“Of course I will stay with you, madame, as long as you like,” I said quickly. Her expression made me feel uneasy, a vague fear I could not name.
Monsieur Harcourt easily swung his frail sister into his arms, leading us all back up the stairs. Once she was laid against her pillows, he vanished again, and Madame Charles and I stirred up the fire that had died in the cold night. After the housekeeper retired, leaving the door ajar behind her, I read poetry in a soft voice to Madeline until she again drifted into sleep, this time a quiet repose.
As she slumbered, I closed the book and found myself thinking of Monsieur Monsard's diary, his tales of curses coming back to haunt him. Surely that was what gave me such chills just then, the thought of that romantic and foreboding story. Everything would look different in the daylight.
The candles flickered low, and I found myself feeling quite sleepy. It had been a most dramatic evening. My eyes drifted closed, and my head drooped against the cushions of my chair.
But something pulled me awake just as I slipped into sleep. I sat up, startled, glancing around to see what had roused me. I smelled it first, that heavy, sweet scent of summer tropical flowers. I looked toward the open chamber door just in time to see a shadow dart past in the corridor.
I ran out of the room, but the shadows was vanishing, like a plume of smoke in the wind. For just an instant, it lingered at the top of the wall near the east wing doorway. I sensed it wanted me to follow, even that it tried to beckon to me, but something equally strong and terrifying held me where I was. I knew I had to protect Madame Monsard.
I spun around and dashed back to her bedside, taking her hand in mine. Fortunately, she felt warm and alive, her sleep peaceful once again. I knew then I had to make sure it all stayed that way, for all of us at Pierpont.
Chapter Ten
The next day, as I was reading to Madeline, the silence of Pierpont was broken by a sudden commotion outside the window. It had been a peaceful day thus far, but a strange one, the usual quiet tense and brittle as if it would snap at any moment. I felt lightheaded from my lack of sleep, and Madame Monsard seemed restless, unable to settle back against her pillows. The low, gray clouds that swirled across the sky didn't help.
“What is that?” she cried, and we heard a sound a bit like thunder outside.
I put aside the book and went to look. To my surprise, it was a carriage, drawing up to the front steps below. A fine, glossy, black equipage, drawn by matched grays.
“Are you expecting the doctor today, madame?” I asked, though I knew the doctor's pony trap bore no resemblance to this vehicle.
Madame Monsard sat up against her pillows, her pale, tired face brightening with interest. “Not until the afternoon. Do we have visitors, then, mademoiselle?”
“A carriage, madame,” I answered, as I watched Monsieur Gilles hurry down the steps to open the black-painted door.
“How delightful!” she cried, clapping her hands like a happy child. “Who is it? What do you see?”
I watched as a tall man stepped out, concealed for a moment in a dark caped greatcoat and a hat. He glanced up, and I saw it was Monsieur Favril, his golden hair gleaming in the gray light, his eyes narrowed as he studied the house.
I unconsciously smoothed my hair, feeling my cheeks turning warm at glimpsing him again. It was surely quite absurd!
“Who is it?” Madame Monsard asked again.
“It seems to be Monsieur Favril, madame,” I answered.
“Mathieu? How wonderful! I must go down to greet him. Oh, I must look a fright. I wonder if any of my gowns even still fit?”
Monsieur Favril looked at my window, and I half-raised my hand in greeting. But e had barely glimpsed me when Monsieur Harcourt appeared on the front steps, drawing away his attention. The two men spoke, though Monsieur Harcourt did not seem especially welcoming, if the scowl on his face was anything to judge by.
“It looks as if your brother is greeting him, madame,” I said as they disappeared into the house.
“Olivier? Oh, non, that will not do. He is not master here, no matter how much he thinks so. Here, mademoiselle, help me up, quickly.”
I rushed back to her bedside, much concerned as I saw her try to push herself to her feet and stumble. She had obviously not recovered from her nocturnal wanderings, and her legs trembled when she stood on them. I urged her gently to sit back down and take a sip of wine.
“Let me ring for Marie, and we will help you dress,” I said. “As Monsieur Favril has arrived without notice, he will not expect you to greet him right away.”
“I suppose not,” she said doubtfully. “But will you go down, Sandrine? Offer him refreshments, tell him I feeling quite well and looking forward to seeing him in an hour. Don't let Olivier tell him...”
“Tell him what, madame?” I asked, confused.
“Don't let him say how unwell I am. I am sure I am getting better. Last night—I was just being silly, I'm sure.”
I was not so certain, thinking of how she had nearly taken a serious tumble down the stairs. But she so obviously was anxious that no one form the outside world thought her so ill. “Of course, madame. As soon as Marie comes, I will go downstairs.”
When the maid appeared to help Madame Monsard bathe and dress, I hastily smoothed my own hair and shook out my skirts before I made my way to the drawing room. Monsieur Gilles was carrying in a tray laden with wine and cakes, and I heard voices floating out the half-open door.
“...must stay here!” Monsieur Harcourt was saying, his voice rough and desperate. “I have nowhere to go.”
“Do you not care for your sister?” Mathieu said, calm and steady.
“Of course I do! But I must look after myself, as you do. I cannot...”
I glanced back over my shoulder, half-wondering if I should leave, but Monsieur Gilles saw me and beckoned me forward. In the doorway, I studied the scene. Monsieur Harcourt was pacing before the fireplace, his hair rumpled as it had been last night, his cravat askew. His cheeks seemed strangely flushed. Monsieur Favril stood near the window, his hands clasped behind him, his handsome face smooth and unreadable.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Duplessis,” he said, and gave me charming smile, as if we were old friends just happening to meet again. “How lovely to see you again. I hope you fare well here at Pierpont. Do come and join us.”
I gave him a nervous smile in return, and went to perch on the edge of madame's chaise near the fire. Being near him made me feel strangely restless and self-conscious.
“What an unexpected pleasure to see you at Pierpont, Monsieur Favril,” I answered. “Madame Monsard sent me to greet you, and tell you she will be down shortly.”
“Madeline should not be out of bed at all,' Monsieur Harcourt cried. He ran his hand through his hair, disarranging it even further, and his eyes glanced wildly around the room. I unconsciously shrank back a bit, disquieted by his fervent reaction. “She has been quite ill indeed, and should be somewhere she can be properly looked after. This place is much too isolated. She really ought to be in a hospital of some sort. I must insist on it.”
Monsieur Favril gave me a glance, his eyebrow arched as if to also question the man's behavior. I shrugged. We both knew Harcourt was not really in a position to “insist” on anything. “Is that true, Mademoiselle Duplessis? I had hoped so much she was improving.”
“Tell him, Mademoiselle Duplessis!” Monsieur Harcourt cried. “Tell him what happened just last night.”
I hesitated, still unsure of what really had happened. It all felt like a bad dream in the light of day, yet I could not deny the fear of the night. “Madame does seem a little better than when I first arrived. She even walked with me in the garden, lets me read to her, sit with her. She had a nightmare yesterday.”
Monsieur Favril frowned. “A nightmare?”
“She ended up at the top of the stairs, and nearly fell. But she let me take her back to her chamber,” I said. “I do think that, with winter coming on, a removal to a t
own might be good for her, yet I don't think she requires a hospital.”
“She is growing mad, I tell you!” Monsieur Harcourt insisted, pacing around the room. “She won't even let me, her own brother, help her.”
“I would not call her mad,” I said, growing angry at his aspersions on his sister. Madeline was ill and grieving, true, perhaps confused, but she was not mad. “Perhaps a bit lonely...”
“I see,” Monsieur Favril murmured. He stared into the fire, stroking his chin as if he contemplated all he had heard. His uncanny pale eyes were unreadable. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, you would walk with me for a moment until Madame Monsard comes downstairs? It is a fine enough day outside.”
I nodded, and rose to take his arm. I was eager to escape the oppressiveness of the house, to get a breath of fresh hair and talk frankly to Mathieu about what I had seen thus far at Pierpont.
“You must tell him!” Monsieur Harcourt shouted behind us as we left the drawing room. “Tell him she is ill.”
I looked back as the door closed behind us. Monsieur Harcourt had stopped his pacing and stared after us, a look of mingled anger and helplessness on his face. He did seem so concerned about Madeline, I couldn't help but feel sorry for him. Yet I was still glad to escape his presence for a while.
It was not a fine day, but no cold wind yet blew up from the sea and no rain fell from the leaden sky, though the roiling clouds seemed to threaten it. We turned along one of the garden paths, toward the maze, and I was glad of Mathieu's strong arm under my hand, of someone there to talk to.
“How is Madame Monsard really?” he asked. “And how do you fare here at Pierpont?”
“It is an interesting place,” I answered, glancing back at the house. The gray stones seemed to make it a part of the sky itself. “And madame is most kind. I worry about her, though.”
“Worry about her—how? Is she indeed going mad?”
I studied him carefully, his concerned expression, the tilt of his head. Was he truly Madeline's friend, someone who could help her? I wanted someone to trust, to confide in, but it was hard to really know. “I don't think so. She misses her husband greatly, and I think her imaginings of his life in the islands haunts her dreams.”
He led me along another path, and we sat down on a marble bench in the shadow of a stone goddess. “What do you know of Monsard's life there, mademoiselle?”
“Not a great deal. I have been reading books about Tahitian myths and legends,” I said. “And I found a journal of Monsieur Monsard's.”
He looked surprised. “Have you shown it to Madeline?”
I hesitated, something holding me back. “No. Monsieur Monsard hints that he found a new love in the islands. Madame has told me she suspects as much, and I would not wish to cause her more pain. Monsieur Monsard sounds so very—very passionate about this lady and their life together there, hidden as it was.”
Monsieur Favril sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. “I feared as much.”
“Did you?”
“There was talk of recalling Monsard back to France, just before he died. Other officers in the islands said he had begun behaving strangely, secretively. He spent much time with a certain woman, and he had no business with her.”
“Because was an islander?”
“Because she was known to be a priestess of the Ta'aroa religion, the Arioi, and they were forbidden to be in contact with us.”
“The Ta'aroa!” I gasped. I thought of what I had read, of the deep beliefs and taboos of the islanders. If that woman had indeed been a priestess, it was no wonder something strange lingered over this far-away romance.
“You have heard of them?”
“I read a bit about it. They are something of a secret society, I believe, and their ariki, or priests, are held to be very powerful. To touch one of them, or even stand in their shadow, would mean illness and death.”
He gave a grim nod. “Then you will know something of very sacred and secret it all is. Their priests and priestesses are forbidden to marry, or even to engage in—romantic relations. If Monsieur Monsard had fallen in love with such a person, it would be very dangerous.”
“Do you think that is why he died?”
Mathieu hesitated a moment. “All reports say he became ill with a fever. Many Europeans do, in such a climate.”
“And his—his lover?” I whispered.
“I have heard nothing more of her. If she and Monsard were truly in love...”
Then perhaps that love had been the end of them. It made me shiver. “How could such a thing be making Madeline ill, though? Here, in Normandy.”
“I'm sure she was ill before her husband left. Dwelling on thoughts of him could make it worse.”
I looked back at the house, at the blank reflection of the upper windows. I remembered the lights I had seen there, the strange sounds, the smell of tropical flowers, the terrible fear on Madeline's face as she trembled on the stairs. “Tell me, Monsieur Favril—do you believe in ghosts?”
He frowned, and I expected him to categorically deny it, to assure me there was no such thing. After all I had seen, I would have doubted him but might have been a bit assured. Instead, he shook his head, and I saw my own conflicted thoughts reflected in his pale eyes.
“I believe there is only human evil, Mademoiselle Duplessis, but it can reach its icy fingers into every corner of our lives,” he said. He reached for my hand, and his own touch was warm, steadying. I felt less alone than I had since my father died. “Please, mademoiselle—Sandrine. Be most careful. I fear I should not have sent you here.”
“What is really happening here?” I asked, holding tight to his hand. “Is Madeline in danger? Should we take her away?”
Before he could answer, the door to the house opened and Madame Monsard appeared there. She looked thin and fragile in her green taffeta gown, and she anxiously scanned the garden before her. She at last glimpsed us and waved, an overly-bright smile on her face. I waved back.
“We should go to her now,” I said.
“Of course.” He rose from the bench and offered me his arm. “Perhaps you will walk with me more later? Show me the journal you have found?”
I nodded. I would be glad for him to also see the east wing, to help me decipher what to make of all it held. “This afternoon, before dinner? Madame usually rests then.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle. You have been a great help to me, to all of us, here.”
As I took his arm and e made our way back to the house, I wondered what he was really thanking me for—working at Pierpont, or protecting madame from whatever might be lurking in her own house, waiting to do her, to do all of us, harm.
Chapter Eleven
The next day, as Madeline took her afternoon rest and her brother went off on one of his mysterious hunting trips, Mathieu asked to see the east wing. I led the way there, trying to push away the feelings of trepidation that came over me as we made our way along the corridor. I couldn't help but remember the last time I was there, the cold wind that had swept around the room, the strange noises, the flowery perfume. I did not want to experience those unknown things ever again.
At least, I told myself, it was a rare sunny day at Pierpont, and this time I was not alone. Mathieu was with me, his tall figure reassuring at my side. He did not seem like a fanciful person at all, not one to be moody or changeable as Monsieur Harcourt seemed, but neither did he scoff at my own worries. He seemed as concerned for Madame Monsard as I was, and I hoped he could be an ally in helping her.
And perhaps—just perhaps—an ally in more? A true friend for me?
We reached the door to the east wing, and he used the key borrowed from a reluctant Madame Charles to open the portal. It scraped and squealed, as if rusted shut, and resistant to letting anyone in, even though I had just been there days before. It was dark, the scent I remembered of dust and decay still clinging in the air. There was no hint of sweet tropical flowers. The stacks of crates still faced the narrow labyrinth of walkways.
&
nbsp; I hurried to push back the heavy draperies at the windows and let the pale yellow sunlight in. Mathieu studied the boxes and trunks, frowning as he peered inside of them.
“Where did you find the journals?” he asked.
“In this box,” I said, pointing out the crate I had pried open. “There was no time to search every case.”
Mathieu sorted through a slotted drawer of various botanical specimens. “What else did you see?”
I described what I had seen on my last visit to the east wing, the artifacts and documents. “Is there something in particular you seek?”
“You mentioned a certain statue Monsieur Monsard wrote about.”
“With the purple stone?”
“Yes. Did you find anything like that?”
I shook my head. “I am sure I would remember it. I imagine it looks something like this.” I held out my wrist where I wore my mother's spinel stone bracelet under the starched white cuff of my dress. I shimmered in the dusty light.
He touched it lightly with his fingertip, and I shivered at the sensation of his skin on mine. He gazed down at it intently, yet he seemed distracted, as if in his mind he saw something else completely. He stepped back, tucking his hands behind his back. “We must find it.”
“Why? What significance does it have?”
He frowned. “The foreign office wishes for it to be returned to the islands, if at all possible.”
“But why?” I asked, confused. “Does it have some power beyond the other things Monsieur Monsard gathered here?”
“It is something that never should have left its home,” he said. He studied me for a long, tense moment, and looked as if he would say something more. But then he just stepped back again, his expression closing into that cool, unreadable distance I found so maddening in him. I longed to know him so much better, to be let into his secrets!
I turned away to hide my own chaotic thoughts. I sorted through one of the crates, and found only bolts of brightly colored cloth and carved shell beads. “Were you ever in the islands yourself, Mathieu?”
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 7
