I thought of the carved god in his glass case. “He sent back some island art to your sister, I think?”
“So I believe, but Madeline refuses to speak of it, or even tell me what she has stored away. My poor sister—the islands have a hold on her, too, though she's never been near them.” He looked at me, and seemed to sense for my worry, for he tried to smile. “Has she said anything to you about them, mademoiselle?”
Somehow, despite his smile and his frank confidences of his worries about his sister, I could not quite trust him. Maybe it was the wine he had consumed. I shook my head. “I haven't been here long, monsieur. I doubt Madame Monsard would so confide in me. I have only seen that one statue in its case in the front hall.”
“Ah, yes. The god figure, or so they say. Interesting, is it not?”
Monsieur Gilles brought me a silver pot of tea for my dessert. As I reached for it, the firelight caught on my bracelet, making the spinel stone flash with a deep purple glow.
“That is a pretty piece,” Monsieur Harcourt said, staring at my wrist. “Very unusual.”
I gave him a strained smile. “It was my mother's.”
“Does the stone have some significance? Some magical power, maybe? Such strange gems often do, you know.”
I tucked my hand into my lap. “I don't think so. My father once told me my mother's favorite color was purple, and that stones like this sometimes come from volcanic matter. I wonder if it wasn't meant as a mourning piece of some sort.”
“Oh, no , Mademoiselle Duplessis. Not mourning.” He smiled at me again. “You should be very careful of it. It has to be wielded with knowledge.”
A clock somewhere in the chateau tolled the hour, and I pushed to my feet, grateful of the interruption. Monsieur Harcourt was making me most uneasy, and my bracelet felt very heavy on my wrist. “It grows late, Monsieur Harcourt. I should look in on your sister before I retire.”
He half-rose, as if he would reach for me, stop me, before he sat down again, his head slumped. “Do stay a little longer. Tell me more about your family.”
I made myself laugh. “I fear there is little to tell. We were most ordinary. Perhaps another day?”
He leaned back in his chair, as if weary. “I look forward to it. Good evening, Mademoiselle Duplessis.”
I hurried out of the dining room as quickly as I could, and dashed up the stairs. A light gleamed beneath Madame Monsard's door, and I went to see if she needed anything.
The nurse had left a lamp burning on the bedside table, and in its light I saw an empty glass next to a bottle of laudanum, and an open book. Madame Monsard seemed to be asleep, her face very pale against the lace ruffled of her cap, dark circles etched deep beneath her eyes. Her hands were curled against the satin counterpane.
I went to close the book, and saw it was not her usual poetry. It was another volume of illustrations of Tahiti, open to a scene of a circle of stones in a clearing of palm trees. Somehow, the scene was rather disturbing, and I blamed my own reading on the feeling. I slid the book into a drawer and reached to tuck the blankets closer around madame.
“Non, non,” she suddenly muttered, her fingers tightening like claws on the blanket. “I did not mean to! Please, no! I won't do it again!”
“Madame Monsard—Madeline,” I said gently, fearing she might have a fever. I tried to shake her awake.
“You cannot have it!” she cried, thrashing against the sheets.
“Madame!” I shook her harder, my heart pounding with fear, and at last her eyes opened. For an instant, she stared at me with uncomprehending, raw fear, her pupils very large and dark. I was sure she had taken too much of her laudanum.
At last she sighed with recognition. “Mademoiselle Duplessis,” she whispered.
“You were having a nightmare,” I said soothingly.
“Oui, just a nightmare.”
“Do you remember what it was about?” I smoothed out the sheets around her, fluffed the pillows, but she still looked fearful.
She shook her head. “I never do.”
“You have them often?”
“Lately I have. When I was young—I think I never dreamed at all.”
I poured her out a glass of water. “Well, all is quite all right now. It's a quiet night. Shall I fetch you some tea, or something to eat?”
“Non. Just—will you stay with me for a moment, mademoiselle? Until I fall asleep again.”
“Of course.” I settled into the chair next to the bed. In truth, I was also glad of the company, of not being alone in my silent chamber yet. The feeling of disquiet still clung around me.
“You dined with Olivier tonight?” Madame Monsard said.
“Yes. It was kind of him to invite me; I had never seen your grand dining room.”
Madame shook her head. “I don't like that room. It is too strange, too vast. The whole house is so heavy now.”
“Monsieur Harcourt suggested you might enjoy a holiday. Perhaps to take the sun in Cannes.”
“The sun. I would like that. The doctor says I am too ill to travel now, though he cannot discover the source of my maladies.”
“Perhaps in a month or two you will feel strong enough.”
“I hope so.” She gave me a weak smile. “I am glad you have come here, Mademoiselle Duplessis. I do feel so much better in your company.”
“I am glad, too, madame.” And strangely, in that moment I was glad. Chateau de Pierpont was an odd place, so full of desolate, forbidding beauty, and so lonely. But Madame Monsard was kind, and seemed to need my help. No one had needed me since Papa died.
She soon slumbered, more peacefully now. I tucked the blankets around her and lowered the light of the lamp before I made my way to my own chamber. There, I let the pins out of my hair to lower the heavy weight, and unfastened my bracelet to tuck it safely away. As the purple stone gleamed at me, I remembered Monsieur Harcourt's interest in it, and wondered at its strange power.
Chapter Seven
The next day dawned gray and windy, but Madame Monsard insisted on a walk, saying she was feeling much stronger. Her thin cheeks were indeed quite pink, and her eyes bright, though I worried perhaps it was more to do with a fever than a sudden burst of good health. She seemed fidgety and restless as Marie and I helped her into a wheeled chair and tucked shawls around her.
“Are you sure you wouldn't rather sit for a while on the terrace, madame?” I asked. “It looks as if it might rain.”
Madame Monsard laughed. “It always looks as if it might rain here at Pierpont, my dear Sandrine! I wager it will hold off until evening. We have plenty of time for a small walk. I can't bear to be inside for a moment longer.”
I nodded. Madame Charles, the stern housekeeper, had indeed said the doctor had often suggested more fresh air, and the maids needed to tidy the bedchamber. This would give them time for a thorough cleaning.
And I had to confess I, too, longed for a breath of fresh air. The chateau, for all its beauty, so often felt dark and narrow.
I pushed the chair along the gravel pathways in the garden. The wheels bumped and stuck on the uneven surface, but Madame Monsard was as light as a bird and easy to convey. Her hands fluttered like birds as she pointed out statues and fountains half-hidden in the tangles gardens.
“I wish we could go all the way to the sea,” she said. “How I long to see it again! But I would not ask you to try and push me up the cliffs, Sandrine. I am sure I do not pay you enough for such exertions!”
I laughed. Even though I was indeed petite, Madame was like a feather. “I could probably get you there, madame, but I'm not sure it would be worth it. I have walked to the shore myself, and it is quite cold and desolate right now. Everything seems deserted.”
Madame Monsard sighed. “I am sure you are correct. If it was a clear day, though, perhaps we could see the monastery, or all the way to England. We should take a picnic there when it's warmer. I'm sure by the summer I will feel much stronger.”
I did hope so. Madame wa
s so kind, so sweet-natured, and had born so much in her marriage, it seemed cruel that she should be an invalid now. “I am sure you will. Then you won't need me any longer.”
“Oh, I shall!” she cried. “I was so lonely before you came here. You have brightened things so much. I don't feel so very frightened.”
“Frightened, madame? What can you be afraid of in your own home?”
“My home?” She shook her head, a small frown on her lips. “I doubt Pierpont could ever be a home, though once I hoped it would be so. How young I was then! How full of silly dreams.” She glanced up at me. “Once I was even as young and robust as you.”
Young? I had never felt thus. As an only child, an assistant to my father, I had so seldom been allowed to do childish things. Since he had died and left me alone, I had felt elderly indeed, weighed down with worries. “I am older than I look, madame.”
“Aren't we all?” We came to a turn in the pathways, and Madame Monsard gestured for me to stop. “You see that summerhouse over there?”
I looked to where she gestured, and glimpsed an octagonal marble structure among the trees, pale and classically domes. “It is most pretty.”
“I had it built when I first came to Pierpont as a bride. I had a fanciful notion of having summer parties there, dances and suppers. The gardens were so lovely then, so full of color.”
“It looks like the perfect setting for such things.”
“Alas, my husband soon left for his travels. I was alone here, no time for parties.”
“Perhaps you could have one soon, bring all your friends to see you? I'm sure things here will soon be different.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured, but she had no desire to go to the summerhouse.
We went on with our walk, pushing up a small hill toward the maze. From there, the house seemed to be laid down below us, the windows of madame's chamber open for airing as Marie shook out a rug, the east wing darkened. “Was Monsieur Monsard always in the islands, then?”
“Usually. His work sent him there not long after we married, though he had told me he would surely be sent to St. Petersburg or Berlin, somewhere I could go, too. A few years ago, our dear friend Monsieur Favril offered to find him a place in the office in Rouen instead. I thought at last we could truly be together, could have a family. But my husband refused.”
“Why, madame?”
“Because he loved those islands more than he could ever love Pierpont. He was obsessed with them. Even when he was here, they were all he could talk about. How beautiful the land was, how full of color and the rich scent of exotic flowers. The warmth of the sea, the kindness of the people.” She shook her head, her gaze very distant. “I am quite sure, mademoiselle, that he was also in love with a woman there. Perhaps he even had children with her, a true family.”
I was shocked by her calm admission. “Did he—did he speak of such things to you?”
“Of course not. He rarely spoke to me of anything concerning him or his work. But when he died, and all those boxes arrived...” She broke off, suddenly slumping in her chair as if she was weary. “I saw things in them I am sure I should not have. I can't bear to look at anything else now. I am thinking of giving them all to a museum, getting them away from here. I locked them away, yet I always know they are still there, still touched by my husband's secrets. Tell me, mademoiselle, do you believe a spirit can attach to something in death which they loved so much in life?”
I was most worried about her feverishly pink cheeks, and remembered her brother's wish that she would leave Pierpont, seek out a sunnier clime. I couldn't help but think he was right. Pierpont seemed to be making her more ill. “I don't think I believe in ghosts, madame, not in that way. Perhaps Pierpont is just too full of sad memories right now. Monsieur Harcourt suggested a holiday...”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “I could not leave, not now. I can barely rise from my bed. In fact, I think I am rather tired now.”
“Let me take you back to the house.” I turned her chair and pushed her back toward the terrace, looking for anything that might distract her. I glimpsed a high, leafy wall just beyond the summerhouse. “What is that place?”
“That is the maze,” she answered, and seemed to brighten a bit. “My husband's mother spent much time in England, and became fascinating with the maze at Hampton Court. It was she who had it planted. I fear it looks rather overgrown now, like all of Pierpont.”
My curiosity was piqued. “Have you ever been through it?”
“Only when I was a newlywed here. I became terribly lost, and my husband had to find me. I thought it was quite romantic then.” Her expression turned mostly wistful as she studied it, as if lost in better memories. “I wouldn't mind a closer look.”
“Neither would I.” I glanced up at the sky, which seemed lower, darker, than when we left the house. “It looks like rain.”
“It will only take a moment, I'm sure.”
I nodded, and pushed the chair over the grass to the entrance of the maze. It was overgrown, tangled with vines, but it still looked intriguing. I stepped over the gravel threshold, and suddenly the air felt completely different. Cold and close. There was only silence around us.
Madame Monsard urged me ahead, waiting near the entrance in her chair. I turned one corner and then another, finding only high, thorny walls.
“Can you see anything, Sandrine?” she called.
“Not much,” I answered, tiptoeing in a bit further. It was quite overgrown, just as she ad said, but something seemed to pull me in deeper. Urged me to keep going when I knew I should turn back.
I went around a corner, and found myself faced with a small clearing, ringed with stone benches. At its center was a statue, but not a classical nymph or cupid. It was dark, strange, reminding me of the god in its glass case in the house. A tall figure in a feathered cape, one hand raised and holding a staff. What could it be doing in the garden? It didn't look weathered or faded at all.
I crept closer to it, fascinated, and at last stood before it. I reached up to touch its carved hand. As my fingers brushed the smooth wood, there was a sudden deafening clap of thunder, and the heavens opened to pour down a cold rain. It drove into my skin like needles, soaking me through.
I backed away from the statue, scared to turn my back to it. I ran back through the maze, stumbling, blinded by the rain.
I was sure I would find Madame Monsard chilled, her illness overcoming her. To my surprise, she was laughing, holding up her hands to the rain.
“Oh, Sandrine,” she cried. “Surely we are washed clean now!”
Chapter Eight
“This letter came for you today, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Gilles the butler said the next morning, as I made my way upstairs with a few books from the library for Madame Monsard. I was rather tired from my cold soaking in the rain, and a long, sleepless night of lying in bed envisioning being lost in the maze over and over, but the prospect of mail intrigued me. Who would be writing to me there at Pierpont? Surely I no longer had any friends in the world outside. Indeed, Pierpont and all its strangeness had come to seem like it was the world.
“Thank you, Monsieur Gilles,” I said, taking the missive from him. It seemed nondescript, a heavy, slanting black script on cream-colored paper not expensive but not cheap. It was sealed with plain red wax.
I took it up the stairs with me, and once I was alone in the corridor leading to the bedchambers, I put down the books I carried and opened the letter.
The signature said wit was from Mathieu Favril, and the sight of that name made me smile. “Don't be foolish,” I whispered to myself. He was only writing to ask about my tasks, surely. But the thought that he was there in Rouen, thinking about me, made me feel not so very alone.
Mademoiselle Duplessis, I hope this letter finds you well, and that you have merely been too busy with your duties with Madame Monsard to yet write. We are all concerned here with madame's health, and with what might be found with Monsieur Monsard's e
ffects at Pierpont. We have sent for accounts of his life in the islands, and his sad demise there, from his colleagues, but have as yet heard nothing but the barest facts.
I frowned as I read that, wondering why details of monsieur's death were not yet known. Was there something suspicious about it? Something that might be found in those crates in the east wing?
I am hoping to travel northward soon, and will call at Pierpont to be sure all is well there, and with you, Mademoiselle Duplessis. I confess I have often thought of you since your departure, and hoped that it is the right situation for you at the chateau. Please send me any news you may have, and take very great care at all times. Sincerely, Mathieu Favril.
He had often thought of me? My heart fluttered at the thought, at the tiny hint of some hope that I dared not name. I tucked the letter into the pocket of my pinafore and stared unseeing at the portrait of an unknown Monsard hanging on the wall before me. Rather than seeing his dour, unsmiling countenance, I pictured Mathieu, his enigmatic smile and glowing eyes.
Why was he really so concerned with life here at Pierpont? I would write back to him immediately, of course, but what could I say? That Monsieur Monsard's artifacts made me feel uneasy, that there were sometimes strange perfumes here and mysterious lights, that madame's illness was a feverish one, with no known cause? I remembered her in the rainy maze, how happy she seemed outside the house.
I couldn't piece it all together myself. I was sure Monsieur Favril was not really telling me the whole story of Pierpont and Monsieur Monsard, but I didn't know how to find out.
I glanced at the end of the corridor, to the locked door of the east wing.
My feet took a step toward it, and another and another, as if they couldn't help themselves. I was drawn to that door by an insatiable curiosity. When I touched the handle, to my surprise it turned easily. The wing that was always kept locked was open.
I glanced back over my shoulder, wondering is a maid was sent there to clean or the butler to fetch something, but there was no one there. The corridor was empty and silent.
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 5
