The Granville Sisters (32 page)

‘Do you think Madame Brevelay really does most of the work here?’ Marina asked, bemused. ‘Or was she teasing?’

‘I don’t think she was teasing,’ Candida replied. ‘From the looks of this place she’s penniless, but it is nice and relaxing; better than some chichi modern hotel.’

Louise thought of her mother, and nodded sagely. Mummy would have had a blue fit if she had to stay here, she reckoned, and that made it all the more fun.

‘Let’s grab our bathing things and go for a swim, while there’s still some heat in the sun,’ Candida suggested in a brisk manner, which Louise quite liked.

Between the château and the beach there was a dusty coastal road, along which a few cyclists were pedalling lazily. A rusting Citroën shuddered past, honking its horn, going in the direction of St Malo.

Crossing the road, they walked on to the beach, where the sand was so perfectly rippled it looked as if it had been done by a machine. The only sounds were the swishing of the ever-tumbling waves and the cries of the seagulls as they swooped fitfully above the water’s edge.

‘Come on, girls,’ said Candida. ‘Last one in the sea’s a ninny.’

‘You can’t be away for the twelfth!’ Cameron exclaimed hotly. ‘It’s the biggest day of the year at Glenmally. You’ve got to be here, Juliet.’

‘Don’t you think I’ve practically got the twelfth
tattooed
all over my body, to remind me of your bloody shoot?’ Juliet retorted angrily. ‘Only, this year things are going to be different. I let you and your mother organize it all last time, while I found my feet. But I do happen to be your wife, and this does happen to be my house, not your mother’s, and in future things are going to be done my way.’

Cameron looked at her nervously. This was a new Juliet, and he wasn’t sure how to cope with her.

‘But Mother has always made all the arrangements,’ he said fretfully.

Juliet’s smile was razor sharp. ‘That was before you were married, Cameron. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure all your shooting cronies are invited, but they will be diluted by some amusing friends of mine, so the topic of conversation at dinner won’t only be about how many brace you’ve bagged. We’ll have music, and dancing too, in the evenings, and for those who don’t want to follow the guns, such as myself, there will be alternative entertainment.’

‘I don’t want all the usual arrangements messed up,’ he complained. ‘The shooting season is so important up here.’

‘Which one?’ She raised her eyebrows and glared at him. ‘Last year’s shooting season? Or the little impromptu one in May? Which landed you in hospital.’

Cameron flushed an ugly shade of red. ‘That was an
accident
,’ he said furiously. ‘And keep your voice down. I do not want to talk about it.’

‘So I’ve noticed. I wonder why? You might have been killed. Nevertheless, the greatest crime seemed to be that someone was shooting before the twelfth!’ She shook her head in mock scolding. ‘Terrible
faux pas
, Cameron. Unforgivable. What would the rest of the country say, if they knew? How would we have explained your unexpected demise?’ She tut-tutted mockingly.

‘It was an unfortunate incident,’ he replied haughtily, trying to look dignified in spite of his obvious discomfort. ‘Nothing more. It won’t happen again. The subject is closed. I merely wanted to ascertain that
you’ll
be up here on the twelfth.’

‘You assume correctly,’ she said grandly. ‘I’ve come to realize one thing, though.’ Was it fear she suddenly saw flash in his eyes? She couldn’t be sure.

‘I hate blood sports,’ she continued. ‘Beautiful creatures flying through the air one minute, then brought crashing down the next. For what purpose? It’s just for the fun of killing and I can’t bear it.’

He gave a quick nervous smile, seemed relieved. ‘You were brought up in a town. That’s why …’

‘I was also brought up at Hartley,’ she retorted, walking out of the library, closing the door noisily behind her, and then going into the garden for a breath of fresh air.

It was time, she reflected, that she asserted herself. If she’d taken on the role of being a duchess, she might as well start behaving like one, at least at Glenmally. She’d been so wrapped up in Daniel, thinking only of him in the past few months, that she hadn’t cared what Cameron did, as long as she was allowed her trips to London.

That had changed, after dinner the previous evening.

Cameron and his mother had chatted to each other throughout the soup, the Angus beef steaks, and the chocolate soufflé, as if she hadn’t been there.

They took a veritable trip up Memory Lane: ‘Remember your first birthday party, and you wore the kilt …? Wasn’t that exciting, the day you caught that ten-pound salmon …? We must have a big Christmas tree this year. Remember the time the candles caught fire …?’ And on and on it went, as Juliet sat, drinking Burgundy, while they ignored her.

She hadn’t said anything at first, but a growing rage was welling up inside her as she listened to their reminiscing. Cameron and Iona’s cloying devotion to each other was somehow sickening, their conversation intimate, their secret smiles and shared laughter almost disgusting. They were like old lovers, sharing tender memories.

At last she could bear it no longer. Taking another swig of wine, Juliet thumped her glass heavily on the polished table, and glared at them.

‘I don’t know why you didn’t marry your mother, Cameron,’ she said bitterly. ‘However, you do happen to have a wife, or perhaps you’d forgotten? Perhaps you’d rather remain a mummy’s boy for the rest of your life? You and Mummy seem so devoted to each other, I’m beginning to feel rather
de trop
.’

Her hand, with its long scarlet nails and emerald and diamond engagement ring, was pressed to her chest, as if protecting her wounded heart, but her aquamarine eyes were flashing dangerously. ‘If you continue to ignore me, I just might go to London one day – and not bother to return to this hotbed of incestuousness.’

Cameron sprang to his feet, face crimson with rage. He was shaking all over. ‘How dare you! Apologize to my mother at once!’ he shouted.

‘The girl’s drunk,’ Iona pointed out in a cold hard voice. ‘Go to bed, Juliet,’ she commanded loudly. ‘You’re drunk and talking nonsense.’

‘I am not talking nonsense. I’m sick to death of being ignored in my own house.’

‘The trouble is, you haven’t had a child,’ Cameron said accusingly. ‘That would give you something else to think about.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Juliet turned to Cameron, who was still standing, looking as if he’d been winded. ‘If you spent more time in my bed, and less on your estate, I might actually
get
pregnant!’

Nanny’s mouth was as tight as a drawstring purse. ‘Louise should never have been allowed to go,’ she fumed, with self-righteous disapproval. ‘I don’t know what they were thinking of. France indeed! It’s asking for trouble.’

Ruby smoothed her starched apron nervously. Nanny in a rage was not a pretty sight. ‘I thought Louise was in Brittany?’ she ventured.

‘Brittany! France! It’s all the same. Haven’t you seen the newsreels at the Odeon? Or listened to the wireless? The war’s going to start at any
moment
. London will be flattened by bombs in no time at all. Me? I can’t wait to get to Surrey. Not that we’ll be safe there. Mark my words, Ruby, the Germans will be invading England by the end of the year. Landing on the white cliffs of Dover and all.’ Nanny thumped her fist on the nursery table, where they sat, having their elevenses. The cups and saucers rattled in sympathy.

Ruby had turned pale. ‘What will happen to Louise?’

Nanny snorted. ‘Most likely be made a prisoner of war, poor little thing. It was irresponsible of her parents to have let her go. Mind you, I’m surprised at Mrs Montgomery taking Marina. A sensible woman like her should know better.’

‘We’ll be off to Hartley Hall soon, won’t we?’ Ruby said, hoping to soothe Nanny.

‘Where are we now? July twenty-seventh. Yes, we’ll be off by the first. Can’t be in London in August, whatever happens. Think yourself lucky you work for a rich, posh family, Ruby,’ Nanny remarked severely.

‘Yes, Nanny.’

‘My father was right about one thing,’ Candida said at supper one evening. ‘The food here is excellent. I think we should stay another week, don’t you?’ She tucked into her plate of grilled sea bass, having demolished a first course of chicken-liver paté with crusty bread.

Her waist had expanded alarmingly during the past ten days, but she didn’t care. The days here were too perfect to be spoilt by something as stupid as not being able to do up her skirts.

It was mid-August, and it was warm and sunny, with just a gentle breeze coming off the sea. They had the beach to themselves, and the château was empty except for a young couple with their baby.

In the evenings, Marina and Louise went to the deserted lounge to play games of Halma, Monopoly or
vingt-et-un
, while Margaux invited Candida into her private quarters, to share a bottle of wine; the remains of a once superb cellar.

Alone in the faded plush and worn rococo gilt plasterwork of the
petit salon
, the two women began to talk, because there was no one else with whom they could have an adult conversation.

They could not be overheard, either, and soon the wine stripped them of their natural polite reticence, and Candida, never a snob, insisted that they call each other by their first names.

‘Did you know my father had died thirteen years ago?’ she asked Margaux, who was opening a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, saying she thought they deserved a little treat.

‘I read about it in the newspapers,’ Margaux replied. ‘Your mother must have missed him very much. Is she still alive?’

Candida laughed. ‘Alive and kicking! She’s still living at Hartley, on Henry’s insistence.’

‘You too are a widow? Do you miss having a man in your life?’ Margaux settled her bolster-shaped body on the
chaise longue
and she put up her swollen feet, which bulged between the buttoned straps of her black shoes.

Candida nodded, glass in hand. ‘Not that I was ever the clinging, needy type,’ she retorted robustly. ‘Mark was a great chap. We were chums. Never went in for all that romantic rubbish. Bit of a blow when he died. Stroke. First time he’d had a day’s illness in his life.’

‘You were left with your son and daughter to bring up? That’s never easy on your own.’

‘Have ’em, love ’em, and leave ’em be. That’s my motto. They’ve been very good. Sebastian has a great seat on a horse. Goes like the clappers. Marina is more artistic.’ Candida guffawed. ‘God knows where she gets that from.’

‘Children can be a great comfort.’ Margaux’s voice took on a dreamy quality. She reached for the bottle on the table beside her, and topped up their glasses.

‘You’ve got children?’ Candida asked. ‘What … boys? Girls?’

‘A son.’

‘And what does he do?’

‘He’s a writer. He lives in Amiens. He was brought up by my mother.’ She shrugged with continental exaggeration. ‘Now he is a man of forty. He has no family. He lives on his own.’

‘Do you see much of him?’

Again the shrug. ‘He blames me for a lot of things. Including handing him over to my mother when he was a baby.’

Margaux’s voice had dropped to a pained whisper. She emptied her glass, and poured herself another drink.

‘Were you working?’

‘I was not married at the time.’

‘Ah …’ Candida drew out the word. ‘But later … surely his father wanted to have him with you …’

‘The man I eventually married was not Gaston’s father.’

‘I see.’ Candida digested this interesting fact. ‘Jolly bad luck for you, getting preggers out of wedlock,’ she said, more stoutly than she’d meant. ‘I was lucky, myself,’ she confessed, after her drink had been topped up. ‘I had quite a few flings before I met Mark, but I never got caught.’ She leaned forward, confidentially, enjoying this woman-to-woman talk. ‘Thank God for a small sponge on a string, dipped in vinegar!’ she chortled.

Then she leaned back and asked briskly, ‘So, what happened to, um … erm … Gaston’s father?’

Margaux’s face turned a deep shade of red, and she looked down into her wine glass. ‘I do not think you want to know that,’ she said quietly.

‘Oh, come on,’ Candida urged. ‘You might as well tell me the whole story now.’

‘It might upset you.’

‘Upset
me
? Why, for God’s sake …?’

Margaux raised her face, and looked steadily into Candida’s frank blue eyes. ‘I suppose we are all getting old. It does not seem to matter so much now. At the time it was a calamity.’

Candida frowned. Something flashed through her mind, a recollection of how her father had insisted Margaux join them for lunch that day. The look in his eyes when he’d smiled and raised his glass to drink her health.

‘
Oui
,’ Margaux said softly, seeing from Candida’s expression that she’d guessed. ‘Your father was my lover. Just for one brief
magnifique
summer, in 1909.’

‘1909?’ Candida repeated. ‘I’d have been twenty-two at the time. Intent on travelling to far-off places … the war put a stop to all that, of course. I didn’t meet Mark until I was thirty. So you and my father had an affair? How extraordinary.’

‘Gaston was born in 1910,’ Margaux continued as if Candida hadn’t spoken. ‘I was teaching French at a girls’ school in Guildford when I met your father.’

That fitted, Candida reflected. Aloud she said, ‘Our home, Hartley Hall, is near Guildford.’ How had she not been aware what was going on? Too wrapped up in her own life to notice, she supposed.

‘I know,’ replied Margaux. ‘I was never inside, but I saw it from the road. A very beautiful old house. How I wished at the time it was mine.’ She sighed and then rubbed her forehead distractedly.

‘Did my mother know about you?’

‘
Mais non!
When I told your father I was expecting a baby, he was terrified your mother would find out. That would have been a tragedy. I was desperate to go home to my mother. Your father wanted to give me money for my fare home, and for the baby, but I was proud. We’d manage without the Granville money. And we did for a while. Then my father died. We could no longer manage. That was when your father bought this place for me to run as a hotel. He said it would secure both Gaston’s and my future …’ She shrugged. ‘And it did, for a while. I married the chef I’d hired, and we were a good partnership until he died six years ago. But business has been very bad this year because of the threat of war.’ Then her face softened as she looked at Candida, and her tone changed. ‘Your father was a true gentleman, you know. An aristocrat.’