Authors: Rose Burghley
She explained: “I’m crazy about old French chateaux, and yours looks as if it would be an absolute peach in the daylight. And this part of France is quite something! Don’t apologise for dragging us all the way from Paris, because I’ve enjoyed every moment of the run!”
“That is excellent, mademoiselle,” he said, rather stiltedly, but with the never-failing politeness of a Frenchman of his rank. “I am delighted,” but his expression suggested that he was not quite sure whether he was awake or dreaming.
His godmother shook her head at him.
“Armand,” she accused, “don’t tell me you have forgotten that I told you I would be bringing Helen to Paris this summer, and that I thought it would be a good plan for you two to meet?”
Diane cut in somewhat maliciously:
“Armand is a little forgetful sometimes—especially when he has something new on his mind!”
“You mean when he is thinking up a new play?” Helen Mansfield interpreted this incorrectly, but with a brightness and eagerness that could have been highly flattering. “I love your plays. Comte I know perhaps I ought to be a little shocked by them, too,” colouring until her clear skin suggested a delicately powdered peach, “and folks at home are inclined to be that way about them! But I’m broad-minded, and I was so disappointed there isn’t one running in Paris at the moment.”
“There will be one running in the autumn,” Armand informed her automatically, and then Christopher came into the room, and introductions became a little less incoherent.
Caroline found herself being introduced after Mademoiselle Montauban—largely because she held back on the fringe of things for as long as it was possible—and Lady Penelope Pinder (“Call me Lady Pen, my dear!” said that lady at once) stared down at her
rather hard for a moment, as if she was conscious of being reminded of someone or something.
“Caroline Darcy,” she repeated rather musingly. “Did you have an extremely fascinating grandmother called Caroline, who was at a finishing school in Paris the year before she married? If I can remember rightly her maiden name was Wade, and I formed one of those passionate attachments to her that young women sometimes do form for members of their own sex who are much prettier than themselves.”
“My grandmother was Caroline Wade,” Caroline admitted, “and I know she did finish her schooling in Paris”
‘Then, my dear, you and I are already acquainted.! And I was devoted to your grandmother, and only her granddaughter could have eyes that are exactly like violets someone has left out in the rain! .Armand,” delightedly, “isn’t this charming? Your little friend and I already know one another!”
It didn’t seem to strike her as in the least strange that her godson should have been discovered at last shut away in his chateau with a couple of almost equally attractive young women, for both of whom she could understand him feeling admiration. But it was Caroline who began really to interest her, and beyond admiring Mademoiselle Montauban she didn’t appear to wish to have very much to say to her.
“But this is delightful!” she declared, when Christopher Markham had been explained away as being on leave from somewhere on the west coast of Africa—a highly conscientious District Commissioner was what Caroline later discovered he was, and his appearance always made her think of the Government Official who never neglected to change into a dinner-jacket even when dining alone in an appalling climate, for he looked scrubbed, meticulous and English. And she also discovered later that he could be very charming. “There is something I didn’t expect, Armand! A little house party already under way! And now we shall be able to swell your numbers, and I’m sure we shall get on excellently together, and you can show Helen something of the district while I have a rest after far too much travelling about for my years! And Christopher can get Caroline here to show him the district!” as if that was an idea that rounded off things very nicely, even if it left Diane a little unclaimed.
But Diane merely looked faintly amused, and accepted another drink when it was brought to her by Christopher with her own particular brand of slow, seductive smile, and looking her over with brightening eyes he thought she was proof positive that French girls had something.
Armand said nothing, but went on pouring drinks as if it was an occupation that helped him just then; and later there was a certain amount of confusion when Monique was summoned to deal with the problem of the beds.
“Don’t trouble if everything isn’t as it should be,” Lady Pen said, as if she naturally didn’t expect trimmings such as constant running hot water and a service of chambermaids in an infrequently used chateau; but would be disappointed if there wasn’t a hot-water bottle in her bed, even on a June night, and someone on hand to answer the bell if she should ring. “We are not sybarites, and we can make do with very little. If only someone will unpack one of my cases for me, and see that I’m not too far from a bathroom!”
Caroline rose to the occasion, and went to help a completely bewildered Monique cope with a whole series of utterly unexpected problems. Armand watched her go, but he said nothing, and frantically searching through an ill-stocked linen cupboard for the required amount of linen, and afterwards stripping dust-covers from beds, filling hot-water bottles, and even lighting a fire in Lady Pen’s room, because it was big, and damp, and bleak, she had little or no time to think of him standing there in the little card-room, looking as if something had gone very badly wrong with his world, and that he was mutely protesting against it even if just then it was impossible to do so verbally.
And, later still, checking over a possible dinner menu with Monique, while they both sought to make certain there were enough materials in the larder to ensure that it ever materialised, she still had no time to think of him. She washed Thibault and put him to bed—with Jacqueline for company—in order to have him out of the way, persuaded Marie-Josette to put herself to bed, and then listened to the endless sound of running water that seemed to fill every corridor of the chateau while the invading army prepared to enjoy baths. After which, having promised to help with the laying of the table when she had changed into another dress, she made her way to her own room, and encountered Diane—on her way to one of those noisy baths—journeying gracefully through echoing corridors in a peach-coloured dressing-gown that floated out behind her, and was so transparent that it hardly seemed to be necessary as a garment at all. She sent Caroline a queer, cat-like smile of enjoyment—the smile of a cat who has just lapped up a bowl of thick, rich cream—and then disappeared into her bathroom and bolted the door noisily.
A precaution that was unnecessary because the bolt was the type that would yield to a heavy push, as Caroline had discovered during her early days at the chateau.And in her own case she had simply selected another bathroom, which had meant a longer distance to travel from her room.
When she reached her room she leaned against the door and stood looking around it. It was exactly the same as she had seen it last—exactly the same as she had seen it on that first night, when old Pierre had stood at her elbow and told her about the hot water, and a bat had flown past the window.
There had been the scent of climbing white roses, and the night noises had come in clearly through the open window. There still was the scent of white roses, and one of them was tapping gently against a pane of glass, and even as she stood there an owl hooted derisively in one of the great trees pressing close to the house. But other things were not the same—her big four-poster bed, with its carved columns, the cupids that looked at her from amidst the flowers and the grapes that were a part of the ornamentation of the shining tester supports, was not the same welcoming four-poster bed on to which Robert—no; Armand!—had so lightly deposited her after carrying her all the way upstairs on that first night. Then everything around her had seemed peaceful and promising, the bed had offered her a tranquil night, and Robert—Armand!— had spent the night on the terrace guarding her! Or so he had said, but it was probably an exaggeration of speech, and he had really felt disinclined to leave her alone because he had been a bit anxious about her.
A young woman left alone in his own house who ought not to be left alone!
Tears rose, like the rising of a spring, to her eyes, and she caught back a little moan of self-pity because a bubble had been pricked, and everything was ended.
Oh, Robert, Robert... !
She dragged herself across the room and sat down on the side of the bed, clutching at one of the bedposts and resting her head against it.
Robert with his bookshop in the Rue de Rivoli... his bookshop that didn’t pay...! His flat at the top of one of the tallest buildings in Paris, his offer of poverty—and love... ! Robert must surely have loved her when he held her in his arms that afternoon and kissed her, and promised that she should do all the things a woman longs to do for the man she loves... cook for him, and sew on his buttons, and mend his socks! But that was Robert...! Armand was the Comte de Marsac, whom matrons in Paris chased after determinedly because he was wealthy and titled and a successful playwright, and morals didn’t matter when you were looking for a suitable son-in-law. A highly suitable son-in-law...! Armand probably had a most expensive flat, and no woman—certainly not a woman he married!—would ever find it necessary to cook for him, or perform the menial tasks. Instead she would be expected to share his social life, get used to the idea of possessing a “lion” for a husband, probably see very little of him when he was working, hear things about him that would pain her horribly at times.... Unless she was someone like Diane Montauban, who was so eminently fitted—judging by the little Caroline had seen of her so far—to be the Contesse de Marsac, with a chateau which she might visit occasionally, unless she persuaded her husband to sell it...!
Or someone like Helen Mansfield, who exuded an aura of possessions that would probably far outstrip anything owned by
Diane—probably a rich American heiress!— who was crazy about old French chateauxand might do much for the place!
Caroline felt that the hard wood of the bedpost was like the hard
wall of reality against which she had been flung, and the tears started to well over her eyes and roll down her cheeks, and they rolled so fast and so miserably at last that she didn’t trouble to check them.
She didn’t even hear the knock when it came on the door, so sunk was she in her misery, and so certain that she had been made rather worst than a fool of. A trusting, simple fool who had provided a diversion when it was needed!
CHAPTER VIII
AND since no one called out to him to enter, Armand— who had knocked very softly on the door—turned the handle and walked in.
Caroline sprang up from the foot of the bed as if a coiled spring had been released and the movement was purely defensive. He could see the marks of tears on her face, and her whole appearance was so utterly wretched and woebegone that he crossed to her swiftly and, taking her unwilling hands, tried to draw her right into his arms. But she fought him all at once with determination and something like fury.
“How dare you touch me. . . ! Leave me alone, please...!” “Cherie,” he pleaded, “I can’t bear to see you upset like this!”
“I’m not upset, I’m.... And how dare you come walking in here? This may be your house, but it’s my room—at least until I go away! And you’ve left the door standing wide to the corridor—everyone will know you’re here...!”
He returned to the door and shut it, carefully and quietly, and then he went back to her again. His expression was a trifle more grim.
“It doesn’t matter what everyone knows, because everyone will know soon that you’re going to be my wife! I would have let them know already, only I didn’t dare to do so when you looked so—so shocked and upset. . . !”
“Did you expect me to look anything other than shocked and upset?” she enquired with dangerous quietness.
“I don’t know.” He sank down on the side of the bed and ran his fingers through his thick black hair. It always had a tendency to wave a little, and when he had done with it it looked definitely unruly. His eyes, with rather a beaten expression in the beautiful brown depths, looked rather helplessly about the room. “Oh, Carol, what an end to our wonderful interlude!” he exclaimed.
“And that’s all it was,” she remarked, as coldly as before—”a wonderful interlude!”
He looked at her quietly, critically.
“Not this afternoon?”
“Yes—this afternoon!”
She turned away and went to her dressing-table. Mechanically she fumbled in a drawer for a handkerchief, and when she had found one scrubbed rather angrily at her eyes. Then, just as automatically—not caring that he was watching her in a curiously absorbed manner—she dabbed at her face with a powder-puff, and ran a quick comb through her hair. Then, feeling that she had donned at least partial armour, she turned back to him again, and walked to within a foot of him.
“Did you think it amusing, at first, to make me believe you were a friend of the Comte!”
He sighed.
“Perhaps it was amusing—just at first! You were so full of harsh criticism of Armand de Marsac, and I could tell you had made up your mind that he was of very little value in the scheme of things. I don’t think Marthe Giraud really intended to poison your mind against me—she and I have always been the greatest of friends, as a matter of fact—but I think she was probably a little indiscreet in her letters. And you based your opinion on that discreetness in her letters, and I thought it best that you should not find out immediately who I was. But later that very same evening I wanted to tell you!”
“But you didn’t do so... ! You didn’t do so the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that!” her face working a little. “Not even this afternoon...!”
“Darling, I was trying to get around to it, but somehow I—I kept putting it off!”
“And you asked me to marry Robert de Bergerac, who probably doesn’t exist at all! Or is it, by any chance, a part of your name?” faint hopefulness stirring in her.