“No, my last foreign posting was in a place altogether different—Russia,” he answered, opening another of the boxes.
“Russia?” How fascinating,” I answered, hoping he would at last tell me more about himself. “I have read much of that land, and the poems of Pushkin, of course.”
“It was place very different from here, though everyone in St. Petersburg is proud to speak French and serve French foods and wines. The Empress Marie is fond of Parisian fashion, and wears it well. But they cannot completely conceal the fact that Russia is—Russia. Vast and impenetrable.”
It sounded like Monsieur Monsard's islands, a beautiful and unfathomable land. “In what way?”
“Cold and yet intimate, filled with mysticism I could not quite understand. It was hard to return here for a while, after being in such a wondrous world.”
“Like Monsieur Monsard and the islands? He also wrote that he could not return to his old life, not completely.”
“In a way. In our work, we are sent into such different lands, to learn new ways, adapt, change, yet stay the same. When we return here, we must forget them. Monsard could not do that. Perhaps he found his true self there.”
“His true self.” I thought that must be a great thing to do, a goal all humans must strive toward, yet it was a nearly impossible thing at the same time. “I do envy you, seeing the world in such a way. I have been able to see it only in books.”
He gave me a small, crooked smile, which made me feel confused all over again. “You would rather have a true adventure? Lose yourself in the snow or the sand, eat strange foods, hear languages you cannot fathom?”
I laughed. “I feel I am having an adventure of sorts now, here at Pierpont. I am learning new things every moment.”
“Such as what?”
“What it's like to live in a tropical island, for one thing.” I lifted the lid on another crate—and gasped at what I saw there. It was the carved staff Monsieur Monsard held in his portrait, but now I could see every detail of the carving, the flowering vines twined around strange flowers and animals.
“Is it the statue?” Mathieu asked, abandoning his own crate to hurry to my side.
“No, but look at this. I am quite sure I've seen it before.” I carefully lifted out the staff. It was quite heavy, and the elaborate carving bit into my skin. I studied its incredible beauty closely, fascinated. “In Monsieur Monsard's portrait.”
Mathieu took it into his own hands, turning it carefully in the light.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is a priest's staff of the Ta'Aroa.”
“Why would Monsieur Monsard have it? Would someone have sold it to him?” I remembered he wrote that Ailana gifted him with a statue, but he had the staff before he met her—and he thought the staff might have led him to her.
“Possibly, though I think not. It is not the sort of thing one can usually buy.”
“Would it go along with the statue we seek?”
“They are all a part of a priest's sacramental paraphernalia.” He carefully laid the staff back in its case and closed the lid. “Shall we walk in the garden for a time, Mademoiselle Duplessis? It grows warm in here.”
I was surprised at the sudden suggestion, but agreed. It had grown close in the room, the sunlight fading at the window into a grayish glow, the smell of the dust overpowering. I followed him out of the silent house.
It looked as if a storm would soon close in over Pierpont as we stepped into the garden. Clouds gathered overhead, lowering in a canopy of gray, and a cold wind swept at my skirt hem. A mist caught on the neglected flowerbeds, a white, tulle-like carpet, and I could smell the crisp salt of the sea. But the fresh coolness of the breeze was welcome after the stuffy warmth of the house, the feeling that the old walls were closing in on us. I wrapped my shawl tighter over my shoulders, and turned my face up to the light for a deep breath, my eyes closed.
I could smell no hint of tropical flowers, only the crisp cold.
I opened my eyes to find Mathieu watching me, an unreadable half-smile on his lips, his fair hair glowing in the light. I felt my cheeks turn warm with a blush, and I looked away, flustered. I strode quickly ahead on the pathway, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, and I heard him follow.
“Tell me more about the Ta'Aroa,” I said as we rounded one of the flowerbeds and made our way toward the maze. “I have been reading all I can find in Monsieur Monsard's library about the islands, yet it is all so mysterious.”
Mathieu came alongside me, his tall figure blocking the cold wind. “It is mysterious to us in the foreign office, as well. To everyone here in France, I would imagine. The world is a wide and varied place, Mademoiselle Duplessis, so rich and strange.”
“Is that what drew you to the work you do?”
He gave me that half-smile that made my heart flutter so strangely. “A fatal curiosity? I think so. My grandmother always warned my parents about that part of me. Even as a child, I wanted to know everything about all places, all people. When I was seven, I tried to run away to South America. My father caught me before I could stow away, and I had prepared so carefully, too. I had ten francs and a hamper full of food.”
I laughed, picturing a little bow with tow-colored curls hiding behind a pile of rope on the deck of s ship, dragged out by the ear by an irate father. “Where did you live?”
“In Marseille, then. My father was the grandson of a comte, but his family was impoverished long ago in the Revolution, and he had to work. He was a supervisor in a shipping office, and often brought home exotic items to try and cheer my mother. She was often ill, you see, and my grandmere kept our house, but they all loved to share tales of distant lands. I felt as if I could see Africa and India in our books, as well as the South Seas.”
“It was the same for me when I helped my father with his work. My world felt boundless then, as if I could discover anything at all.” I laughed at the memory, at the thought of all the strange dreams I had in those pages. “But the farthest I have ever gone is here to Pierpont. And that is thanks to you.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied me closely. “Are you sorry you came here? I know it is a strange place.”
I glanced back at the house, the quiet gray walls in the pale light, the gleam of the windows. “No, I am glad I came. I think I can help Madeline—or at least I hope I can. She is a kind woman, who has been given a difficult hand in life.” I thought of her husband and his secret life so far away, and how that life had suddenly come to Pierpont. I did feel sorry for her, for none of it was of her own making. “What do you hope we find here at Pierpont?”
“I do like the sound of 'we'--I have been alone in my work for much too long,” he answered. “Monsieur Monsard, no matter what may have happened, was a good man, a fine asset to his work, yet his end was mysterious. I feel we owe it to him to find out what happened, to take care of his wife.” He looked again at the house, as if he hoped to see something revealed in its walls. “What has she said of her husband?”
“Not a great deal, but I know she loved him, even though she was lonely without him. She wishes she, too, knew more about his life. They had something of a whirlwind courtship, I think, a passionate connection when they were first married.”
“A passionate connection,” he said quietly, almost sadly. He looked at me, and I saw some hidden question deep in his eyes. “I—of course. Who does not? Poems speak of being swept to great heights of emotion, of being carried out of our lives by love. It sounds wondrous. Yet also frightening. Madeline seems so unhappy now after having that love, so ill and alone.”
“Everything has a price. I never thought of love myself. My work has been so demanding. But sometimes...”
“Sometimes?” I whispered, feeling on the edge of something unfathomable.
He reached out to touch my cheek, so gentle and soft, his smile so wistful. He said nothing.
I did not know what to say. So little in my respectable, practical life had prepared me for such feel
ings. I longed to run away and hide from them, yet even more I wanted to stay exactly where I was, to touch him in return. To feel his kiss on my lips, in a way I had never even imagined beyond the pages of poetry before.
I spun around to face the gardens, curling my fingers tightly into the folds of my skirt to keep from clinging to him.
“I am sorry, Sandrine,” he said sadly. “I never meant to be so—forward.”
I shook my head. “You are not, of course, Mathieu. You have been only a gentleman. I just...”
I still had no idea what else to say, but he seemed to understand even my silence. He nodded, and offered me his arm. “Shall we walk some more before the rain comes in? We may be trapped inside for some time if it storms.”
“Yes, merci.” I took his arm, grateful for its warm strength under my touch. We made our way along the winding path to the top of the sea cliffs, talking quietly of frivolous things such as music and wine, and the latest fashion in ladies' sleeves from Paris, which it turned out neither of us knew much about but it made us laugh. He made me smile, and I soon forgot for our moment our strange situation at Pierpont.
At the top of the path, we found ourselves looking down at the waves. The sky was roiling now, swirling in gray and white patterns over the frothing sea, all so primitive and solitary. Yet I was surprised to see we were not entirely alone. Two men stood on the sandy shore below, dark figures silhouetted against the dramatic sky.
“Why that is Monsieur Harcourt,” I said, as I recognized one of them. The other was a stranger, a man in an expensive plaid suit and bowler hat. “I thought he knew no one but his sister here.”
Mathieu frowned. “Yes. But who is that with him?”
“I have never seen him before.” Whoever he was, they did not seem to be having a cordial conversation. He stepped closer to Monsieur Harcourt, his arms raised menacingly as Harcourt seemed to try to placate him, holding out his hand.
The sudden cold touch of rain on my brow startled me. I looked up to find the sky had darkened even more, though the coming storm seemed to not even be noticed by the men below.
“Come, we should hurry back to the house,” Mathieu said, and I nodded.
As we turned to make our way back to the garden, I glanced back quickly at the beach. The second man was now gone, his figure a dark blur further down the beach, but Monsieur Harcourt still stood there. His face was buried in his hands as if he was in despair.
Chapter Twelve
That night at dinner, Madame Monsard decided that she would come downstairs and eat with us. It was quite a momentous occasion, for she had not presided at her own table for some time, and Madame Charles seemed most startled and nonplussed. Marie helped madame to dress in one of her fashionable satin gowns, which had long been packed away, and Mathieu and I helped her down the stairs. She moved carefully, slowly, in her ruffled blue skirts and clouds of rose perfume, but her smile was bright.
“Are you sure you feel quite well enough?” Mathieu asked with a concerned frown as he led her toward the drawing room doors. He glanced toward the window where we could glimpse the gray, lowering sky. A storm had swept in off the sea at last, and the atmosphere in Pierpont felt oppressive, chilly.
“Of course I am well enough, Mathieu,” she answered with a laugh. Her giggle sounded high-pitched, desperate her eyes overly bright. “Your visit has quite revived me. I cannot continue being such a poor hostess, cowering in my chamber.” She shivered, and I hurried to tuck her lacy shawl closer around her.
The drawing room was much warmer, as Monsieur Gilles had already laid a crackling fire in the grate and Madame Monsard's chaise was drawn close to its heat. Monsieur Harcourt, who was lounging in one of the velvet armchairs with a glass of port in his hand, slowly climbed to his feet at her entrance. His eyes were reddened, his hair askew, and he swayed as if he had already imbibed much of the rich red wine.
I remembered how he looked when we glimpsed him on the beach, his face buried in his hands, and wondered what was amiss with him.
I, too, felt strangely restless, as if the walls of the drawing room had become part of the storm outside and were closing in on me. I tried to push away such feelings, telling myself I had become ridiculously fanciful and that this was a night for small celebrations, not foreboding. I glanced at Mathieu, and his smile reassured me a bit.
“Madeline, you must take care of yourself,” Monsieur Harcourt said, his words shrill and slurred. “The doctor says you need rest.”
“I do nothing but rest!” Madeline cried. “It is very dull, and I am making life equally dull for everyone around me. I must move forward with my life now, without my husband. Olivier, please do pour us some of that wine and sit down again. You look ill yourself tonight.”
Monsieur Harcourt hurried to the sideboard to pour more wine, his hand shaking so drops of the ruby-colored liquid stained the white table linen. “If you are moving forward, Madeline, have you considered my suggestion of cleaning out Pierpont and moving to a city? I would be happy to assist in going through all these cluttered collections.”
I glanced at Madeline, wondering if she found his offer to assist in “cleaning out” as overly-eager as I did. She merely smiled.
“I cannot think of that yet. I must take each day as it comes, and for now Pierpont is my home,” she said, studying the room around her. “But if I am to stay here much longer, I see I should do a bit of refurbishing. How shabby and unfashionable this room has become! That painting over there is dreadful. So gloomy. I am sure something could be found to replace it.”
“Perhaps your portrait in the gallery, madame,” I suggested. “It is very pretty.”
“The one painted when I was first married?” She frowned as her brother handed her the glass. “I'm not sure I could bear to see myself there every day, I have grown so altered.”
“You do not look at all different,” Mathieu assured her, and she laughed.
“What a kind friend you are, Mathieu,” she said as she drained her wine. “I vow I feel like a completely different person now than that girl who first came here. I expected so many things that could never have come to pass.”
“If you wish to dispose of some of your husband's collections, you know the office would be happy to assist,” Mathieu said.
“And happy to swindle her of its value!” Monsieur Harcourt muttered. “You would tell her they are mere trinkets and steal them away.”
Mathieu looked at him, something like pity in his eyes. “Some of the items are of worth only to scholars of island life, it is true. But no gentleman would ever dare steal from a lady such as your sister. We merely wish to assist with Monsieur Monsard's final wishes, if possible.”
Madame Monsard laughed, and held out her glass for more wine. “Well, it is of no matter anyway, as I have made no decisions at all! What my husband might have wished or not wished does not matter tonight. I want only to hear about happy things for a change. Mademoiselle Duplessis, do tell me something frivolous. Something about the fashions of town life.”
I laughed. “I know little of frivolous things, I fear. As you say, I am quite dull.”
“And I know you are no such thing,” Madeline protested. “You have been the best of company to me. Tell us about the bracelet you wear. It is so pretty.”
I glanced down at my mother's bracelet on my wrist, and sensed Monsieur Harcourt staring at it as well. “It was my mother's, though I know little about it. My father used to tell me she said the stone was special, that it had some kind of protective power and that was why her own mother gave it to her. I merely like the purple color of it, and the way it reminds me of her.”
“And where did her mother get it?” Madeline asked. I started to answer that I did not know, but my words were interrupted by Monsieur Gilles announcing that dinner was ready. Monsieur Harcourt led Madeline into the dining room, whispering intently in her ear. She just smiled and shook her head, and the rest of the dinner was taken up by him sinking deeper into his wine and Mad
eline chatting about dances she attended before her marriage as the storm gathered over our heads.
**
Mathieu offered to escort me to my chamber after the meal, soon after Madeline retired to her room, and I gratefully accepted. The roar of thunder over the house, the battering rain against the old windows, all made me feel even more closed-in and strangely restless. Monsieur Harcourt, too, had been behaving most strangely at the dinner table, drinking too much wine and becoming more and more silent as Madeline chattered louder and louder.
“Are you quite well, Sandrine?” Mathieu asked we made our way up the stairs. The flickering glow of the lantern he held was our only light, and it seemed we were adrift on a sea of darkness.
“Yes, of course,” I answered, though I was not at all sure. I felt I was going a bit mad. “I just—I wish I knew what was happening here. How to keep us all safe.”
“Please, you needn't fear,” he answered intently. “We can decipher it all together.”
I stared up into his eyes, and in their depths I could see the truth of his words. I had been alone for so long, battling the world at every step. Now I felt connected to someone else, like I had someone to take on the mysteries of Pierpont at my side. It was a wonderful, frightening, exhilarating feeling. I felt the warm pull of life once again, when everything had been so cold.
“Sandrine...” he said, his voice deep and rough. His arm came around my waist and he drew me close, so close I could not tell where I ended and he began. His lips came down on mine, and I felt the surge of passionate need deep inside my heart, like the stormy sea outside. I held tight to his shoulders, and kissed him back with all the force of my soul.
A clap of thunder exploded over our heads, and for an instant I was sure it was my own heart splitting open and letting all that fiery life fly free. But Mathieu let me go, and I realized it was the storm at last closing on in Pierpont.
I heard the slam of a door behind me, and spun around to see that Madeline had dashed out of her chamber. She ran down the corridor toward the door of the east wing, as if chased by invisible powers. Her nightgown was a white blur in the shadows, and I heard her scream out from inside the gallery.
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 8
