I tiptoed inside, vowing to just take a quick glimpse. It was obvious at once that no one had been there for some time. The air smelled of dust and decay, of damp neglect. I pulled back the heavy old curtains at one of the windows, and coughed at the cloud that was stirred up.
The pale gray daylight showed a long, narrow room, almost like a gallery to mirror the one on the other side of the house. Instead of portraits hanging there, the walls were hidden by towering stacks of crates, nailed shut.
I wandered between them, the scuffed wooden floor creaking under my feet. Soon I lost sight of the door, and was lost amid the maze created by the close-packed boxes. There was a heavy silence hanging over everything.
I opened one of the nearest crates, sliding back the slatted lid to peer inside. There, nestled on a bed of straw, were several small figurines, painted wood that glowed with beautiful colors and finely crafted lines. The next box held trays cradling necklaces and bracelets, exquisite things of polished green, pink, and purple stones. They made me think of my mother's spinel bracelet, and I had to resist the urge to try them on.
At the end of the row was a traveling trunk, different from the plain wooden crates. It contained not artifacts but neatly folded stacks of clothes, shirts and waistcoats and cravats. Tucked among them were a pair of slim volumes bound up in plain brown leather. I realized these must be Monsieur Monsard's personal items, and I didn't want to to touch them. They brought him, and madame's tragedy, too close. But something urged me to reach for the books.
I flickered through the pages. They were stiff, brittle, as if they had been dampened by that far-away sea. There were sketches, flowers, plants, faces, and close-written paragraphs. Surely this was Monsieur Monsard's diary, and I wondered if madame had read it. I started to put it in my pocket along with Monsieur Favril's letter, intending to take it to her, when suddenly I heard a sound.
It was as quiet as a mere whisper, but I was sure it was a footstep. A dragging movement over the old floor. I held my breath, and went very still. Surely I was imagining it? No one came to the east wing. But there it was again, closer this time.
“Who is there?” I called, rising to me feet. I held the diary tightly, the leather edges biting into my fingers. It had to be Marie or Monsieur Gilles, come to look for me. Yet there was no answer, only the thickest silence. Then the footsteps came again, louder, closer, somewhere just beyond the maze of crates.
I ran as quickly as I could toward the door, or where I thought the door was. It was like the garden maze, close and disorienting. My heavy skirts wrapped around my legs, slowing me down. A cold, piercing-ice wind swept around me, carrying the heavy, suffocating scent of tropical flowers.
I spun around a corner to see the windows, and ran toward the light. The curtains, so heavy I had barely been able to pull them open earlier, swayed as if in a breeze, one after the other. Crates edged out of the way, as if the unseen force was pushing them out of its path around the room.
“I am not afraid of you,” I cried, though that was a lie. I was afraid, but I would be defeated. I would defend myself, and Madame Monsard. “Who are you?”
There was no answer, only another chilling blast of wind. I ran to open the window. The old glass stuck, but I had the strength of panic behind me, and pushed it open.
Far below me stretched the gardens, the mute old statues, the dark shadows of the maze. I could see no one there, but the shadow of a horse vanishing over the top of the sea cliffs. Monsieur Harcourt, off on his hunting? I called out, but he was too far away to hear.
In the maze, a light flashed, almost like sunshine on a mirror, blinding. The wind snatched at my skirts and my hair, almost as if it wanted to push me out the window and into that light.
I broke free, and fled toward the door. At the threshold, I tripped and hurtled toward the floor. The impact jolted up my arms and through my whole body, a flash of pain that made me scream. The door slammed behind me.
I closed my eyes, whispering over and over, “Just a dream, just a dream.” Yet the pain form the fall was all too real.
“Mademoiselle Duplessis?” I heard someone call out. I opened my eyes to see Madame Charles, the housekeeper, hurrying toward me. Her usual dour expression was concerned, her eyes wide to see me there on the floor. “Whatever happened? Did you fall?”
She knelt down and helped me to sit up, surprisingly strong for a lady of her years. “I—I thought I heard something in there,” I said.
Madame Charles scowled. “In the east wing? Nonsense. It's always locked, no one goes in there.”
“But I did hear something.” I did not mention the wind or the light in the maze.
Madame Charles tested the door handle, which did not move at all. “You must have heard something somewhere else along the corridor. Marie is meant to be cleaning the guest chambers.”
I didn't answer, but my expression must have betrayed my doubts, for Madame Charles tried to smile. “Perhaps you caught a chill in the gardens yesterday. Madame's physician should see you when he calls later.”
I shook my head. “I am quite well, Madame Charles.” But was I? What if, like Madame Monsard, I was becoming ill, and my illness was making me see things not there?
Madame's chamber door opened, and she appeared there like a pale ghost in her lace-edged nightdress. “What has happened?” she asked, her tone shrill with fear. “Mademoiselle Duplessis, are you hurt?”
“Mademoiselle just took a small fall, madame,” Madame Charles said, helping me to my feet. “I have often said this old carpet should be replaced, it is quite threadbare and hazardous. I am sure she is quite all right now. Are you not, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, of course,” I answered, not wanting to frightened Madame Monsard any more. “Just a bit shaken.”
“Poor Sandrine,” Madame Monsard said. “Come in here and sit down at once. You must take a dose of my medicine for the pain. And we will order a new rug for this corridor immediately.”
I nodded, and followed her back into her chamber. I glanced at the east wing door, now locked and silent again, and at Madame Charles, who was vanishing down the stairs, her keys rattling. I resolved to write to Monsieur Favril at once. Whatever was happening at Chateau de Pierpont, I couldn't discover it on my own. And I feared we were all now in danger.
Chapter Nine
That night, when Madame Monsard was safely asleep and Monsieur Harcourt was having his after-dinner brandy in the dining room, I was alone in my chamber, and I took out the first volume of Monsieur Monsard's diary purloined from the east wing. I settled in to read by my fire, my shawl drawn close around my shoulders against the chilly evening.
It was not easy to make out his words. His handwriting was small and cramped, slanting across the page as if he wrote hurriedly in a faint light. But once I deciphered it, he told a most fascinating tale of a place so different from the cold, gray-winter of the Norman cliffs outside my window. I was soon lost amid warm sunlight slanting through emerald-like palm leaves, shimmering white sands, and the beat of drums in the dusty night. The sweet, heavy scent of flowers, the poetry of a new music, the taste of pungent fruit.
It has been a week now since I arrived at my new posting, after a journey much longer and more treacherous than I anticipated. I miss Madeline very much, and look at her portrait often, yet she feels a world away. Almost as if we were already parted by death and dwell in different universes. I write to her, but do not know when she will see my words or I hers. I hope she lives happily at Pierpont and has made it her own home.
Though I do think of that house, the house of my ancestors, it already no longer seems like home. My new dwelling is beautiful beyond anything that could be imagined. The flowers that bloom everywhere and fall upon the paths smell so sweet, and the sun is always bright. The fruits and fish of my dinners are like the most delectable ambrosia. I find myself falling under a lovely, lulling spell, especially at night when the warm sea breezes carry that scent of flowers through my windows, and I h
ear the beat of drums from the hills.
I wonder what they do there so late at night, what that music means. Pierre, my secretary, who has been here for a long time, says I must pay it no attention, that many things here have nothing to do with us and we must ignore it if we don't want to imperil ourselves.
Imperil ourselves in what way I cannot imagine. The few islanders I have met so far are friendly and curious. I hope to learn much more from them about this amazing place, for it fascinates me.
At sunset yesterday, I glimpsed one of the islanders standing at the end of the beach. For an instant, I was sure I was asleep, dreaming, for I have never imagined such beauty. She was tall and slender as a palm leaf, with waving dark hair to her knees and a glowing smile. But when I tried to go to her, to speak to her, she vanished. The next morning, I found a bouquet of local flowers on my doorstep. They smelled like that perfume on the warm breezes. I can't imagine the two are connected, the lady and the flowers, yet I find myself hoping.
I ponder if I will see her again? She seemed such a part of this wondrous place.
Yet is all did not stay a sunny paradise, I found as I turned the pages. Monsieur Monsard's work for the French government was often halted by coming up against a culture so different from what he was accustomed to in his long career before, and the two did not always complement each other. And Monsieur Monsard found himself falling more and more under the trance of the island heat. France seemed further and further away.
I looked up from the pages and into my own fire. I remembered what Madeline had told, how she was sure her husband had not always been faithful to her. That the island had somehow stolen him from her. Indeed, it did seem as if he was drawn deep into that different world, those new ways of thinking that made him see things in a new way. Pierpont must have seemed so far away.
I glanced ahead in the journal.
I have met her at last, the wondrous lady I glimpsed all too briefly that night on the beach. Her name is Ailana, and I have never met anyone like her before. So gentle and serene, so filled with all the mysteries of her home. When she speaks, the rest of the world seems to utterly vanish. We have walked along the shore, and spoken of so many things, of our lives and the world around us, but never for long enough. She vanishes too quickly, melting away into the hills, and I can barely do my work as I wonder when I will see her again.
I have made inquiries about Ailana, to see if anyone knows of her or her people. It seems her father is a great chief, a leader of the vitally important group the Oro, priests of the god Ta'Aroa. They have little to do with us French, and thus I cannot find Ailana except when she seeks me out. I have the sense she would be in great trouble if she was found to be my friend, but I confess I look forward to our moments together more and more. I couldn't bear to never see her again. She is a part of this magical place, and I have become part of it too. How it will all end, I do not know. I begin to fear for us all, even for Madeline.
I gasped at those words. They were so like the start of a novel, forbidden love too deep to be denied. So deep that taboos were broken and dangers plunged into that were as deep and irresistible as the currents of the ocean? What had really happened to Madame Monsard's husband, and to this woman?
Ailana and I have at last confessed our feelings. They could be hidden no longer, I fear, and I feel both elated and frightened. I could never have imagined such a thing back in the world of Pierpont, yet here it is, and I am grateful for it.
After we kissed and held each other close, Ailana confessed something to me—she is not only the daughter of a high member of the Oro, but is one of its priestesses. She was shown to possess rare powers when she was born, and has served thus ever since. She is powerful, blessed with sacred visions, but she is forbidden to marry or have children.
I have begged her to leave me now, to not endanger herself or her vows. We have agreed not to meet for many weeks, but she has given me an object for safekeeping and to show her deep feelings for me, in order that I will remember her and may use it to ask the protection of the gods. It is a small carved statue, set with a sacred purple stone, and I treasure it though I must keep it hidden.
At Pierpont, I have a carved staff kept from my first visit to these islands as a young diplomat. Ailana tells me it is also sacred to her gods, and was surely given to me as a sign of their favor. I wonder if its power was leading me to Ailana even then. Oh, Madeline, forgive me, for I cannot break free now! May this statue protect me, protect us all.
I did hope Madeline would never read those pages, that time would heal her and help to move forward. She said she had such youthful dreams when she married. I felt sorry for her, and for Monsieur Monsard, too, who found himself only to realize how impossible it all was.
I read again the description of his lover's gift to him—the exquisite small statue with its gleaming purple stone. I carefully tucked the books away on my shelf, hidden behind my own volumes, and made my way down the stairs. The chateau was silent at such a late hour, the servants gone to bed and no light from the drawing room where Monsieur Harcourt was meant to be drinking his brandy. I crept to the glass case that held the carved god.
I studied its elegant angles, the delicate carving of its feathered cape and sharp, abstract features, and realized it could not the statue Monsieur Monsard described. It was too large, and there were no gemstones at all to relieve he surface of the dark wood. Whatever it was, it had to be hidden in the east wing, if it had come to France at all.
I was curious to see such a thing, of course, to learn more about its powers, but I was not quite brave enough to go back to the east wing alone at night. I turned to make my way back upstairs to my room, when suddenly a loud scream shattered the night silence.
Shocked at the sound, I spun around to see Madame Monsard poised at the top of the stairs. All I could see in the shadows was her white nightdress, the pale oval of her face.
“I won't let you!” she cried. She stepped out, as if blindly, and stumbled on the first riser. She swayed, as if her delicate frame was caught in a strong wind.
“Madeline!” I called out, running toward her in panic. “Wait, I am coming, don't move.”
I heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, hopefully a servant coming to my aid, but they would be too late. I ran up the stairs, yet it felt as if I moved through a sticky mist that held me back.
“You cannot hurt me anymore,” Madame Monsard sobbed. “I won't let you catch me!”
She took another stumbling step, and I caught her just as she tumbled down the stairs. Her body slammed into my shoulder hard, knocking me off balance. I felt my stomach lurch as I fell back into nothing, my slipper falling behind me. I just knew we would both tumbled backward into sheer air. By some miracle, I managed to find my footing again, and the gilded balustrade halted my fall. The breath was knocked from my lungs and I took Madeline's full weight on my shoulder.
“Mademoiselle Duplessis!” I heard Monsieur Gilles cry. He ran up the stairs, his dressing gown flapping around him, with Madame Charles close behind him. She was fully dressed, despite the late hour. The butler caught Madeline in his arms, and I slumped down onto the stairs, gasping for breath. “What happened?”
“M—madame Monsard took a fall,” I managed to say.
“But what was she doing out of bed?” Madame Charles said, wrapping her own shawl around Madeline's thin shoulders.
I studied Madame Monsard's face, peaceful and calm now, her eyes closed. “I think she may have been sleepwalking.”
“Why would she do that?” The two servants carried her into the drawing room, which was now empty, and I trailed after them on my shaking legs. They laid her out on a chaise near the dying fire, and I saw that Monsieur Harcourt's brandy bottle was still there. I poured some out for madame, and took a small sip myself. It burned my throat, but steadied me a bit.
“Perhaps it was too much of her sleeping powder,” I said as I held the glass to her pale lips. “She seemed to think someone was chasi
ng her. She said she would not let them torment her any longer. What could she mean by that?”
The two servants exchanged a quick glance, but before I could question them again, Madeline's eyes fluttered open. Her peaceful expression turned to panic.
“Where am I?” she said, struggling to sit up.
“Hush, madame,” I murmured as I pressed a gentle hand to her shoulder. “You had a bad dream. You must lie quietly for a moment.”
“But—what am I doing in here?” Her wide-eyed gaze darted from one corner to another.
“Do you not remember getting out of bed?” I asked.
“Of course not. I remember Marie mixing up my sleeping draught, and reading a bit. That is all.” She stared up at me beseechingly. “How did I get here?”
“I fear I found you on the stairs, madame,” I said. “I do think you had a nightmare.”
“Oui, I am sure it was only a bad dream, madame,” Madame Charles said soothingly. “I will mix your medicines myself from now on. The doctor said you must be careful about your dose.”
“What is happening here?” Monsieur Harcourt said, coming into the drawing room. He, too, wore his dressing gown, his hair mussed, hie eyes reddened as if he had too much of the brandy before he retired. “Why all this fuss? People are trying to sleep.”
I rose to my feet, watching him carefully. “Your sister had a bad dream, monsieur. All is well now.”
He looked at Madeline, who turned away with her cheeks turning pink, as if she was embarrassed. “Oh,” he said. “How very odd. Everything all right now, Madeline?”
“Quite,” she whispered. “So silly of me.”
“Perhaps, monsieur, you would so kind to assist Madame Monsard back to her chamber?” I said. “Madame Charles and I can settle her in again.”
Madame Monsard suddenly grabbed my hand. Her grasp was surprisingly strong, her fingers icy cold. “Will you stay with me, Sandrine, until I sleep? You must promise me you won't leave me alone!”
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 6
