselle Duplessis, I worry about her. Madeline was once so full of laughter, so happy and lively. Our parents warned her about marrying Monsard, yet I am sure they couldn't have foreseen her living like this. So lonely and dreary.”
“Your family disapproved of Monsieur Monsard?”
“Not disapproved as such. He was a wealthy man, devoted to working for France. But he was older than Madeline, and shared none of her interest in society. My sister is the kindest of women, but she is not intellectual, she knew nothing of his work. He left her alone so often.”
“Perhaps your parents could lure her back to the city, even if just for a visit?”
He looked away. “Sadly, they are both dead no
w, and my persuasions hold little weight with her now. She wishes to cling to this house because it was her husband's. I hold out hope of convincing her to leave with me, though, perhaps to seek the sun in Cannes. Maybe you could help me?”
I thought of madame's pale, thin face, and could see his point—the sun would do her good. “I can try, Monsieur Harcourt.”
“I would appreciate an ally. Perhaps you would come with us! The south is glorious at this time of year.”
Monsieur Gilles brought in the next course, a plate of fine cheeses and sugared fruits, and filled Monsieur Harcourt's wineglass again.
“I have not been there since I was a child,” I said. “Do you visit Cannes often?”
“Not as often as I would like. They have fine casinos there, you know, and hotels of rare beauty and hospitality.”
“Perhaps your work keeps you in Paris, then?”
He took a deep gulp of his wine. “Like my lamented brother-in-law, I work for the foreign office. But my services are never needed as far afield as his.”
My interest was piqued. “You have never been sent to the islands, like Monsieur Monsard?”
“I am merely a paper-stamper, Mademoiselle Duplessis. But that is how I met Monsard, and how he came to meet my sister.”
“You introduced them?”
“For good or ill. I should have known it would not end well. He was already meant to be posted to Tahiti. The officers who return from there—they are never the same after.”
I thought of the book I had been reading, the descriptions of the palm trees and beaches, the strange groups with their forbidden sacred spaces. “It sounds like a fascinating place.”
“An intoxicating one. No one who lived there could ever quite return here. It was as if a piece of them remained there.” He drained his glass again, and gave a bitter smile. “Or, like my poor brother-in-law, never returned at all.”
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 4
